Chapter II: Part 2

But it is urged, that the gravest and most serious matters may be set in a ridiculous light. Hardly so; for where an object is neither risible nor improper, it lies not open in any quarter to an attack from ridicule. But supposing the fact, I foresee not any harmful consequence. By the same sort of reasoning, a talent for wit ought to be condemned, because it may be employed to burlesque a great or lofty subject. Such irregular use made of a talent for wit or ridicule, cannot long impose upon mankind. It cannot stand the test of correct and delicate taste; and truth will at last prevail even with the vulgar. To condemn a talent for ridicule because it may be perverted to wrong purposes, is not a little ridiculous. Could one forbear to smile, if a talent for reasoning were condemned because it also may be perverted? And yet the conclusion in the latter case, would be not less just than in the former; perhaps more just, for no talent is so often perverted as that of reason.

We had best leave Nature to her own operations. The most valuable talents may be abused, and so may that of ridicule. Let us bring it under proper culture if we can, without endeavouring to pull it up by the root. Were we destitute of this test of truth, I know not what might be the consequences: I see not what rule would be left us to prevent splendid trifles passing for matters of importance, show and form for substance, and superstition or enthusiasm for pure religion.

CHAP. XIII.

WIT.

Wit is a quality of certain thoughts and expressions. The term is never applied to an action or a passion, and as little to an external object.

However difficult it may be in every particular instance to distinguish a witty thought or expression from one that is not so, yet in general it may be laid down, that the term _wit_ is appropriated to such thoughts and expressions as are ludicrous, and also occasion some degree of surprise by their singularity. Wit also in a figurative sense expresses that talent which some men have of inventing ludicrous thoughts or expressions. We say commonly, _a witty man_, or _a man of wit_.

Wit in its proper sense, as suggested above, is distinguishable into two kinds; wit in the thought, and wit in the words or expression. Again, wit in the thought is of two kinds; ludicrous images, and ludicrous combinations of things that have little or no natural relation.

Ludicrous images that occasion surprise by their singularity, as having little or no foundation in nature, are fabricated by the imagination. And the imagination is well qualified for the office; being of all our faculties the most active, and the least under restraint. Take the following example.

_Shylock._ You knew (none so well, none so well as you) of my
daughter’s flight.

_Salino._ That’s certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made
the wings she flew withal.

_Merchant of Venice, act 3. sc. 1._

The image here is undoubtedly witty. It is ludicrous: and it must occasion surprise; for having no natural foundation, it is altogether unexpected.

The other branch of wit in the thought, is that only which is taken notice of by Addison, following Locke, who defines it “to lie in the assemblage of ideas; and putting those together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy[21].” It may be defined more curtly, and perhaps more accurately, “A junction of things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because they are unexpected[22].” The following is a proper example.

We grant although he had much wit,
H’ was very shie of using it,
As being loth to wear it out;
And therefore bore it not about,
Unless on holidays, or so,
As men their best apparel do.
_Hudibras, canto 1._

Wit is of all the most elegant recreation. The image enters the mind with gaiety, and gives a sudden flash which is extremely pleasant. Wit thereby gently elevates without straining, raises mirth without dissoluteness, and relaxes while it entertains.

Wit in the expression, commonly called _a play of words_, being a bastard sort of wit, is reserved for the last place. I proceed to examples of wit in the thought. And first of ludicrous images.

Falstaff, speaking of his taking Sir John Colevile of the Dale:

Here he is, and here I yield him; and I beseech your Grace, let it
be book’d with the rest of this day’s deeds; or, by the Lord, I
will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on
the top of it, Colevile kissing my foot: to the which course if I
be inforc’d, if you do not all shew like gilt twopences to me; and
I, in the clear sky of fame, o’er-shine you as much as the full
moon doth the cinders of the element, which shew like pins’ heads
to her; believe not the word of the Noble. Therefore let me have
right, and let desert mount.

_Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. 6._

I knew, when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when
the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an
_if_; as, if you said so, then I said so; and they shook hands, and
swore brothers. Your _if_ is the only peacemaker; much virtue is in
_if_.

_Shakespear._

For there is not through all nature, another so callous and
insensible a member as the world’s posteriors, whether you apply to
it the toe or the birch.

_Preface to a Tale of a tub._

The war hath introduced abundance of polysyllables, which will
never be able to live many more campaigns. Speculations,
operations, preliminaries, ambassadors, palisadoes, communication,
circumvallation, battalions, as numerous as they are, if they
attack us too frequently in our coffeehouses, we shall certainly
put them to flight, and cut off the rear.

_Tatler_, Nº 230.

Speaking of Discord, “She never went abroad, but she brought home
such a bundle of monstrous lies, as would have amazed any mortal,
but such as knew her; of a whale that had swallowed a fleet of
ships; of the lions being let out of the tower to destroy the
Protestant religion; of the Pope’s being seen in a brandy-shop at
Wapping,” _&c._

_History of John Bull, part. 1. ch. 16._

The other branch of wit in the thought, _viz._ ludicrous combinations and oppositions, may be traced through various ramifications. And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have no natural relation to the effects produced.

_Lancaster._ Fare you well, Falstaff; I, in my condition, Shall
better speak of you than you deserve. [_Exit._

_Falstaff._ I would you had but the wit; ’twere better than your
dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not
love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he
drinks no wine. There’s never any of these demure boys come to any
proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making
many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness;
and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally
fools and cowards; which some of us should be too, but for
inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it;
it ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish, dull,
and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick,
forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which
deliver’d o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth,
becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent
sherris, is, the warming of the blood; which before cold and
settled left the liver white and pale; which is the badge of
pusillanimity and cowardice: but the sherris warms it, and makes
it course from the inwards, to the parts extreme; it illuminateth
the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this
little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and
inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart;
who, great, and puff’d up with this retinue, doth any deed of
courage: and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the
weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work; and
learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences
it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it, that Prince Harry
is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his
father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare land, manured,
husbanded, and till’d, with excellent endeavour of drinking good
and good store of fertil sherris, that he is become very hot and
valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I
would teach them, should be to forswear thin potations, and to
addict themselves to sack.

_Second part of Henry_ IV. _act. 4. sc. 7_.

The trenchant blade, toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of some body to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt,
The rancor of its edge had felt:
For of the lower end two handful,
It had devoured, ’twas so manful;
And so much scorn’d to lurk in case,
As if it durst not shew its face.
_Hudibras, canto 1._

Speaking of physicians,

Le bon de cette profession est, qu’il y a parmi les morts une
honnêteté, une discretion la plus grande du monde; jamais on n’en
voit se plaindre du médicin qui l’a tué.

_Le medicin malgré lui._

Admirez les bontez, admirez les tendresses,
De ces vieux esclaves du sort.
Ils ne sont jamais las d’aquérir des richesses,
Pour ceux qui souhaitent leur mort.

_Belinda._ Lard, he has so pester’d me with flames and stuff--I
think I shan’t endure the sight of a fire this twelvemonth.

_Old Bachelor, act 2. sc. 8._

To account for effects by such fantastical causes, being highly ludicrous, is quite improper in any serious composition. Therefore the following passage from Cowley, in his poem on the death of Sir Henry Wooton, is in a bad taste.

He did the utmost bounds of Knowledge find,
He found them not so large as was his mind.
But, like the brave Pellæan youth, did moan,
Because that Art had no more worlds than one.
And when he saw that he through all had past,
He dy’d, lest he should idle grow at last.

Fanciful reasoning,

_Falstaff._ Imbowell’d!---- if thou imbowel me to-day, I’ll give
you leave to powder me, and eat me to-morrow! ’Sblood, ’twas time
to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot
too. Counterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit; to die is to be a
counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man, who hath not
the life of a man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby
liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of
life, indeed.

_First Part Henry IV. act 1. sc. 10._

_Clown_. And the more pity that great folk should have countenance
in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even
Christian.

_Hamlet, Act 5. sc. 1._

_Pedro._ Will you have me, Lady?

_Beatrice._ No, my Lord, unless I might have another for working
days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day.

_Much ado about nothing, act 2. sc. 5._

_Jessica._ I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a
Christian.

_Launcelot._ Truly the more to blame he; we were Christians enough
before, e’en as many as could well live by one another: this making
of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be
pork-eaters, we shall not have a rasher on the coals for money.

_Merchant of Venice, act 3. sc. 6._

In western clime there is a town,
To those that dwell therein well known;
Therefore there needs no more be said here,
We unto them refer our reader:
For brevity is very good,
When w’ are, or are not understood.

_Hudibras, canto 1._
But Hudibras gave him a twitch,
As quick as lightning, in the breech,
Just in the place where honour’s lodg’d,
As wise philosophers have judg’d;
Because a kick in that part, more
Hurts honour, than deep wounds before.
_Ibid. canto 3._

Ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal importance.

This day black omens threat the brightest fair
That e’er deserv’d a watchful spirit’s care;
Some dire disaster, or by force, or flight;
But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night:
Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law;
Or some frail china jar receive a flaw;
Or stain her honour, or her new brocade;
Forget her pray’rs, or miss a masquerade;
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;
Or whether Heav’n has doom’d that Shock must fall.
_Rape of the Lock, canto_ ii. 101.

One speaks the glory of the British Queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen.

_Ibid. canto_ iii. 13.
Then flash’d the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend th’ affrighted skies.
Not louder shrieks to pitying heav’n are cast,
When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last;
Or when rich china vessels fall’n from high,
In glitt’ring dust, and painted fragments lie!
_Ibid. canto_ iii. 155.

Not youthful kings in battle seiz’d alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robb’d of all their bliss,
Not ancient ladies when refus’d a kiss,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her manteau’s pinn’d awry,
E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,
As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish’d hair.
_Ibid. canto_ iv. 3.

Joining things that in appearance are opposite. As for example, where Sir Roger de Coverley, in the Spectator, speaking of his widow, “That he would have given her a coal-pit to have kept her in clean linen; and that her finger should have sparkled with one hundred of his richest acres.”

Premisses that promise much and perform nothing. Cicero upon this article says, “Sed scitis esse notissimum ridiculi genus, cum aliud expectamus, aliud dicitur: hic nobismetipsis noster error risum movet[23].”

_Beatrice._---- With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money
enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world,
if he could get her good-will.

_Much ado about nothing, act 2. sc. 1._

_Beatrice._ I have a good eye, uncle, I can see a church by
day-light.

_ibid._

Le medecin que l’on m’indique
Sait le Latin, le Grec, l’Hebreu,
Les belles lettres, la physique,
La chimie et la botanique.
Chacun lui donne son aveu:
Il auroit aussi ma pratique;
Mais je veux vivre encore un peu.

Again,

Vingt fois le jour le bon Grégoire
A soin de fermer son armoire.
De quoi pensez vous qu’il a peur?
Belle demande! Qu’un voleur
Trouvant une facile proie,
Ne lui ravisse tout son bien.
Non; Gregoire a peur qu’on ne voie
Que dan son armoire il n’a rien.

Again,

L’athsmatique Damon a cru que l’air des champs
Repareroit en lui le ravage des ans,
Il s’est fait, a grands fraix, transporter en Bretagne.
Or voiez ce qu’a fait l’air natal qu’il a pris!
Damon seroit mort à Paris:
Damon est mort à la campagne.

Having discussed wit in the thought, we proceed to what is verbal only, commonly called _a play of words_. This sort of wit depends for the most part upon chusing words that have different significations. By this artifice, hocus-pocus tricks are played in language; and thoughts plain and simple take on a very different appearance. Play is necessary for man, in order to refresh him after labour; and accordingly man loves play. He even relisheth a play of words; and it is happy for us, that words can be employed, not only for useful purposes, but also for our amusement. This amusement accordingly, though humble and low, is relished by some at all times, and by all at some times, in order to unbend the mind.

It is remarkable, that this low species of wit, has, at one time or other, made a figure in most civilized nations, and has gradually gone into disrepute. So soon as a language is formed into a system, and the meaning of words are ascertained with tolerable accuracy, opportunity is afforded for expressions, which, by the double meaning of some words, give a familiar thought the appearance of being new. And the penetration of the reader or hearer, is gratified in detecting the true sense disguised under the double meaning. That this sort of wit was in England deemed a reputable amusement, during the reigns of Elisabeth and James I. is vouched by the works of Shakespear, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot have any long endurance: for as language ripens, and the meaning of words is more and more ascertained, words held to be synonymous diminish daily; and when those that remain have been more than once employed, the pleasure vanisheth with the novelty.

* * * * *

I proceed to examples, which, as in the former case, shall be distributed into different classes.

* * * * *

A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of a word.

Beneath this stone my wife doth lie:
She’s now at rest, and so am I.

A seeming contrast from the same cause, termed _a verbal antithesis_, which hath no despicable effect in ludicrous subjects.

Whilst Iris his cosmetic wash would try
To make her bloom revive, and lovers die.
Some ask for charms, and others philters chuse,
To gain Corinna, and their quartans lose,
_Dispensary, canto 2._

And how frail nymphs, oft by abortion, aim
To lose a substance, to preserve a name.
_Ibid. canto 3._

Other seeming connections from the same cause.

Will you employ your conqu’ring sword,
To break a fiddle and your word.
_Hudibras, canto 2._

To whom the knight with comely grace
Put off his hat to put his case.
_Hudibras, Part 3. canto 3._

Here Britain’s statesmen oft the fall foredoom
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home;
Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,
Does sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea.
_Rape of the Lock, canto 3. l. 5._

O’er their quietus where fat judges dose,
And lull their cough and conscience to repose.
_Dispensary, canto 1._

Speaking of Prince Eugene. “This General is a great taker of snuff
as well as of towns.”

_Pope, Key to the Lock._

Exul mentisque domusque.
_Metamorphoses_, _lib._ ix. 409.

A seeming inconsistency from the same cause.

Hic quiescit qui nunquam quievit.

Again,

Quel âge a cette Iris, dont on fait tant de bruit?
Me demandoit Cliton n’aguere.
Il faut, dis-je, vous satisfaire,
Elle a vingt ans le jour, et cinquante ans la nuit.

Again,

So like the chances are of love and war,
That they alone in this distinguish’d are;
In love the victors from the vanguish’d fly,
They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.
_Waller._

What new-found witchcraft was in thee,
With thine own cold to kindle me?
Strange art; like him that should devise
To make a burning-glass of ice.
_Cowley._

Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious poem; witness the following line in Pope’s Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady:

Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before.

This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift:

Her hands, the softest ever felt,
Though cold would burn, though dry would melt.
_Strephon and Chloe._

Taking a word in a different sense from what is meant, comes under wit, because it occasions some slight degree of surprise.

_Beatrice._ I may sit in a corner, and cry _Heigh ho!_ for a
husband.

_Pedro._ Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

_Beatrice._ I would rather have one of your father’s getting: hath
your Grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent
husbands, if a maid could come by them.

_Much ado about nothing, act 2. sc. 5._

_Falstaff._ My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

_Pistol._ Two yards and more.

_Falstaff._ No quips now, Pistol: indeed, I am in the waste two
yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift.

_Merry wives of Windsor, act 1. sc. 7._

_Lo. Sands._---- By your leave, sweet ladies, If I chance to talk a
little wild, forgive me: I had it from my father.

_Anne Bullen._ Was he mad, Sir?

_Sands._ O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too; But he would bite
none----

_K. Henry_ VIII.

An assertion that bears a double meaning, one right, one wrong; but so connected with other matters as to direct us to the wrong meaning. This species of bastard wit is distinguished from all others by the name _pun_. For example,

_Paris._---- Sweet Helen, I must woo you,
To help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles,
With these your white inchanting fingers touch’d,
Shall more obey, than to the edge of steel,
Or force of Greekish sinews: you shall do more
Than all the island kings, disarm great Hector.
_Troilus and Cressida, act 3. sc. 2._

The pun is in the close. The word _disarm_ has a double meaning. It signifies to take off a man’s armour, and also to subdue him in fight. We are directed to the latter sense by the context. But with regard to Helen the word holds only true in the former sense. I go on with other examples.

Esse nihil dicis quicquid petis, improbe Cinna:
Si nil, Cinna, petis, nil tibi, Cinna, nego.
_Martial, l. 3. epigr. 61._

Jocondus geminum imposuit tibi, Sequana, pontem;
Hunc tu jure potes dicere pontificem.
_Sanazarius._

N. B. _Jocondus was a monk._

_Chief Justice._ Well! the truth is, Sir John, you live in great
infamy.

_Falstaff._ He that buckles him in my belt, cannot live in less.

_Chief Justice._ Your means are very slender, and your waste is
great.

_Falstaff._ I would it were otherwise: I would my means were
greater, and my waste slenderer.

_Second part, Henry_ IV. _act. 1 sc. 5._

_Celia._ I pray you bear with me, I can go no further.

_Clown._ For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you: yet
I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you have no
money in your purse.

_As you like it, act 2. sc. 4._

He that imposes an oath makes it,
Not he that for convenience takes it;
Then how can any man be said,
To break an oath he never made?
_Hudibras, part 2. canto 2._

The seventh satire of the first book of Horace, is purposely contrived to introduce at the close a most execrable pun. Talking of some infamous wretch whose name was _Rex Rupilius_.

Persius exclamat, Per magnos, Brute, deos te
Oro, qui reges consueris tollere, cur non
Hunc regem jugulas? Operum hoc, mihi crede, tuorum est.

Though playing with words is a mark of a mind at ease, and disposed for any sort of amusement, we must not thence conclude that playing with words is always ludicrous. Words are so intimately connected with thought, that if the subject be really grave, it will not appear ludicrous even in this fantastic dress. I am, however, far from recommending it in any serious performance. On the contrary, the discordance betwixt the thought and expression must be disagreeable; witness the following specimen.

He hath abandoned his physicians, Madam, under whose practices he
hath persecuted time with hope: and finds no other advantage in the
process, but only the losing of hope by time.

_All’s well that ends well, act 1. sc. 1._

_K. Henry._ O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!
When that my care could not with-hold thy riots,
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?
_Second part, K. Henry_ IV.

A smart repartee may be considered as a species of wit. A certain petulant Greek, objecting to Anacharsis that he was a Scythian: True, says Anacharsis, my country disgraces me, but you disgrace your country.

CHAP. XIV.

Custom and Habit.

Inquiring into the nature of man as a sensitive being, and finding him affected in a high degree with novelty, would any one conjecture that he is equally affected with custom? Yet these frequently take place, not only in the same person, but even with relation to the same subject: when new, it is inchanting; familiarity renders it indifferent; and custom, after a longer familiarity, makes it again desirable. Human nature, diversified with many and various springs of action, is wonderfully, and, indulging the expression, intricately constructed.

Custom hath such influence upon many of our feelings, by warping and varying them, that we must attend to its operations if we would be acquainted with human nature. This subject, in itself obscure, has been much neglected; and to give a complete analysis of it will be no easy task. I pretend only to touch it cursorily; hoping, however, that what is here laid down, will dispose more diligent inquirers to attempt further discoveries.

_Custom_ respects the action, _habit_ the actor. By custom we mean, a frequent reiteration of the same act; and by habit, the effect that custom has on the mind or body. This effect may be either active, witness the dexterity produced by custom in performing certain exercises; or passive, as when, by custom, a peculiar connection is formed betwixt a man and some agreeable object, which acquires thereby a greater power to raise emotions in him than it hath naturally. Active habits come not under the present undertaking; and therefore I confine myself to those that are passive.

This subject is thorny and intricate. Some pleasures are fortified by custom; and yet custom begets familiarity, and consequently indifference[24]. In many instances, satiety and disgust are the consequences of reiteration. Again, though custom blunts the edge of distress and of pain; yet the want of any thing to which we have long been accustomed, is a sort of torture. A clue to guide us through all the intricacies of this labyrinth, would be an acceptable present.

Whatever be the cause, it is an established fact, that we are much influenced by custom. It hath an effect upon our pleasures, upon our actions, and even upon our thoughts and sentiments. Habit makes no figure during the vivacity of youth; in middle age it gains ground; and in old age it governs without control. In that period of life, generally speaking, we eat at a certain hour, take exercise at a certain hour, go to rest at a certain hour, all by the direction of habit. Nay a particular seat, table, bed, comes to be essential. And a habit in any of these, cannot be contradicted without uneasiness.

Any slight or moderate pleasure frequently reiterated for a long time, forms a connection betwixt us and the thing that causes the pleasure. This connection, termed _habit_, has the effect to raise our desire or appetite for that thing when it returns not as usual. During the course of enjoyment, the pleasure grows insensibly stronger till a habit be established; at which time the pleasure is at its height. It continues not however stationary. The same customary reiteration which carried it to its height, brings it down again by insensible degrees, even lower than it was at first. But of this circumstance afterward. What at present we have in view, is to prove by experiments, that those things which at first are but moderately agreeable, are the aptest to become habitual. Spirituous liquors, at first scarce agreeable, readily produce an habitual appetite; and custom prevails so far, as even to make us fond of things originally disagreeable, such as coffee, assa-sœtida, and tobacco. This is pleasantly illustrated by Congreve:

_Fainall._ For a passionate lover, methinks you are a man somewhat
too discerning in the failings of your mistress.

_Mirabell._ And for a discerning man, somewhat too passionate a
lover; for I like her with all her faults; nay like her for her
faults. Her follies are so natural, or so artful, that they become
her; and those affectations which in another woman would be odious,
serve but to make her more agreeable. I’ll tell thee, Fainall, she
once us’d me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to
pieces, sifted her, and separated her failings; I study’d ’em, and
got ’em by rote. The catalogue was so large, that I was not without
hopes, one day or other, to hate her heartily: to which end I so
us’d myself to think of ’em, that at length, contrary to my design
and expectation, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance;
till in a few days it became habitual to me, to remember ’em
without being displeased. They are now grown as familiar to me as
my own frailties; and in all probability, in a little time longer,
I shall like ’em as well.

_The way of the world, act 1. sc. 3._

A walk upon the quarterdeck, though intolerably confined, becomes however so agreeable by custom, that a sailor in his walk on shore, confines himself commonly within the same bounds. I knew a man who had relinquished the sea for a country-life. In the corner of his garden he reared an artificial mount with a level summit, resembling most accurately a quarterdeck, not only in shape but in size; and this was his choice walk. Play or gaming, at first barely amusing by the occupation it affords, becomes in time extremely agreeable; and is frequently prosecuted with avidity, as if it were the chief business of life. The same observation is applicable to the pleasures of the internal senses, those of knowledge and virtue in particular. Children have scarce any sense of these pleasures; and men very little, who are in the state of nature without culture. Our taste for virtue and knowledge improves slowly; but is capable of growing stronger than any other appetite in human nature.

To introduce a habit, frequency of acts is not alone sufficient: length of time is also necessary. The quickest succession of acts in a short time, is not sufficient; nor a slow succession in the longest time. The effect must be produced by a moderate soft action, and a long series of easy touches removed from each other by short intervals. Nor are these sufficient, without regularity in the time, place, and other circumstances of the action. The more uniform any operation is, the sooner it becomes habitual; and this holds equally in a passive habit. Variety in any remarkable degree, prevents the effect. Thus any particular food will scarce ever become habitual, where the manner of dressing is varied. The circumstances then requisite to augment any pleasure and at the long run to form a habit, are weak uniform acts, reiterated during a long course of time without any considerable interruption. Every agreeable cause which operates in this manner, will grow habitual.

_Affection_ and _aversion_, as distinguished from passion on the one hand, and on the other from original disposition, are in reality habits respecting particular objects, acquired in the manner above set forth. The pleasure of social intercourse with any person, must originally be faint, and frequently reiterated, in order to establish the habit of affection. Affection thus generated, whether it be friendship or love, seldom swells into any tumultuous or vigorous passion; but is however the strongest cement that can bind together two individuals of the human species. In like manner, a slight degree of disgust often reiterated with any degree of regularity, grows into the habit of aversion, which generally subsists for life.

Those objects of taste that are the most agreeable, are so far from having a tendency to become habitual, that too great indulgence fails not to produce satiety and disgust. No man contracts a habit of taking sugar, honey, or sweet-meats, as he doth of tobacco:

Dulcia non ferimus: succo renovamur amaro.
_Ovid. art. Amand. l. 3._

Insipido è quel dolce, che condito
Non è di qualche amaro, e tosto satia.
_Aminta di Tasso._

These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die. The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in its own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite;
Therefore love mod’rately, long love doth so:
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
_Romeo and Juliet, act 2. sc. 6._

The same holds in the causes of all violent pleasures: these causes are not naturally susceptible of habit. Great passions suddenly raised are incompatible with a habit of any sort. In particular they never produce affection or aversion. A man who at first sight falls violently in love, has a strong desire of enjoyment, but no affection for the woman[25]. A man who is surprised with an unexpected savour, burns for an opportunity to exert his gratitude, without having any affection for his benefactor. Neither does desire of vengeance for an atrocious injury involve aversion.

It is perhaps not easy to say why moderate pleasures gather strength by custom. But two causes concur to prevent this effect in the more intense pleasures. These, by an original law in our nature, increase quickly to their full growth, and decay with no less precipitation[26]; and custom is too slow in its operation to overcome this law. Another cause is not less powerful. The mind is exhausted with pleasure as well as with pain. Exquisite pleasure is extremely fatiguing; occasioning, as a naturalist would say, great expence of animal spirits[27]. And therefore, of such the mind cannot bear so frequent gratification as to superinduce a habit. If the thing which raises the pleasure return before the mind have recovered its tone and relish, disgust ensues instead of pleasure.

A habit never fails to admonish us of the wonted time of gratification, by raising a pain for want of the object, and a desire to have it. The pain of want is always first felt; the desire naturally follows; and upon presenting the object, both vanish instantaneously. Thus a man accustomed to tobacco, feels, at the end of the usual interval, a confused pain of want, which in its first appearance points at nothing in particular, though it soon settles upon its accustomed object. The same may be observed in persons addicted to drinking, who are often in an uneasy restless state before they think of their bottle. In pleasures indulged regularly and at equal intervals, the appetite, remarkably obsequious to custom, returns regularly with the usual time of gratification; and a sight of the object in the interim, has scarce any power to move it. This pain of want arising from habit, seems directly opposite to that of satiety. Singular it must appear, that frequency of gratification should produce effects so opposite as are the pains of excess and of want.

The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of our species, are attended with a pain of want similar to that occasioned by habit. Hunger and thirst are uneasy sensations of want, which always precede the desire of eating or drinking: and a pain for want of carnal enjoyment precedes the desire of a proper object. The pain being thus felt independent of an object, cannot be cured but by gratification. An ordinary passion, in which desire precedes the pain of want, is in a different condition. It is never felt but while the object is in view; and therefore by removing the object out of thought, it vanisheth with its desire and pain of want[28].

These natural appetites above mentioned, differ from habit in the following particular, They have an undetermined direction toward all objects of gratification in general; whereas an habitual appetite is directed upon a particular object. The attachment we have by habit to a particular woman, differs widely from the natural passion which comprehends the whole sex; and the habitual relish for a particular dish, is far from being the same with a vague appetite for food. Notwithstanding this difference, it is still remarkable, that nature hath inforced the gratification of certain natural appetites essential to the species, by a pain of the same sort with that which habit produceth.

The pain of habit is less under our power, than any other pain for want of gratification. Hunger and thirst are more easily endured, especially at first, than an unusual intermission of any habitual pleasure. We often hear persons declaring, they would forego sleep or food, rather than snuff or any other habitual trifle. We must not however conclude, that the gratification of an habitual appetite affords the same delight with the gratification of one that is natural. Far from it: the pain of want only is greater.

The slow and reiterated acts that produce a habit, strengthen the mind to enjoy the habitual pleasure in greater quantity and more frequency than originally; and by this means a habit of intemperate gratification is often formed. After unbounded acts of intemperance, the habitual relish is soon restored, and the pain for want of enjoyment returns with fresh vigor.

The causes of the pleasant emotions hitherto in view, are either an individual, such as a companion, a certain dwelling-place, certain amusements, _&c._; or a particular species, such as coffee, mutton, or any particular food. But habit is not confined to these. A constant train of trifling diversions, may form such a habit in the mind, as that it cannot be easy a moment without amusement. Variety in the objects prevents a habit as to any one in particular; but as the train is uniform with respect to amusement in general, the habit is formed accordingly; and this sort of habit may be denominated _a generic habit_, in opposition to the former, which may be called _a specific habit_. A habit of a town-life, of country-sports, of solitude, of reading, or of business, where sufficiently varied, are instances of generic habits. It ought to be remarked, that every specific habit hath a mixture of the generic. The habit of one particular sort of food, makes the taste agreeable; and we are fond of this taste where-ever found. A man deprived of an habitual object, takes up with what most resembles it: deprived of tobacco, any bitter herb will do, rather than want. The habit of drinking punch, makes wine a good resource. A man accustomed to the sweet society and comforts of matrimony, being unhappily deprived of his beloved object, inclines the sooner to a second choice. In general, the quality which the most affects us in an habitual object, produceth, when we are deprived of it, a strong appetite for that quality in any other object.

The reasons are assigned above, why the causes of intense pleasure become not readily habitual. But now I must observe, that these reasons conclude only against specific habits. With regard to any particular object that is the cause of a weak pleasure, a habit is formed by frequency and uniformity of reiteration, which in the case of an intense pleasure cannot obtain without satiety and disgust. But it is remarkable, that satiety and disgust have no effect, except as to that thing which occasions them. A surfeit of honey produceth not a loathing of sugar; and intemperance with one woman, produceth no disrelish of the same pleasure with others. Hence it is easy to account for a generic habit in any strong pleasure. The disgust of intemperance, is confined to the object by which it is produced. The delight we had in the gratification of the appetite, inflames the imagination, and makes us, with avidity, search for the same gratification in whatever other object it can be found. And thus frequency and uniformity in gratifying the same passion upon different objects, produceth at the longrun a habit. In this manner, a man acquires an habitual delight in high and poignant sauces, rich dress, fine equipage, crowds of company, and in whatever is commonly termed _pleasure_. There concurs at the same time to introduce this habit, a peculiarity observed above, that reiteration of acts enlarges the capacity of the mind, to admit a more plentiful gratification than originally, with regard to frequency as well as quantity.

Hence it appears, that though a specific habit can only take place in the case of a moderate pleasure, yet that a generic habit may be formed with respect to every sort of pleasure, moderate or immoderate, that can be gratified by a variety of objects indifferently. The only difference is, that any particular object which causes a weak pleasure, runs naturally into a specific habit; whereas a particular object that causes an intense pleasure, is altogether incapable of such a habit. In a word, it is but in singular cases that a moderate pleasure produces a generic habit: an intense pleasure, on the other hand, cannot produce any other habit.

The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of the species, are formed into habit in a peculiar manner. The time as well as measure of their gratification, are much under the power of custom; which, by introducing a change upon the body, occasions a proportional change in the appetites. Thus, if the body be gradually formed to a certain quantity of food at regular times, the appetite is regulated accordingly; and the appetite is again changed when a different habit of body is introduced by a different practice. Here it would seem, that the change is not made upon the mind, which is commonly the case in passive habits, but only upon the body.

When rich food is brought down by ingredients of a plainer taste, the composition is susceptible of a specific habit. Thus the sweet taste of sugar, rendered less poignant in a mixture, may, in course of time, produce a specific habit for such mixture. As moderate pleasures, by becoming more intense, tend to generic habits; so intense pleasures, by becoming more moderate, tend to specific habits.

The beauty of the human figure, by a special recommendation of nature, appears to us supreme, amid the great variety of beauteous forms bestowed upon animals. The various degrees in which individuals enjoy this property, render it an object sometimes of a moderate sometimes of an intense passion. The moderate passion, admitting frequent reiteration without diminution, and occupying the mind without exhausting it, becomes gradually stronger till it settle in a habit. So true this is, that instances are not wanting, of an ugly face, at first disagreeable, afterward rendered indifferent by familiarity, and at the longrun agreeable. On the other hand, consummate beauty, at the very first view, fills the mind so as to admit no increase. Enjoyment in this case lessens the pleasure[29]; and if often repeated, ends commonly in satiety and disgust. Constant experience shows, that the emotions created by great beauty become weaker by familiarity. The impressions made successively by such an object, strong at first and lessening by degrees, constitute a series opposite to that of the weak and increasing emotions, which grow into a specific habit. But the mind, when accustomed to beauty, contracts a relish for it in general, though often repelled from particular objects by the pain of satiety. Thus a generic habit is formed, of which inconstancy in love is the necessary consequence. For a generic habit, comprehending every beautiful object, is an invincible obstruction to a specific habit, which is confined to one.

But a matter which is of great importance to the youth of both sexes, deserves more than a cursory view. Though the pleasant emotion of beauty differs widely from the corporeal appetite, yet both may concur upon the same object. When this is the case, they inflame the imagination; and produce a very strong complex passion[30], which is incapable of increase, because the mind as to pleasure is limited rather more than as to pain. Enjoyment in this case must be exquisite, and therefore more apt to produce satiety than in any other case whatever. This is a never-failing effect, where consummate beauty on the one side, meets with a warm imagination and great sensibility on the other. What I am here explaining, is the naked truth without exaggeration. They must be insensible upon whom this doctrine makes no impression; and it deserves well to be pondered by the young and the amorous, who in forming a society which is not dissolvable, are too often blindly impelled by the animal pleasure merely, inflamed by beauty. It may indeed happen after this pleasure is gone, and go it must with a swift pace, that a new connection is formed upon more dignified and more lasting principles. But this is a dangerous experiment. For even supposing good sense, good temper, and internal merit of every sort, which is a very favourable supposition, yet a new connection upon these qualifications is rarely formed. It generally or rather always happens, that such qualifications, the only solid foundation of an indissoluble connection, are rendered altogether invisible by satiety of enjoyment creating disgust.

One effect of custom, different from any that have been explained, must not be omitted, because it makes a great figure in human nature. Custom augments moderate pleasures, and diminishes those that are intense. It has a different effect with respect to pain; for it blunts the edge of every sort of pain and distress great and small. Uninterrupted misery therefore is attended with one good effect. If its torments be incessant, custom hardens us to bear them.

It is extremely curious, to remark the gradual changes that are made in forming habits. Moderate pleasures are augmented gradually by reiteration till they become habitual; and then are at their height. But they are not long stationary; for from that point they gradually decay till they vanish altogether. The pain occasioned by the want of gratification, runs a very different course. This pain increases uniformly; and at last becomes extreme, when the pleasure of gratification is reduced to nothing.

---- It so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack’d and lost,
Why then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue that possession would not shew us
Whilst it was ours.
_Much ado about nothing, act 4. sc. 2._

The effect of custom with relation to a specific habit, is displayed through all its varieties in the use of tobacco. The taste of this plant is at first extremely unpleasant. Our disgust lessens gradually till it vanish altogether; at which period the plant is neither agreeable nor disagreeable. Continuing the use, we begin to relish it; and our relish increases by use till it come to its utmost extent. From this state it gradually decays, while the habit becomes stronger and stronger, and consequently the pain of want. The result is, that when the habit has acquired its greatest vigor, the pleasure of gratification is gone. And hence it is, that we often smoke and take snuff habitually, without so much as being conscious of the operation. We must except gratification after the pain of want; because gratification in that case is at the height when the habit is strongest. It is of the same kind with the joy one feels upon being delivered from the rack, the cause of which is explained above[31]. This pleasure however is but occasionally the effect of habit; and however exquisite, is guarded against as much as possible, by preventing want.

With regard to the pain of want, I can discover no difference betwixt a generic and specific habit: the pain is the same in both. But these habits differ widely with respect to the positive pleasure. I have had occasion to observe, that the pleasure of a specific habit decays gradually till it become imperceptible. Not so the pleasure of a generic habit. So far as I can discover, this pleasure suffers little or no decay after it comes to its height. The variety of gratification preserves it entire. However it may be with other generic habits, the observation I am certain holds with respect to the pleasures of virtue and of knowledge. The pleasure of doing good has such an unbounded scope, and may be so variously gratified, that it can never decay. Science is equally unbounded; and our appetite for knowledge has an ample range of gratification, where discoveries are recommended by novelty, by variety, by utility, or by all of them.

Here is a large field of facts and experiments, and several phenomena unfolded, the causes of which have been occasionally suggested. The efficient cause of the power of custom over man, a fundamental point in the present chapter, has unhappily evaded my keenest search; and now I am reduced to hold it an original branch of the human constitution, though I have no better reason for my opinion, than that I cannot resolve it into any other principle. But with respect to the final cause, a point of still greater importance, I promise myself more success. It cannot indeed have escaped any thinking person, that the power of custom is a happy contrivance for our good. Exquisite pleasure produceth satiety: moderate pleasure becomes stronger by custom. Business is our province, and pleasure our relaxation only. Hence, satiety is necessary to check exquisite pleasures, which otherwise would ingross the mind, and unqualify us for business. On the other hand, habitual increase of moderate pleasure, and even conversion of pain into pleasure, are admirably contrived for disappointing the malice of Fortune, and for reconciling us to whatever course of life may be our lot:

How use doth breed a habit in a man!
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.
Here I can sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale’s complaining notes
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
_Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 5. sc. 4._

The foregoing distinction betwixt intense and moderate, holds in pleasure only, not in pain, every degree of which is softened by time and custom. Custom is a catholicon for pain and distress of every sort; and of this regulation the final cause is so evident as to require no illustration.

Another final cause of custom will be highly relished by every person of humanity; and yet has in a great measure been overlooked. Custom hath a greater influence than any other known principle, to put the rich and poor upon a level. Weak pleasures, which fall to the share of the latter, become fortunately stronger by custom; while voluptuous pleasures, the lot of the former, are continually losing ground by satiety. Men of fortune, who possess palaces, sumptuous gardens, rich fields, enjoy them less than passengers do. The goods of Fortune are not unequally distributed: the opulent possess what others enjoy.

And indeed, if it be the effect of habit to produce the pain of want in a high degree while there is little pleasure in enjoyment, a voluptuous life is of all the least to be envied. Those who are accustomed to high feeding, easy vehicles, rich furniture, a crowd of valets, much deference and flattery, enjoy but a small share of happiness, while they are exposed to manifold distresses. To such a man, inslaved by ease and luxury, even the petty inconveniencies of a rough road, bad weather, or homely fare on a journey, are serious evils. He loses his tone of mind, becomes peevish, and would wreak his resentment even upon the common accidents of life. Better far to use the goods of Fortune with moderation. A man who by temperance and activity has acquired a hardy constitution, is, on the one hand, guarded against external accidents, and is, on the other, provided with great variety of enjoyment ever at command.

I shall close this chapter with the discussion of a question more delicate than abstruse, _viz._ What authority custom ought to have over our taste in the fine arts? It is proper to be premised, that we chearfully abandon to its authority every thing that nature leaves to our choice, and where the preference we bestow has no foundation other than whim or fancy. There appears no original difference betwixt the right and the left hand: custom however has established a difference, so as to make it aukward and disagreeable to use the left where the right is commonly used. The various colours, though they affect us differently, are all of them agreeable in their purity. But custom has regulated this matter in another manner: a black skin upon a human creature, is to us disagreeable; and a white skin probably not less so to a negro. Thus things originally indifferent, become agreeable or disagreeable by the force of custom. Nor ought this to be surprising after the discovery made above, that the original agreeableness or disagreeableness of an object, is, by the influence of custom, often converted into the opposite quality.