Emotions and Passions.

THe fine arts, as observed above[14], are all of them calculated to give pleasure to the eye or the ear; and they never descend to gratify the taste, touch, or smell. At the same time, the feelings of the eye and ear, are of all the feelings of external sense, those only which are honoured with the name of emotions or passions. It is also observed above[15], that the principles of the fine arts are unfolded by studying the sensitive part of human nature, in order to know what objects of the eye and ear are agreeable, what disagreeable. These observations show the use of the present chapter. We evidently must be acquainted with the nature and causes of emotions and passions, before we can judge with any accuracy how far they are under the power of the fine arts. The critical art is thus set in a fine point of view. The inquisitive mind beginning with criticism the most agreeable of all amusements, and finding no obstruction in its progress, advances far into the sensitive part of our nature; and gains insensibly a thorough knowledge of the human heart, of its desires, and of every motive to action; a science which of all that can be reached by man, is to him of the greatest importance.

Upon a subject so extensive, all that can be expected here, is a general or slight survey. Some emotions indeed more peculiarly connected with the fine arts, I propose to handle in separate chapters; a method that will shorten the general survey considerably. And yet, after this circumscription, so much matter comes under even a general view of the passions and emotions, that, to avoid confusion, I find it necessary to divide this chapter into many parts: in the first of which are handled the causes of those emotions and passions that are the most common and familiar; for to explain every passion and emotion, however singular, would be an endless work. And though I could not well take up less ground, without separating things intimately connected; yet, upon examination, I find the causes of our emotions and passions to be so numerous and various, as to make a subdivision also necessary by splitting this first part into several sections. Human nature is a complicated machine, and must be so to answer all its purposes. There have indeed been published to the world, many a system of human nature, that flatter the mind by their simplicity. But these, unluckily, deviate far from truth and reality. According to some writers, man is entirely a selfish being: according to others, universal benevolence is his duty. One founds morality upon sympathy solely, and one upon utility. If any of these systems were of nature’s production, the present subject might be soon discussed. But the variety of nature is not so easily reached; and for confuting such Utopian systems without the intricacy of reasoning, it appears the best method to enter into human nature, and to set before the eye, plainly and candidly, facts as they really exist.

PART I.

Causes evolved of the emotions and passions.

SECT. I.

Difference betwixt emotion and passion.—— Causes that are the most common and the most extensive.—— Passion considered as productive of action.

THese branches are so interwoven, as to make it necessary that they be handled together. It is a fact universally admitted, that no emotion nor passion ever starts up in the mind, without a known cause. If I love a person, it is for good qualities or good offices: if I have resentment against a man, it must be for some injury he has done me; and I cannot pity any one, who is under no distress of body or of mind.

The circumstances now mentioned, if they cause or occasion a passion, cannot be entirely indifferent: if they were, they could not move us in any degree. And we find upon examination, that they are not indifferent. Looking back upon the foregoing examples, the good qualities or good offices that attract my love, are antecedently agreeable. If an injury were not disagreeable, it would not occasion any resentment against the author; nor would the passion of pity be raised by an object in distress, if that object did not give us pain. These feelings antecedent to passion, and which seem to be the causes of passion, shall be distinguished by the name of emotions.

What is now said about the production of passion, resolves into a very simple proposition, That we love what is pleasant, and hate what is painful. And indeed it is evident, that without antecedent emotions we could not have any passions; for a thing must be pleasant or painful, before it can be the object either of love or of hatred.

As it appears from this short sketch, that passions are generated by means of prior emotions, it will be necessary to take first under consideration emotions and their causes.

Such is the constitution of our nature, that upon perceiving certain external objects, we are instantaneously conscious of pleasure or pain. A flowing river, a smooth extended plain, a spreading oak, a towering hill, are objects of sight that raise pleasant emotions. A barren heath, a dirty marsh, a rotten carcass, raise painful emotions. Of the emotions thus produced, we inquire for no other cause but merely the presence of the object.

It must further be observed, that the things now mentioned, raise emotions by means of their properties and qualities. To the emotion raised by a large river, its size, its force, and its fluency, contribute each a share. The pleasures of regularity, propriety, convenience, compose the emotion raised by a fine building.

If external properties make a being or thing agreeable, we have reason to expect the same effect from those which are internal; and accordingly power, discernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence, render the possessor agreeable in a high degree. So soon as these qualities are perceived in any person, we instantaneously feel pleasant emotions, without the slightest act of reflection or of attention to consequences. It is almost unnecessary to add, that certain qualities opposite to the former, such as dullness, peevishness, inhumanity, cowardice, occasion in the same manner painful emotions.

Sensible beings affect us remarkably by their actions. Some actions so soon as perceived, raise pleasant emotions in the spectator, without the least reflection; such as graceful motion and genteel behaviour. But as the intention of the agent is a capital circumstance in the bulk of human actions, it requires reflection to discover their true character. If I see one delivering a purse of money to another, I can make nothing of this action, till I discover with what intention the money is given. If it be given to extinguish a debt, the action is agreeable in a slight degree. If it be a grateful return, I feel a stronger emotion; and the pleasurable emotion rises to a great height when it is the intention of the giver to relieve a virtuous family from want. Actions are thus qualified by the intention of the agent. But they are not qualified by the event; for an action well intended is agreeable, whatever be the consequence. The pleasant or painful emotion that ariseth from contemplating human actions, is of a peculiar kind. Human actions are perceived to be right or wrong; and this perception qualifies the pleasure or pain that results from them[16].

Not only are emotions raised in us by the qualities and actions of others, but also by their feelings. I cannot behold a man in distress, without partaking of his pain; nor in joy, without partaking of his pleasure.

The beings or things above described, occasion emotions in us, not only in the original survey, but when they are recalled to the memory in idea. A field laid out with taste, is pleasant in the recollection, as well as when under our eye. A generous action described in words or colours, occasions a sensible emotion, as well as when we see it performed. And when we reflect upon the distress of any person, our pain is of the same kind with what we felt when eye-witnesses. In a word, an agreeable or disagreeable object recalled to the mind in idea, is the occasion of a pleasant or painful emotion, of the same kind with that produced when the object was present. The only difference is, that an idea being fainter than an original perception, the pleasure or pain produced by the former, is proportionably fainter than that produced by the latter.

Having explained the nature of an emotion and mentioned several causes by which it is produced, we proceed to an observation of considerable importance in the science of human nature, that some emotions are accompanied with desire, and that others, after a short existence, pass away without producing desire of any sort. The emotion raised by a fine landscape or a magnificent building, vanisheth generally without attaching our hearts to the object; which also happens with relation to a number of fine faces in a crowded assembly. But the bulk of emotions are accompanied with desire of one sort or other, provided only a fit object for desire be suggested. This is remarkably the case of emotions raised by human actions and qualities. A virtuous action raiseth in every spectator a pleasant emotion, which is generally attended with a desire to do good to the author of the action. A vicious action, on the other hand, produceth a painful emotion; and of consequence a desire to have the author punished. Even things inanimate often raise desire. The goods of fortune are objects of desire almost universally; and the desire, when more than commonly vigorous, obtains the name of avarice. The pleasant emotion produced in a spectator by a capital picture in the possession of a prince, seldom raiseth desire. But if such a picture be exposed to sale, desire of having or possessing is the natural consequence of the emotion.

If now an emotion be sometimes productive of desire, somtimes not, it comes to be a material inquiry, in what respect a passion differs from an emotion. Is passion in its nature or feeling distinguishable from emotion? I have been apt to think that there must be a distinction, when the emotion seems in all cases to precede the passion, and to be the cause or occasion of it. But after the strictest examination, I cannot perceive any such distinction betwixt emotion and passion. What is love to a mistress, for example, but a pleasant emotion raised by a sight or idea of the person beloved, joined with desire of enjoyment? In what else consists the passion of resentment, but in a painful emotion occasioned by the injury, accompanied with desire to chastise the author of the injury? In general, as to every sort of passion, we find no more in the composition, but the particulars now mentioned, an emotion pleasant or painful accompanied with desire. What then shall we say upon this subject? Are passion and emotion synonymous terms? This cannot be averred. No feeling nor agitation of the mind void of desire, is termed a passion; and we have discovered that there are many emotions which pass away without raising desire of any kind. How is the difficulty to be solved? There appears to me but one solution, which I relish the more, as it renders the doctrine of the passions and emotions simple and perspicuous. The solution follows. An internal motion or agitation of the mind, when it passeth away without raising desire, is denominated an emotion: when desire is raised, the motion or agitation is denominated a passion. A fine face, for example, raiseth in me a pleasant feeling. If this feeling vanish without producing any effect, it is in proper language an emotion. But if such feeling, by reiterated views of the object, become sufficiently strong to raise desire, it is no longer termed an emotion, but a passion. The same holds in all the other passions. The painful feeling raised in a spectator by a slight injury done to a stranger, being accompanied with no desire of revenge, is termed an emotion. But this injury raiseth in the stranger a stronger emotion, which being accompanied with desire of revenge, is a passion. Again, external expressions of distress, produce in the spectator a painful feeling. This feeling is sometimes so slight as to pass away without any effect, in which case it is an emotion. But if the feeling be so strong as to prompt desire of affording relief, it is a passion, and is termed pity. Envy is emulation in excess. If the exaltation of a competitor be barely disagreeable, the painful feeling is reckoned an emotion. If it produce desire to depress him, it is reckoned a passion.

To prevent mistakes, it must be observed, that desire here is taken in its proper sense, viz. that internal impulse which makes us proceed to action. Desire in a lax sense respects also actions and events that depend not on us, as when I desire that my friend may have a son to represent him, or that my country may flourish in arts and sciences. But such internal act is more properly termed a wish than a desire.

Having distinguished passion from emotion, we proceed to consider passion more at large, with respect especially to its power of producing action.

We have daily and constant experience for our authority, that no man ever proceeds to action but through the impulse of some antecedent desire. So well established is this observation, and so deeply rooted in the mind, that we can scarce imagine a different system of action. Even a child will say familiarly, What should make me do this or that when I have no inclination to it? Taking it then for granted, that the existence of action depends on antecedent desire; it follows, that where there is no desire there can be no action. This opens another shining distinction betwixt emotions and passions. The former, being without desire, are in their nature quiescent: the latter, involving desire, have a tendency to action, and always produce action where they meet with no obstruction.

Hence it follows, that every passion must have an object, viz. that being or thing to which our desire is directed, and with a view to which every action prompted by that desire is performed. The object of every passion is that being or thing which produced it. This will be evident from induction. A fine woman, by her beauty, causes in me the passion of love, which is directed upon her as its object. A man by injuring me, raises my resentment; and becomes thereby the object of my resentment. Thus the cause of a passion, and its object, are the same in different views. An emotion, on the other hand, being in its nature quiescent and merely a passive feeling, must have a cause; but cannot be said properly speaking to have an object.

As the desire involved in every passion leads to action, this action is either ultimate, or it is done as a means to some end. Where the action is ultimate, reason and reflection bear no part. The action is performed blindly by the impulse of passion, without any view. Thus one in extreme hunger snatches at food, without the slightest reflection whether it be salutary or not: Avarice prompts to accumulate wealth without the least view of use; and thereby absurdly converts means into an end: Fear often makes us fly before we reflect whether we really be in danger: and animal love not less often hurries to fruition, without a single thought of gratification. But for the most part, actions are performed as means to some end; and in these actions reason and reflection always bear a part. The end is that event which is desired; and the action is deliberately performed in order to bring about that end. Thus affection to my friend involves a desire to make him happy; and the desire to accomplish that end, prompts me to perform what I judge will contribute to it.

Where the action is ultimate, it hath a cause, viz. the impulse of the passion. But we cannot properly say it hath a motive. This term is appropriated to actions that are performed as means to some end; and the conviction that the action will tend to bring about the end desired, is termed a motive. Thus passions considered as causes of action, are distinguished into two kinds; instinctive, and deliberative. The first operating blindly and by mere impulse, depend entirely upon the sensitive part of our nature. The other operating by reflection and by motives, are connected with the rational part.

The foregoing difference among the passions, is the work of nature. Experience brings on some variations. By all actions performed through the impulse of passion, desire is gratified, and the gratification is pleasant. This lesson we have from experience. And hence it is, that after an action has often been performed by the impulse merely of passion, the pleasure resulting from performance, considered beforehand, becomes a motive, which joins its force with the original impulse in determining us to act. Thus a child eats by the mere impulse of hunger: a young man thinks of the pleasure of gratification, which is a motive for him to eat: and a man farther advanced in life, hath the additional motive that it will contribute to his health.

Instinctive passions are distinguished into two kinds. Where the cause is internal, they are denominated appetites: where external, they retain the common name of passions. Thus hunger, thirst, animal love, are termed appetites; while fear and anger, even when they operate blindly and by mere impulse, are termed passions.

From the definition of a motive above given, it is easy to determine, with the greatest accuracy, what passions are selfish, what social. No passion can properly be termed selfish, but what prompts me to exert actions in order for my own good; nor social, but what prompts me to exert actions in order for the good of another. The motive is that which determines a passion to be social or selfish. Hence it follows, that our appetites, which make us act blindly and by mere impulse, cannot be reckoned either social or selfish; and as little the actions they produce. Thus eating, when prompted by an impulse merely of nature, is neither social nor selfish. But add a motive, That it will contribute to my pleasure or my health, and it becomes in a measure selfish. On the other hand, when affection moves me to exert actions to the end solely of advancing my friend’s happiness, without the slightest regard to my own gratification, such actions are justly denominated social; and so is the affection, that is their cause. If another motive be added, That gratifying the affection will contribute to my own happiness, the actions I perform become partly selfish. Animal love when exerted into action by natural impulse singly, is neither social nor selfish: when exerted with a view to gratification and in order to make me happy, it is selfish. When the motive of giving pleasure to its object is superadded, it is partly social, partly selfish. A just action when prompted by the love of justice solely, is neither social nor selfish. When I perform an act of justice with a view to the pleasure of gratification, the action is selfish. I pay my debt for my own sake, not with a view to benefit my creditor. But let me suppose the money has been advanced by a friend without interest, purely to oblige me. In this case, together with the inclination to do justice, there arises a motive of gratitude, which respects the creditor solely, and prompts me to act in order to do him good. Here the action is partly social, partly selfish. Suppose again I meet with a surprising and unexpected act of generosity, that inspires me with love to my benefactor and the utmost gratitude. I burn to do him good: he is the sole object of my desire; and my own pleasure in gratifying the desire, vanisheth out of sight. In this case, the action I perform is purely social. Thus it happens, that when a social motive becomes strong, the action is exerted with a view singly to the object of the passion; and the selfish pleasure arising from gratification is never once considered. The same effect of stifling selfish motives, is equally remarkable in other passions that are in no view social. Ambition, for example, when confined to exaltation as its ultimate end, is neither social nor selfish. Let exaltation be considered as a means to make me happy, and the passion becomes so far selfish. But if the desire of exaltation wax strong and inflame my mind, the selfish motive now mentioned is no longer felt. A slight degree of resentment, where my chief view in acting is the pleasure arising to myself from gratifying the passion, is justly denominated selfish. Where revenge flames so high as to have no other aim but the destruction of its object, it is no longer selfish. In opposition to a social passion, it maybe termed dissocial[17].

Of self, every one hath a direct perception: of other things, we have no knowledge but by means of their attributes. Hence it is, that of self, the perception is more lively than of any other thing. Self is an agreeable object; and, for the reason now given, must be more agreeable than any other object. Is not this sufficient to account for the prevalence of self-love?

In the foregoing part of this chapter, it is suggested, that some circumstances make beings or things fit objects for desire, others not. This hint must be pursued. It is a truth ascertained by universal experience, that a thing which in our apprehension is beyond reach, never is the object of desire. No man, in his right senses, desires to walk in the air, or to descend to the centre of the earth. We may amuse ourselves in a reverie, with building castles in the air, and wishing for what can never happen. But such things never move desire. And indeed a desire to act would be altogether absurd, when we are conscious that the action is beyond our power. In the next place, though the difficulty of attainment with respect to things within reach, often inflames desire; yet where the prospect of attainment is faint and the event extremely uncertain, the object, however agreeable, seldom raiseth any strong desire. Thus beauty or other good qualities in a woman of rank, seldom raises love in any man greatly her inferior. In the third place, different objects, equally within reach, raise emotions in different degrees; and when desire accompanies any of these emotions, its strength, as is natural, is proportioned to that of its cause. Hence the remarkable difference among desires directed upon beings inanimate, animate, and rational. The emotion caused by a rational being, is out of measure stronger than any caused by an animal without reason; and an emotion raised by such an animal, is stronger than what is caused by any thing inanimate. There is a separate reason why desire of which a rational being is the object should be the strongest. Desire directed upon such a being, is gratified many ways, by loving, serving, benefiting, the object; and it is a well known truth, that our desires naturally swell by exercise. Desire directed upon an inanimate being, susceptible neither of pleasure nor pain, is not capable of a higher gratification than that of acquiring the property. Hence it is, that though every feeling which raiseth desire, is strictly speaking a passion; yet commonly those feelings only are denominated passions of which sensible beings capable of pleasure and pain are the objects.

SECT. II.

Causes of the emotions of joy and sorrow.

THis subject was purposely reserved for a separate section, because it could not, with perspicuity, be handled under the general head. An emotion involving desire is termed a passion; and when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified. The gratification of every passion must be pleasant, or in other words produce a pleasant emotion; for nothing can be more natural, than that the accomplishment of any wish or desire should affect us with joy. I cannot even except the case, where a man, through remorse, is desirous to chastise and punish himself. The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion; because it makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate in its nature, not having a tendency to any thing beyond. On the other hand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what we desire; for if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is equally natural that disappointment should produce sorrow.

An event fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident without being foreseen or thought of, and which therefore could not be the object of desire, raiseth an emotion of the same kind with that now mentioned. But the cause must be different; for there can be no gratification where there is no desire. We have not however far to seek for a cause. A man cannot be indifferent to an event that affects him or any of his connections. If it be fortunate, it gives him joy; if unfortunate, it gives him sorrow.

In no situation doth joy rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of any violent distress of mind or body; and in no situation doth sorrow rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of what makes us happy. The sensibility of our nature serves in part to account for these effects. Other causes also concur. We can be under no violent distress without an anxious desire to be free from it; and therefore its removal is a high gratification. We cannot be possessed of any thing that makes us happy, without wishing its continuance; and therefore its removal by crossing our wishes must create sorrow. Nor is this all. The principle of contrast comes in for its share. An emotion of joy arising upon the removal of pain, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former distress. An emotion of sorrow upon being deprived of any good, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former happiness.

It hath always been reckoned difficult to account for the extreme pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain; as when one is relieved from the rack, or from a violent fit of the stone. What is said, explains this difficulty in the easiest and simplest manner. Cessation of bodily pain is not of itself a pleasure; for a non-ens or a negative can neither give pleasure nor pain. But man is so framed by nature as to rejoice when he is eased of pain, as well as to be sorrowful when deprived of any good. This branch of our constitution, is chiefly the cause of the pleasure. The gratification of desire comes in as an accessory cause; and contrast joins its force, by increasing the sense of our present happiness. In the case of an acute pain, a peculiar circumstance contributes its part. The brisk circulation of the animal spirits occasioned by acute pain, continues after the pain is vanished, and produceth a very pleasant feeling. Sickness hath not that effect, because it is always attended with a depression of spirits.

Hence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occasions a mixt emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful. The partial diminution produceth joy in proportion; but the remaining pain balanceth our joy. This mixt feeling, however, hath no long endurance. For the joy that ariseth upon the diminution of pain, soon vanisheth; and leaveth in the undisturbed possession, that degree of pain which remains.

What is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable to the distresses of the mind; and accordingly it is a common artifice, to prepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our fears.

SECT. III.

Sympathetic emotion of virtue, and its cause.

ONe feeling there is, that merits a deliberate view, for its singularity, as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a passion, seems uncertain. The former it can scarce be, because it involves desire; and the latter it can scarce be, because it has no object. But this feeling and its nature will be best understood from examples. A signal act of gratitude, produceth in the spectator love or esteem for the author. The spectator hath at the same time a separate feeling; which, being mixed with love or esteem, the capital emotion, hath not been much adverted to. It is a vague feeling of gratitude, which hath no object; but which, however, disposes the spectator to acts of gratitude, more than upon ordinary occasions. Let any man attentively consider his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal act of gratitude, and he will be conscious of this feeling, as distinct from the esteem or admiration he has for the grateful person. It merits our utmost attention, by unfolding a curious piece of mechanism in the nature of man. The feeling is singular in the following respect, that it involves a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without having any particular object; though in this state the mind, wonderfully disposed toward an object, neglects no object upon which it can vent itself. Any act of kindness or good-will that would not be regarded upon another occasion, is greedily seized; and the vague feeling is converted into a real passion of gratitude. In such a state, favours are returned double.

Again, a courageous action produceth in a spectator the passion of admiration directed upon the author. But beside this well-known passion, a separate feeling is raised in the spectator; which may be called an emotion of courage, because while under its influence he is conscious of a boldness and intrepidity beyond ordinary, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert this emotion.

For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action, highly agreeable to the spectator. Beside a singular veneration for the author, the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which disposeth him to great and noble actions. And herein principally consists the extreme delight every one hath in the histories of conquerors and heroes.

This singular feeling, which may be termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue, resembles, in one respect, the well-known appetites that lead to the propagation and preservation of the species. The appetites of hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind without being directed upon any particular object; and in no case whatever is the mind more solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence of any of these appetites.

The feeling I have endeavoured to evolve, may well be termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue; for it is raised in a spectator by virtuous actions of every kind, and by no other sort. When we contemplate a virtuous action, which never fails to delight us and to prompt our love for the author, the mind is warmed and put into a tone similar to what inspired the virtuous action. The propensity we have to such actions is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual emotion. But no man hath a propensity to vice as such. On the contrary, a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the author. This abhorrence is a strong antidote so long as any impression remains of the wicked action.

In a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing; and here a delightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful to see what incitements there are to virtue in the human frame. Justice is perceived to be our duty, and it is guarded by natural punishments, from which the guilty never escape. To perform noble and generous actions, a warm sense of dignity and superior excellence is a most efficacious incitement[18]. And to leave virtue in no quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an admirable contrivance, by which good example commands the heart and adds to virtue the force of habit. Did our moral feelings extend no farther than to approve the action and to bestow our affection on the author, good example would not have great influence. But to give it the utmost force, nothing can be better contrived than the sympathetic emotion under consideration, which prompts us to imitate what we admire. This singular emotion will readily find an object to exert itself upon; and at any rate, it never exists without producing some effect. Virtuous emotions of this sort, are in some degree an exercise of virtue. They are a mental exercise at least, if they show not externally. And every exercise of virtue, internal and external, leads to habit; for a disposition or propensity of the mind, like a limb of the body, becomes stronger by exercise. Proper means, at the same time, being ever at hand to raise this sympathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a good measure, supply the want of a more complete exercise. Thus, by proper discipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue. Intercourse with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested actions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathetic emotion in constant exercise, which by degrees introduceth a habit, and confirms the authority of virtue. With respect to education in particular, what a spacious and commodious avenue to the heart of a young person, is here opened?

SECT. IV.

In many instances one emotion is productive of another. The same of passions.

IN the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by which things are mutually connected, have a remarkable influence in regulating the train of our ideas. I here add, that they have an influence not less remarkable, in generating emotions and passions. Beginning with the former, it holds in fact, that an agreeable object makes every thing connected with it appear agreeable. The mind gliding sweetly and easily through related objects, carries along the beauty of objects that made a figure, and blends that beauty with the idea of the present object, which thereby appears more agreeable than when considered apart[19]. This reason may appear obscure and metaphysical, but it must be relished when we attend to the following examples, which establish the fact beyond all dispute. No relation is more intimate than that betwixt a being and its qualities; and accordingly, the affection I bear a man expands itself readily upon all his qualities, which by that means make a greater figure in my mind than more substantial qualities in others. The talent of speaking in a friend, is more regarded than that of acting in a person with whom I have no connection; and graceful motion in a mistress, gives more delight than consummate prudence in any other woman. Affection sometimes rises so high, as to convert defects into properties. The wry neck of Alexander was imitated by his courtiers as a real beauty, without intention to flatter. Thus Lady Piercy, speaking of her husband Hotspur,

When the passion of love has ended its course, its object becomes quite a different creature.—— Nothing left of that genteel motion, that gaiety, that sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, that formerly, in the lover’s opinion, charmed all hearts.

The same communication of passion obtains in the relation of principal and accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, expands itself upon a house, a garden, servants, equipage, and every thing of that nature. A lover addresseth his mistress’s glove in the following terms:

A temple is in a proper sense an accessory of the deity to which it is dedicated. Diana is chaste, and not only her temple, but the very isicle which hangs on it, must partake of that property:

Thus it is, that the respect and esteem, which the great, the powerful, the opulent naturally command, are in some measure communicated to their dress, to their manners, and to all their connections. It is this principle, which in matters left to our own choice prevails over the natural taste of beauty and propriety, and gives currency to what is called the fashion.

By means of the same easiness of transition, the bad qualities of an object are carried along, and grafted upon related objects. Every good quality in a person is extinguished by hatred; and every bad quality is spread upon all his connections. A relation more slight and transitory than that of hatred, may have the same effect. Thus the bearer of bad tidings becomes an object of aversion:

This disposition of the mind to communicate the properties of one object to another, is not always proportioned to the intimacy of their connection. The order of the transition from object to object, hath also an influence. The sense of order operates not less powerfully in this case, than in the succession of ideas[20]. If a thing be agreeable in itself, all its accessories appear agreeable. But the agreeableness of an accessory, extends not itself so readily to the principal. Any dress upon a fine woman is becoming; but the most elegant ornaments upon one that is homely, have scarce any effect to mend her appearance. The reason will be obvious, from what is said in the chapter above cited. The mind passes more easily from the principal to its accessories, than in the opposite direction.

The emotions produced as above may properly be termed secondary, being occasioned either by antecedent emotions or antecedent passions, which in this respect may be termed primary. And to complete the present theory, I must now remark a difference betwixt a primary emotion and a primary passion in the production of secondary emotions. A secondary emotion cannot but be more faint than the primary; and therefore, if the chief or principal object have not the power to raise a passion, the accessory object will have still less power. But if a passion be raised by the principal object, the secondary emotion may readily swell into a passion for the accessory, provided the accessory be a proper object for desire. And thus it happens that one passion is often productive of another. Examples are without number: the sole difficulty is a proper choice. I begin with self-love, and the power it hath to generate other passions. The love which parents bear their children, is an illustrious example of the foregoing doctrine. Every man, beside making part of a greater system, like a comet, a planet, or satellite only; hath a less system of his own, in the centre of which he represents the sun dispersing his fire and heat all around. The connection between a man and his children, fundamentally that of cause and effect, becomes, by the addition of other circumstances, the completest that can be among individuals; and therefore, self-love, the most vigorous of all passions, is readily expanded upon children. The secondary emotion they at first produce by means of their connection, is, generally speaking, sufficiently strong to move desire even from the beginning; and the new passion swells by degrees, till it rival in some measure self-love, the primary passion. The following case will demonstrate the truth of this theory. Remorse for betraying a friend, or murdering an enemy in cold blood, makes a man even hate himself. In this state, it is a matter of experience, that he is scarce conscious of any affection to his children, but rather of disgust or ill-will. What cause can be assigned for this change, other than the hatred which beginning at himself, is expanded upon his children? And if so, may we not with equal reason derive from self-love the affection a man for ordinary has to them?

The affection a man bears to his blood-relations, depends on the same principle. Self-love is also expanded upon them; and the communicated passion, is more or less vigorous in proportion to the connection. Nor doth self-love rest here: it is, by the force of connection, communicated even to things inanimate. And hence the affection a man bears to his property, and to every thing he calls his own.

Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is, for that reason, less apt to communicate itself to children or other relations. Instances however are not wanting, of such communicated passion arising from friendship when it is strong. Friendship may go higher in the matrimonial state than in any other condition: and Otway, in Venice preserv’d, shows a fine taste in taking advantage of that circumstance. In the scene where Belvidera sues to her father for pardon, she is represented as pleading her mother’s merit, and the resemblance she bore to her mother.

And again,

This explains why any meritorious action or any illustrious qualification in my son or my friend, is apt to make me overvalue myself. If I value my friend’s wife or his son upon account of their connection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself upon account of my own connection with him.

Friendship, or any other social affection, may produce opposite effects. Pity, by interesting us strongly for the person in distress, must of consequence inflame our resentment against the author of the distress. For, in general, the affection we have for any man, generates in us good-will to his friends and ill-will to his enemies. Shakespear shows great art in the funeral oration pronounced by Antony over the body of CÆsar. He first endeavours to excite grief in the hearers, by dwelling upon the deplorable loss of so great a man. This passion raised to a pitch, interesting them strongly in CÆsar’s fate, could not fail to produce a lively sense of the treachery and cruelty of the conspirators; an infallible method to inflame the resentment of the multitude beyond all bounds.

Had Antony directed upon the conspirators the thoughts of his audience, without paving the way by raising their grief, his speech perhaps might have failed of success.

Hatred and other dissocial passions, produce effects directly opposite to those above mentioned. If I hate a man, his children, his relations, nay his property, become to me objects of aversion. His enemies, on the other hand, I am disposed to esteem.

The more slight and transitory connections, have generally no power to produce a communicated passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, is one exception; for if the person who did the injury be removed out of reach, this passion will vent itself upon any related object, however slight the relation be. Another exception makes a greater figure. A group of beings or things, becomes often the object of a communicated passion, even where the relation of the individuals to the principal object is but faint. Thus though I put no value upon a single man for living in the same town with myself; my townsmen however, considered in a body, are preferred before others. This is still more remarkable with respect to my countrymen in general. The grandeur of the complex object, swells the passion of self-love by the relation I have to my native country; and every passion, when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, hath, in that circumstance, a peculiar tendency to expand itself along related objects. In fact, instances are not rare, of persons, who, upon all occasions, are willing to sacrifice their lives and fortunes for their country. Such influence upon the mind of man, hath a complex object, or, more properly speaking, a general term[21].

The sense of order hath, in the communication of passion, an influence not less remarkable than in the communication of emotions. It is a common observation, that a man’s affection to his parents is less vigorous than to his children. The order of nature in descending to children, aids the transition of the affection. The ascent to a parent, contrary to this order, makes the transition more difficult. Gratitude to a benefactor is readily extended to his children; but not so readily to his parents. The difference however betwixt the natural and inverted order, is not so considerable, but that it may be balanced by other circumstances. Pliny[22] gives an account of a woman of rank condemned to die for a crime; and, to avoid public shame, detained in prison to die of hunger. Her life being prolonged beyond expectation, it was discovered, that she was nourished by sucking milk from the breasts of her daughter. This instance of filial piety, which aided the transition and made ascent not less easy than descent is for ordinary, procured a pardon to the mother, and a pension to both. The story of Androcles and the lion[23] may be accounted for in the same manner. The admiration, of which the lion was the cause, for his kindness and gratitude to Androcles, produced good-will to Androcles, and pardon of his crime.

And this leads to other observations upon communicated passions. I love my daughter less after she is married, and my mother less after a second marriage. The marriage of my son or my father diminishes not my affection so remarkably. The same observation holds with respect to friendship, gratitude, and other passions. The love I bear my friend, is but faintly extended to his married daughter. The resentment I have against a man, is readily extended against children who make part of his family: not so readily against children who are forisfamiliated, especially by marriage. This difference is also more remarkable in daughters than in sons. These are curious facts; and to evolve the cause we must examine minutely, that operation of the mind by which a passion is extended to a related object. In considering two things as related, the mind is not stationary, but passeth and repasseth from the one to the other, viewing the relation from each of them perhaps oftener than once. This holds more especially in considering a relation betwixt things of unequal rank, as betwixt the cause and the effect, or betwixt a principal and an accessory. In contemplating the relation betwixt a building and its ornaments, the mind is not satisfied with a single transition from the former to the latter. It must also view the relation, beginning at the latter, and passing from it to the former. This vibration of the mind in passing and repassing betwixt things that are related, explains the facts above mentioned. The mind passeth easily from the father to the daughter; but where the daughter is married, this new relation attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some measure, the return from the daughter to the father. Any obstruction the mind meets with in passing and repassing betwixt its objects, occasions a like obstruction in the communication of passion. The marriage of a male obstructs less the easiness of transition; because a male is less sunk by the relation of marriage than a female.

The foregoing instances, are of passion communicated from one object to another. But one passion may be generated by another, without change of object. It may in general be observed, that a passion paves the way to others, similar in their tone, whether directed upon the same or upon a different object. For the mind heated by any passion, is, in that state, more susceptible of a new impression in a similar tone, than when cool and quiescent. It is a common observation, that pity generally produceth friendship for a person in distress. Pity interests us in its object, and recommends all its virtuous qualities. For this reason, female beauty shows best in distress; and is more apt to inspire love, than upon ordinary occasions. But it is chiefly to be remarked, that pity, warming and melting the spectator, prepares him for the reception of other tender affections; and pity is readily improved into love or friendship, by a certain tenderness and concern for the object, which is the tone of both passions. The aptitude of pity to produce love is beautifully illustrated by Shakespear.

In this instance it will be observed that admiration concurred with pity to produce love.

SECT. V.

Causes of the passions of fear and anger.

FEar and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so contrived as to operate either instinctively or deliberately. So far as they prompt actions considered as means leading to a certain end, they fall in with the general system, and require no particular explanation. If any object have a threatening appearance, reason suggests means to avoid the danger. If I am injured, the first thing I think of, is in what manner I shall be revenged, and what means I shall employ. These particulars are not less obvious than natural. But as the passions of fear and anger, so far as instinctive, are less familiar to us, and their nature generally not understood; I thought it would not be unacceptable to the reader to have them accurately delineated. He may also possibly relish the opportunity of this specimen, to have the nature of instinctive passions more fully explained than there was formerly occasion to do. I begin with fear.

Self-preservation is to individuals a matter of too great importance to be left entirely under the guardianship of self-love, which cannot be put in exercise otherwise than by the intervention of reason and reflection. Nature hath acted here with her usual precaution and foresight. Fear and anger are passions common to all men; and by operating instinctively, they frequently afford security when the slower operations of deliberative reason would be too late. We take nourishment commonly, not by the direction of reason, but by the incitement of hunger and thirst. In the same manner, we avoid danger by the incitement of fear, which often, before there is time for reflection, placeth us in safety. This matter then is ordered with consummate wisdom. It is not within the reach of fancy, to conceive any thing better fitted to answer its purpose, than this instinctive passion of fear, which, upon the first surmise of danger, operates instantaneously without reflection. So little doth the passion, in such instances, depend on reason, that we often find it exerted even in contradiction to reason, and when we are conscious that there is no hazard. A man who is not much upon his guard, cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to be aimed in sport; nor closing his eyes at the approach of what may hurt them, though he is confident it will not come their length. Influenced by the same instinctive passion of fear, infants are much affected with a stern look, a menacing tone, or other expression of anger; though, being incapable of reflection, they cannot form the slightest judgement about the import of these signs. This is all that is necessary to be said in general. The natural connection betwixt fear and the external signs of anger, will be handled in the chapter of the external signs of emotions and passions.

Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm; anger, by repelling it. Nothing indeed can be better contrived to repel or prevent injury, than anger or resentment. Destitute of this passion, men, like defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief[24]. Deliberate anger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to require any explanation. If my desire be in general to resent an afront, I must use means, and these means must be discovered by reflection. Deliberation is here requisite; and in this, which is the ordinary case, the passion seldom exceeds just bounds. But where anger suddenly inflames me to return a blow, the passion is instinctive, and the action ultimate; and it is chiefly in such cases that the passion is rash and ungovernable, because it operates blindly, without affording time for reason or deliberation.

Instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain, which, when sudden and excessive as by a stroke on a tender part, ruffling the temper and unhinging the mind, is in its tone similar to anger. Bodily pain by this means disposes to anger, which is as suddenly raised, provided an object be found to vent it upon. Anger commonly is not provoked otherwise than by a voluntary injury. But when a man is thus beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an object. The man who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by an inflammable temper held a proper object, merely because he was the occasion of the pain. It is still a stronger example of the kind, that a stock or a stone, by which I am hurt, becomes an object for my resentment. I am violently incited to bray it to atoms. The passion indeed in this case is but momentary. It vanisheth with the first reflection, being attended with no circumstance that can excuse it in any degree. Nor is this irrational effect confined to bodily pain. Inward distress, when excessive, may be the occasion of effects equally irrational. When a friend is danger and the event uncertain, the perturbation of mind occasioned thereby, will, in a fiery temper, produce momentary fits of anger against this very friend, however innocent. Thus Shakespear, in the Tempest,

The final words, Well, let him go, are an expression of impatience and anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father, dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the human mind, is by Shakespear exhibited upon another occasion, and finely painted. In the tragedy of Othello, Iago, by dark hints and suspicious circumstances, had roused Othello’s jealousy; which, however, appeared too slightly founded to be vented upon Desdemona, its proper object. The perturbation and distress of mind thereby occasioned, produced a momentary resentment against Iago, considered as occasioning the jealousy though innocent.

This blind and absurd effect of anger, is more gaily illustrated by Addison, in a story, the dramatis personÆ of which are a cardinal, and a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is represented as minuting down every thing that is told him. The spy begins with a low voice, “Such an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends within my hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltron;” and after having given his patron time to take it down, adds, “That another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation.” The cardinal replies, “Very well,” and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with reports of the same nature, till the cardinal rises in great wrath, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him out of the room[25].

We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at play, and wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious passion, is satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause and effect, of which Congreve, in the Mourning Bride, gives one beautiful example.

I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the examples above given, it appears to be an absurd passion and altogether irrational. But we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to subject this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection. It was given us to prevent or to repel injuries; and, like fear, it often operates blindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequences. The very first sensation of harm, sets it in motion to repel injury by punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would lose its threatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against violence and mischief. When such is and ought to be the nature of the passion, it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as it sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All the harm that can be done by the passion in this case, is instantaneous; for the shortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to do much harm in an instant.

SECT. VI.

Emotions caused by fiction.

THe attentive reader will observe, that in accounting for passions and emotions, no cause hitherto has been assigned but what hath a real existence. Whether it be a being, action, or quality, that moveth us, it is supposed to be an object of our knowledge, or at least of our belief. This observation discovers to us that the subject is not yet exhausted; because our passions, as all the world know, are moved by fiction as well as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, so remarkably addicted to truth and reality, one should little dream that fiction could have any effect upon him. But man’s intellectual faculties are too imperfect to dive far even into his own nature. I shall take occasion afterward to show, that this branch of the human constitution, is contrived with admirable wisdom and is subservient to excellent purposes. In the mean time, I must endeavour to unfold, by what means fiction hath such influence on the mind.

That the objects of our senses really exist in the way and manner we perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge. When I see a man walking, a tree growing, or cattle grazing, I have a conviction that these things are precisely as they appear. If I be a spectator of any transaction or event, I have a conviction of the real existence of the persons engaged, of their words, and of their actions. Nature determines us to rely on the veracity of our senses. And indeed, if our senses did not convince us of the reality of their objects, they could not in any degree answer their end.

By the power of memory, a thing formerly seen may be recalled to the mind with different degrees of accuracy. We commonly are satisfied with a slight recollection of the chief circumstances; and, in such recollection, the thing is not figured as present nor any image formed. I retain the consciousness of my present situation, and barely remember that formerly I was a spectator. But with respect to an interesting object or event which made a strong impression, the mind sometimes, not satisfied with a cursory review, chutes to revolve every circumstance. In this case, I conceive myself to be a spectator as I was originally; and I perceive every particular passing in my presence, in the same manner as when I was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw yesterday a beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and was greatly moved with her distress. Not satisfied with a slight recollection or bare remembrance, I insist on the melancholy scene. Conceiving myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every circumstance appears to me as at first. I think I see the woman in tears and hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a complete idea of memory there is no past nor future. A thing recalled to the mind with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as in our view, and consequently as presently existing. Past time makes a part of an incomplete idea only: I remember or reflect, that some years ago I was at Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the Ratcliff library; and I remember that at a still greater distance of time, I heard a debate in the house of Commons about a standing army.

Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every particular that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter exceeding clear in itself, and of which every person must be conscious; and yet I find no small difficulty to express it clearly in words; for it is not accurate to talk of incidents long past as passing in our sight, nor of hearing at present what we really heard yesterday or perhaps a year ago. To this necessity I am reduced, by want of proper words to describe ideal presence and to distinguish it from real presence. And thus in the description, a plain subject becomes obscure and intricate. When I recall any thing in the distinctest manner, so as to form an idea or image of it as present; I have not words to describe this act, other than that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing in my presence. This means not that I am really a spectator; but only that I conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a consciousness of presence similar to what a real spectator hath.

As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, it is expected, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as distinguished on the one hand from real presence, and on the other from a superficial or reflective remembrance. It is distinguished from the former by the following circumstance. Ideal presence arising from an act of memory, may properly be termed a waking dream; because, like a dream, it vanisheth upon the first reflection of our present situation. Real presence, on the contrary, vouched by eye-sight, commands our belief, not only during the direct perception, but in reflecting afterward upon the object. And to distinguish ideal presence from the latter, I give the following illustration. Two internal acts, both of them exertions of memory, are clearly distinguishable. When I think of an event as past, without forming any image, it is barely reflecting or remembering that I was an eye-witness. But when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a complete image of it, I perceive it ideally as passing in my presence; and this ideal perception is an act of intuition, into which reflection enters not more than into an act of sight.

Though ideal presence be distinguished from real presence on the one side and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is however variable without any precise limits; rising sometimes toward the former, and often sinking toward the latter. In a vigorous exertion of memory, ideal presence is extremely distinct. When a man, as in a reverie, drops himself out of his thoughts, he perceives every thing as passing before him, and hath a consciousness of presence similar to that of a spectator. There is no other difference, but that in the former the consciousness of presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But this is seldom the case. Ideal presence is often faint, and the image so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remembrance.

Hitherto of an idea of memory. I proceed to consider the idea of a thing I never saw, raised in me by speech, by writing, or by painting. This idea, with respect to the present matter, is of the same nature with an idea of memory, being either complete or incomplete. An important event, by a lively and accurate description, rouses my attention and insensibly transforms me into a spectator: I perceive ideally every incident as passing in my presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial narrative produceth only a faint and incomplete idea, precisely similar to a reflective recollection of memory. Of such idea, ideal presence makes no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea, as it doth into a reflective idea of memory. I believe that Scipio existed about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the famous battle of Zama. When I revolve in so cursory a manner that memorable event, I consider it as long past. But supposing me to be warmed with the story, perhaps by a beautiful description, I am insensibly transformed to a spectator. I perceive these two heroes in act to engage; I perceive them brandishing their swords, and exhorting their troops; and in this manner I attend them through every circumstance of the battle. This event being present to my mind during the whole progress of my thoughts, admits not any time but the present.

I have had occasion to observe[26], that ideas both of memory and of speech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are produced by an immediate view of the object; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is fainter than an original perception. The insight we have now got, unfolds the means by which this effect is produced. Ideal presence supplies the want of real presence; and in idea we perceive persons acting and suffering, precisely as in an original survey. If our sympathy be engaged by the latter, it must also in some measure be engaged by the former. The distinctness of ideal presence, as above mentioned, approacheth sometimes to the distinctness of real presence; and the consciousness of presence is the same in both. This is the cause of the pleasure that is felt in a reverie, where a man, losing sight of himself, is totally occupied with the objefts passing in his mind, which he conceives to be really existing in his presence. The power of speech to raise emotions, depends entirely on the artifice of raising such lively and distinct images as are here described. The reader’s passions are never sensibly moved, till he be thrown into a kind of reverie; in which state, losing the consciousness of self, and of reading, his present occupation, he conceives every incident as passing in his presence, precisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or reflective remembrance hath not this effect. It may be agreeable in some slight degree; but the ideas suggested by it, are too faint and obscure to raise any thing like a sympathetic emotion. And were they ever so lively, they pass with too much precipitation to have this effect. Our emotions are never instantaneous: even those that come the soonest to perfection, have different periods of birth, growth, and maturity; and to give opportunity for these different periods, it is necessary that the cause of every emotion be present to the mind a due time. The emotion is completed by reiterated impressions. We know this to be the case of objects of sight: we are scarce sensible of any emotion in a quick succession even of the most beautiful objects. And if this hold in the succession of original perceptions, how much more in the succession of ideas?

Though all this while, I have been only describing what passeth in the mind of every one and what every one must be conscious of, it was necessary to enlarge upon it; because, however clear in the internal conception, it is far from being so when described in words. Ideal presence, though of general importance, hath scarce ever been touched by any writer; and at any rate it could not be overlooked in accounting for the effects produced by fiction. Upon this point, the reader I guess has prevented me. It already must have occurred to him, that if, in reading, ideal presence be the means by which our passions are moved, it makes no difference whether the subject be a fable or a reality. When ideal presence is complete, we perceive every object as in our sight; and the mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no leisure for reflection of any sort. This reasoning, if any one hesitate, is confirmed by constant and universal experience. Let us take under consideration the meeting of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of the Iliad, or some of the passionate scenes in King Lear. These pictures of human life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of reality not less distinct than that given by the death of Otho in the beautiful description of Tacitus. We never once reflect whether the story be true or feigned. Reflection comes afterward, when we have the scene no longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still clearer light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory narrative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, occupy the mind so little as to solicit reflection. And accordingly, a curt narrative of feigned incidents is never relished. Any slight pleasure it affords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for want of truth.

In support of the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive argument. Upon examination it will be found, that genuine history commands our passions by means of ideal presence solely; and therefore that with respect to this effect, genuine history stands upon the same footing with fable. To me it appears clear, that our sympathy must vanish so soon as we begin to reflect upon the incidents related in either. The reflection that a story is a pure fiction, will indeed prevent our sympathy; but so will equally the reflection that the persons described are no longer existing. It is present distress only that moves my pity. My concern vanishes with the distress; for I cannot pity any person who at present is happy. According to this theory, founded clearly on human nature, a man long dead and insensible now of past misfortunes, cannot move our pity more than if he had never existed. The misfortunes described in a genuine history command our belief: but then we believe also, that these misfortunes are at an end, and that the persons described are at present under no distress. What effect, for example, can the belief of the rape of Lucretia have to raise our sympathy, when she died above 2000 years ago, and hath at present no painful feeling of the injury done her? The effect of history in point of instruction, depends in some measure upon its veracity. But history cannot reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the facts. Such reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails at the same time to poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for those who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside, history stands upon the same footing with fable. What effect either of them may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the ideas they raise; and with respect to that circumstance, fable is generally more successful than history.

Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, theatrical representation is the most powerful. That words independent of action have the same power in a less degree, every one of sensibility must have felt: A good tragedy will extort tears in private, though not so forcibly as upon the stage. This power belongs also to painting. A good historical picture makes a deeper impression than can be made by words, though not equal to what is made by theatrical action. And as ideal presence depends on a lively impression, painting seems to possess a middle place betwixt reading and acting. In making an impression of ideal presence, it is not less superior to the former than inferior to the latter.

It must not however be thought, that our passions can be raised by painting to such a height as can be done by words. Of all the successive incidents that concur to produce a great event, a picture has the choice but of one, because it is confined to a single instant of time. And though the impression it makes, is the deepest that can be made instantaneously; yet seldom can a passion be raised to any height in an instant, or by a single impression. It was observed above, that our passions, those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a succession of impressions; and for that reason, reading and still more acting have greatly the advantage, by the opportunity of reiterating impressions without end.

Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions are excited; and till words produce that charm they avail nothing. Even real events intitled to our belief, must be conceived present and passing in our sight before they can move us. And this theory serves to explain several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A misfortune happening to a stranger, makes a less impression than happening to a man we know, even where we are no way interested in him: our acquaintance with this man, however slight, aids the conception of his suffering in our presence. For the same reason, we are little moved with any distant event; because we have more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that happened in our neighbourhood.

Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has a fine effect in language. For what other reason than that it aids the conception of ideal presence? Take the following example.

In this passage we may observe how the writer inflamed with the subject, insensibly slips from the past time to the present; led to this form of narration by conceiving every circumstance as passing in his own sight. And this at the same time has a fine effect upon the reader, by advancing him to be as it were a spectator. But this change from the past to the present requires some preparation; and is not graceful in the same sentence where there is no stop in the sense; witness the following passage.

It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period; for this is an anticlimax in description:

Again, describing the shield of Jupiter,

Nor is it pleasant to be carried backward and forward alternately in a rapid succession:

It is wonderful to observe, upon what slender foundations nature, sometimes, erects her most solid and magnificent works. In appearance at least, what can be more slight than ideal presence of objects? And yet upon it entirely is superstructed, that extensive influence which language hath over the heart; an influence, which, more than any other means, strengthens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from their private system to exert themselves in acts of generosity and benevolence. Matters of fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be inculcated without taking advantage of ideal presence. But without it, the finest speaker or writer would in vain attempt to move any of our passion: our sympathy would be confined to objects that are really present: and language would lose entirely that signal power it possesseth, of making us sympathize with beings removed at the greatest distance of time as well as of place. Nor is the influence of language, by means of this ideal presence, confined to the heart. It reaches also in some measure the understanding, and contributes to belief. When events are related in a lively manner and every circumstance appears as passing before us, it is with difficulty that we suffer the truth of the facts to be questioned. A historian accordingly who hath a genius for narration, seldom fails to engage our belief. The same facts related in a manner cold and indistinct, are not suffered to pass without examination. A thing ill described, is like an object seen at a distance or through a mist: we doubt whether it be a reality or a fiction. For this reason, a poet who can warm and animate his reader, may employ bolder fictions than ought to be ventured by an inferior genius. The reader, once thoroughly engaged, is in that situation susceptible of the strongest impressions:

A masterly painting has the same effect. Le Brun is no small support to Quintus Curtius; and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief of scripture-history is perhaps founded as much upon the authority of Raphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon that of the sacred writers[27].

In establishing the foregoing theory, the reader has had the fatigue of much dry reasoning. But his labour will not be fruitless. From this theory are derived many useful rules in criticism, which shall be mentioned in their proper places. One specimen, being a fine illustration, I chuse to give at present. In a historical poem representing human actions, it is a rule, that no improbable incident ought to be admitted. A circumstance, an incident, or an event, may be singular, may surprise by being unexpected, and yet be extremely natural. The improbability I talk of, is that of an irregular fact, contrary to the order and course of nature, and therefore unaccountable. A chain of imagined facts linked together according to the order of nature, find easy entrance into the mind; and if described with warmth of fancy, they produce complete images, including ideal presence. But it is with great difficulty that we admit any irregular fact; for an irregular fact always puzzles the judgement. Doubtful of its reality we immediately enter upon reflection, and discovering the cheat, lose all relish and concern. This is an unhappy effect; for thereafter it requires more than an ordinary effort, to restore the waking dream, and to make the reader conceive even the more probable incidents as passing in his presence.

I never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem; and I now find my taste justified by reason; the foregoing argument concluding still more strongly against imaginary beings, than against improbable facts. Fictions of this nature may amuse by their novelty and singularity: but they never move the sympathetic passions, because they cannot impose on the mind any perception of reality. I appeal to the discerning reader, whether this be not precisely the case of the machinery introduced by Tasso and by Voltaire. This machinery is not only in itself cold and uninteresting, but is remarkably hurtful, by giving an air of fiction to the whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or the Dispensary, may employ machinery with success; for these poems, though they assume the air of history, give entertainment chiefly by their pleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery contributes in a singular manner. It is not the aim of such a poem, to raise our sympathy in any considerable degree; and for that reason, a strict imitation of nature is not required. A poem professedly ludicrous, may employ machinery to great advantage; and the more extravagant the better. A just representation of nature, would indeed be incongruous in a composition intended to give entertainment by the means chiefly of singularity and surprise.

For accomplishing the task undertaken in the beginning of the present section, what only remains is, to show the final cause of the power that fiction hath over the mind of man. I have already mentioned, that language, by means of fiction, has the command of our sympathy for the good of others. By the same means, our sympathy may be also raised for our own good. In the third section it is observed, that examples both of virtue and of vice raise virtuous emotions; which becoming stronger by exercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit as well as by principle. I now further observe, that examples drawn from real events, are not so frequent as to contribute much to a habit of virtue. If they be, they are not recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom, to form us in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same improvement from fable that we receive from genuine history. By this admirable contrivance, examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without end. No other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue habitual; and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add another final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows, that the author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the happiness of his creatures, than for the regularity of their conduct. The power that fiction hath over the mind of man, is the source of an endless variety of refined amusement, always ready to employ a vacant hour. Such amusement is a fine resource in solitude; and by sweetening the temper, improves society.

PART II.

Emotions and passions as pleasant and painful, agreeable and disagreeable. Modifications of these qualities.

IT will naturally occur at first view, that a discourse upon the passions should commence with explaining the qualities now mentioned. But upon trial, I found this could not be done distinctly, till the difference were ascertained betwixt an emotion and a passion, and till their causes were evolved.

Great obscurity may be observed among writers with regard to the present point. No care, for example, is taken to distinguish agreeable from pleasant, disagreeable from painful; or rather these terms are deemed synonymous. This is an error not at all venial in the science of ethics; as instances can and shall be given, of painful passions that are agreeable, and of pleasant passions that are disagreeable. These terms, it is true, are used indifferently in familiar conversations, and in composition for amusement, where accuracy is not required. But for those to use them so who profess to explain the passions, is a capital error. In writing upon the critical art, I would avoid every refinement that may seem more curious than useful. But the proper meaning of the terms under consideration must be ascertained, in order to understand the passions, and some of their effects that are intimately connected with criticism.

I shall endeavour to explain these terms by familiar examples. Viewing a fine garden, I perceive it to be beautiful or agreeable; and I consider the beauty or agreeableness as belonging to the object, or as one of its qualities. Again, when I turn my thoughts from the garden to what passes in my mind, I am conscious of a pleasant emotion of which the garden is the cause. The pleasure here is felt, not as a quality of the garden, but of the emotion produced by it. I give an opposite example. A rotten carcass is loathsome and disagreeable, and raises in the spectator a painful emotion. The disagreeableness is a quality of the object: the pain is a quality of the emotion produced by it. Agreeable and disagreeable, then, are qualities of the object we perceive: pleasant and painful are qualities of the emotions we feel. The former qualities are perceived as adhering to objects; the latter are felt as existing within us.

But a passion or emotion, beside being felt, is frequently made an object of thought or reflection: we examine it; we inquire into its nature, its cause, and its effects. In this view it partakes the nature of other objects: it is either agreeable or disagreeable. Hence clearly appear the different significations of the terms under consideration, as applied to passion. When a passion is termed pleasant or painful, we refer to the actual feeling: when termed agreeable or disagreeable, it is considered as an object of thought or reflection. A passion is pleasant or painful to the person in whom it exists: it is agreeable or disagreeable to the person who makes it a subject of contemplation.

When the terms thus defined are applied to particular emotions and passions, they do not always coincide. And in order to make this evident, we must endeavour to ascertain, first, what passions and emotions are pleasant what painful, and next, what are agreeable what disagreeable. With respect to both, there are general rules, which, so far as I gather from induction, admit not any exceptions. The nature of an emotion or passion as pleasant or painful, depends entirely on its cause. An agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion; and a disagreeable object produceth always a painful emotion[28]. Thus a lofty oak, a generous action, a valuable discovery in art or science, are agreeable objects that unerringly produce pleasant emotions. A stinking puddle, a treacherous action, an irregular ill-contrived edifice, being disagreeable objects, produce painful emotions. Selfish passions are pleasant; for they arise from self, an agreeable object or cause. A social passion directed upon an agreeable object is always pleasant: directed upon an object in distress, is painful[29]. Lastly, all dissocial passions, such as envy, resentment, malice, being caused by disagreeable objects, cannot fail to be painful.

It requires a greater compass to evolve the general rule that concerns the agreeableness or disagreeableness of emotions and passions. An action conformable to the common nature of our species, is perceived by us to be regular and good[30]; and consequently every such action appears agreeable to us. The same observation is applicable to passions and emotions. Every feeling that is conformable to the common nature of our species, is perceived by us to be regular and as it ought to be; and upon that account it must appear agreeable. By this general rule we can ascertain what emotions are agreeable what disagreeable. Every emotion that is conformable to the common nature of man, ought to appear agreeable. And that this holds true with respect to pleasant emotions, will readily be admitted. But why should painful emotions be an exception, when they are not less natural than the other? The proportion holds true in both. Thus the painful emotion raised by a monstrous birth or brutal action, is not less agreeable upon reflection, than the pleasant emotion raised by a flowing river or a lofty dome. With respect to passions as opposed to emotions, it will be obvious from the foregoing proposition, that their agreeableness or disagreeableness, like the actions of which they are productive, must be regulated entirely by the moral sense. Every action vicious or improper is disagreeable to a spectator, and so is the passion that prompts it. Every action virtuous or proper is agreeable to a spectator, and so is the passion that prompts it.

This deduction may be carried a great way farther; but to avoid intricacy and obscurity, I make but one other step. A passion, which, as aforesaid, becomes an object of thought to a spectator, may have the effect to produce a passion or emotion in him; for it is natural that a social being should be affected with the passions of others. Passions or emotions thus generated, submit, in common with others, to the general law above mentioned, viz. that an agreeable object produces a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object a painful emotion. Thus the passion of gratitude, being to a spectator an agreeable object, produceth in him the pleasant passion of love to the grateful person. Thus malice, being to a spectator a disagreeable object, produceth in him the painful passion of hatred to the malicious person.

We are now prepared for examples of pleasant passions that are disagreeable, and of painful passions that are agreeable. Self-love, so long as confined within just bounds, is a passion both pleasant and agreeable. In excess it is disagreeable, though it continues to be still pleasant. Our appetites are precisely in the same condition. Again, vanity, though pleasant, is disagreeable. Resentment, on the other hand, is, in every stage of the passion, painful; but is not disagreeable unless in excess. Pity is always painful, yet always agreeable. But however distinct these qualities are, they coincide, I acknowledge, in one class of passions. All vicious passions tending to the hurt of others, are equally painful and disagreeable.

The foregoing distinctions among passions and emotions, may serve the common affairs of life, but they are not sufficient for the critical art. The qualities of pleasant and painful are too familiar to carry us far into human nature, or to form an accurate judgement in the fine arts. It is further necessary, that we be made acquainted with the several modifications of these qualities, with the modifications at least that make the greatest figure. Even at first view every one is sensible, that the pleasure or pain of one passion differs from that of another. How distant the pleasure of revenge from that of love? So distant, as that we cannot without reluctance admit them to be any way related. That the same quality of pleasure should be so differently modified in different passions, will not be surprising, when we reflect on the boundless variety of pleasant sounds, tastes, and smells, daily felt. Our discernment reaches differences still more nice, in objects even of the same sense. We have no difficulty to distinguish different sweets, different sours, and different bitters. Honey is sweet, and so is sugar; and yet they never pass the one for the other. Our sense of smelling is sufficiently acute, to distinguish varieties in sweet-smelling flowers without end. With respect to passions and emotions, their different feelings have no limits; for when we attempt the more delicate modifications, they elude our search, and are scarce discernible. In this matter, however, there is an analogy betwixt our internal and external senses. The latter generally are sufficiently acute for all the useful purposes of life, and so are the former. Some persons indeed, Nature’s favourites, have a wonderful acuteness of sense, which to them unfolds many a delightful scene totally hid from vulgar eyes. But if such refined pleasure be refused to the bulk of mankind, it is however wisely ordered that they are not sensible of the defect; and it detracts not from their happiness that others secretly are more happy. With relation to the fine arts only, this qualification seems essential; and there it is termed delicacy of taste.

Should an author of such a taste attempt to describe all those differences and shades of pleasant and painful emotions which he himself feels, he would soon meet an invincible obstacle in the poverty of language. No known tongue hitherto has reached such perfection, as to express clearly the more delicate feelings. A people must be thoroughly refined, before their language become so comprehensive. We must therefore rest satisfied with an explanation of the more obvious modifications.

In forming a comparison betwixt pleasant passions of different kinds, we conceive some of them to be gross some refined. Those pleasures of external sense that are felt as at the organ of sense, are conceived to be corporeal or gross[31]. The pleasures of the eye and ear are felt to be internal; and for that reason are conceived to be more pure and refined.

The social affections are conceived by all to be more refined than the selfish. Sympathy and humanity are reckoned the finest temper of mind; and for that reason, the prevalence of the social affections in the progress of society, is held to be a refinement in our nature. A savage is unqualified for any pleasure but what is thoroughly or nearly selfish: therefore a savage is incapable of comparing selfish and social pleasure. But a man after acquiring a high relish of the latter, loses not thereby a taste for the former. This man can judge, and he will give preference to social pleasures as more sweet and refined. In fact they maintain that character, not only in the direct feeling, but also when we make them the subject of reflection. The social passions are by far more agreeable than the selfish, and rise much higher in our esteem.

Refined manners and polite behaviour, must not be deemed altogether artificial. Men accustomed to the sweets of society, who cultivate humanity, find an elegant pleasure in preferring others and making them happy, of which the proud or selfish scarce have a conception.

Ridicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish passion, is at best but a gross pleasure. A people, it is true, must have emerged out of barbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule. But it is too rough an entertainment for those who are highly polished and refined. Ridicule is banished France, and is losing ground daily in England.

Other modifications of pleasant passions will be occasionally mentioned hereafter. Particularly the modifications of high and low are handled in the chapter of grandeur and sublimity; and the modifications of dignified and mean, in the chapter of dignity and meanness.

PART III.

Interrupted existence of emotions and passions.—— Their growth and decay.

WEre emotions of the same nature with colour and figure, to continue in their present state till varied by some operating cause, the condition of man would be deplorable. It is ordered wisely, that emotions should more resemble another attribute of matter, viz. motion, which requires the constant exertion of an operating cause, and ceases when the cause is withdrawn. An emotion may subsist while its cause is present; and when its cause is removed, may subsist by means of an idea, though in a fainter degree. But the moment another thought breaks in and occupies the mind, so as to exclude not only this cause, but also its idea, the emotion is gone: it is no longer felt. If it return with its cause or idea, it again vanisheth with them when other thoughts crowd in. This observation is applicable to emotions and passions of every kind. And these accordingly are connected with perceptions and ideas, so intimately as not to have any independent existence. A strong passion, it is true, hath a mighty influence to detain its object in the mind; but not so as to detain it for ever. A succession of perceptions or ideas is unavoidable[32]: the object of the passion may be often recalled; but however interesting, it must by intervals yield to other objects. For this reason, a passion rarely continues long with an equal degree of vigour. It is felt strong and moderate, in a pretty quick succession. The same object makes not always the same impression; because the mind, being of a limited capacity, cannot, at the same instant, give great attention to a plurality of objects. The strength of a passion depends on the impression made by its cause; and a cause makes its strongest impression, when happening to be the single interesting object, it attracts our whole attention[33]. Its impression is slighter when our attention is divided betwixt it and other objects; and at that time the passion is slighter in proportion.

When emotions and passions are felt thus by intervals and have not a continued existence, it may be thought a nice problem, to ascertain their identity, and to determine when they are the same when different. In a strict philosophic view, every single impression made even by the same object, is distinguishable from what have gone before, and from what succeed. Neither is an emotion raised by an idea the same with what is raised by a sight of the object. But such accuracy is not found in common apprehension, nor is necessary in common language. The emotions raised by a fine landscape in its successive appearances, are not distinguished from each other, nor even from those raised by successive ideas of the object: all of them are held to be the same. A passion also is always reckoned the same, so long as it is fixed upon the same object. Thus love and hatred may continue the same for life. Nay, so loose are we in this way of thinking, that many passions are reckoned the same even after a change of object. This is the case of all passions that proceed from some peculiar propensity. Envy, for example, is considered to be the same passion, not only while it is directed upon the same person, but even where it comprehends many persons at once. Pride and malice are in the same condition. So much was necessary to be said upon the identity of a passion and emotion, in order to prepare for examining their growth and decay.

The growth and decay of passions and emotions, is a subject too extensive to be exhausted in an undertaking like the present. I pretend only to give a cursory view of it, so far as necessary for the purposes of criticism. Some emotions are produced in their utmost perfection, and have a very short endurance. This is the case of surprise, of wonder, and sometimes of terror. Emotions raised by insensible objects, such as trees, rivers, buildings, pictures, arrive at perfection almost instantaneously, and have a long endurance: a second view produceth nearly the same pleasure with the first. Love, hatred, and some other passions, increase gradually to a certain pitch, and thereafter decay gradually. Envy, malice, pride, scarce ever decay. Again, some passions, such as gratitude and revenge, are often exhausted by a single act of gratification. Other passions, such as pride, malice, envy, love, hatred, are not so exhausted; but having a long continuance, demand frequent gratification.

In order to explain these differences, it would be an endless work to examine every emotion and passion in particular. We must be satisfied at present with some general views. And with respect to emotions, which are quiescent and not productive of desire, their growth and decay are easily explained. An emotion caused by an external object, cannot naturally take longer time to arrive at perfection, than is necessary for a leisurely survey. Such emotion also must continue long stationary, without any sensible decay; a second or third view of the object being nearly as agreeable as the first. This is the case of an emotion produced by a fine prospect, an impetuous river, or a towering hill. While a man remains the same, such objects ought to have the same effect upon him. Familiarity, however, hath an influence here, as it hath every where. Frequency of view, after short intervals especially, weans the mind gradually from the object, which at last loses all relish. The noblest object in the material world, a clear and serene sky, is quite disregarded, unless perhaps after a course of bad weather. An emotion raised by human virtues, qualities, or actions, may grow imperceptibly by reiterated views of the object, till it become so vigorous as to generate desire. In this condition it must be handled as a passion.

As to passion, I observe first, that when nature requires a passion to be sudden, it is commonly produced in perfection. This is frequently the case of fear and of anger. Wonder and surprise are always produced in perfection. Reiterated impressions made by their cause, exhaust these passions in place of inflaming them. This will be explained afterward[34].

In the next place, when a passion hath for its foundation an original propensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes soon to perfection. The propensity, upon representing a proper object, is immediately enlivened into a passion. This is the case of pride, of envy, and of malice.

In the third place, love and hatred have often a slow growth. The good qualities or kind offices of a person, raise in me pleasant emotions; which, by reiterated views, are swelled into a passion involving desire of that person’s happiness. This desire being often put in exercise, works gradually a change internally; and at last produceth in me a settled habit of affection for that person, now my friend. Affection thus produced, operates precisely like an original propensity. To enliven it into a passion, no more is required but the real or ideal presence of the object. The habit of aversion or hatred is brought on in the same manner. And here I must observe by the way, that love and hatred signify commonly affection, not passion. The bulk indeed of our passions, are these affections inflamed into a passion by different circumstances. The affection of love I bear to my son, is inflamed into the passion of fear, when he is in danger; becomes hope, when he hath a prospect of good fortune; becomes admiration, when he performs a laudable action; and shame, when he commits any wrong. Aversion, again, becomes fear when there is a prospect of good fortune to my enemy; becomes hope when he is in danger; becomes joy when he is in distress; and sorrow when a laudable action is performed by him.

Fourthly, the growth of some passions depends often on occasional circumstances. Obstacles to gratification never fail to augment and inflame a passion. A constant endeavour to remove the obstacle, preserves the object of the passion ever in view, which swells the passion by impressions frequently reiterated. Thus the restraint of conscience, when an obstacle to love, agitates the mind and inflames the passion:

At the same time, the mind distressed with the obstacle, is disposed to indulge its distress by magnifying the pleasure of gratification; which naturally inflames desire. Shakespear expresses this observation finely:

We need no better example than a lover who hath many rivals. Even the caprices of a mistress have the effect to inflame love. These occasioning uncertainty of success, tend naturally to make the anxious lover overvalue the happiness of fruition.

So much upon the growth of passions. Their continuance and decay come next under consideration. And first, it is a general law of nature, that things sudden in their growth, are equally sudden in their decay. This is commonly the case of anger; and with respect to wonder and surprise, another reason concurs, that their causes are of short duration. Novelty soon degenerates into familiarity; and the unexpectedness of an object, is soon sunk in the pleasure which the object affords us. Fear, which is a passion of greater importance as tending to self-preservation, is often instantaneous, and yet is of equal duration with its cause. Nay it frequently subsists after the cause is removed.

In the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar propensity, subsists generally for ever. This is the case of pride, envy, and malice. Objects are never wanting, to inflame the propensity into a passion.

Thirdly, it may be laid down as a general law of nature, that every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end. To explain this law, we must distinguish betwixt a particular and a general end. I call a particular end what may be accomplished by a single act. A general end, on the contrary, admits acts without number; because it cannot be said that a general end is ever fully accomplished while the object of the passion subsists. Gratitude and revenge are examples of the first kind. The ends they aim at may be accomplished by a single act; and when this act is performed, the passions are necessarily at an end. Love and hatred are examples of the other kind. The desire of doing good or of doing mischief to an individual, is a general end, which admits acts without number, and which seldom is fully accomplished. Therefore these passions have frequently the same duration with their objects.

Lastly, it will afford us another general view, to consider the difference betwixt an original propensity and an affection produced by custom. The former adheres too close to the constitution ever to be eradicated; and for that reason the passions to which it gives birth, endure during life with no remarkable diminution of strength. The latter, which owes its birth and increment to time, owes its decay to the same cause. Affection decays gradually as it grew. Hence long absence extinguisheth hatred as well as love. Affection wears out more gradually betwixt persons, who, living together, are objects to each other of mutual good-will and kindness. But here habit comes in luckily, to supply decayed affection. It makes these persons necessary to the happiness of each other, by the pain of separation[35]. Affection to children hath a long endurance, longer perhaps than any other affection. Its growth keeps pace with that of its objects. They display new beauties and qualifications daily, to feed and augment the affection. But whenever the affection becomes stationary, it must begin to decay; with a slow pace indeed, in proportion to its increment. In short, man with respect to this life, is a temporary being. He grows, becomes stationary, decays; and so must all his powers and passions.

PART IV.

Coexistent emotions and passions.

TO have a thorough knowledge of the human passions and emotions, it is not sufficient that they be examined singly and separately. As a plurality of them are sometimes felt at the same instant, the manner of their coexistence, and the effects thereby produced, ought also to be examined. This subject is extensive, and it will be difficult to evolve all the laws that govern its endless variety of cases. Such an undertaking may be brought to perfection, but it must be by degrees. The following hints may suffice for a first attempt.

We begin with emotions raised by different sounds, as the simplest case. Two sounds that mix, and are, as it were, incorporated before they reach the ear, are said to be concordant. That each sound produceth an emotion of its own, must be admitted. But then these emotions, like the sounds that produce them, mix so intimately, as to be rather one complex emotion than two emotions in conjunction. Two sounds, again, that refuse incorporation or mixture, are said to be discordant. Being however heard at the same instant, the emotions produced by them are conjoined; and in that condition are unpleasant, even where separately they are each of them pleasant.

Similar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds, is the emotion that an object of sight raises by means of its several qualities. A tree, for example, with its qualities of colour, figure, size, &c. is perceived to be one object; and the emotion it raises is one, not different emotions combined. But though the emotion be one, it is however not simple. The perception of the tree is complex, and the emotion raised by it must also be complex.

With respect to coexistent emotions produced by different causes or objects, it must be observed, that there cannot be a concordance among objects of sight like what is perceived in sounds. Objects of sight are never mixed or incorporated in the act of vision. Each object is perceived as it exists, separately from others; and each raiseth its own emotion, which is felt distinctly however intimately connected the objects may be. This doctrine holds in all the causes of emotion or passion, sounds only excepted.

To explain the manner in which such emotions coexist, similar emotions must be distinguished from those that are dissimilar. Two emotions are said to be similar, when they tend each of them to produce the same tone of mind. Chearful emotions, however different their causes may be, are similar; and so are those which are melancholy. Dissimilar emotions are easily explained by their opposition to what are similar. Grandeur and littleness, gaiety and gloominess, are dissimilar emotions.

Emotions perfectly similar, readily combine and unite[36], so as in a manner to become one complex emotion; witness the emotions produced by a number of flowers in a parterre, or of trees in a wood. Emotions again that are opposite or extremely dissimilar, never combine nor unite. The mind cannot simultaneously take on opposite tones: it cannot at the same instant be both joyful and sad, angry and satisfied, proud and humble. Dissimilar emotions may succeed each other with rapidity, but they cannot exist simultaneously.

Betwixt these two extremes, emotions will unite more or less, in proportion to the degree of their resemblance and the greater or less connection of their causes. The beauty of a landscape and the singing of birds, produce emotions that are similar in a considerable degree; and these emotions therefore, though proceeding from very different causes, readily combine and unite. On the other hand, when the causes are intimately connected, the emotions, though but slightly resembling each other, are forced into a sort of union. I give for an example a mistress in distress. When I consider her beauty, I feel a pleasant emotion; and a painful emotion when I consider her distress. These two emotions, proceeding from different views of the object, have very little resemblance to each other: and yet their causes are so intimately connected, as to force them into a sort of complex emotion, partly pleasant partly painful. This clearly explains some expressions common in poetry, a sweet distress, a pleasant pain.

We proceed to the effects produced by means of the different manners of coexistence above described; first, the effects produced within the mind, and next, those that appear externally. I discover two mental effects clearly distinguishable from each other. The one may be represented by addition and subtraction in numbers, and the other by harmony in sounds. Two pleasant emotions that are similar, readily unite when they are coexistent; and the pleasure felt in the union, is the sum of the two pleasures. The combined emotions are like multiplied effects from the co-operation of different powers. The same emotions in succession, are far from making the same figure; because the mind at no instant of the succession is conscious of more than a single emotion. This doctrine may aptly be illustrated by a landscape comprehending hills, vallies, plains, rivers, trees, &c. The emotions produced by these several objects, being similar in a high degree as falling in easily and sweetly with the same tone of mind, are in conjunction extremely pleasant. And this multiplied effect is felt from objects even of different senses; as where a landscape is conjoined with the music of birds and odor of flowers. Such multiplied effect, as above hinted, depends partly on the resemblance of the emotions and partly on the connection of their causes; whence it follows, that the effect must be the greatest, where the causes are intimately connected and the emotions perfectly similar.

The other pleasure arising from coexistent emotions, which may be termed the pleasure of concord or harmony, is ascertained by a different rule. It is directly in proportion to the degree of resemblance betwixt the emotions, and inversely in proportion to the degree of connection betwixt the causes. To feel this pleasure in perfection, the resemblance cannot be too strong, nor the connection too slight. Where the causes are intimately connected, the similar emotions they produce are felt like one complex emotion. But the pleasure of harmony, is not felt from one emotion single or complex. It is felt from various similar emotions, distinct from each other, and yet sweetly combining in the mind; and the less connection the causes have, the more entire is the emotion of harmony. This matter cannot be better illustrated, than by the foregoing example of a landscape, where the sight, hearing, and smelling, are employed. The accumulated pleasure of so many different similar emotions, is not what delights us the most in this combination of objects. The sense of harmony from these emotions sweetly uniting in the mind, is still more delightful. We feel this harmony in the different emotions proceeding from the visible objects; but we feel it still more sensibly in the emotions proceeding from the objects of different senses. This emotion of concord or harmony, will be more fully illustrated, when the emotions produced by the sound of words and their meaning are taken under consideration[37].

This emotion of concord from conjoined emotions, is felt even where the emotions are not perfectly similar. Love is a pleasant passion; but then its sweetness and tenderness make it resemble in a considerable degree the painful passion of pity or grief; and for that reason, love accords better with these passions than with what are gay and sprightly. I give the following example from Catullus, where the concord betwixt love and grief, has a fine effect even in so slight a subject as the death of a sparrow.

To complete this branch of the subject, I proceed to consider the effects of dissimilar emotions. These effects obviously must be opposite to what are above described; and in order to explain them with accuracy, dissimilar emotions proceeding from connected causes, must be distinguished from what proceed from causes that are unconnected. Dissimilar emotions of the former kind, being forced into a sort of unnatural union, produce a feeling of discord instead of harmony. It holds also that in computing their force, subtraction must be used in place of addition, which will be evident from what follows. Dissimilar emotions forced into union, are felt obscurely and imperfectly; for each tends to vary the tone of mind that is suited to the other; and the mind thus distracted betwixt two objects, is at no instant in a condition to receive a full impression from either. Dissimilar emotions proceeding from unconnected causes, are in a very different condition. Dissimilar emotions in general are averse to union; and as there is nothing to force them into union when their causes are unconnected emotions of this kind are never felt but in succession. By that means, they are not felt to be discordant, and each hath an opportunity to make a full impression.

This curious theory must be illustrated by examples. In reading the description of the dismal waste, book 1. of Paradise Lost, we are sensible of a confused feeling, arising from dissimilar emotions forced into union, viz. the beauty of the description and the horror of the object described.

Many other passages in this justly celebrated poem produce the same effect; and we always observe, that if the disagreeableness of the subject be obscured by the beautiful description, this beauty is not less obscured by its discordant union with the disagreeableness of the subject. For the same reason, ascending smoke in a calm morning is improper in a picture full of violent action. The emotion of stillness and tranquillity inspired by the former, accords not with the lively and animated emotion inspired by the latter. A parterre, partly ornamented partly in disorder, produces a mixt feeling of the same sort. Two great armies in act to engage, mix the dissimilar emotions of grandeur and of terror.

A virtuous man has drawn on himself a great misfortune, by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. The remorse he feels aggravates his distress, and consequently raises our pity to a high pitch. We indeed blame the man; and the indignation raised by the fault he has committed, is dissimilar to pity. These two passions however proceeding from different views of the same object, are forced into a sort of union. But the indignation is so slight as scarce to be felt in the mixture with pity. Subjects of this kind, are of all the fittest for tragedy. But of this afterward[38].

Opposite emotions are so dissimilar as not to admit any sort of union, even where they proceed from causes the most intimately connected. Love to a mistress, and resentment for her infidelity, are of this nature. They cannot exist otherwise than in succession, which by the connection of their causes is commonly rapid. And these emotions will govern alternately, till one of them obtain the ascendent, or both be obliterated. A succession opens to me by the death of a worthy man, who was my friend as well as my kinsman. When I think of my friend I am grieved; but the succession gives me joy. These two causes are intimately connected, for the succession is the direct consequence of my friend’s death. The emotions however being opposite, do not mix: they prevail alternately, perhaps for a course of time, till grief for my friend’s death be banished by the pleasures of opulence. A virtuous man suffering unjustly, is an example of the same kind. I pity him, and I have great indignation at the author of the wrong. These emotions proceed from causes nearly connected; but being directed upon different objects, they are not forced into union. The opposition preserves them distinct; and accordingly they are found to govern alternately, the one sometimes prevailing and sometimes the other.

Next of dissimilar emotions arising from unconnected causes. Good and bad news of equal importance arriving at the same instant from different quarters, produce opposite emotions, the discordance of which is not felt because they are not forced into union. They govern alternately, commonly in a quick succession, till their force be spent. In the same manner, good news arriving to a man labouring under distress, occasions a vibration in his mind from the one to the other.

If the emotions be unequal in force, the stronger after a conflict will extinguish the weaker. Thus the loss of a house by fire or of a sum of money by bankruptcy, will make no figure in opposition to the birth of a long-expected son, who is to inherit an opulent fortune. After some slight vibrations, the mind settles in joy, and the loss is forgot.

The foregoing observations, will be found of great use in the fine arts. Many practical rules are derived from them, which I shall have occasion afterward to mention. For instant satisfaction in part, I propose to show the use of these observations in music, a theme I insist upon at present, not being certain of another opportunity more favourable. It will be admitted, that no combination of sounds but what is agreeable to the ear, is intitled to the name of music. Melody and harmony are separately agreeable and in union delightful. The agreeableness of vocal music differs from that of instrumental. The former being intended to accompany words, ought to be expressive of the sentiment that is conveyed by the words. But the latter having no connection with words, may be agreeable without expressing any sentiment. Harmony properly so called, though delightful when in perfection, is not expressive of sentiment; and we often find good melody without the least tincture of it.

These preliminaries being established, I proceed directly to the point. In vocal music, the intimate connection of sense and sound rejects dissimilar emotions, those especially that are opposite. Similar emotions produced by the sense and sound go naturally into union; and at the same time are felt to be concordant or harmonious. Dissimilar emotions, on the other hand, forced into union by causes intimately connected, not only obscure each other, but are also unpleasant by discordance. From these principles it is easy to say what sort of poetical compositions are fitted for music. It is evident that no poem expressing the sentiments of any disagreeable passion is proper. The pain a man feels who is actuated with malice or unjust revenge, disqualifies him for relishing music or any thing that is entertaining. And supposing him disposed, against nature, to vent his sentiments in music, the mixture would be unpleasant; for these passions raise disgust and aversion in the audience[39], a tone of mind opposite to every emotion that music can inspire. A man seized with remorse cannot bear music, because every sort of it must be discordant with his tone of mind; and when these by an unskilful artist are forced into union, the mixture is unpleasant to the audience.

In general, music never can have a good effect in conjunction with any composition expressive of malice, envy, peevishness, or any other dissocial passion. The pleasure of music, on the other hand, is similar to all pleasant emotions; and music is finely qualified for every song where such emotions are expressed. Music particularly in a chearful tone, is concordant in the highest degree with every emotion in the same tone; and hence our taste for chearful airs expressive of mirth and jollity. Music is peculiarly well qualified for accompanying every sympathetic emotion. Sympathetic joy associates finely with chearful music, and sympathetic pain not less finely with music that is tender and melancholy. All the different emotions of love, viz. tenderness, concern, anxiety, pain of absence, hope, fear, &c. accord delightfully with music. A person in love, even when unkindly treated, is soothed by music. The tenderness of love still prevailing, accords with a melancholy strain. This is finely exemplified by Shakespear in the fourth act of Othello, where Desdemona calls for a song expressive of her distress. Wonderful is the delicacy of that writer’s taste, which fails him not even in the most refined emotions of human nature. Melancholy music again is suitable to slight grief, which requires or admits consolation. But deep grief, which refuses all consolation, rejects for that reason even melancholy music. For a different reason, music is improper for accompanying pleasant emotions of the more important kind. These totally ingross the mind, and leave no place for music or any sort of amusement. In a perilous enterprise to dethrone a tyrant, music would be impertinent, even where hope prevails, and the prospect of success is great. Alexander attacking the Indian town and mounting the wall, had certainly no impulse to exert his prowess in a song. It is true, that not the least regard is paid to these rules either in the French or Italian opera; and the attachment we have to these compositions, may at first sight be considered as a proof that the foregoing doctrine cannot be founded on human nature. But the general taste for operas is at bottom no authority against me. In our operas the passions are so imperfectly expressed, as to leave the mind free for relishing music of any sort indifferently. It cannot be disguised, that the pleasure of an opera is derived chiefly from the music, and scarce at all from the sentiments. A happy coincidence of emotions raised by the song and by the music, is extremely rare; and I venture to affirm, that there is no example of it unless where the emotion raised by the former is pleasant as well as that raised by the latter.

The subject we have run through, appears not a little entertaining. It is extremely curious to observe, in many instances, a plurality of causes producing in conjunction a great pleasure: in other instances, not less frequent, no conjunction, but each cause acting in opposition. To enter bluntly upon a subject of such intricacy, might gravel an acute philosopher; and yet by taking matters in a train, the intricacy vanisheth.

Next in order, according to the method proposed, come external effects. And this leads to passions in particular, which involving desire are the causes of action. Two coexistent passions that have the same tendency, must be similar. They accordingly readily unite, and in conjunction have double force; which must hold whether the two passions have the same or different causes. This is verified by experience; from which we learn, that different passions having the same end in view, impel the mind to action with united force. The mind receives not impulses alternately from these passions, but one strong impulse from the whole in conjunction. And indeed it is not easy to conceive what should bar the union of passions that have all of them the same tendency.

Two passions having opposite tendencies, may proceed from the same object or cause considered in different lights. Thus a mistress may at once be the object both of love and resentment. Her beauty inflames the passion of love: her cruelty or inconstancy causes resentment. When two such passions coexist in the same breast, the opposition of their aim prevents any sort of union. They are not felt otherwise than in succession. And the consequence must be one of two things: the passions will balance each other, and prevent external action; or one of them will prevail, and accomplish its end. Guarini, in his Pastor Fido, describes beautifully the struggle betwixt love and resentment directed upon the same object.

Ovid paints in lively colours the vibration of mind betwixt two opposite passions directed upon the same object. Althea had two brothers much beloved, who were unjustly put to death by her son Meleager in a fit of passion. She was strongly impelled to revenge; but the criminal was her own son. This ought to have with-held her hand. But the story makes a better figure and is more interesting, by the violence of the struggle betwixt resentment and maternal love.

In cases of this kind, one circumstance always augments the fluctuation. A resolution to prefer one action before another after balancing betwixt them, is an inchoated gratification of the prevailing passion, which softens it in some degree. This circumstance tends to give a superiority to the opposite passion. And another circumstance also concurs, that this opposite passion has by restraint acquired in the interim some additional force.

Love and jealousy connected by a common object, occupy the mind alternately. When the object is considered as beautiful, love prevails: when considered as possibly unfaithful, jealousy prevails. A situation of this kind, affords great scope for fluctuation of passion, which is painted to the life by several masterly hands in words as well as in colours. Shakespear handles the same subject, but in a manner uncommon and peculiar to himself. In Othello’s soliloquy before putting his wife to death, love and jealousy are represented, each exerting its whole force, but without any struggle. Othello was naturally inflexible; and the tenderest love could not divert him from a purpose he approved as right, not even for a moment. But every thing consistent with such a character is done to reconcile the two opposite passions. He is resolved to put her to death, but he will not shed her blood, nor so much as ruffle her skin.

In Otway’s Orphan, we have an illustrious example of the address employed to gratify opposite passions directed upon the same object. Castalio and Polydore, brothers and rivals, had sworn mutual confidence. Castalio broke his faith by a private marriage. By this concealment, Polydore was unwarily betrayed into a dismal deed, that of polluting his brother’s bed. Thus he had injured his brother, and was injured by him. Justice prompted him to make full atonement by his own death: resentment against his brother required a full atonement to be made to himself. In coexistent passions so contradictory, one of them commonly prevails after a struggle. But here happily an expedient occurred to gratify both; which was, that Polydore should provoke his brother to put him to death. Polydore’s crime in his own opinion merited this punishment; and justice was satisfied when he fell by the hands of the man he had injured. He wanted at the same time to punish his brother for breach of faith; and he could not do this more effectually than by betraying his brother to be his executioner.

If difference of aim prevent the union of two passions though having the same object, much more will it prevent their union when their objects are also different. In both cases there is a fluctuation; but in the latter the fluctuation is slower than in the former. A beautiful situation of this kind is exhibited in the Cid of Corneille. Don Diegue, an old soldier worn out with age, having received a mortal affront from the Count father to Chimene, employs his son Don Rodrigue, Chimene’s lover, to demand satisfaction. This situation occasions in the breast of Don Rodrigue a cruel struggle. It is a contest betwixt love and honour, one of which must be sacrificed. The scene is finely conducted, chiefly by making love in some degree take part with honour, Don Rodrigue reflecting, that if he lost his honour he could not deserve his mistress. Honour triumphs. The Count, provoked to a single combat, falls by the hand of Don Rodrigue.

This produceth another beautiful situation respecting Chimene, which for the sake of connection is placed here, though it properly belongs to the foregoing head. It became the duty of that lady to demand justice against her lover, for whose preservation, in other circumstances, she chearfully would have sacrificed her own life. The struggle betwixt these opposite passions directed upon the same object, is finely expressed in the third scene of the third act.

Not less when the objects are different than when the same, are means sometimes afforded to gratify both passions; and such means are greedily embraced. In Tasso’s Gerusalem, Edward and Gildippe, husband and wife, are introduced fighting gallantly against the Saracens. Gildippe receives a mortal wound by the hand of Soliman. Edward inflamed with revenge as well as concern for Gildippe, is agitated betwixt the two different objects. The poet[40] describes him endeavouring to gratify both at once, applying his right hand against Soliman the object of his resentment, and his left hand to support his wife the object of his love.

PART V.

The power of passion to adjust our opinions and belief to its gratification.

THere is such a connection among the perceptions passions and actions of the same person, that it would be wonderful if they should have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much directed by passion, is a sad truth. It is not less certain, though not so commonly observed, that passion hath an irregular influence upon our opinions and belief. The opinions we form of men and things, are generally directed by affection. An advice given by a man of figure, hath great weight; the same advice from one in a low condition, is utterly neglected. A man of courage under-rates danger; and to the indolent, the slightest obstacle appears unsurmountable. Our opinions indeed, the result commonly of various and often opposite views, are so slight and wavering, as readily to be susceptible of a bias from passion and prejudice.

This subject is of great use in logic; and of still greater use in criticism, being intimately connected with many principles of the fine arts that will be unfolded in the course of this work. Being too extensive to be treated here at large, some cursory illustrations must suffice; leaving the subject to be prosecuted more particularly afterward when occasion shall offer.

Two principles that make an eminent figure in human nature, concur to give passion an undue influence upon our opinions and belief. The first and most extensive, is a strong tendency in the mind to fit objects for the gratification of its passions. We are prone to such opinions of men and things as correspond to our wishes. Where the object, in dignity or importance, corresponds to the passion bestowed on it, the gratification is complete and there is no occasion for artifice. But where the object is too mean for the passion so as not to afford a complete gratification, it is wonderful how apt the mind is to impose upon itself, and how disposed to proportion the object to its passion. The other principle is a strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. This tendency is extremely remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions. By its influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied or suppressed, every thing coloured and disguised, to answer the end of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias.

Beside the influence of the foregoing principles to make us form opinions contrary to truth, the passions themselves, by subordinate means, contribute to the same effect. Of these means I shall mention two which seem to be capital. First, There was occasion formerly to observe[41], that though ideas seldom start up in the mind without connection, yet that ideas which correspond to the present tone of the mind are readily suggested by any slight connection. By this means, the arguments for a favourite opinion are always at hand, while we often search in vain for those that cross our inclination. Second, The mind taking delight in agreeable circumstances or arguments, is strongly impressed with them; while those that are disagreeable are hurried over so as scarce to make any impression. The self-same argument, accordingly as it is relished or not relished, weighs so differently, as in truth to make conviction depend more on passion than on reasoning. This observation is fully justified by experience. To confine myself to a single instance, the numberless absurd religious tenets that at different times have pestered the world, would be altogether unaccountable but for this irregular bias of passion.

We proceed to a more pleasant task, which is, to illustrate the foregoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude when warm, is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor; especially where he is removed out of reach by death or absence[42]. Gratitude in this case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar excellence in his children. To find however these children worthy of the benefits intended them, contributes undoubtedly to the more entire gratification of the passion. And accordingly, the mind, prone to gratify its passions, is apt to conceive a better opinion of these children than possibly they deserve. By this means, strong connections of affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight foundation now mentioned.

Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, is always disguised under some more plausible name. But no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object such an appearance as to answer a complete gratification. It magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on the most humbling circumstances.

Glo’ster inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could even work himself into a momentary conviction that they were not related.

When by a great sensibility of heart or other means, grief swells beyond what the cause can justify, the mind is prone to magnify the cause, in order to gratify the passion. And if the real cause admit not of being magnified, the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events.

The foregoing examples depend on the first principle. In the following, both principles concur. Resentment at first is wreaked on the relations of the offender, in order to punish him. But as resentment when so outrageous is contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion as well as to gratify it, is disposed to paint these relations in the blackest colours; and it actually comes to be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits.

Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part, which gives great and sudden pain, is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause. But as the passion in this case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratification in punishing the innocent; the mind, prone to justify as well as to gratify its passion, deludes itself instantly into a conviction of the action’s being voluntary. This conviction however is but momentary: the first reflection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion vanisheth almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most violent of all passions, has still greater influence. It sometimes forces the mind to personify a stock or a stone when it occasions bodily pain, in order to be a proper object of resentment. A conception is formed of it as a voluntary agent. And that we have really a momentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from considering, that without such conviction, the passion can neither be justified nor gratified. The imagination can give no aid. A stock or a stone may be imagined sensible; but a notion of this kind cannot be the foundation of punishment, so long as the mind is conscious that it is an imagination merely without any reality. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced. “O thou salt and bitter water! thy master hath condemned thee to this punishment for offending him without cause; and is resolved to pass over thee in despite of thy insolence. With reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous[43].”

Shakespear exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence of passion in making us conceive things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in order to justify his resentment, conceives them to be taking part with his daughters.

King Richard, full of indignation against his favourite horse for suffering Bolingbroke to ride him, conceives for a moment the horse to be rational.

Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother’s second marriage, is strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood; because this circumstance gratified his passion; and he deludes himself by degrees into the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one.

The power of passion to falsify the computation of time, is the more remarkable, that time, which hath an accurate measure, is less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have no precise standard of less or more.

Even belief, though partly an act of the judgment, may be influenced by passion. Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence. Our wishes magnify the probability of the event as well as the veracity of the relater; and we believe as certain what at best is doubtful.

For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest evidence. Fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespear, who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philosophers, hath in his Cymbeline[44] represented this bias of the mind: for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. And Othello[45] is convinced of his wife’s infidelity from circumstances too slight to move an indifferent person.

If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to reason, the effect will not be quite the same. Judging of the probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction either that it is true or not. But even in this case, it is observable, that the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is produced by rational evidence. If the news be in any degree favourable, our belief is augmented by hope beyond its true pitch; and if unfavourable, by fear.

The observation holds equally with respect to future events. If a future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind, to gratify its passion, never fails to augment the probability beyond truth.

The credit which in all ages has been given to wonders and prodigies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon. Nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, That the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required. A familiar event daily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence. But a strange and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, ought not to be easily believed. It starts up without connection, and without cause, so far as we can discover; and to overcome the improbability of such an event, the very strongest evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has been reckoned difficult to explain this irregular bias of the mind. We are now no longer at a loss about its cause. The proneness we have to gratify our passions, which displays itself upon so many occasions, produces this irrational belief. A story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of dread. These emotions tending strongly to their own gratification, impose upon a weak mind, and impress upon it a thorough conviction contrary to all sense and reason.

Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion; for the mind is disposed to gratify both. A natural propensity is all we have to convince us, that the operations of nature are uniform. Influenced by this propensity, we often rashly conceive, that good or bad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical reasonings beyond just bounds.

Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a telescope is a pleasant illustration. I perceive, says the lady, two shadows inclining to each other, they are certainly two happy lovers. Not at all, replies the curate, they are two steeples of a cathedral.

Appendix to Part V.

Concerning the methods which nature hath afforded for computing time and space.

I Introduce here the subject proposed, because it affords several curious examples of the power of passion to adjust objects to its gratification; a lesson that cannot be too much inculcated, as there is not perhaps another bias in human nature that hath an influence so universal, and that is so apt to make us wander from truth as well as from justice.

I begin with time; and the question shortly is, What was the measure of time before artificial measures were invented? and, What is the measure at present when these are not at hand? I speak not of months and days, which we compute by the moon and sun; but of hours, or in general of the time that runs betwixt any two occurrences when there is not access to the sun. The only natural measure we have, is the train of our thoughts; and we always judge the time to be long or short, in proportion to the number of perceptions that have passed through the mind during that interval. This is indeed a very imperfect measure; because in the different conditions of a quick or slow succession, the computation is different. But however imperfect, it is the only measure by which a person naturally calculates time; and this measure is applied on all occasions, without regard to any occasional variation in the rate of succession.

This natural measure of time, imperfect as it is, would however be tolerable, did it labour under no other imperfection than the ordinary variations that happen in the motion of our perceptions. But in many particular circumstances, it is much more fallacious; and in order to explain these distinctly, I must analize the subject. Time is generally computed at two different periods; one while time is passing, another after it is past. I shall consider these separately, with the errors to which each of them is liable. It will be found that these errors often produce very different computations of the same period of time. The computation of time while it is passing, comes first in order. It is a common and trite observation, That to lovers absence appears immeasurably long, every minute an hour, and every hour a day. The same computation is made in every case where we long for a distant event; as where one is in expectation of good news, or where a profligate heir watches for the death of an old man who keeps him from a great estate. Opposite to these are instances not fewer in number. To a criminal the interval betwixt sentence and execution appears miserably short; and the same holds in every case where one dreads an approaching event. Of this even a schoolboy can bear witness: the hour allowed him for play, moves, in his apprehension, with a very swift pace: before he is thoroughly engaged, the hour is gone. A reckoning founded on the number of ideas, will never produce computations so regularly opposite to each other; for a slow succession of ideas is not connected with our wishes, nor a quick succession with our fears. What is it then, that, in the cases mentioned, moves nature to desert her common measure for one very different? I know not that this question ever has been resolved. The false reckonings I have suggested are so common and familiar, that no writer has thought of inquiring for their cause. And indeed, to enter upon this matter at short hand, without preparation, might occasion some difficulty. But to encounter the difficulty, we luckily are prepared by what is said above about the power of passion to fit objects for its gratification. Among the other circumstances that terrify a condemned criminal, the short time he has to live is one. Terror, like our other passions, prone to its gratification, adjusts every one of these circumstances to its own tone. It magnifies in particular the shortness of the interval betwixt the present time and that of the execution; and forces upon the criminal a conviction that the hour of his death approaches with a swift pace. In the same manner, among the other distresses of an absent lover, the time of separation is a capital circumstance, which for that reason is greatly magnified by his anxiety and impatience. He imagines that the time of meeting comes on very slow, or rather that it will never come. Every minute is thought of an intolerable length. Here is a fair and I hope satisfactory account, why we reckon time to be tedious when we long for a future event, and not less fleet when we dread the event. This account is confirmed by other instances. Bodily pain fixt to one part, produceth a slow train of perceptions, which, according to the common measure of time, ought to make it appear short. Yet we know, that in such a state time has the opposite appearance. Bodily pain is always attended with a degree of impatience and an anxiety to be rid of it, which make us judge every minute to be an hour. The same holds where the pain shifts from place to place; but not so remarkably, because such a pain is not attended with the same degree of impatience. The impatience a man hath in travelling through a barren country or in bad roads, makes him imagine, during the journey, that time goes on with a very slow pace. We shall show afterward that he makes a very different computation when his journey is at an end.

How ought it to stand with a man who apprehends bad news? It will probably be thought, that the case of this man resembles that of a criminal, who, in reckoning the short time he has to live, imagines every hour to be but a minute, and that time flies swift away. Yet the computation here is directly opposite. Reflecting upon this difficulty, there appears one capital circumstance in which the two cases differ. The fate of the criminal is determined: in the case under consideration, the man is still in suspense. Every one knows how distressful suspense is to the bulk of mankind. Such distress we wish to get rid of at any rate, even at the expence of bad news. This case therefore, upon a more narrow inspection, resembles that of bodily pain. The present distress in both cases, makes the time appear extremely tedious.

The reader probably will not be displeased, to have this branch of the subject illustrated in a pleasant manner, by an author acquainted with every maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and ornament upon every subject he handles.

Rosalinda. I pray you, what is’t a clock?

Orlando. You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.

Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest; else, sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock.

Orla. Why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper?

Ros. By no means, Sir. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

Orla. I pr’y thee whom doth he trot withal?

Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se’ennight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.

Orla. Who ambles Time withal?

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.

Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal?

Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Orla. Whom stays it still withall?

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.

As you like it, act 3. sc. 8.