Elements of Criticism, Volume I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The same author Ben Johnson abounds in the bombast:

This is the language of a madman:

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

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

CHAP. V.

Motion and Force.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAP. VI.

Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects.

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

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

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

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

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

Whether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a question not less intricate than the former. It is certain, that surprise inflames our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend: and not less our terror, when we stumble upon any thing noxious. To clear this point, we must trace it step by step. And the first thing to be remarked is, that in some instances an unexpected object overpowers the mind so as to produce a momentary stupefaction. An unexpected object, not less than one that is new, is apt to sound an alarm and to raise terror. Man, naturally a defenceless being, is happily so constituted as to apprehend danger in all doubtful cases. Accordingly, where the object is dangerous, or appears so, the sudden alarm it gives, without preparation, is apt totally to unhinge the mind, and for a moment to suspend all the faculties, even thought itself[77]. In this state a man is quite helpless; and if he move at all, is as likely to run upon the danger as from it. Surprise carried to this height, cannot be either pleasant or painful; because the mind, during such momentary stupefaction, is in a good measure, if not totally, insensible.

If we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it must be where the unexpected object or event produceth less violent effects. And while the mind remains sensible of pleasure and pain, is it not natural to suppose, that surprise, like wonder, should have an invariable character? I am inclined however to think, that surprise has no invariable character, but assumes that of the object which raises it. Wonder is the gratification of a natural principle, and upon that account must be pleasant. There, novelty is the capital circumstance, which, for a time, is intitled to possess the mind entirely in one unvaried tone. The unexpected appearance of an object, seems not equally intitled to produce an emotion distinguishable from the emotion, pleasant or painful, that is produced by the object in its ordinary appearance. It ought not naturally to have any effect, other than to swell that emotion, by making it more pleasant or more painful than it commonly is. And this conjecture is confirmed by experience, as well as by language, which is built upon experience. When a man meets a friend unexpectedly, he is said to be agreeably surprised; and when he meets an enemy unexpectedly, he is said to be disagreeably surprised. It appears then, that the sole effect of surprise is to swell the emotion raised by the object. And this effect can be clearly explained. A tide of connected perceptions, glides gently into the mind, and produceth no perturbation. An object on the other hand breaking in unexpectedly, sounds an alarm, rouses the mind out of its calm state, and directs its whole attention upon the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly so. Several circumstances concur to produce this effect. On the one hand, the agitation of the mind and its keen attention, prepare it in the most effectual manner for receiving a deep impression. On the other hand, the object by its sudden and unforeseen appearance, makes an impression, not gradually as expected objects do, but as at one stroke with its whole force. The circumstances are precisely similar, where the object is in itself disagreeable.

The pleasure of novelty is easily distinguished from that of variety. To produce the latter, a plurality of objects is necessary. The former arises from a circumstance found in a single object. Again, where objects, whether coexistent or in succession, are sufficiently diversified, the pleasure of variety is complete, though every single object of the train be familiar. But the pleasure of novelty, directly opposite to familiarity, requires no diversification.

There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in proportion. The lowest degree is found in objects that are surveyed a second time after a long interval. That in this case an object takes on some appearance of novelty, is certain from experience. A large building of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field embellished with trees, lakes, temples, statues, and other ornaments, will appear new oftener than once. The memory of an object so complex is soon lost; of its parts at least, or of their arrangement. But experience teaches, that even without any decay of remembrance, absence alone will give an air of novelty to a once familiar object; which is not surprising, because familiarity wears off gradually by absence. Thus a person with whom we have been intimate, returning after a long interval, appears like a new acquaintance. Distance of place contributes to this appearance, not less than distance of time. A friend after a short absence in a remote country, has the same air of novelty as if he had returned after a longer interval from a place nearer home. The mind forms a connection betwixt him and the remote country, and bestows upon him the singularity of the objects he has seen. When two things equally new and singular are presented, the spectator balances betwixt them. But when told that one of them is the product of a distant quarter of the world, he no longer hesitates, but clings to this as the more singular. Hence the preference given to foreign luxuries and to foreign curiosities, which appear rare in proportion to their original distance.

The next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in objects of which we have some information at second hand. For description, though it contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether remove the appearance of novelty when the object itself is presented. The first sight of a lion occasions some wonder, after a thorough acquaintance with the corrected pictures or statues of that animal.

A new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known species, is an instance of a third degree of novelty. A strong resemblance among individuals of the same species, prevents almost entirely the effect of novelty; unless distance of place or some other circumstance concur. But where the resemblance is faint, some degree of wonder is felt; and the emotion rises in proportion to the faintness of the resemblance.

The highest degree of wonder ariseth from unknown objects that have no analogy to any species we are acquainted with. Shakespear in a simile introduces this species of novelty.