Sensibilities
Part First
Simple Emotions
Chapter I
Instinctive Emotions
Previous Analysis.—It will be recollected that in the analysis which has been given of the sensibilities, they were arranged under three generic classes, viz., Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, all, however, having this in common, that they are in themselves agreeable or disagreeable, as states of mind, according as the object which awakens them is viewed as either good or evil.
Nature of simple Emotions.—Of these, the simple emotions, which are first to be considered, comprise, it will be remembered, that large class of feelings which, in their various modifications and degrees, constitute the joys and sorrows of life. They may be comprised, with some latitude of meaning, under the general terms joy and sorrow, as modifications of that comprehensive principle or phase of human experience. They are awakened in view of an object regarded as good or as evil; an object, moreover, of present possession and present enjoyment or suffering; in which last respect they differ from desires, which have respect always to some good, or apparent good, not in present possession, but viewed as attainable.
Division of simple Emotions.—Of these simple emotions, again, some may be called instinctive, as belonging to the animal nature, and, to some extent, common to man with the brutes, in distinction from others of a higher order, involving or presupposing the exercise of reason and the reflective powers.
It is of the former class that we are to treat in the present chapter.
§ I.—Of that General State of the Mind known as Cheerfulness; and its opposite, Melancholy.
Nature of this Feeling.—There is a state of mind, of which every one is at times conscious, in which, without any immediately exciting cause, a general liveliness and joyousness of spirit, seldom rising to the definiteness of a distinct emotion, a subdued under-current of gladness, seems to fill the soul, and flow on through all its channels. It is not so much itself joy, as a disposition to be joyful; not so much itself a visible sun in the heavens, as a mild, gently-diffused light filling the sky, and bathing all objects in its serene loveliness and beauty. It has been well termed “a sort of perpetual gladness.”
Prevalence at different Periods of Life.—There are those, of fortunate temperament, with whom this seems to be the prevailing disposition, to whom every thing wears a cheerful and sunny aspect. Of others, the reverse is true. In early life this habitual joyousness of spirit is more commonly prevalent; in advanced years, more rarely met with. Whether it be that age has chilled the blood, or that the sober experience of life has saddened the heart, and corrected the more romantic visions of earlier years, as life passes on we are less habitually under the influence of this disposition. It is no longer the prevailing frame of the mind. In the beautiful language of another, “We are not happy, without knowing why we are happy, and though we may still be susceptible of joy, perhaps as intense, or even more intense, than in our years of unreflecting merriment, our joy must arise from a cause of corresponding importance; yet even down to the close of extreme old age there still recur occasionally some gleams of this almost instinctive happiness, like a vision of other years, or like those brilliant and unexpected corruscations which sometimes flash along the midnight of a wintry sky, and of which we are too ignorant of the circumstances that produce them, to know when to predict their return.”
The opposite Feeling.—Corresponding to this general state of mind now described, is one of quite the opposite character—that habitual disposition to sadness which is usually called melancholy. Like its opposite, cheerfulness, it is rather a frame of mind than a positive emotion, and, like its opposite, it exists, often, without any marked and definite cause to which we can attribute it. It is that state in which subsiding grief, or the pressure of any severe calamity now passing away, leaves the mind, the grey and solemn twilight that succeeds a partial or total eclipse. It is, with many persons, the habitual state of mind, through long periods, perhaps even the greater part, of life. Not unfrequently it occurs that minds, of the rarest genius and most delicate sensibility, are subject to that extreme and habitual depression of spirits which casts a deep gloom over the brightest objects, and renders life itself a burden. This state of habitual gloom and despondency, itself usually a form of disease, the result of some physical derangement, deepens sometimes into a fixed and permanent disorder of the mind, and constitutes one of the most pitiable and hopeless forms of insanity. Such was the case with the melancholy, but most amiable and gentle Cowper.
Element of poetic Sensibility.—In its milder forms, the state of mind which I describe, constitutes, not unfrequently, an element of what is termed poetic genius, a melancholy arising from some sad experience of the troubles and conflicts of life, and from sympathy with the suffering and sorrowing world, the great sad heart of humanity—a melancholy that, like the plaint of the Æolian harp, lends sweetness and richness to the music of its strain. Such are many of the strains of Tennyson; such the deep under-current of Milton’s poetry; such, preëminently, the spirit and tone of John Foster, one of the truest and noblest specimens of poetic genius, although a writer of prose. A quick and lively sensibility, itself an inseparable concomitant of true genius, is not unfrequently accompanied with this gentler form of melancholy. The truly great soul that communes with itself, with nature, and with eternal truth, is no stranger to this subdued yet pleasing sadness. It is this to which Milton pays beautiful tribute in the Il Penseroso, and which he thus invokes:
“But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy,
Hail, divinest Melancholy!
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.”
Not inconsistent with Wit.—It should be remarked that the disposition of which we speak is not inconsistent with the occasional and even frequent prevalence of feelings of directly the opposite nature. A prevailing tendency to sadness is not unfrequently associated with an almost equally prevailing tendency to emotions of the ludicrous. The same liveliness of sensibility which prepares the soul to feel keenly whatever in life is adapted to awaken sad and sober reflections, also disposes it to notice quickly the little incongruities of character, the foibles and follies of mankind, in which a duller eye would detect nothing absurd or comical. It is, moreover, the natural tendency of the mind to spring back, like the bow unstrung, from one extreme of feeling to its opposite, and seek relief from its sadness in the lighter sallies of wit. And so we have the melancholy Cowper singing John Gilpin, and the author of the Night Thoughts, in conversation, a jovial and witty man.
§ II.—Sorrow at Loss of Friends.
Differs from Melancholy.—Beside the general states of mind already described, and which can hardly be called distinct emotions, there are certain specific forms of joy and sorrow which claim our attention. Prominent among these is the grief we feel at any great and sudden bereavement or calamity, as, for example, the loss of friends. This is a state of mind closely allied, indeed, to the melancholy of which I have spoken, but differs from it in that it springs from a more obvious and immediate cause, and is at once more definite and more intense. After a time, when the first bitterness of anguish is past, and the mind recovers itself in a measure from the violence of the shock it has received, and which, for the time, like a sudden blow, seemed to stagger all its energies, when other causes begin to operate, and other scenes and cares demand its attention, its sorrow, at first violent and irrepressible, gradually subsides into that calmer but more permanent form which we have already described as melancholy.
Effects of Grief upon the Mind in the first Shock of any Calamity.—When the loss is very great, especially if it comes suddenly to us—and what bereavement, however long anticipated and feared, does not at last overtake us suddenly?—the mind is at first, in a manner, stupefied and amazed, unable to realize its loss, and looks helplessly about it for relief. To this succeeds a state of mental anguish, more or less intense, in proportion to the liveliness of the sensibilities, and the strength of the previous attachment. In many cases the sorrow is uncontrollable, and finds relief in tears, or in those more violent expressions of anguish in which the burdened heart of man in all ages has been wont to indicate its grief, as the rending of the garments, the beating of the breast, the tearing of the hair, and other like demonstrations of utter and hopeless sorrow. The mind in such a state resigns itself passively to the violence of its emotion, and is swept on by the rushing current that overflows its banks. It is Rachel mourning for her children, and refusing to be comforted. It is David going to the chamber over the gate, and exclaiming, as he goes, “O Absalom, my son! my son!”
Subsequent State of Mind.—When the first violence of grief has subsided, and reflection succeeds to passion, the mind begins to recall the circumstances of its loss, and sets itself to comprehend the greatness and reality of the calamity that has befallen it. It dwells with interest and satisfaction on all the worth and virtues of the departed, magnifies all that was good, excuses or overlooks all that was faulty, recalls the words, the tones, the looks, and gathers up the slightest memento of the former history, with the same sacred regard and reverence with which it treasures in the funeral urn the ashes of the dead. A sacredness and dignity invest the character, and the life, when once the angel death has set his seal upon them.
Silence of deep Grief.—The deepest sorrow is not always, perhaps not usually, the most violent and demonstrative. It is when the first sudden passion of grief is passed and the soul retires within herself to meditate upon her loss, calmly gathering her mantle about her to hide from the observation of others those tears and that sorrow which are sacred, it is then that the deepest sorrow, and the heaviest darkness gather about the burdened spirit. The truest, deepest grief is ever silent. It shrinks from human observation. It finds no words for expression, wishes none. It is a veiled and silent goddess, whose rites and altars are hidden from the eye of day. It is the nature of joy to communicate itself. It is the nature of sorrow, whatever may be the occasion whence it springs, to retire within itself. It seeks its chamber that it may weep there.
Effect of Time in assuaging Sorrow.—The effect of time in softening and allaying the violence of grief, is known to every one. The manner in which this effect is produced is worthy of attention. A recurrence to the laws of suggestion may explain this. It will be recollected that among the secondary or subjective laws which regulate the suggestion of our thoughts, the interval of time which has elapsed since the occurrence of any event holds an important place. That which has taken place but recently is more likely to recur again to mind than events of remoter date. On the first occurrence of any calamity, or bereavement, every thing tends to remind us of our loss, and this constant suggestion of it has a powerful effect in keeping alive our sorrow. As time passes on, however, the objects which once suggested only that which we had lost, become associated with, and so suggest other objects and occurrences; or, if they still remind us of our loss, the remembrance is mingled with that of other scenes and events which have since transpired, and other feelings which have since agitated our hearts. Thus time is constantly mingling other ingredients in the cup of our grief. The law of the most recent still holds in suggestion, and thus the very principle that formerly reminded us continually of our loss, now shuts it out, by interposing between it and us what has since transpired. The thought of the past comes up less frequently, and when it recurs, is mingled with so many other associated objects, and experiences, that it no longer awakens emotions of unmitigated grief. Gradually other objects interest us, other plans and duties engage us, other emotions agitate the heart, as successive waves beat on the same troubled shore, and render fainter, at each return, the traces which former billows had impressed upon its sands.
Thus time, the great consoler, assuages our sorrows, and the unbroken darkness that once hung over the mind, and shrouded all its thoughts and purposes, gives place, at length, to a chastened and subdued sadness, that suffuses the past with a soft and mellow radiance. We are ever moving on, swiftly, steadily, in the current of events, and objects whose fearful magnitude, once, from their very nearness, engrossed our whole attention as we passed into their deep shadow, gradually diminish as they recede, until their dark outline is barely discernible on the distant horizon.
§ III.—Sympathy with the Happiness and Sorrow of Others.
In what Manner awakened.—Closely allied to the emotions of joy and sorrow awakened by our own personal experience of good and of evil, is the sympathy we feel with the joys and sorrows of others in similar circumstances. Joy is contagious. So also is grief. We cannot behold the emotions of others, without, in some degree, experiencing a corresponding emotion. Nor is it necessary to be eye-witnesses of that happiness, or sorrow. The simple description of any scene of happiness or of misery affects the heart, and touches the chords of sympathetic emotion. We picture the scene to ourselves, we fancy ourselves the spectators, or, it may be, the actors and the sufferers; we imagine what would be our own emotions in such a case, and in proportion to the liveliness of our power of conception, and also of our power of feeling, will be our sympathy with the real scene and the real sufferers.
Nature of this Principle.—The sympathy thus awakened, whether with the joy or the sorrow of others, is a simple emotion, distinct in its nature from both the affections and the desires, and it is, moreover, instinctive, rather than rational—a matter of impulse, a principle implanted in our nature, and springing into exercise, as by instinct, whenever the occasion presents itself, rather than the result of reason and reflection. It is a susceptibility which we possess, to some extent, at least, in common with the brutes, who are by no means insensible to the distresses or to the happiness of their fellows. It is a susceptibility which manifests itself in early life, before habits of reflection are formed, and under circumstances which preclude the supposition that it may be the result of education, or in any manner an acquired and not an original and implanted principle. So far from being the result of reflection, reason and reflection are often needed to check the emotion, and keep it within due bounds. There are times when sympathy, for example, with the distresses of others, would stand in the way of efficient and necessary action, and when it is needful to summon all the resources of reason to our aid, in the stern and resolute performance of a duty which brings us into conflict with this instinctive principle of our nature. The judge is not at liberty to regard the tears of the heart-broken wife or child, when he rises to pronounce the stern sentence of violated law upon the wretched criminal. The kind-hearted surgeon must for the time be deaf to the outcries of his patient, and insensible to his sufferings, or his ministrations are at an end.
Usual Limitation of the Term.—The term sympathy is more frequently used to denote the emotion awakened by the sufferings of others, than our participation in their joys. There can be no doubt, however, of the tendency of our nature to each of these results, and that it is, in fact, but one and the same principle under a twofold aspect. Nor does the word itself more properly belong to, and more truly express, the one, than the other of these aspects. We as readily rejoice with those who do rejoice, as we weep with those who weep, and in either case our feeling is sympathy (συνπαθος).
This Limitation accounted for.—The reason why the term is more frequently applied to denote participation in the sorrows of others, is obvious on a little reflection. Such, and so benevolent, are the arrangements of a kind Providence, that happiness is the prevalent law of being, and sorrow the exception to that general rule. It is diffused as the sunshine, and the gentle air over all things that breathe, and even inanimate objects, by a sort of sympathetic gladness, reflected from our own minds, seem to share in the general joy. Calamity and sorrow, at least in their more marked and definite forms, come, like storm and tempest in nature, more seldom, and, when they do occur, are the more remarkable and stand out more impressively from the common experience of life, from their very rarity.
More Need of Sympathy with Sorrow.—There is doubtless, also, more occasion for sympathy with the sorrows of others, when those sorrows do occur, than with their joys, and this may be another reason for the more frequent use of the term in this connection. Sorrow needs sympathy, as joy does not. It leans for support on some helping and friendly arm. Joy is, in its nature, strong and self-sustaining, sorrow the reverse. It is a wise and kind provision of the Author of our nature, by which there is implanted in our constitution an instinctive sympathy with sorrow and suffering in all their forms, even when we ourselves are not directly the objects on which the calamity falls.
Remark of Dr. Brown.—It is well remarked by Dr. Brown that “we seem to sympathize less with the pleasures of others than we truly do, because the real sympathy is lost in that constant air of cheerfulness which it is the part of good manners to assume. If the laws of politeness required of us to assume, in society, an appearance of sadness, as they now require from us an appearance of some slight degree of gayety, or, at least, of a disposition to be gay, it is probable that we should then remark any sympathy with gladness, as we now remark particularly any sympathy with sorrow; and we should certainly, then, use the general name to express the former of these, as the more extraordinary, in the same way as we now use it particularly to express the feelings of commiseration. Joy,” remarks the same writer, “may be regarded as the common dress of society, and real complacency is thus as little remarkable as a well-fashioned coat in a drawing-room. Let us conceive a single ragged coat to appear in the brilliant circle, and all eyes will be instantly fixed on it. Even beauty itself, till the buzz of astonishment is over, will, for the moment, scarcely attract a single gaze, or wit a single listener. Such, with respect to the general dress of the social mind, is grief. It is something for the very appearance of which we are not prepared.”
Not true that we sympathize only with Sorrow.—These reasons sufficiently account for the almost exclusive attention paid by moralists to this part of our sympathetic nature, as well as for the almost exclusive use of the term itself to denote participation in the sorrows, rather than in the joys of others. It is not necessary to infer from this circumstance, as some have done, that our sympathies are only with sorrow, that we do not experience a corresponding emotion in view of the happiness of others, a view as unfavorable to our nature as it is remote from truth.
Distinction of Terms.—Sympathy, as usually employed, to denote a fellowship with the sufferings of others, is synonymous with the more specific term commiseration, and this again is interchangeable with the terms pity and compassion. So far as use establishes a difference between these terms, it is perhaps this: we more frequently employ the word compassion where there is an ability and a disposition to relieve the suffering; we pity and we commiserate what it is out of our power to remedy.
Strength of this Feeling.—The emotion of sympathy, especially in that form more specially under consideration, is probably one of the strongest and most marked in its effects upon the mind, of any of the feelings of which we are susceptible. When fully aroused, it amounts even to a passion, When the object that awakens it is exposed to imminent danger and there is need of instant and efficient exertion to avert the danger, and bring that relief which, if it comes at all, must come speedily, then there is no prudent calculation of consequences, no deliberation, no hesitation, no fear, but, regardless of every danger, the sympathizer, forgetful of himself, and thinking only of the object to be accomplished, plunges into the sea or into the flames, faces the wild beast, or the more savage human foe, seizes the assassin’s arm, or rushes desperately between the murderous weapon and its victim. This boldness and energy of action are, indeed, the result of sympathy, rather than the direct exercise of the emotion itself, but they show how powerful is the feeling from which they spring.
Irrespective of moral Qualities.—It is worthy of note, moreover, that the emotion of which we speak, is, in great measure, irrespective of the moral qualities of the sufferer. He may be a criminal on the rack or the gallows, the most hardened and abandoned of men, and the suffering to which he is exposed may be the just punishment of his crimes, still it is impossible for any one whose heart is not itself hardened against all human suffering, to regard the miserable victim with other than feelings of compassion. That must be a hard heart that could witness the agony of even its worst enemy, in such a case, without pity for the sufferer.
Design of this Principle.—If we inquire, now, for what end this feeling was implanted in our nature, its final cause is obvious. It is a benevolent arrangement, the design of which is twofold:—first, to prevent undue suffering, by keeping in check the excited passions that would otherwise prompt to the infliction of immoderate and unjust punishment when the object of our resentment is in our power; secondly, to secure that relief to the sufferer which, in circumstances of peril, might fail to be afforded were it not for the pressure and impulse of so strong and sudden an emotion.
Adaptation to Circumstances.—A further and incidental benefit insulting from the possession of a lively sensibility to the joys and sorrows of others, has been noticed by Cogan, in his treatise on the passions, viz., that it disposes the mind to accommodate itself readily to the tastes, manners, and dispositions of those with whom we have occasion to associate. A mind of quick and ready sympathy easily enters into the feelings and understands the conduct of others under given circumstances, and is able to adapt itself to the same, easily, and by a sort of instinct. It places itself at once in the same position, and governs itself accordingly.
Sympathy not to be traced to Self-love as its Origin.—The question has arisen, whether sympathy, which, of all the sensibilities, would seem to lie at the furthest remove from all admixture of selfishness, is not, after all, to be traced ultimately to the principle of self-love. Those philosophers who regard this principle as the main-spring of all human action, and the parent source of all the various emotions that agitate the human heart, are at some pains to show that even the feeling of pity may be traced to the same origin. It was the theory of Hobbes, that the sentiment of pity at the calamities of others springs from the imagination, or fiction as he terms it, of a similar calamity befalling ourselves. Adam Smith also maintains that it is only from our own experience that we can form any idea of the sufferings of others, and that the way in which we form such an idea is by supposing ourselves in the same circumstances with the sufferer, and then conceiving how we should be affected. All this is very true. It is in this way, doubtless, that we get the idea of what another is suffering. But the idea of what he suffers is one thing, and our sympathy with that suffering is another. One is a conception, and the other is the feeling awakened by that conception. Moreover, it does not follow, as Mr. Stewart has well shown in his criticism upon this theory, that the sympathy in this case arises from our conceiving or believing, for the moment, those sufferings to be really our own. The feeling which arises on the contemplation of our own real or fancied distress, is quite another feeling in its character, from that of pity or compassion. The two emotions are readily distinguished. The mere uneasiness which we feel at the sight of another’s suffering, and the desire which we naturally feel to be rid of that uneasiness, are not the chief elements in compassion. If they were, the sure and simple remedy would be to run away from the distress which occasions the uneasiness, to put it as quickly as possible out of sight and out of mind. Such an emotion; prompting to such a course, might well be termed selfish. But this is not the true nature of sympathy. It is not a mere unpleasant sensation produced by observing the sufferings of another, though such a sensation, doubtless, is produced in a sensitive mind, and accompanies, or may even be said to form a part of, the emotion which we term sympathy; there is, over and above this feeling of uneasiness, a fellowship of sorrow and of suffering, a bearing of that suffering with him, as his, and not as our own, a pain for him, and not for ourselves, the result and urgent prompting of which is the impulse, the strong irrepressible desire to relieve, not ourselves from uneasiness, but the sufferer from that which occasions his distress.
What follows from this Theory.—If compassion for others were the offspring of fear for ourselves, then, as Butler has well said, the most fearful natures ought to be the most compassionate, which is far from being the case. It may be added, also, that if sympathy is, in any respect, a selfish principle, then they who are most completely and habitually governed by selfish considerations ought, for the same reason, to be the most keenly alive to the sufferings of others, which is little less than a contradiction in terms.
Chapter II
Rational Emotions
§ I.—Emotions of Joy or Sadness arising from the Contemplation of our own Excellence or the Reverse.
Nature and Objects of this Emotion.—Among those susceptibilities which, while implanted in our nature, and springing into exercise by their own spontaneous energy, imply in their operation the exercise of the reflective powers, and in general, of the higher intellectual faculties, and which on that account, we designate as rational, in distinction from the instinctive emotions, a prominent place is due to those vivid feelings of pleasure, and pain, with which we contemplate any real or supposed excellence, or defect, in ourselves. The direct object of the emotions now under consideration, is self in some form or aspect. The immediate cause of these emotions is some real or fancied excellence which we possess, or, on the other hand, some real or imagined deficiency. This excellence or deficiency may pertain to our intellectual or to our moral qualities and attainments, or even to our circumstances and condition in life, to any thing, in short, which is ours, and which distinguishes us from our fellows. The quality contemplated may be a real possession and attainment, or it may exist only in our imagination and conceit. And so, also, of the defect; that, too, may be real, or imaginary. In either case, vivid feelings are awakened in the mind. It is impossible to contemplate ourselves either as possessing or as lacking any desirable quality without emotion, pleasing or painful, and that in a high degree.
In what Manner awakened.—These emotions are awakened in either of two ways: by the simple contemplation of the supposed excellence, or defect, in themselves considered as pertaining to us; or, more frequently, by the comparison of ourselves with others in these respects. It is to the feelings awakened, in the latter case, by the perceived superiority or inferiority of ourselves to others, as the result of such comparison, that the terms pride and humility are ordinarily applied. These terms are relative, and imply, always, some process of comparison. There may be, however, the painful consciousness of defect, or the pleasing consciousness of some high and noble attainment, when the relation which we sustain to others, as regards these points, forms no part of the object of contemplation. The comparison is not of ourselves with others, but only of our present with our former selves. We are satisfied and delighted at our own progress and improvement, or humbled and cast down at our repeated failure, and manifest deficiency.
Not the same with moral Emotion.—The emotions now under consideration must not be confounded with the satisfaction which arises in view of moral worthiness, and the regret and disapprobation with which we view our past conduct as morally wrong. The emotions of which we now speak, are not of the nature of moral emotion, however closely allied in some respects. It is not the verdict of an approving or condemning conscience that awakens them. They have no reference to the right as such. The object is viewed, not in the light of obligation or duty, but merely as a good, a thing agreeable and desirable. Thus viewed, its possession gives us pleasure, its absence, pain.
Not blame-worthy in itself.—In the simple emotion thus awakened, the satisfaction and pleasure with which we regard our own intellectual and moral attainments, or even our external circumstances, there is nothing blamable or unworthy of the true man. It is simply the working of nature. The susceptibility to such emotion is part of our constitution, implanted and inherent. As Dr. Brown has well remarked, it is impossible to desire excellence, and not to rejoice at its attainment; and if it is culpable to feel pleasure at attainments which have made us nobler than we were before, it must, of course, have been culpable to desire such excellence.
In what Cases the Emotion becomes culpable.—It is only when the emotion exists in an undue degree, or with regard to unworthy objects, when the supposed excellence upon which we congratulate ourselves really does not exist, or, when existing, we are disposed to set ourselves up above others on account of it, and perhaps to look down upon others for the lack of it, or even to make them feel by our manner and bearing what and how great the difference is between them and us; it is only under such forms and modifications, that the feeling becomes culpable and odious. These it not unfrequently assumes. They are the states of mind commonly denoted by the term pride, as the word is used in common speech; and the censure usually and very justly attached to the state of mind designated by that term, must be understood as applicable to the disposition and feelings now described, and not to the simple emotion of pleasure in view of our own real or supposed attainments. That which we condemn in the proud man is not that he excels others, or is conscious of thus excelling, or takes pleasure even in that consciousness, but that, comparing himself with others, and feeling his superiority, he is disposed to think more highly of himself than he ought, on account of it, and more contemptuously of others than he ought, and especially if he seeks to impress others with the sense of that superiority.
Different Forms which this Disposition assumes.—This he may do in several ways. He may be fond of displaying his superiority, and of courting the applause and distinction which it brings. Then he is the vain man. He may make much of that which really is worth little, and plume himself on what he does not really possess. Then he is the conceited man. He may look with contempt upon and treat with arrogance his inferiors. Then he is the haughty man. Or he may have too much pride to show in this way his own pride; too much self-respect to put on airs, and court attention by display; too much sense to rate himself very far above his real worth; too much good breeding to treat others with arrogance and hauteur. In that case he contents himself with his own high opinion and estimate of himself, and the enjoyment of his own conscious superiority to those around him. He is simply the proud man then, not the vain, the conceited, or the arrogant. The difference, however, is not so much that he thinks less highly of himself, and less contemptuously of others in comparison, but that he does not so fully show what he thinks. The superiority is felt, but it is not so plainly manifested.
The Disposition, as thus manifested, reprehensible.—Of this disposition and state of mind in any of its manifestations as now described, it is not too much to say that it is worthy of the censure which it commonly receives. It is not merely unamiable and odious, but morally reprehensible. Especially is this the case where the superiority consists, not in mental or moral endowments and attainments, but in adventitious circumstances, such as beauty or strength of person, station in society, wealth, or the accident of birth—circumstances which imply no necessary worth in the possessor, no real and inherent superiority to those on whom he looks down. In such a case, pride is purely contemptible.
Incompatible with the highest Excellence.—The highest excellence is ever incompatible with the disposition to think highly of our present attainments and excellence, and to place ourselves above others in comparison. Emotions of pleasure may indeed arise in our minds, as we view the unmistakable evidences of our own improvement. But the noblest nature is that which looks neither at itself, to mark its own acquirements, nor yet at others below itself, to mark its own superiority, but whose earnest gaze is fixed only on that which is above and superior to itself—the beau ideal ever floating before it of an excellence not yet attained—in comparison with which all present attainments seem of little moment. The truly great and noble mind is ever humble, and conscious of its own deficiencies.
§ II.—Enjoyment of the Ludicrous.
Properly an Emotion.—Among the sources of rational enjoyment which the constitution of our nature affords, must be reckoned the feeling awakened by the perception of the ludicrous. We class this among the emotions, inasmuch as it is a matter of feeling, and of pleasurable feeling, differing in its nature not more from the intellectual faculties, on the one hand, than from the affections and desires, on the other. It is a species of joy or gladness, a pleasurable excitement of feeling, awakened by a particular class of objects. Whatever else may be true of the feeling in question, the character of agreeableness is inseparable from it. It falls, therefore, properly into that class of feelings which comprises the various modifications of joy and sorrow, and which we have denominated simple emotions.
Why rational.—We term it rational, rather than instinctive, inasmuch as it implies, if I mistake not, the exercise of the higher intellectual faculties. It is the prerogative of reason. The brute nature has no perception, and of course no enjoyment, of the ludicrous. The idiot has none. The uncultivated savage nature has it only in a slight degree. In this respect the feeling under consideration is quite analogous to the enjoyment of the beautiful and sublime, and also to the feeling awakened in view of right or wrong action, the approbation or disapprobation of our past conduct. All these, though founded in our nature and constitution, are rational rather than instinctive, as implying the exercise of those faculties which more peculiarly distinguish man from the lower orders of being.
In what Way to be defined.—To define precisely the emotion of the ludicrous would be as difficult as to give an exact definition of any other feeling. We must content ourselves, as in all such cases, by determining the circumstances or conditions which give occasion for the feeling. Though we cannot define the emotion itself, we can carefully observe and specify the various objects and occasions that give rise to it.
The Question stated.—Views of Locke and Dryden.—Under what circumstances, then, is the feeling of the ludicrous awakened? What is that certain peculiarity, or quality, of a certain class of objects, which constitutes what we call the ludicrous, objectively considered? Various answers have been given to this question, by writers not unaccustomed to the careful observation of mental phenomena. Mr. Locke’s definition of wit is to this effect, that it consists in “putting those ideas together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, whereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy.” This, it has been justly remarked, is too comprehensive, since it includes the entire range of eloquence and poetry. It comprends the sublime and the beautiful as well as the witty. It applies to the most facetious passages of Hudibras; it applies equally well to the most eloquent passages of Burke or Webster, and to many of the finest passages of Paradise Lost. Still more comprehensive is Dryden’s definition, who says of wit, that it is a propriety of thoughts and words, or thoughts and words eloquently adapted to the subject, a definition which, it has been jocosely remarked, would include at once Blair’s Sermons, Campbell’s Pleasures of Hope, Cæsar’s Commentaries, the Philippics of Cicero, and the funeral orations of Bossuet, as peculiarly witty productions. It should in justice be remarked, however, that neither Dryden nor Locke, in their use of the term wit, seem to have had in mind what we now understand by it, viz., facetiousness, or the mirth-provoking power, but rather to have employed the word in that more general sense, in which it was formerly almost exclusively used, to denote smartness and vigor of the intellectual powers, good sense, sound judgment, quickness of the apprehension, more particularly as these qualities are exhibited in discourse or in writing.
Definition of Johnson.—Johnson comes nearer the mark when he defines wit as “a kind of concordia discors, a combination of dissimilar images, a discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” Not much removed from this, if not indeed derived from it, is the definition of wit given by Campbell, in his Philosophy of Rhetoric—“that which excites agreeable surprise in the mind, by the strange assemblage of related images presented to it.” To this, also, applies the same objection as to the preceding definitions, that it includes too much, the beautiful and sublime not less than the ludicrous, eloquence as well as wit.
Of Hobbes.—Hobbes defines laughter, which, so far as relates to the mind, is merely the expression of the feeling of the ludicrous, to be “a sudden glory, arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison with the infirmity of others, or our own former infirmity.” There can be little doubt, I think, that the object which excites laughter, always present itself to the mind as in some sense its inferior; and in so far, the definition involves an essential element of the ludicrous. The person laughing is always, for the time being, superior, in his own estimation at least, to the person or thing laughed at. It is some awkwardness, some blunder, some defect of body, mind, or manner, some lack of sharpness and sense, or of courage, or of dignity, some perceived incongruity between the true character or position of the individual and his present circumstances, that excites our laughter and constitutes the ludicrous.
Objections to this Theory.—It is not true, however, that the laughter, or the disposition to laugh, arises from the simple conception of our own superiority, or the inferiority of the object contemplated, even in the cases supposed; for if that were so, then wherever and whenever we discover such superiority, the feeling of the ludicrous ought to be awakened, and the greater the superiority, the stronger the tendency to mirth; which is far from being the case. We are not disposed to laugh at the misfortunes of others, however superior our own condition may be to theirs in that very respect. My estate may be better than my neighbor’s, or my health superior to his, but I am not disposed to laugh at him on that account. On the theory of Hobbes, no persons ought to be so full of merriment, even to overflowing, as the proud, self-conceited, and supercilious, who are most deeply impressed with the idea of their own vast superiority to people and things in general. The fact is precisely the reverse. Such persons seldom laugh, and when they do, the smile that plays for a moment on the face is of that cold and disdainful nature which is far removed from genuine and hearty merriment. It has little in it, as it has been well said, “of the full glorying and eminency of laughter,” but is rather like the smile of Cassius.
“He loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at any thing.”
We cannot then resolve the ludicrous into the simple perception of some inferiority of the object or person thus regarded, to ourselves, since there are many kinds of inferiority which do not, in the least, awaken the sense of the ludicrous, while, at the same time, those who are most impressed by the consciousness of their superiority are not usually most disposed to mirth.
Incongruity the essential Element.—If we are required now to specify in what consists the essential character of the ludicrous, and of wit which may be regarded as the exciting or producing cause of the same, we should detect it in the grouping, or bringing together in a sudden and unexpected manner, ideas or things that are in their nature incongruous. The incongruity of the objects thus brought into juxtaposition, and the surprise felt at the novel and unexpected relation thus discovered, are, it seems to me, the true essential elements in the idea of the ludicrous. If we examine closely the different objects that give rise to this emotion, we shall find, I think, always something incongruous, and consequently unusual and unexpected, in the relations presented, whether of ideas or of things. It may be the result of accident, or of awkwardness, or of mental obtuseness, or of design; it matters not in what mode or from what source the thing proceeds; whenever these conditions are answered, the sense of the ludicrous is awakened.
Relation of Surprise to the ludicrous.—Surprise is an essential concomitant of the ludicrous. This is the state of mind into which we are thrown by the occurrence of any thing new, strange, out of the usual course, and, therefore, unexpected. Whatever is incongruous, is likely to be unusual, and of course unexpected, and hence strikes the mind with more or less surprise. Not every thing that surprises us, however, is witty. The sudden fall of a window near which we are sitting, or the unexpected discharge of a musket within a few paces of us, may cause us to start with surprise, but would not strike us probably as particularly facetious. We are surprised to hear of the death of a friend, or of some fearful accident, attended with loss of life to many, but there is no mirthfulness in such surprise. It is only that form of surprise which is awakened by the perception of the incongruous, and not the surprise we feel in general at any thing new and strange, that is related to the ludicrous. It is rather a concomitant, therefore, than strictly an element of the emotion we are now considering.
Novelty as related to Wit.—How much novelty and suddenness add to the effect of wit, every one knows. A story however witty, once heard, loses its freshness and zest, and, often repeated, becomes not merely uninteresting, but irksome, and at length intolerable. In the same manner, and for the same reason, a witticism which we know to have been premeditated produces little effect, as compared with the same thing said in sudden repartee, and on the spur of the moment. That a man should have studied out some curious relations and combinations of things in his closet, does not surprise us so much, as that he should happen to conceive of these relations at the very moment when they would meet the exigency of the occasion. The epithets which we most commonly apply to any witty production or facetious remark, indicate the same thing; we call it lively, fresh, sparkling, full of vivacity and zest—terms borrowed, perhaps, from the choicer wines, which will not bear exposure but lose their flavor and life when once brought to the air.
Even the Incongruous not always ludicrous.—We come to this result, then, in our own attempted analysis, that the incongruity of the ideas or objects brought into relation with each other constitutes the essential characteristic, the invariable element of the ludicrous, the effect being always greatly heightened by the surprise we feel at the novel and unexpected combinations thus presented. It must be remarked, however, that even the incongruous and unexpected fail to awaken the sense of the ludicrous, when the object or event contemplated is of such a nature as to give rise to other and more serious emotions. When the occurrence, however novel and surprising in itself, or even ludicrous, is of such a nature as to endanger the life, or seriously injure the well-being of ourselves or of others, in the one case fear, in the other compassion, are at once awakened, and all sense of the ludicrous is completely at an end. The graver passion is at variance with the lighter, and banishes it from the mind. Should we see a well dressed and portly man, of some pretension and bearing, accidentally lose his footing and sprawl ingloriously in the gutter, our first impulse undoubtedly would be to laugh. The incongruity of his present position and appearance with his general neatness of person and dignity of manner would appeal strongly to the sense of the ridiculous. Should we learn, however, that in the fall he had broken his leg, or otherwise seriously injured himself, our mirthfulness at once gives place to pity.
Discovery of Truth not allied to the ludicrous.—It is for a similar reason that the discovery of any new and important truth in science, however strange and unexpected, never awakens the feeling of the ludicrous. Its importance carries it over into a higher sphere of thought and feeling. Kepler’s law of planetary motion must have been at first a strange and wonderful announcement; the chemical identity of charcoal and the diamond presents, in a new and strange relation, objects apparently most unlike and incongruous; yet, in all probability, neither the astronomer, nor the chemist, who made and announced these discoveries, were regarded by the men of the time as having done any thing peculiarly witty. We look at the importance of the results in such cases, and whatever of oddity or incongruity there may be in the ideas or objects thus related, fails to impress the mind in the presence of graver emotions.
Various Forms of the ludicrous.—The incongruity that awakens the feeling of the ludicrous may present itself in many diverse forms. It may relate to objects, or to ideas. In either case, the grouping or bringing together of the incongruous elements may be accidental, or it may be intentional. If accidental, it passes for a blunder; if intentional, it takes the name of wit.
Accidental and intentional grouping of Objects incongruous.—Of the accidental grouping of objects that are incongruous, we have an instance in the case already supposed, of the well dressed and dignified gentleman unexpectedly prostrate in the mud. If in place of the dignified gentleman we have the dandy, or the Broadway exquisite, fresh from the toilet, the incongruity is so much the greater, and so much the greater our mirth. Let the hero of the scene, for instance, be such a one as Hotspur so contemptuously describes as coming to parley with him after battle:—
“When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took’t away again;”
—imagine such a character, with all his finery, floundering in the mud, and the ludicrousness of the scene would be such as to set at naught all attempts at gravity, even on the part of those who seldom smile.
When the incongruous objects are purposely brought into relation for the sake of exciting mirth, the wit may be at the expense of others, in which case we have either the practical joke, or simple buffoonery, imitating the peculiarities and incongruities of others; or the joker may play off his wit at his own expense, and act the clown or the fool for the amusement of observers.
Accidental grouping of incongruous Ideas.—When the incongruity is that not of objects, but of ideas brought into new and unexpected relation, and when this is the result of accident or awkwardness, rather than of design, we have what is termed a blunder or a bull. In such a case there is always involved some inconsistency between the thing meant, and the thing said or done. There is an apparent congruity, but a real incongruity of the related ideas. An instance of this occurs in the anecdote related by Sydney Smith, of a physician, who, being present where the conversation turned upon an English nobleman of rank and fortune, but without children, remarked, with great seriousness, that to be childless was a misfortune, but he thought he had observed that it was hereditary in some families. Of this nature is most of the wit which we call Irish; the result of accident rather than design—a blunder, a bull. It is said that during the late rebellion in Ireland, the enraged populace, on a certain occasion, vented their wrath against a famous banker, by solemnly resolving to burn all his bank-notes which they could lay hands on; forgetting, in their rage, that this was only to make themselves so much the poorer, and him so much the richer. The instance given by Mr. Mahan is also in point, of two Irishmen walking together through the woods, the foremost of whom seizing a branch, as he passed along, and holding it for a while, suddenly let it fly back, whereby his companion behind was suddenly reduced to a horizontal position, but on recovering himself, congratulated his associate on having held back the branch as long as he did, since it must otherwise have killed him.
Intentional grouping of incongruous Ideas.—The intentional grouping of incongruous ideas, for the purpose of exciting the feeling of the ludicrous, is more properly denominated wit. This, again, may assume diverse forms. Where the ideas are entirely dissimilar, but have a name or sound in common, which similarity of mere sound or name is seized upon as the basis of comparison, the wit takes the name of a pun. The more complete the incongruity of the two ideas, thus brought into strange and unexpected relation, under cover of a word, the more perfect the pun, and the more ludicrous the effect. This kind of wit is deservedly reckoned as inferior. “By unremitting exertions,” says a quaint writer, “it has been at last put under, and driven into cloisters, from whence it must never again be suffered to emerge into the light of the world.” One invaluable blessing, adds the same author, produced by the banishment of punning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits.
The Burlesque.—When the wit is employed in debasing what is great and imposing, by applying thereto figures and phrases that are mean and contemptible, it takes the name of burlesque. The pages of Hudibras afford abundant illustrations of this form of the ludicrous. The battle of Don Quixote and the wind-mills is a burlesque on the ancient tournaments.
The Mock-Heroic.—The mock-heroic, by a contrary process, provokes the sense of the ridiculous by investing what is inconsiderable and mean with high-sounding epithets and dignified description. The battle of the mice and frogs is an instance of this.
The double Meaning.—Beside the varieties of intentional incongruity of ideas already mentioned, there are certain less important forms of witticism, which can perhaps hardly be classed under any of the foregoing divisions. The whole tribe of double entendres, or double meanings, where one thing is said and another thing is meant, or at least where the apparent and honest is not the only or the real meaning; satire, which is only a modification of the same principle, drawn out into somewhat more extended and dignified discourse, and which, under the form of apparent praise, hides the shafts of ridicule and invective; sarcasm, which conveys the intended censure and invective in a somewhat more indirect and oblique manner;—these are all but various modes of what we have called intentional incongruity of ideas.
This Principle, in what Respects of dangerous Tendency.—Of the value of this principle of our nature, I have as yet said nothing. To estimate it at its true worth, is not altogether an easy thing. On the one hand, there can be little doubt that, carried to excess, it becomes a dangerous principle. The tendency to view all things, even perhaps the most sacred, in a ludicrous light, and to discover fanciful and remote relations between objects and ideas the most diverse and incongruous, must exert an unhappy influence on the general tone and character of both the mind and the heart. Where wit, or the disposition to the ludicrous, becomes the predominant quality of the mind, impressing the other and nobler faculties into its lawless service, it must be to the detriment of the mind’s highest energies and capacities; to the detriment especially of that sincerity and honesty of purpose, and that earnest love of truth, which are the foundation of all true greatness. I speak in this of the excess and abuse of wit; I speak of the mere wit.
Of use to the Mind.—On the other hand, the tendency to the ludicrous has its uses in the economy and constitution of our nature, and they are by no means to be overlooked. It gives a lightness and buoyancy, a freshness and life, to the faculties that would otherwise be jaded in the weary march and routine of life. It is to the mind what music is to the soldier on the march. It enlivens and refreshes the spirits. A hearty laugh doeth good like a medicine. A quick and keen perception of the ludicrous, when not permitted to usurp undue control, but made the servitor of the higher powers and propensities, and keeping its true place, not in the fore-front, but in the background of the varied and busy scene, is to be regarded as one of the most fortunate mental endowments.
Wit often associated with noble Qualities.—There is no necessary connection, no connection of any sort, perhaps, between wisdom and dullness, although a great part of mankind have always persisted in the contrary opinion. The laughter-loving and laughter-provoking man is by no means a fool. He who goes through the world, such as it is, and sees in all its caprices, and inconsistencies, and follies, and absurdities, nothing to laugh at, much more justly deserves the suspicion of a lack of sense. “Wit,” it has been justly remarked, “is seldom the only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. Almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all times, have been witty.”
Wit as an Instrument for correcting Folly.—There is one important use of the faculty under consideration, to which I have not as yet alluded. I refer to its power as an instrument for keeping in check the follies and vices of those who are governed by no higher principle than a regard to the good opinion of society, and a fear of incurring the ridicule of an observing and sharp-sighted world. To such, and such there are in multitudes, “the world’s dread laugh” is more potent and formidable than any law of God or man. There are, moreover, many lighter foibles and inconsistencies of even good men, for which the true and most effective weapon is ridicule.
Remarks of Sydney Smith.—I cannot better conclude my remarks upon this part of our mental constitution, than by citing some very just observations of Sydney Smith—himself one of the keenest wits of the age.
“I have talked of the danger of wit; I do not mean by that to enter into common-place declamation against faculties, because they are dangerous; wit is dangerous, eloquence is dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, every thing is dangerous that has energy and vigor for its characteristics; nothing is safe but mediocrity.... But when wit is combined with sense and information; where it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who can be witty and something much better than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, good nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times better than wit; wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature.”
§ III.—Enjoyment of the New and Wonderful.
Surprise and Ennui.—Of that form of surprise which arises in view of the incongruous, and which accompanies the feeling of the ludicrous, I have already had occasion to speak, in treating of that emotion. Of the feeling of surprise in general, its nature, and occasions, and also of that feeling to which it stands opposed, and which for want of a better term we may call ennui, I am now to speak.
Definition and nature of Surprise.—Surprise may be defined as the feeling awakened by the perception of whatever is new and wonderful. It is, in itself considered, an agreeable emotion, rather than otherwise. Variety and novelty are usually pleasing; our nature demands them, and is gratified at their occurrence. Monotony, the unbroken thread, and ever-recurring routine of ordinary life and duty, weary, and, after a time, disgust us. Upon this listlessness and lethargy of the mind, a new and unexpected event, as the arrival of a friend, or the reception of some unlooked-for intelligence, breaks in with an agreeable surprise. Hence the eagerness of men, in all ages and all nations, to hear or see some new thing. It is only when the new event or intelligence is of the nature of positive evil, when the news is of some misfortune, real or imagined, when the experience of present, or the fear of future suffering, is the direct and natural result of the occurrence, that the surprise becomes a painful emotion. And even in such cases, I am not quite sure that there is not in the first excitement of the mind upon the reception of bad news, as of the death of a friend, or the calamity of a neighbor, something for the moment, of the nature of pleasure mingling with the pain. We deeply regret the occurrence, but are pleased to have heard the news. The thing grieves us, but not the hearing of it. It is not the surprise that pains us, but the thing at which we are surprised. Surprise, like every other form of mental excitement, is not, in itself, and within due bounds, disagreeable, but the reverse.
How awakened.—This emotion is awakened, as already stated, in view of any thing unforeseen and unexpected. We naturally anticipate, to some extent, the course of the future. We presume it will be substantially as the past. We expect the recurrence of what has often and usually occurred, and whenever any thing breaks in on this established order of events, we are surprised at the interruption in the ordinary train of sequences. Hence the new and the strange always excite surprise.
Differs from Wonder.—Surprise differs from wonder, in that the latter involves an intellectual element, the effort of the mind to satisfy itself of the cause and proper explanation of the new and strange phenomenon. Surprise is purely a matter of sensibility, of feeling, and not of intellect. The mind is wholly passive under this emotion. It may lead to action, as may any other emotion, but, like every other emotion, it is, in itself, an influence exerted upon the mind, and not by it, something passively received, and not actively put forth.
From Astonishment.—It differs from astonishment in that the latter expresses a higher degree of mental excitement, as in view of some occurrence exceedingly remarkable and strange, or of some object whose magnitude and importance fills the mind.
Design of this Principle.—The end to be accomplished by this provision of our nature is sufficiently obvious. Our attention is thereby called to whatever is out of the ordinary course, and which, from the circumstance that it is something unusual, may be supposed to require attention, and we are put on our guard against the approaching danger, or roused to meet the present emergency. Surprise is the alarm-bell that calls all our energies into action, or at least warns them to be in present readiness for whatever service may be needed. The same principle operates also as a stimulus to exertion in the ordinary affairs of life. We seek new things, we are weary with the old, and this simple law of our nature is often one of the strongest incitements to effort.
The opposite Feeling.—The opposite of surprise is that uneasy feeling, of which we are conscious, from the constant recurrence of the same objects in unvaried sequence; as, for instance, from the continued repetition of the same sound, or series of sounds, the uniform succession of the same or similar objects in the landscape, and the like. Every one knows how tedious becomes a perfectly straight and level road, with the same objects occurring at regular intervals, and with nothing to break the dead monotony of the scene. The most rugged passes of the Alps would be a relief in exchange, both to body and mind. The repetition of the same song, or the same succession of musical sounds, however pleasing in themselves, becomes in like manner, after a time, intolerable. For want of a better term, for I am not sure that we have in our own language any one word that exactly expresses the feeling now under consideration, we may borrow of the French the somewhat expressive term ennui, by which to designate this form of the sensibility.
Use of Ennui.—There can be little doubt that this feeling subserves a valuable purpose in the constitution and economy of our nature. It is the needed motive and stimulus to action, without which we should settle down often into a sluggish indifference and contentment with things as they are, instead of pressing forward to something worthier and better.
§ IV.—Enjoyment of the Beautiful and Sublime.
The Enjoyment, as distinguished from the intellectual Perception of the Beautiful.—Of the idea of the beautiful, and of the action of the mind as cognizant of it, in so far as regards the intellectual faculties, I have already treated in another connection. But it is not the intellect alone that comes under the influence of the beautiful. What the sense perceives, what the taste and judgment recognize and approve, the sensibility is quick to feel. Emotion is awakened. No sooner is a beautiful object perceived in nature or art, than we are conscious of lively sensations of pleasure. So strong and so universal are these feelings, that many writers have been led to speak of beauty itself, as if it were an emotion, a merely subjective matter, an affair of feeling merely. The incorrectness of this view has been already shown, and we need not enter upon the discussion anew.
The term Admiration.—The feeling awakened by the perception of the beautiful, like some other feelings of which we are conscious, has not a name that precisely designates it; hence the expression—ambiguous, and, therefore, objectionable—emotions of beauty, employed by certain writers to denote the feeling in question. The word admiration, though often used in a somewhat wider sense, perhaps more nearly expresses the emotion to which I refer, than any other word in our language. We are surprised at what is new and strange. We admire what is beautiful and sublime. The feeling is one of pure and unalloyed pleasure, mingled with more or less of wonder or surprise, in case the object contemplated is one which is new to us, or one of rare and surpassing beauty. As the beautiful has its opposite—the deformed or ugly—so the feeling which it awakens stands contrasted with an opposite emotion, viz., disgust.
In connection with this form of sensibility, there are some questions requiring consideration.
Whether the Emotion is immediate.—It is a question somewhat debated, whether the emotions awakened by the beautiful and sublime are immediate, or reflective; whether they spring up at once on perception of the object, or only as the result of reflection and reasoning. Those who maintain that beauty consists in utility, or in order and proportion, fitness, unity with variety, etc., must, of course, regard the emotions awakened by it as not immediate, since, according to their theory, time must be allowed for the understanding to convince itself, in the first place, that the object is useful, etc. The qualities constituting the beauty must be first apprehended by the mind as existing in the object, before there can be emotion, and to do this is the work of reflection. If, however, beauty is but the expression of the invisible under the visible and sensible forms, then all that is necessary to produce emotion is simply the perception of the object thus expressive, since the moment it is perceived, it is perceived as expressing something, and thus, appealing to our own spiritual nature, awakens immediate emotion.
How to be decided.—The question must be decided by the observation of facts, and the result will constitute an additional argument in favor of one, or the other, of the general views of the beautiful now named. What then are the facts in the case, as given by consciousness, and observation?
Testimony of Consciousness.—So far as I can judge, no sooner do we find ourselves in presence of a beautiful object than we are conscious of emotions of pleasure. There is no previous cross-questioning of the object to find out whether it is adapted to this or that useful end, or whether the rules of order, and proportion, are observed in its construction. Before we have time to think of these things, the sensibility has already responded to the appeal which beauty ever makes to our sensitive nature, and the first distinct fact of which we are conscious is an emotion of pleasure.
Effect of Repetition.—Consciousness assures us, more over, that the pleasure is usually quite as vivid at the first sight of a beautiful object as ever after, which would indicate that it is not the result of reflection. In truth, repetition is found, in most cases, to weaken the emotion, and familiarity may even destroy it. Yet every repetition adds to our opportunity for observation and reflection, and strengthens our conviction of the utility, the order, the fitness, the proportion, of that which we observe.
Critical Reflection subsequent to Emotion.—It seems evident, moreover, that whatever reflections of this nature we may choose to indulge, are uniformly subsequent to the first emotion of pleasure and delight, to the first impression made upon us by the beauty of the object—after-thoughts readily to be distinguished from those first impressions—and that they are usually the result of a special volition to inform ourselves as to these matters; whereas the emotion is spontaneous and involuntary. Doubtless a pleasure arises from the perception of the qualities referred to, but it is a pleasure of another kind from that which arises in view of the beautiful, as such. We must think, then, that the emotions awakened by the beautiful are immediate, not reflective.
Further Question.—Closely allied to the preceding is the question, Which precedes the other, the emotion which a beautiful object awakens, or the judgment of the mind that the object is beautiful. Logically, doubtless, the two things may be distinguished, but not, perhaps, in order of time. No sooner is the object perceived, than it is both perceived and felt to be beautiful. The emotion awakened and the mental affirmation, “That is beautiful,” are both immediate on the perception of the object, synchronous events, so far as concerns at least our ability to distinguish between them in point of time.
Logically, Emotion precedes.—In point of logical relation, the emotion, I think, must be allowed the precedence, although so high an authority as Kant decides otherwise. Had we no emotion in view of the beautiful, we should not know that it was beautiful. As, universally, sensation is the indispensable condition of perception, and logically, at least, its antecedent, so here the feeling of the beautiful is the condition and source of the perception of the beautiful. The object strikes us as being so, moves us, affects us, produces on us the impression, and hence we say, “That is beautiful.” Had we no susceptibility of emotion in view of the beautiful, it may be seriously questioned whether we should ever have the perception or impression that any given object is beautiful.
The Beautiful as distinguished from the Sublime.—There is still another point deserving attention. In discussing the æsthetic emotions, we have spoken as yet only of the feeling awakened by the beautiful. How do these emotions differ—in degree merely—or in nature?
The Opinion that they differ only in Degree.—Some have maintained that sublimity is only a higher degree of what we call beauty. A little stream playing among the hills and tumbling over the rocks is beautiful; a little further on, as it grows larger, and swifter, and stronger, it becomes sublime. If this be so, it is a very simple matter: the surveyor’s chain, or a ten foot pole, will, at any time, give us the difference, and enable us to determine at once whether a river or a mountain is merely pretty, or sublime.
Different Emotions excited by each.—If they differ in kind, however, and not merely in quantity, it may not be so easy to tell just what the difference is. We can best detect it, perhaps, by observing carefully the difference of the emotions excited in us by the two classes of objects. I contemplate an object, which, in common with all the world, I call beautiful. What emotion does that object awaken in me? An emotion of pleasure and delight, for which I can find, perhaps, no better name than admiration. I contemplate now another object which men call sublime. What now are my emotions? Admiration there may be, but not, as before, a calm, placid delight; far otherwise. An admiration mingled with awe, a sense of greatness and of power in the object now oppresses me, and I stand as before some superior being, or element, in whose presence I feel my comparative feebleness and insignificance.
The Sublime conveys the Idea of superior Power.—Accordingly we find that the objects which men call sublime are invariably such as are fitted to awaken such emotions. They are objects which convey the idea of superior force and power—something grand in its dimensions or in its strength—something vast and illimitable, beyond our comprehension and control. The boundless expanse of the ocean, the prairie, or the pathless desert, the huge mass of some lofty mountain, the resistless cataract, the awful crash of the thunder, as it rolls along the trembling firmament, the roar of the sea in a storm when it lifteth up its waves on high, the movements of an army on the battle-field—these, and such as these, are the objects we call sublime. The little may be beautiful, it is never sublime. Nor is the merely great always so, but only when it conveys the idea of superior power. Montmorenci is beautiful, Niagara is sublime. A Swiss valley, nestling among the hills, is beautiful; the mountains that tower above it through the overhanging clouds into the pure upper sky, and in the calm, serene majesty of their strength stand looking down upon the slumbering world at their feet, and all the insignificance of man and his little affairs, are sublime.
The Sublime and the Beautiful associated.—Nor is the sublime always unassociated with the beautiful. Niagara is not more sublime than beautiful. The deep emerald hue of the waters as they plunge, the bow on the mist, the foam sparkling in the abyss below, are each among the most beautiful objects in nature. The sublime and the beautiful are often mingled thus, distinct elements, but conjoined in the same object. The highest æsthetic effect is produced by this combination. The beauty tempers the sublimity; the sublimity elevates and ennobles the beauty. It is thus at Niagara. It is thus when the sunrise flashes along the summits of the snowy Alps.
The Beautiful tranquilizes, the Sublime agitates.—The beautiful pleases us; so, in a sense, does the sublime. Both produce agreeable emotions. Yet they differ. In the enjoyment of the beautiful there is a calm, quiet pleasure; the mind is at rest, undisturbed, can at its leisure and sweet will admire the delicacy and elegance of that which fills it with delight. But in the perception of the sublime it is otherwise. The mind is agitated, is in sympathy with the stir, and strife, and play of the fierce elements, or is oppressed with the feeling of its own insignificance, as contrasted with the stern majesty and strength of what it contemplates. Hence the sublime takes a deeper hold on the mind than the merely beautiful, awes it, elevates it, rouses its slumbering energies, quickens the slow course of thought, and makes it live, in brief moments, whole hours and days of ordinary life. The beautiful charms and soothes us; the sublime subdues us and leads us captive. The one awakens our sympathy and love, the other rouses in us all that is noble, serious, and great in our nature.
Relation of the Sublime to Fear.—The relation of the sublime to fear has been noticed by several writers. Memdelssohn, Ancillon, Kant, Jouffroy, Blair, have spoken of it, as well as Burke. The latter was not far from right in his theory of fear as an element of the sublime. It were better to say awe than fear, for the boldest and stoutest hearts are fully susceptible of it; and it were better to speak of it as an element of our emotion in view of the sublime, than as an element of the sublime itself.
Cultivation of æsthetic Sensibility.—I cannot, in this connection, entirety pass without notice a topic requiring much more careful consideration than my present limits will permit—the cultivation of the æsthetic sensibility—of a love for the beautiful.
This Culture neglected.—The love of the beautiful is merely one of the manifold forms of the sensibility, and, in common with every other feeling and propensity of our nature, it may be augmented, quickened, strengthened to a very great degree by due culture and exercise. It is an endowment of nature, but, like other native endowments, it may be neglected and suffered to die out. This, unfortunately, is too frequently the case with those especially who are engaged in the active pursuits of life. The time and the attention are demanded for other and more important matters, and so the merely beautiful is passed by unheeded. It admits of question, whether it is not a serious defect in our systems of education, that so little attention is paid to the culture of the taste, and of a true love for the beautiful. The means of such a culture are ever at hand. The great works and the most perfect models in art are not, indeed, accessible to all. Not every one can cross the seas to study the frescoes of Raphael and Michael Angelo. But around us in nature, along our daily paths, are the works of a greater Artist, and no intelligent and thoughtful mind need be unobservant of their beauty. Nor is there danger, as some may apprehend, that we shall carry this matter to excess. The tendencies of our age and of our country are wholly the reverse. The danger is rather that in the activity and energy of our new life, the higher culture will be overlooked, and the love of the beautiful die out.
Value of this Principle.—The love of the beautiful is the source of some of the purest and most exquisite pleasures of life. It is the gift of God in the creation and endowment of the human soul. Nature lays the foundation for it among her earliest developments. The child is, by nature, a lover of the beautiful. Nor is it in early life alone that this principle has its natural and normal developments. On the contrary, under favorable circumstances, it grows stronger and more active as the mind matures, and the years pass on. Happy he who, even in old age, keeps fresh in his heart this pure and beautiful fountain of his youth; who, as days advance, and shadows lengthen, and sense grows dull, can still look, with all the admiration and delight of his childish years, on whatever is truly beautiful in the works of God or man.
§ V.—Satisfaction in View of Right Conduct, and Remorse in View of Wrong.
The Feeling, as distinguished from the Perception of Right.—In the chapter on the Idea and Cognizance of the Right, the notion of right, in itself considered, and also the mind’s action as cognizant of the right, so far at least as concerns the intellectual faculties thus employed, were fully discussed. It is not necessary now to enter again upon the investigation of these topics. But, as in the cognizance of the beautiful, so in the cognizance of the right, not only is the intellect exercised, but the sensibility also is aroused. As consequent upon the perceptions of the intellect, emotion is awakened; and that emotion is both definite and strong. It is peculiar in its operation. No emotion that stirs the human bosom is more uniform in its development, more strongly marked in its character, or exerts a deeper and more permanent influence on the happiness and destiny of man, than the satisfaction with which he views the virtuous conduct of a well-spent hour or a well-spent life, and the regret, amounting sometimes to remorse, with which, on the contrary, he looks back upon the misdeeds and follies of the past. Of all the forms of joy and sorrow that cast their lights and shadows over the checkered scene and pathway of human existence, there are none which, aside from their ethical relations, are of deeper interest to the psychologist, or more worthy his careful study, than the emotions to which I now refer.
The moral Faculty not resolvable into moral Feeling.—So deeply have certain writers been impressed with the importance of this part of our nature, that they have not hesitated to resolve the moral faculty itself into the emotions now under consideration, and to make the recognition of moral distinctions ultimately a mere matter of feeling. This, whether regarded ethically, or psychologically, is certainly a great mistake, fatal in either case to the true science whether of morals or of mind. Right and wrong, as also the beautiful and its opposite, are not mere conceptions of the human mind. They have an actual objective existence and reality and, as such, are cognized by the mind, which perceives a given act to be right or wrong, and, as such, obligatory or the opposite, and approves or condemns the deed, and the doer accordingly. So far the intellect is concerned. But the process does not stop here. Sensibility is awakened. The verdict and calm decisions of the judgment are taken up by the feelings, and made the basis and occasion of a new form of mental activity. It is with this excitement of the sensibility in view of conduct as right or wrong, that we are now concerned, and while we can by no means resolve all our moral perceptions and judgments into this class of emotions, we would still assign it an important place among the various forms of mental activity.
Not limited to our own Conduct.—The emotion of which we speak is not limited to the occasions of our own moral conduct; it arises, also, in view of the moral actions of others. A good deed, an act of generosity, magnanimity, courage, by whomsoever performed, meets our approbation, and awakens in our bosoms feelings of pleasure. If the act is one of more than ordinary heroism and self-sacrifice, we are filled with admiration. Instances of the opposite excite our displeasure and disgust. No small part of the interest with which we trace the records of history, or the pages of romance, arises from that constant play of the feelings with which we watch the course of events, and the development of character, as corresponding to or at variance with the demands of our moral nature.
A good Conscience an Object of universal Desire.—But it is chiefly when we become ourselves the actors, and the decisions of conscience respect our own good or evil deeds that we learn the true nature and power of the moral emotions. A good conscience, it has been said, is the only object of universal desire, since even bad men wish, though in vain, for the happiness which it confers. It would perhaps be more correct to say that an accusing conscience is an object of universal dread. But in either case, whether for approval or condemnation, very great is its power over the human mind.
Sustaining Power of a good Conscience.—We all know something of it, not only by the observation of others, but by the consciousness of our own inner life. In the testimony of a good conscience, in its calm, deliberate approval of our conduct, lies one of the sweetest and purest of the pleasures of life; a source of enjoyment whose springs are beyond the reach of accident or envy; a fountain in the desert making glad the wilderness and the solitary place. It has, moreover, a sustaining power. The consciousness of rectitude, the approval of the still small voice within, that whispers in the moment of danger and weakness, “You are right,” imparts to the fainting soul a courage and a strength that can come from no other source. Under its influence the soul is elevated above the violence of pain, and the pressure of outward calamity. The timid become bold, the weak are made strong. Here lies the secret of much of the heroism that adorns the annals of martyrdom and of the church. Women and children, frail and feeble by nature, ill fitted to withstand the force of public opinion, and shrinking from the very thought of pain and suffering, have calmly faced the angry reproaches of the multitude, and resolutely met death in its most terrific forms, sustained by the power of an approving conscience, whose decisions were, to them, of more consequence than the applause or censure of the world, and whose sustaining power bore them, as on a prophet’s chariot of fire, above the pains of torture and the rage of infuriated men.
Power of Remorse.—Not less is the power of an accusing conscience. Its disapprobation and censure, though clothed with no external authority, are more to be dreaded than the frowns of kings or the approach of armies. It is a silent constant presence that cannot be escaped, and will not be pacified. It embitters the happiness of life, cuts the sinews of the soul’s inherent strength. It is a fire in the bones, burning when no man suspects but he only who is doomed to its endurance; a girdle of thorns worn next the heart, concealed, it may be, from the eye of man, but giving the wearer no rest, day nor night. Its accusations are not loud, but to the guilty soul they are terrible, penetrating her inmost recesses, and making her to tremble as the forest trembles at the roar of the enraged lion, as the deep sea trembles in her silent depths, when her Creator goeth by on the wings of the tempest, and the God of glory thundereth. The bold bad man hears that accusing voice, and his strength departs from him. The heart that is inured to all evil, and grown hard in sin, and fears not the face of man, nor the law of God, hears it, and becomes as the heart of a child.
How terrible is remorse! that worm that never dies, that fire that never goes out. We cannot follow the human soul beyond the confines of its present existence. But it is an opinion entertained by some, and in itself not improbable, that, in the future, conscience will act with greatly increased power. When the causes that now conspire to prevent its full development and perfect action, shall operate no longer; when the tumult of the march and the battle are over; when the cares, the pleasures, the temptations, the vain pursuits, that now distract the mind with their confused uproar, shall die away in the distance, and cease to be heard, in the stillness of eternity, in the silence of a purely spiritual existence, the still small voice of conscience may perhaps be heard as never before. In the busy day-time we catch, at intervals, the sound of the distant ocean, as a low and gentle murmur. In the still night, when all is hushed, we hear it beating, in heavy and constant surges, on the shore. And thus it may be with the power of conscience in the future.