HAving discussed those qualities and circumstances of single objects that seem peculiarly connected with criticism, we proceed, according to the method proposed in the chapter of beauty, to the relations of objects, beginning with the relations of resemblance and contrast.

Man being unavoidably connected with the beings around him, some acquaintance with their nature, their powers, and their qualities, is requisite for regulating his conduct. As an incentive to acquire a branch of knowledge so essential to our well-being, motives alone of reason and interest are not sufficient. Nature hath providently superadded curiosity, a vigorous propensity which never is at rest. It is this propensity which attaches us to every new object[78]; and in particular incites us to consider objects in the way of comparison, in order to discover their differences and resemblances.

Resemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude among objects of different kinds, are too obvious and familiar to gratify our curiosity in any degree. The gratification lies in discovering differences among things where resemblance prevails, and in discovering resemblances where difference prevails. Thus a difference in individuals of the same kind of plants or animals is deemed a discovery, while the many particulars in which they agree are neglected: and in different kinds, any resemblance is greedily remarked, without attending to the many particulars in which they differ.

A comparison however may be too far stretched. When differences or resemblances are carried beyond certain bounds, they appear slight and trivial; and for that reason will not be relished by one of taste. Yet such propensity is there to gratify passion, curiosity in particular, that even among good writers, we find many comparisons too slight to afford satisfaction. Hence the frequent instances among logicians, of distinctions without any solid difference: and hence the frequent instances among poets and orators, of similes without any just resemblance. With regard to the latter, I shall confine myself to one instance, which will probably amuse the reader, being a citation not from a poet nor orator, but from a grave author writing an institute of law. “Our student shall observe, that the knowledge of the law is like a deep well, out of which each man draweth according to the strength of his understanding. He that reacheth deepest, seeth the amiable and admirable secrets of the law, wherein I assure you the sages of the law in former times have had the deepest reach. And as the bucket in the depth is easily drawn to the uppermost part of the water, (for nullum elementum in suo proprio loco est grave), but take it from the water it cannot be drawn up but with a great difficulty; so, albeit beginnings of this study seem difficult, yet when the professor of the law can dive into the depth, it is delightful, easy, and without any heavy burden, so long as he keep himself in his own proper element[79].” Shakespear with much wit ridicules this disposition to simile-making, by putting in the mouth of a weak man a resemblance much of a piece with that now mentioned.

Instruction, no doubt, is the chief end of comparison, but not the only end. In works addressed to the imagination, comparison may be employed with great success to put a subject in a strong point of view. A lively idea is formed of a man’s courage, by likening it to that of a lion; and eloquence is exalted in our imagination, by comparing it to a river overflowing its banks, and involving all in its impetuous course. The same effect is produced by contrast. A man in prosperity, becomes more sensible of his happiness, by opposing his condition to that of a person in want of bread. Thus comparison is subservient to poetry as well as to philosophy; and with respect to both, the foregoing observation holds equally, that resemblance among objects of the same kind, and contrast among objects of different kinds, have no effect. Such a comparison neither tends to gratify our curiosity, nor to set the objects compared in a stronger light. Two apartments in a palace, similar in shape, size, and furniture, make separately as good a figure as when compared; and the same observation applies to two similar copartments in a garden. On the other hand, oppose a regular building to a fall of water, or a good picture to a towering hill, or even a little dog to a large horse, and the contrast will produce no effect. But resemblance, where the objects compared are of different kinds, and contrast where the objects compared are of the same kind, have each of them remarkably an enlivening effect. The poets, such of them as have a just taste, draw all their similes from things that in the main differ widely from the principal subject; and they never attempt a contrast but where the things have a common genus and a resemblance in the capital circumstances. Place together a large and a small sized animal of the same species, the one will appear greater the other less, than when viewed separately. When we oppose beauty to deformity, each makes a greater figure by the comparison.

Upon a subject not only in itself curious, but of great importance in all the fine arts, I must be more particular. That resemblance and contrast have an enlivening effect upon objects of sight, is made sufficiently evident; and that they have the same effect upon objects of the other senses, will appear from induction. Nor is this law confined to the external senses. Characters contrasted, make a greater figure by the opposition. Iago, in the tragedy of Othello, says

The character of a fop, and of a rough warrior, are no where more successfully contrasted than by Shakespear.

Passions and emotions are also inflamed by comparison. A man of high rank humbles the bystanders so far as almost to annihilate them in their own opinion. CÆsar, beholding the statue of Alexander, felt a great depression of spirits, when he reflected, that now at the age of thirty-two, when Alexander died, he had not performed one memorable action.

Our opinions also are much influenced by comparison. A man whose opulence exceeds the ordinary standard, is reputed richer than he is in reality; and the character of wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable is generally carried beyond the truth.

The opinion a man forms of his present condition as to happiness or misery, depends in a great measure on the comparison he makes betwixt it and his former condition:

The distress of a long journey makes even an indifferent inn pass current. And in travelling, when the road is good and the horseman well covered, a bad day may be agreeable, by making him sensible how snug he is.

The same effect is equally remarkable, when a man sets his condition in opposition to that of others. A ship tossed about in a storm, makes the spectator reflect upon his own security and ease, and puts these in the strongest light:

A man in grief cannot bear mirth. It gives him a more lively notion of his unhappiness, and of course makes him more unhappy. Satan contemplating the beauties of the terrestrial paradise, breaks out in the following exclamation.

The appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain. A timorous person upon the battlements of a high tower, is seized with terror, which even the consciousness of security cannot dissipate. But upon one of a firm head, this situation has a contrary effect. The appearance of danger heightens by opposition the consciousness of security, and of consequence the satisfaction that arises from security. The feeling here resembles that above mentioned occasioned by a ship labouring in a storm.

This effect of magnifying or lessening objects by means of comparison, is so familiar, that no philosopher has thought of searching for a cause[80]. The obscurity of the subject may possibly have contributed to their silence. But luckily in treating other subjects, a principle is unfolded which will clearly account for this phenomenon. It depends upon the power of passion to model our opinion of objects for its gratification[81]. We have had occasion to see many illustrious examples of this singular power of passion; and the present subject affords an additional instance. That this is the cause, will evidently appear, by reflecting in what manner a spectator is affected, when a very large animal is for the first time placed beside a very small one of the same species. The opposition is the first thing that strikes the mind: the unusual appearance gives surprise; and the spectator, prone to gratify this emotion, conceives the opposition to be the greatest that can be. He sees, or seems to see, the one animal extremely little, and the other extremely large. The emotion of surprise arising from any unusual resemblance, serves equally to explain why at first view we are apt to think such resemblance more entire than it is in reality. And it must be observed, that the circumstances of more and less, which are the proper subjects of comparison, raise a perception so indistinct and vague as to facilitate the effect described. We have no mental standard of great and little, nor of the several degrees of any attribute; and the mind thus unrestrained, is naturally disposed to indulge its surprise to the utmost extent.

In exploring the operations of the mind, some of which are extremely nice and slippery, it is necessary to proceed with the utmost circumspection. And after all, seldom it happens that speculations of this kind afford any strong conviction. Luckily, in the present case, we have at hand facts and experiments that support the foregoing theory in a satisfactory manner. In the first place, the opposing a small object of one species to a great object of another, produces not, in any degree, that effect of contrast, which is so remarkable when both objects are of the same species. There is no difference betwixt these two cases that promiseth to have any influence, but only that the former is common, the latter rare. May we not then fairly conclude, that surprise from the rarity of appearance is the cause of contrast, when we find no such effect where the appearance is common? In the next place, if surprise be the sole cause of the effects that appear in making a comparison, it follows necessarily that these effects will vanish so soon as a comparison becomes familiar. This holds so unerringly, as to leave no reasonable doubt that surprise is the prime mover in this operation. Our surprise is great the first time a small lapdog is seen with a large mastiff: but when two such animals are constantly together, there is no surprise; and it makes no difference whether they be viewed separately or in company. We put no bounds to the riches of a man who has recently made his fortune. The opposition betwixt his present and past situation, or betwixt his present situation and that of others, is carried to an extreme. With regard to a family that for many generations hath enjoyed great wealth, the same false reckoning is not made. It is equally remarkable, that a simile loses its effect by repetition. A lover compared to a moth scorching itself at the flame of a candle, is a sprightly simile, which by frequent use has lost all force. Love cannot now be compared to fire, without some degree of disgust. It has been justly objected against Homer, that the lion is too often introduced in his similes. All the variety he is able to throw into them, is not sufficient to keep alive the reader’s surprise.

To explain the influence of comparison upon the mind, I have chosen the simplest case, that of two animals of the same kind, differing in size only, seen for the first time. To complete the theory, other circumstances must be taken in. And the next supposition I shall make, is where both animals, separately familiar to the spectator, are brought together for the first time. In this case, the effect of magnifying and diminishing, will be found remarkably greater than in that first mentioned. And the reason will appear upon analyzing the operation. The first thing we feel is surprise, occasioned by the uncommon difference of two creatures of the same species. We are next sensible, that the one appears less, the other larger, than they did formerly. This new circumstance is a second cause of surprise, and augments it so as to make us imagine a still greater opposition betwixt the animals, than if we had formed no notion of them beforehand.

I shall confine myself to one other supposition, That the spectator was acquainted beforehand with one of the animals only, the lapdog for example. This new circumstance will vary the effect. Instead of widening the natural difference by enlarging in appearance the one animal and diminishing the other in proportion, the whole apparent alteration will rest upon the lapdog. The surprise to find it less than judged to be formerly, will draw the whole attention of the mind upon it; and this surprise will be gratified, by conceiving it to be of the most diminutive size possible. The mastiff in the mean time is quite neglected. I am able to illustrate this effect by a very familiar example. Take a piece of paper or linen reckoned to be a good white, and compare it with something of the same kind that is a pure white. The judgement we formed of the first object is instantly varied; and the surprise occasioned by finding it not so white as was thought, produceth a hasty conviction that it is much less white than it is in reality. Withdrawing now the pure white, and putting in its place a deep black, the surprise occasioned by this new circumstance carries our thought to the other extreme, and we now conceive the original object to be a pure white. Thus experience forces us to acknowledge, that our emotions have an influence even upon our eye-sight. This experiment leads to a general observation, That whatever is found more strange or beautiful than was expected, is judged to be more strange or beautiful than it is in reality. Hence it is a common artifice, to depreciate beforehand what we wish to make a figure in the eyes of others.

The comparisons employed by poets and orators, coincide with the last-mentioned supposition. It is always a known object that is to be aggrandized or lessened. The former is effectuated by likening it to some grand object, or by contrasting it with one that has the opposite character. To effectuate the latter, the method must be reversed. The object must be contrasted with something superior to itself, or likened to something inferior. The whole effect is produced upon the principal subject, which by this means is elevated above its rank or depressed below it.

In accounting for the effect that any unusual resemblance or contrast has upon the mind, I have hitherto assigned no other cause but surprise; and to prevent confusion and obscurity, I thought it proper to discuss that principle first. But surprise is not the only cause of the effect described. Another cause concurs, which operates perhaps not less powerfully than surprise. This cause is a principle in human nature that lies still in obscurity, not having been evolved by any writer, though its effects are extensive. As it is not distinguished by a proper name, the reader must be satisfied with the following description. No man who studies himself or others but must be sensible of a tendency or propensity in the mind to complete every work that is begun, and to carry things to their full perfection. This principle has little opportunity to display itself upon natural operations, which are seldom left imperfect. But in the operations of art it hath great scope; and displays itself remarkably, by making us persevere in our own work, and by making us wish for the completion of what is done by another. We feel a sensible pleasure when the work is brought to perfection; and our pain is not less sensible when we are disappointed. Hence our uneasiness, when an interesting story is broke off in the middle, when a piece of music ends without a close, or when a building or garden is left imperfect. The same principle operates in making collections, such as the whole works good and bad of any author. A certain person endeavoured to collect prints of all the capital paintings, and succeeded except as to a few. La Bruyere remarks, that an anxious search was made for these, not on account of their value, but to complete the set[82].

The final cause of this principle is an additional proof of its existence. Human works are of no significancy till they be completed. Reason is not always a sufficient counterbalance to indolence: and some principle over and above is necessary, to excite our industry, and to prevent our stopping short in the middle of the course.

We need not lose time in describing the co-operation of the foregoing principle with surprise in producing the effect that is felt upon the appearance of any unusual resemblance or contrast. Surprise first operates, and carries our opinion of the resemblance or contrast beyond the truth. The principle we have been describing carries us still farther; for being bent upon gratification, it forces upon the mind a conviction that the resemblance or contrast is complete. We need no better illustration than the resemblance that is fancied in some pebbles to a tree or an insect. The resemblance, however faint in reality, is conceived to be wonderfully perfect. This tendency to complete a resemblance acting jointly with surprise, carries the mind sometimes so far as even to presume upon future events. In the Greek tragedy, intitled, Phineides, those unhappy women, seeing the place where it was intended they should be slain, cried out with anguish, “They now saw their cruel destiny had condemned them to die in that place, being the same where they had been exposed in their infancy[83].”

This remarkable principle which inclines us to advance every thing to its perfection, not only co-operates with surprise to deceive the mind, but of itself is able to produce that effect. Of this we see many instances where there is no place for surprise. The first instance I shall give is of resemblance. Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo colligatum est, is a maxim in the Roman law that has no foundation in truth. For tying and loosing, building and demolishing, are acts opposite to each other, and are performed by opposite means. But when these acts are connected by their relation to the same subject, their connection leads us to imagine a sort of resemblance betwixt them, which the foregoing principle makes us conceive to be as complete as possible. The next instance shall be of contrast. Addison observes[84], “That the palest features look the most agreeable in white; that a face which is overflushed appears to advantage in the deepest scarlet; and that a dark complexion is not a little alleviated by a black hood.” The foregoing principle serves to account for these appearances. To make this evident, one of the cases shall suffice. A complexion, however dark, never approaches to black. When these colours appear together, their opposition strikes us; and the propensity we have to complete the opposition, makes the darkness of complexion vanish out of sight.

The operation of this principle, even where there is no ground for surprise, is not confined to opinion or conviction. So powerful is it, as to make us sometimes proceed to action in order to complete a resemblance or contrast. If this appear obscure, it will be made clear by the following instances. Upon what principle is the lex talionis founded other than to make the punishment resemble the mischief? Reason dictates, that there ought to be a conformity or resemblance betwixt a crime and its punishment; and the foregoing principle impells us to make the resemblance as complete as possible. Titus Livius, influenced by this principle, accounts for a certain punishment by a resemblance betwixt it and the crime, far too subtile for common apprehension. Speaking of Mettus Fuffetius, the Alban general, who, for treachery to the Romans, his allies, was sentenced to be torn to pieces by horses, he puts the following speech in the mouth of Tullus Hostilius, who decreed the punishment. “Mette Fuffeti, inquit, si ipse discere posses fidem ac foedera servare, vivo tibi ea disciplina a me adhibita esset. Nunc, quoniam tuum insanabile ingenium est, at tu tuo supplicio doce humanum genus, ea sancta credere, quÆ a te violata sunt. Ut igitur paulo ante animum inter Fidenatem Romanamque rem ancipitem gessisti, ita jam corpus passim distrahendum dabis[85].” By the same influence, the sentence is often executed upon the very spot where the crime was committed. In the Electra of Sophocles, Egistheus is dragged from the theatre into an inner room of the supposed palace, to suffer death where he murdered Agamemnon. Shakespear, whose knowledge of nature is not less profound than extensive, has not overlooked this propensity:

Persons in their last moments are generally seized with an anxiety to be buried with their relations. In the Amynta of Tasso, the lover, hearing that his mistress was torn to pieces by a wolf, expresses a desire to die the same death[86].

Upon the subject in general, I have two remarks to add. The first concerns resemblance, which when too entire hath no effect, however different in kind the things compared may be. This remark is applicable to works of art only; for natural objects of different kinds, have scarce ever an entire resemblance. Marble is a sort of matter, very different from what composes an animal; and marble cut into a human figure, produces great pleasure by the resemblance. But let a marble statue be coloured like a picture, the resemblance is so entire as to produce no effect. At a distance, it appears a real person. We discover the mistake when we approach; and no other emotion is raised but surprise occasioned by the deception. The idea of resemblance is sunk into that of identity. The figure still appears to our eyes rather to be a real person than a resemblance of it; and we must make use of our reflection to correct the mistake. This cannot happen in a picture; for the resemblance can never be so entire as to disguise the imitation.

The other remark regards contrast. Emotions make the greatest figure when contrasted in succession. But then the succession ought neither to be precipitate nor immoderately slow. If too slow, the effect of contrast becomes faint by the distance of the emotions; and if precipitate, no single emotion has room to expand itself to its full size; but is stifled as it were in the birth by a succeeding emotion. The funeral oration of the Bishop of Meaux upon the Duchess of Orleans, is a perfect hotchpotch of chearful and melancholy representations following each other in the quickest succession. Opposite emotions are best felt in succession: but each emotion separately should be raised to its due pitch, before another be introduced.

What is above laid down, will enable us to determine a very important question concerning emotions raised by the fine arts, viz. What ought to be the rule of succession; whether ought resemblance to be studied or contrast? The emotions raised by the fine arts, are generally too nearly related to make a figure by resemblance; and for that reason, their succession ought to be regulated as much as possible by contrast. This holds confessedly in epic and dramatic compositions: and the best writers, led perhaps by a good taste more than by reasoning, have generally aimed at this beauty. In the same cantata, all the variety of emotions that are within the power of music, may not only be indulged, but, to make the greatest figure, ought to be contrasted. In gardening there is an additional reason for the rule. The emotions raised by that art, are at best so faint, that every artifice should be used to give them their utmost strength. A field may be laid out in grand, sweet, gay, neat, wild, melancholy scenes. When these are viewed in succession, grandeur ought to be contrasted with neatness, regularity with wildness, and gaiety with melancholy; so as that each emotion may succeed its opposite. Nay it is an improvement to intermix in the succession, rude uncultivated spots as well as unbounded views, which in themselves are disagreeable, but in succession heighten the feeling of the agreeable objects. And we have nature for our guide, who in her most beautiful landscapes often intermixes rugged rocks, dirty marshes, and barren stony heaths. The greatest matters of music, have the same view in their compositions: the second part of an Italian song seldom conveys any sentiment; and, by its harshness, seems purposely contrived to give a greater relish for the interesting parts of the composition.

A small garden comprehended under a single view, affords little opportunity for this embellishment. Dissimilar emotions require different tones of mind; and therefore in conjunction can never make a good figure[87]. Gaiety and sweetness may be combined, or wildness and gloominess; but a composition of gaiety and gloominess is distasteful. The rude uncultivated copartment of furze and broom in Richmond garden, hath a good effect in the succession of objects; but a spot of this nature would be insufferable in the midst of a polished parterre or flower-plot. A garden therefore, if not of great extent, will not admit of dissimilar emotions. And in ornamenting a small garden, the safest course is to confine it to a single expression. For the same reason, a landscape ought also to be confined to a single expression. It is accordingly a rule in painting, That if the subject be gay, every figure ought to contribute to that emotion.

It follows from the foregoing train of reasoning, that a garden near a great city, ought to have an air of solitude. The solitariness again of a waste country ought to be contrasted in forming a garden; no temples, no obscure walks; but jets d’eau, cascades, objects active, gay, and splendid. Nay such a garden should in some measure avoid imitating nature, by taking on an extraordinary appearance of regularity and art, to show the busy hand of man, which in a waste country has a fine effect by contrast.

It may be gathered from what is said above[88], that wit and ridicule make not an agreeable mixture with grandeur. Dissimilar emotions have a fine effect in a slow succession; but in a rapid succession, which approaches to co-existence, they will not be relished. In the midst of a laboured and elevated description of a battle, Virgil introduces a ludicrous image, which is certainly out of its place:

The following image is not less ludicrous, nor less improperly placed.

It would however be too austere, to banish altogether ludicrous images from an epic poem. This poem doth not always soar above the clouds. It admits great variety; and upon occasions can descend even to the ground without sinking. In its more familiar tones, a ludicrous scene may be introduced without impropriety. This is done by Virgil[89] in describing a foot-race; the circumstances of which, not excepting the ludicrous part, are copied from Homer[90]. After a fit of merryment, we are, it is true, the less disposed to the serious and sublime: but then, a ludicrous scene, by unbending the mind from severe application to more interesting subjects, may prevent fatigue, and preserve our relish entire.