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Part IVSections XV - XXV.
Sections XV - XXV.
Sect. XV.
Darkness Terrible In Its Own Nature
Perhaps it may appear on inquiry that blackness and darkness are in some
degree painful by their natural operation, independent of any associations
whatsoever. I must observe, that the ideas of darkness and blackness are much
the same; and they differ only in this, that blackness is a more confined
idea. Mr. Cheselden has given us a very curious story of a boy, who had been
born blind, and continued so until he was thirteen or fourteen years old; he
was then couched for a cataract, by which operation he received his sight.
Among many remarkable particulars that attended his first perceptions and
judgments on visual objects, it gave him great uneasiness; and that some time
after, upon accidentally seeing a negro woman, he was struck with great
horror at the sight. The horror, in this case, can scarcely be supposed to
arise from any association. The boy appears by the account to have been
particularly observing and sensible for one of his age; and therefore it is
probable, if the great uneasiness he felt at the first sight of black had
arisen from its connexion with any other disagreeable ideas, he would have
observed and mentioned it. For an idea, disagreeable only by association, has
the cause of its ill effect on the passions evident enough at the first
impression; in ordinary cases, it is indeed frequently lost; but this is,
because the original association was made very early, and the consequent
impression repeated often. In our instance, there was no time for such a
habit; and there is no reason to think that the ill effects of black on his
imagination were more owing to its connexion with any disagreeable ideas, than
that the good effects of more cheerful colours were derived from their
connexion with pleasuring ones. They had both probably their effects from
their natural operation.
Sect. XVI.
Why Darkness Is Terrible
It may be worth while to examine how darkness can operate in such a
manner as to cause pain. It is observable, that still as we recede from the
light, nature has so contrived it, that the pupil is enlarged by the retiring
of the iris, in proportion to our recess. Now, instead of declining from it
but a little, suppose that we withdraw entirely from the light; it is
reasonable to think, that the contraction of the radial fibres of the iris is
proportionably greater; and that this part may by great darkness come to be so
contracted as to strain the nerves that compose it beyond their natural tone;
and by this means to produce a painful sensation. Such a tension it seems
there certainly is, whilst we are involved in darkness; for in such a state,
whilst the eye remains open, there is a continual nisus to receive light; this
is manifest from the flashes and luminous appearances which often seem in
these circumstances to play before it; and which can be nothing but the effect
of spasms, produced by its own efforts in pursuit of its object: several other
strong impulses will produce the idea of light in the eye, besides the
substance of light itself, as we experience on many occasions. Some, who allow
darkness to be a cause of the sublime, would infer, from the dilatation of the
pupil, that a relaxation may be productive of the sublime, as well as a
convulsion: but they do not, I believe, consider that although the circular
ring of the iris be in some sense a sphincter, which may possibly be dilated
by a simple relaxation, yet in one respect it differs from most of the other
sphincters of the body, that it is furnished with antagonist muscles, which
are the radial fibres of the iris: no sooner does the circular muscle begin to
relax, than these fibres, wanting their counterpoise, are forcibly drawn back,
and open the pupil to a considerable wideness. But though we were not apprized
of this, I believe any one will find, if he opens his eyes and makes an effort
to see in a dark place, that a very perceivable pain ensues. And I have heard
some ladies remark, that after having worked a long time upon a ground of
black, their eyes were so pained and weakened, they could hardly see. It may
perhaps be objected to this theory of the mechanical effect of darkness, that
the ill effects of darkness or blackness seem rather mental than corporeal:
and I own it is true, that they do so; and so do all those that depend on the
affections of the finer parts of our system. The ill effects of bad weather
appear often no otherwise, than in a melancholy and dejection of spirits;
though without doubt, in this case, the bodily organs suffer first, and the
mind through these organs.
Sect. XVII.
The Effects Of Blackness
Blackness is but a partial darkness; and therefore, it derives some of
its powers from being mixed and surrounded with coloured bodies. In its own
nature, it cannot be considered as a colour. Black bodies, reflecting none or
but a few rays, with regard to sight, are but as so many vacant spaces
dispersed among the objects we view. When the eye lights on one of these
vacuities, after having been kept in some degree of tension by the play of the
adjacent colours upon it, it suddenly falls into a relaxation; out of which it
as suddenly recovers by a convulsive spring. To illustrate this: let us
consider, that when we intend to sit on a chair, and find it much lower than
was expected, the shock is very violent; much more violent than could be
thought from so slight a fall as the difference between one chair and another
can possibly make. If, after descending a flight of stairs, we attempt
inadvertently to take another step in the manner of the former ones, the shock
is extremely rude and disagreeable; and by no art can we cause such a shock
by the same means when we expect and prepare for it. When I say that this is
owing to having the change made contrary to expectation, I do not mean solely,
when the mind expects. I mean, likewise, that when any organ of sense is for
some time affected in some one manner, if it be suddenly affected otherwise,
there ensues a convulsive motion; such a convulsion as is caused when anything
happens against the expectance of the mind. And though it may appear strange
that such a change as produces a relaxation should immediately produce a
sudden convulsion; it is yet most certainly so, and so in all the senses.
Every one knows that sleep is a relaxation; and that silence, where nothing
keeps the organs of hearing in action, is in general fittest to bring on this
relaxation; yet when a sort of murmuring sounds dispose a man to sleep, let
these sounds cease suddenly, and the person immediately awakes; that is, the
parts are braced up suddenly, and he awakes. This I have often experienced
myself, and I have heard the same from observing persons. In like manner, if a
person in broad day-light were falling asleep, to introduce a sudden darkness
would prevent his sleep for that time, though silence and darkness in
themselves, and not suddenly introduced, are very favourable to it. This I
knew only by conjecture on the analogy of the senses when I first digested
these observations; but I have since experienced it. And I have often
experienced, and so have a thousand others, that on the first inclining
towards sleep, we have been suddenly awakened with a most violent start; and
that this start was generally preceded by a sort of dream of our falling down
a precipice: whence does this strange motion arise, but from the too sudden
relaxation of the body, which by some mechanism in nature restores itself by
as quick and vigorous an exertion of the contracting power of the muscles? The
dream itself is caused by this relaxation; and it is of too uniform a nature
to be attributed to any other cause. The parts relax too suddenly, which is in
the nature of falling; and this accident of the body induces this image in the
mind. When we are in a confirmed state of health and vigour, as all changes
are then less sudden, and less on the extreme, we can seldom complain of this
disagreeable sensation.
Sect. XVIII.
The Effects Of Blackness Moderated
Though the effects of black be painful originally, we must not think they
always continue so. Custom reconciles us to everything. After we have been
used to the sight of black objects, the terror abates, and the smoothness and
glossiness, or some agreeable accident, of bodies so coloured, softens in some
measure the horror and sternness of their original nature; yet the nature of
their original impression still continues. Black will always have something
melancholy in it, because the sensory will always find the change to it from
other colours too violent; or if it occupy the whole compass of the sight, it
will then be darkness; and what was said of darkness will be applicable here.
I do not purpose to go into all that might be said to illustrate this theory
of the effects of light and darkness, neither will I examine all the different
effects produced by the various modifications and mixtures of these two
causes. If the foregoing observations have any foundation in nature, I
conceive them very sufficient to account for all the phenomena that can arise
from all the combinations of black with other colours. To enter into every
particular, or to answer every objection, would be an endless labour. We have
only followed the most leading roads; and we shall observe the same conduct in
our inquiry into the cause of beauty.
Sect. XIX.
The Physical Cause Of Love
When we have before us such objects as excite love and complacency, the
body is affected, so far as I could observe, much in the following manner: the
head reclines something on one side; the eyelids are more closed than usual,
and the eyes roll gently with an inclination to the object; the mouth is a
little opened, and the breath drawn slowly, with now and then a low sigh; the
whole body is composed, and the hands fall idly to the sides. All this is
accompanied with an inward sense of melting and languor. These appearances
are always proportioned to the degree of beauty in the object, and of
sensibility in the observer. And this gradation from the highest pitch of
beauty and sensibility, even to the lowest of mediocrity and indifference, and
their correspondent effects, ought to be kept in view, else this description
will seem exaggerated, which it certainly is not. But from this description it
is almost impossible not to conclude, that beauty acts by relaxing the solids
of the whole system. There are all the appearances of such a relaxation; and a
relaxation somewhat below the natural tone seems to me to be the cause of all
positive pleasure. Who is a stranger to that manner of expression so common in
all times and in all countries, of being softened, relaxed, enervated,
dissolved, melted away by pleasure? The universal voice of mankind, faithful
to their feelings, concurs in affirming this uniform and general effect: and
although some odd and particular instance may perhaps be found, wherein there
appears a considerable degree of positive pleasure, without all the characters
of relaxation, we must not therefore reject the conclusion we had drawn from a
concurrence of many experiments; but we must still retain it, subjoining the
exceptions which may occur, according to the judicious rule laid down by Sir
Isaac Newton in the third book of his Optics. Our position will, I conceive,
appear confirmed beyond any reasonable doubt, if we can show that such things
as we have already observed to be the genuine constituents of beauty, have
each of them, separately taken, a natural tendency to relax the fibres. And if
it must be allowed us, that the appearance of the human body, when all these
constituents are united together before the sensory, further favours this
opinion, we may venture, I believe, to conclude, that the passion called love
is produced by this relaxation. By the same method of reasoning which we have
used in the inquiry into the causes of the sublime, we may likewise conclude,
that as a beautiful object presented to the sense, by causing a relaxation of
the body, produces the passion of love in the mind; so if by any means the
passion should first have its origin in the mind, a relaxation of the outward
organs will as certainly ensue in a degree proportioned to the cause.
Sect. XX.
Why Smoothness Is Beautiful
It is to explain the true cause of visual beauty, that I call in the
assistance of the other senses. If it appears that smoothness is a principal
cause of pleasure to the touch, taste, smell, and hearing, it will be easily
admitted a constituent of visual beauty; especially as we have before shown,
that this quality is found almost without exception in all bodies that are by
general consent held beautiful. There can be no doubt that bodies which are
rough and angular, rouse and vellicate the organs of feeling, causing a sense
of pain, which consists in the violent tension or contraction of the muscular
fibres. On the contrary, the application of smooth bodies relaxes; gentle
stroking with a smooth hand allays violent pains and cramps, and relaxes the
suffering parts from their unnatural tension; and it has therefore very often
no mean effect in removing swellings and obstructions. The sense of feeling is
highly gratified with smooth bodies. A bed smoothly laid, and soft, that is,
where the resistance is every way inconsiderable, is a great luxury, disposing
to an universal relaxation, and inducing beyond anything else that species of
it called sleep.
Sect. XXI.
Sweetness, Its Nature
Nor is it only in the touch that smooth bodies cause positive pleasure by
relaxation. In the smell and taste, we find all things agreeable to them, and
which are commonly called sweet, to be of a smooth nature, and that they all
evidently tend to relax their respective sensories. Let us first consider the
taste. Since it is most easy to inquire into the property of liquids, and
since all things seem to want a fluid vehicle to make them tasted at all, I
intend rather to consider the liquid than the solid parts of our food. The
vehicles of all tastes are water and oil. And what determines the taste is
some salt, which affects variously according to its nature, or its manner of
being combined with other things. Water and oil, simply considered, are
capable of giving some pleasure to the taste. Water, when simple, is insipid,
inodorous, colourless, and smooth; it is found, when not cold, to be a great
resolver of spasms, and lubricator of the fibres; this power it probably owes
to its smoothness. For as fluidity depends, according to the most general
opinion, on the roundness, smoothness, and weak cohesion, of the component
parts of any body; and as water acts merely as a simple fluid; it follows that
the cause of its fluidity is likewise the cause of its relaxing quality;
namely, the smoothness and slippery texture of its parts. The other fluid
vehicle of taste is oil. This too, when simple, is insipid, inodorous,
colourless, and smooth to the touch and taste. It is smoother than water, and
in many cases yet more relaxing. Oil is in some degree pleasant to the eye,
the touch, and the taste, insipid as it is. Water is not so grateful; which I
do not know on what principle to account for, other than that water is not so
soft and smooth. Suppose that to this oil or water were added a certain
quantity of a specific salt, which had a power of putting the nervous papillae
of the tongue into a gentle vibratory motion; as suppose, sugar dissolved in
it. The smoothness of the oil, and the vibratory power of the salt, cause the
sense we call sweetness. In all sweet bodies, sugar, or a substance very
little different from sugar, is constantly found. Every species of salt,
examined by the microscope, has its own distinct, regular, invariable form.
That of nitre is a pointed oblong; that of sea-salt an exact cube; that of
sugar a perfect globe. If you have tried how smooth globular bodies, as the
marbles with which boys amuse themselves, have affected the touch when they
are rolled backward and forward and over one another, you will easily
conceive how sweetness, which consists in a salt of such nature, affects the
taste; for a single globe, (though somewhat pleasant to the feeling,) yet by
the regularity of its form, and the somewhat too sudden deviation of its parts
from a right line, is nothing near so pleasant to the touch as several globes,
where the hand gently rises to one and falls to another; and this pleasure
is greatly increased if the globes are in motion, and sliding over
one another; for this soft variety prevents that weariness, which the uniform
disposition of the several globes would otherwise produce. Thus in sweet
liquors, the parts of the fluid vehicle, though most probably round, are yet
so minute, as to conceal the figure of their component parts from the nicest
inquisition of the microscope; and consequently, being so excessively minute,
they have a sort of flat simplicity to the taste, resembling the effects of
plain smooth bodies to the touch; for if a body be composed of round parts
excessively small, and packed pretty closely together, the surface will be
both to the sight and touch as if it were nearly plain and smooth. It is clear
from their unveiling their figure to the microscope, that the particles of
sugar are considerably larger than those of water or oil, and consequently,
that their effects from their roundness will be more distinct and palpable to
the nervous papillae of that nice organ the tongue: they will induce that
sense called sweetness, which in a weak manner we discover in oil, and in a
yet weaker, in water; for, insipid as they are, water and oil are in some
degree sweet; and it may be observed, that the insipid things of all kinds
approach more nearly to the nature of sweetness than to that of any other
taste.
Sect. XXII.
Sweetness Relaxing
In the other senses we have remarked, that smooth things are relaxing.
Now it ought to appear that sweet things, which are the smooth of taste, are
relaxing too. It is remarkable, that in some languages, soft and sweet have
but one name. Doux in French signifies soft as well as sweet. The Latin
Dulcis, and the Italian Dolce, have in many cases the same double
signification. That sweet things are generally relaxing, is evident; because
all such, especially those which are most oily, taken frequently, or in a
large quantity, very much enfeeble the tone of the stomach. Sweet smells,
which bear a great affinity to sweet tastes, relax very remarkably. The smell
of flowers disposes people to drowsiness; and this relaxing effect is further
apparent from the prejudice which people of weak nerves receive from their
use. It were worth while to examine, whether tastes of this kind, sweet ones,
tastes that are caused by smooth oils and a relaxing salt, are not the
original pleasant tastes. For many, which use has rendered such, were not at
all agreeable at first. The way to examine this, is to try what nature has
originally provided for us, which she has undoubtedly made originally
pleasant; and to analyze this provision. Milk is the first support of our
childhood. The component parts of this are water, oil and a sort of a very
sweet salt, called the sugar of milk. All these when blended have a great
smoothness to the taste, and a relaxing quality to the skin. The next thing
children covet is fruit, and of fruits those principally which are sweet; and
every one knows that the sweetness of fruit is caused by a subtle oil, and
such salt as that mentioned in the last section. Afterwards custom, habit, the
desire of novelty, and a thousand other causes, confound, adulterate, and
change our palates, so that we can no longer reason with any satisfaction
about them. Before we quit this article, we must observe, that as smooth
things are, as such, agreeable to the taste, and are found of a relaxing
quality; so, on the other hand, things which are found by experience to be of
a strengthening quality, and fit to brace the fibres, are almost universally
rough and pungent to the taste, and in many cases rough even to the touch. We
often apply the quality of sweetness, metaphorically, to visual objects. For
the better carrying on this remarkable analogy of the senses, we may here call
sweetness the beautiful of the taste.
Sect. XXIII.
Variation, Why Beautiful
Another principal property of beautiful objects is, that the line of
their parts is continually varying its direction; but it varies it by a very
insensible deviation; it never varies it so quickly as to surprise, or by the
sharpness of its angle to cause any twitching or convulsion of the optic
nerve. Nothing long continued in the same manner, nothing very suddenly
varied, can be beautiful; because both are opposite to that agreeable
relaxation which is the characteristic effect of beauty. It is thus in all the
senses. A motion in a right line is that manner of moving, next to a very
gentle descent, in which we meet the least resistance; yet it is not that
manner of moving which, next to a descent, wearies us the least. Rest
certainly tends to relax; yet there is a species of motion which relaxes more
than rest; a gentle oscillatory motion, a rising and falling. Rocking sets
children to sleep better than absolute rest; there is indeed scarce anything
at that age which gives more pleasure than to be gently lifted up and down;
the manner of playing which their nurses use with children, and the weighing
and swinging used afterwards by themselves as a favourite amusement, evince
this very sufficiently. Most people must have observed the sort of sense they
have had on being swiftly drawn in an easy coach on a smooth turf, with
gradual ascents and declivities. This will give a better idea of the
beautiful, and point out its probable course better, than almost anything
else. On the contrary, when one is hurried over a rough, rocky, broken road,
the pain felt by these sudden inequalities shows why similar sights, feelings,
and sounds are so contrary to beauty: and with regard to the feeling, it is
exactly the same in its effect, or very nearly the same, whether, for
instance, I move my hand along the surface of a body of a certain shape, or
whether such a body is moved along my hand. But to bring this analogy of the
senses home to the eye: if a body presented to that sense has such a waving
surface, that the rays of light reflected from it are in a continual
insensible deviation from the strongest to the weakest (which is always the
case in a surface gradually unequal,) it must be exactly similar in its
effects on the eye and touch; upon the one of which it operates directly, on
the other, indirectly. And this body will be beautiful, if the lines which
compose its surface are not continued, even so varied, in a manner that may
weary or dissipate the attention. The variation itself must be continually
varied.
Sect. XXIV.
Concerning Smallness
To avoid a sameness which may arise from the too frequent repetition of
the same reasonings, and of illustrations of the same nature, I will not enter
very minutely into every particular that regards beauty, as it is founded on
the disposition of its quantity, or its quantity itself. In speaking of the
magnitude of bodies there is great uncertainty, because the ideas of great
and small are terms almost entirely relative to the species of the objects,
which are infinite. It is true, that having once fixed the species of any
object, and the dimensions common in the individuals of that species, we may
observe some that exceed, and some that fall short of, the ordinary standard:
those which greatly exceed are, by the excess, provided the species itself be
not very small, rather great and terrible than beautiful; but as in the animal
world, and in a good measure in the vegetable world likewise, the qualities
that constitute beauty may possibly be united to things of greater dimensions;
when they are so united, they constitute a species something different both
from the sublime and beautiful, which I have before called fine: but this
kind, I imagine, has not such a power on the passions either as vast bodies
have which are endued with the correspondent qualities of the sublime, or as
the qualities of beauty have when united in a small object. The affection
produced by large bodies adorned with the spoils of beauty, is a tension
continually relieved; which approaches to the nature of mediocrity. But if I
were to say how I find myself affected upon such occasions, I should say, that
the sublime suffers less by being united to some of the qualities of beauty,
than beauty does by being joined to greatness of quantity, or any other
properties of the sublime. There is something so over-ruling in whatever
inspires us with awe, in all things which belongs ever so remotely to terror,
that nothing else can stand in their presence. There lie the qualities of
beauty either dead or unoperative; or at most exerted to mollify the rigour
and sternness of the terror, which is the natural concomitant of greatness.
Besides the extraordinary great in every species, the opposite to this, the
dwarfish and diminutive, ought to be considered. Littleness, merely as such,
has nothing contrary to the idea of beauty. The humming-bird, both in shape
and colouring, yields to none of the winged species, of which it is the least;
and perhaps his beauty is enhanced by his smallness. But there are animals,
which, when they are extremely small, are rarely (if ever) beautiful. There is
a dwarfish size of men and women, which is almost constantly so gross and
massive in comparison of their height, that they present us with a very
disagreeable image. But should a man be found not above two or three feet
high, supposing such a person to have all the parts of his body of a delicacy
suitable to such a size, and otherwise endued with the common qualities of
other beautiful bodies, I am pretty well convinced that a person of such a
stature might be considered as beautiful; might be the object of love; might
give us very pleasing ideas on viewing him. The only thing which could
possibly interpose to check our pleasure is, that such creatures, however
formed, are unusual, and are often therefore considered as something
monstrous. The large and gigantic, though very compatible with the sublime, is
contrary to the beautiful. It is impossible to suppose a giant the object of
love. When we let our imagination loose in romance, the ideas we naturally
annex to that size are those of tyranny, cruelty, injustice, and everything
horrid and abominable. We paint the giant ravaging the country, plundering the
innocent traveller, and afterwards gorged with his half-living flesh: such are
Polyphemus, Cacus, and others, who make so great a figure in romances and
heroic poems. The event we attend to with the greatest satisfaction is their
defeat and death. I do not remember, in all that multitude of deaths with
which the Iliad is filled, that the fall of any man, remarkable for his great
stature and strength, touches us with pity; nor does it appear that the
author, so well read in human nature, ever intended it should. It is
Simoisius, in the soft bloom of youth, torn from his parents, who tremble for
a courage so ill suited to his strength; it is another hurried by war from the
new embraces of his bride, young, and fair, and a novice to the field, who
melts us by his untimely fate. Achilles, in spite of the many qualities of
beauty which Homer has bestowed on his outward form, and the many great
virtues with which he has adorned his mind, can never make us love him. It may
be observed, that Homer has given the Trojans, whose fate he has designed to
excite our compassion, infinitely more of the amiable, social virtues than he
has distributed among his Greeks. With regard to the Trojans, the passion he
chooses to raise is pity; pity is a passion founded on love; and these lesser,
and if I may say domestic virtues, are certainly the most amiable. But he has
made the Greeks far their superiors in the politic and military virtues. The
councils of Priam are weak; the arms of Hector comparatively feeble; his
courage far below that of Achilles. Yet we love Priam more than Agamemnon, and
Hector more than his conqueror Achilles. Admiration is the passion which Homer
would excite in favour of the Greeks, and he has done it by bestowing on them
the virtues which have little to do with love. This short digression is
perhaps not wholly beside our purpose, where our business is to show, that
objects of great dimensions are incompatible with beauty, the more
incompatible as they are greater; whereas the small, if ever they fail of
beauty, this failure is not to be attributed to their size.
Sect. XXV.
Of Colour
With regard to colour, the disquisition is almost infinite: but I
conceive the principles laid down in the beginning of this part are sufficient
to account for the effects of them all, as well as for the agreeable effects
of transparent bodies, whether fluid or solid. Suppose I look at a bottle of
muddy liquor, of a blue or red colour; the blue or red rays cannot pass
clearly to the eye, but are suddenly and unequally stopped by the intervention
of little opaque bodies, which without preparation change the idea, and change
it too into one disgreeable in its own nature, conformably to the principles
laid down in sect. 24. But when the ray passes without such opposition through
the glass or liquor, when the glass or liquor is quite transparent, the light
is sometimes softened in the passage, which makes it more agreeable even as
light; and the liquor reflecting all the rays of its proper colour evenly, it
has such an effect on the eye, as smooth opaque bodies have on the eye and
touch. So that the pleasure here is compounded of the softness of the
transmitted, and the evenness of the reflected light. This pleasure may be
heightened by the common principles in other things, if the shape of the glass
which holds the transparent liquor be so judiciously varied, as to present the
colour gradually and interchangeably, weakened and strengthened with all the
variety which judgment in affairs of this nature shall suggest. On a review of
all that has been said of the effects as well as the causes of both, it will
appear, that the sublime and beautiful are built on principles very different,
and that their affections are as different: the great has terror for its
basis; which, when it is modified, causes that emotion in the mind which I
have called astonishment; the beautiful is founded on mere positive pleasure,
and excites in the soul that feeling which is called love. Their causes have
made the subject of this fourth part.
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