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Part ISections VIII - XIX.
Sections VIII - XIX.
Sect. VIII.
Of The Passions Which Belong To Society
The other head under which I class our passions, is that of society,
which may be divided into two sorts. I. The society of the sexes, which
answers the purposes of propagation; and next, that more general society,
which we have with men and with other animals, and which we may in some sort
be said to have even with the inanimate world. The passions belonging to the
preservation of the individual turn wholly on pain and danger: those which
belong to generation have their origin in gratifications and pleasures; the
pleasure most directly belonging to this purpose is of a lively character,
rapturous and violent, and confessedly the highest pleasure of sense; yet the
absence of this so great an enjoyment scarce amounts to an uneasiness; and,
except at particular times, I do not think it affects at all. When men
describe in what manner they are affected by pain and danger, they do not
dwell on the pleasure of health and the comfort of security, and then lament
the loss of these satisfactions: the whole turns upon the actual pains and
horrors which they endure. But if you listen to the complaints of a forsaken
lover, you observe that he insists largely on the pleasures which he enjoyed,
or hoped to enjoy, and on the perfection of the object of his desires; it is
the loss which is always uppermost in his mind. The violent effects produced
by love, which has sometimes been even wrought up to madness, is no objection
to the rule which we seek to establish. When men have suffered their
imaginations to be long affected with any idea, it so wholly engrosses them as
to shut out by degrees almost every other, and to break down every partition
of the mind which would confine it. Any idea is sufficient for the purpose, as
is evident from the infinite variety of causes, which give rise to madness:
but this at most can only prove, that the passion of love is capable of
producing very extraordinary effects, not that its extraordinary emotions have
any connexion with positive pain.
Sect. IX.
The Final Cause Of The Difference Between The Passions Belonging To
Self-Preservation, And Those Which Regard The Society Of The Sexes
The final cause of the difference in character between the passions which
regard self-preservation, and those which are directed to the multiplication
of the species, will illustrate the foregoing remarks yet further; and it is,
I imagine, worthy of observation even upon its own account. As the performance
of our duties of every kind depends upon life, and the performing them with
vigour and efficacy depends upon health, we are very strongly affected with
whatever threatens the destruction of either: but as we are not made to
acquiesce in life and health, the simple enjoyment of them is not attended
with any real pleasure, lest, satisfied with that, we should give ourselves
over to indolence and inaction. On the other hand, the generation of mankind
is a great purpose, and it is requisite that men should be animated to the
pursuit of it by some great incentive. It is therefore attended with a very
high pleasure; but as it is by no means designed to be our constant business,
it is not fit that the absence of this pleasure should be attended with any
considerable pain. The difference between men and brutes, in this point, seems
to be remarkable. Men are at all times pretty equally disposed to the
pleasures of love, because they are to be guided by reason in the time and
manner of indulging them. Had any great pain arisen from the want of this
satisfaction, reason, I am afraid, would find great difficulties in the
performance of its office. But brutes, who obey laws, in the execution of
which their own reason has but little share, have their stated seasons; at
such times it is not improbable that the sensation from the want is very
troublesome, because the end must be then answered, or be missed in many,
perhaps for ever; as the inclination returns only with its season.
Sect. X.
Of Beauty
The passion which belongs to generation, merely as such, is lust only.
This is evident in brutes, whose passions are more unmixed, and which pursue
their purposes more directly than ours. The only distinction they observe with
regard to their mates, is that of sex. It is true, that they stick severally
to their own species in preference to all others. But this preference, I
imagine, does not arise from any sense of beauty which they find in their
species, as Mr. Addison supposes, but from a law of some other kind, to which
they are subject; and this we may fairly conclude, from their apparent want of
choice amongst those objects to which the barriers of their species have
confined them. But man, who is a creature adapted to a greater variety and
intricacy of relation, connects with the general passion the idea of some
social qualities, which direct and heighten the appetite which he has in
common with all other animals; and as he is not designed like them to live at
large, it is fit that he should have something to create a preference, and
fix his choice; and this in general should be some sensible quality; as no
other can so quickly, so powerfully, or so surely produce its effect. The
object therefore of this mixed passion, which we call love, is the beauty of
the sex. Men are carried to the sex in general, as it is the sex, and by the
common law of nature; but they are attached to particulars by personal beauty.
I call beauty a social quality; for where women and men, and not only they,
but when other animals give us a sense of joy and pleasure in beholding them,
(and there are many that do so,) they inspire us with sentiments of tenderness
and affection towards their persons; we like to have them near us, and we
enter willingly into a kind of relation with them, unless we should have
strong reasons to the contrary. But to what end, in many cases, this was
designed, I am unable to discover; for I see no greater reason for a connexion
between man and several animals who are attired in so engaging a manner, than
between him and some others who entirely want this attraction, or possess it
in a far weaker degree. But it is probable, that Providence did not make even
this distinction, but with a view to some great end; though we cannot perceive
distinctly what it is, as his wisdom is not our wisdom, nor our ways his ways.
Sect. XI.
Society And Solitude
The second branch of the social passions is that which administers to
society in general. With regard to this, I observe, that society, merely as
society, without any particular heightenings, gives us no positive pleasure
in the enjoyment; but absolute and entire solitude, that is, the total and
perpetual exclusion from all society, is as great a positive pain as can
almost be conceived. Therefore in the balance between the pleasure of general
society and the pain of absolute solitude, pain is the predominant idea. But
the pleasure of any particular social enjoyment outweighs very considerably
the uneasiness caused by the want of that particular enjoyment; so that the
strongest sensations relative to the habitudes of particular society are
sensations of pleasure. Good company, lively conversation, and the endearments
of friendship, fill the mind with great pleasure; a temporary solitude, on the
other hand, is itself agreeable. This may perhaps prove that we are creatures
designed for contemplation as well as action; since solitude as well as
society has its pleasures; as from the former observation we may discern, that
an entire life of solitude contradicts the purposes of our being, since death
itself is scarcely an idea of more terror.
Sect. XII.
Sympathy, Imitation, And Ambition
Under this denomination of society, the passions are of a complicated
kind, and branch out into a variety of forms, agreeably to that variety of
ends they are to serve in the great chain of society. The three principal
links in this chain are sympathy, imitation, and ambition.
Sect. XIII.
Sympathy
It is by the first of these passions that we enter into the concerns of
others; that we are moved as they are moved, and are never suffered to be
indifferent spectators of almost anything which men can do or suffer. For
sympathy must be considered as a sort of substitution, by which we are put
into the place of another man, and affected in many respects as he is
affected; so that this passion may either partake of the nature of those which
regard self-preservation, and turning upon pain may be a source of the sublime
or it may turn upon ideas of pleasure; and then whatever has been said of the
social affections, whether they regard society in general, or only some
particular modes of it, may be applicable here. It is by this principle
chiefly that poetry, painting, and other affecting arts, transfuse their
passions from one breast to another, and are often capable of grafting a
delight on wretchedness, misery, and death itself. It is a common observation,
that objects which in the reality would shock, are in tragical, and such like
representations, the source of a very high species of pleasure. This, taken as
a fact, has been the cause of much reasoning. The satisfaction has been
commonly attributed, first, to the comfort we receive in considering that so
melancholy a story is no more than a fiction; and, next, to the contemplation
of our own freedom from the evils which we see represented. I am afraid it is
a practice much too common in inquiries of this nature, to attribute the cause
of feelings which merely arise from the mechanical structure of our bodies, or
from the natural frame and constitution of our minds, to certain conclusions
of the reasoning faculty on the objects presented to us; for I should imagine,
that the influence of reason in producing our passions is nothing near so
extensive as it is commonly believed.
Sect. XIV.
The Effects Of Sympathy In The Distresses Of Others
To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a proper
manner, we must previously consider how we are affected by the feelings of our
fellow-creatures in circumstances of real distress. I am convinced we have a
degree of delight, and that no small one, in the real misfortunes and pains of
others; for let the affection be what it will in appearance, if it does not
make us shun such objects, if on the contrary it induces us to approach them,
if it makes us dwell upon them, in this case I conceive we must have a delight
or pleasure of some species or other in contemplating objects of this kind. Do
we not read the authentic histories of scenes of this nature with as much
pleasure as romances or poems, where the incidents are fictitious? The
prosperity of no empire, nor the grandeur of no king, can so agreeably affect
in the reading, as the ruin of the state of Macedon, and the distress of its
unhappy prince. Such a catastrophe touches us in history as much as the
destruction of Troy does in fable. Our delight, in cases of this kind, is very
greatly heightened, if the sufferer be some excellent person who sinks under
an unworthy fortune. Scipio and Cato are both virtuous characters; but we are
more deeply affected by the violent death of the one, and the ruin of the
great cause he adhered to, than with the deserved triumphs and uninterrupted
prosperity of the other; for terror is a passion which always produce delight
when it does not press too closely; and pity is a passion accompanied with
pleasure, because it arises from love and social affection. Whenever we are
formed by nature to any active purpose, the passion which animates us to it is
attended with delight, or a pleasure of some kind, let the subject-matter be
what it will; and as our Creator has designed that we should be united by the
bond of sympathy, he has strengthened that bond by a proportionable delight;
and there most where our sympathy is most wanted, - in the distresses of
others. If this passion was simply painful, we would shun with the greatest
care all persons and places that could excite such a passion; as some, who are
so far gone in indolence as not to endure any strong impression, actually do.
But the case is widely different with the greater part of mankind; there is no
spectacle we so eagerly pursue, as that of some uncommon and grievous
calamity; so that whether the misfortune is before our eyes, or whether they
are turned back to it in history, it always touches with delight. This is not
an unmixed delight, but blended with no small uneasiness. The delight we have
in such things, hinders us from shunning scenes of misery; and the pain we
feel prompts us to relieve ourselves in relieving those who suffer; and all
this antecedent to any reasoning, by an instinct that works us to its own
purposes without our concurrence.
Sect. XV.
Of The Effects Of Tragedy
It is thus in real calamities. In imitated distresses the only difference
is the pleasure resulting from the effects of imitation; for it is never so
perfect, but we can perceive it is imitation, and on that principle are
somewhat pleased with it. And indeed in some cases we derive as much or more
pleasure from that source than from the thing itself. But then I imagine we
shall be much mistaken, if we attribute any considerable part of our
satisfaction in tragedy to the consideration that tragedy is a deceit, and its
representations no realities. The nearer it approaches the reality, and the
farther it removes us from all idea of fiction, the more perfect is its power.
But be its power of what kind it will, it never approaches to what it
represents. Choose a day on which to represent the most sublime and affecting
tragedy we have; appoint the most favourite actors; spare no cost upon the
scenes and decorations, unite the greatest efforts of poetry, painting, and
music; and when you have collected your audience, just at the moment when
their minds are erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state
criminal of high rank is on the point of being executed in the adjoining
square; in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the
comparative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph of the
real sympathy. I believe that this notion of our having a simple pain in the
reality, yet a delight in the representation, arises from hence, that we do
not sufficiently distinguish what we would by no means choose to do, from what
we should be eager enough to see if it was once done. The delight in seeing
things, which, so far from doing, our heartiest wishes would be to see
redressed. This noble capital, the pride of England and of Europe, I believe
no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see destroyed by a conflagration
or an earthquake, though he should be removed himself to the greatest distance
from the danger. But suppose such a fatal accident to have happened, what
numbers from all parts would crowd to behold the ruins, and amongst many who
would have been content never to have seen London in its glory! Nor is it,
either in real or fictitious distresses, our immunity from them which
produces our delight; in my own mind I can discover nothing like it. I
apprehend that this mistake is owing to a sort of sophism, by which we are
frequently imposed upon; it arises from our not distinguishing between what is
indeed a necessary condition to our doing or suffering anything in general,
and what is the cause of some particular act. If a man kills me with a sword,
it is a necessary condition to this that we should have been both of us alive
before the fact; and yet it would be absurd to say, that our being both living
creatures was the cause of his crime and of my death. So it is certain, that
it is absolutely necessary my life should be out of any imminent hazard,
before I can take a delight in the sufferings of others, real or imaginary, or
indeed in anything else from any cause whatsoever. But then it is a sophism
to argue from thence, that this immunity is the cause of my delight either on
these or on any occasions. No one can distinguish such a cause of satisfaction
in his own mind, I believe; nay, when we do not suffer any very acute pain,
nor are exposed to any imminent danger of our lives, we can feel for others,
whilst we suffer ourselves; and often then most when we are softened by
affliction; we see with pity even distresses which we would accept in the
place of our own.
Sect. XVI.
Imitation
The second passion belonging to society is imitation, or, if you will, a
desire of imitating, and consequently a pleasure in it. This passion arises
from much the same cause with sympathy. For as sympathy makes us take a
concern in whatever men feel, so this affection prompts us to copy whatever
they do; and consequently we have a pleasure in imitating, and in whatever
belongs to imitation, merely as it is such, without any intervention of the
reasoning faculty, but solely from our natural constitution, which Providence
has framed in such a manner as to find either pleasure or delight, according
to the nature of the object, in whatever regards the purposes of our being. It
is by imitation far more than by precept, that we learn everything; and what
we learn thus, we acquire not only more effectually, but more pleasantly.
This forms our manners, our opinions, our lives. It is one of the strongest
links of society; it is a species of mutual compliance, which all men yield
to each other, without constraint to themselves, and which is extremely
flattering to all. Herein it is that painting and many other agreeable arts
have laid one of the principal foundations of their power. And since, by its
influence on our manners and our passions, it is of such great consequence, I
shall here venture to lay down a rule, which may inform us with a good degree
of certainty when we are to attribute the power of the arts to imitation, or
to our pleasure in the skill of the imitator merely, and when to sympathy, or
some other cause in conjunction with it. When the object represented in poetry
or painting is such as we could have no desire of seeing in the reality, then
I may be sure that its power in poetry or painting is owing to the power of
imitation, and to no cause operating in the thing itself. So it is with most
of the pieces which the painters call still-life. In these a cottage, a
dunghill, the meanest and most ordinary utensils of the kitchen, are capable
of giving us pleasure. But when the object of the painting or poem is such as
we should run to see if real, let it affect us with what odd sort of sense it
will, we may rely upon it, that the power of the poem or picture is more
owing to the nature of the thing itself than to the mere effect of imitation,
or to a consideration of the skill of the imitator, however excellent.
Aristotle has spoken so much and so boldly upon the force of imitation in his
Poetics, that it makes any further discourse upon this subject the less
necessary.
Sect. XVII.
Ambition
Although imitation is one of the great instruments used by Providence in
bringing our nature towards its perfection, yet if men gave themselves up to
imitation entirely, and each followed the other, and so on in an eternal
circle, it is easy to see that there never could be any improvement amongst
them. Men must remain as brutes do, the same at the end that they are at this
day, and that they were in the beginning of the world. To prevent this, God
has planted in man a sense of ambition, and a satisfaction arising from the
contemplation of his excelling his fellows in something deemed valuable
amongst them. It is this passion that drives men to all the ways we see in use
of signalizing themselves, and that tends to make whatever excites in a man
the idea of this distinction so very pleasant. It has been so strong as to
make very miserable men take comfort, that they were supreme in misery; and
certain it is, that, where we cannot distinguish ourselves by something
excellent, we begin to take a complacency in some singular infirmities,
follies, or defects of one kind or other. It is on this principle that
flattery is so prevalent; for flattery is no more than what raises in a man`s
mind an idea of a preference which he has not. Now, whatever, either on good
or upon bad grounds, tends to raise a man in his own opinion, produces a sort
of swelling and triumph, that is extremely grateful to the human mind; and
this swelling is never more perceived, nor operates with more force, than
when without danger we are conversant with terrible objects; the mind always
claiming to itself some part of the dignity and importance of the things which
it contemplates. Hence proceeds what Longinus has observed of that glorying
sense of inward greatness, that always fills the reader of such passages in
poets and orators as are sublime; it is what every man must have felt in
himself upon such occasions.
Sect. XVIII.
The Recapitulation
To draw the whole of what has been said into a few distinct points:-The
passions which belong to self-preservation turn on pain and danger; they are
simply painful when their causes immediately affect us; they are delightful
when we have an idea of pain and danger, without being actually in such
circumstances; this delight I have not called pleasure, because it turns on
pain, and because it is different enough from any idea of positive pleasure.
Whatever excites this delight, I call sublime. The passions belonging to
self-preservation are the strongest of all the passions.
The second head to which the passions are referred with relation to
their final cause, is society. There are two sorts of societies. The first
is, the society of sex. The passion belonging to this is called love, and it
contains a mixture of lust; its object is the beauty of women. The other is
the great society with man and all other animals. The passion subservient to
this is called likewise love, but it has no mixture of lust, and its object
is beauty; which is a name I shall apply to all such qualities in things as
induce in us a sense of affection and tenderness, or some other passion the
most nearly resembling these. The passion of love has its rise in positive
pleasure; it is, like all things which grow out of pleasure, capable of
being mixed with a mode of uneasiness, that is, when an idea of its object
is excited in the mind with an idea at the same time of having irretrievably
lost it. This mixed sense of pleasure I have not called pain, because it
turns upon actual pleasure, and because it is, both in its cause and in most
of its effects, of a nature altogether different.
Next to the general passion we have for society, to a choice in which
we are directed by the pleasure we have in the object, the particular
passion under this head called sympathy has the greatest extent. The nature
of this passion is, to put us in the place of another in whatever
circumstance he is in, and to affect us in a like manner; so that this
passion may, as the occasion requires, turn either on pain or pleasure; but
with the modifications mentioned in some cases in sect. II. As to imitation
and preference, nothing more need be said.
Sect. XIX.
The Conclusion
I believed that an attempt to range and methodize some of our most
leading passions would be a good preparative to such an inquiry as we are
going to make in the ensuing discourse. The passions I have mentioned are
almost the only ones which it can be necessary to consider in our present
design; though the variety of the passions is great, and worthy in every
branch of that variety, of an attentive investigation. The more accurately
we search into the human mind, the stronger traces we everywhere find of his
wisdom who made it. If a discourse on the use of the parts of the body may
be considered as an hymn to the Creator; the use of the passions, which are
the organs of the mind, cannot be barren of praise to him, nor unproductive
to ourselves of that noble and uncommon union of science and admiration,
which a contemplation of the works of infinite wisdom alone can afford to a
rational mind: whilst, referring to him whatever we find of right or good or
fair in ourselves, discovering his strength and wisdom even in our own
weakness and imperfection, honouring them where we discover them clearly, and
adoring their profundity where we are lost in our search, we may be
inquisitive without impertinence, and elevated without pride; we may be
admitted, if I may dare to say so, into the counsels of the Almighty by a
consideration of his works. The elevation of the mind ought to be the
principal end of all our studies; which if they do not in some measure effect,
they are of very little service to us. But, beside this great purpose, a
consideration of the rationale of our passions seems to me very necessary for
all who would affect them upon solid and sure principles. It is not enough to
know them in general: to affect them after a delicate manner, or to judge
properly of any work designed to affect them, we should know the exact
boundaries of their several jurisdictions; we should pursue them through all
their variety of operations, and pierce into the inmost, and what might appear
inaccessible, parts of our nature,
Quod latet arcand non enarrabile fibra.
Without all this it is possible for a man, after a confused manner, sometimes
to satisfy his own mind of the truth of his work; but he can never have a
certain determinate rule to go by, nor can he ever make his propositions
sufficiently clear to others. Poets, and orators, and painters, and those who
cultivate other branches of the liberal arts, have, without this critical
knowledge, succeeded well in their several provinces, and will succeed: as
among artificers there are many machines made and even invented without any
exact knowledge of the principles they are governed by. It is, I own, not
uncommon to be wrong in theory, and right in practice; and we are happy that
it is so. Men often act right from their feelings, who afterwards reason but
ill on them from principle: but as it is impossible to avoid an attempt at
such reasoning, and equally impossible to prevent its having some influence on
our practice, surely it is worth taking some pains to have it just, and
founded on the basis of sure experience. We might expect that the artists
themselves would have been our surest guides; but the artists have been too
much occupied in the practice: the philosophers have done little; and what
they have done, was mostly with a view to their own schemes and systems: and
as for those called critics, they have generally sought the rule of the arts
in the wrong place; they sought it among poems, pictures, engravings, statues,
and buildings. But art can never give the rules that make an art. This is, I
believe, the reason why artists in general, and poets principally, have been
confined in so narrow a circle: they have been rather imitators of one another
than of nature; and this with so faithful an uniformity, and to so remote an
antiquity, that it is hard to say who gave the first model. Critics follow
them, and therefore can do little as guides. I can judge but poorly of
anything, whilst I measure it by no other standard than itself. The true
standard of the arts is in every man`s power; and an easy observation of the
most common, sometimes of the meanest, things in nature, will give the truest
lights, where the greatest sagacity and industry, that slights such
observation, must leave us in the dark, or, what is worse, amuse and mislead
us by false lights. In an inquiry it is almost everything to be once in a
right road. I am satisfied I have done but little by these observations
considered in themselves; and I never should have taken the pains to digest
them, much less should I have ever ventured to publish them, if I was not
convinced that nothing tends more to the corruption of science than to suffer
it to stagnate. These waters must be troubled, before they can exert their
virtues. A man who works beyond the surface of things, though he may be wrong
himself, yet he clears the way for others, and may chance to make even his
errors subservient to the cause of truth. In the following parts I shall
inquire what things they are that cause in us the affections of the sublime
and beautiful, as in this I have considered the affections themselves. I only
desire one favour, - that no part of this discourse may be judged of by
itself, and independently of the rest; for I am sensible I have not disposed
my materials to abide the test of a captious controversy, but of a sober and
even forgiving examination, that they are not armed at all points for battle,
but dressed to visit those who are willing to give a peaceful entrance to
truth.
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