A
PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY
INTO
THE SOURCE
OF
THE PLEASURES
DERIVED FROM
TRAGIC REPRESENTATIONS
FROM WHICH 13 DEDUCED THE SECRET OF GIVING
Dramatic 3tattrt£t
ro
TRAGEDIES INTENDED FOR THE STAGE.
PRECEDED BY A
CRITICAL EXAMINATION
VARIOUS THEORIES ADOPTED ON THE SUBJECT BY THE
ENGLISH, FRENCH, AND GERMAJl^
PHILOSOPHERS.
By M. M'DERMOT,V v i
AUTHOR OF " \ CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON THE N ■*. '.
AND PRINCIPLES OF TASTE," &C.
Stint tovrymat rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt.—\ ibgil
Hontion :
PRINTED FOR SHERWOOD, JONES, AND CO
PATERNOSTER- ROW.
1824.
1 ii srit 9*/fid I
toidw
D. Sidney & Co. Printers,
Northumberland Street, Strand.
pa/;
TO MISS F. H. KELLY. A
Madam,
The object of the Work, to which I have the honour of prefix-
ing your name, is to ascertain the source of the Pleasures derived
from Tragic Representations, that branch of the drama in which
you so eminently excel. Other names, it is true, enjoy a more
fixed and established reputation than your's, that reputation
which, when once established, critics dare not venture to molest ;
but this reputation awaits you, and in the estimation of those
who judge for themselves, and who need not the slow but certain
decisions of time to confirm their judgment, you have obtained it
already. Were I to inscribe this Work to any of those names, I
could not pretend to exercise any judgment in doing so ; I should
only travel in the footsteps of the public, and re-echo the praises
which they have already abundantly enjoyed. By inscribing it to
you, I exercise a judgment which I am certain will soon be confirm-
ed by the universal suffrages of the public, and discharge, at the
same time, that duty which Pope justly imposes upon all writers
and critics : —
Be thou the first true merit to befriend,
His praise is lost who waits till all commend.
Cold, indeed, must be that public, and indurated to all
the finer influences, and corresponding feelings of humanity,
which cannot perceive, that, in the character of Juliet, you appear
Juliet herself, in all her alternations of passion and vicissitudes
of fortune, not her cold and formal representative.
But of your delineation of that character I have fully expressed
my opinion in the concluding part of this work, and shall, there-
fore, only add, that if I neglected to avail myself of this oppor-
tunity of confirming the judgments which I there advanced, and
of testifying the high opinion which I entertain of your dramatic
powers, particularly in that branch of the drama which is the
subject of the following pages, I should feel that I had neglected
also my duty to the public.
MARTIN M'DERMOT.
I ii&
■
PREFACE.
The title page of this Work expresses, as clearly
as the author could express, and, he believes, as
clearly as can be expressed, its nature and object.
What more then has he to say in a preface ? The
subject wants not to be recommended to those
who delight in the softer sympathies and affections,
— the melting strains, and soul-subduing influence
of the Tragic Muse, — while those to whom nature
has not deigned to impart those finer feelings and
susceptibilities of the heart, would look upon all I
could advance in its favour, as the specious elo-
quence of an interested author. To such indurated
stoics I choose not to address mvself : let them
enjoy, if they are capable of enjoyment, the cold
approbation of that frozen judgment which smiles
at all that is humane and sympathetic in our
nature, and who view them as evidences, not of
our virtues and benevolence, but of our frailties
and imbecility. I shall not, therefore, endeavour to
convince my readers, that the subject of the follow-
ing pages possesses any intrinsic merit in itself,
it being useless to recommend it to one class of
VI PREFACE.
readers, and unnecessary to recommend it to the
other. But even those to whom the subject is
naturally interesting may wish to know the
merits of its execution before they undergo the
toil of perusing it. If so, I must confess I see
no way of enabling them to form a correct judg-
ment. Were I to maintain, that it possesses very
great merits, they would only be the more strong-
ly inclined to suspect it had none ; and were I to
admit it weak and imperfect, they would readily
give me credit for the assertion, and come to the
same conclusion. I can therefore only say, that
so far as regards my own conviction, the Source
of the Pleasures, derived from Tragic Represen-
tations, the means of producing Tragic Interest,
and the causes that have led to the general failure
of our modern Tragedies, are more satisfactorily
accounted for in the following pages than in any
other work ancient or modern. Whether the
public, however, shall think as I think, or imagine,
that in forming this opinion, my judgment has
been warped by that self-love of which authors
in particular have so much difficulty of divesting
themselves, I dare not venture to prophesy.
J¥« - tttwS.
sdl ol li bnsmmoosi o& ^JseaSoscifru bn& *ai9b,69i
8i togjxfue sdJ niodw ol szodl asv9 Jufl ,-i9riJd
CONTENTS.
9dJ ogisbau ypd: ftittdxa 8ii 1o Birrem
CHAPTER lF ld *
I 919W JiPage.
Difficulty of the Problem proposed to be resolved. ^ je*™,^
chap II ^ Ug °* t>9aifodi yi
yfibjcs-i blfj . 4 L ji robs
Impossibility of forming an obscure conception of a Primary
Cause until it be perfectly discovered. Obscure Ideas have
no existence. . . . . . . > $fl!f>39
901IfC>8 9lft r fi aB*S£ft 08
CHAP. III.
Examination of SchlegeVs Theory, and of the various hypo< -?
fifara wAicA fo has quoted on the Source of Tragic Pleasures. 1 9
JiJJIIJJI ^ 9jr f£ Jjff^
CHAP. IV.
fvhelher table operate on our Passions, by representing its
events as passing in our sight, and by deluding us into
a conviction of reality f And whether this delusion, sup-
posing it real, accounts for the Pleasures arising from
Tragic Representations. . . . . ..37
tadJ £W fI99(j
CHAP. V.
Whether Tragic Pleasures may be traced to the Vices and
Inhumanity, or to the Virtues and Sympathies of Human
Nature. . . .'„ . . . . 45
CHAP. VI.
Examination of Mr. Burke and Mr. Knight's Theories. 1 1 1
Vlll CONTENTS.
CHAP. VII.
Whether Imaginary, produce, at any time, a more powerful
Impression, than Real, Distress ? and t if so, under what cir-
cumstances can such an Effect take place ? . . . . 13G
CHAP. VIII.
All strong Sensations pleasing to those by whom they are felt,
three instances only excepted. .. .. ..149
CHAP. IX.
Emotions and Passions, whatever be their Nature and Cha-
racter, universally pleasing to those by ivhom they are felt :
Objections answered. .. .. . . ..249
CHAP. X.
The true Source of the Pleasures derived from Tragic Repre-
sentations deduced from the two preceding Chapters. The
secret of giving Dramatic Interest to Tragedies intended for
Representation. . . . . . . . . 280
-
A
PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY
[NTO THE
SOURCE OF THE PLEASURES
DERIVED FROM
TRAGIC REPRESENTATIONS.
CHAP. I.
Difficulty of the Problem proposed to be resolved,
WHY Tragic Representations should produce
pleasing emotions in the human breast, or, to state
the question in other words, why we should delight
in any thing painful, such as pictures and images of
distress, is a question that has been proposed and
investigated by many eminent writers and critics ;
but their number hardly exceed the diversity of
opinions which they have advanced on the subject.
It is certain, however, that there can be only one
proper answer ; for when any particular object, re-
presentation, or circumstance, invariably produces
an impression of a pleasing character, this impres-
sion must obviously arise from some fixed principle
B
2 PlMhOS&P.miCAJLj INQUIRY INTO
in our nature called into action by the agency
of this object, representation, or circumstance.
When, therefore, different causes or principles of ac-
tion are assigned, they must be all founded in error
except one. When I except one, I do not mean to
say, that one must be right, for it is possible that all
may be wrong ; and it is also possible, that the true
cause may never be discovered. I mean, therefore,
merely to say, that there can be only one true cause,
whether discovered or not ; and that all other causes
must necessarily be erroneous. It is easy to give
an ingenious solution of a difficult problem ; but
though a thousand different solutions may appear
plausible and specious, it is still not so easy to
satisfy the mind, that the question is resolved, even
by the most satisfactory of them, if it be mingled
with the slightest error. Whatever is partly false
will generally be found to leave the mind more or
less unsatisfied, more or less doubtful : it may even
have many reasons to believe what it is told ; — it
may perceive none for entertaining a different
opinion ; but still, from not perceiving its way
clearly, it feels not that complete gratification
which results from the discovery and clear percep-
tion of truth ; for whenever truth bursts through the
mists of error, it flashes instantaneous conviction
upon us, and we not only perceive but feel its
evidence, even though it should admit of no de-
monstrative certainty.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 3
Before I investigate, however, the theories which
have been adopted by my predecessors on the present
subject, or offer a new one of my own, may it not
be asked, whether any real pleasure arises from
Tragic Representations? Some rigid theologians,
whom I should be sorry to confound with divines
of expanded minds, and rational virtue, tell us, that
^ is a pleasure arising from the de pravity of our
o wn natur e, a nd maintain, {hat , whilp fh e heart is
imbu ed with the redeeming spirit of sanctity and
religion, the emotions produced by theatrical re-
presentation of every description are loathsome
and offensive to us^ To this argument I reply,
that it rests altogether on an appeal to the feelings
of a particular class of people ; whereas pleasure
and pain, being modifications of feeling founded
in the general nature of man, it is only by con-
sulting the commonfeeling of mankind that we can
unequivocally ascertain what is pleasing or dis-
pleasing to this general nature ; for, with regard to
individuals, general laws have no application.
Every deviation from the general nature of man
is determined by a particular law of its own ; and
it accords neither with religion, philosophy, nor
common sense, to bring forward particular laws in
accounting for general effects. It will be found
hereafter, however, that tragic emotions, or tragic
pleasures, are more nearly allied to virtue than
moralists are aware of, or, at least, than they seem
b2
<r\
4 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
willing to believe. At the same time, we cannot be
surprised, that the pleasure resulting from tragic
sources should appear mysterious, and be placed
among the more abstruse phenomena of human
nature, when we reflect, that in all the pursuits
of human life, however various and complicated
they may appear to the torpid eye of slumbering
intellect, and however endlessly diversified may
be the causes whence they immediately spring,
and by which they are influenced and deter-
mined in their career, the grand cause to which
they are all subservient, and by which they are
eternally governed, is the love of present, or the
hope of future happiness. This original cause
is made known to us, not by arguments, a priori,
which are often found to be the mere creatures of
imagination, but by actual experience, which pre-
cedes, in its evidence, all theoretical speculations.
rThe love of happiness is the universal cause to
'which we must refer all the springs and motives of
human actions. Its dominion extends over all the
energies, tendencies, and operations of our sensitive
and intellectual nature. Those philosophers have,
therefore, been led into error, who call the love of
fame, the " Universal Passion ;" for even he who
seeks to make his name known to all the ends of
the earth, and to make admiring nations acquaint-
ed with his physical powers, or intellectual might,
has no object in view but the real, or, if the reader
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 5
choose to call it, the imaginary, happiness which
he enjoys by anticipation at the moment, and
hopes to realize at some future period. It is true,
indeed, that we do not all pursue the same road to
happiness ; but this arises, either from adventitious
circumstances, which check the original tendency
of our natural propensities, or because what con-
stitutes the happiness of one man does not consti-
tute the happiness of another, even when fortune
has pandered to all the cravings of unsatisfied
desire, or submitted to all the caprice of humau
eccentricity. Happiness, however, under one shape
or other, is the primum mobile of human actions.
How fame, or the opinion which others entertain of
our real, or supposed merits, should be productive
of this happiness, the love of which is the primary
cause, and the attainment of which is the final object
of human actions, is a question which belongs not
to our present investigation. The knowledge of
the fact is sufficient for all the purposes for which
it has been mentioned, and the fact cannot be con-
troverted ; for who would seek after fame unless it
gave him pleasure, and what is pleasure but hap-
piness, or one of its modifications ? All our actions,
then, without exception, originate from this source.
The miser who abstains from the enjoyment of his
wealth ; — the soldier who rushes into the field of
battle, and encounters danger in all its terrific and
appalling aspects ; — the poet who seeks inspiration
<
6 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
from the dull flame of his midnight lamp, while
the drowsy influence of the senses obstrusively re-
mind him that he is not all spirit and intellectual
flame; — the trader who commits himself to the
mercy of the winds and waves, and congeals be-
neath the rigour of contending elements ; — the
pugilist who exposes his natural limbs and body to
be broken by hands which seem invigorated by
nature itself for the commission of ferocious deeds,
and to whose inexorable feelings the associations
of pity seem to be totally unknown ; — all are urged
forward by one common motive, — the love of hap-
piness ; and all are in pursuit of the same object —
the attainment of that happiness to which they are
so ardently devoted.
As the love of happiness, then, is the prime mover
of human actions ; as we love nothing but what
tends to promote it, and hate nothing but what
tends to diminish it ; would we not seem obliged
by the strictest and most rigid laws of reasoning
to conclude, that whatever is painful must be hate-
ful to us, because pain is the opposite to pleasure
or happiness ? The conclusion, however, is dis-
proved by the emotions produced in us by Tragic
Representations ; for all who have felt these emotions
profess to be pleased with them ; and those who
have had most opportunities of feeling them, are
those who delight most in renewing them frequent-
ly. Will we say, then, that Tragic representations
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 7
are not painful, and, consequently, that there is
nothing mysterious in the supposed pleasure we re-
ceive ? To maintain this position is only to render
the subject still more mysterious than it is already ;
for it is a fundamental principle in criticism, that
the emotions produced in us by imitations of every
description, are of the same nature and charac-
ter with the emotions produced by the originals
from which they are copied. The only difference
they admit is in the degree, not in the nature, of
the emotions ; — that is, the emotion produced by
the object imitated, is stronger than any emotion
which can be excited by the most perfect imitation
of it. " U impression que ces imitations font sur
nous" says Du Bos, " est du mSme genre que Vim-
pression que Vobjet mime qui a ete imite par le peintre,
ou par le poete feroit sur nous. Mais comme Vim-
pression que V imitation fait rCest differ ente de V im-
pression que Vobjet imite feroit quen ce quelle
est moins forte, elle doit exciter dans notre ame,
une passion qui resemble a celle que Vobjet imite y
auroitpu exciter." Lord Kaimes maintains the same
doctrine, in his Elements of Criticism, and so do
all eminent writers on the imitative arts.
If, then, all imitations, as poetry, painting, dra-
matic representations, &c. excite emotions similar
to those excited by their archetypes in nature, it
follows, that Tragic representations must excite
the emotions produced by real calamity and mis-
8 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
fortune, and such emotions are always found to
be painful. We cannot see a person in distress
without being pained at his misery ; and where
the degree of wretchedness is extreme, some people
cannot endure to behold its ill-fated victim. The
sensation which it produces is frequently found to
overpower a person of weak nerves, or extreme sen-
sibility. As real distress is, therefore, painful, ima-
ginary distress must be so also, because the copy
and the original produce the same effect. The
difficulty, then, which has perplexed the critics,
consists in this, that Tragic representations pro-
duce pleasure and pain at the same moment. It
is to explain this apparent mystery that so many
writers have treated on the subject, and attempted
to resolve this Gordian Knot ; but it will clearly
appear from the following pages, that the mystery
still remains, and that this Gordian Knot is as fast
and complicated as ever.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE.
'
CHAP. II.
Impossibility of forming an obscure conception of a pri-
mary Cause until it be perfectly discovered*
Obscure ideas have no existence.
When I first reflected on the difficulty of explain-
ing how the same sensation should be at once
pleasant and painful, I consulted several works
on the subject before I discovered that Hume de-
voted one of his Essays to the resolution of this
curious phenomenon. Du Bos, Lord Kaimes, Dr.
Johnson, Dr. Blair, Knight, Lessing, Schlegel,
Fontenelle, and almost all the writers who have
attempted to explain it, may be more properly
considered critics than philosophers ; or, if this
distinction should appear obscure, as criticism and
philosophy sometimes glide into each other, they
were better qualified to distinguish between im-
pressions, and to point out the " rainbow hues"
which connect them together, than to trace these
impressions, and their voluble, impalpable con-
nectives to their original source. The common
10 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
observer perceives effects and impressions in the
gross, but cannot ascertain their momentum, or the
precise point to which they do, and beyond which
they cannot extend. This is the business of
the critic : his duty is to point out where pro-
priety ends, and where absurdity begins ; and,
therefore, the true critic never outsteps the mo-
desty of nature. But the philosopher, not satisfied
with marking the proper boundaries that distin-
guish impressions, and their immediate causes
from each other, seeks to trace each of them dis-
tinctly to its primary source.
As the resolution of the present problem be-
longs to philosophy, and not to criticism, I was
not much surprised to find the writers whom
I have now mentioned, in their attempts to
trace the pleasure resulting from Tragic Repre-
sentation to its original cause, not only contra-
dicting each other, but contradicting those first
truths or principles of reasoning, which are ad-
mitted by themselves, and by all mankind. He
who contradicts first truths, however, will fre-
quently be found to contradict himself, because
he is continually admitting these truths where they
serve to support his collateral or incidental argu-
ments. That this has been the case with the
writers who have treated on the present subject,
will manifestly appear from the following pages. In
detecting their inconsistencies and self-contradic-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 11
tions, I observed, that they invariably arose from
not sufficiently generalizing- the cause of the plea-
sure of which they were in pursuit ; for nothing
can be more easily demonstrated, than that many
proximate causes co-operate in producing the
pleasing emotions resulting from Tragic Represen-
tations, which no stretch or torture of reasoning
can refer to any one of the causes to which these
writers trace the agreeable effect. As critics,
they have certainly displayed great ingenuity,
penetration, and good sense ; but not one of them
has viewed his object from a sufficiently elevated
situation to grasp it entirely, and examine it in all
its parts. From not having sufficiently generalized,
therefore, the cause of Tragic Pleasure, all they
have written eventually amounts to nothing. Some
of them, it is true, travelled farther than others,
and consequently advanced nearer to their object :
but he who is within a few paces of the place of
his destination, is, with regard to his object, in
the same situation with him who is a thousand
miles off, if he can proceed no farther. A man of
seven feet high cannot, without leaping, seize, with
all his efforts, a ball placed half an inch above
his reach ; whereas, if he were half an inch taller,
he could lay his hand upon it with ease. How-
ever trifling, therefore, half an inch may appear,
the want of it baffles all the efforts of this tall man
to seize the ball : it is as safe from his attempts
12 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
as from those of a dwarf. It is so in science : the
philosopher, in tracing- effects to causes, and con-
sequences to premises, should pursue his chain of
reasoning until he discovers the original cause of
which he is in pursuit ; and he frequently fails from
not adding another link to the chain, which might
have led him to its discovery. Of this cause, there-
fore, nearly as he approached it, he knows as little
as the clown who cannot comprehend the second
link in the chain. However mysterious this cause
may seem, it would appear simple and obvious to
the philosopher the moment he discovered it,
for all truths are obvious to those who perceive
them ; but, not having discovered it, he does not
form the remotest idea of its existence. A logical
reasoner frequently arrives at conclusions, from
which many incontrovertible truths might be de-
duced, of which he is totally ignorant, because,
having his mind constantly fixed on one object,
he overlooks every conclusion to which his argu-
ments lead, except those which serve to prove the
position which he seeks to demonstrate. Of these
truths he is, consequently, as ignorant as he who
could never discover the conclusions from which
they result. Hence it follows, that however nearly
we may approach the discovery of truth, we can
form no conception of it, if we can approach it no
nearer. We may discover, indeed, some of its
appendages, but the appendages of a thing form
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 13
no part of its essence. In fact, until a truth be
perfectly discovered, it is not discovered at all.
If it should be said, that even he who cannot per-
ceive the object, or the truth of which he is in
search, clearly and distinctly, may still have an
obscure idea of it, and consequently be better ac-
quainted with it than he who forms no idea of it
at all, I reply, that it is impossible to form an ob-
scure idea of any thing : we either see the thing
clearly, or we have no perception of it. We may,
indeed, see part of an object clearly, while the rest
of it is concealed in impenetrable darkness ; but
here there is no obscurity. Of the part which is
concealed from us, we form no idea at all ; for, as
an idea is a mental perception of some thing, how
can we perceive what is concealed from us ? to say
that we can, is to say that it is not concealed. We
may, indeed, figure to ourselves a mental image,
and call it an image of that part of the object
which lies concealed ; but is it not obvious, that
the idea which then exists in our mind, is an idea
of the image, and not of the concealed object ? nei-
ther is there any thing obscure in our idea of the
image, as we cannot create an image without per-
ceiving it ; for the act of creation is only known to
us by the act of perception. We cannot pretend,
however, that this image is an image of the object
concealed, because this is to maintain, that we
know what the object is ; in which case, it cannot
14 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
be concealed. If, then, we do not know what the
object is, neither do we know whether the image
present to our mind be an image of it or not. It
may, for aught that we know, be as different from it
as day is from night. There can be no obscurity,
then, in our idea of that part of an object which
is concealed from us, because we can form no idea
of it at all : neither can there be any obscurity in
our idea of that part of the object which we per-
ceive, because perception removes all obscurity.
All, then, that we perceive of the object we per-
ceive clearly, and the part which we do not per-
ceive clearly, we do not perceive at all ; for, with
regard to our perceptions, it has no existence.
Besides, the part of the object which we perceive
forms a complete and distinct object in our mind.
It stands there by itself, for we can trace no ref-
lation or point of connexion between it and the
part which is supposed to be concealed. To be
able to trace such a relation, necessarily implies
that we know the thing concealed ; for, as we can
reason only from what we know, it is impossible
we can perceive relations, either between things of
which we are ignorant, or between things which
we know, and things of which we know nothing ;
for, if there be any quality in the latter similar to
the former, it is a quality of which we are ignorant,
simply, because we know nothing of the object in
which it inheres. To say that we may perceive the
THE, SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 15
quality of an object without perceiving the object
itself, is to say what no person can understand, as
our idea of qualities are made known to us by the
subjects in which they are perceived. Had we
never seen an extended object, we could never
form an idea of the quality of extension. As, then,
the part of the object which we perceive, forms a
clear and distinct object of itself in our minds,
we have no right to consider it as part of the
concealed object, but as a complete object in itself,
of which complete object we have not an obscure,
but a clear idea. In nature, indeed, it may form
only part of an object ; but this is more than we
can tell, until we extend our perceptions farther,
and see the part to which it is connected. If we
can never see this part, neither can we ever pretend
to say, that such a part exists; and, consequently,
the part we see is the only part to which we can
apply the words, clear or obscure, because it is the
only part of which we can affirm any thing.
These observations on clear and obscure ideas,
particularly apply to the writers who have treated
on the primary cause of Tragic Pleasure. Neither
of them has discovered the primary cause, and
consequently neither of them has ever formed
either a clear or obscure idea of it, because they
have formed no idea of it at all. They have per-
ceived, however, many of the proximate or imme-
diate causes by which this pleasure is produced ;
16 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
and of these proximate causes they had conse-
quently clear and distinct perceptions ; but as these
causes were mere effects resulting from the primary
cause, they only saw a part of the object of which
they were in pursuit, and of this part they had
clear perceptions. Not being able to perceive the
part which was concealed from them ; it was there-
fore impossible for them, as I have already shewn,
to form any idea of it, and, consequently, they
never dreamt of its existence. The part they saw,
necessarily stood in their minds for the entire of
the object of which they were in pursuit, and con-
sequently each of them substituted that secondary
cause beyond which he could not travel, for the
primary cause of which it was merely an effect,
so that of the primary cause, they consequently
knew as little as those who had never treated on
the subject.
Their failure has, therefore, arisen from confining
themselves to effects, instead of tracing these ef-
fects to their primary source. But, as I have already
observed, the business of a critic is to watch
effects with a diligent and discriminating eye, not
to travel up with the philosopher to the primary
causes of these effects ; and the writers of whom
I speak have treated this question as critics, not
as philosophers.
From Hume, however, I expected a more philo-
sophic solution of this problem, as he seldom traces
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 17
any effect to a secondary, where a primary cause
can be discovered. As a critic, perhaps, he is
inferior to Du Bos, Dr. Johnson, and Dr. Blair ;
but as a philosopher, however dangerous may be
the tendency of some of his writings, he is evi-
dently above them all. I cannot help saying,
however, that his philosophy has failed him in dis-
cussing the present subject, and that the source of
thepleasures resulting from Tragic Representations,
has hitherto eluded the acumen of criticism, and
the generalizations of philosophy. Hume has
added little to what had been already written on
the subject ; and that little is the worst part of
his " Essay on Tragedy."
What he has quoted from Du Bos and Fonte-
nelle, is worth a thousand of the theories which he
has adopted himself, but he must be allowed the
merit of perceiving that their theories approached
nearer to the truth than any of the rest. They
are, however, imperfect, as will hereafter appear,
though they have made so near an approach to
the truth. As Schlegel, an eminent German
critic, is the latest writer on dramatic criticism,
a subject which he has treated at very consider-
able length ; and, as he has examined and rejected
the most popular theories on the source of
Tragic Pleasure, and substituted one of his own, I
shall first enquire into the philosophy of these
theories, and of that which he has substituted in
c
18 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
their stead. SchlegeL is the ablest commentator
on Shakspeare, as Mr. Hazlett very justly ob-
serves, in his criticisms on that poet ; and it
would seem, that we owe these criticisms more
properly to Schlegel himself, than to Mr. Hazlett ;
for he acknowledges, in his preface, that "some
little jealousy of the national understanding' was
not without its share in producing the under-
taking." " We were piqued" (he says) " that it
should be reserved for a Foreigner to give reasons
for the faith which we, English, have in Shakspeare ;
certainly, no writer among ourselves, has shewn
such enthusiastic admiration of his genius, or the
same philosophical acuteness in pointing out his
characteristic excellencies." Such is the critic,
with whose theory, on the source of Tragic Pleasure.,
I shall commence the following inquiry. After
examining what he has written on the subject, and
the various hypotheses which he quotes and rejects.
I shall offer some observations on the theories which
have been adopted by other writers. My own
theory shall follow, in which I shall examine those
of Du Bos, Fontenelle, and Hume.
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE-. 19
CHAP. III.
y, Examination of SchlegeVs theory, and of the various hypo-
theses which he has quoted on the source of Tragic Plea-
sure,
Tragic representations, according to Schlegel,
please us, either from a " feeling of the dignity of
human nature, excited by the great models ex-
hibited to us," or from " the trace of a higher
order of things impressed upon the apparently
irregular progress of events, and secretly revealed
in them," or from " both these causes together."
Now, this is a mere assertion of the learned
critic, and assertions require to be supported either
by facts or by proofs. I admit, that bare, unsub-
stantiated assertions, resting on high authority, are
considered by many readers, sufficient data for
reasoning ; but our credulity must range far beyond
the boundaries of truth, before we can be made to
believe, that two propositions which contradict each
other, can both be true at the same moment, on
whatever authority they may happen to rest. Now,
if this hypothesis of Schlegel be disproved by him-
self, or if the arguments he has advanced against
c 2
20 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
other theories, be equally conclusive against his
own, his theory derives no value from his authority;
for if we admit it, we must reject his principles of
reasoning, which, in other words, is rejecting* his
authority. Besides, if we reject his principles, his
theory can be of no value : when our principles
are erroneous, the hypotheses we rest upon them,
are only castles in the air.
The first theory examined by Schlegel, is that
which makes Tragic Pleasure arise " from a com-
parison between the tranquillity of our own situ-
ation, and the distress to which the victims of
Tragic Representation are exposed. "
To this theory he objects, that when we are
warmly interested in a tragedy, we never think of
ourselves ; and, therefore, we can enter into no
comparison on the subject. j Schlegel did not per-
ceive, that this argument totally subverts his own
hypothesis ; for if, while we are warmly interested
in the tragic pictures of distress which engage our
attention, we never think of ourselves, and are
totally engrossed by what passes before us, neither
can we think of the abstract dignity of human
nature, nor of the still more abstract providence by
which the irregular progress of events is directed.
If our attention to what passes before us, prevent
us from thinking of ourselves, it must, certainly,
prevent us from thinking of any thing else. I will
readily allow, however, that we may wander, for a
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 21
moment, from the scene before us to other con-
templations, but the emotions which we feel during
these intervals of abstraction from the passing
scene, are excited by the contemplations which
engage our attention, and not by what passes on
the stage, of which we must be perfectly regardless
during these intellectual reveries ; for the human
mind is so constituted, that it cannot employ itself
in the contemplation of two distinct subjects at
the same moment.
No doubt, Schlegel himself frequently and insen-
sibly glided into these reveries; and so, I believe, do
all philosophic minds ; but we are not all philoso-
phers ; and I believe the bulk of the audience attend
only to what passes before them, and seldom revert
to such abstract meditations as they suggest to a
contemplative mind. Philosophers frequently err in
ascribing their own thoughts and feelings to others;
for though the intellectual and sentient faculties
are originally constituted the same in all men, or,
at least, differ only in degrees of energy ; it is still
certain, that particular pursuits and habits will
insensibly induce peculiarities of thought and
feeling; and, consequently, that the presence of the
same object will suggest a different train of ideas
and associations to people engaged in different pur-
suits, provided these pursuits require a particular
application of mind. He who thinks little, will view
an object just as it presents itself to him, without
22 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
reference to any other ; but he who thinks
much, will view it in reference to those subjects
of contemplation which generally engage his at-
tention. If some extraordinary phenomenon be
presented to a peasant, his attention is wholly
arrested by the object itself, while a philosopher
hardly looks upon it, when his imagination
begins to rove at large over the whole circle of
nature, to discover something analogous to it, so
that while his eyes are fixed on the object, his mind
is, perhaps, traversing the most distant regions
upon earth ; or, if he find any thing in the object,
that associates with celestial alliances, the expan-
sive circle of the heavens becomes the wide theatre
of his contemplations.
But do not Tragic Scenes excite innumerable
feelings and reflections, besides those mentioned
by Schlegel ? Is not the baseness of human na-
ture as closely allied to them as its dignity ? And
does not every new distress render its contrivers
and abettors as disgraceful as it renders him by
whom it is endured with fortitude, dignified and
exalted ? It is certain, then, that the baseness of
human nature is as closely interwoven in the tex-
ture of tragedy as its dignity, and, consequently,
as liable to become the subject of our reflections.
If it should be said, that the evil characters in a
tragedy are not those from whom the pleasure is
derived, I reply, that tragedy cannot exist where
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 23
perfect innocence and virtue alone are represented.
Such a representation has no charm, excites no
sympathy, communicates no pleasure. It is the
imperfection and frailty, not the perfection and
dignity, of human nature, that interests us most.
We perceive, that the perfect man stands in no
need of our assistance ; and therefore we refuse
to sympathize with him ; we look upon him as a
being different from ourselves, a being who claims
a superiority over us, which we are unwilling to
allow. Our pride takes the alarm, and spurning
his society, we seek a communion with kindred
spirits. Pares cum paribus facile congregantur.
If we remove, then, all appearance of frailty and
imperfection from the stage, we shall have no
tragedy at all. Neither are the traces of a higher
order of things more strongly impressed on the
progress of tragic events, than the absence of those
traces, and the apparent want of this order. We
can find no trace of a superintending providence
in many tragedies, as Shakspeare's Romeo and
Juliet, and Lord Byron's Tragedy of the Two
Foscari ; and we are therefore apt to infer, that
no such providence exists. This impression will
always communicate itself to the mind, when-
ever a great and virtuous character continues to
be persecuted to the last, and dies unable to avenge
his wrongs.
There are many reflections, then, as obviously
24 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
suggested by Tragic Scenes, as those assigned by
Schlegel; and why attribute our satisfaction to
the one rather than to the other ?
It will be easy, however, to put these sources of
Tragic Pleasure to the test ; for if the dignity of
human nature, and the overruling Providence by
which human affairs are directed, be the true source
of this Pleasure, it follows, that the most in-
teresting tragedy is that in which all the characters
are dignified, and in which they prove ultimately
successful ; for it is only in ultimate success we
can discover the traces of an overruling Providence.
Such a tragedy, however, so far from being in-
teresting, would not be tolerated on the stage, as
nothing could exceed its insipidity. The interest
which we take in the misfortunes of virtuous
characters, would become totally extinct, if their
misfortunes were not brought upon them, either by
their own folly, or the machinations of evil charac-
ters ; so that the baseness of human nature is as
necessary to create interest as its dignity. A critic
in the " Lounger," objects to the tragedy of " The
Fair Penitent," that the heroine is very far from
being an amiable and unexceptionable lady; upon
which Mr. Knight justly remarks, that " if she
had been either the one or the other, this critic
would never have had an opportunity either of
applauding, or of censuring her, as the play would
have scarcely survived a first representation, and
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 25
certainly not have lasted to a second genera-
tion."*
Granting, however, that a feeling of the dignity
of human nature gives us more particular pleasure
than any other feelings suggested by tragic scenes,
it still remains to be accounted for, how this feel-
ing continues throughout the play to affect the mind,
if, according to Schlegel himself, the mind can
attend only to the scene before it, and enter into
no other reflections. The scene before it frequently
represents the depravity of human nature, and,
consequently, excites only feelings of this depravity.
Perhaps it may be said, that the mind can have
feelings of the dignity of human nature, and of a
superintending Providence, without ever withdraw-
ing its attention from the play, or making either the
direct object of its reflections. This Schlegel denies,
and therefore cannot avail himself of such an
argument ; but, granting for a moment that we
may have such feelings, it must also be granted,
that we may have feelings of the calmness and
serenity of our own situation, contrasted with the
distresses to ivhich the characters exhibited before us
are exposed. The fact is, that we can have feelings
of this contrast, and likewise of the dignity of
human nature, and of a superintending Providence,
without ever reflecting on either, or thinking that
they are the sources whence our feelings are derived.
* Principles of Taste, page 344-5.
26 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
A parent will feel the strongest emotions of grief
for the death of his son, even when his mind is
drawn away from the loss which he has endured
to some immediate object of attention ; for a strong-
sensation will not cease the moment the mind is pre-
vented from attending to it, so that Schlegel's objec-
tion to the feelings of contrast is not only inad-
missible, but, if admitted, is as applicable to, and
consequently as subversive of, his own theory, as of
that which he has rejected. It is certain, however,
that neither of these theories is sufficiently general,
and that there are innumerable feelings of a pleas-
ing character excited by Tragic Representations,
which can be traced to neither of them.
Perhaps it may be contended, that however dif-
ferent the proximate causes of Tragic Pleasure
may be, in appearance, they may be all traced
ultimately to the " dignity of human nature." To
disprove this assertion, we need only try it by the
test of experience. Wherever experience can be
resorted to, it precedes in its evidence all theore-
tical reasoning. The reluctance of lovers to part
is finely and sorrowfully depicted in the following
interesting scene between Romeo and Juliet. But
surely no critic will pretend to trace any effect
resulting from this scene to " the dignity of human
nature," as no scene can give a finer illustration
of human weakness, and the delusions to which
it is exposed by passion, and its ideal associations.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 27
Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day :
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear 5
Nightly she sings on yon pomgranate tree :
Believe me., love, it was the nightingale.
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east :
Night's candles are burned out, and jocund day
Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Jul Yon light is not the day, I know it, I :
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,,
To be to thee this night a torch bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death 5
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cinthia's brow :
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heavens so high above our heads :
I have more care to stay, than will to go ;
Come death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so.—
How is't, my soul ? let's talk, it is not day.
It is impossible to read these lines without feel-
ing- a mournful, pensive, melancholy pleasure ; but,
as I have already observed, it is a pleasure that
owes no part of its existence to a sense or feeling
of the dignity of human nature.
The same may be said of Romeo's last speech
28 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
over Juliet in the tomb. The consequence, there-
fore, of referring the pleasure resulting from
Tragic Representations to partial causes would be,
that a thousand theories might be adopted on the
subject, each of them equally true, and each
equally erroneous. They would be equally true,
so far as they reached, as there is no doubt but we
are sometimes affected by the dignity of an exalted
character, sometime by a secret feeling, or sense
of the Providence which directs the progress of
human affairs, and sometimes by contrasting our
own situation with that of the characters ; but
then, there is as little doubt of our being affected by
a thousand other causes, each of which might, ac-
cording to this mode of philosophising, be made
the foundation of a separate theory. We might
read over these thousand theories, however, and be
as wise at the end as at the beginning ; for it is
obvious, that they would be all equally erroneous,
in making one of the causes by which we are
affected, the sole and only cause of all the emotions
and feelings which we experience during the per-
formance, as a thousand other causes combine to
produce the general effect, or, more properly, as
each particular emotion has a particular cause of
its own. To make either of these emotions the
sole cause, or foundation of our pleasures, would
be just as consistent, as to maintain, that any
particular part of a watch, is that which causes
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. *29
the regularity of its movements, and not the whole
assemblage of parts, or the manner in which these
parts are contrived and adjusted to each other.
It argues, therefore, little of the philosophic
spirit, to maintain, that because we are at one
time moved by the dignity of human nature
which is displayed in one character, we are not at
all moved by the baseness of human nature dis-
played in another ; and that the first emotion is
that which continues throughout the play.
The fact is the direct contrary ; for common
experience teaches us, that our feelings are always
determined by the feelings of the characters who
are represented on the stage, or, more philosophi-
cally speaking, by the feelings and emotions by
which we suppose them influenced at the moment ;
and as their feelings are always governed by the
influence which the circumstances in which they are
placed, exercise over their respective tempers and
habits, our feelings are consequently determined
by the same causes. Circumstances, however, are
continually changing, and every change produces
new feelings in the actors, and, consequently,
in us ; for the moment we imagine any new
feeling has taken possession of them, it makes
a new impression (which is only another name
for a new feeling) upon us. Our feelings then
are continually changing, simply because the
circumstances by which they are produced are
30 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
continually changing ; and therefore, the number
of proximate causes from which they originate,
are equal to, and neither more nor less than, the
number of circumstances, or change of circum-
stances, which are introduced into the play.
Pleasing emotions may be excited by an infinite
number of causes ; or, if they be finite, it is a fini-
tude whose bounds are too ample for the still more
finite career of human contemplation, — I mean
that contemplation which confines itself within
the limits of moral certainty. But, though the
causes which produce pleasing emotions, are thus
infinitely, or finitely diversified ; it is still certain,
that each distinct emotion requires a distinct or
separate cause to produce it. If I look upon a
dove, the emotion which I feel, is a distinct, indi-
vidual, indivisible, though pleasing sensation, which
no other being, or external object, can excite in
me but the dove itself; and, therefore, this indivi-
dual sensation must be ascribed to the dove alone,
as its productive cause. If I look immediately
after on a rose, the emotion which I feel is dif-
ferent and distinct from the former ; but not more
different, however, than the cause by which it is
produced. If, while I am intent upon the rose,
I happen to hear the sound of a violin, the emotion
it produces, is clearly distinct from either of the
former, but so also is the cause. Emotions, then,
continually vary with their causes : each distinct
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 31
emotion has a different cause of its own, and each
cause is sure of producing that emotion which is
peculiar to itself. No two causes, different in their
nature, will produce the same individual emotion,
nor will any two different emotions proceed from
the same individual cause. To these positions only
one exception can be made, namely, where the same
cause acts upon individuals, whose susceptibilities
of feeling and natural propensities are originally
different. In such a case, the emotion felt by each
is different, but it differs not in kind, but in degree.
Though two different causes, however, will never
produce the same emotion in different individuals,
yet the emotion produced by a thousand different
causes, may agree in one common quality, namely,
that of being pleasing or agreeable. The emotions
produced by the dove, the rose, and the violin,
were all different, and yet all were pleasing. It is
obvious, then, that where a succession of pleasing
emotions is felt, their proximate causes are as dif-
ferent, and as numerous, as the emotions themselves;
and that the philosopher who would ascribe the
aggregate of pleasure which he has received, to any
of the e causes in particular, would fall into the
grossest error. No error, however, has tended to
bewilder the philosophy of the human mind more
than that of ascribing general effects to particular
causes. A pleasing emotion cannot express an
emotion of a distinct individual nature, for the
32 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
epithet pleasing, neither defines nor explains the
specific nature of the emotion to which it is applied ;
and, therefore, he who would define any immediate
feeling of which he was sensible at the moment, by
calling it pleasing, would convey no particular idea
whatever to his hearers, as ten thousand other
feelings, perfectly different from it, are equally
entitled to the same epithet. This epithet is ap-
plicable to all emotions, however different in their
nature, and in the causes by which they are pro-
duced, provided they are neither painful nor indif-
ferent. All, then, that can be understood from a
man who tells us that he feels a pleasing emotion,
is, that he feels an emotion which is neither pain-
ful nor indifferent to him ; but with regard to its
distinct character, the modification or degree of
pleasure which it imparts, the particular manner
in which it is felt, or the immediate cause by which
it is produced, we know literally nothing.
To apply these observations to the pleasures
that emanate from Tragic Representations, it is
obvious, that we are sensible of a diversity of
pleasing emotions during the progress of a good
Tragedy ; that every change of circumstance and
situation in the Dramatis Personce, in a word,
every sentiment, expressed from beginning to end,
produces a new impression upon us, that each new
impression has a distinct cause of its own, that
no one of these causes is the cause of all the other
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 33
impressions, or feelings which we experience, that
the entire of the pleasure which we receive, is, in
other words, only the entire of the feelings, by
which we are successively affected ; that as these
feelings originate from different causes, so must
the pleasure also ; and that, consequently, he who
would attribute them all to one cause, must look
not to any of the particular causes by which they
are produced, but to that remote, original cause,
to which all the particular causes are subordinate.
It is obvious, then, that Schlegel's theory, and
that which makes Tragic Pleasure arise from " a
comparison between the calmness and tranquillity
of our own situation, and the storms and perplex-
ities to which the victims of passion are exposed,"
stand both on the same light and airy foundation.
It is certain, indeed, that we can derive no pleasure
from Tragic Scenes, unless we be ourselves free from
all personal danger ; but it does not follow, that
this freedom is the cause of the agreeable effect. If
such a conclusion were admitted, it would follow,
by a parity of reasoning, that our being awake at
the time, is the cause of the pleasure ; for there is
no difference between the argument of the man who
says, " as we can derive no pleasure from Tragic
Scenes, without being free from personal danger,
ergo, a freedom from personal danger, is the cause
of the pleasure we enjoy ;" and the argument of
him who says, " as we can derive no pleasure from
D
34 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
Tragic Distress, without being awake, ergo, our
being awake, must, necessarily, be the cause from
which it results." By a similar mode of reasoning,
we might trace the pleasure to a thousand dif-
ferent causes ; but such unphilosophic modes of
reasoning are unworthy of serious refutation.
The next theory which Schlegel discusses, is
that which attributes it " to our feeling for moral
improvement, which is gratified by the view of
poetical justice, in the reward of the good, and the
punishment of the wicked." To this theory he
objects, that " poetical justice is by no means indis-
pensable in a good tragedy : it may end with the
suffering of the just, and the triumph of the
wicked." The objection is just, but who would
expect it to come from Schlegel. Indeed no ob-
jection shews more clearly, how blind we are to
our own errors, and how clear-sighted in detecting
the errors of others. He attributes a portion of the
pleasure to " the trace of a higher order of things,"
and yet surely this trace cannot exist without
poetical justice. Poetical justice, then, is neces-
sary to support his theory, but it may be dispensed
with when it serves to support the theory of ano-
ther. The argument, however, though it subverts
his own theory, proves the insufficiency of the
hypothesis against which it is directed. Besides,
the arguments which I have opposed to the two
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 35
former theories, are equally applicable to the pre-
sent.
Aristotle's theory comes next in order, and is
considered by Schlegel still more unsatisfactory
than the former. We must say, however, that in
noting it, he does the Stagyrite injustice, for he
never intended it as explanatory of the source of
Tragic Pleasure. "The object of tragedy," says
Aristotle, "is to purify the passions by pity and
terror." But the object of tragedy is surely dif-
ferent from the origin of the pleasure which it im-
parts, for tragedy and its attendant pleasures are
different in themselves ; and, even if they were
not, the object of a thing should never be con-
founded with its origin.
Whether the purification of the passions by pity
and terror, be the proper and exclusive object of
tragedy, is a question of a different nature ; and,
therefore, Schlegel superfluously observes, that,
"supposing tragedy to effect this moral cure in us,
it must do so by the painful feelings of terror and
compassion, and it remains to be proved, how we
should take a pleasure in subjecting ourselves to
such an operation." Aristotle has not proposed
to prove it, nor has he made the remotest allusion
either to the existence or origin of the pleasure
under consideration.
Schlegel comes next to examine the theory of
Du Bos, who says that, " we are attracted to
d2
36 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
theatrical representations from the want of some
violent agitation, to rouse as out of the torpor
of every-clay life." Du Bos would seem to have
borrowed this idea from Montague, but as I intend
to treat of his theory more at large in another
place, I shall take no further notice of it here.
These are all the theories on the source of Tragic
pleasure, treated of by Schlegel, in his " Lectures
on Dramatic Criticism." As their insufficiency to
account for this pleasure must appear sufficiently
obvious from the preceding observations, I shall
pass on, without further comment, to the other
hypotheses adopted on the subject.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 37
J TQRNI A;
CHAP. IV
Whether Fable operates on our Passions, by representing its
events as passing in our sight, and by deluding us into
a conviction of reality ? And, whether this delusion,
supposing it real, accounts for the Pleasures arising
from Tragic Representations,
Lord Kaimes treats at great length on the nature
of our emotions and passions, and devotes a Jong
section of seventeen pages to the emotions caused
by fiction. This subject seems to have puzzled
him considerably ; and, in excuse for the profusion
of argument which he has employed upon the oc-
casion, and which, he acknowledges himself, " must
have fatigued the reader with much dry reasoning,"
he tells him, that " his labour will not be fruitless,
because, from that theory are derived many useful
rules in Criticism." Unhappily, however, he has
not said a word in this long section, but what is con-
tained in one sentence of a previous section of the
same work, where he says, that "ideas, both of me-
mory and of speech, produce emotions of the same
38 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
kind with what are produced by an immediate view
of the object, only fainter, in proportion as an idea
is fainter than an original perception." This sen-
tence contains every thing to be found in all he
has written, on the emotions caused by fiction ;
for, throughout this section, he only seeks to shew,
" that ideal presence supplies the want of real pre
sence." It is a knowledge of this truth," he says,
"that unfolds the mystery hanging about the for-
mer proposition, and shews why ideas of memory,
&c. produce emotions of the same kind with what
are produced by an immediate view of the object."
For my part, I cannot distinguish between "ideas
of memory," and " ideal presence," and I am cer-
tain no other person can, except he who makes
distinctions where there are none in nature. An
idea of memory is an image which the mind forms
of an absent object ; — ideal presence is the same :
how, then, can the latter explain the mystery of
the former, as both must be equally mysterious?
To say that one explains the mystery of the other,
is to say neither more nor less, than that it explains
its own mystery. Such language is certainly more
mysterious than the things which it pretends to
explain. But the mystery does not end here:
what follows is infinitely more mysterious, if, in-
deed, we can allow one thing to be more myste-
rious than another. The sole object of this section is
to shew, that " ideal presence," that is, the image
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 39
which we form to ourselves of something not pre
sent, produces the same emotion that the real object
would if it were present ; and this, he tells us,
explains why fictions produce the same emotions
with real objects. Here we have again a reason
without any reason, and one mystery explaining
another.
That ideal presence produces, if not the same
effect with real presence, at least a copy of that
effect, I readily admit ; — that fictitious objects do
the same I admit also : how either effect takes
place I cannot tell ; — all I know is the fact, and
the fact is as clear in the one case as in the other.
As the former effect stands, therefore, as much in
need of explanation as the latter, how can we
be told, that the one explains the other, when
both are equally mysterious? we know both pro-
positions to be true from experience ; and, con-
sequently, it requires no arguments to convince
us that both these causes are followed by both
these effects ; but he who would undertake to
explain to us how the effects proceed from the
causes, would, instead of explaining one by the
other, find it equally necessaiy to explain both,
simply because both these causes, so far as regards
the impressions they make upon us, are exactly
the same. There is no difference between the
emotions caused by images which we form to our-
selves of real objects when absent, and those
40 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
caused by imaginary ones, because the objects in
neither case are present to the mind. The mind,
consequently, is totally engrossed in the contem-
plation of the image before it, and cannot attend
to any abstract reflections on the original ; and
even if it did, it is obvious that the image, in
both cases, receives its existence from the mind ;
for a real object can make no impression when
it is not present; and, therefore, the image
which the mind forms of it must be of its own
creation. It is the same faculty of the mind that
gives existence to all things whose prototypes are
not present, and, consequently, all these images
must be feigned or fashioned by the mind itself;
so that, as far as regards the mind, ideal presence,
or ideal images, are literally the same with ficti-
tious or imaginary images, all being equally feigned
or imagined by the mind. This truth is acknow-
ledged in the very section of which I am now
treating, for the author observes, that " if ideal
presence be the means by which our passions are
moved, it makes no difference whether the subject
be a fable, or a true history ;" and yet we are
told in the sentence before this, that " ideal pre-
sence hath scarce ever been touched by any miter,
and, however difficult in the explication, it could
not be avoided in accounting for the effects pro-
duced by fiction." Had Lord Kaimes reflected a
moment, he would have perceived, that it is im-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 41
possible to treat of fiction without treating of ideal
presence, as all fiction is ideal presence in the
strictest sense of the expression. Consequently,
Du Bos, and all writers on the subject of fiction,
have treated of ideal presence, differing only in the
use of the term. Except where the objects imitated
are present, what are all paintings, descriptive
poems, and imitations of every description, no
matter whether of real or imaginary beings, but
ideal images, or, in other words, portraits of those
images which were present to the mind of the poet,
painter, &c. at the time he produced them ; and
what is all this but ideal presence? With regard
to the difficulty of explaining ideal presence, I can-
not perceive to what difficulty his lordship alludes,
for the entire of what he says on the subject amounts
simply to this, that ideal and real presence produce
similar emotions in the mind, differing only in
degree ; but why they do produce similar emotions
he never pretends to explain. There could be no
difficulty then in mentioning a fact which almost
every one knows, and which so many writers have
mentioned already. The entire of this section re*
minds me of what Dr. Johnson says, in his Ram-
bler, of those who suffer their imagination to run
away with their understanding. " Many," he says,
" impose upon the world, and many upon them-
selves, by an appearance of severe and exemplary
diligence, when they, id reality, give themselves up
42 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
to the luxury of fancy." Lord Kaimes imagines
he "has discovered something which no man ever
dreamt of before himself, simply because he in-
vented a new name to express an old idea ; for
" ideal presence" means nothing but what is gene-
rally understood by ideal images, both being present
images of absent objects. To explain, therefore,
ideal images by ideal presence, is to explain one
mystery by another. I do not mean to say, that
either is mysterious, mystery being only a term
which we apply to things which we do not under-
stand; but the moment we come to understand
them, we no longer call them mysteries ; and even
at the moment they are mysteries to us, they are
obvious perceptions to others. What are nowso plain
as to be called truisms, would be all mysteries if we
were still in the state of nature ; and what are at
this moment mysteries to the unlettered part of
mankind, are truisms to the literary world. It is
not things that are mysterious, but we that are
ignorant. I do not mean, therefore, to assert, that
either ideal images or ideal presence are mysterious:
I only mean to say, that both are the same, and,
consequently, that he who regards one of them as
mysterious, should look upon the other as a mystery
also.
Granting, however, that the doctrine of " ideal
presence" explains what it pretends to explain, the
pleasure resulting from Tragic Representations
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 43
remain still as mysterious as ever. To say that
fiction pleases us, because the reality pleases us,
explains nothing', for the question still remains,
why does the reality please ? Until we are told
why real distress pleases, why we take pleasure in
witnessing- a shipwreck, an execution, &c. we gain
little by knowing that the imitation of these dis-
tresses pleases us because their originals do.
Besides, it should be recollected, that no person
derives pleasure from supposing Tragic Represen-
tations to be real, simply because every one knows*
they are not real : all we expect from such repre-
sentations, is, that they give a correct and natural
imitation of the passions, circumstances, and events
which they represent ; for, however exact the imita-
tion may be, we still know it is but an imitation.
Lord Kaimes, therefore, leaves the question where
he found it, so that we must seek elsewhere for the
source of the pleasures of which we are in pursuit.
As he claims, however, the merit of originality
in all that he has written on this subject, it is but
doing justice to Locke and Du Bos to say, that
the whole of it is taken from them. Locke dis-
tinctly observes, that an idea of reflection, or
memory, produces the same impression upon the
mind with the real object which it represents to
itself, with this difference, that the latter im-
pression is fainter than the former ; and Du Bos
has the same doctrine in other words, " La copie
44 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
de Vobjet" he says, " doit, pour ainsi dire, excitw
en nous une copie de la passion que I'objet y auroit
excitee." To this doctrine Lord Kairaes has not
added a single idea, though he wishes to make ns
believe that his doctrine is all his own, because he
has expressed this idea in other words. Neither is
he very accurate in saying that an " idea is fainter
than an original perception^ for this is saying, in
other words, that an idea is fainter than an idea, as
perception is an idea in the strict and original ac-
ceptation of the term, coming from the Greek verb
£i^w, to see. It therefore more properly expresses
an original perception than a reflex act of the
mind; but, as it is used to express both, we na-
turally divide ideas into two branches, namely,
ideas of sensation, and ideas of reflection. He
should therefore have said that an idea of reflec-
tion, or of memory, is fainter than an idea of sen-
sation or actual presence.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 45
CHAR V,
Whether Tragic Pleasures may be traced to the Vices
and Inhumanity, or to the Virtues and Sympathies, of
Human Nature.
The doctrine of Helvetius, on the source of Tragic
Pleasure, is not very " refreshing? It holds out a
gloomy prospect of our original nature, and, conse-
quently, of our final destination. Man, according
to him, is naturally cruel. " What does the pros-
pect of nature," he says, " present to us r A mul-
titude of beings destined to devour each other.
Man, in particular, say the anatomists, has the
tooth of a carnivorous animal. He ought, there-
fore, to be voracious, and, consequently^ cruel and
bloody. Flesh, moreover, is his most wholesome
nourishment, and the most conformable to his or-
ganization. His preservation, like that of almost
all other animals, is connected with the destruction
of others."
"If the stag at bay affect me ; — if his tears ex-
cite mine, this object, so affecting by its novelty.
46 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
is agreeable to the savage, whom habit has ren-
dered obdurate.
"Let me not be accused of denying the exis-
tence of good men. I know there are such, who
tenderly sympathize in the miseries of their fellow
creatures ; but the humanity of these is the effect
of their education, not their nature. Had these
men been born among the Iroquois, they would
have adopted their barbarous customs.
" Who is, in all society, the man most detest-
able ? The man of nature, who having no conven-
tion with his fellows, obeys nothing but his ca-
price, and the present sentiment with which he is
possessed.
"We see children enclose chafers and hornbeetles
in hot wax, then dress them up like soldiers, and
thus prolong their misery for two or three months.
It is vain to say, that these children do not reflect
upon the pain those insects feel. If the sentiment
of compassion was as natural to them as that of
fear, they would be sensible of the sufferings of the
insect, in the same manner as fear makes them
sensible of danger from a ferocious animal."
Such are the views which Helvetius takes of
human nature ; whence he concludes, that the
delight we take in executions, Tragic Represen-
tations, &c. arise from our propensity to cruelty.
He argues, that curiosity can have no share in
producing this pleasure^ from cur propensity to
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 47
renew it. Curiosity, he admits, may account for
our witnessing- an execution the first time, but he
denies that it will account for our witnessing it a
second.
I should hardly have quoted Helvetius' theory
on the cause of Tragic Pleasure, were it not, that
it gives me an opportunity of vindicating human
nature from the aspersions of so gloomy and ill-
boding a moralist. If, therefore, it should lead me
into a short digression from the direct object of
discussion, the importance of the subject is the
only excuse which I can offer the reader.
Man, he says, ought to be cruel and bloody, be-
cause nature has given him the tooth of a carni-
verous animal. This is obviously to maintain,
that man is born with a natural propensity to
bloodshed and cruelty, that he possesses this pro-
pensity in his cradle, antecedent to education, and
the influence of circumstances ; and, consequently,
that neither education nor circumstances have any
share whatever in its production, nor in the pro-
duction of the teeth which fits him so admirably
to indulge it. Neither man, nor any other ani-
mal, however, can be born with and without na-
tural propensities, at the same time ; and, there-
fore, he who asserts, that nature has given him a
propensity for cruelty, denies that he is born with-
out natural propensities. Helvetius, consequently,
must deny it ; and yet the sole object of his
48 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
Essay on Man, the work from which I have made
these extracts, is to shew the necessity of a good
education, by proving*, that man is born without
any natural propensities whatever, that he is solely
the creature of circumstances and education, and
that, of himself, he is neither inclined to good or
evil, to vice or virtue. " No individual," he says,
" is born good or bad, men are the one or the other,
according as a similar or opposite interest unites
or divides them. At the moment the child is deli-
vered from the womb of its mother, and opens the
gates of life, he enters it without ideas and with-
out passions." In a word, he sets out with this
principle, that "the talents and virtues of each
individual is the effect of education, and not of
organization." As education, then, has nothing
to do with the organization of the teeth, and as all
propensities must be traced to education, and ad-
ventitious circumstances, Helvetius flatly contra-
dicts himself, and subverts his whole theory, by
concluding, from this organization, that man is
born with a natural propensity for cruelty ; for,
this is to admit, that we have propensities that can
be traced to nature alone, and over which educa-
tion can exercise no controul.
That " the stag at bay is agreeable to the savage
whom habit has rendered obdurate," I admit ; but
this does not prove an original propensity to cru-
elty. What is caused by "habit '•" cannot be traced
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURK. 49
to nature; on the contrary, the "obduracy" that
arises from "habit" cannot be born with us, be-
cause, natural propensities manifest themselves
without any assistance from habit. Habit may
ultimately eradicate, but can never create, natural
propensities, and what it substitutes in their stead,
cannot, consequently, be referred to our original
constitution, or natural propensities.
" The humanity of good men," he observes, " is
the effect of their education, not their nature." I
deny the assertion. Education can never succeed
in establishing doctrines, or creating passions, that
are not antecedently natural to us. Neither the
worst system of education, nor the most supersti-
tious religion, can entirely extinguish the moral
sense within us, — that sense of which Helvetius
says, he has " no more idea than of a moral castle
or elephant." I am aware it is possible to obscure
our ideas of right and wrong, to throw an atmos-
phere of intellectual darkness over the native per-
spicuity of the mind, to cloud the prospects which
allure us forward, and gleam with the virgin dawn
of mental illumination, to silence the still voice
which whispers to us that we are intended to move
in a higher sphere, and to enchain the energies
which prompt us to attain it. But even in this
state, it is impossible to extinguish entirely the
moral sense, to make us believe that malignity,
falsehood, despotism, treachery, perfidy, robbery,
50 PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO
and assassination are virtues of the highest order,
and fidelity, philanthropy, honesty, and truth, vices
of the blackest dye. No education, I say, can suc-
ceed in convincing* us of the truth of this doctrine,
which would not be the case, if we had no feelings
of humanity, none of right and wrong, antecedent
to education. The mind runs readily along the
path which is natural and agreeable to its original
constitution, but whenever it is driven out of it, it
feels itself also out of its native element, and has a
constant tendency to revert to the path from which
it has been diverted. Hence it is, that while all
good men, without exception, whether learned or
ignorant, feel they are right in preferring virtue to
vice, and truth to falsehood, not one out of a thou-
sand bad men feels he is right in renouncing virtue,
and devoting himself to the pursuits of iniquity.
In a word, ail mankind, for the exceptions are not
worth taking into consideration, admit the base-
ness of vice, and the dignity of virtue, and so they
have done from time immemorial. Now, if it be
education that taught them this doctrine origi-
nally, I should wish to know from whom they re-
ceived this education ? No person, I suppose, will
deny that it was instituted by themselves, and con-
sequently the precepts they originally taught must
have been those which were most agreeable to their
natural feelings and ideas. Education, conse-
quently, could never have transmitted to us the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 51
doctrine, that virtue is preferable to vice, and hu-
manity to barbarity, if humanity and virtue were
not originally, and antecedent to all education,
more natural to us than vice and cruelty. Instead*
therefore, of saying with Helvetius, that the huma-
nity and virtues of good men are the effects of
education, we should rather say, that the educa-
tion which inculcates and approves of these vir-
tuous affections of the soul, is the effect of that
original humanity, and propensity to virtue, which
Nature originally implanted in the breast of man.
The fact is, that Helvetius is eternally at variance
with himself on this subject. In talking of the
cruelty of children to insects, he says, " if the
sentiment of compassion was as natural to them
as fear, &c." Without prolonging quotations, I
shall only observe, that if the sentiment of com-
passion be not as natural to us as that of fear, it
follows, that some sentiments are more natural to
us than others; and if so, all that Helvetius has writ-
ten upon man, and upon the human mind, is not
worth a rush, because both works are founded on
the principle, that all our feelings, sentiments, pas-
sions, notions, ideas, &c. are acquired, that they
result from education, and that nature has no share
in their production. According to this doctrine,
it is obvious, that one feeling or passion cannot be
more natural than another, as all of them arise, not
from nature, but from education and aceiden-
e2
52 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
tal circumstances. When Helvetius asserts, that
the sentiment of fear is more natural than that of
compassion, he admits, that there are natural as well
as acquired sentiments, and consequently he proves,
that while he was writing his " Essay on Man,' he
was only building- castles in the air, his whole
theory being founded on the opposite doctrine.
Helvetius, then, has failed in proving the natural
cruelty of man, and if he even could prove it, he
w r ould prove, at the same time, that his theory of
man was all founded in error, as it entirely rests
on the exclusion of all natural passions and pro-
pensities. The pleasures arising from Tragic Repre-
sentations, executions, &c., cannot, therefore, arise
from our natural love of cruelty. Of this, if we
have still any remaining doubt, the following reflec-
tion must serve to convince us. The reflection I
am going to make is one that must derive addi-
tional value from the opportunity which every per-
son has of proving its truth. Does not every person
feel within himself, that however much he may be
pleased in beholding an execution, or any other
scene of affliction, he would be infinitely more de-
lighted at being able to rescue the victim of distress
from his sufferings, or from the danger to w T hich
he is immediately exposed ? Who feels the most
exquisite happiness, he who saves a drowning man
at the risk of his own life, or he who, by pushing
him back into the fatal element, puts an end to
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 53
his existence ? It requires not the genius of a
Heivetius to answer this question. Every one
knows that whilst the former enjoys the most heart-
felt satisfaction, the latter is torn with remorse, and
the pangs of a guilty conscience, if he retain any
thing of human nature in him ; and if not, he is no
man, and the philosophy of human nature is not
applicable to him.
I dare do all that may become a man :
Who dares do more is none.
Here, then, we have a demonstrative certainty,
that man, so far from being naturally cruel, is na-
turally a de tester, an abominator of cruelty ; and
that so far from approving of it in others, he can-
not reflect upon any cruel act of his own without
self-reprobation, and the stings of a guilty con-
science. These are stings which he could never
feel, if cruelty were as natural to him as compas
sion. Will it be said that these stings of conscience
arise from education, — from his being taught that
cruelty is a sin, and compassion a virtue? If so,
an opposite education would necessarily produce an
opposite effect, so that if he were taught to believe,
that compassion is a sin, and cruelty a virtue, he
would feel the same pangs of conscience, whenever
he saved a man from death, or any other good act
which education taught him to be a crime.
Now, if any instance could be produced of a man
suffering under the stings of conscience for saving
54 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
a man's life, or doing any other good and virtuous
act, I should not hesitate to acknowledge the force
of education, and the absurdity of believing in any
original, natural propensities ; but as these are
stings of conscience which I never heard of, which
I never read of, and which I believe no person ever
felt, I arn necessarily driven to conclude, whether I
will or will not, that compassion and virtuous pro-
pensities are agreeable to the original nature of
man, and that no man ever was tormented by remorse
of conscience for having yielded to them. While I
hold this doctrine, I am equally driven to believe,
that cruelty and vice are abhorrent from the nature
of man, and that he who has so completely extin-
guished every opposite principle as to delight in
them, and hate every man to whom they are dear,
is not a man, but a monster.
If virtue and compassion, then, be natural to
man, Helvetius' theory on the source of the delight
which we derive from Tragic Representations, must
necessarily fall to the ground. It is not only more
superficial than any of the other theories which I
have already examined, but the principles on which
it is founded are impious and detestable.
From Helvetius we naturally come to examine
a theory of a very opposite nature, a theory, not
only refreshing, but pregnant with the brightest
visions that ever wantoned in the vistas of hope,
or ever threw the radiance of their splendour over
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 55
the creations of imagination, or the associations
of poetry. There is a glow of inspiration which
the mind is unwilling to resist, a sacred enthusiasm
that lifts the soul above its ordinary level, when-
ever it can discern any connexion between human
and divine affairs, — whenever it can trace any pro-
pensity of our nature to the laws of an eternal,
and over-ruling Providence. At such a moment, we
spurn the gross controul of material existence, or
embrace it only, because it serves as an approach to
that more perfect state, which is the summit of all
our attainments. When we areunder this impression,
Grace shines around us with serenest beams,
And whispering angels prompt us golden dreams.
For us th' unfading rose of Eden blooms.
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes.
What could be the enthusiasm of a Helvetius,
who denied the original goodness of man; of a Vol-
taire, who insisted on the materiality of his nature;
of a Lucretius, who never suffered his muse to soar
beyond the narrow precincts of sensible existence ;
of a Hume, who swept away the material and
spiritual world with one dash of his pen, and suf-
fered nothing to exist but ideas and images, those
" shadowy shapes," which " lift the unreal scene ;"
in a word, of any man, who confines his hopes and
expectations to the narrow span of sublunary exis-
tence ? To what purpose is this boasted education
which Helvetius advocates, if its influence extend
not beyond the grave?
56 PHILOSOTHICAL INQUIRY INTO
The theory whieh I am now about to examine,
opens to us a happier and a brighter prospect, and
dispels the turbid gloom of somniferous scepti-
cism.
The pain arising from virtuous emotions, is,
according to Akenside, always attended with plea-
sure ; and to this virtuous propensity he traces
the pleasure resulting from scenes of Tragic dis-
tress. It is a theory directly opposed to that of
Helvetius, and, though already well known to
every English reader, I shall give it in his own
words.
Behold the ways
Of heaven's eternal destiny to man j —
For ever just, benevolent, and wise :
That virtue's awful steps, howe'er pursued
By vexing fortune and obtrusive pain,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy softening soul
At length may learn what energy the hand
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of passion swelling with distress and pain,
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial Pleasure, Ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved
So often fills his arms ; so often draws
His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears r
O ! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 57
That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes,
With virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture. — Ask the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village walk
To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below
The cruel winds have hurled upon the coast
Some hopeless bark ; while sacred pity melts
The general eye, or terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs, and horrent hair ;
While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam through the shattered vessel, shrieks aloud
As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms
For succour, swallowed by the roaring surge,
As now another, dashed against the rock,
Drops lifeless down : O ! deemest thou, indeed,
No kind endearment here by nature given
To mutual terror, and co?npassions tears ?
No sweetly melting softness which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers
To this, their proper action, and their end ?
Ask thy own heart, when, at the midnight hour,
Slow through the studious gloom, thy pausing eye,
Led by the glimmering taper, moves around
The sacred volume of the dead, the songs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame
For Grecian heroes .
> ■ When the pious band
Of youths that fought for freedom, and their sires,
Lie side by side in gore ; — when ruffian pride
Usurps the throne of justice ; — turns the pomp
Of public power, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To slavish, empty pageants, to adorn
58 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee ; — when honoured urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust,
And storied arch, to glut the coward age
Of regal envy, strew the public way
With hallowed ruins !
When the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm,
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove,
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car 5 —
Say does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress ; — or would'st thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot
Of him who sits among the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod
And bears aloft his gold invested front,
And says within himself, " I am a king,
And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe
Intrude upon mine ear r"
This theory, which makes Tragic pleasure arise
from the influence of virtuous impressions, is not
only more general, and more philosophic than all
the theories which we have yet noticed, but it is
also the most pleasing which human imagination
can conceive, as it is the only one which vindicates
the original dignity and immortal destination of
man. Nor is it less pleasing to find that we are
indebted for this theory to the inspirations of the
muse. It has poets chiefly for its advocates, and
these, too, of no inferior order. Pope and Young
have philosophically and poetically breathed the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 59
same sentiments, and maintained the same doc-
trine. Before I examine its sufficiency to account
for the origin of Tragic Pleasure, I shall quote a
few lines on the subject from each of these poets ;
and first from Young.
Though various are the tempers of mankind,
Pleasure's gay family holds all in chains.
Some most affect the black, and some the fair j
Whatever the motive, pleasure is the mark :
For her the black assassin draws the sword ;
For her dark statesmen trim the midnight lamp,
To which no single sacrifice may fall.
The stoic proud, for pleasure, pleasure scorned j
For her Affliction's daughters grief indulge
And find) or hope a luxury in tears.
Patron of pleasure ! I thy rival am j —
Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song t
Pleasure is nought but virtues gayer name ;—-
I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low :
Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flower.
******
For what are virtues, (formidable name !)
What but the fountain or defence of joy ?
The following is from Pope.
Know then this truth, (enough for man to know,)
Virtue alone is happiness below.
The only point where human bliss stands still,
And tastes the good without the fall to ill.
The broadest mirth, unfeeling folly wears,
Less pleasing far than virtue s very tears.
See the sole bliss heaven could on man bestow,
Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know ;
60 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
Yet, poor with fortune, and with learning blind,
The bad must miss, the good, untaught, will find.
That every virtuous impression is pleasing to
the soul, however it may be accompanied by pains
and sorrows, is a truth which no sophistry can
disprove, and to which every virtuous mind can
afford instant testimony. To call upon others to
confirm the fact would be absurd, because no man
can feel a virtuous impression but the virtuous
man himself; and, consequently, no other can tell
whether it be pleasing or otherwise. We can reason
only from what we know, and he who never felt
a virtuous impression, knows, consequently, nothing
about it. The ill-boding sceptic who denies the
original goodness of human nature, and who
aknowledges that he has no more idea of " a
moral sense than of a moral castle," is, conse-
quently, a stranger to virtuous emotions, and un-
qualified to reason about them, or tell whether
they are agreeable or disagreeable, because plea-
sure is known only by being felt.
So far then as regards virtuous impressions, no
question can remain of their being all pleasing to
the soul, whether they arise from Tragic Repre-
sentations or not ; but there still remain unan-
swerable objections to the theory which resolves
all our pleasures, or even those arising from Tragic
Representations, into a sense of virtue. In the first
place, there are many sensations and emotions
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 61
which are always pleasing, though they have not
the remotest alliance with virtue, — -such as the
pleasure derived from comic scenes, and, conse-
quently, virtue cannot be the general law of
pleasure.
We cannot therefore maintain, that Tragic emo-
tions are pleasing because they are virtuous ; for
if some pleasing emotions be not virtuous, it may
happen that Tragic emotions may be among the
number. Now it happens, that there are an infinity
of pleasing emotions besides those of comedy,
which have not the most distant connexion with
virtuous affections ; and it also happens, that
some portion of the pleasure arising from Tragic
Representations can be clearly traced to this
class of pleasing emotions. All good imita-
tions are pleasing to us whether they represent
real objects or real circumstances and events. To
imitate the realities of life correctly and naturally,
requires great ingenuity, and a peculiar appropria-
tion of the mental powers ; but genius and energy
of mind have no original connexion with virtue.
The greatest poet is not the greatest saint ; nor is
the greatest saint the most intelligent of the human
race. Men of the greatest genius have been found
to deny every principle of morality, and, conse-
quently, every principle of religion on which virtue
can rest ; but yet it is genius, and genius only,
whether it be sanctified or reprobate, that can ever
62 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
succeed in giving a correct imitation of nature.
When we are pleased with this imitation, there-
fore, it is not the virtue but the genius of the
artist that communicates the pleasure. A paint-
ing or a poem badly executed is despised, how-
ever we may venerate the virtues of the person
who produced it ; so that I may safely venture to
assert, that the pleasure resulting from imitation,
as imitation, has not the remotest alliance with vir-
tuous impressions of any kind, and, consequently,
cannot be placed among the pleasures resulting from
virtue. Now it cannot be denied that a part of
the pleasures arising from Tragic Representations,
is owing to pure imitation alone, or, in other
words, to the power, felicity, and skill with which
the actors imitate the real scenes, circumstances,
events, passions, emotions, and catastrophes which
they represent on the stage. The deepest tragedy
will but lightly affect the audience if it be bung-
lingly represented ; yet the distress is the same
whether it be represented by a good or a bad actor.
It matters little whether a man be put to death
clown-like, or soldier-like, whether poison be drank
awkwardly or gracefully : the distress, in all cases,
is the same. As the pleasure, then, is far from be-
ing the same, or, rather, as there is little or no
pleasure in witnessing the best tragedy when bad-
ly performed, it follows, that a portion, at least,
of the pleasure resulting from Tragic Represen-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 63
tations, arises from the skill and dramatic genius
of the performers. If this were not the case, Kean's
Richard would not impart more pleasure than the
lateMr.Kemble's,nor Mrs.Siddons' Belvidera than
Miss O'Neils. This part of the pleasure cannot,
consequently, be traced to the power or influence
of virtue over the heart ; for I have already shewn,
that the pleasure we find in imitation has no al-
liance with virtue, because the pleasure is the same
whether the imitation be executed by a moral and
religious, or by an abandoned unprincipled artiste
While, therefore, it cannot be denied that all vir-
tuous emotions are pleasing, it is obvious that the
entire of the emotions arising from Tragedy can-
not be traced to a sense of virtue ; and that, con-
sequently, the aggregate of Tragic Pleasure must
be traced to some more general law of human
nature.
We come now to the theory which ascribes
Tragic Pleasure to sympathy. This is the most
popular theory on the subject, having not only the
bulk of mankind for its supporters, but also some
philosophers and eminent writers : at least, that
they were of this opinion may be easily collected
from their works.
It is usual, however, with philosophers, as with
the rest of mankind, to mistake effects for causes,
of which we have an instance in the theory which
we are now going to examine. Sympathy cannot
64 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
be the cause of any pleasure, for instead of being
a cause, it is an effect : instead of producing plea-
sure, it is itself the very pleasure which it is said
to produce, and of the origin of which we are at
present in pursuit. Whenever we see an innocent
person placed in any situation, which, in our opinion,
renders him more unhappy than we are ourselves,
we feel sensible of an immediate, instinctive emo-
tion which prompts us to solace and alleviate his
sufferings ; and, even if we cannot effect his re-
lief, we still place ourselves in his situation, and
indulge, in a certain degree, the same wishes of
seeing him released that he does himself. It is a
curious fact, however, that we cannot feel this
sanctified emotion in the misfortunes of others,
if we are ourselves more unfortunate than they
are. It is true, indeed, that if we are only equal
to them in distress, we cannot refuse them our
sympathy. We share in their afflictions, because
they assimilate with our own ; but, however un-
fortunate they are, we resist the sympathetic im-
pulse, if we be still more unfortunate ourselves.
This, at least, is the general law of our nature ;
but, like all general laws, it has its exceptions.
We sympathize, for instance,, in the sufferings of
a dear friend, or a near relation, even when they
are less than our own, because, the law which at-
taches us to them, is more powerful than the law
which prevents us from sympathizing with lighter
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 65
evils than those which we ourselves endure. This
general law will easily explain, why adversity in-
durates all the finer susceptibilities of our nature,
and leaves us almost without a particle of com-
miseration for the distresses of others. When-
ever we sympathize, however, in the misfortunes
of any individual, it is clear that the sympathetic
emotion is caused by the circumstances in which
he is placed. It is, therefore, an effect, and not a
cause ; and so are all the emotions and passions
that ever agitated the human breast. They are
never felt until some circumstance occurs which is
calculated to excite them. We know from expe-
rience, that the emotion which we call sympathy,
is a pleasing emotion, which is saying, in other
words, that sympathy is a pleasure. It cannot
be a pleasure, however, according to the theory
which we are now examining, as it makes sympathy
the cause by which the pleasure is produced. The
pleasures which we ascribe to sympathy, therefore,
should be more properly ascribed to the various
circumstances and situations by which various
modifications of sympathy are excited within us.
No two circumstances will produce the same mo-
dification, for the sympathetic emotion will vary in
its degree and character, according to the diver-
sity of the circumstances by which it is excited.
We sympathize in the distress of a parent who
has lost his only son ; we sympathize also in the
F
66 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
distress of a parent who lost one son out of twelve.
In these cases, the sympathetic emotion differs only
in degree ; but when we sympathize in the fate of
two unfortunate lovers, the emotion which we
experience differs from the former, not only in
degree, but likewise in character. In all these
instances, however, the emotion which we feel is
pleasing to us, so that whatever produces a sym-
pathetic emotion, necessarily produces a pleasing
one, for both emotions are but one and the same
impression. We cannot separate the pleasing from
the sympathetic emotion, even in idea; so that it
is perfectly confounding cause and effect to ascribe
the pleasure resulting from Tragic Scenes to sym-
pathy, because sympathy, so far from being the
cause of pleasure, is, Itself, the pleasure which is
said to proceed from some sympathy.
According to Adam Smith's theory of sym-
pathy, comedy should be much more pleasing
to us than tragedy. " We often struggle," he
says, " to keep down our sympathy with the sor-
row of others. Whenever we are not under the
observation of the sufferer we endeavour, for our
own sake, to suppress it as much as we can ; but
we never have occasion to make this opposition to
our sympathy with joy. When there is no envy
in the case, our propensity to sympathize with joy
is much stronger than our propensity to sympa-
thize with sorrow. Adversity depresses the mind
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 67
of the sufferer much more below its natural state
than prosperity can elevate him above it. The spec
tator must, therefore, find it much more difficult
to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time with
his sorrow ; than thoroughly to enter into his joy,
and must depart much further from his own
natural and ordinary temper of mind in the one
case than in the other. It is on this account that,
though our sympathy with sorrow is often a more
pungent sensation than our sympathy with joy, it
always falls much more short of the violence of
what is naturally felt by the person principally
concerned. When we attend to the representation
of a tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic
sorrow which the entertainment inspires, as long
as we can, and we give way to it at last only when
we can no longer avoid it. We even then endea-
vour to cover our concern from the company. If
we shed any tears we carefully conceal them, and
are afraid lest the spectators, not entering into this
excessive tenderness, should regard it as effeminacy
and weakness."
This theory of sympathy would appear to have
been written by a person who drew his observa-
tions from his own feelings, but who, unhap-
pily, had no sympathetic feeling to consult. If
our propensity to sympathize with joy be much
stronger than our propensity to sympathize with
sorrow, why do we prefer tragedies to comedies ?
f2
68 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
why do the former bring fuller houses ? and why
are the deepest tragedies the most interesting of
all others ?
However we may reason on the subject, there-
fore, experience proves, that the pleasure which
w r e derive from sympathizing with the misfortunes
of others, imparts a delight which we would not
exchange for all the unprized, and undignified plea-
sure that can be extracted from the most rapturous
bursts of merriment. The fact is, that the more
extravagantly we perceive a person indulge his
joyful sensations, the less we are inclined to sym-
pathize with him ; whereas our sympathy always
increases with the deepening depth of affliction.
We resist the sympathetic emotions, in the one case,
and we feel pleased with ourselves for doing so ; or,
if we indulge it in the extreme, so far from claiming
credit for our sympathy, we blush to reflect upon it ;
while, in the other, we give free indulgence to all
the luxury of grief. The reason of this approbation
and disapprobation is obvious, however difficult it
may be to account for the pleasure that accom-
panies our grief. Immoderate joy is the pleasure
not only of weak but of little minds. No sensation
should be stronger than the agency of the cause
by which it is excited, and the causes that pro-
duce joy can never act with such intensity on the
risible part of our nature, as the causes that are
productive of grief and torment. The most heart-
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 69
felt joy bears no proportion to the most agonizing
pain ; not only, because there is no proportion be-
tween the intensity of these opposite sensations, at
the moment, but because the reflection with which
each of them is attended, serves to abate the one
in the same proportion that it increases the other.
However elevated or enraptured we may be by the
excitement of the moment, we know, that this
excitement will be of short duration, even though
the cause which produces it should continue through
life ; for we are so constituted by nature, that the
strongest excitement soon loses its effect upon us,
and the more powerfully it is suffered to act, the
greater is the depression by which it is followed.
A consciousness, therefore, of the short-lived nature
of excessive joy serves to moderate its indulgence
in all rational minds ; and, consequently, we refuse
to sympathize with him who places no restraint
upon it, because if he choose to forget, we, who are
mere spectators, cannot forget, that this paroxysm
will soon be at an end ; and, therefore, it moderates
our joy, at least, if it does not moderate his. The
reflection that accompanies grief or pain serves,
on the contrary, not only to increase it, but to in-
crease our sympathy for its unhappy victim. No
man can properly be said to be in grief, who has
a certainty, that the cause of his uneasiness is
only to continue a few days or hours. The man
who is thrown into prison for life, and confined in
70 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
a cold, dark, and cheerless dungeon, not only feels
the physical pain of the moment, but increases it
by reflecting, that death only can put an end to his
sufferings. The lover who weeps over the grave
of her whose presence was his heaven, whose image
was his paradise, but whom even the madden-
ing dreams of delusive hope can no longer restore
to his ardent wishes, feels not only all the pains
and grief of separation, but all those deeper and
indescribable torments suggested by the reflection
that this separation must last for ever. Immode-
rate joy can arise only from physical impulses, for
mental pleasures are of a more chastened and re-
fined nature ; but grief has not only to contend
with the physical pains of the moment, but with
those eternally mingled and multiplied associations
w T hich force themselves upon the imagination, or
which this busy and inventive faculty cannot re-
frain from creating, even when they plunge it in all
the gloom and horrors of despair.
When Mr. Smith says, that ''adversity depresses
the mind of the sufferer much more below its
natural state than prosperity can elevate him above
it," he evidently confounds the person who suffers
with him who sympathizes in his sufferings, when
he infers from this depression our unwillingness to
indulge in sympathy with sorrow. He should have
recollected, however, that in treating of sympathy,
we should rest our principles, not upon him who
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 71
suffers, or who endures this adversity, but upon
him who sympathizes in his calamity. The suffer-
ing man feels no sympathy himself, for it is a fact,
supported by experience, that he who suffers pain
is incapable of sympathizing in the pains of others,
unless they are still greater than his own. Hence
it is, that adversity blunts all the finer feelings and
sensibilities of the heart, and makes us strangers
to that sympathetic and tender commiseration
which glows in the bosoms of those who are them-
selves strangers to the pangs of adversity. To say
that the pains of such sympathy "depresses the
mind," is to say what is the very reverse of the
fact ; for we never feel ourselves more ennobled, we
are never so pleased and gratified with ourselves as
when we feel ourselves yielding to the divine and
hallowed impulse of sympathy or commiseration
with the sufferings of others. In fact, it is only
great and noble minds that are capable of this
feeling, and so far from regretting the pains and
humiliation which, Mr. Smith says, accompanies
it ; there is no reflection to which they recur with
more pride and pleasure, than that which reminds
them of it. It proves not only a guardian angel
that warns them against the seductions of vice, but
which eternally prompts them to pursue that un-
sullied course of life which is the parent of great
and generous emotions ; of those emotions which
not only impart all the felicity that can be enjoyed
72 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
in this life, but which realize by their secret im-
pulses, and indescribable communications, a por-
tion of that inheritance which we anticipate in the
next. The slightest inclination to levity, the slight-
est temptation to stray from the paths of virtue
and honour, is instantly extinguished, the moment
we reflect on those emotions by which we felt our-
selves ennobled when we sympathized with virtue
in distress ; for to say that we can sympathize with
vice, that we can identify ourselves with the pains
and sufferings of him who leads a life of iniquity,
who has spent his life in studying to promote his
own interests, at the expense of others, is to say,
that we are ourselves, if I may use a vulgar expres-
sion, a chip of the same block. Congenial natures
ouly can sympathize with each other; and, there-
fore, however we may pity, we cannot sympathize
with him whose principles of conduct have been
at variance with those which we ourselves hold
sacred. However afflicted we perceive any indi-
vidual to be, we repress, as much as we can, our
sympathetic emotions, or, at least, those incipient
impulses that prompt us to sympathize with hirn,
if he be a stranger, until we discover whether he
has brought this affliction upon himself by aban-
donment of principle, or profligacy of character ;
and if we discover that he has, the small degree of
sympathy which we could not entirely suppress
while we remained in doubt, becomes instantly
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 73
extinct. We may still, perhaps, continue to pity,
but we cannot sympathize. Our sympathies can
only be elicited by those in whom we perceive no
quality or disposition of mind which we ourselves
would blush to avow. " Sympathy," to use the
words of a French writer, " is that reciprocity of
affection and of inclination, that quick communi-
cation of one heart with another, which is imparted
and felt with an inexplicable rapidity ; it is that
conformity of natural qualities, ideas, humours
and tempers, by which two kindred spirits seek
each other, love each other, become attached to
each other, and melt into one."* Whatever draws
the heart to any object, the sensation or passion by
which it is drawn is a sympathetic emotion, and
therefore love is the strongest of all sympathies,
and hatred the strongest of all antipathies. In
proportion as any two natures resemble each
other, will they approach to each other; and in
proportion as they differ from each other, will
they recoil. As sympathy, then, is the opposite
to antipathy, it can exist only between kindred
* Cette convenance d'affection et d'inclination, cette intelli-
gence des cceurs communiqule rtfpendue, sentie avec une rapidite
inexplicable j cette conformity des qualit^s naturelles, d'id^es,
d'humeurs, et de temperamens par laquelle deux ames assorties,
se cherclient, s'aiment, s'attachent l'une a l'autre se confondent
ensemble, c'est ce qu'on nomine Sympathie.— Encyclopedic. At-
tide, Sympathie.
74 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
natures, or, at least, its degree will always depend
on the degree of affinity that exists between them.
It is this affinity that causes affection, and this
affection is only another name for sympathy. I
cannot, therefore, agree with Mr. Smith, that "we
often struggle to keep down our sympathy with the
sorrows of others," and " suppress it as much as
we can, whenever we are not under their observa-
tion." In fact, the person who sympathizes with
his suffering friend only while he is in his presence,
and seeks to suppress his sympathy the moment
he departs, is only he who works himself into a
false sympathy, and assumes a virtue which he
does not feel, in order to impose on his friend.
Such a man is a hypocrite, and if he believe that
that emotion which he endeavours to suppress,
after departing from his friend, was real sympathy,
it only proves, that sympathy is a virtue, of which
he who never felt it, wishes to believe himself pos-
sessed. Such is the power of virtue over the human
mind, that the most hardened villain endeavours to
reconcile himself with his conscience, and ascribes
his evil actions either to temptation or necessity, so
that his system of reasoning, as well as his self-
love, makes him believe, that he has many good
qualities, and that he is, at bottom, as good as
others. It is so with sympathy: so sweet and
humanizing are its charms, and so peculiarly does
it mark out those who are most susceptible of its
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 75
sacred impulse, as the peculiar favourites of heaven,
that even the man whose stubborn and intractable
nature has never suffered him to feel the pleasing
luxury of woe, cannot endure to be thought inca-
pable of sympathetic emotions. He therefore en-
deavours to work himself into a false sympathy,
while he is in the presence of his suffering friend,
but the moment he departs, he seeks to work him-
self out of it. He finds it is not natural to him ;
he is of too gross and earthly a mould to cherish
so ennobling and divine a sensation. He therefore
shakes it off, and returns to his natural insensibi-
lity. We are always uneasy while we are out of
our natural element.
Naturam expellas, furca tamen usque rccurret.
Or, as Juvenal expresses it,
Custode et cura natura potentlor omnl.
We do not, then, as Mr. Smith affirms " strug-
gle to keep down our sympathies with the sorrows
of others, whenever we are not under their obser-
vation," but we endeavour to suppress that mock
sympathy which we attempted to impose upon them
for genuine. Real sympathy, so far from depress-
ing, ennobles the mind ; so far from seeking to
suppress, we cherish it as the most sacred pledge
of our humanity, the most pleasing, because the
most virtuous, impulse of which we ever felt con-
scious.
76 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
,...,» Ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often nils his arms, — so often draws
His lonely foot-steps, at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ?
Oh ! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds
Should ne er seduce his bosom to forget
That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes,
With virtue's kindest look, his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture.
Sympathy, then, so far from depressing, not only
ennobles us, as I have just observed, but turns our
very "tears to rapture;" — so far from struggling to
suppress it, " the wealth of worlds cannot seduce
us to forego it." Mr. Smith has, therefore, taken a
most erroneous view of the nature of sympathy,
when he says, that we " find it much more difficult
to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time with
sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into joy ;" for if
we have the least difficulty in the former case, it is
impossible, by any effort of nature, to make us
sympathize at all. We may pity, — we may com-
miserate, — a cold sense of duty may make us per-
form all the kind offices to the sufferer, which the
virtue of charity inculcates ; but still we may not
feel a particle of sympathy ; for all this may be done
where the object of our pity is the most depraved
and abandoned of human beings ; but sympathy
cannot be created or excited within us by any effort
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 77
of our own ; it must come of its own accord, or
not come at all ; it must come upon us like a thief,
and,, in general, its approaches are secret and im-
perceptible. We cannot, by any effort of our own,
create any unmixed feeling, such as sympathy, joy,
hatred, &c. They can result only from the opera-
tion of some external influence, and our suscepti-
bility of yielding to the influence exercised over
us. Neither of these causes can, of itself, produce
any unmixed feeling within us ; it always requires
the co-operation of both. No agency can, of itself,
excite sympathy, joy, or hatred, if our natures are
averse to their indulgence ; that is, if we be so or-
ganized as to have a natural antipathy for hatred,
joy, or sympathy ; nor can any disposition of our
natures to the indulgence of these feelings, enable
us to excite them by any effort of our own, without
the co-operation of some external influence. No
man ever fell into a fit, or paroxysm of joy, but
could tell what caused it. He can always point
out something that excited this extraordinary burst
of merriment. It is so with hatred : no man, how-
ever formed by nature with a disposition for hatred,
can feel this passion, until some object or quality,
repulsive to his feelings, awaken it in his breast.
Sympathy, in like manner, cannot be felt by the
kindest and the most humane of mortals, until
some object fitted to excite it presents itself to his
view. When Mr. Smith therefore savs, " it is more
78 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
difficult to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect
time with sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into
joy," he evidently imagines, that we can create
feelings of ourselves, without any assistance from
external agency. He does not perceive, that where
such an agency is exercised over us, there can be
no difficulty in yielding to it, if we are susceptible
of the feeling which it is calculated to excite, and
that if we are not, no effort can enable us to feel its
influence. Hence it requires no greater effort on our
part to enter into, and become possessed of the most
powerful passions, those passions that carry us far-
thest from our " own natural and ordinary temper
of mind," than to yield to the slightest modes of feel-
ing, simply because it requires no effort whatever
in either case. The slightest sensation which we
feel cannot be produced without a cause or agency :
the strongest sensation, emotion, or passion, re-
quires an agency proportionately strong. Where
such agencies are exercised, the one produces its
effect with the same ease as, and with neither more
nor less difficulty than, the other. If Thomas be
four times stronger than James, he lifts four hun-
dred weight with as much ease as, and with neither
more nor less difficulty than, James can lift one
hundred. This law holds good throughout the
immense, and perhaps the illimitable, creation,
which is subject to the dominion of cause and effect.
Thus it is, that Lear found no greater difficulty in
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 79
departing from his "own natural, and ordinary tem-
per of mind/' and becoming an irreclaimable, im-
medicable, incurable madman, than the drunkard
feels in passing from a state of sobriety to that of
intoxication. Neither Lear became mad, nor
Anacreon drunk, without a cause sufficient to pro-
duce the effect ; and where such a cause exists, it
is contrary to the laws of Nature, if the effect does
not follow it. There is no difficulty, therefore, in
departing from our " natural and ordinary temper
of mind," where there is a sufficient impulse to
force us from it : the great difficulty consists, not
in yielding to the impulse, but in resisting it. I
must, at the same time, confess myself entirely
ignorant of what Mr. Smith means by "Sympa-
thizing entirely, and keeping perfect time with sor-
row ;" for if he mean that we do not sympathize
entirely as much as the person who is the object of
our sympathy, I reply, that we sympathize infinitely
more if we sympathize at all ; simply, because he
who is wrestling in the pangs of affliction, cannot,
as I have already observed, sympathize in the least.
It is only he who is free from all pain and affliction
himself, that can properly sympathize in the woes
of others. " The happy man," as Helvetius ob-
serves, "is humane: he is the couching lion." The
unhappy man retires within himself: he has no
sympathy to impart ; all external influences lose
their effect upon him ; he is dark, gloomy, and
80 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
irresponsive; and therefore, however much we may
lament his misfortunes, however much we may
sympathize in his griefs, however willing we may
be to excuse his insensibility, which we should
always do, if it arise from the circumstances in
which he is placed, and not from the natural inflex-
ibility or insensibility of his disposition, we must
not expect, that all these indulgences, nor all the
marks of attention, kindness, and regret which we
can express towards him, can make him sympa-
thize with us as strongly as we sympathize with
him, until he is first placed in the enjoyment of
equal happiness with ourselves. He feels grati-
tude, it is true, but gratitude is not sympathy. Mr.
Smith, then, either means nothing, or means what
is wrong, when he says, that we cannot " sympa-
thize entirely with his sorrow ;" for if he mean by
entirely, that we do not sympathize as much as
he does, it is evident from the preceding observa-
tions, that we sympathize infinitely more; for as the
smallest particle of matter is infinitely greater than
nothing, in consequence of its divisibility ad infi-
nitum, so must his total want of sympathy be
infinitely less than the degree of sympathy which
we feel, however slight it may be in itself. If he
mean by sympathizing " entirely" that our sym-
pathy is not sufficiently strong, I reply, that the
entirety of sympathy does not depend on the degree
in which it is felt. Though all modes of feeling are
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURES. 8i
not equally strong, yet they are all equally whole
and entire, as the particular degree in which any
mode is felt can have no relation to the property
that constitutes its essence or entirety. Feeling*,
like the soul, of which it is a mere affection, is
incapable of being divided into parts, and what-
ever is incapable of parts is equally incapable of
being made more or less entire than it is already.
If not, no degree of sympathy would be entire,
as a higher degree would be more entire, an ex-
pression which is neither sense nor grammar. It is
not, therefore, so difficult as Mr. Smith imagines, to
sympathize entirely with sorrow; and he himself, in
a few lines after, gives a clear proof of it. " When
we attend," he says, " to the representation of a
tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic sor-
row which the entertainment inspires, as long as
we can, and we give way to it at last only when
we can no longer avoid it. We even then endea-
vour to cover our concern from the company. If
we shed any tears, we carefully conceal them, and
are afraid lest the spectators, not entering into this
excessive tenderness, should regard it as effeminacy
and weakness." How Mr. Smith could suppose
that these observations, admitting them to be true,
and, with regard to the majority of cultivated
society, they undoubtedly are so, is a proof that
sympathy with sorrow is not so natural and pleas-
ing to us as sympathy with joy, I am at a loss to
G
82 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
determine. To me it appears, that stronger argu-
ments cannot be adduced, to prove that the former
sympathy is, beyond all comparison, the most
natural and congenial to our feelings. When we
struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which
tragedy inspires, is it not evident that we struggle
against our own nature ; that we are endeavouring
to suppress its natural operations, and the sympa-
thetic affections to which it wishes us to resign our-
selves? Our struggling against them by no means
proves, that they are unnatural and displeasing to
us ; for if so, it follows, that whatever the fashion-
able world profess to be displeased with, must be
naturally displeasing, antecedent to fashion and to
its influence over the mind. This, we know, is not
the fact : natural pleasures, and natural manners,
are pleasing to all men, and the fashionable man
professes to despise them only because he has
suffered himself to become a slave to principles
which have no foundation in nature. It is so in
the case before us : when we struggle against the
sympathetic emotions of sorrow, we connect our-
selves with the fashionable world ; for if we acted
according to the laws of our nature, we should, so
far from struggling, yield instinctively to this de-
lightful emotion. It is not the emotion, then, that
is unnatural, but the act by which we endeavour
to suppress it. Should it be objected, that we would
not endeavour to suppress it, if it were not natural
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 83
for us to do so, I reply, that no man would endea-
vour to suppress it, if he were alone, and unobserv-
ed. We repress it only because each of us is, unhap-
pily, vain enough to suppose, that his countenance is
watched by those around him ; and, as it is not sanc-
tioned by the rules of fashionable life to appear ex-
ternally affected by internal emotions, we endeavour
to suppress, I must say unnaturally, those affec-
tions and passions by which we are agitated, and
which nature only could have originally inspired.
It is idle, then, to suppose, that when we " endea-
vour to cover our concern from the company," we
do so because it is unnatural to feel affected at the
time. In such cases, we are always determined,
not by our own feelings, but by what we suppose to
be the opinion of others. We throw aside the im-
mutable standard of nature, and are blindly guided
by the capricious standard of fashion. The truth of
these observations will be placed beyond all doubt,
if we look to the manners of natural society, where
we find no restraint placed on the external signs
of passion. Pleasure and pain, love and hatred,
hope and fear, are no sooner felt, than they are ex-
pressed in the countenance, without being in the
least tempered or modified by any unnatural strug-
gle to suppress them, or to silence that natural
language, in which theyso eloquently express them-
selves. If, as Cicero says, Omnis motus animi, suum
quendam a natura habet vultum et sonum, et gestum,
g2
84 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
surely it must be admitted, that such external signs
of internal emotions, are natural and agreeable to
us, and, if so, the struggles of those who endeavour
to suppress them, are consequently unnatural.
" Excessive joy," says Lord Kaimes, " is expressed
by leaping, dancing, or some elevation of the body:
excessive grief, by sinking or depressing it." Which
is it, then, more philosophical to conclude, that these
are natural signs of natural passions, or to main-
tain with Mr. Smith, that, because some people
struggle to suppress them, which is evidently done
from an apprehension of appearing vulgar, they
are neither natural nor agreeable to us. That they
are natural, I believe no one will deny, but that
they are agreeable, may not, perhaps, be so impli-
citly and universally admitted. It requires, how-
ever, only a little reflection to perceive, that what-
ever is natural is always more agreeable than that
which is opposed to it. He who manifests his joy
by dancing and leaping, is certainly happier than
he who endeavours to suppress these signs of his
passion ; and the spectator who approves of, and
sympathizes in his enjoyment, is also happier in
indulging this sympathy, than the cold disciple of
fashion, who affects to smile at his want of taste. It
is so with grief: the person who yields to it with-
out resistance is happier than he whose stubborn
nature will not suffer him to bend to it. Hence,
tears prove always the greatest relief to theafflicted,
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 85
while he who is incapable of shedding them, is a
prey to the most agonizing' and tormenting pain.
The remainder of Mr. Smith's theory of sympa-
thy is, as may reasonably be expected, equally
erroneous ; for he who mistakes his way at the
commencement, can afterwards go right only by
chance. While we detect error, however, we are
not justified in condemning it, or, more properly
speaking, we are not justified in attributing it to
the absence of intellectual power. Error reposes
under the shade of the highest authorities, for who
has been able to avoid its snares. The retreats of
certainty are frequently concealed from us in impe-
netrable darkness, so that inspiration alone, or the
secret guidance of instinct, can sometimes lead us to
the wizard and unfrequented haunts in which it has
fixed its abode. It escapes, when it lists, all the
acumen and penetration of genius, and all the ana-
lyzing discrimination and researches of philosophy.
But while the contracted bounds of human intel-
lection oblige us to excuse error, we cannot so
easily forgive inconsistency. One fundamental
error leads to a thousand more ; but inconsistency
is always the offspring of immediate inattention,
or confusion of ideas. While, therefore, we excuse
the continuity of error which marks the remainder
of Mr. Smith's Theory, we cannot so easily pass
over its palpable inconsistencies. " When we con-
dole, 5 ' he says, "with our friends in their afflictions,
86 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
how little do we feel in comparison to what they
feel. We sit down by them, we look at them ; and
while they relate to us the circumstances of their
misfortunes, we listen to them with gravity and
attention. But while their narration is every
moment interrupted by those natural bursts of
passion, which often seem almost to choke them
in the midst of it, how far are the languid emo-
tions of our hearts from keeping tune to the trans-
ports of theirs. We may be sensible, at the same
time, that their passion is natural, and no greater
than what we ourselves might feel upon the like
occasion. We may even inwardly reproach our-
selves with our want of sensibility, and, perhaps, on
that account, work ourselves up into an artificial
sympathy, which, however, when it is raised, is
always the slightest and most transitory imagi-
nable, and, generally, when we have left the room,
vanishes, and is gone for ever."
From the first sentence in this passage Mr.
Smith wishes to infer, that as we do not feel the
afflictions of another as much as he feels himself, we
are more inclined to sympathize with joy than with
sorrow. This inference was certainly never de-
duced from the philosophy of human nature, or
the common feelings of mankind ; for, however
deeply we may feel for the misfortunes of a friend,
it is obvious that our feelings must be entirely
of a different character from his. The character
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 87
of every feeling is determined by the cause or cir-
cumstances by which it is produced. There can be
no affinity or similarity of feeling' between Henry,
who is so passionately enamoured of Eliza that he
would sacrifice his life to preserve her's, and James,
who bears her such mortal hatred that he would
instantly suffer death if it could only lead to her
destruction. Both feelings are equally intense ; but
as the one proceeds from love, the other from
hatred, no comparison can be instituted between
them. While ever the causes of feeling are dif-
ferent, the feelings themselves must be equally so.
It is therefore impossible, that he who suffers under
any affliction, and he who sympathizes in his suf-
ferings, can ever feel alike. The feelings of the
former are caused by the situation in which he is
placed, or the bodily pains by which he is afflicted,
but those of the latter cannot arise from either of
these causes, as he is neither placed in the same
situation, nor tormented by the same pains. He
has no feelings on the occasion but what are
entirely of a mental character, as they arise, not
from any physical causes or circumstances affect-
ing himself. All his feelings, at the moment, are
excited, by reflecting on the situation of his friend,
and his distressed state of mind. His feelings are
therefore caused by reflection, which is a mental
act, whereas those of his friend are produced by
real, sensible causes, namely, the situation in which
88 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
he is placed, or the physical pains which he is ac-
tually enduring. He, therefore, who sympathizes
can never feel like the person with whom he sym-
pathizes, unless he be placed in the same situation,
or afflicted by the same pains, in which case his
sympathy, is at an end, and he only feels for him-
self. It is therefore perfectly inconsistent to in-
stitute any comparison between the feelings of him
who suffers, and him who sympathizes in his suffer-
ngs, as they can never be of the same character,
unless the latter can fancy himself in the situation
of the former, that is, unless he can part with his
senses, in which case, his feelings are not those of
sympathy but of actual suffering.
If, however, it should be said, that Mr. Smith
does not allude to any similarity of feeling between
them, and only means to express the small degree
of sympathy which we are apt to feel for our suf-
fering friends ; he is, even in this case, as inconsis-
tent as in the former. If he spoke from his own
experience, he rested his assertion on the most fal-
lacious and uncertain ground, as the degree of
sympathy which he usually felt for his suffering
friends could by no means determine the degree
in which it is felt by others. Cold, phlegmatic
dispositions (and philosophers not unfrequently are
found among this class) feel little or no sympathy
for distress of any kind ; but even among men of
more sanguine temperaments, the degrees of sym-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 89
pathy are as different as the different degrees of
susceptibility imparted to them by nature. In fact,
we can never pretend to say whether an individual
will feel a " little/' or a great degree of sympathy,
unless we are very intimately acquainted with hirn,
and have sufficient opportunities of ascertaining his
natural susceptibility of feeling. Nor can even
this knowledge enable us to decide, if the person
with whose distress he sympathizes be not a total
stranger to him ; for, with regard to our friends,
our sympathy depends as much on accidental biases,
and peculiar relations, as on our natural suscepti-
bility of impressions. Hence, he who has several
unfortunate friends, cannot sympathize alike with
any two of them, because the degree of sympathy
which he feels for each of them, will depend on the
degree of affliction endured, and the degree of at-
tachment which he had previously felt for him who
endures it. Mr. Smith, therefore, manifests no very
extensive knowledge of human nature, when he
says, that while our friends " relate to us the cir-
cumstances of their misfortunes, we listen to them
with gravity and attention," for if some of us do so,
there are many among us who listen to them with
very different feelings, and whose tears bear testi-
mony to the sensibility of their hearts. Theirs is
not that " artificial sympathy which generally va-
nishes when we have left the room, and is gone for
ever ;" and I cannot help repeating, that Mr. Smith
90 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
would seem to have taken his theory of sympathy,
and particularly his idea of artificial sympathy, from
observations made on the state of his own feelings,
whenever his sympathy was called for. A little
philosophy, however, would have taught him, that
in this, as in all other cases, the feelings of one
man can never determine the feelings of another.
What follows is still worse ; " It is on account of
this dull insensibility to the afflictions of others,
that magnaminity amidst great distress appears
always so divinely graceful. We feel what an im-
mense effort is requisite to silence those violent
emotions which naturally agitate and distract those
in his situation. We are amazed to find that he
can command himself so entirely. His firmness,
at the same time, perfectly coincides with our in-
sensibility. He makes no demand upon us for that
more exquisite degree of sensibility which we find,
and which we are mortified to find, that we do not
possess. There is the most perfect correspondence
between his sentiments and ours ; and, on that ac-
count, the most perfect propriety in his behaviour.
" Whenever we meet in common life with any
examples of such heroic magnanimity, we are al-
ways extremely affected. We are more apt to
weep and shed tears for such as, in this manner,
seem to feel nothing for themselves, than those who
give way to all the the weakness of sorrow. And
in this particular case, the sympathetic grief of the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 91
spectator appears to go beyond the original passion
in the person principally concerned. The friends of
Socrates all wept when he drank the last potion, while
he himself expressed the gayest and most cheerful
tranquillity. Upon all such occasions, the spectator
makes no effort, and has no occasion to make any,
in order to conquer his sympathetic sorrow. He is
under no fear that it will transport him to any
thing that is extravagant and improper; he is
rather pleased with the sensibility of his own heart,
and gives way to it with complacence and self-ap-
probation. He gladly indulges, therefore, the
most melancholy views which can naturally occur
to him, concerning the calamity of his friend, for
whom, perhaps, he never felt so exquisitely before
the tender and tearful passion of love. But it is quite
otherwise with the person principally concerned.
He is obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his
eyes from whatever is either naturally terrible or
disagreeable in his situation. Too serious an atten-
tion to those circumstances he fears might make so
violent an impression upon him, that he could no
longer keep within the bounds of moderation, or
render himself the object of the complete sympathy
and approbation of the spectators. He fixes his
thoughts, therefore, upon those only which are agree-
able, the applause and admiration which he is about
to deserve by the heroic magnanimity of his behavi-
our. To feel that he is capable of so noble and ge-
nerous an effort, to feel that lie can act in this
92 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
dreadful situation, as he would desire to act, ani-
mates and transports him with joy, and enables
him to support that triumphant gaiety which seems
to exult in the victory he thus gains over his mis-
fortunes."
The " dull insensibility" here spoken of can be-
long only to minds which are naturally insensible;
and with regard to them the laws of sympathy can
have no reference. The conclusions which Mr.
Smith draws from this dulness are, therefore, erro-
neous ; nor is that " magnanimity amidst great
distress, so divinely graceful" as he imagines. He
who makes " an immense effort to silence those
violent emotions which naturally agitate and dis-
tract those in his situation," is not the person most
calculated to excite our sympathy ; and though I
agree with Mr. Smith, that " we are amazed to
find that he can command himself so entirely ;*'
I deny the conclusion which he draws from it,
namely, that " we are more apt to weep and shed
tears for such as in this manner feel nothing for
themselves." On the contrary, our amazement, so
far from exciting our sympathy, or making us shed
tears, suppresses the one, and dries up the other.
Admiration is destructive of all those softer feelings
which associate with sympathy and love. The
frailties and weaknesses of minds naturally virtu-
ous, are the true inspirers of sympathy. We
cannot sympathize with him whom we admire,,
because we can admire only those who rank above
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 93
ourselves either in mental or personal accomplish-
ments. Such accomplishments, however, instead of
sympathy and affection, excite pride and jealousy.
" It is the soft green of the soul," as Mr. Burke says,
" on which we rest our eyes that are fatigued with
beholding more glaring objects." I have already ob-
served, that only kindred natures can sympathize
with each other ; but there are certain qualities
which are pleasing to all men, and with which,
consequently, all men sympathize. The most re-
markable of these is weakness. We admire strength
and greatness of mind, but we are conscious of no
impulse that prompts us to approach and sympa-
thize with it. Rivalry or emulation is the only pas-
sion which it can excite, and if we want this ambi-
tion, we retire from its glare to commune with
weaknesses and frailties congenial with our own.
With him who claims not our assistance, who has
within himself all the resources of which he stands
in need, and who is too proud and unbending to be
indebted to others, we cannot sympathize. He has
no quality that we can love. His unsocial, un-
bending, uninviting disposition has no claim to
attract us, none of that yielding amiability of man-
ners that win the soul, and melt into sympathy the
most stubborn and inflexible natures.
But if we really " weep and shed tears for him
who feels nothing for himself," how can we be told
that his firmness perfectly coincides with our in-
sensibility.
94 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
Besides, whatever is unnatural is, from the very
constitution of our nature, both offensive and re-
pulsive to us. When, therefore, we behold a person
in misfortune endure it with stoic apathy, when we
perceive that he affects to be unaffected by it, we
feel instinctively that his inflexibility arises from
pride, or real insensibility and doggishness of cha-
racter. With neither of these can we sympathize:
to pride we have a natural antipathy, and with a
man of a hardened and indurated mind, we cannot
enter into that communion of feeling which is the
soul of sympathy, because we know that he is him-
self incapable of sympathizingin the woes of others.
Such a man, however, is more worthy, if not of our
sympathy, at least of our pity, than he whose feign-
ed insensibility arises from pride, and the desire of
gaining iC the applause and admiration" of others ;
for he adds hypocrisy to pride : he feels pain, but
he affects not to feel it; he is in torment, but he
will not acknowledge it. If this be not hypocrisy,
I know not what is. Are we then to sympathize
with a hypocrite, to weep and shed tears with him?
when we refuse it to those who openly impart to
us the torments and anxieties that distract their
mind ? Such an avowal is a compliment to our
humanity, for no person acknowledges his suffer-
ings to him whom he knows incapable of sympa-
thizing in them. Hence it is, that we are communi-
cative only to those who are communicative them-
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 95
selves, who acknowledge to us all the secrets of
their heart, all the fears, anxieties, weaknesses,
and frailties to which they are subject. From such
people we conceal nothing, and our sympathy for
them, under affliction, extends even to their faults.
On the contrary, however much we may respect
and confide in the honour of an individual who
seeks not our sympathy, who despises the balm of
human consolation, and seeks for comfort only in
communing with his own mind, we cannot prevail
upon ourselves to communicate to him either our
hopes or fears, our enjoyments or privations, our
pains or pleasures. From such a man we recede
by a sort of instinctive impulse, which we can
neither account for nor controul.
Mr. Smith and many other writers have, no
doubt, taken this erroneous theory of sympathy
from Aristotle, who reproves those tragic writers
that put whining, exaggerated complaints into the
mouths of their characters.* Perceiving the pro-
priety of Aristotle's reproof, they have gone into
the opposite extreme, and maintained, that he who
does not complain at all, is he who is most apt to
excite our sympathy. Here, however, as in all
other cases, extremes meet ; and the one extreme
is as barren of sympathy as the other. No one
can excite our sympathy who does not appear to
* Poetic S. xxviii.
% PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
stand in need of it ; and therefore a perfect cha-
racter has no business on the stage, because he can
never acknowledge himself in need of our assis-
tance. Such an acknowledgement is a confession
of weakness, and a confession of weakness is
virtually a confession of imperfection. Perfection
wants nothing, seeks for nothing, and, therefore,
neither claims, nor is entitled to sympathy. Hence
we find, that a perfect character has never succeed-
ed on the stage, because he has never excited
either sympathy or interest. It is only he who is
subject to all the turmoils and impetuosity of the
passions, to all the weaknesses and imperfections
of human nature, that can ever create our sympa-
thy, or interest us in his fate.i The most interesting
character, it is true, is a man endowed by nature
with a virtuous disposition, but carried away, at the
same time, by ungovernable passions ; but let him
only trample upon these passions and return to his
original virtuous disposition, and we take no further
interest in him ; — we find he is no object of that
sympathy, which, to the credit of human nature be
it spoken, we are unwilling to bestow where it is not
wanted. But, though such a man, while he yielded
to his passions, was more interesting than an evil-
disposed man, actuated by the same passions, the
most abandoned character would be more inte-
resting than him, after his return to virtue, pro-
vided that, with all his abandonment of prin-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE, 97
ciple, he was subject to passion. There is that in
the nature of passion, which leads us to believe,
(and our belief is well founded) that whoever
yields to it acts blindly at the moment, whether
he be naturally a good or an evil man. Virtue
and vice have no affinity whatever with passion,
the former consisting- in an inclination to what is
good, the latter in a propensity to what is evil,
Passion, however, is neither good nor evil, virtuous
nor vicious, in itself, though yielding to it is
sometimes a vice, and resisting it sometimes a
virtue. It is the act of volition which we exer-
cise, in consenting to the gratification of cer-
tain passions that constitutes vice, for the im-
pulse that prompts us to it can have nothing of
evil in it, though it prompts to evil. If the im-
pulse itself were evil, God would be the author of
evil, because we are so constituted as to be subject
to these impulses. The virtuous and the vicious
are, therefore, equally subject to the dominion of
passion, and when it proves too powerful for them,
it leads them blindly along, and extinguishes the
light of reason at the moment. Hence it is, that
we have some pity even for the evil-minded man,
when we see him obeying, not the dictates of his
natural and habitual villainy, but those passions
to which we are ourselves subject, and to which,
perhaps, we would have equally yielded, had we
been in his situation. In fact, passion, so far from
98 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
making a villain appear more detestable, makes
him appear infinitely more amiable* It shews us,
that, with all his abandonment of principle, he is
still one of ourselves, subject to the same weak-
nesses, governed by the same impulses. Passion,
therefore, humanizes him, makes him approach
nearer to us, and gives him so strong a claim
upon our sympathy, that we cannot totally with-
hold it from him. There can, therefore, be no
sympathy where there is no passion to excite it :
deprive this evil-minded man of all his passions,
teach him to act the villain coolly and deliberately,
let him always be governed by selfish and interested
motives, but never yield, in the slightest degree, to
the influence of passion, and we instantly spurn
him from our presence: — he is no longer the object
of our commiseration or pity.
Neither virtue nor vice, then, can excite our
sympathy without passion, though we continue to
respect the one, and to detest the other; but,
wherever passion appears, no degree of vice can
prevent it from softening our nature, and exciting
our commiseration or pity ; whereas, in its ab-
sence, no degree of virtue can affect or move
us. Hence it is, that the evil characters in the
Paradise Lost, are more interesting than the good
characters. Throughout the Paradise Lost, says
Mr. Payne Knight, " the infernal excite more
interest than the celestial personages, because their
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 99
passions and affections are more violent and ener-
getic."*
How then can it be maintained, that, for him
who makes ' ff no demand upon us for that more
exquisite degree of sensibility which we find, and
which we are mortified to find that we do not
possess,-^ we are more apt to weep and shed
tears," — for him who thus appears to be placed
totally above the influence of passion, — than for the
man whose passions and frailties give him the
strongest claim to our sympathy? It is surprising,
at the same time, that Mr. Smith should say, " his
firmness perfectly corresponds with our insensibi-
lity," with that want of "sensibility which we
find, and which we are sorry to find that we do not
possess," and say, a few lines after, that, " we are
more apt to weep and shed tears," for him, " than
for those who give way to all the weaknesses of
sorrow." If we are insensible to his suffering, —
if we find, to our mortification, that we possess no
sensibility, how is it we happen " to weep and
shed tears ?" Is not this weeping, and are not
* Analytical Inquiry into the Principles of Taste.— P. 362.
f It is highly unphilosophic to suppose, that the want of any
thing can mortify us, which is not natural to us j and, considered
in a moral point of view, the idea is unworthy the great Architect
of Nature. The individual who regrets the want of any virtue,
proves that the virtue is natural to his species, though not to
himself.
h2
100 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
these tears, some proof of sensibility ? If we " make
no effort, and have no occasion to make any, in
order to conquer our sympathetic sorrow," for this
stoic personage which Mr. Smith describes, how
can we be told, that " we often struggle to keep
down our sympathy with the misfortunes of others ?"
If we " are rather pleased with the sensibility of
our own heart, and give way to it with compla-
cence and self- approbation," how can it be affirmed,
that " we give way to it only when we can no
longer avoid it ?" In a word, how can we be re-
proached with u our dull insensibility to the mis-
fortunes of others," and of our " mortification" in
discovering this insensibility ?
Mr. Smith seems to have been led into all these
inconsistencies from not distinguishing the conduct
which a person in distress should pursue in pre-
sence of those, with whose dispositions towards
him he is already acquainted, from that which he
should observe in the presence of strangers. In
the presence of the latter, I agree with him, that
we sympathize more with the man who makes an
effort to silence those violent emotions which agi-
tate and distract him, than with him who whines
and laments, and claims our sympathy before we
have an opportunity of knowing who he is, or what
he is, or whether his misfortunes be merited, and
the just reward of his villainy, or have resulted
from the machinations of the crafty against un-
guarded and unsuspecting innocence. It serves
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 101
no purpose, that he makes us acquainted with the
sad history of his misfortunes : this knowledge, to
have its proper effect upon us, must be derived
from some other source. We know that, whether
he tell us truth or falsehood, we cannot credit
him without rendering ourselves liable to impo-
sition, and this reflection destroys our sympathy.
If he does not give himself a good character, we
see no cause of sympathy : if he does, we instantly
begin to suspect that the truth is not in him, be-
cause merit is seldom eloquent in its own praise :
so that, let him act or speak as he will, he has
equally little chance of exciting our sympathy,
though it is possible for him to excite our pity.
His only chance, therefore, is to remain silent, like
those beggars whom we sometimes meet in the
streets, who address us only by their looks, but
whose expression and cast of countenance have
frequently more eloquence in them than the sus-
pected representations and rejected addresses of
those who give the most pitiful history of their
misfortunes.
But how erroneous is it to confound such peo-
ple with those who address themselves to their
friends and enemies. Such people, to act either
consistently or naturally, must very evidently ex-
press their feelings and sentiments to each of them,
not only differently from what they would towards
strangers, but differently from each other. He
who has a hundred friends, finds himself placed
102 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
in a different relation to each of them. Some are
above him, some are his equals, and some rank
below him in society. To each of those who are his
superiors, he must express his feelings, sentiments,
and grievances in a very different manner, because
the degree of rank which they hold above him, are
not only different, but the relations by which he is
connected with them, are different also. Add to
this, the knowledge he possesses of their tempers,
characters, and degrees of sympathies. If it be
inconsistent to expect, that he would treat them all
in the same manner, and pay no regard, either to
their natural tempers, or the relations in which he
stands towards them, how much more must it be
to expect, that he would treat them all, without
distinction, like strangers with whom he is con-
nected by no tie, or relation whatever. Let us
grant him, then, as much greatness and magna-
nimity of mind as we will, he certainly acts con-
trary to the laws of human nature, and to the
influences exercised over us by the different rela-
tions which connect us with different individuals,
if he treat them all equally alike, if he hold him-
self equally independent of them all, claim no
share in their sympathy, and pay no regard to the
degrees of friendship or attention which he ex-
perienced from them, individually, from his first
acquaintance with them to the present moment.
If, to treat them all equally alike, and hold him-
self equally independent of them all, equally re-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 103
gardless of their commiseration and sympathy, be,
what Mr. Smith calls "magnanimity," I can only
say, either that he is mistaken in his use of the term,
or, that magnanimity is the most worthless, and
the most despicable acquirement of the mind. I
call it an acquirement, because nature could have
never generated such a monster: it is the sa-
vage offspring of ingratitude and stoic apathy —
that apathy which never felt the sweet communion
of kindred feelings, which never sympathized in
the woes of others. The same observations hold
good with regard to our equals and inferiors, but
particularly the former. To treat either of them
like strangers, or to confound the relations by
which we are connected with them, is to divest
ourselves of all those influences and impressions
which nature intended us to obey, and which we
always do obey while we retain any vestige of the
common nature of man.
But if, to act naturally, we must act differently
towards all our friends and acquaintances, it is
evident that our conduct towards those who are
our enemies, or, in any manner accessary to our
misfortunes, must be equally so. Indeed, the dif-
ference is here much greater than in the former
case. It is only when the unfortunate man comes
in contact with any of those who have been in-
strumental in leading him into distress, that those
"violent bursts of passion," of which Mr. Smith
104 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
speaks, can properly break forth. To be silent on
such an occasion, to look upon the cause and
author of our misfortunes with perfect sangfroid,
to shew him that we neither claim his sympathy,
nor feel sensible of the injuries which we have
experienced at his hands, is not only contrary to
the laws of our nature, but contrary to all those
feelings and emotions that constitute true great-
ness and magnanimity of mind. He who does
not act like a man, may call himself magnani-
mous if he will ; but his magnanimity is the mere
insensibility of a stoic. Magnanimity cannot
be opposed to the Jaws of human nature ; or, if it
be, let it be no longer called a virtue. Every
man should act according to the situation in which
he is placed, and the influences which are exer-
cised over him at the moment. " There is a time
to laugh, and a time to cry," and he who can nei-
ther laugh nor cry at any time, who is always the
same, in whatever situation he is placed, who
yields to no influence, and tramples upon every
impulse and law of his nature, may seek, as much
as he please, to gain " the applause and admira-
tion which he is about to deserve by the heroic
magnanimity of his behaviour;" or, rather, the
unmerited applause which Mr. Smith is willing to
bestow upon him; but he must never hope to rank
with those who, while they gain the esteem and
admiration of the world, feel, alternately, all the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 105
passions, emotions, and sympathies, which the cir-
cumstances and situations in which they are placed
are calculated to excite.
In fact, he whose actions differ most from the
general nature of man, is, of all others, the most
unfit to excite sympathy or commiseration of any
kind. In refusing, however, such a man our
sympathy, we act justly and naturally, because
such a man is a misanthropist. He who possesses
the social virtues will always adhere closely to the
manners of the world. We cannot differ essentially
in our conduct from those for whom we have any
regard, and to whom we find ourselves connected
by the laws of a common nature. It is only he
who looks down upon man with contempt, and who
either regrets that he is of the same species, or be-
lieves himself possessed of some redeeming virtues
that place him above them, that can divest him-
self of the social principle, and disregard every
natural impulse by which they are governed. Such
a man may deem himself a sage, a saint, or a phi-
losopher; but the tragic poet who would bring
him forward on the stage, and hope to astonish us
by the severity and inflexibility of his virtues, can
have little hope of success, or, at least, if he in-
dulge such a hope, he will find himself disappointed.
Dr. Blair, in his Lecture on Tragedy, has the
following just and sensible observations on this
subject.
106 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIPvY INTO
u Mixed characters, such as we meet with in
the world, afford the most proper field for display-
ing, without any bad effects on morals, the vicis-
situdes of life, and they interest us the more deeply,
as they display emotions or passions which we
have all been conscious of. When such persons
fall into distress through the vices of others, the
subject may be very pathetic ; but it is always
more instructive when a person has been himself
the cause of his misfortune, and when his misfor-
tune is occasioned by the violence of passion, or
by some weakness incidental to human nature ;
such subjects both dispose us to the deepest sym-
pathy, and administer useful warnings to us for
our own conduct."
On the whole, what is real magnanimity of cha-
racter in the presence of strangers, is perfect sto-
icism and insensibility in the presence either of
our friends or enemies. When Macduff hears
that his wife and children are slaughtered in his
absence, Shakspeare makes him express himself in
all the bitterness of grief, and all the vindictive-
ness of resentment ; but if Mr. Smith's theory of
sympathy be well founded, he should have sup-
ported this misfortune without a murmur, as it is
only by this " heroic magnanimity of behaviour"
he could " deserve the applause and admiration "
of mankind. Whether Shakspeare or Mr. Smith
was the best judge, and whether we should sym-
THE SOURCE OF TRACIC PLEASURE. 107
pathise more with Macduff had he expressed nei-
ther grief nor resentment on hearing of the de-
struction of his wife and children, than we do at
present, I leave the reader to determine.
If the distinction which I have made between
the conduct proper to be observed by the victims
of distress towards friends, enemies, and strangers,
be founded in truth, it applies particularly to the
theatre. Here every character addresses himself,
to some person who is immediately or remotely
related to him, either by accident or design. The
audience is not supposed to be present, or, at least,
every character acts and speaks as if there were
no audience. All the parties, accordingly, attend
only to their own mutual affections or antipathies,
friendships or enmities ; and, consequently, each
of them should act or speak according to the in-
fluence of the moment, the situation in which he
is placed, or the person or persons to whom he ad-
dresses himself. Mr. Smith's heroic magnanimity
has, therefore, very seldom an opportunity of dis-
playing itself on the theatre. The characters are
composed of superiors, equals, or inferiors ; and they
have all some object in addressing each other. To
remain uninfluenced by such an object, — to express
their feelings and sentiments as if they were stran-
gers to each other, — to spurn the sympathy of friends,
and feel unmoved by the treachery of enemies,
would, so far from being magnanimity, be the most
hardened insensibility. According to Mr. Smith's
108 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
theory, no person can sympathise with Lear. He
gives full vent to his passions as they rise in his
mind, and evinces, throughout, a total want of that
magnanimity which is " so divinely graceful." He
makes no effort to suppress his feelings, or to con-
ceal his griefs ; and yet I am doubtful whether we
should have sympathized more with him had he
done so, than we do when we hear him unbosom
himself in the following pathetic manner.
Filial ingratitude
Is it not as if this mouth should tear this hand
For lifting food to't ? But I'll punish home 3
No, I will weep no more. In such a night,
To shut me out! Pour on, I will endure.
In such a night as this ! O Regan, Gonerill,
Your own kind father, whose frank heart gave all.
O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that -,
No more of that.
Whoever could hear Lear thus express himself
without being affected, must be " fit for treasons,
stratagems, and spoils." Yet there is not an expres-
sion that escapes him but shews his weakness, his
M'ant of fortitude to combat with the evils by which
he was encompassed, his total want of that " mag-
nanimity amidst great distress/' that " immense
effort to silence those violent emotions which na-
turally distract those in his situation ;" in a word,
of that command over himself, which alone, ac-
cording to Mr. Smith, makes the most powerful
appeal to our sympathy. If we are more apt to
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 109
weep and shed tears for such as seem to feel no-
thing for themselves than for those who give way
to all the weakness of sorrow/ why do we so en-
tirely and completely sympathize with the weak-
ness of Lear ? Would our sympathy be greater if
he had a more stubborn nature, a nature that ren-
dered him insensible to the ingratitude of his chil-
dren? I doubt it much, and so, I believe, would
Mr. Smith, if the question had been put to him.
In fact, if Lear had not so lively and acute a sense
of his children's ingratitude, and if this sense had
not taken such strong possession of his mind as
to render him incapable of every manly effort to
contend either with the passions by which he was
distracted, or the difficulties by which he was sur-
rounded, in a word, if he had not been the weakest
of all men, and the best natured of all men, we
would not sympathize with him as we do, more
than with any other tragic character whatever.
Lear is, perhaps, the greatest example of human
weakness which stands upon record in the history
of the stage. His good-nature was the effect of
his weakness, or rather, perhaps, his weakness was
the effect of his good-nature ; for it is certain, that
good-nature is seldom found connected with the
sterner and more austere virtues, particularly with
that magnanimity which is so graceful in the eyes
of Mr. Smith. Good-nature is chiefly to be found
in those weak, tender, and sympathetic minds,
110 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
whose happiness seems to consist in the happiness
of others. It is this weakness, however, this ten-
derness, this good-nature, this " milk of human
kindness," that appears, of all other virtues, the
most amiable and the most interesting to us, and,
consequently, we are less disposed to check our
sympathies when we behold such virtue in dis-
tress. Whoever is most apt to indulge in sympathy
for the woes of others, is also most apt to excite it
for his own.
It is evident, then, that neither joy nor comedy
imparts such heartfelt pleasure as we derive from
Tragic representations, — from the luxury of sympa-
thizing in sorrows not our own ; and it is equally
evident, that the softer affections of the heart are
more pleasing, more attractive, and more apt to
excite our sympathies, than the sterner and severer
virtues, however high they may stand in the esti-
mation of the world, and however calculated
to excite our admiration and surprise. The latter
virtues are generally the result of education or
early associations, and may, therefore, be more
properly called virtues of the head than of the
heart ; but the former are the offspring of nature
alone, and cannot be eradicated from the heart of
which they have once taken possession, though
they may be considerably influenced and deter-
mined in their operations by the influence of edu-
cation, situations, and circumstances.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. Ill
CHAP. VI.
Examination of Mr. Burke and Mr. Knight's Theories.
Burke, in his " Sublime and Beautiful," has
many just and profound observations on the source
of Tragic Pleasure ; but, like all other theories on
the subject, the one which he has adopted applies
not to the remote, original, but to the immediate, or
proximate cause, or rather causes, of this pleasure.
When I say they apply to the immediate or proxi-
mate causes, I do not mean that they unfold even
these ; but that he seems to have confined himself
to what he considered the immediate agency which
produced the effect. In the first place, he very
justly rejects the supposition which makes this
pleasure arise from " the comfort which we re-
ceive in considering, that so melancholy a story is
no more than a fiction ;" and he equally rejects
that which makes it arise from " the contempla-
tion of our own freedom from the evils which we
see represented." The reasons which he assigns for
112 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
rejecting these theories are worth quoting. " I
am afraid," he says, u it is a practice much too
common, in inquiries of this nature, to attribute
the cause of feelings which merely arise from the
mechanical construction of our bodies, or from
the natural frame and constitution of our minds,
to certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on
the objects presented to us, for I should imagine,
that the influence of reason, in producing our pas-
sions, is nothing near so extensive as it is com-
monly believed."
It is curious to perceive so profound and meta-
physical a writer venturing to acknowledge his
suspicions, that " the influence of reason, in pro-
ducing our passions, is nothing near so extensive
as it is commonly believed." Had Burke ventured
a step further, and said decidedly, that reason had
no influence whatever in producing our passions,
he would have asserted a fact which no weight of
authority could disprove, however bold and scep-
tical it might appear to those who have not learn-
ed to distinguish between reason and feeling. In
fact, the only influence which reason possesses
over our feelings, is that of moderating, or supress-
ing them altogether. Accordingly, a man who,
while he witnesses a scene of distress, begins to
reflect on his own happiness in being free from it,
is infinitely less moved, and less interested in the
fate of the suffering victim, than he who, while
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 113
he indulges in all those feelings which the scene
before him is calculated to excite, makes no re-
flection whatever, but what unconsciously arises
from his sympathy with the distressed.
Burke does not confine the pleasure derived
from Tragic sources to the stage. Real distress,
he thinks, is a source of still greater pleasure than
the mere imitation of it ; and hence he infers, that
the nearer the imitation approaches the reality,
the more powerful is its effect. In no case, how-
ever, does he admit imitative distress to produce
equal pleasure with that which it represents.
" Choose," he says, " a day to represent the most
sublime and affecting tragedy we have ; and ap-
point the most favourite actors, spare no cost upon
the scenes and decorations ; unite the greatest ef-
forts of poetry, painting, and music; and when
you have collected your audience, just at the mo-
ment when their minds are erect with expectation,
let it be reported that a state criminal of high
rank is to be executed in the adjoining square; in
a moment the emptiness of the theatre would de-
monstrate the comparative weakness of the imita-
tive arts, and proclaim the triumph of real sym-
pathy. "* Here, then, the sole pleasure we reeeive
is attributed to sympathy; but, as I have already
shewn, so far as our pleasure is of a sympathetic
* Sublime and Beautiful, P. 1 . Sec. xv.
I
114 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
character, this pleasure does not arise from a
sympathetic emotion, but is the sympathetic emo-
tion itself. But are we certain that this abandon-
ment of the theatre is the effect of sympathy ?
Indeed, there seems to be very strong reasons for
thinking* otherwise ; the strongest of which per-
haps is, that people of the most tender and sym-
pathetic natures are not those who go most fre-
quently to witness executions. I believe there are
few people of exquisite feelings who can endure
such spectacles, and yet, where are we to look for
sympathy if not among them ? Besides, why is our
propensity to behold executions so generally looked
upon as a reproach to us, if it arise from sympathy ?
Why are even those who delight in such spectacles
unwilling to avow their propensity ? Why should
we confide more in a person to whom such scenes
are insupportable, than in him who goes to an ex-
ecution with as keen an appetite as he does to his
dinner? These, certainly, seem to be intuitive
proofs, that we look upon such men as persons of
no sympathy whatever. It is possible, however,
as will hereafter appear, to possess sympathy, and
yet feel inclined to witness executions ; but it is not
possible to possess it in any very high degree. Mr.
Knight ascribes the abandonment of the theatre,
in the case supposed by Burke, to curiosity, not to
sympathy. " Would not the sudden appearance/'
lie says, " of any very renowned foreign chief or
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 115
potentate in the adjoining square, equally empty
the benches of the theatre? I apprehend that it
would, and cannot but suspect, that even a bottle
conjurer, a flying witch, or any other miraculous
phenomenon of the kind, being announced with
sufficient confidence to obtain belief, would have
the same effect." It is extremely difficult to meet
with a writer who can avoid contradicting him-
self; the moment he enters into the arena of pole-
mics, simply, because in all our controversies, we
are, in general, more desirous of victory, than of
the elucidation of what is obscure, or the discovery
of what is unknown. Mr. Knight takes every
opportunity of opposing his own opinions to those
of Burke, though it is difficult to conceive why he
should have singled him out from all other writers
on the subject of taste. He tells us himself, that
his reason for exposing Burke's " philosophical
absurdities" is, that they have " been since adopt-
ed by others, and made to contribute so largely to
the propagation of bad taste." It would be diffi-
cult to point out any writer, whose philosophical
principles are less calculated to promote " bad
taste," than Burke's ; for, as Mr. Knight himself
acknowledges, " his feelings were generally right,
even where his judgment was most wrong." A
man's judgment, however, can never be wrong,
where his feelings are right, unless he depart from
them, and suffer his judgment to be directed by
i2
116 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
that of others. This was not the case with Burke:
he always thought for himself, and never submitted
to the bondage of authority, except where autho-
rity and reason seemed to confirm each other.
Burke, however, is frequently in error ; but if I
may now venture an opinion, which I shall prove
in another place, Mr. Knight is more frequently
so ; and, what is worse, his errors are of a much
more dangerous character, and more calculated
iC to contribute to the propagation of bad taste."
This truth I hope to make evident in my work on
the " Sublime and Beautiful ;" not that I intend
to advocate Burke's principles, nor yet, that I feel
a desire to expose Mr. Knight's ; but that truth
requires of me to point out the different influences
which the adoption of their systems would have on
the cultivation of taste. I admire Mr. Knight's in-
tellectual powers and energy ; but he is always too
rapid to be correct, and his feelings seem to be of
too energetic a character to discriminate the lighter
shades and more delicate affections of human na-
ture, qualities which Burke possessed in a very emi-
nent degree. In ascribing the abandonment of the
theatre, in the present instance, to curiosity, Mr.
Knight abandons the very first principle on which
he founds Tragic pleasure. The fact is, that he
sets out, like Burke, with ascribing the pleasure
to sympathy ; but the moment he came in con-
tact with the latter, he forgot that he had ever
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 117
made sympathy the cause of the pleasure. He
seems to have been under an impression, that
Burke and he could never happen to think alike,
or, rather, that whatever theory the former adopt-
ed, it must necessarily be erroneous, and that he, of
necessity, was bound to adopt a different one. Ac-
cordingly, when he found Burke ascribing Tragic
pleasure to sympathy, he contradicts him, and
ascribes it to curiosity, forgetting, that he had, in
the very preceding page, ascribed it to sympathy
himself. I shall quote his own words. " When
we see others suffer, we naturally suffer with them,
though not in the same degree, nor even in the
same modes ; for those sufferings which we should
most dread personally to endure, we delight to
see exhibited, or represented, though not actually
endured by others ; and, nevertheless, this delight
certainly arises from sympathy." Who could think,
that, in the very next page, he should attribute as
much of the effect to curiosity as to sympathy,
simply because he wished to break a lance with
Burke? Indeed, from the instances he has given
of the " bottle conjurer," and " flying witch," he
appears to refer the entire of the effect to curiosity
alone.
But what is this curiosity, to which Mr. Knight,
and so many other writers, ascribe such wonderful
effects? In my opinion, those who ascribe effects
to curiosity, ascribe them to nothing at all ; and if
118 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
so, they must necessarily be wrong-, for ex nihilo
nihil Jit. Curiosity is either a feeling, an idea, or
an act of volition within us, or it is something
without us which creates feelings, ideas, or voli-
tions within us. It must be one or other of these,
because these embrace every thing in nature, of
which we have any knowledge. Let us see, then,
which of these it is, and we shall be better able to
perceive, whether it be as prolific in its effects as it
is generally supposed.
Curiosity cannot be volition, because we may
will to do a good or an evil act, which we have
done frequently before. This cannot be the effect
of curiosity, because it has novelty always for its
object. And even when we will to do something, or
to see something, which we have never done or
seen before, the propensity which impels us to it,
is different from that act of mind which indulges
the propensity, as this act may be exercised in
opposition to, as well as in accordance with, the
propensity. A man may will on the side of reason,
as well as on the side of his propensities, when
they happen to be at variance; so that he may will
to do what he has no propensity or inclination to
do ; and he may will not to do, what he has a
strong propensity for doing. If curiosity, then,
be any thing within us, it must be a feeling, or an
idea. Now, all our feelings and ideas are pro-
duced by something without us, for we cannot per-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 119
ceive, unless there be something to be perceived ;
and it is this something, consequently, that creates
the perception, or idea, in us. Neither can we
feel, unless there be something to make an impres-
sion upon us, so that, whether curiosity be a feel-
ing or an idea, it must, in either case, be an effect
produced by something without us. The effects,
therefore, that are said to result from curiosity,
should be attributed, not to any principle or fa-
culty of our nature, which we designate by that
name, but to the external influence by which it is
produced. All our feelings, like that of curiosity,
are simple effects, or impressions made upon us ;
and, consequently, the causes by which they are
produced, are the real causes of the influences
which they possess over us. According to the de-
grees of energy with which these causes act upon
us, we are, more or less powerfully prompted to
action, so that the feeling which we call curiosity,
is strong or weak according to the strength or
weakness of the influence by which it is excited.
This would not be the case, if curiosity were a
principle or faculty in our nature which could act
upon us, independently of any external influence.
The fact is, that curiosity is the mere creature of
chance : it is alive to day and dead to-morrow. Its
existence depends on circumstances, and when
these circumstances do not occur, curiosity is to-
tally extinct. Why, then, do we attribute to curi-
120 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
osity, what we ought to attribute to the circum-
stance by which it is immediately excited? for, if
this circumstance did not exist, neither would the
curiosity be felt. The truth of these observations
will appear obvious from the case before us. Mr.
Knight says, that the report of " any very re-
nowned foreign chief, or potentate, appearing in the
neighbouring square, would equally empty the
benches." Now, if it be mere curiosity that emp-
ties the benches, the report of any foreigner having
just come over, and appearing in the square, would
produce the same effect, because the one would
be as novel an object as the other. Yet, no per-
son would quit the theatre to go see a person of
whom he never heard any thing before, though it
is obvious that such a person would be a more
novel object than he of whom we had some know-
ledge by public report. The sight of a novel ob-
ject has, therefore, little influence over us, so far
as regards its mere novelty: it is some circum-
stance connected with the object, and of which we
have already some knowledge, that creates the
interest, and it is to this circumstance, not to the
mere curiosity which it excites, that we must at-
tribute the effect, or, in other words, the impres-
sion made upon us. The fact is, as will hereafter
appear, that whatever produces a strong sensation
in us, gives us pleasure, and therefore we feel no
desire whatever of seeing a strange object, unless
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 121
we antecedently know, that this object is calcu-
lated to produce a strong sensation.
The pleasure which we derive from Tragic repre-
sentations cannot, therefore, be attributed to curi-
osity or sympathy, both of which are modifications
of feeling, produced by external influences, but to
a certain law in our nature, that strongly attaches
us to all powerful sensations, where the pleasure is
not impeded by three circumstances, which shall
be hereafter mentioned.
One of the instances produced by Burke him-
self, clearly shews, that this pleasure does not arise
from sympathy. " This noble capital," he says,
" the pride of England and of Europe, I believe
no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see
destroyed by a conflagration, or an earthquake,
though he should be removed himself to the greatest
distance from the danger. But suppose such a
fatal accident happened, what numbers from all
parts would crowd to see the ruins, and amongst
them many who would have been content never
to have seen London in its glory." Surely, we
cannot suppose, that those who would not wish to
see London in its glory, would feel any sympathy
on the occasion ; but supposing they did, an alter-
ation in the circumstance will prove, that they
would run equally to see the ruins of London,
where no sympathy could possibly excite them to
it. Let us suppose, then, that the legislature
122 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
deemed it necessary to remove the seat of govern-
ment to some other part of England, that they
built another city, equal to it in extent and ac-
commodation, that they removed all the inha-
bitants of London to this new city, and gave
them the same rights, privileges, and advantages
which they enjoyed before; that after having thus
completed their views, they found it conducive to
the national prosperity of the country to destroy
London, and, accordingly, committed it to the
flames, having first removed from it every thing of
value, either to the nation at large, or to the citizens
in particular : I would ask, whether, after every
thing having been thus arranged for the general
good, the ruins of London would not still be a
spectacle capable of attracting thousands of spec-
tators, — whether those who came to see it, in the
case supposed by Burke, would not now come to
see it also, though there could be no motive for
sympathy whatever, as in this case, there is not
an individual with whom we could sympathize.
Every citizen is as happy as before, and, therefore,
we have nothing to sympathize with but mute
walls, demolished houses, and public buildings in
ruins, which, as they can neither feel pain, nor
respond to our sympathies, cannot, consequently,
excite them. The pleasure, then, resulting from
the view of these ruins could not be the effect of
sympathy, nor, as I have already shewn, could it
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 123
be the effect of curiosity, for those who spent their
life in London, and were perfectly acquainted with
every street in it, would be more powerfully im-
pelled to contemplate its ruins, than the ruins of
some insignificant village which they never saw,
or heard of before, though the latter must neces-
sarily be a matter of greater curiosity to them
than the former.
Neither curiosity nor sympathy, then, can be
the cause or original source of Tragic pleasure. As
Mr. Knight, however, forgetting that he had ever
traced any part of this pleasure, either to sympathy
or curiosity, adopts a new theory on the subject,
it is but proper to enquire, whether, in ascending
to a higher source, he has discovered that myste-
rious fountain, of which we are in pursuit.
After getting rid of sympathy and curiosity alto-
gether, having, no doubt, forgot that he had attri-
buted to them any portion of the pleasure arising
from Tragic scenes, Mr. Knight adopts a theory,
totally different from all his predecessors. His
ideas on the subject seem to be perfectly original,
at least I could discover no trace of them in any
former writer. Originality has frequently some
merit, even when it is unsupported by truth, for it
requires not only considerable ingenuity, but a
considerable exercise of mind to arrive at certain
ideas, though they are ultimately found to be mere
chimeras of the understanding. The ravings of a
124 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
man of genius are but little allied to mental im-
becility. Mr. Knight's theory is ingenious, but
this is its highest merit ; for the feelings of which
Tragic pleasure is composed, emanate from a
much more general cause than that to which he
traces them. The cause he assigns will certainly
account for some portion of this pleasure, and so
will each particular cause assigned by each parti-
cular writer on the subject ; but, until we disco-
ver a cause that embraces all the causes by which
it is produced, we can never discover the primary
source of which we are in pursuit, and which alone
will account for the aggregate of pleasures derived
from Tragic representations, in the same manner
as the general law of attraction, accounts for all
the particular laws of motion. Before this general
law was discovered, the theories of all the ancient
philosophers, however ingenious, were unavoidably
erroneous, and so must all theories be, whose bases
are not as extensive as the superstructures which
they uphold.
Mr. Knight derives the pleasure of which we
are in search from " the energies and violent ef-
forts displayed in feats of strength, courage, and
dexterity, or the calm energies of virtue, called
forth by the exertions of passive fortitude." He
tells us this is the delight which the Romans took
in the fights of gladiators, that it is still the
source of our delight in cock-fighting, bull-bait-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 125
ing, bull-feasts, and boxing-matches ; and even
traces to it our propensity to witness the execution
of criminals. If particular instances of this kind
could tend to confirm Mr. Knight's theory, he
might adduce some hundreds more ; but thousands
of instances would be quoted to no purpose, if it
can be shewn, that a part, at least, of the pleasure
which we enjoy, cannot, by any torture of argu-
ment or of expression, be traced either to the active
or passive energies of the mind. The fact, how-
ever, is, that if even this could not be shewn, than
which nothing is easier, it will still be found, that
we never sympathize, in any one instance, with
energy alone, abstracted from the motives by
which these energies are called into action ; and
that our sympathies are influenced by these mo-
tives a hundred-fold more than by the energies
themselves.
If a daring, active, and intrepid villain attack
three men, and succeed by mere personal strength
and dexterity to rob them, after a short scuffle, do
all our sympathies and feelings arise from, or owe
their existence to, the superior energies exerted by
this desperado, and do we feel more pleasure in
seeing him successful, than we would in seeing
him defeated? I doubt whether any one could
enjoy such a triumph, except a chip of the same
block. We sympathize, then, not with energies
alone, but with motives also ; and the interest ex-
126 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
cited by the latter, is, beyond all comparison,
greater than the former. This will appear still
stronger, if we reverse the former case, and sup-
pose three robbers to attack one honest man. If
such an individual should prove successful against
his adversaries, how strongly are our sympathies
excited in his favour : we seem, by the force of
sympathetic affection, to assist him in every exer-
tion of strength which he puts forth : our very
bodies are unconsciously put in motion ; we recede
at every blow that is made at him, as if aimed at
ourselves; we incline forward when his adversaries
bend beneath his strokes, and seem to invigorate
his arm by exerting all the energies of our own.
Every motion in his body produces a similar one
in ours, without being in the least conscious of the
offensive and defensive attitudes which we invo-
luntarily assume by the force of sympathetic affec-
tion. The apparent cause of these strong sympa-
thies, are the energies which he displays, but the
least change in the circumstance convinces us,
that they are not the real cause ; for all our sym-
pathy for him would immediately vanish, if we
knew him to be a murderer or highwayman. Every
change, consequently, in the motives, produces a
corresponding change in our feelings, so that our
sympathies are but little influenced by energies or
exertions, considered abstractedly by themselves.
If we imagine, however, that we have now a
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 127
clue to the cause of our pleasure, and that all arises
from the motives that call our energies into action,
we will find ourselves mistaken, and that, as Lord
Kaimes expresses it, on a different occasion, " the
variety of nature is not so easily reached." The
motives that engage men in action have not greater
influence over us, than the circumstances in which
they are placed; a fact which will immediately
appear, if we only change the latter, without
making any change in the former. If all our
pleasure arise from the motives, it is obvious,
that while they remain unchanged, no alteration
of circumstances can disturb it ; but, as every
change of circumstance increases or diminishes
the impressions which we feel, though the motives
remain unchanged, our sympathies cannot be
solely referred either to the motives or to the cir-
cumstances, but to the combined influence of both.
If a robber attack three boys, how much stronger
is the interest we take in their fate, than in that of
three men who should happen to be placed in their
situation, though the motive by which the robber
was actuated in attacking both, was identically
the same, namely, to strip them of whatever they
possessed, and though the motives by which the
boys would be actuated to defend themselves
would be the same with the men, namely, the
preservation of their lives and property. If, instead
of boys, three aged men, or three helpless females,
128 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
were attacked, the impressions would assume a
new character in each; and, in all these cases,
the impressions made by the energies exerted, con-
sidered without regard to the circumstances or
motives, would be scarcely worth taking into con-
sideration.
I am also inclined to think, that Mr. Knight is
mistaken in some of the instances which he has
quoted in support of his theory, though, if they
had been all correct, they would have proved no-
thing, for the reasons I have just now assigned.
He says, we delight in executions, only because
we " all delight in beholding exertions of energy,
and all feel curiosity to know in what modes or
degrees those exertions can be displayed under
the awful circumstances of impending death." The
only energy that can be displayed by him who is
entering upon eternity, is mental energy, or, what
Mr. Knight calls " passive fortitude;" for physical
energies are only exerted by him who hopes to de-
rive some advantage from the exertion. But mere
resignation has not the attraction of bringing
thousands together; and it might be impossible
to distinguish, in the human countenance, the for-
titude or resignation of a man condemned to
death, from that of a man who lost his entire pro-
perty at law. If the resignation of both proceed
from religious impressions, it would present the
same calm and tranquil aspect in each ; yet no
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 129
one would go a hundred paces to witness the pas-
sive fortitude of the one, while thousands would
go miles to witness the final exit of the other. It
is not, then, a display of mental fortitude that in-
duces us to visit an execution, but the awful and
powerful sensations produced by the circumstances
in which the criminal is placed, and the terrific
associations with which it is eternally connected.
If the fortitude to which Mr. Knight alludes be a
hardened contempt of death, I trust there are few
who would sympathize with such blasphemous
heroism.
The energies of active and passive fortitude
are so far from being sufficiently general to sup-
port Mr. Knight's theory, that he is obliged to ex-
tend the application of the term to quite an op-
posite meaning, so that energy becomes, in his
hands, something with which we are quite unac-
quainted. " It matters not, indeed," he says,
" whether these energies be displayed in suffering
or acting :" accordingly, he makes tender love as
energetic as the atrocious ambition of Lady Mac-
beth. I suspect Mr. Knight is mistaken in consi-
dering love to be an energy; or energy and suf-
fering to be at all allied with each other. There
can be no energy in yielding to an impression
made upon us; for the impression is made, and
the emotion which it produces felt, without our
act or consent. The passion of love is excited in
K
130 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
us, not by energies of our own, but by the pre-
sence of the object which produces the impression ;
and, so far is the passion from requiring any energy
or effort on our part, that we are frequently unable
to resist it. The only energy we can exert in a
love affair, is that of resisting the passion ; for, in
yielding to it, there can be none required : on the
contrary, it frequently baffles all our energies to
resist it ; and if that be called an energy which
we cannot avoid, and which forces itself upon us,
whether we will or will not, it is certainly an ener-
gy not in us, but in that invisible power which
not only triumphs over us, but enchains all the ener-
gies which we are capable of exerting against it. I
agree, indeed, with Mr. Knight in calling fortitude,
in suffering, an energy ; but I cannot agree with
him in calling it " passive fortitude," for to call
any thing passive an energy, is a contradiction in
terms. He has been led into this mistake from
not distinguishing between misfortune, and its in-
fluence on the mind. The man of fortitude yields
to misfortune as well as the coward, when he can
no longer resist it; but then he does not yield to
its influence. The coward yields to both, and is,
therefore, perfectly passive. But he who supports
the same equanimity of mind in adversity as in
prosperity, cannot be passive, because it requires
the greatest energies of which human nature is
capable to resist the influence of adversity so com-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 131
pletely as to preserve the soul calm and unruffled
amidst the severe trials to which it is exposed.
The adoption of an erroneous theory generally
leads a writer into inconsistencies and arguments
that destroy each other: while he has his eye atten-
tively fixed on the theory which he seeks to esta-
blish, all his arguments quadrate with each other,
and though they are erroneous, they are systema-
tically so ; but in a treatise of any length, the mind
cannot be so vigilant as to attend always to the
main proposition or propositions, on which the
whole theory rests ; and when this happens, it is
apt to glide insensibly into truth and nature, not
aware that this adoption of truth is either subver-
sive of the doctrine which it seeks to establish, or
at least, that it leads to conclusions which must
necessarily expose the fallacy on which it rests.
Mr. Knight, for whose correct taste and critical
discrimination I profess the highest respect, over-
turns the entire of his theory on the Source of
Tragic Pleasures, by an admission which he un-
warily made in commenting on a passage in Aris-
totle. " In tragedy," he says, " it is not the actual
distress, but the motives for which it is endured,
the exertions which it calls forth, and the senti-
ments of heroism, fortitude, constancy, or tender-
ness, which it, in consequence, displays, that pro-
duce the interest, and awaken all the exquisite and
delightful thrills of sympathy." Here, then, we
k2
132 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
find many other sources of Tragic Pleasure, be-
sides the exertion or energy which distress calls
forth ; and, what is completely subversive of all
that he has written on the subject, these sources
lead us to innumerable others, in which no trace
of energy can be discovered. If, according to
himself, sentiments of heroism, fortitude, con-
stancy, and tenderness, be sources of Tragic Plea-
sure, so must also sentiments of generosity, pity,
resignation, mildness, sensibility, sympathy, subli-
mity, fear, hope, joy, sorrow, and all the passions
that ever agitated the human breast. Instead,
then, of confining Tragic Pleasures to the display
of strong energies, innumerable other sources are
disclosed to us, from which this pleasure may pro-
ceed, in many of which, the characteristic feature
is absence of energy, as fear, mildness, sorrow, re-
signation, and all the passive affections of the hu-
man breast. Besides, if it be not the actual dis-
tress that moves us, but the motives for which it is
endured, what energy can there be in motives ? All
motives have their existence independent of us. If
I go and fight the enemies of my country, my mo-
tive for doing so is to defend its rights and liberties
against foreign usurpation ; but this motive has
its existence independent of me, and would con-
tinue to exist whether I fought or staid at home.
I was not accessary to the attempt made on the
liberties of my country: it was not brought about
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 133
by my contrivance ; and therefore I had no con-
cern in it; but still it is the motive that leads me
to action, and it would be a motive even though
I neglected to perform the duty which it required
at my hands. There can be no energy, then, in
motives, because there is nothing in them in which
we can claim a share, and, consequently, the inte-
rest which they excite cannot be ascribed to ener-
gy. Mr. Knight himself admits this truth after-
wards, not reflecting, that it was in direct opposi-
tion to what he here asserts. His theory, as we
have already seen, consists in deriving all our Tra-
gic Pleasures from the display of strong energies
or exertions; andtodothis more effectually, he tells
us, that the interest excited in many of the scenes
in Shylock, does not arise from his hatred or ma-
lignity, but the energies which resulted from them.
The pleasure, then, does not arise from the cause,
but from the effect ; though we are told'above, that
it is not the effect, but the cause or motives that
awaken our sympathies. A similar contradiction
occurs where Mr. Knight traces the pleasure we
derive from witnessing executions, not to the suf-
ferings endured, in which, he says, " we take no
delight, but to the heroism or gallantly of the per-
son executed." How can we reconcile this to the
assertion, that " it is not the actual distress, but
the motives for which it is endured, that produce
the interest." At one time we are told it is the
134 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
motive that affects us ; at another, that it is the
heroism and energy elicited by the motive. Such
are the inconsistencies that necessarily cling to all
erroneous theories.
I know of no theory that can account for the
interest excited by Lear's madness. It is not,
surely, the energy which it displays that produces
this interest, for it was the result of weakness,
not of energy. Had Lear more fortitude of mind
to endure his misfortunes, he would not have
yielded to lunacy, and, therefore the most strained
reasoning cannot associate it with energy or he-
roism of mind. Yet, it is infinitely more interest-
ing than the heroism of Macbeth, and even in the
latter, it is not his courage or heroism that affects
us at all, but the strong agitation of mind to which
he was constantly a victim. Is there any thing in
all Macbeth that excites a deeper interest than the
following celebrated passage ?
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle towards my hand ? Come let me clutch thee :
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight ? Or art thou but a
A dagger of the mind ; a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ?
I see thee yet in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshallest me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 135
* ,. • . I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.
Here the whole interest is excited by the fears
and terrors of Macbeth ; for how attribute energy
to a man whose fears create images or instruments
of destruction, that existed only in his own mind ?
Yet these fears are more interesting to us than the
boldest display of personal courage and mental
energy, or the noblest descriptions of the " dignity
of human nature."
136 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
CHAP. VIL
Whether imaginary, produce, at any time, a more pow-
erful impression than real, distress ? and, if so, under
ivhat circumstances can such an effect take place f
I have had several times occasion to observe, that
the emotions produced by real objects, circum-
stances, and situations, and consequently, by real
distress, are more intense — more strongly felt —
than those caused by objects or circumstances that
owe their existence to the mind. In the foregoing-
chapter, however, I called the universality of this
assertion into doubt, and shewn, that it is not
sympathy that induces us to abandon the theatre
in order to witness an execution. It will, there-
fore, be proper to examine this subject a little far-
ther, and ascertain, whether imaginary distress
produce, at any time, a more intense sensation
than that which arises from real suffering. If so,
it will be necessary to ascertain when, and under
what particular circumstances, the copy makes a
more powerful impression than the original. The
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 187
first part of our enquiry can be determined by
experience alone, and admits of no reasoning*
whatever. If we discover, from our own feelings,
that imaginary distress produces, at any time, a
more powerful sympathy than real suffering, no
speciousness of reasoning can disprove the fact :
if sympathy with the latter, be invariably felt the
stronger, all arguments would be absurd, that
would attempt to prove the contrary. Feeling, and
feeling only, can decide in both cases. What,
then, do our feelings tell us ?
"A prince," says the author of Lettres sur V Ima-
gination, " not less distinguished by the sweetness
of his character, and the amiability of his mind,
than by his passion for the fine arts, observed to me
lately, without being able to accuse me, I believe, of
being less sensible than others, " I am frequently
dissatisfied with myself, in finding that I am more
keenly affected by a beautiful Tragic scene, or
fine piece of music, than I would have been by
the very misfortune which this composition pic-
tured to my mind, or of which it expressed the
sentiments." The author of this little elegant
work confesses to his friend, that he found him-
self frequently affected in a similar manner; and
so, I believe, will all people admit, who are in the
habit of consulting, at the moment, or subsequently
calling to mind their feelings upon such occasions.
With what indifference, and absence of sym-
138 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
pathy, do we read in the public papers of general
engagements, massacres, &c. The news of the
battle of Waterloo was heard, in this country,
with a great deal of interest ; but it was not an
interest arising from sympathy with the sufferers.
It produced a strong, public sensation, arising,
partly from the glory which the nation acquired
from it ; partly from the satisfaction which it cre-
ated in reflecting on the public, and, consequently,
the individual advantages which would arise from
being rid of an expensive and perilous war; partly
from the greatness and suddenness of the event ;
partly from the important changes which it was
expected to make in the political, commercial, and
agricultural aspect of Europe ; partly from the
particular modes of thinking of the different indi-
viduals whom it affected, the changes which these
great, public revolutions would produce in their
particular situations, relations, and interests, —
the increase or decrease of influence, wealth, and
power, which was likely to result from it, to each
of them individually ; and, in particular instances,
partly from influences, associations, situations,
and circumstances, which can be specified only by
those who were placed in, or affected by, them.
In all this co-operation of causes and circumstances,
sympathy had no share. The deaths of so many
brave men excited only a general feeling of regret,
for sympathy can be excited only by mental in-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 139
fluences, or, to explain myself more clearly, we
sympathize not with sensible appearances where
they are unconnected with mind. If I meet a
person who lies beaten and wounded in a most
cruel manner, on the road, I may pity, but I can-
not sympathize in his sufferings, while there is
nothing to excite my sympathy but mere wounds
and bruises. I must first know something of the
mans mind and disposition ; — I look in his face ; —
I watch the expression of his countenance to see
if I can recognize, from the manner in which he
endures his sufferings, the character of his mind.
This I can do, sometimes, from a single look ; but
it must be the look of him who deserves my sym-
pathy. There is an expression, — an eloquence in
the countenance of a virtuous and well disposed
mind, which the man who is imbued with no
sense of virtue, no softness or amiability of feeling,
can ever assume in such situations. In our
great commerce with the world, we are frequently
imposed upon by those who assume a character
that does not belong to them ; but this they can
do only while the mind is at ease, and not even
then, until they are long practised in the art of
assuming virtues which they do not feel. The
mask falls off, however, and their mimic powers
entirely fail them, when they are thrown into situ-
ations that powerfully affect the mind, as distress,
danger, persecution, &c. Nature, then, has its
140 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
way, in spite of them ; and the evil spirit which
so long remained latent, makes its appearance,
whether they consent to it or not. It is only
while the mind is calm and collected, that the
hypocrite can wear his mask, and conceal his true
nature \ but, in the moment of passion, he be-
trays himself, because, in these moments, no man
has power over his own nature, and it will appear
in all its native beauty or deformity. When I
say native beauty, it may be thought, that the pas-
sions of all men, the virtuous as well as the vi-
cious, put on the same appearances, and are equally
reprehensible. To think so, however, is not to
think correctly. No passion can be reprehensible,
if it be that which the influence, by which it was
excited, was calculated to excite ; and, hence it is,
that the same moral influences never excite the
same passions in virtuous and vicious minds. An
evil-disposed mind is stung with envy, when he
beholds his neighbour advancing in the world by
honest industry ; and, so far from promoting, he
takes every opportunity of retarding his exertions ;
but a well-disposed mind feels the very contrary
passion to envy ; and, so far from retarding, he
feels a real pleasure when any opportunity is of-
fered him of promoting his views. The passion
of envy, therefore, which is felt by the former,
becomes reprehensible, from its not being that
passion which the cause that produced it was cal-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 141
ciliated to excite. The same moral influences,
therefore, never excite the same passions in good
and evil dispositions : the passions which they
excite in the latter are always criminal, because,
so far from being the natural effects of the causes
by which they are produced, they are perfect mon-
sters in the moral world ; while, the passions which
they excite in the former, so far from being crimi-
nal or reprehensible, from the mere circumstance
of their being passions, are the most perfect fruits
of virtue. In the moments of passion, therefore,
we can always distinguish the good from the evil-
minded man, if we can only ascertain the cause
by which his passion is excited.
It is true, that the virtuous and the vicious, the
honest and the dishonest man, may be agitated by
the same individual passion ; but we shall always
find, that it is never produced in them by the
same moral cause ; for, with regard to physical
causes, they generally produce the very same pas-
sions, sensations, and emotions, in all men — -the vir-
tuous as well as the vicious. Place both on the
summit of a lofty mountain, and they are struck
with the same sublime and elevated emotions.
When I say sa?ne, I do not mean same in the de-
gree, but in the character, of the emotion ; for
though the emotion felt by both is strictly sublime,
it is always more sublime in a virtuous than in
a vicious mind, provided he possesses, from nature
142 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
and education, the same expansion of intellect.
Sublimity always carries a virtuous mind to the
contemplation of a first cause, — a contemplation
which has no charm to an ill-disposed mind, and
from which, consequently, it loves to withdraw
its attention. In all respects, however, except in
the degree, physical causes produce the same emo-
tions in all men, whatever be their passion for, or
aversion from, virtue. Place these two men, not on
a mountain, but on the sharp summit of a steep,
tremendous precipice, and the sublime emotion
is instantly fled. Both feel equally unconscious
of it, and equally conscious of fear and terror, not
that the situation is less sublime than the former,
for it is infinitely more so, but that the sensation
of fear being* the predominant sensation, totally
seizes the mind and prevents it from attending to
the emotion of sublimity. The weaker sensation
is always lost in the stronger. Though the agency
of physical causes, however, always produces the
same commotions, emotions, and passions, in the
minds of all men, the virtuous as well as the vicious,
the agency of moral causes produces them totally
different ; and, therefore, whenever we find a good
and an evil man agitated by the same passion, we
may feel confident that it does not proceed from the
same moral cause in both. An honest man, if he be
cheated of a farthing, falls instantly into a passion,
notthat he regards the farthing, but that theslightest
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 143
appearance of dishonesty, produces an instinctive
irritation in him which he cannot suppress, while
the villain, who spends his life in defrauding others
is angry, not when he is imposed upon, but when
he fails in imposing- upon others, or when he loses
his prey by some neglect on the part of his asso-
ciates. He is not put into a passion by being
cheated himself, though he will have satisfaction if
he can ; but, as he has no virtuous feeling of his
own, the abandonment of it in others, gives him no
farther concern than that of guarding against it.
If he succeed in cheating them first, he does not
consider himself a greater rogue, but a cleverer
man ; but, if success be on their side, he is vexed,
not with them, but with himself, for not being
more watchful. His anger, therefore, arises from an
attachment to vice, the honest man s anger from an
attachment to virtue ; so that, in this and in all
other cases, where the upright and the unrighteous
man are agitated by the same passion, arising from
moral causes, we shall always find, that the causes
producing it are different from each other. Anger,
then, in the virtuous man, is a virtue, in the vici-
ous man, it is a vice, which easily explains that
command in the gospel, " be angry, but sin not''
This is generally understood to be a pardon, not a
license for anger ; as if it said, be not angry if
you can, but if you cannot controul your nature,
at least, let not your passion induce you to sin.
144 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
To me, it appears a perfect command to yield,
without the slightest resistance, to our anger,
whenever it arises from an attachment to virtue,
and an abhorrence of vice. Not to feel angry with
the man who violates, in our presence, the most
sacred principles of virtue, is, evidently, a proof
that we have no particular zeal for it, and that it
would not be difficult to make us act ourselves
like those whose actions we can witness without
indignation or passion.
It is not, however, in their causes alone that
the anger of a virtuous, differs from that of an
unprincipled, mind. Their modes of operation are
not less different than the causes in which they
originate. Virtue possesses a secret power of
making itself known, even in the height of passion;
while vice, unconsciously, flings aside the veil which
conceals its turpitude in its calmer moments. In
distress and poverty, it is true, our pity tends very
considerably to render us less observant of those
external signs which disclose the real character
of the mind, and, consequently, renders us more
liable to be deceived ; but, whether we be de-
ceived or not, we can never sympathize with, though
we may pity, a distressed object, until we first
perceive, or imagine we perceive, some quality of
mind, or trait of character, or of feeling, which we
either possess ourselves, or esteem in others. Where
we have no opportunity of discovering any portion
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 145_
of the distressed object's character, of ascertain-
ing- his natural propensities and affections, we find
it impossible to sympathize. Hence, neither the
reports of battles, general engagements, pillage,
devastation, nor even the destruction of an entire
nation, can excite sympathy in the most sym-
pathetic mind. Terror, consternation, and pity,
are the only feelings excited by such relations, sim-
ply because the mind, character, disposition, vir-
tues, and frailties of each individual sufferer, is
entirely kept out of sight. It is with feelings only
that we can sympathize ; and, therefore, when the
sufferer's feelings are not made known to us, we are
incapable of sympathy. If we know a person's
general character, and the degreeof sensibility which
he naturally possesses, we can sympathize in his suf-
ferings the moment we hear of them, even though
the person who relates them, merely describes
the situation in which he is placed, because, from
our previous knowledge, we easily guess how he
feels affected in such a situation, and we enter,
accordingly, into his feelings. Hence it is, that if
the same misfortune happen to any two of our
friends, who are equally dear to us, our sympathy for
them will, by no means, be determined by our equal
attachment to them. For the one we may not feel
at all, while the other excites the most tender
and heart-rending sympathy, though our attach-
ment to both is the same. This will always be the
L
146 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
case, where the one possesses a strong and un-
bending mind, fitted, not only to endure, but to
surmount misfortunes, and the other, a delicacy
and tenderness of feeling that shrinks, like the
sensitive plant, from the slightest touch. We
know how much more unfortunate the one is than
the other, and our sympathy always keeps pace
with the uneasiness and anxiety of feeling which
we believe him to endure. As it is with feelings,
then, we sympathize, not with the situation of the
sufferer, we can feel no sympathy until we ascer-
tain, or be enabled to form some opinion of, the
state of the sufferer's feelings.
Our sympathy is never determined by what we
think the sufferer ought to feel ; for, if it were, we
should feel the same for all men placed in similar
situations. Experience tells us we do not, and,
that while we are quite insensible to the situation
of one man, we are greatly affected by that of
another, though the situation of both are exactly
the same. We are so constituted by nature, that
we cannot avoid sympathizing with any person
whom we see greatly affected, even though we
should ourselves be scarcely moved by the circum-
stance that affects him. We know his feelings
arise from weakness, — from possessing a nature
easily moved ; but this weakness, so far from check-
ing our sympathy, only increases it, so that we
never take into consideration how much a person
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 147
ought to feel, but how much he does feel ; and, it
is with this latter feeling we always sympathize.
This is so true, that he who does not feel at all,
who is perfectly unmoved by the situation in which
he is placed, creates no sympathy in us whatever,
though it is a situation that would greatly affect
us, if a sensitive mind were placed in it.
From these observations, it is obvious, that dis-
tress and sufferings affect us, only in proportion as
we are made acquainted with the feelings of the
sufferer. It is true, we may be mistaken in the
ideas which we form of his feelings ; but, it is
equally true, that our sympathy for him is entirely
determined by these ideas. If we imagine that he
feels more affected than he really does, so also do
we sympathize with him more than we ought.
There can, therefore, be no sympathy with real
distress, where no idea is conveyed of the state of
mind or feelings which accompany it ; whereas,
imaginary distress affects us exceedingly, where a
tender and pathetic scene of feeling is described,
the writer not confining himself to the mere situ-
ation in which the sufferer is placed. Hence, then,
whenever the writer of fiction describes the feel-
ings produced by the situation in which his cha-
racters are placed, or makes us so well acquainted
with their tempers and dispositions, that we can
always place ourselves in their situation, and ima-
gine those feelings which the writer does not choose
l2
148 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
to describe, he is sure of affecting us more strongly
than he who, in describing real distress, confines him-
self to circumstances, situations, and events, without
noticing the complication of feelings and passions
arising from them. It is only in this case that
imaginary excites a stronger sympathy than real
distress ; but where the description of the latter is
accompanied by those delineations of feeling and
passion, which give to fiction all its interest, the
victim of real distress will always excite stronger
sympathy than the victim of imaginary woes.
The writer of fiction, however, has an advantage
over him who relates only that of which he was
himself a spectator. The latter describes only
what is real ; if he describe more, it is fiction.
Confined, therefore, to rigid truth, he cannot ren-
der any situation, or state of feeling, more inte-
resting or affecting than it really is, while the
writer of fiction may make it as interesting and
pathetic as he pleases. Hence, it seldom happens,
(and it is even doubtful whether it can happen,)
that we meet with a case of real distress as pathetic
and interesting as that which the poet is capable
of imagining ; but, if such a case were to occur,
and delineated with the same happiness of descrip-
tion, it would create an interest which no fiction of
the imagination could ever excite.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 149
CHAP. VIII.
All strong sensations pleasing to those by whom they are
f elt y three instances only excepted.
Having shewn that every writer who has hitherto
attempted to discover the source of the Pleasures
arising- from Tragic Representations rests his
theory on some erroneous principle, it now remains
to be shewn, what the true source of these plea .
sures are. In doing so, I must premise, that no
man shall ever be able to tell, why pleasure should
result from any source whatever. All the know-
ledge we possess of emotions, is derived from our
feelings. When we feel an emotion to be pleas-
ing, we know it is so, simply because wejeel it is
so, but antecedent to this feeling we know nothing.
Philosophy will never enable us to tell, why a beau-
tiful woman produces a pleasing, and a deformed
woman, a disagreeable emotion. Our feelings
inform us of it, and if they withheld the intelligence,
we could derive it from no other source. There is
150 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
nothing, then, to instruct us on the subject but our
feelings ; but they can only make us acquainted
with the fact. They point out the cause or agency
by which pleasure is produced, but they can never
shew, by what act or faculty the cause or agency
produces the effect. The philosophers, however,
who have set about discovering why Tragic Repre-
sentations produce pleasure, seem to have taken
it for granted, that they know, already, why Comic
Representations produce it. A moment's conside-
ration would have convinced them, at the same
time, that they can no more tell why the latter
should produce pleasure than the former, or than
Newton could why heavier bodies attract the
lighter. It is absurd, then, to suppose, that he
who cannot explain how Comedy is a source of
pleasure, should succeed in explaining how Tra-
gedy produces that effect. Philosophers have long
laboured to discover in what beauty consists ; but
without success ; and yet, it is certain, that if they
even succeeded, they would still be at a loss to
tell by what agency it imparted pleasure. We
must, therefore, refer the laws of feeling, as New-
ton did the laws of attraction, to the will of the
Creator, by whom we are so constituted, that cer-
tain external appearances, and the display of cer-
tain mental affections in others, produce certain
emotions in us. Why they do so, we cannot tell,
without having recourse to this law, because we
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 151
cannot tell, why they should produce an emotion
in us at all. This knowledge we derive from our
own consciousness, not from the reasonings of phi-
losophers ; for there is no reasoning on the sub-
ject. That we are not in the least indebted to
reason for the knowledge we possess of our feelings
and emotions, appears sufficiently evident from
this circumstance alone, that we cannot, by any
process of reasoning, discover, why external influ-
ences should produce emotions in us of any kind ;
and, therefore, if we were to judge by reason, we
should deny the existence of influences and emo-
tions altogether. It would, consequently, be as
difficult to tell, why music is pleasing, as why
Tragic Representations are so. The only difference
is, that we think one is self-evident, and the other
mysterious ; but when we go more deeply into the
subject, we find our mistake, and that one is as
mysterious as the other. Hence it is evident, that
those who ascribe the pleasures resulting from
Tragic Representations to causes that are not
tragic, would be as nonplussed to tell, why these
causes should give pleasure, as why Tragic Repre-
sentations themselves should produce that effect.
The origin of our feelings, then, is not a proper
subject for philosophical investigation : we can
easily discover what things please us, but why they
please, shall ever remain a mystery. All our ob-
servations on the subject are mere notices of facts,
152 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
the causes of which exist in our own nature, but
admit of no explanation. Until we know what the
nature of soul or spirit is, we shall never know, why
any external or material agency should be pleasing 1
to it. The reason is obvious : — matter is some-
thing which weprofess to know, (whether we know
it or not is a question that belongs not to our pre-
sent subject), spirit, something which no man pre-
tends to know : it is absurd, then, to attempt to
explain, how the something which we do know, pro-
duces a certain effect in the something which we do
not know ; for, to be acquainted with the manner
in which an effect takes place, we must be ac-
quainted with the nature of the thing which acts,
and of the thing which is acted upon. Reasoning
from the progress which human inquiry has made
in ascertaining the properties of immaterial being,
we shall never become acquainted with the nature
of spirit ; and, if not, we shall never succeed in
discovering, why it is pleased with any external
agency.
But though we cannot perceive why any imme-
diate or proximate cause should produce the effect
that follows it, yet we know, that this immediate
cause is not the real, original cause by which the
effect is produced, and that it is itself a mere instru-
ment in the hands of some higher cause. When
we come to examine this higher cause, however >
we tind it, again, set in action by something else^
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 153
and that it is as much an instrument of this some
thing", as the immediate cause by which the ulti-
mate effect is produced. From a conviction that
the instrument which produces any effect or change,
or which sets another, or, perhaps, a thousand
other instruments at work, is not still the real
cause of all these effects and changes, and that
this real cause must be that which makes use of
this instrument, — which acts of itself, sets all the
subordinate instruments in action, and is not itself
acted upon by any thing, we naturally wish to travel
beyond all these instrumental causes, to find out
that primary cause by which all the effects are
produced, and by which all the instrumental causes
are put into motion. This primary cause, how-
ever, eludes all our researches, and the most we can
ever expect to discover, is the immediate instru-
ment which it makes use of, and which produces
the ultimate effect by subordinate instruments.
This instrument we call a general law of nature,
because we find, that all the subordinate instru-
ments, or, as we usually call them, secondary
causes, can be traced to this general law. We
also call it the original cause, as we call gravita-
tion the original cause of motion ; but in this we
err, for gravitation, like all other original causes
that have ever been discovered, is a mere instru-
ment, by which some higher cause puts all the sub-
ordinate principles of motion into action. Gravita
154 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
tion is a mere quality, or propensity of matter, by
which certain effects are produced ; but this pro-
pensity did not cause itself, and it is, therefore, to
the agent which caused the propensity, we should
attribute all the effects that result from it. The
reader must, therefore, perceive, that in tracing
the pleasure derived from Tragic Representations,
to their original source, I do not mean, or pretend
to discover, that real, original cause which I have
now explained, but that immediate instrument
which it makes use of, to set in action all the other
instruments, by which the ultimate pleasure is pro-
duced. In a word, I seek to discover that general
law in our nature, to which all the subordinate
causes of Tragic Pleasure can be traced, though
this general law, or original cause, as it is called,
will appear, when discovered, only the effect of some
higher cause, to the knowledge of which the pre-
tended perfectibility of the human reason can never
attain. Instead of deploring this ignorance, how-
ever, perhaps we have reason to exclaim with Pope,
Oh ! blindness to the future ! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle marked by heaven :
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms and systems into ruin hurled,
And now a bobble burst, and now a world.
The pleasures derived from Tragic Representa-
tions will appear, from the facts and reasonings
stated in the following pages, to arise from a law
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 155
in human nature, that renders not only all emo-
tions and passions, from whatever source they
arise, or whatever be their character, but, also, all
strong sensations that agitate and rouse the feelings,
or exercise the imagination, pleasing to those by
whom they are felt, except, first; sensations that
are too long continued; secondly, sensations whose
intensity produces actual pain ; and thirdly, sensa-
tions that affect us, not as men in general, but as
individuals, placed in particular situations, and,
consequently, subject to influences not arising from
the general laws of nature.
If this attachment to strong sensations, emo-
tions, and passions, be found an original law of
our nature, it will follow, a priori, that Tragic Re-
presentations must produce pleasure, because the
object of Tragic writers is, invariably, to produce
these powerful impressions in the human mind.
The reader, however, will bear in mind, that when-
ever I speak of strong sensations being pleasing,
I mean strong sensations qualified as above.
To commence, then, with the pleasures arising
from strong emotions: I must observe, that all the
faculties of the mind, life, and its endlessly diversi-
fied enjoyments, consist in sensation, abstraction,
and will; the former of which is a passive, and the
two latter, active faculties of the soul. These are
the only faculties of soul or mind with which we
are acquainted ; for, however metaphysicians may
156 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
divide and sub-divide the intellectual powers, they
are resolvable into these three. The will is wholly
engaged in regulating the enjoyments and desires
of the other faculties. These, again, are found at
perpetual war with each other, and, in proportion
as one ascends, the other descends in the scale of
enjoyment. He who prefers the enjoyment of
reflection, by which I mean all mental enjoyments, —
all enjoyments which proceed from an exercise of
the mind, as abstraction, contemplation, reasoning,
comparing, analyzing, and every active operation
of the percipient faculty ; — he who prefers these
enjoyments to gratifications arising from sensibility
and feeling, seldom listens to the solicitations of
the senses, or the wanderings of imagination ; and,
from seldom listening to them, from seldom grati-
fying them, he so completely reduces them to sub-
jection, that he may be said to annihilate them
altogether. A man of a contemplative, philosophic
mind, instead of yielding to an impression made
upon him by the senses, instead of running after
the enjoyment which it promises, begins imme-
diately to ask himself how this impression hap-
pened to be made upon him, by what agency it
was produced, through what media it communi-
cated itself to the soul, what the nature of that
thinking and feeling thing is, on which the impres-
sion is made, by what constitution of being it is
capable*^ feeling the impression, and by what opera-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 157
tion of being it is afterwards capable of reflecting
on this feeling. These reflections lead to a train of
others, so that, while the philosopher is buried in
contemplation, the impression dies of itself, and
the enjoyment after which it thirsted is forgot, or,
if remembered, remembered without any desire of
attaining it. The impression, and the anticipated
enjoyment, are no longer feelings in his mind, but
mere perceptions of feelings that once existed there.
If the impression should, at some future time, be
revived, and invite the philosopher to the same
enjoyment, the philosophy which extinguished it
before, will find it much easier now to re-produce
the effect ; for, as every circle produced by a stone,
thrown into the water, is weaker than that w T hich
preceded it, so does a subdued appetite return with
less and less violence, till, at length, it dies of itself,
and leaves no trace behind. He who has brought
himself to this stage of sensual denial, may be
pronounced incapable of any enjoyments, but what
are of a mental character ; so that, in proportion
as the enjoyments of the intellect are exclusively
indulged, in the same proportion are the enjoy-
ments of the senses trampled upon and despised.
I admit, then, in limine, that philosophers, meta-
physicians, and all abstract reasoners, find no en-
joyment in strong sensations, and that the only
pleasures of which they are capable, are those
which result from the satisfaction of discovering
158 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
something, hitherto unknown. So far, then, as
regards them, the theory which ascribes the plea-
sures arising from Tragic Representations to a
propensity in human nature of being pleased with
strong sensations, emotions, and passions, is not
supported by experience ; but do not the rest of
mankind derive their happiest moments from this
source alone ? The question, then, is, whose plea-
sures are the most natural, the philosopher's or the
poet's ; the logician's or the clown's ; or, in other
words, which are, the pleasures of reason, or the
pleasures of sense, the most natural ? To me it
appears obvious, that the latter are not only more
natural, but that they are nature itself ; while the
exclusive enjoyment of the pleasures of reason are
neither natural nor desirable, except when they
are impressed with the character of the senses and
of imagination, their lineal offspring. They are
not natural; because, he who has extinguished all
the sensitive appetites, has also extinguished one
of the three faculties of the soul, and confined the
operation of another to half the range appointed
for it by nature. The three faculties of the soul
are, sensation, perception, and will ; the former of
which he destroys, so far as regards the enjoy-
ments which it imparts. It is true, no man can
destroy the sensitive faculty, without destroying
life ; but it is very possible to destroy its enjoy-
ments ; that is, it is possible to destroy those strong
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 159
excitements by which it prompts us to happiness.
When these excitements are once subdued or ex-
tinguished, the sensations that remain, having lost
that energy which " prompts, impels, inspires,"
can neither " devour its object," nor even " taste,
the honey." In a word, all sensual enjoyment is at
an end, and, therefore, the purposes for which the
sensitive faculty was given, are completely frus-
trated. To argue, that it is wise to frustrate them, —
that it is wise to deny ourselves the pleasures which
they afford, is to argue, in other words, that man is
wiser than the Architect of Nature, who gave us
a faculty which, according to this theory, we are
better without ; and which must, therefore, have
been given to no purpose. In destroying the energy
of the sensitive faculty, and, consequently, of its
enjoyments, we confine the operations of the will,
as I have observed above, to half the range ap-
pointed for them by nature ; for it cannot exercise
itself in directing the operations of the sensitive
faculty, such operations having no longer any exis-
tence. It is in vain to will, or seek after any sen-
sual gratification, after the sensitive faculty is once
completely subdued, and brought to a state of per-
fect self-denial, for the capability of enjoyment is
then at an end, and the will, consequently, has no
power of renewing it. The operations of the will
being, therefore, confined to the perceptive or ab-
stract faculty, half its power is destroyed. It is
160 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
evident, then, that he who has completely subdued
the cravings and solicitations of the senses, is but
half a man, and possesses only half the faculties
which were originally granted him by nature. If
it be asked, how are these cravings and excitements
of the senses to be extinguished ? I reply, by the
two extremes of self-denial, and unbounded grati-
fication. He who indulges in every pleasure which
the senses afford him, will soon have no sense ca-
pable of enjoying pleasure ; and he who denies
himself all these pleasures, becomes equally inca-
pable of enjoyment, for the natural strength and
energy of the senses perish of themselves, when
the enjoyments, after which they thirst, are conti-
nually denied to them. They become disgusted
with their tyrant, and abandon him to that " stoic
apathy," the virtue of which is " fixed as in a frost."
It is in one or other of these extremes that men,
as Bruyere says, " wish to love, but cannot suc-
ceed ; they seek to be defeated, but they find they
cannot, and, if the expression be allowable, they are
constrained to remain free." The medium, then,
between self-denial and unbounded gratification, is
that golden medium where happiness has taken
up her abode ; —
That something still which prompts the eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die ; —
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlooked, seen double, by the fool and wise.
Pope.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 161
This is the very medium which Pope himself de-
scribes in the following beautiful lines.
Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure's smiling train ;
Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain ;
These mixed with art, and to due bounds confined,
Make and maintain the balance of the mind 3—
The lights and shades, whose well accorded strife,
Gives all the strength and colour of our life.
If this reasoning be well founded, it is obvious,
that in tracing the origin of any pleasure arising
from the senses, we must not draw our observa-
tions from those who cultivate the pleasure of rea-
son only, and who deny themselves every enjoy-
ment arising from a sensitive source, because such
men, properly speaking, are only half men, as they
possess only half the faculties with which nature
originally endowed them. From the habit of re-
pelling their feelings and pleasurable sensations,
they soon become insensible of their influence ;
and, accordingly we find, that what raises an emo-
tion of pleasure in others, have no charms for
them. All the fine arts affect the mind through
the medium of the senses, but who are worse
judges of the fine arts than such philosophers and
metaphysicians as give themselves up, exclusively,
to mental and abstract contemplations ; and who,
instead of yielding to any feeling of a pleasing
character, are only solicitous to discover and ana-
lyze the nature of the impression by which they
M
162 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
find themselves affected. Locke was no judge of
poetry, simply because he was insensible to its
charms, because he was callous to those feel-
ings which its beauties excite in every sensible
mind, — every mind which, instead of resisting,
yields, spontaneously, to the pleasing emotions which
arise within it. Accordingly, he despised poetry
and all its professors, except such of them as ad-
dressed the understanding alone, and presented
but few of those images by which the senses are
delighted. Of this, we have a sufficient proof in
his panegyric on one of Blackmore's Epics. Lon-
guerue was a writer of profound knowledge : he
read, and probably admired, poetry in his youth ;
but from resigning himself afterwards to abstract
studies, and resisting all the pleasing emotions of
sense, he began, at length, to look on poetry with
indifference. How insensible he was to its charms
will appear from the following passage in his Lon-
guerana. " There are two books in Homer which
I prefer to Homer himself. , The first is the AntU
quitates Homericce of Feithius, where he has ex-
tracted every thing relative to the usages and cus-
toms of the Greeks ; the other is Homeri Gnomo-
logia per duportum, printed at Cambridge. In
these two books is found every thing valuable in
Homer, without being obliged to get through his
childish stories ! routes d dormir de bout!
If we were to trace the origin, not only of the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 163
pleasures which are derived from public shews and
spectacles, the fights of the ancient gladiators,
bull feasts, &c, but even of poetry, painting, and
all the fine arts, to observations drawn from the
manner in which human nature operates in such
metaphysical stoics as these, we should necessarily
conclude, not only that they were mere delusions,
but delusions, too, arising, not from the nature, but
from the weakness of man. That such a conclu-
sion would be naturally and logically drawn from
such observations, is proved by the fact. The con-
tempt which Locke, Longuerue, Selden, Le Clerc,
and others entertained for poetry, if well founded,
would render all the fine arts, and their produc-
tions, equally contemptible, because they are all
founded on the same basis, namely, that of im-
parting pleasure through the medium of the senses.
These philosophers prized only what imparts plea-
sure through the faculty of perception, comparison,
discussion, &c. ; and, consequently, they, and a
great portion of the ancient philosophers, held,
that so far as man yielded to the senses, so far he
fell below the dignity of his nature, became the
sport of appearances in which he should place no
confidence, and the dupe of impressions to which
he should never yield. That the promulgators of
such a doctrine could derive little pleasure from
public representations of any description, requires
no argument to prove, as their theory, if it be good
m 2
164 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
for any thing, proves, that the fine arts in general,
as well as representations of every description, are
founded not in the nature, but in the weakness of
man. Their doctrine, however, confutes itself; for
the heart could never feel a pleasing emotion through
the medium of the senses, if it were not so con-
stituted by nature. But it will be granted, no
doubt, that the heart is so constituted, while it will
still be denied, that we ought to yield to the appe-
tite for pleasure. If we ought not, it naturally
follows, that happier results must emanate from
resisting than from yielding to sensible impressions.
But will any person maintain this to be the fact,
who considers, for a moment, that the bulk of
mankind derive all their happiness from this for-
bidden source alone, and that no other source lies
open to them from which it can proceed.
The pleasures acquired through the medium of
pure intellect, and abstract contemplation, are
placed only within the reach of a few, because na-
ture has endowed few with those powers of mind,
which enable us to contemplate things abstractedly
from the senses, because, those who possess these
powers must devote a great portion of their lives
to arrive at this intellectual perfection,— because
this portion of their lives must be spent, if not in
misery, at least devoid of happiness, as happiness,
according to this theory, can only emanate from
an intellectual source, and, finally, because a still
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 165
greater portion, or, properly speaking, the great
bulk of mankind, have not the means of acquiring
this knowledge, and, consequently, must never
hope to enjoy pure happiness, if happiness can pro-
ceed only from spurning all sensible impressions,
and prizing that pleasure only which proceeds
from contemplation and abstract perception.
We see, then, that the pleasures of sense are
natural pleasures, and whatever is natural must be
rational at the same time. The rationality of en-
joying sensible pleasures arises from this, that by
resisting them, we lead a life of misery, as they
are the only source from which man can derive
happiness in a state of nature. And if we were to
enter more deeply into the question, it would be
easy to prove, philosophically, what experience of
itself abundantly teaches, that no man can be happy
who denies himself the pleasures that emanate
from this source. The senses are perpetually about
us, presenting pleasure to us in a thousand shapes.
Whether we gratify them or not, we cannot exist
without them, for a moment ; and every time we
refuse to gratify them, we necessarily and unavoid-
ably inflict punishment on ourselves ; and even
when we reduce them to a state of perfect subjec-
tion, or, at least, subject them so far that their
voice is scarcely heard, their excitements scarcely
felt, their desires scarcely known, the only happi-
ness we can boast of is, that we are incapable of
166 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
happiness, — an empty boast, however it may be
dignified by the pride of stoic indifference, or in-
tellectual greatness. Let it not be thought, that I
would depreciate the happiness arising from the
cultivation of reason, when united with the plea-
sures of feeling and imagination ; for the felicity
arising from this union of the mental powers, is
the most exquisite that nature can impart : but
reason should be considered the guide, not the
creator of our pleasures. Mentor was wiser than
Telemachus, but Telemachus was the happier man.
Even when he yielded to the headlong impetuosity
of his passions, when he ingloriously resigned him-
self, as we are pleased to call it, to the strong infa-
tuation of love, when Eucharis exercised a greater
dominion over his mind, than either Jupiter or Mi-
nerva, Ulysses, Penelope, or Mentor, even then, Te-
lemachus was a happier man than his wise preceptor
and angel guardian. The impetuous propensities
of his nature rendered him not only incapable of
pain, but enabled him to convert pain into plea-
sure. All pleasures arise from the senses, or, more
philosophically speaking, from the reciprocation
of those external influences by which the senses
are acted upon, and that susceptibility of feeling
which responds to these influences. It is impos-
sible to form a sublime conception, unless it be
connected with some sensible image ; and the
closer the connexion, the more sublime the idea.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 167
The impression made upon us by the sensible
image, not only lifts up the mind to the same
elevation with itself, but heightens and gives zest
to the pleasures resulting from that act of the mind
by which it was originally conceived.
Hence it is, that poets are the most, and meta-
physicians the least, sublime of all writers, the
creations and images of the former being all taken
from the sensible, and those of the latter from the
intellectual world. The metaphysician excels in
separating, analyzing, and resolving the minuter
shades and elements of things, while the poet ex-
cels in vastness and comprehension ; in discovering
resemblances, not differences ; concords, not dis-
cords ; sympathies, not antipathies. The language
of the poet, is, therefore, the language of love, and
consequently the language of enjoyment, while the
language of the metaphysician is, in every respect,
the very opposite, and consequently affords no
pleasure, but what arises from the pride or satis-
faction of knowing what is concealed from others.
This however is, in many respects, a negative plea-
sure, and, as it arises from these two sources alone,
it wants that infinite variety which poetry, the fine
arts, and sensible gratifications of every description,
are capable of affording.
The pleasures acquired through the medium
of the senses are therefore the most exquisite, the
most palpably felt, the most sensibly, if I may use
168 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
the term, enjoyed ; the most positive and real, so
far, at least, as regards our perceptions of reality,
the most sublime and diversified in their objects,
embracing as they do all the creations of imagina-
tion ; for imagination can conceive nothing that
does not bear the stamp of sensible existence ; in a
word, as the pleasures of sense, are, properly
speaking, the only pleasures we can be said to feel,
pleasures of every description being only various
modifications of sense, or feeling, we cannot be
surprised, that man should be eagerly and power-
fully attached to strong sensations. We find,
accordingly, that with the exception of those who
have brought the senses under a perfect subjection,
to the principle of self-denial, or, in whom a life of
abstract contemplation has weakened the energy
and susceptibility of the senses, an effect which
may also result from ill health, and other physical
causes ; these, excepted, we find the rest of man-
kind strongly attached to the enjoyments arising
from this prolific source. We find them running
after objects, and delighting in spectacles, the very
recollection of which, or even the mention of which,
strikes more tender minds with the most painful
feelings. Are we to suppose, that any person who
retains the nature of man ; who has a particle of
humanity in his breast, would wish, for a moment,
to see his fellow creature torn by the most excru-
ciating pain which human ingenuity can devise, to
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 161)
follow him to the scaffold, and behold him writhing
in the agonies of the most insufferable torments ?
The idea is revolting to human nature ; but this
very nature which revolts at barbarity, delights,
notwithstanding, in witnessing the infliction of all
these torments. We find all strong sensations
which are not absolutely painful through their in-
tensity, agreeable to youth ; and so great is their
attachment to these sensations, that they will fre-
quently endure pain rather than be deprived of
the pleasure by which it is accompanied.
They have an eternal propensity to change the
sensation of the moment for some other, whatever
pain it may cost them, if this sensation has been
felt for any length of time, because a continued
sensation soon becomes no sensation at all. Ac-
cordingly, we find them running into every mis-
chief, and placing themselves in situations which
are actually painful, because the pleasure of the
strong sensation is greater than the accompa-
nying pain. The pleasure of strong sensations
is so great a feast to them, that even a sense of
imminent danger will not prevent them from enjoy-
ing it. They climb the steepest precipices, at the
peril of their lives, — they traverse the deepest
snows with greater luxury than they enjoy on beds
of down ; they fly those softer scenes of insipid
ease which tend not to put the soul and all its ener-
170 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
gies into action. — Restlessness, tumult, and agita-
tion are almost the only pleasures which they prize.
They have no delicacy in the selection of the objects
or means by which their sensations are produced ;
and care not what the sensation is, provided it be
a strong one. The love of strong sensations is the
universal law by which all their actions are deter-
mined. Hence they cannot walk the streets with-
out running into puddles and mire, unless they
are punished for it by their parents. In fact, the
greatest trouble which parents have with their chil-
dren is to keep them quiet, that is, to prevent them
from indulging in strong sensations, or placing
themselves in the situations by which these sensa-
tions are produced.
It is youth alone that present us with a true
portrait of the natural man; and that consequently,
make us acquainted with the real and undisguised
propensities of the human race, while these pro-
pensities act according to their own nature, and
receive no check from the counteraction of reason.
Their indulgence beyond a certain degree, is
termed vice ; but it should be recollected, that
vice is vice only in him who knows it to be so,
and, happily, youth know little about it, till
they are made acquainted with it by circum-
stances and the progress of reason. In youth,
the empire of reason is unknown, and consequently
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 171
it gives us a better opportunity of becoming ac-
quainted with the real and natural propensities of
the heart. It is therefore properly described by a
French poet,
Cette agreable saison,
Ou le coeur, a, son empire,
Assujettit la raison.
To say that these propensities are vicious, because
they do not conform to the precepts of reason and
religion, is saying nothing to the point ; because
the question to be considered is, what are our real
propensities, not what they are conformable to.
These ardent propensities for strong sensations,
which evince themselves in our earliest years, con-
tinue without intermission, while the physical
powers retain all their vigour, and are more con-
spicuous from the age of twenty to thirty, than at
any former, or subsequent period.
Un jeune homme toujours bouillant dans ses caprices,
Est prompt a recevoir l'impression des vices,
Est vain dans ses di scours, volage en ses desirs,
R£tif a la censure, et fou dansles plaisirs.
In fact, a young man, who enjoys good health
and spirits, and without this enjoyment man is
not himself, spurns every sensation that is not of
a strong and powerful nature. He encounters dif-
ficulties which are above his strength, and places
himself in the most dangerous and trying situations,
172 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
that he may enjoy the pleasure resulting* from the
strong sensations which they naturally produce;
and so attached is he to these sensations, that he
becomes blind to the perils that surround him on
every side. He believes himself capable of every
thing, despises actual and impending dangers,
always runs into extremes, because the greater the
extreme, the more powerful the sensation. What
species of reading is more pleasing to youth, than
fairy tales, and marvellous adventures, thickly
sown with wizzards, witches, magicians, enchanted
castles, and whatever else can produce the most
powerful sensation ? Even in the present improved
state of society in Europe, newspapers are more
generally read than any other productions of the
press, not because they make us more learned, but
because they contain whatever is most wonderful
and surprising, whatever is best calculated to pro-
duce strong sensations.
The newspapers, accordingly, are more read in
time of war, than when peace has released the
world from the dangers and apprehensions which
follow in its train. It is only in time of peace,
that we betake ourselves to poetry, and the delights
of science ; but the moment war has sounded her
brazen trumpet, we dismiss the gentler sensibilities
of the muse, and fly to the stronger feelings, pro-
duced by scenes of havoc and destruction. The
stronger sensation always extinguishes the weaker,
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASU11 H. 173
which could never happen, if the former did not pro-
duce the greater pleasure; for it is certain that we
always prefer that which is the most pleasing- and
agreeable to us. The strong sensation produced in
this country by the trial of the lateQueenmade some
some thousands neglect their business. It was the
only subject of conversation in the higher, as well
as the lower circles ; and things, which, at other
times, would be interesting, were then totally pas-
sed over, as things of no interest whatever. The
stronger sensation, therefore, like the " master
passion," swallows up the rest. Those influences
which produce a keen and lively sensation of plea-
sure, are totally disregarded, when a strong sensa-
tion takes possession of us, or when we have an
opportunity of placing ourselves in a situation
which we know, antecedently, must produce, a
strong sensation in us. Can it then be denied,
that the stronger sensation is felt to be the stronger
pleasure. If it should be said, that though a
stronger, excites a more earnest attention, than a
weaker sensation, yet this sensation is different
from that feeling which we call pleasure, I would
ask, what pleasure is, if not that which we like most,
or which gratifies us most, — that sensation which
we are most desirous of feeling, and which we
should most regret, if we were denied the gra-
tification which it imparts? In a word, what is
pleasure but that which gives us the highest satis-
174 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
faction ? Now I would ask, what would have
yielded higher satisfaction to the citizens of London,
than to be present at the Queen's trial ? Would
not the theatre, the ballroom, the masquerade, be
equally deserted if this liberty were permitted ? At
least, would not the great majority of the lower
circles, and it is only among them we are to seek
for human nature, derive more satisfaction from
being permitted to witness the trial, than they
would from beholding her invested with all the
insignia of royalty, had the trial never occurred ?
not that the people of England would delight in
the misfortune, or peril of the Queen, or of any
individual, but that all men like to enjoy the strong
sensations excited by peril and misfortune, though
they will not co-operate in producing them, though
they feel more pleasure in preventing than in
causing those catastrophes which they find such
pleasure in beholding when brought about without
any co-operation or instrumentality of their own.
Granting, however, that something more attrac-
tive drew off a great majority of the people from
the trial, it will still be found, that this some-
thing must produce a stronger sensation in those
who were attracted by it, than the trial. A
man in great distress, for instance, would find
more pleasure in staying at home, if he were to
receive a sovereign for so doing, whereas an affluent
man would not be prevented by such an offer for a
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 175
moment. Whence, then, does this difference of
conduct arise? Evidently from each of them lov-
ing to pursue that which excites the strongest sen-
sation in himself. What can produce a stronger
sensation in a famishing man, than the receipt of a
sovereign, except the receipt of two, three, &c. He
therefore feels little interest in the trial, not only
because a stronger sensation gives him higher sa-
tisfaction at home, but because, independently of
the motive which keeps him at home, the trial is
incapable of producing that strong sensation in
his mind which it would produce in others ; for, as
I have already observed, in treating of sympathy^
he who is deeply afflicted himself can never sym-
pathize in the woes of others.
The affluent man acts differently; but he is
strictly governed by the same law, and prefers,
like the former, the stronger sensation to the
weaker. The acquisition of a sovereign cannot pro-
duce a strong sensation in him, or rather it pro-
duces no sensation at all. He will not, therefore,
accept of it on the condition of denying himself
the pleasure which he anticipates from the strong
sensation about to be produced by the trial. The
highest pleasure is, therefore, always produced by
the strongest sensation, no matter by what means
this sensation is excited. Strong sensations affect
us differently, according to the difference of the
causes by which they are elicited ; but they all
176 PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO
agree, without exception, in producing a modifica-
tion of feeling which is always pleasing to us, and
therefore, pleasure must not be considered as one
simple mode of being affected, for the modes of
pleasure are infinitely diversified, every sensation
being a pleasure which gives us satisfaction, and
which we are unwilling not to feel. It is, there-
fore, erroneous to suppose, that strong sensations
are agreeable or disagreeable according to the
manner in which they affect us ; for let them affect
us as they will, they are always pleasing, unless
their intensity cause actual pain. Let imagination
form to itself as great a diversity of circumstances
or objects fitted to produce strong sensations as it
can, and we shall find, that however endlessly dif-
ferent they may be from each other, they will be
all pleasing without exception. If a man were to
walk in the air down the middle of Oxford Street,
without any visible support, it would, no doubt,
produce a strong sensation ; but yet a sensation
very different from that produced by the Queen's
trial. Would it therefore be the less pleasing? I am
confident it would not, though the pleasure, in
both instances, would be differently felt. The
degree of pleasure, however, in each, would depend
altogether on the degree of intensity with which
it was felt ; so that however important the issue
of the Queen's trial might be to the nation, yet,
unless it produced a stronger sensation than that
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 177
produced by the aerial pedestrian, it would certain-
ly not afford the same degree of pleasure. This
would appear obvious enough, should the aerial
spectacle take place, for all London would crowd
to see it, and forget the interest produced by the
trial. Let us suppose a case fitted to produce strongei
sensations than either of these, and we shall find
that the pleasure still increases with the sensation,
till it reaches to actual pain. If it were demon-
stratively proved, from the operation of the laws
of nature, and the calculations of astronomy, that
the moon was to be seen on a certain nighty and
only in a certain province in France, quitting her
usual course, and advancing towards the earth
in a direct line, increasing in magnitude as she ap-
proached, enlarging her dusky spots into vast
regions of land, and her lucid tracts into immense
oceans, that she was to continue approaching till
the spectators had a distinct view of her hills,
mountains, vales, woods, rivers, plains, houses, and
even inhabitants; — that havingapproached thus far
without producing any sensible inconvenience to
them, she was to continue stationary for a month,
I ask, whether every individual in Europe who
could afford the expenses, would not be seen in this
part of France within that short period? Now, as
it is obvious that nothing could bring so many
millions of people to this part of France, but some-
thing that afforded them great pleasure ; it is equal-
N
178 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
ly obvious, that the pleasure is always proportioned
to the strength of the sensation, and, consequently,
thegreater the sensation, the greater the pleasure. It
is idle, then, to attribute the pleasure resulting from
Tragic Representations to sympathy, for there can
be no sympathy with the moon, and yet the spec-
tacle which I have spoken of would give greater
pleasure than all the Tragic Representations that
were ever exhibited ; and that, evidently, because it
would produce a stronger sensation. Had such a
spectacle been presented to the eyes of Europe
during the Queen's trial, the latter would scarcely
be spoken of in England at the time, so slight
would be the sensation it would produce ; for how-
ever strong any sensation may be, it instantly
perishes if a stronger be excited.
Whatever, then, affects the mind through the
medium of the senses, produces a pleasure always
proportionate to the degree in which we are affect-
ed, unless the cause by which the sensation is pro-
duced acts so powerfully on the organs by which it
is received, as to produce actual pain. The sen-
sation cannot be too strong for the mind, if the
organs which conveys it can endure the action of
the exciting cause. Thus, if instead of the moon,
the sun were seen descending from the heavens
in all his meridian glory, increasing as he ap-
proached in heat and magnitude, and throwing a
world of splendour and insufferable radiance around
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 179
him, it is obvious that so grand a spectacle would
produce a much stronger sensation than could be
experienced by the approach of the moon, and that
the pleasure of beholding it would be proportion-
ably greater, while our sensitive organs could
endure the increasing intensity of light and heat ;
but the moment this intensity became intolerable,
the pleasure would instantly perish,
To what can we attribute the institution of pub-
lic games and theatric representations among the
ancient Greeks, if not to the love of strong sen-
sations ? It is this propensity that gave rise to their
foot, horse, and chariot races, wrestling, leaping,
the disk, pugilism, &c. The fame of the Olympic,
Isthmian, Nemean, and Pythian games, shall never
be forgotten, nor the immense number of specta-
tors which crowded to see them. They may be
said, in a manner, to have been witnessed by all
Greece. So great was the rage for these dangerous
exercises, that they were considered sacred, and
consecrated to religion. They served to honour the
remains of departed heroes in Greece and Rome;
witness the funeral games on the death of Patro-
clus, in Homer, and those which were appointed
by iEneas in honour of his father Anchises. In
Rome public games were carried to an inconceiv-
able pitch of grandeur and magnificence. They
were placed under the immediate care of Roman
kings, during the monarchy, and after its subver-
n 2
180 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
sion the consuls and chief magistrates took charge
of them. To increase them in number, they dedi-
cated them, not only to the celestial, but to the infer-
nal deities ; such were the games called Taurilia,
Compitalia, and Terentini ludi. Every reader ac-
quainted with Roman History knows how strongly
the Romans were attached to these games. We
meet with one of the most remarkable instances
of this attachment in the Dictatorship of A. Post-
humius, who, seeing the affairs of Rome in a most
ruinous condition, made a solemn vow, that if the
Roman arms should rescue the state from the
perils to which it was exposed, he would institute
magnificent games in honour of Castor and Pollux.
The sensation produced by the expectation of wit-
nessing these games, had such an effect on the
Roman soldiery, that they became invincible in the
field, and soon retrieved the fallen majesty of the
senate, and the glory of the Roman arms. Post-
humius fulfilled his promise, and the senate order-
ed these games to be celebrated yearly, during a
period of eight da} r s.
But it will be said, that these games were not
much relished or frequented by the Roman phi-
losophers. Grant it : are Tragic Representa-
tions, at the present day, much frequented by our
own philosophers ? Mr. Campbell says of poetry,
that " the progress of literature serves only to
diminish its pleasures," and the same may be said
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 181
of the pleasures of the stage. The cause of this
effect is the same in both cases : the more we reason,
the more apt we are to view every subject through
the cold, analyzing medium of the understanding,
and to divest it of those smiling hues in which
feeling and imagination love to encircle all their
objects : and the less we reason, the more apt we
are to view every thing through the medium of
the feelings alone. Those who seldom consult their
feelings, as I have already observed, extinguish them
by degrees, and have soon no feelings left to con-
sult ; so that the feelings of human nature must not
be sought for in the abstract or metaphysical world,
though a learned man may feel and act like the
rest of mankind. Those whose studies are found-
ed on the science of human nature, and who are
consequently obliged to consult their own feelings,
and the manner in which they are affected, when
placed in particular situations, in order to become
acquainted with the feelings of others, — as poets,
painters, sculptors, connoisseurs, critics, and the
lovers of the fine arts in general, — differ not in their
feelings and pleasures from the rest of mankind ;
or, if they do not enjoy their objects with as strong
and greedy an appetite, at least they enjoy them
with a keener and livelier relish.
Du Bos admits that strong sensations are pleas-
ing to us in a certain degree ; but so far from con-
sidering them as productive of the highest pleasure,
182 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
he attributes the pleasure resulting from them, rather
to the power they possess of removing the uneasi-
ness which attends ennui, and want of occupation,
than to any positive pleasure which they are fitted
to impart. This sort of pleasure is, evidently, only
that negative pleasure which arises from the re-
moval of pain. It can have nothing positive in its
nature, being produced by no sensible cause, and
originating entirely from an act of the mind, which
felicitates itself on its escape from the uneasiness
which it had previously endured. Hume adopts
this theory in part, and rejects it in part, adding
to it whatever he thought necessary to render it
perfect.
" L'Abbe Du Bos," he says, " in his reflections
on poetry and painting, asserts that nothing is, in
general, so disagreeable to the mind as the languid
listless state of indolence into which it falls, upon
the removal of all passion and occupation. To
get rid of this painful situation, it seeks every
amusement and pursuit ; business, gaming, shews,
executions, whatever will rouse the passions, and
take its attention from itself. No matter what the
passion is ; let it be disagreeable, melancholy, dis-
ordered, it is still better than that insipid languor
which arises from perfect tranquillity and repose."
This is the theory of Du Bos, as stated by Hume,
and that which approaches nearest to the one
which I have adopted in this work, on the source
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 183
of Tragic Pleasure. It approaches to it, however,
more in appearance than in reality ; for Du Bos,
so far from making strong sensations a source of
pleasure, maintains that they are always attended
with inquietude, and produce lasting and acute
pain. " U inquietude" he says, " que les affaires
causent, ni les mouvemens qu'elles demandent, ne
Sgaurolent plaire aux hommes, par eux memes.
Mais les hommes craignent encore plus V ennui qui
suit V inaction, et Us trouvent dans les mouvement des
affairs, et dans Vyvresse des passions, une emotion
qui les tient occupes. If we ask him, then, why
are we pleased with strong sensations, he will not
reply, because they give us unmingled pleasure, but
because we prefer enduring the pain which they
inflict, to the torment of that ennui which we
experience in their absence. He says we know,
antecedently, that strong passions are attended
with painful consequences, suites fdcheuses, but
that of two evils we choose the least, and prefer
the pain to the ennui of inaction. The whole of
the pleasure we derive from Tragic Representa-
tions is, therefore, a mere escape from pain. It is
consequently, in every respect, a negative pleasure,
or, rather, it is a positive pain, rendered pleasant
by the reflection, that it is not altogether so painful
as that which it enables us to escape ; or, to express
it in the words of Hume, " it is still better than
184 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
that insipid languor which arises from perfect tran-
quillity and repose.
If Du Bos be right, we go to a tragedy, not for
the pleasure it imparts, but to avoid the pain ari-
sing from the listlessness and stupidity of remain-
ing at home. We need not go far in search of
arguments to prove this theory erroneous, and to
shew, that strong sensations impart real and posi-
tive pleasure, and positive pleasure surely owes
no part of its effect or intensity to the reflections
which we make on the ennui and inquietude which
it enables us to escape. We have only to consult
our own feelings on the subject, and they will in-
stantly inform us, that we go to see a tragedy, not
to escape pain, but to enjoy real, actual, and posi-
tive pleasure. There are cases, it is true, where
people go to the theatre, to banish the idea of some
immediate grievance ; but these cases are few, and
if those who are influenced by them never went
there, it would be still, in appearance, as much
frequented as ever. How many go to the the-
atre who could spend the evening happily at
home ? how many are undetermined, whether to
go there or not, because they do not know which
to prefer, the pleasures which they may enjoy at
home, or those which they anticipate by going to
the theatre ? It is not, therefore, to avoid ennui or
positive pain that we go in search of the enjoy-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 185
ments which the theatre affords, but to enjoy a
pleasure which is really and sensibly felt.
Besides, it is a mistake to suppose, that tran-
quillity and repose are, in themselves, absolutely
painful. Some of the finest poems in every lan-
guage are written on the pleasures of retirement,
and the delights of solitude. Some have gone so
far as to say, that it is only in solitude we can en-
joy true pleasure and felicity ; but allowing this
picture of solitude to be too highly coloured, yet
it affords evidence enough that tranquillity and
repose are not absolutely painful. Who would
not fall in love with retirement, after perusing the
following passage in Goldsmith's " Deserted Vil-
lage."
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease ;
Who quits a world when strong temptations try,
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly.
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep j
No surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate j
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angel's around, befriending virtue's friend ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way ;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
186 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
Hume, however, agrees in the main with this
theory of Du Bos, and thinks, with him, that the
pleasure resulting from strong sensations, is a mere
" relief to that apprehension under which men com-
monly labour, when left entirely to their own
thoughts and meditations." The real objections to
this theory he passes over, and perceives only one
reason for refusing to give it his unqualified assent.
"There is, however," he says, u a difficulty in ap-
plying to the present subject, in its full extent, this
solution, however ingenious and satisfactory it may
appear. It is certain, that the same object of dis-
tress, which pleases in a tragedy, were it really set
before us, would give the most unfeigned uneasi-
ness, though it be then the most effectual cure to
languor and indolence." This objection seems not
to be so well founded as Hume imagines, nor is it
so certain, that the same object of distress which
pleases in a tragedy would give the most unfeigned
uneasiness, were it really set before us ; for if this be
the fact, why do we see people running in crowds to
witness executions, fights, shipwrecks, &c. ? These
are real objects of distress, and yet, so great is our
delight in witnessing them, that, as Burke observes,
we should quit the deepest and best performed
tragedy to behold the execution of a state criminal.
In all countries, and in all ages, this propensity
for witnessing scenes of real distress has uniformly
prevailed. It is many ages since Lucretius flou-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 187
rished, and it was then as prevalent as at the pre-
sent moment. He describes the pleasure result-
ing from witnessing a shipwreck, an engagement,
&c, in the following lines.
Suave mari magno, turbantibus sequora ventis
E terra alterius magnum spectare laborem :
Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri
Per campos instructa tui sine parte pericli.
Du Bos himself justly observes, that the more
dangerous are the evolutions of a rope dancer, and
the more he exposes his life, the more delight he
affords us. So that, at the time of Du Bos, and
of Lucretius, as well as at present, we find
that the real perils to which others are exposed,
afford a pleasure of the highest and deepest
character. It is not, therefore, the mere ficti-
tious distress we see represented on the stage
that alone pleases us, for the real, actual distress
to which our fellow creatures are exposed, as it
produces a stronger sensation, produces also, except
in the case already mentioned, a pleasure incom-
parably greater than any gratification we can de-
rive from its imitation on the stage. Hume's ob-
jection to Du Bos's theory is, consequently, fri-
volous, and founded on the assumption of a fact,
which is absolutely erroneous, and disproved by the
expeperience of mankind. Let us now see how he
attempts to improve it by the assistance of Fon-
tenelle.
188 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
" Monsieur Fontenelle," he says, seems to have
been sensible of this difficulty, (the foregoing ob-
jection to Du Bos's theory) and, accordingly, at-
tempts another solution of the phenomenon, at
least, makes some addition to the theory above
mentioned. " Pleasure and pain," says he, <f which
are two sentiments so different in themselves, differ
not so much in their cause. From the instance of
tickling, it appears, that the movement of pleasure
pushed a little too far, becomes pain, and that the
movement of pain, a little moderate, becomes
pleasure. Hence it proceeds, that there is such a
thing as a sorrow soft and agreeable : it is a pain
weakened and diminished. The heart likes, natu-
rally, to be moved and affected. Melancholy ob-
jects suit it, and even disastrous and sorrowful, pro-
vided they are softened by some circumstance.
It is certain, that on the theatre, the representation
has ahvays the effect of reality, yet it has not, alto-
gether, that effect. However we may be hurried
away by the spectacle, whatever dominion the senses
and imagination may usurp over the reason, there
still lurks at the bottom an idea of falsehood, in
the whole of what we see. This idea, though weak
and disguised, suffices to diminish the pain which
we suffer from the misfortunes of those whom we
love, and to reduce that affliction to such a pitch,
as converts it into pleasure. We weep for the mis-
fortunes of a hero to whom we are attached. In
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 189
the same instant, we comfort ourselves by reflect-
ing, that it is nothing but a fiction, and it is pre-
cisely that mixture of agreeable sorrow and tears
that delight us. But, as that affliction which is
caused by exterior and sensible objects, is stronger
than the consolation which arises from an internal
reflection, they are the effects and symptoms of sor-
row, thatought to predominate in the composition."
" This solution," says Hume, "seems just and con-
vincing ;" but how it should appear either one or
the other to this acute philosopher, seems to me
very extraordinary.
The objection he makes to the former theory
of Du Bos, is, "that the same object of distress
which pleases in tragedy, were it really set before
us, would give the most unfeigned uneasiness;" and
yet, Fontenelle, whose theory seems to him "just
and convincing" affirms the direct contrary, and
asserts, " that the representation has always the
effect of the reality, though it has not altogether
that effect." Can any thing shew the short-sighted-
ness of philosophy, or rather, of those whom we
term philosophers, than that which is exhibited to
ns in the present instance ? Hume says, that real
distress is painful to us, though the imitation is
pleasing. Fontenelle asserts, that the imitation
produces the same effect with the reality, which,
according to Hume, must necessarily be painful.
If Fontenelle, then, be right, Hume must be wrong;
190 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
and yet Fontenelle's theory seems "just and con-
vincing''' to Hume ; which is only saying, in other
words, that he is convinced Fontenelle is right, and
that he himself is wrong. Bat how can Fonte-
nelle be right, when he says "the heart likes natu-
rally to be moved and affected. Melancholy ob-
jects suit it, and even disastrous and sorrowful,
provided they are softened by some circumstance r"
In applying this to Tragic Pleasure, the qualifying
circumstance which softens the sorrowful objects,
is "a certain idea of falsehood in the whole of
what we see." If this be true, melancholy objects,
or objects of distress, do not please us, except when
we know they are so only in appearance. We can,
therefore, take no pleasure in witnessing shipwrecks,
engagements, the fights of gladiators, &c. where
we are ourselves free from all danger, because, in
these cases, the distress is real, without any soften-
ing circumstance, or idea of falsehood in the
whole of what we see. Yet, as the experience of
mankind convinces us, that we do find pleasure in
these real spectacles, how frivolous is it to attribute
the pleasure to " a certain idea of falsehood."
Besides, if it be this idea of falsehood that imparts
the pleasure, it is obvious, that the representation,
instead of having, according to Fontenelle himself,
" the effect of reality," has an effect contrary to it ;
for, if we be pleased, because we know the distress
is not real, we should evidently feel no pleasure if
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 191
we knew it to be real, so that the representation
and the reality must, consequently, have an oppo-
site effect. The fact, however, is, that both the
reality and the representation are pleasing to us,
and that the latter is pleasing only because it
produces an effect similar to that of its proto-
type.
After commenting on the theories of Du Bos
and Fontenelle, Hume proceeds to make such
additions to them as would render the theory of
Tragic Pleasure perfect ; for though he admits, that
Fontenelle's u conclusion seems just and convinc-
ing," yet he thinks, " it wants still some new ad-
dition in order to make it answer fully the pheno-
menon" of Tragic Pleasure. " All the passions,"
he says, " excited by eloquence are agreeable in the
highest degree, as well as those which are moved
by painting, and the theatre. The epilogues of
Cicero are, on this account, chiefly the delight of
every reader of taste ; and it is difficult to read
some of them without the deepest sympathy and
sorrow." His merit, as an orator, no doubt, depends
much on his success in this particular. When he
had raised tears in his judges, and all his audience,
they were then the most highly delighted, and
expressed the greatest satisfaction with the pleader.
The pathetic description of the butchery made by
Verres of the Sicilian captains, is a masterpiece of
this kind. But I believe none will affirm that, the
192 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
being present at a melancholy scene of that nature
would afford any entertainment. Neither is the
sorrow here softened by fiction : for the audience
were convinced of the reality of every circum-
stance. What is it then which, in this case, raises
a pleasure from the bosom of uneasiness, so to
speak ; and a pleasure which still retains all the
features and outward symptoms of distress and
sorrow? I answer, this extraordinary effect proceeds
from that very eloquence with which the melan-
choly scene is represented. The genius required
to paint objects in a lively manner, the art employ-
ed in collecting all the pathetic circumstances, the
judgment displayed in disposing them ; the exer-
cise, I say, of these noble talents, together with
the force of expression and beauty of oratorial
numbers, diffuse the highest satisfaction on the
audience, and excite the most delightful move-
ments. By this means the uneasiness of the melan-
choly passions is not only overpowered and effaced
by something stronger of an opposite kind, but
the whole impulse of those passions is converted
into pleasure, and swells the delight which the
eloquence raises in us. The same force of oratory
employed on an uninteresting subject, would not
please half so much, or rather would appear al-
together ridiculous ; and the mind being left in
absolute calmness and indifference, would relish
none of those beauties of imagination or expres-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 193
sion, which, if joined to passion, give it such exqui-
site entertainment. The impulse or vehemence
arising from sorrow, compassion, indignation, re-
ceives a new direction from the sentiments of beauty.
The latter being the predominant motion, seizes
the whole mind, and converts the former into them-
selves, at least, tinctures them so strongly as to-
tally to alter their nature. And the soul being, at
the same time, rouzed by passion and charmed by
eloquence, feels, on the whole, a strong movement
which is altogether delightful.
" The same principle takes place in tragedy ;
with this addition, that tragedy is an imitation ;
and imitation is always of itself agreeable. This
circumstance serves still further to smooth the
motions of passion, and convert the whole feeling in to
one uniform and strong enjoyment. Objects of the
greatest terror and distress please in painting ; and
please more than the most beautiful objects that
appear calm and indifferent. The affection rouzing
the mind, excites a large stock of spirit and vehe-
mence ; which is all transformed into pleasure by
the force of the prevailing movement. It is thus
the fiction of tragedy softens the passion by an in-
fusion of a new feeling ; not merely by weakening
or diminishing the sorrow. You may, by degrees,
weaken a real sorrow, till it totally disappears ;
yet in none of its gradations will it ever give
pleasure, except, perhaps, by accident, to a man
o
194 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
sunk under lethargic indolence, whom it rouzes
from that languid state."
To disprove Hume's theory it is sufficient to shew
that it contradicts itself. I admit his theory may
be right, though supported by erroneous arguments,
but, in this case, we must receive it, not on his
authority, but on the authority of some better ar-
guments by which we can support it ourselves.
The theory, however, is not only erroneous in itself,
but supported by erroneous arguments. In com-
menting on Du Bos, he says, that the distress which
pleases in a tragedy would give us real pain if it
were actually set before us ; and here he introduces
Cicero describing real sufferings. The destruction
of the Sicilian captains by Verres, was no fiction,
and so Hume himself acknowledges ; " neither,"
he says, u is the sorrow here softened by fiction, for
the audience were convinced of the reality of every
circumstance." Would not the reader then sup-
pose, that Hume introduced this description of real
suffering, to shew that it produces real pain, as he
had already observed, that the distress which pleases
in fiction gives pain in reality. And yet he tells us
now, that this picture of real distress gave high de-
light to the judges and the audience. "When he had
raised tears in his judges and all his audience, they
were then the most highly delighted. And yet this
delight was caused by a picture of real, not imagi-
nary distress/' He still continues to contradict
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 195
himself as he proceeds. "This extraordinary effect,"
lie says, " proceeds from that very eloquence with
which the melancholy scene is rep resented." He
continues, as the reader may perceive in the above
extract, to shew, that it is the beauty of the lan-
guage, and not the tears occasioned by the distresses
and sufferings which are described by Cicero, that
produces the pleasure, and that the melancholy
passions are overpowered and effaced by these
beauties and converted into pleasure. Here we
may truly say,
Aliquando lonus dormitat Homerus ;
for surely nothing can be more evident, than that the
beauty of the language, so far from overpowering
the melancholy feelings occasioned by the butcher-
ing of the Sicilian captains, is the very cause of
raising this feeling to its utmost height. It is by
raising this feeling, and not by overpowering it,
that the judges and audience were melted to tears*
The truth of what I here assert can easily be
proved by displaying this eloquence on some in-
different subject. If the sensation produced by
eloquence, independent of the subject, be more
powerful than that occasioned by melancholy
emotions, and converts these emotions into plea
sure, it follows, that whatever the subject be,
however trifling or uninteresting, it will enable the
orator to excite deeper feelings than can ever be
o2
196 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
produced by tragic distress. I believe no person
will admit this to be the case ; and Hume himself
admits, that, " the same force of oratory employed
on an uninteresting subject would appear altogether
ridiculous ;" and so it would ; for that eloquence
which leaves its subject behind it, or to the splen-
dour of which its subject is not equal, is a mere
brutumfulmen. It is not true, then, as Hume says,
that the beauty of the language exciting " the
predominant motions, seize the whole mind, and
convert the former — the melancholy emotions —
into themselves, at least tincture them so strongly
as totally to alter their nature." The fact is, that
the emotions produced by the sufferings of the
Sicilians, so far from being altered by the language
of Cicero, are only wrought up to the highest
pitch ; and instead of being the weaker, are evident-
ly the predominant passion. The judges and the
audience are so powerfully swayed by their sym-
pathies, that they comparatively forget the beauty
of the eloquence by which they are moved. It is so
in reading the Iliad, we forget Homer, and are af-
fected only by the imposing scenes, daring actions,
and pathetic situations which he has placed be-
fore us.
The tragic and the epic muse agree then in this
capital circumstance, that the pleasures originating
from them both, arise from the powerful emotions
which they produce ; for it is a mistake, to sup-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 197
pose that the pleasure which we feel in the perusal
of a tragedy or an epic poem, arises from the genius,
ability, and strict adherence to rule with which it
is executed. In vain does the tragic writer observe
all the restrictions which criticism imposes on
him ; in vain does he observe unity in the design,
connexion in the scenes, a regular though inter-
rupted progress in the action ; proper motives for
appearing on, and disappearing from the stage;
and the most exquisite calllda junctura through-
out all its parts : — all this he may do, and more
than all this ; but if he want the art of inventing
interesting characters, and pathetic situations,
such as excite strong sensations, emotions, or pas-
sions, all his felicity of expression, happiness of
description, and strict adherence to rule, produce
no effect upon us. We look on, like cold specta-
tors, and depart from the theatre less pleased
than we entered it. On the contrary, the Tragic
writer, who has the secret of inventing tender, affect-
ing, and pathetic situations, or, what is the same,
the art of exciting strong emotions, even at the
expense of reason, will be always sure of pleasing.
The reason is, that the most ignorant man cannot
be deceived in what is pathetic : it excites the same
feelings in him that it does in the most practised
critic ; but, with regard to the violations of
dramatic rule, in the conduct of the work, he is
little acquainted, and, even if lie were, the obser-
198 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
vation of them could only afford him a negative
pleasure, by enabling him to escape the pain of
seeing them violated. What pleasure is imparted
by observing the unities of time and place, for we
should never have reflected whether they were
observed or not, had we never seen them violated.
I know, the greatest dramatic writer is he who
moves the heart without offending the understand-
ing, or violating established precepts ; but then it
must be recollected, that rules and precepts are the
mere links by which we connect things together.
These links are themselves concealed from us, ex-
cept where they are clumsily contrived, for the
more skilfully they are fabricated, the more diffi-
cult it is to discover them ; or, rather, the less apt
we are to direct our attention to them. It is not,
then, the links that connect, but the things con-
nected, that affect us, as these links are kept wholly
out of sight ; and, consequently, the situation
which is not interesting in itself, will affect us but
little, however, artfully it may be connected with
another. If it be artfully connected, so much the
better : it proves the writer a better artist ; but
if he make use of inferior materials, that is, if his
characters be not interesting, and placed in deep
and affecting situations, all the art which human
genius can exert in connecting these situations,
can never succeed in exciting our sympathies. If
it be asked, whether the generality of the audience
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 199
be proper judges of what is truly affecting, I reply,
the most ignorant of them are. Sympathy cannot
be taught : if nature denied it, education could
never have imparted it. It is not the offspring of
reason or science; for a simple feeling cannot be
analyzed, nor its mode of action explained. Though
we agree in calling that feeling, which is produced
by objects of distress, sympathy, we cannot tell
whether any two of us feel it alike. If one man
be more moved than another, how is he to explain
the exact degree of emotion which he feels ; and
without such an explanation, he cannot tell
whether he feel the emotion differently, or what the
degree of difference is. The most ignorant of us
have therefore, as ample means of judging of the
pathetic, as the most learned, for neither acquires
his knowledge of it from instruction or science.
Our ideas, and the comparisons which we institute
between them, are the source of our knowledge,
and, consequently, may be communicated and
corrected by instruction ; but our feelings are the
sources of our pleasures and of our pains, and are
incapable of being taught. We cannot learn to
feel pain, unless we are acted upon by a cause
sufficient to produce it ; nor can we learn to avoid
feeling pain when such a cause acts upon us. The
Tragic writer has, therefore, no cause to fear, when
he presents the audience with a tender or pathetic
scene, that they will not be able to perceive it, for
200
PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
if they do not perceive, at least they will feel it,
and if they do not feel, he is mistaken in suppo-
sing it pathetic; the most enlightened part of the
audience will think it frigid and uninteresting, as
well as the most ignorant.
It is not, therefore, the art, or perfection of me-
thod observed in the conduct of tragedy, that ex-
cites those strong sensations and emotions which
produce the pleasure arising from Tragic Repre-
sentations. We are far from being so much in-
terested in seeing every thing as it ought to be, as
we are in seeing many things as they ought not to
be. Where every thing is right, nothing surprizes,
and, therefore, a perfect character excites no inte-
rest in a tragedy. He only does what we expect
him to do, and hence he does nothing to excite
strong emotions. Neither are we pleased to see
every thing wrong, for when a character is so con-
ummately wicked as to disregard every moral
precept, and never act in obedience to the laws of
his own nature, (I mean human nature) we are
disgusted : we are surprised at no act of his, be-
cause we know, antecedently; that he is capable of
the worst of crimes. He produces, therefore, no
strong sensations, and, consequently, no interest,
and where there is no interest there is no plea-
sure. This is evidently the reason why critics have
laid it down as a law, that the character best fitted
for tragedy is an imperfect character, he who is
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 201
neither perfectly moral, nor irreclaimably wicked.
No critic, however, has ever assigned a reason why
the imperfect character is best adapted for tragedy;
but the theory which I have endeavoured to esta-
blish on the subject of Tragic Pleasure, easily ex-
plains the cause. No character can excite strong
sensations that is not more or less imperfect, or
that acts just as he ought to act, for, in doing so,
he does nothing to surprize us, or to excite those
sensations, without which it is idle to hope, that
the most laboured tragedy shall ever be productive
of pleasure.
Hume, then, is evidently in error, when he attri-
butes the effect to " the genius required to paint
objects in a lively manner, together with the force
of expression and beauty of oratorial numbers."
Without genius, it is true, no writer can produce
an interesting tragedy ; but a writer of inferior
genius, who brings together a number of pathetic
circumstances and situations, shall impart more
pleasure, even though he should violate some of
the principal laws of dramatic criticism, than he
who is rigidly observant of them, if he has invent-
ed only circumstances and situations of a cold
and frigid nature. I would be far from insinua-
ting, that the dramatic writer who invents inte-
resting and pathetic scenes, is at liberty to indulge
in all the licentiousness which an exuberant ima-
gination can suggest, but however licentious he
202 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
may be, he will impart more pleasure, simply be-
cause he excites stronger sensations than he who,
without this genius, is most observant of rule and
dramatic precept.
The theory of Tragic Pleasure which I have now
examined, is obviously a compound, made up of
three theories. Du Bos, Fontenelle, and Hume,
have each contributed their portion ; but the ori-
ginal idea seems to have been taken from Mon-
taigne. The soul, he says, must have always some
object to employ it, and when it has not a legiti-
mate one, it creates a false one for itself. He com-
pares the soul to the wind, whose strength is in-
creased by resistance, and broken where no object
stands opposed to its violence.
Ventus, ut amittat vires nisi robore densae
Occurrant sylvae spatio diffusus inani.
Hence, he says, to give a view a proper effect, it
must be bounded, and not suffered to lose itself
in the uncertain distance, for the soul must have
something fixed to act upon, or it will employ itself
with imaginary objects, rather than remain quiet.
This propensity of the soul, he illustrates by no
ticing a similar law operating on the irrational
brute. " Ainsi emporte les betes leur rage a s'at-
taquer a la pierre, et au fer qui les a blessees, et a se
venger a belles dents sur soymesme du mai quelles
sentent.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 203
Pannonis hand aliter post ictum ssevior ursa
Cui jaculum parva Libys amentavit habena,
Se rotat in vuluus, telumque irata receptum
Impetit et secum fugientem circuit hastam.
Xerxes fouetta la mer et escrivit un cartel de defie
au Mont Athos,"
These observations of Montaigne appear to me
to have been the origin of Du Bos's theory of Tra-
gic Pleasure, though Montaigne himself never
thought of applying them to pleasures arising
from tragic sources. That Du Bos had his eye
upon them, however, can hardly be doubted, when
he wrote the following passage. " L'ame a ses be-
soins comme le corps ; et Tun des grands besoins
de l'homme, est celui d'avoir Fesprit occupe. L'en-
nui qui suit bientot Tinaction de Tame est un mal
si douloureux pour l'homme qu'il entreprend sou-
vent les travaux les plus penibles afin de s'epairgner
la peine d'en etre tourmente "
It is certain, that the mind cannot be happy in
a state of inaction, though it is possible that it may
be free from all sensible pain. Some men will sit
hours alone, without evincing the least disposition
to enter into conversation, or mingle in the amuse-
ments of which they are spectators, which they
would never do if this inaction was attended with
any sensible pain. That it is not attended with
pleasure I am willing to allow, unless the mind
be exercised in mental speculation ; but still it
204 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
proves that inaction is not always a torment. It
matters little, however, whether it be so or not,
so far as regards Tragic Pleasure, for if the neces-
sity of employing the mind account for this plea-
sure, it follows, that every thing that employs the
mind is necessarily pleasing, for, if not, tragedy may
be among those things which employ the mind,
and still are not pleasing, and, therefore, we must
have recourse to something beyond the mere neces-
sity of employing the mind to account for this plea-
sure. It is, indeed, certain, that the mind is never
happier than when employed in any thing agree-
able to it; but it is equally certain, that it is never
more unhappy than when employed in what is
disagreeable. It is not, therefore, the mere act of
employing the mind that gives pleasure, but the
nature of the thing in which it is employed ; and,
consequently, it is idle to attribute the pleasure to
the mere act of being employed, instead of attri-
buting it to the nature of the employment.
Mr. Hazlitt, following Du Bos, says, that "the
pleasure derived from tragic poetry has its source
and ground-work in the common love of strong
excitement." " We are as fond," he says, " of in-
dulging our violent passions, as of reading a de-
scription of those of others. We are as prone to
make a torment of our fears, as to luxuriate in our
hopes of good. If it be asked why we do so, the
best answer is, because we cannot help it. The
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 205
sense of power is as strong a principle in the mind
as the love of pleasure. The objects of terror and
pity exercise the same controul over it as those of
love or beauty. It is as natural to hate as to love, to
despise as to admire, to express our hatred or con-
tempt, as our love or admiration." To this theory
there are two obvious objections : the first is, that
it is far from being* true in the unqualified man-
ner in which it is put by Mr. Hazlitt ; the se-
cond, that all the reasons by which he seeks to con-
firm it are erroneous. It is not true that all strong
excitements are pleasing, because, above a certain
degree of intensity they are insufferably painful.
" It by no means holds," says Mr. Campbell, in his
Essay on this subject, " that the stronger the emo-
tion is, so much the fitter for this purpose. On the
contrary, if you exceed but ever so little a certain
measure, instead of that sympathetic, delightful
sorrow which makes affliction itself wear a lovely
aspect, and engages the mind, not only to hug it
with tenderness, but with transport, you only ex-
cite horror and aversion." This opinion of Mr.
Campbell is easily proved by experiment. The in-
stance adduced by Fontenelle proves it sufficiently.
Tickling is pleasing, in a slight degree : increase
this pleasure, by increasing the action, and it be-
comes painful. According to Mr. Hazlitt, how-
ever, tlbis increased excitement ought to give more
pleasure than a slight one; for if pleasure depend
206 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
ion the strength of the excitement, the stronger
it is the greater the pleasure. This, however, is
not the fact. Strong excitement is pleasing only
in a certain degree, and above this degree is al-
ways painful. There are two other cases in which
strong excitements fail of imparting pleasure in
any degree, the one is where the excitement is too
long continued, the other where we are acted upon
as individuals, placed in particular situations,
and not as men in general, as will be shewn
hereafter. Mr. Hazlitt's theory, therefore, will
not hold good in a thousand instances, and the
reason that he assigns for this theory, proves that
he has taken it from Du Bos and Fontenelle, for,
if he had discovered it himself by reflection and
observation, he would never have advanced such
futile and contradictory reasons in support of it.
" It is as natural," he says, " to hate as to love, to
despise as to admire, &c." But what reason does he
assign for hatred, and all the other disagreeable
passions, being as pleasing to us as the agreeable
ones ? Why, truly, " because we cannot help it."
Now, if we hate because we cannot help it, it is
evident that we find no pleasure in hatred, for we
find no pleasure in any thing that is forced upon
us, and that we cannot help. The passion that
gives us real pleasure, we cherish and indulge, not
because we cannot help it, not because it forces
itself upon us, but because we do not choose to
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 207
help it, because we should not repel it even if we
could. To say that the disagreeable passions are
as " natural" to us as the agreeable ones, is saying
nothing to the point, for though they are, unques-
tionably, as natural to those who yield to them, it
by no means follows, that they are as pleasing, for
a thing may be natural, and still extremely disa-
greeable. It is natural for a man to feel a disa-
greeable taste, when he drinks wormwood, though
it is by no means natural that he should be pleased
with it. If it should be replied, that the benefit
he expects to derive from it converts this pain into
pleasure, instances may be quoted without num-
ber, where such a conversion can never take place.
It is natural that he whose arm is cut off by a
sword should feel extreme pain, but it cannot, by
any torture of argument, be shewn, that this pain
is a pleasure. If, then, the reason by which Mr.
Hazlitt supports his theory have any truth in it,
it follows very evidently, that a merchant who is
ruined at sea must derive great pleasure from the
circumstance ; for, as it is natural (so far as we
know nature from experience) that the circum-
stance should give him pain, and, as whatever is
natural, according to Mr. Hazlitt, is pleasing, the
merchant's natural pain must evidently be a plea-
sure to him, so that pleasure and pain, according
to Mr. Hazlitt's logic, are both the same. Indeed,
lie shews very clearly himself, that the pleasure ari-
208 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
sing from Tragic sources did not appear to him
to be a pleasure at all, though he calls it a pleasure,
and endeavours to account for it. " The sense of
power," he says, "is as strong a principle in the
mind, as the love of pleasure." From this it is
clear, that the sense of power is different from the
love of pleasure; for, if they were the same, he
could institute no comparison between the degrees
of energy with which they act upon the mind. If,
then, the sense of power be not a pleasure, and that
it is to gratify this sense we indulge in the " violent
passions," how can it be said that these passions
afford us any pleasure ? Nothing, at the same
time, appears more unintelligible to me, than what
Mr. Hazlitt means by this sense of power, as he
says, in the preceding sentence, that our reason
for " indulging our violent passions," is, " because
we cannot help it." If we cannot help it, then, what
becomes of this "sense of power." To me it has
no meaning, unless Mr. Hazlitt meant want of
power, by the expression " sense of power." If
Mr. Hazlitt's theory, then, were true, the reasons
by which he supports it could only serve to make
it appear erroneous in the eyes of every man, who
could not perceive its truth abstracted from the
arguments on which it rests. It is certain, how-
ever, that no process of reasoning can prove all
strong excitements and sensations pleasing in any
of the three cases which I have mentioned, though
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 209
it is equally certain, that they are so in all other
instances. The more we enter into human nature,
and examine the laws by which it is governed, the
more we must feel convinced, that the soul delights
in all strong, ardent, and impetuous feelings and
emotions, when they do not act above a certain de-
gree, continue too long, or affect us, not as men in
general, but as individuals, either of peculiar tem-
pers, or placed in situations that influence our na-
tural temper. This attachment to strong feelings
does not, however, arise from our incapacity of
resisting them, as Mr. Hazlitt asserts, but from our
unwillingness to resist them, from our actual, vo-
luntary attachment to thern, and the actual plea-
sure they communicate at the moment. When we
continue for any length of time in one state of
feeling, the soul becomes, in a manner, uncon-
scious of its existence, and continues so until it is
roused by some circumstance, object, or event,
and a new feeling excited within it. The moment
this new sensation is felt, it finds itself placed in
a new world ; it feels itself different from what it
ever felt itself before, for as it has no consciousness
of its existence but what it derives from its sensa-
tions and perceptions, that is, from the impressions
made upon it from without, each new sensation
appears to it a new mode of existence, and, were
it not for the faculty of memory, it could form no
p
210 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
conception of any other mode than that which it
immediately feels.
Even with this faculty life consists in the present
moment, or rather in the feelings or sensations of
the moment ; but the reminiscent power enables
us to revive past feelings, and to become again, in
a manner, what we were before. We have no idea
of soul, or spirit, or animated existence, considered
separately from the structure of parts which it
animates, but what we acquire from our sensations
or consciousness of it ; for our ideas or perceptions
are confined to the properties, relations, and differ-
ences of things, and take no cognizance of their es-
sence, or the mode in which life is felt. The soul, or
vital principle, it is true, consists not in sensation,
perception, or will, but in that inconceivable some-
thing which feels, perceives, and exercises volition.
The power which feels, however, or, in other words,
the soul, would have no consciousness of its exist-
ence if no impressions were made upon it from with-
out ; and when it is weary of these impressions and
becomes incapable of feeling them, all consciousness
of existence ceases. Hence it is that we have no
consciousness of existence while we sleep, though
the vital principle continues. If, then, our con-
sciousness of life consists in our sensations of it,
or rather, if our sensations be new modes of con-
sciousness, it is obvious that each new sensation
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 211
is a new sort of existence ; for though the power
or principle that feels is always the same, yet every
new sensation makes it appear different to us, be-
cause we have no idea or feeling of it but what arises
from our sensations. From our feelings or sensations,
then, we derive our consciousness that something
within us exists. This something we call soul or
spirit, but what it is we can neither describe nor con-
ceive: we know it only by our feelings, and, therefore,
so far as regards our knowledge of it, it appears to
be a sensation eternally shifting the mode of its
existence ; but in whatever mode we examine it,
we still find it to be a sensation of one kind or
other, though the moment we come to abstract, we
know that the sensation is different from the thing
by which the sensation is felt ; sensation being
only a mode or property of something else. The
soul or vital principle appears, therefore, to us at
every moment a sensation, though the sensation
of one moment differs from that of another. The
same principle that attaches us to life consequently
attaches us to sensations, and the moi-e powerfully
any sensation is felt, the more conscious are we of
the vital principle within us. Hence it is that we
love strong sensations, if not in the same propor-
tion that we love life itself, at least in a degree al-
ways proportioned to it ; for he who once becomes
tired of his existence, suffers no new sensation to
approach him ; and, therefore, looks with indiffer-
p2
212 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
ence on every thing- calculated to produce it. It
is only while we are in love with life that we are in
love with strong" sensations ; and it is only while
we feel strongly that we can be properly said to
live. Every weaker feeling gives a weaker con-
sciousness of existence, so that some men can
scarcely be said to live at all. Here then we have
the origin of the pleasures resulting not only from
Tragic Representations, but from every species
of public exhibition, as the fights of gladiators
among the Greeks and Romans, pantomimes, bull-
feasts, &c. They all awaken strong sensations,
emotions, or passions in the soul, and, consequent-
ly, a stronger consciousness of existence. The de-
gree in which the sensation is felt always determines
the degree of pleasure which it imparts, and the plea-
sure always increases with the degree till it reaches
to absolute pain. Where it becomes painful de-
pends on our susceptibility of impressions. " Men
differ in this," says Helvetius, " that the degree of
emotion which one regards as an excess of pleasure,
is sometimes, in another, the beginning of pain.
The eye of my friend may be pained by an excess
of light that gives me pleasure." When a strong
sensation becomes painful we wish to get rid of it,
if the pain be intolerable ; but if not, even the ac-
companying pain cannot induce us to resign it.
A strong sensation puts the soul in motion,
and if we could conceive an idea of motion ab-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 213
stracted from substance, if we could conceive it a
thing and not a mode, we should have good reason
for believing motion to be the soul itself. " If we
always give the name of cause and effect to the
concomitance of two parts," says Hume, " and
that wherever there are bodies there is motion, we
ought then to regard motion as the universal soul
of matter, and the divinity that alone penetrates
its substance." Motion, however, is not the divinity
unless the divinity be an attribute ; but it is at all
times pleasing to the soul, unless it be moved in
such a degree as tends to force it altogether from
its material habitation. A slight tit illation pro-
duces a pleasing sensation, because it puts the soul
in motion, and as the sensation increases the plea-
sure increases also ; but when it arrives to a cer-
tain height, it overpowers the soul, and, consequent-
ly, becomes painful. All sensations, then, that
rouse the soul are pleasing up to the degree that
renders them painful ; so that, if it should be said
the soul is not a lover of strong sensations, because
it dislikes all sensations above this degree, I reply,
that it would still continue to like them if its
strength of endurance were equal to the increased
power of the sensation ; for as " the eye of my
friend may be pained by the excess of light that
gives me pleasure," it is evident that if my organ
of vision were as weak as my friend's, it would give
me pain also; and, therefore, it follows, that if his
214 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
organs were as strong as mine, it would give him
the same pleasure which it affords me. Reasoning
from the same analogy, were both our organs
stronger, they would find greater pleasure in still
greater light ; so that the highest degree of light
would be, of all others, the most pleasing to the
soul, if the eye could endure it. It does not follow,
however, that because we cannot endure it, we do
not love it. The fly cannot endure the flame of
the candle, but still it loves this flame ; it hovers
around it, approaches it frequently, at the peril of
its life, seems conscious of the clanger of approach-
ing it nearer, cannot overcome, however, the
instinct that prompts it to a nearer approach, and *
in obedience to the fatal impulse, perishes in the
flame. By strong sensations, however, it must be
recollected that I do not mean strong, disagreeable
tastes or organical sensations of any kind, which do
not tend to put the soul into action, and affect it like
passion, the physical symptoms and signs of which
are, in general, an irregular movement of the blood
and animal spirits. So strong is our attachment
to powerful sensations that we relish them, even
when they are painful to a certain degree. Young
people cannot endure to chew tobacco, but even in
youth few are disgusted with the smoke of a to-
bacco pipe, because it puts the animal spirits in
motion. By degrees they love a greater and a
denser portion of it, because they always loved as
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 215
much of it as they could endure. At length, they
venture to take a single blast, and are pleased
with the sensation. If they do not take a second
it is not because they have a dislike to it, but be-
cause they are not able to endure it. The moment
they imagine themselves able, they venture to take
two; and after they find they can endure this
they take three. Thus they continue increasing
the proportion, because they are pleased with the
stronger sensation which results from it. Hence
we find, that those who can endure the strong sen-
sation prefer it to the weaker ; that no person is
satisfied with mild tobacco who can endure stronger,
nor even with stronger if he can endure the
strongest ; and that he who is obliged to smoke
mild tobacco does so, not because he prefers it to
the strong, but because he has not nerve to endure
it stronger. There is no person who smokes mild
tobacco who will not avow that he wishes he could
take it stronger, and who does not, perhaps, ven-
ture sometimes to do so in obedience to this wish,
except his reason triumphs over his natural pro-
pensity to strong sensations, and advises him either
to moderate this propensity, or abandon smoking
altogether.
Mr. Knight, in accounting for the preference we
give to tastes originally disagreeable, to those simple
tastes with which we are pleased in our youth,
calls the former acquired, and the latter natural,
216 PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO
tastes ; and says that, " all those tastes which are
natural, lose, and ail those which are unnatural,
acquire strength by indulgence." Among which
he instances the taste and smell of tobacco. This
does not appear to me~to be philosophical language.
It is not philosophical to call the taste of tobacco
unnatural ; first, because it is a natural plant ;
secondly, because if the taste which it produces be
unnatural, it follows that the taste which it pro-
duces is not that which it ought to produce, but
some other, for whatever produces what it ought
to produce, necessarily produces a natural effect.
Tobacco has the same taste to all men : this
uniform effect must, consequently, be natural; nor
indeed can any production of nature produce an
unnatural effect, for even admitting that it does
not produce the same effect in different individuals,
the effect produced in each is still natural, because
it arose not from any difference of operation in
the cause, but from organical differences in the
subjects acted upon. All tastes then are natural
tastes, nor is there any thing gained by call-
ing them acquired, as this epithet cannot serve
to distinguish them from others. Man is born
without ideas or relishes of any kind, so that he
can have no particular taste which can be called
natural before the body or fluid which produces
this taste be received into the mouth. The taste
of tobacco is communicated in the same manner,
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 217
and the knowledge of both is acquired by the same
means, and, therefore, one is as much an acquired
taste as the other. The true cause, then, of the
greater pleasure which tobacco affords, is, as I have
already shewn, the strong and animating sensa-
tion which it produces.
The sensible properties, therefore, of all sub-
stances which affect the animal spirits are pleas-
ing, until their action upon the organ becomes
actually insupportable. The degree of pleasure
always depends on the degree of power which we
possess of supporting the sensations by which it is
produced, and the degree of pain depends, in like
manner, on our own impotency, or incapability of
enjoyment.
This is the true rule by which all our organic
pleasures and pains are determined. The greater
power we possess of enjoying any pleasure, or of
supporting the sensation by which it is produced,
the greater is our desire for it ; and the greater our
desire, the more exquisite is the pleasure which
attends its gratification. Impotent desires pro-
duce no pleasure, even when they are gratified ;
but the gratification of strong desires produce a
pleasure exactly proportionate to the strength of
the craving which solicits its enjoyment. When
the stomach is voracious, the greater is our power
of digestion, and our desire of eating; and the
pleasure of eating is always proportionate to the
218 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
strength of this desire. In fact, the commonest
fare is luxury to a hungry stomach.
Jejunus raro stomachus vulgaria temnit.— Hon.
If the power of digestion were not always propor-
tionate to our desire for food, a glutton would soon
be carried off by indigestion and internal obstruc-
tions ; and, if our relish for food were not in like
manner proportionate to the cravings of the sto-
mach, we should equally perish, because the mouth
would reject that nourishment of which the sto-
mach stood in need. It is true, the power of digestion
does not always equal the desire for food, but this
arises not from natural, but from artificial desires.
He who is governed by the simple impulses of the
stomach, never seeks for more food than he is
able to digest, as is the case with almost all
brute animals, but the mind creates new im-
pulses of its own, and has recourse to artificial
stimuli, to assist it in procuring enjoyments of
which nature does not stand in need. These en-
joyments, however, it must be recollected, are sen-
sations of a stronger nature than those which the
animal economy requires, which is a new evidence
that, constituted as we are, strong sensations are,
of all others, the most pleasing and agreeable to
us.
To all men, therefore, the infirm as well as the
strong, powerful sensations are pleasing, except
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 219
in the three instances already mentioned. In-
crease a slight disagreeable sensation and it be-
comes immediately pleasing. A grating sound
produces a disagreeable sensation, but increase
it suddenly to the utmost height, and you feel
an immediate pleasure. The more tremendous
the sound, the more we delight in it, unless it
actually stuns us, and then it becomes painful.
I am aware that the sensation produced by loud
sound wants that character of gaiety and light-
ness to which we give the name of pleasure, but
it must be recollected, that pleasure is not con-
fined to one modification of feeling; and that it is
a genus which embraces every sensation, or im-
pression, in which we delight, or which we do not
feel inclined to suppress, the moment it is felt. If
a tremendous, loud, grating sound be not pleasing,
why do we stand to listen to it ? Why are we all
attention, at the moment, and seem fearful of
losing the slightest portion of the effect. Why,
then, is the soul pleased with a loud, and displeased
with a low, grating sound ? Evidently because it
delights in strong sensations, not actually painful.
If it be asked, what constitutes a slight, what a
strong, and what a painful sensation, I reply, our
own feelings, what is a slight sensation to one,
being a strong sensation to another, and a painful
to a third. Perhaps, however, something like a
rule may be laid down, that may enable us to dis-
tinguish where each of these sensations terminate.
220 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
A sensation that passes not to the sensor ium com-
mune, or sensitive soul, but continues to affect only
the primary sensory or organ through which it is
received, may be properly called a slight sensa-
tion ; not that we can feel any organic sensation
of which the sensorium commune, or soul, is igno-
rant, but it feels them as something' external, some-
thing incapable of moving it to pleasure, or forcing-
it to pain. Thus, if a man takes me by the hand,
I feel a sensation where his hand is in contact
with mine ; but this is the only sensation I feel ;
and, therefore, I call it a slight sensation : but if I
happen to be in love, and that the object of my
affections takes me by the hand, I feel a sensation,
as before, in my hand, and this sensation is, as in
the former case, a slight one ; but then I feel ano-
ther sensation, of which I was in the former in-
stance totally unconscious, and this sensation is
felt, not in the hands or feet, or any particular
member that I can mention : it is felt, if I may
use the expression, every where and no where. In
a word, it pervades the whole frame. This is what
I would call a strong sensation, namely, a sensa-
tion that does not confine itself to the part where
it was first felt, but passes on like an electric shock,
and communicates itself to all parts of the sys-
tem. These are the sensations which are always
pleasing, unless they act so powerfully on the
member through which they are communicated as
to give actual pain, and, even then, they are pleas-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 221
ing, unless the pain be so intense as to render us
incapable of feeling the internal pleasing emotion.
The pleasure which a lover enjoys in stealing a
kiss from his fair one, is so great, that he is insen-
sible of pain though she should happen to bite his
lips in the very act ; but if he received the same
bite from a person to whom he had no attachment,
he would feel it acutely. The reason is obvious :
the strong internal sensation produced by the kiss
extinguishes the pain which is felt in the lips, and
converts it into a pleasing sensation ; but if she bit
off the lip altogether, the internal pleasing emo-
tion produced by the kiss yields at the moment,
to the intensity of the pain, and, therefore, the
internal pleasure is not felt until the pain abates.
This, however, does not prove that the strong in-
ternal sensation is not pleasing, for though, at the
moment, it is not sensibly felt, yet its latent ex-
istence is sufficiently proved by this circumstance
alone, that it abates the acuteness of the pain ;
for he whose lip is bit off by the beloved object of
his affections, does not feel half the pain experienced
by the man who loses his lip by the bite of a dog.
In expelling disagreeable organic sensations,
however, the soul can exert little power. Jf I
prick my finger with a pin, I have no power of ex-
pelling the sensation. I do not feel myself capable
of making any exertion to that effect. On the
other hand, if a slight sensation be agreeable to
the soul, instead of wishing to expel it from the
222 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
organ, it communes with it immediately, and ex-
hausts the little portion of pleasure it is eapable
of imparting", unless a more pleasing object offers
it higher enjoyment. The lighter sensation is
always lost in the stronger. The organic senses
are affected by the slightest impressions, but the
soul, not being so easily moved, the sensations are
felt only in the organs by which they are received,
unless the pain be so intense as to transfix the
soul. Thus, if I receive a slight blow on the
arm, the sensation is felt in the part of the arm
that receives the blow ; but if I receive a power-
ful blow on any part of the body, by which I am
knocked down, and stunned, or severely hurt, the
pain is not felt more in the part where the injury
was received, than in any other part of the body,
as the soul flies immediately to its relief, and dis-
perses the pain over the entire frame. It is only-
after the soul has withdrawn its attention from the
wounded part, that the pain becomes local, and
distinctly felt where the injury was received.
It is certain, then, that the soul comes forward,
and exerts its energies only when external circum-
stances produce strong sensations. Hence we
find, that men who have been frequently placed in
trying situations, or situations that require a strong
and diligent appropriation of the mental faculties,
generally possess more mind and soul, or a greater
ductility or pliability of the intellectual faculties
to the exigencies and circumstances of time and
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 223
place than others. There is little soul where there
is little occasion for it, that is, where the objects
we aim at require little more than animal or in-
stinctive perception. Hence it is, that savages are
not only stupid, but likewise indolent. Their men-
tal powers remain always dormant, because they
are strangers to the complicated interests of so-
ciety, and are consequently never placed in situa-
tions which call forth energies unknown to us all.
till they are elicited by circumstances.
As the soul, then, comes forward only on great
occasions, it is obvious, that it is little affected by
slight impressions, whether they be of an agreeable
or disagreeable character. But when the organic
sense is so powerfully affected, that the soul is
forced out of its tranquil situation, and obliged to
take part, or sympathize with the organic impres-
sion, this sensation ceases to be a slight one, an.1
belongs to those strong sensations which are pleas-
ing to the soul. Strong sensations again become
painful when their intensity is so great as to ren-
der them insupportable.
The organ of sight is the most refined, spiritual
and intellectual, of all our organs, the most dis-
criminating, and the most difficult to be pleased in
the selection of its objects, and yet, spite of its
fastidiousness, it is pleased even with deformity,
whenever this deformity produces a strong sensa-
tion. The sensation produced by ugliness, not-
224 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
withstanding- the power of mental associations,
becomes pleasing, when it produces a strong im-
pression, that is, when ugliness is perceived in the
highest degree. If an advertisement announced
that the ugliest woman in Europe was to exhibit
herself in London, there is little doubt but that
thousands would attend the exhibition. Will it
be said, that this would not arise from any plea-
sure or gratification which her presence afforded
them ? Why, then, should they crowd to see her?
Are not facts more to be depended on than asser-
tions ? I admit that none of the spectators might
like her person ; but this argues nothing, for it is
still evident that they like the strong sensation
which her appearance is fitted to produce.
How many climb the most dangerous precipices
at the peril of their lives, merely to enjoy the strong
sensation which it excites : how many explore sub-
terraneous caverns, and proceed a considerable
distance from the entrance, through no possible
motive but that of gratifying the restless spirit of
curiosity alone. I here use curiosity in the com-
mon acceptation of the term ; but surely I will
not be told, that it is curiosity, and not a passion
for strong sensations, that prompts any person to
visit these dark retreats, for we can form no idea
of curiosity, abstracted from this passion. Cu-
riosity is the term by which we express that feel-
ing in man which prompts him to see what he
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 225
never saw before, to discover what he never knew
before, to place himself in circumstances and situ-
ations In which he was never placed before. But
why do we love to see what we never saw before ?
Certainly, for no other reason than that of enjoy-
ing the sensation which it produces. Accordingly,
we run to see the ugliest and most deformed ani-
mals in nature, if we have never seen them before.
If the sight of an ugly animal produced a disa-
greeable sensation, why do we go and see it ? The
very circumstance of going proves the sensation
which it excites to be agreeable to us. But, it will
be said, we cannot tell what sensation it may pro-
duce until we see it first ; that we can, therefore,
have no certainty, whether it be agreeable or not,
and that, consequently, it is curiosity, and not the
love of the sensation which prompts us to go.
These objections may appear very specious, but I
do not understand them ; and I suspect they are as
unintelligible to those who make them as they are
to me. If we cannot tell what sensation it may
produce till we see it first, why do we go to see it?
The reason is obvious : because we know, from our
own experience, that we like all sensations by
which we are strongly moved, and that new sen-
sations affect us more powerfully than those to
which we have been long accustomed. If it should
be said, that we have no conviction of the kind,
I would ask, why do we go, after being told by
Q
226 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
those who have seen the animal, what sort of sen-
sation it produces. Now, let them describe the
sensation as they will, it does not prevent us from
going. On the contrary, the description is so far
from preventing us, that the parent who wishes to
gratify his children, takes them along with him,
to enjoy the pleasure which he promises himself.
This he would do, were he even assured before hand
that the animal was the most deformed which
imagination can conceive. In fact, the more de-
formed any animal is represented, the more pow T -
erful is the desire that prompts us to see him ; and
hence it is, that we are more desirous of seeing
monsters than deformed natural objects. If, how-
ever, he be not a deformed animal, the more beau-
tiful he is described, the more the passion for seeing
him is excited. So far, then, as regards momen-
tary pleasures, we prefer the two extremes, of
beauty and ugliness, simply because we prefer
strong sensations to weak ones. This cannot arise
from curiosity, because curiosity is as much gra-
tified by seeing a cat, if we have never seen one
before, as by seeing a zebra or a rhinoceros. Yet
we prefer the two latter, because one is a most
beautiful, and the other a very ugly animal. If it
be curiosity that prompts us to see an ugly animal,
why do we go see him a second time ? Why do we
bring others along with us, and imagine we gra-
tify them by so doing ? If curiosity accounts for
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 227
our going the first time, it cannot explain the cause
of our going a second. The fact is, that curiosity
explains nothing : it is a mere bug-bear, by which
people account for things which they do not under-
stand, as the ancient philosophers explained all
physical effects by calling them operations of nature.
Curiosity is a term expressing an abstract idea, not
a thing: there is nothing in nature called curiosity ;
and, consequently, what has no existence cannot be
the cause which prompts us to go and see an ugly
animal. To be brief, curiosity is not the cause of any
thing: it is,asl have already observed, a feeling with-
in us, but not the cause of a feeling, for all our feel-
ings are impressions or effects produced by other
causes. When I desire to see a thing, I say I am cu-
rious to see it, but it is absurd to say, that my being
curious to see it, is the reason why I desire to see
it, for being curious to see it, is here only another
term for a desire to see it. Whatever creates the
desire in me, is the very thing that creates my
curiosity, so that curiosity and desire are both ef-
fects, emanating from the same cause ; or, rather,
they are different terms to express the same effect.
Whatever, then, creates my desire of seeing any
thing, is the cause of my being curious to see it,
so that, in all cases, curiosity is an, effect, and not
a cause.
But it will be argued that there are many strong
sensations and agitations of the soul which are by
Q2
228 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
no means pleasing., and yet not so intense as to be
insufferably painful, such as arise from losses in
trade, the reflections of an ill-spent life, the recol-
lection of former sufferings, or the privations of
the moment, the intrusion of unwelcome visitors,
&c. The sensations produced by the reflections of
an ill-spent life, and the recollections of former
sufferings or disgraces, are evidently sensations
that come within the first and third exceptions
which I have made to the pleasures arising from
strong sensations. The reflections of an ill spent
life torment only the individual who leads it. The
rest of mankind can reflect upon an ill-spent life
without pain. It is so with losses in trade : it is
only he who feels the loss that is pained by reflect-
ing upon it. The disagreeable sensations produced
by unwelcome visitors, affect us also as individuals,,
not as men in general, What renders such visits
disagreeable is the absence of the more agreeable
sensations we fancy we might enjoy, had they not
interrupted us. If, for instance, their society be
insipid, we are uneasy, not because they produce
disagreeable sensations in us, but because they pro-
duce none at all. This is an affection of the
mind, not of the senses, and proves rather, how
uneasy it is in the absence of sensations, than how
disagreeable it is rendered by them. If our dis-
agreeable sensations arise from our being averse to
company, at the moment, the effect arises from the
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 229
particular situation of our mind, at that moment ;
and, consequently, affects us as individuals, not as
men in general. If they begin to abuse us, the
disagreeable sensation arises from the same cause ;
for abuse, and even blows, are disagreeable only to
the person who receives them : to the rest of man-
kind they are pleasing, because they produce a
strong sensation. We cannot distinguish the agree-
able from the disagreeable, except by the common
feeling of mankind. The feelings of an individual
determine nothing. Nov/, if abuse produce disa-
greeable sensations, why do we see a crowd collect-
ed round any two who begin to abuse each other
in the street ? Is it not obvious that this abuse
gives them pleasure, simply, because it prod aces a
sensation sufficiently strong to render it interesting?
If it be said that none stop to look on but the
common people, I reply, that it is only from the
common people we can discover what human na-
ture is. All the difference between cultivated and
uncultivated society is the work of the mind ; but
with the revolutions performed by mental opera-
tions, the philosopher has nothing to do, for if he
take the operations of the mind into consideration,
in treating of human nature, he has no data for
reasoning, no ground to stand upon, because the
mind acts differently in different people, whereas
human nature is nearly the same in all, while it is
suffered to act in its own way, and receives no
230 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
check from mental associations. We cannot tell
what becomes of a man, from the moment he suffers
himself to be carried away by the mind, that is,
from the moment he suffers the mind to convince
him of things which are not in unison with his own
feelings, sensations, and natural sympathies. So
long as the intellect and the senses travel together,
so long human nature is itself; but the moment
they separate, the moment we begin to lend a deaf
ear to our feelings, — to consider them as a blind in-
stinct, on which no reliance can be placed, we be-
come people with whom the philosopher has no
concern, for there is no certainty to what extremes
the mind may lead us. Perhaps the worst that
may happen to us is to become fanatics or
bigots, but it is just as natural that we become
fools or madmen. It may be replied, however, that
those who pass on, and take no heed of an abuse
or riot, are much greater in number than those
who stop. Before this be admitted, we must as-
certain whether it be a natural aversion for the
sensation produced by a riot that makes the majo-
rity pass on, and take no heed, or whether their
doing so does not arise from some other cause.
That natural aversion has little to do in promoting
this effect, can, I believe, be easily proved. The
greater part of those who pass on are engaged in
their own business, and experience informs us that
the greater part of mankind seldom attend to, or
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 231
Indulge their natural propensities, when such an
indulgence interferes with their immediate inter-
ests ; for if self-preservation be the first law of
Nature, self-interest may be considered the second,
both being different modifications of self-love. The
question, then, can only regard those who walk
the street for their mere amusement, having no
business to attend to. If these stop, they have no
reason for doing so but to increase that happiness
after which all men are in pursuit ; for though
they have nothing to do, it is evident they would
not stop and look on, if the sensation produced
were not agreeable to them. But it may be said,
that manv who have no business to attend to,
would not, still, be seen witnessing a riot. I be-
lieve it. But why would they not be seen ? Because
their pride prevents them : because they think it
would be degrading to them in the eyes of the
world. The effect, then, is produced by pride, not
by any thing disagreeable in the sensation, and
what proceeds from pride is not the result of sen-
sible impressions, pride being the offspring of edu-
cation, high birth, mental associations, or some
other accident. It is not, therefore, grafted in the
original constitution of man, and must, conse-
quently, be traced to the subsequent operations of
the mind. In a word, there is not a person who
passes by where a riot happens, but stops and looks
on, unless he be prevented by business, pride, or
232 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
some other mental influence. Some, for instance,
will not stop through fear ; but fear is a mental
influence. Some will not stop because they are
taught to think it vulgar : these are also prevented
by mental influences, because whatever proceeds
from teaching, instruction, and education, neces-
sarily proceeds from the mind, no matter whether
what we are taught be true or false. Nature pro-
duces her own effects upon us without any assist-
ance from education, so that all that she cannot
produce of herself must necessarily proceed from
the mind. The sensations produced in us, there-
fore, by the laws of nature, or the agency of na-
tural objects, are perfectly distinct from those
produced by education, even when education
teaches nothing but truth ; but, in general, I be-
lieve half what we are taught were better un-
taught. Nature and education seldom go hand
in hand ; and whenever they separate, education
is error. We have no data for reasoning but our
own feelings and sensations, which are, in other
words, the impressions made upon us by the works
of nature. If we cannot trust to these impres-
sions, we have nothing else to trust to. To say
that we should trust to reason, is only saying, that
we should trust to the testimony of our own feel-
ings : for we can reason only from what we know,
and he who rejects all the knowledge he acquires
through the medium of the senses, knows nothing,
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 233
and therefore cannot reason at all. That nature
and education do not always go together, is a fact
of which every day's experience affords us a thou-
sand proofs. Perhaps no proof can be stronger,
and certainly none more to the point, than one
drawn from the theory of sensations which I have
here advanced. External influences excite in us a
variety of pleasing sensations, emotions, and pas-
sions : and we are so constituted by nature, that
these emotions, unless we make a painful effort to
suppress them, appear visibly in our countenance.
Hence, except in rogues and hypocrites, the coun-
tenance may be always trusted to, as a faithful
index to the mind. Nature then evidently intend-
ed, that the face should be a portrait of the mind,
because we find it is so in every man who does not
seek to counteract her impressions. But does
education teach the same doctrine ? I regret to
say, her precepts are so directly opposed to those
of nature, in this respect, that there is little room
left for surprise at Rousseau s asserting that u edu-
cation confines the natural parts, effaces the grand
qualities of the soul to substitute such as are tri-
fling and apparent, but have no reality." Educa-
tion teaches a child, never to suffer the internal
emotion to suffuse the countenance. No matter,
therefore, whether a child of quality be present at
a tragedy or a comedy : he looks on the most tra-
gical and the most comic scenes with a perfect
234 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
sang-froid, because he is told it is vulgar to appear
affected by any external influence. To make a child
thus suppress his feelings, and look on the most
comic and ludicrous scenes with perfect indiffer-
ence, is, in other words, to eradicate nature, to
enclose the heart in a case of steel, and render it
not only inexorable to, but insensible of, every
sympathetic impulse to which unsophisticated na-
ture spontaneously resigns itself. How enviable
is the savage state compared with an education of
so perverted and perverting a character.
If, then, we distinguish the agreeable from the
disagreeable by the common feeling of mankind,
it is obvious, that the sensation produced by abuse,
&c. is a pleasing sensation, simply because all
strong sensations are pleasing, which are not actu-
ally painful, &c. Abuse is only disagreeable to the in-
dividual abused, because it exposes him to the reflec-
tion, and perhaps to the ridicule of others, if he sub-
mit to it. Now, if he cannot resist it, he must submit,
and it is this reflection on his own weakness, or,
in other words, the particular situation in which
he is placed, not the abuse, that gives him pain. A
person capable of repelling abuse, and of punishing
it, feels no disagreeable sensation in being abused:
on the contrary, the satisfaction of punishing it is
so great a pleasure to some people, that they seek
to be abused. A person, therefore, confident of his
own strength, or of the power he possesses of ob-
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 235
taining satisfaction, is never irritated by abuse,
whether he be of an irritable, or of a calm, philo-
sophic temper. If the former, nothing" gives him
greater pleasure, than the satisfaction of punishing
the person who abuses him: — if the latter, he is
pleased with abuse, first because he has nothing to
dread from the person who abuses him: secondly,
because it gives him an opportunity of exercising
his philosophy in witnessing the weakness of hu-
man nature, and thirdly, because in listening to
abuse with calmness, he feels his superiority over
the person by whom he is abused, and the advan-
tage of that philosophy which restrains him from
punishing the offender. A strong man, therefore,
can never be irritated by the abuse of a weak man
unless he feel conscious of deserving it. This
consciousness must consequently arise from recol-
lecting some former transaction in which he used
him ill ; and then he is affected by abuse as an in-
dividual, not as a man, in general. Hence all strong
sensations, are pleasing which affect us, not as
individuals, but as men in general, unless they be
intolerably painful, or too long continued. There
is scarcely any person who consults his own feelings,
who will not find that all his disagreeable sensa-
tions, arise out of the particular situation in which
he is placed. There is no situation, however, in
which an individual cau be placed, that excites so
many disagreeable sensations, as the reflections
236 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
and associations to which it gives rise. These re-
flections are the most prolific source of human
misery. The money I lose in trade, for instance,
can produce no sensations in me, of any kind; for
with regard to me, it has no existence. It is the
reflection on the loss which I have suffered, there-
fore, that makes me unhappy. In fact, every object
in nature that produces a strong sensation, produces
a pleasing one, unless it be so intense as to create
actual pain ; or that the pleasure it is calculated to
impart be counteracted by some mental association,
or reflection, arising out of individual circumstan-
ces. These associations, it is true, are so nume-
rous, particularly with people who are disposed to
be unhappy, that disagreeable sensations are more
frequently felt by some people than agreeable ones;
but in every instance, where such sensations are
felt, nothing can be more easy than to shew, that
they arise from affecting us as individuals, not as
men in general, and that whatever produces a
strong sensation in us, produces also a pleasing-
one, if the sensation be the same which it would
produce in the generality of mankind.
It is difficult for any person who has paid little
attention to the subject, to conceive how power-
fully associations and reflections, arising from in-
dividual circumstances, influence, suppress, or
heighten all our natural pleasures, so that the sen-
sation which any external influence produces in
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 237
our youth before circumstances begin to place us
in particular situations, and exercise theirdoininioii
over us, is hardly ever found to be the same which
it produces in our riper years. In youth, almost
all sensations, and universally all strong sensations,
are agreeable to us, unless they be actually painful,
because we receive every impression as it comes,
without any mental modification. In youth, then,
we are affected as men in general, not as indi-
viduals, a circumstance which has not been re-
marked by any philosopher. The sensation pro-
duced in us by every influence, or existing cause,
is that which nature intended it to produce in the
bulk of mankind. In youth we never inquire how
our sensations are produced, nor do we doubt the
reality of the impressions which we receive at the
moment. It is the philosopher alone, whose
Heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy.
When any sensible agency awakens in his breast
the slumbering recipients of pleasure, he repels its
influence, either because he begins to consider that
this pleasure will be of short duration, and that the
moment is at hand when he must abandon its en-
joyment, without being able to replace it ; or be-
cause he associates some idea with the cause of
the pleasure which destroys its effect. A beautiful
woman will communicate pleasure to a large com-
pany of men, but if there be one among them who
knows her to be an infamous character, he will, so
238 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
far from enjoying any pleasure, feel a sensation ex-
tremely disagreeable. Now it is obvious, that the
impression she makes on the rest of the company
is the natural impression, or the impression which
her sensible appearance is intended by nature to
produce ; and that the impression she makes on
this individual, does not arise from her appearance,
but from his possessing a particular knowledge of
which they are ignorant: that is, from his being
placed in a particular situation, or in other words,
from his being acted upon as an individual, not as
a man in general. His knowledge, then, serves
only to render him unhappy, because it suggests re-
flections which intercept the pleasure he would other-
wise enjoy. Solomon, therefore says wisely, that he
who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. The
rest are happy, because they feel only the impres-
sion which the object before them is calculated to
excite, and which it is calculated to excite in all
men who are guided by their natural feelings. On
the other hand, if the person who is rendered so un-
happy by her presence, knew her to be of a most
angelic, amiable disposition ; — if he were acquaint-
ed with her private virtues, and the tender sensi-
bilities of her heart, he would feel infinitely more
pleasure in her society, than any other person in
the company ; so that mental associations always
serve to increase or diminish our natural pleasures.
Of this truth, Hutchinson, from whom many of
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 239
our late metaphysicians have borrowed a consider-
able portion of their philosophy, seems to have had
a very distinct perception. " The simple ideas,"
he says, e< raised in different persons by the same
object, are probably some way different, when they
disagree in their approbation, or dislike, and, in the
same person, when his fancy, at one time, differs
from what it was at another. This will appear
from reflecting on these objects to which we have
now an aversion, though they were formerly agree-
able : and we shall generally find, that there is
some accidental conjunction of a disagreeable idea,
which always recurs with the object, as in those
wines to which men acquire an aversion after they
have taken them in an emetic preparation. In this
case, we are conscious that the idea is altered from
what it was when that wine was agreeable, by the
conjunction of the ideas of loathing and sickness
of the stomach. The like change of idea may be
insensibly made by the change of our bodies, as we
advance in years, or when we are accustomed to
any object, which may occasion in difference towards
meats we were fond of in our childhood, and may
make some objects cease to raise the disagree-
able ideas which they excited upon our first use of
them. Many of our simple perceptions are dis-
agreeable only through the great intenseness of the
quality ; thus moderate light is agreeable ; very
strong light may be painful; moderate bitter may
240 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
be pleasant : a higher degree may be offensive. A
change in our organs will necessarily occasion a
change in the intenseness of the perception at least,
nay, sometimes will occasion a quite contrary per-
ception." This is the reasoning of a philosopher.
What Hutchinson, however, calls a simple percep-
tion, I call a simple feeling, that is, a feeling excit-
ed by a simple natural cause, uninfluenced by any
mental associations. As to perceptions, they are
neither agreeable nor the contrary, for when any
thing we perceive creates a painful sensation, this
sensation is perfectly distinct from the perception.
When I look with emotion upon an object that ex-
cites no emotion in another, it is obvious that he has
a perception of the object as well as I have. The
emotion, consequently, which the perception ex-
cites in me, must be different from the perception
itself, for if not, he would be moved as well as I
am. In him, therefore, the object excites a mere
perception, but in me it excites a perception, and
something else ; and this something else, which I
call an emotion, sensation, or as the case may be,
must necessarily be different from the simple per-
ception which it excites in both of us, and in which
alone we agree. But it may be said, that when an
object excites a sensation, or emotion in me which
it excites in no one else, this sensation cannot be
attributed to the object, but to mental associations,
for if the object was calculated to produce it, the
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 241
effect must have been equally felt by us both. If
this argument be worth any thing, it proves, that
when two men take an emetic, on one of whom it
produces no effect, and on the other of whom it
produces a very powerful one, the effect produced
on the latter must not be attributed to the emetic,
for if the emetic were calculated to produce such
an.effect, it must have produced it in both of them.
Common sense is sufficient to perceive the absur-
dity of such an argument, for everyone knows, that
the emetic acted equally on both, though both were
not equally passive, or flexible in yielding to its
action. If all men were equally susceptible of
impressions, all natural objects would produce the
same effect upon them all, making allowances for
mental associations. These associations, which al-
ways arise from our being affected as individuals,
not as men in general, are the most prolific source
of disagreeable sensations, which, though not actu-
ally painful, are still such as we do not relish. Thus,
people whose associations are few, or in other words,
ignorant people, are generally pleased with every
sensation, because the sensation produced in them
is always that which the exciting cause is natur-
ally calculated to produce. But the moment the
mind begins to examine how far the object is cal-
culated to please, it either increases or diminishes
the natural sensation. Instead, therefore, of being
a simple sensation, it becomes a mixed feeling, de-
R
242 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
riving part of its nature from the mind, and part
from the senses. We cannot distinguish, it is true,
such a feeling from a simple sensation, because the
manner in which we are affected by simple sensa-
tions themselves are infinitely diversified ; but we
can easily perceive, that the sensation which an ob-
ject produces in a hundred men, who receive the
impression unmixed with any mental association,
will be extremely different from that which it pro-
duces iu a hundred literary men. In the former,
the sensation will be nearly the same in all, because
it produces a mere simple sensation in each of them,
unmodified by any mental operation. Their sen-
sations will always be to each other, in the same
ratio as their degrees of natural susceptibility of
impressions; but in the latter, there are scarcely
two, whose sensations are the same, or even resem-
ble each other, because the simple sensation which
tl e object was naturally fitted to produce, is height-
ened, diminished, diversified, mingled with, or
broken by, a thousand other sensations arising
from such mental associations as the object sug-
gested to the mind of each. In no two of them,
however, will it awaken the same associations, be-
cause each of them takes his from the particular
department of literature which he has chiefly
cultivated. In poetry alone, how different are the
sensations which the same object would excite in
poets of a different genius. In Homer, it might
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 243
serve to give a new impetus to the anger of Achil-
les, the wrath of Diomedes, or the unbending, un-
compromising, and self-sufficient valour of the
stubborn Ajax. In Virgil it would associate with
milder scenes, and awaken recollections of a more
tender and endearing character. The kindred
images which it would suggest to the imagination
of Horace would aptly serve to expose some ab-
surdity, or recommend some virtue, in the human
character; while it would furnish Milton with
some of those sublime images which lead us to the
contemplation of immaterial existence, and of
scenes, which, though laid in another world, have
their sole existence, perhaps, in the creative ima-
gination of the poet.
From the whole of what I have advanced on
this subject, it is obvious, that we are so consti-
tuted by the Deity, as to receive pleasure of one
kind or other from every feeling that puts the soul
into action, except as before excepted. There is
not an object in nature but will render those men
unhappy, who delight, if I may use the expression,
in gloomy images. I call this attachment to
gloomy images, delight ; for every man must de-
light in that to which he is attached, and some
men are eternally dwelling on dark-browed images,
and scenes of horror. Such men may be properly
said to take a pleasure in pain, for a pleasing object
is more painful to them, than a disagreeable one,
r2
244 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
simply because when the object is disagreeable,
they view it as it is, without wishing to heighten its
deformity; whereas an agreeable object sends them
immediately in pursuit of some disagreeable image,
or reflection that dispels its charms, and all the
pleasing sensations which it is calculated to im-
part. Such men, always
Distrusting, ask, if tins be joy, —
and to prove that it is not joy, they have recourse
to the melancholy reflection, that all pleasure isc~
short duration, if they have no other means of pre
ving it. But while the mind thus serves to embit
ter the most pleasing sensations which natural ob
jects produce, it has the same power of giving new
zest and rapture to all our natural pleasures. The
poet who is always a lover of nature, a lover of
those early impressions which he felt in his youth,
who retains and cherishes their memory as a pledge
of the purest and most exquisite happiness which
life can bestow, enjoys a continual feast through
life, because he always associates some image of
felicity to the most disagreeable and painful object.
By the potent spell of association alone, he con-
verts pain nto pleasure, a proof that all our happi-
ness depends on ourselves, when our organic senses
are perfect, and that pain is always the insepa-
rable attendant of a distempered mind, a mind that
loves to be unhappy, and in obedience to this pro-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 245
pensity, converts all the incipient vibrations of
pleasure into actual and positive pain.
A slight review of the senses will confirm the
doctrine which I have advanced in this chapter, re-
lative to sensations ; and shew, that all pain is the
extreme of pleasure, and that the strongest sensa-
tions are always the most pleasing, where they do
not rise to this painful extreme. Gay and splen-
did is more pleasing than dull and faded colouring,
because it excites a stronger sensation; yet, when
it becomes too brilliant and glaring, the sensation
ceases to be pleasing, because it is converted into a
mere organical sensation, and affects only the eye,
to which it becomes painful. The sense of hearing
is equally gratified with sounds which produce
strong sensations, such as are clear, shrill, distinct,
and resonant ; but sharp and tinkling sounds pro-
duce pain, because they affect only the primary
sensory by which they are received, the soul re-
fusing to admit them farther, or sympathize with
them. The olfactory nerves are but slightly pleased
with faded odours, but the pleasure increases with
their degree of poignancy, till this degree becomes
too pungent and stimulating, and then the pleasure
is converted into pain, because it is felt only in the
primary sensory. The taste is subject to the same
law, delighting in rich and stimulating flavours,
relishes, sauces, and whatever tends to affect not
the mere organ of the tongue, but to put the entire
246 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
man, the entire animal economy into action. The
sense of feeling delights not in bodies that produce
a mere sensation in the organs of touch, The
bodies most pleasing to it, are those which, not con-
fining the sensation to the external organ, commu-
nicates it to the entire frame. Hence it happens,
that although all the senses impart pleasure, by
exciting a certain modification of feeling, yet the
external sense of feeling, which is properly extend-
ed over the whole surface of the body, is very
limited in the pleasure which it imparts ; as there
is hardly any external body which we touch that
communicates the organical feeling to the soul ex-
cept woman alone. As then there is no positive
pleasure without this strong internal feeling that
electrifies the soul, and as no object communicates
this feeling in any positive degree, through the me-
dium of feeling, but woman, it follows, that the
pleasures arising from the external sense of feeling,
are confined to the last best work of the creation.
Whatever pleases the external sense of feeling, in-
variably pleases the sight; but innumerable objects
please the sight which impart no pleasure to the
feeling. Thus we delight in seeing a beautiful
painting, but if we touch it, the feeling cannot dis-
tinguish the sensation, from that produced by com-
mon canvas. In fact, the external sense of feeling
is extremely limited in its pleasures, for I know of
no object that imparts any sensible pleasure by the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 247
touch, but that which I have mentioned. Burke
says, there is a pleasure in feeling smooth and soft
bodies j but I suspect this pleasure arises, not so
much from smoothness, as from association. The
fair sex possess both these qualities, and our natu-
ral attachment to them, inclines us to suppose,
that whatever is soft and smooth, must also be
pleasing. Without entering, however, into specu-
lative ideas on the subject, one thing is obvious,
that in the sense of feeling, as in all the other
senses, the bodies most pleasing to us are those
which impart a sensation that confines itself not to
the external organ, but pervades the entire frame
by a certain inexpressible, though communicable
impulse.
But it will be said, that all true pleasure and
happiness consist in moderation, that beauty itself,
which is the most pleasing of all objects, is a me-
dium between extremes, and that pleasures verging
upon extremes are always dangerous. All this I
admit ; but while it is certain, that pleasure verg-
ing on pain is dangerous, it is equally certain, that
the higher pleasures are the more exquisite while
they last, and the most sensibly enjoyed. The en-
joyment of ardent pleasures, however, cannot last
long ; and hence we very justly praise moderate
enjoyment. This tempered pleasure is always
more pleasing to a well-regulated mind; but the
extreme of pleasure is always more agreeable to
248 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
the natural man, to him who never thinks on the
consequence of indulging the desires of the mo-
ment, but enjoys whatever he finds most pleasing
while be is capable of enjoying it. The great en-
joyment we derive in abstaining from these plea-
sures arises from the reflection or consciousness,
that we are fulfilling a moral duty, that by temper-
ing our enjoyments, we render them more perma-
nent, and retain the power of renewing them
whenever we will. These, however, are mental
pleasmes, not the pleasures of sensation, which de-
rives all its enjoyments from yielding instinctively
to every pleasing impulse.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 249
CHAP. IX.
Emotions and Passions, whatever be their Nature and
Character, universally pleasing to those hy whom they
are felt. Objections answered.
What I have said in the foregoing chapter
chiefly regards the pleasures arising from strong
sensations, and though these sensations are inti-
mately allied with our emotions and passions, it
will still be proper to treat of the latter by them-
selves, as there is this difference between them and
our sensations, that the latter are painful whenever
they reach to a certain degree of intensity, where-
as our emotions and passions are universally pleas-
ing. It matters not, whether they affect us as in-
dividuals, or as men in general ; whether they be
moderate or intense ; whether they be momentary
or permanent : in all cases, and under all circum-
stances, pleasure is the inseparable attendant of
our emotions and passions. This will appear evi-
dent from the following view of their nature, and
modes of operation.
All the phenomena of mind and its affections, of
life and its enjoyments, may be traced, as I have al-
ready observed, to three distinct sources — abstrac-
250 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
tion, sensation, and will. Two of these faculties
are active, the other passive. The soul acts when
it wills, when it traces relations and differences, to
arrive at conclusions ; and when it combines, diver-
sifies, and modifies the primary ideas which it has
received through the medium of sense ; but it is pas-
sive when affected by organical impressions. The
sou!, however, is, in all cases, either the agent or
percipient, the body being a mere instrument in
such operations as require its instrumentality.
Sensible vision, for instance, is performed through
the medium of the eye, but it is not the eye that
sees but the soul ; or, if it be the eye, it is not the
material eye, but the soul living in this material eye,
and hence taking cognizance of all its objects. If
the body were all eye, the soul would see in all di-
rections; but, constituted as we are, the rays of
light falling on other parts of the body, cannot
communicate themselves to the soul. The eye is
the only part of the body sufficiently tender, suffi-
ciently etherealized, or spiritualized, to be sensible
of the action of such minute particles as those of
light, and consequently the only part which can per-
ceive the bodies by which they are reflected. The eye
is, therefore, all soul, and, accordingly, its rapidity
and extreme sensibility, wonderfully accord with
its ethereal nature. Abstraction, sensation, and
will, are therefore, no qualities of matter, for pure
matter cannot feel, much less perceive or will. If
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 251
feeling* were a quality of matter, the fire which
warms us, would feel the heat by which it is con-
sumed. Sensation is, therefore, as much a faculty
of the soul, as abstraction and will, though uni-
versally considered as belonging to the material
part of our nature. The only difference is, that
abstraction and will are active faculties of the soul,
while sensation is a faculty perfectly passive. The
soul does not act when it is sensible of an impres-
sion : it is acted upon, and merely perceives the
effect of the agency which acts upon it. It cannot
avoid feeling this impression, whether it wills it
or not, and therefore the sensation is produced by
no act of its own. By abstraction, as an act of
the soul, I mean intellectual perception, reflection,
the power of comparing, analyzing, &c. The soul
perceives through the eye that grass is green : this
is a sensation ; but it perceives by comparison and
reflection, that virtue is preferable to vice, and
truth to falsehood, that a part is not equal to the
whole, &c. These are not sensations, but intellec-
tual perceptions. The soul has no power over
what is properly called its sensations, while the
organs through which it feels them are acted upon
by their proper objects. If I prick my finger with
a pin, I cannot help feeling pain, the soul having
no power by which it can repel this sensation, or
escape fr 3m feeing it. The only faculty which it
can exercise, in this case, is that of informing me,
252 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
that such a sensation is not pleasing to it, and of
directing me not to apply the pin to my finger.
The soul then has the power of avoiding any sen-
sation which it dislikes, by avoiding the object by
which the sensation is produced ; but when once
it suffers the object to act upon the organ, it has
no power of resisting the sensation till the object
be removed, and not even then, at all times. The
soul is situated in the same manner with regard to
its intellectual perceptions. Whenever it perceives
any truth clearly, it cannot help perceiving it ; — it
cannot bring itself to a conviction, that this truth
is a falsehood. It is just as impossible for the soul
to confound truth with error, when once it perceives
the distinction, as it is for God to do any thing
that implies a contradiction. It is not, however,
to be inferred from this, that the soul has no free
will, for the argument that would prove it, would
prove also, that God is not omnipotent. Though
the soul is not at liberty to perceive the truth of a
proposition, and still believe it not true, it is at
liberty to withdraw from the consideration of the
truth altogether, and direct its attention to other
contemplations. There is this difference, however,
between our perceptions and feelings that we may
dismiss the former immediately, while the latter
frequently continue to affect us, after the agency
by which they were first excited has ceased to act.
A painful sensation cannot be removed, if it arise
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 253
from an injury received in any part of the body,
until the part affected be healed ; but this con-
tinued sensation, though felt by the soul, is never
cherished by it. The soul never embraces it, never
identifies it with its own existence. It keeps it as far
removed from it as possible, and would extinguish
it altogether if it were able. It is obvious, then,
that the continuation of this disagreeable sensation
owes no part of its existence to the will, that it
arises solely from the original, sensible agency by
which it was produced, that the soul was passive
with regard to its original production, and is still
passive with regard to its continuation, and conse-
quently that it never ceases to be, what it origi-
nally was, a simple sensation. Such a feeling is
properly what we call a sensation, because it is
produced by sensible means, and sensible causes
acting upon the soul, which is always passive with
regard to its sensations. It is different, however,
when the soul, instead of wishing to banish a sen-
sation, cherishes, indulges, and loves to retain it.
In this case, the continuation of its existence must
not be traced to sensible agency, but to an act of
the soul itself. Here the soul is not, as in the for-
mer case, passive, and merely yielding to sensa-
tions which it cannot resist ; but it is in every re-
spect, active, and it is to its activity, to its embrac-
ing, cherishing, and retaining the sensation, that
we must trace its continuance. Such continued
954 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
sensations as these lose their character of sensa-
tions, as they are not solely caused by sensible
agency, but are properly termed passions, because
they are produced by the souls being moved by
the original sensations which led to their produc-
tion, by its coming forward, as it were, to embrace
them, acknowledging that they are pleasing and
agreable to it, cherishing and retaining them, and
thus perpetuating their existence by its own free
will and pleasure. It is obvious that the soul is
accessary to these kind of feelings, because they
would perish of themselves if it remained dormant,
and consequently that they should be distinguished
from those feelings in which the soul has no part,
which it pronounces to be foreign to its nature,
which press upon it without its consent, which are
produced by external agency, and which would
immediately perish if their existence depended
upon any voluntary act of its own. These latter
feelings are, in the strictest sense of the term, sen-
sations, because they are the effect of sensible
agency, the soul having no share in them whatever;
but the former feelings owe their existence to the
soul itself, or if the senses have a share in their pro-
duction, it must at least be allowed that the soul
has a share in them also, and consequently that
feelings emanating from the agency of the spiritual
and material parts of our nature, must be clearly
distinct from those in which the spiritual part is
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. ZOO
entirely passive. That they are so is evident, not
only for the reasons which I have just assigned,
but also because we feel them to be different in
their nature and character. Nothing can be more
different from the feelings of which a lover is con-
scious, than those which he tirst experienced when
he beheld the object of his affections. The feel-
ings in both instances, it is true, are of an agree-
able nature, but the first impressions, were mere
sensations, and, as such, he felt them as something
that formed no part of his existence ; something
that affected him, at the moment, and of which
he expected to be unconscious soon after. But our
emotions and passions are our very selves. The
soul is so completely engrossed by them, that it
has no other consciousness at the time, whereas it
may feel different sensations, at the same moment,
all of which it feels to be different from each other,
and from itself; but it so completely identifies
itself with its passions, that when any of them
takes complete possession of it, it seems to exist in
this passion alone, and to have no other existence.
At such a moment the soul may be pronounced a
modification of passion. It is true, a man's breast
may be swayed by different passions at the same
moment, and fluctuate between them, uncertain
which to abandon himself to, but when he once
determines, he resigns himself entirely to the pas-
sion that happens to prevail.
256 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
Hence different Passions more or less inflame,
As strong or weak the organs of the frame,
And hence one master-passion in the breast,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.
It is different with our sensations ; — we never fluc-
tuate between them for an instant, because we
never intend to identify ourselves with them at all.
They are not creations of our own : we look upon
them as something external, — something which we
feel at the moment, whether willingly or not ; but
in all cases we distinguish between the power that
feels, and the thing felt, that is, between ourselves
and our sensations ; whereas we identify ourselves
so completely with our passions, that we do not
feel them as mere impressions made upon the soul,
as something external which presses upon us, but
which are not ourselves. On the contrary, passion
pervades the entire soul, so that the soul and the
passion seem to have but one existence. The soul,
then, is passive with regard to its sensations, and,
consequently, they may be pleasant or painful,
whether the soul wills it or not. It is obvious, at
the same time, that if they be painful, the soul
can never will their continuance ; and therefore,
if they continue, they must always remain sensa-
tions, that is, impressions made upon the soul,
against its own consent, by external agency. As
all painful feelings, then, must be sensations, it is
obvious that our emotions and passions must be
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 257
all, without exception, of a pleasing character.
That we may, at no time, mistake sensations for
emotions, it will be necessary to bear in mind, that
sensations arise from sensible agency, acting upon
the soul, and that emotions and passions arise
from an act of the soul itself, by which it not
merely suffers the impressions made upon it, but
actually embraces and retains them, as affections
congenial to its own nature.
If an impression made upon the soul without
its own consent, constituted an emotion, we could
not possibly distinguish between emotions and
sensations ; for a sensation, in the most rigid and
metaphysical acceptation of the term, is an im-
pression made from without, independently of any
act, or concurrence of the soul. Besides, if such
impressions were emotions, we should experience
emotions every moment of our lives, as we are
every moment acted upon by external influences.
The term emotion, therefore, expresses not an im-
pression made upon the senses, but an act of the
soul, by which it embraces the gratifications which
the senses afford. While the soul, or will, refuses
to yield to the solicitations of the senses, or to
partake in the enjoyments which they promise,
there can be neither emotion nor passion, because
the soul stands cool, firm, and collected in its
place, and asserts its sovereignty over the inferior
part of its nature.
s
258 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
To place this doctrine in a clearer light, let us
try the experiment on a pleasing and on a dis-
agreeable object. We shall suppose the first to be
a beautiful woman, to whom we shall introduce
three gentlemen. It is obvious that each must be
pleased with her, because beauty is universally
pleasing. This pleasure, however, is merely an
agreeable sensation, and it will remain so, till the
soul, or will, begins to act, — till it falls in love
with the sensation, feels an unwillingness to resign
it, and yields to this unwillingness. A lover is
virtually as much in love with his passion, as
with the object of his affection ; for it is his attach-
ment to this passion that makes him continue to
be in love. If he could once prevail upon him-
self to abandon it, he would care nothing for
the person by whom it was excited. Let us suppose
then, the effect of the impression made upon these
three individuals by this beautiful woman to be as
follows. One continues to look upon, and to think
of her when absent, with a degree of pleasure
which is always the same, or at least in which he
can perceive no sensible change. Another views
her, and thinks of her with increasing pleasure ;
and instead of checking this pleasure, he seeks to
cherish and retain it. The third feels also, a dis-
position to an increasing pleasure in her society,
but he does not suffer this pleasure to lay the least
restraint on the freedom of his will ; or, to speak
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 259
perhaps more philosophically, whenever he consults
his will, and asks it, whether this pleasure might not
be suffered to go farther, the will instantly says no,
and extinguishes, in its bud , the emotion which would
immediately follow, if the will had said yes. It is
obvious, then, that the last man escapes all the
emotions and passions that would unavoidably
follow, if the will once consented, and that, ac-
cordingly, the impressions she makes upon him,
are entirely confined to those feelings and impres-
sions, which belong to the sensitive part of his
nature, and over which the will can exercise no
possible controul. When I perceive a serpent, I
instantaneously feel a painful sensation, which no
power of the will can prevent, in the first instance.
This, however, is a mere affection of the senses,
and not of the will ; for the will, so far from yield-
ing to it, endeavours to get rid of it as quick as
possible. He, therefore, who subjects his feelings
to the dominion of the will, is incapable of any
passion arising from his acquaintance with the
female in question, because the will suppresses all
the incipient emotions which solicit its acqui-
escence. Neither can he, who continues to look
upon, and to think of her with a degree of pleasure
which is always the same, feel the least emotion,
either in or out of her presence ; for that pleasure
which is subject to no fluctuation, is uot the effect
of emotion, or passion, but a mere agreeable
s2
260 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
sensation. All emotions and passions are subject
to fluctuation, and they rise or fall, in proportion
as the will yields to, or opposes their restless crav-
ings, and unsatisfied appetites. While the will
chooses to curb their rebellious solicitations, they
can never rise above a sensitive nature. Even in
this state, it is true, they may be very strong, and
very importunate ; but however strong they may
be, they continue to be sensations, till they succeed
in seducing the will. The moment the will gives
consent, they lose the character of sensations, and
become emotions or passions, in proportion as
the will consents to them. The objects of emo-
tions have seldom any thing criminal in their nature,
and hence it is, that the will yields to them with-
out the least hesitation, at the first impulse. A
passion is not always so pure, though it is, at all
times, more powerful ; for not only the will yields
to the original sensations, but yields to them so
implicitly, that it co-operates with them in attain-
ing the enjoyment of their desires. This co-ope-
ration sets them in a flame, which is occasionally
checked by a return of the will to some sense of
its duty. Having once yielded, however, the senses,
in general, prove too powerful for it, and seldom fail
in succeeding to drag it back again to an acquies-
cence with their excitements. Again, the will per-
ceives the slavery to which it has subjected itself,
and, if originally imbued with a strong sense of vir-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 261
tue, invariably attempts to recover its lost ascen-
dency over the inferior part of its nature. Hence, a
perpetual fluctuation takes place in all our passions,
which are seldom felt in our emotions, because,
having nothing criminal in view, the will yields to
them without hesitation, and indulges in the more
moderate, but more virtuous gratifications which
their proper objects afford. Thus, when we perceive
a distressed object, we instantly feel an emotion
of pity, because there being nothing criminal in
yielding to it, the will assents to the emotion at
once.
This proves, that the will, in its original nature,
is virtuously inclined, for it yields, without hesita-
tion, to every pleasure of a virtuous nature ; but
opposes, more or less, every gratification which
tends to withdraw it from the paths of rectitude.
If, therefore, our passions be subject to a perpetual
fluctuation, it is obvious that he who always looks
upon this beautiful female with the same degree
of pleasure, has never yielded to a passion for her.
Here, then, we have a pleasing object, a beautiful
female, who pleases two men, and yet we find they
can both look upon this pleasing object without
the least passion. The one is simply pleased, but
as he seeks for no higher pleasure, the wil is not
solicited to pursue higher gratifications ; the other
is equally pleased, but he feels his pleasure in-
creasing, and a disposition to yield to this inereas-
262 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
ing pleasure, yet he feels no passion, because the
will refuses to consent. The most beautiful object,
then, can excite no passion without the consent of
the will. The third alone becomes the slave of
passion, because the will yields to, and co-operates
with, the eagerness and ardour of his desires.
Without the consent of the will, there can,
therefore, be no passion. Hence, in all our passions,
the soul suffers itself to be led captive, and co-
operates with the senses in seeking to enjoy the
object of their desires. This slavery of the soul
is properly called passion, from passio, suffering,
because the soul, or will, suffers itself to be led
captive. It is evident, however, it would not do
so, if it were not pleased with its captivity, for it
frequently throws off the magic yoke of the senses,
and asserts its native dominion over them, even
when they afford the highest enjoyment. Sensa-
tion and passion, therefore, differ in this, that the
former has no object in view, no other gratification
to seek, than the sensation of the moment, while
the latter, not content with this immediate gratifi-
cation, seeks for a higher pleasure in the enjoy-
ment of its object. When we feel a pleasing
sensation, we enjoy it without attending to the
cause by which it is produced. But when this
sensation is converted into a passion, it has its eye
always fixed on the attainment of the object by
which it is excited. A miser not only feels a plea-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGrC PLEASURE. 263
sure, like all other men, in the possession of wealth,
but he has also his mind invariably fixed upon the
ideas of its accumulation. The first pleasure is a
simple sensation, produced by an immediate, sen-
sible cause ; namely, the wealth he possesses ; but
the second pleasure is a passion which can be
traced to no immediate, sensible cause whatever,
and arises solely from the mind itself ; for the idea of
accumulating wealth, by which it is produced, is
not a thing that has its existence without us. So
far from being any thing in nature, it is not even
the quality of any thing in nature, except of the
mind itself. All ideas, it is true, are properties of
the mind ; but so far as regards their origin, they
are sensible or abstract ideas, that is, ideas produced
by sensible causes, or ideas produced again by these
sensible ideas. There is not a passion that has
ever kindled in the human frame but what has
originated from this last tribe of ideas. In the
instance before us, it is obvious, that the pleasure
arising from the actual possession of wealth, is a
feeling produced by a natural, sensible cause ;
namely, the wealth possessed ; and consequently
this feeling is properly a sensation ; and it is equally
obvious, that the pleasure arising from the idea of
increasing this wealth cannot be attributed to the
wealth itself, in any stage of its increase, for if,
from any circumstance whatever, a miser disco-
vers the actual impossibility of adding another
264 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
shilling to his hoard, all the pleasure he had hither-
to enjoyed is at an end, a proof, that the pleasure
arose, not from the wealth he possessed, but from
a pure abstract idea of the mind: it arose not
from accumulated wealth, for no fixed accumula-
tion can satisfy a miser, or put an end to the pas-
sion ; but it arose altogether from the idea of add-
ing new heaps to what he possessed already. These
new heaps, however, have as yet no existence, ex-
cept in the mind of the miser ; and, consequently,
the idea which they create, and the pleasure which
they impart, can be traced to the operations of the
mind alone.
If we examine all the other passions, this theory
will be found invariably true. The pleasure which
a lover feels in gazing on his mistress, is a simple
sensation of which his mistress is the cause ; but
the still greater pleasure he anticipates from being
united to her, and the enjoyments that are to suc-
ceed this union, arises entirelv from the creations
of his own mind, and can be traced to no immediate
sensible cause. His union with her cannot be con-
sidered the cause of this pleasure, for this would
be to make the effect precede the cause, as his
union with her does not as yet exist ; and what has
no actual existence can exist only in the mind. The
enjoyments that follow this union cannot be the
cause, for these enjoyments have no more actual
existence than the union. The second pleasure.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 265
then, can be traced to no cause whatever, but the
operations and creations of an ardent and glowing
imagination ; and it is this pleasure that properly
constitutes the passion of love.
These observations apply to all passions what-
ever, and point out a distinction between emotions
and passions which has never been made by any
writer. Hence it is, that the theory of sensations,
emotions, and passions, are so confused and mysti-
fied by ethic writers. The distinction, however,
having been once made, it is easy to perceive, that
as all passions originate from the mind, all passions
must necessarily be pleasing to it, for if they were
not so, the mind would find it impossible to perpe-
tuate their existence. Every passion, then, is pleas-
ing to him by whom it is felt. The lover would
not remain long in love if the enjoyments which
he anticipates gave him no pleasure ; nor would
the miser continue to be swayed by avarice, if he
felt no delight in it. The same may be said of all
our passions, without exception, even the most
despicable of them. Hatred is pleasing to him by
whom it is felt, for if it were not, he neither could,
nor would indulge in it. If he found no pleasure
in hating a person, he would neither begin to hate
him, nor continue to do so, after he had begun. It
is the same with malignity. If a malignant per-
son found greater pleasure in benevolence than in
265 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
malignity, he could not possibly be malignant, be-
cause the mind is always turning to that which is
most pleasing to it, and keeping at a distance,
or endeavouring to forget, what is disagreeable to
it. If envy, then, were disagreeable, it could find
no habitation in the mind of the person by whom it
is cherished.
But it will be said, that the passions of fear and
despair, prove, contrary to what I have advanced,
that some passions are not pleasing to us, as no
man would cherish and retain the impressions of
fear and despair, if he could divest himself of them.
Let us examine this objection.
I have already shewn, that passion arises from
pure mental acts, or creations of the mind, which
it seeks to realize, but which it knows has no pre-
sent existence. The lover knows that the antici-
pated pleasure which produces his passion has not
as yet come into existence, but the hope that they
may, serves to give energy and ardour to his flame.
If, however, he should begin to despair of success,
he has still some little spark of hope remaining,
and his attachment to the possible pleasure which
this hope anticipates, makes him cling to it to the
last. Small as this spark may be, it affords him
greater pleasure than any other earthly enjoyment,
so that it is this pleasure that attaches him to despair.
Let him only succeed in disregarding what this de-
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 267
lusive hope promises him, and there is an end to
his despair: like an enchanted castle, it dissolves
into airy nothing.
This argument, however, may be thought not to
apply, where despair admits of no hope whatever,
as where the beloved object is carried away by an
untimely death. In such a case, I admit there is
no hope, but neither is there any despair, for de-
spair, always supposes the existence of something
to be despaired of. Here, however, the object de-
spaired of is no more. If any passion, then, sur-
vives despair, it must be grief. The lover now be-
comes attached to the memory of his fair one, and
this memory is dearer to him, and consequently
gives him greater pleasure, than any enjoyment by
which it can be displaced. If he could prevail on
himself to think lightly of her memory, his grief
would, as in the former case, pass away like a vision
of the night. Despair not only implies something
to be despaired of, but also a something to which
we are strongly attached ; for no man can be said
to despair of a thing which gives him no concern ;
and with regard to which he is perfectly indifferent;
for whether despair be an emotion, or passion, it
cannot be excited by the influence of an indifferent
object ; and if it be neither an emotion nor passion,
any observation relative to it can form no objection
to my theory, as it applies to emotions and pas-
sions alone. Despair, then, considered as a passion,
268 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
must be caused by something to which we are
strongly attached, and this attachment is dearer to
us, which is saying, in other words, that it gives us
greater pleasure, than any other enjoyment by
which it can be displaced.
As to fear, it is erroneously considered a passion.
There is no passion whatever which has not hope
and fear as its inseparable attendants, namely, the
hope of enjoying, and the fear of losing theenjoyment
of the pleasure by which the passion is excited.
Fear, then, is always the accompaniment of a pas-
sion, but never a passion itself, for whenever it is not
the accompaniment of a passion, such as the fear
produced by the presence of some dangerous object,
a tiger, or a lion, it is a pure and unmixed sen-
sation, as all impressions made upon the senses by
external objects, or circumstances, are without ex-
ception. Fear, it is true, is frequently produced
by imaginary causes, but this can never happen
but when these causes appear to be real, and then,
consequently, they act upon us as the realities of
life. A painted tiger will terrify if it be mistaken
for a real one. It is different in passion, for though,
like fear, it is the offspring of the imagination, yet
we know, that the gratification which it seeks after,
and by which it is produced, has, during the con-
tinuance of the passion, no real existence. This
is so true, that the moment the gratification is
realized, the passion ceases, and dwindles into a
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 269
mere sensation. When the lover enjoys his mis-
tress, his passion is at an end, because imagina-
tion has nothing to acid to the pleasurable sensa-
tions which he feels at the moment. He anticipates
no higher bliss, because he now actually enjoys all
that he had anticipated, and feeling himself inca-
pable of higher enjoyment, imagination can no
longer delude him with promises of higher bliss.
The feelings of the moment, then, are pure and
unmixed sensations, produced by the actual object
which he enjoys, so that when passion is gratified,
it terminates in sensation.
It may seem strange to maintain, that avarice
and malice are pleasing passions ; but the asser-
tion is not more strange than it is true ; avarice
and malice are pleasing to those by whom they are
felt, and with regard to others, they have no exist-
ence. The passion of avarice, for instance, can
never be felt by a man of a generous and liberal
disposition. If, therefore, it should be argued, that
avarice is a passion in which he should find no
pleasure, it may also be replied, that it is a passion
which he can never feel. If all men, consequently,
were generous and liberal, the passion of avarice
would not be known even by name, and so far
from producing pleasure, or pain, we could not
form an abstract idea of its existence. The mo-
ment, therefore, we begin to feel the passion of
avarice, that moment also we begin to be pleased
270 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
with it, because he to whom it is not pleasing 1 , can
never feel it at all. From the moment the mind
begins to dwell on the happiness of hoarding" up
wealth, we are seized with the passion of avarice ;
but antecedent to the pleasure resulting from this
idea, the passion of avarice can have no existence.
What I have said of avarice and its pleasures,
is applicable to the basest and most malignant
passions of our nature, as envy, malice, sloth,
gluttony, misanthropy, &c. They are all pleasing
to those by whom they are cherished and indulged,
and to whose dispositions they are natural ; but
in those to whose natures they are repugnant, they
excite no passion whatever. This is so certain,
that if a man whose aversion for any passion was
so great, that he could not even endure a person
whom he saw subject to its dominion, should, by
any co-operation of circumstances, yield to the
same passion himself, he would become as attached
to it as the man whom it formerly rendered the
object of his disgust. There is no alternative,
then, between resisting a passion, and becoming
attached to it ; and this attachment is a proof that
we are pleased with it at the same time. The
lover acknowledges that he is a prey to the most
agonizing and heart-rending torments ; and, in
some instances, he terminates his existence, to put
an end to his sufferings. Yet, nothing can be more
certain, than that the more desperately we are in
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 27 L
love, the more unwilling do we feel to tear our-
selves from its grasp. We could not feel this
unwillingness, however, without being pleased with
the passion, notwithstanding all its torments, for
no man is unwilling to part with what gives him
no pleasure. We find pleasure, then, in the most
tormenting passions, when once we suffer them to
take possession of our heart. While the will repels
their influence, and yields not to their dominion,
they afford us no pleasure, and accordingly we
find many who derive no pleasure from Tragic
representations, such as stoics, who repel the in
fluence of all sensations ; philosophers, who view
every thing through the medium of the under-
standing; misers, and all others who are devoured
up by one predominant passion, which extinguishes
all the rest.
In maintaining that avarice, malice, &c. excite
no emotions in those to whose natures they are re-
pugnant, I mean, merely, that they excite none of
an avaricious or malicious nature. That they ex-
cite other passions in us, I am willing to admit,
but these, like all our passions, are of a pleasing-
character. When I behold a malicious man plot-
ting how he may injure another, I am immediately
fired with indignation against him. The passion
which I feel, though it has nothing malicious in it,
is still the effect of malice, as it is entirely caused
by the malicious designs of which I become a
\
272 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
spectator. This passion, however, is pleasing to
me, for I am pleased with myself in yielding to a
glow of honest indignation, and I should despise
myself if I did not feel it. I could not feel it,
however, if it were not pleasing and agreeable to
my nature, for a malicious person, placed in my
situation, could no more feel as I feel, than a tiger
can like a lamb. Such a person finds a pleasure,
not in opposing, but in co-operating with the designs
of malice ; and consequently he can never feel that
glow of indignation which kindles in the breast
of an honest man, the moment he perceives them.
It is so difficult, however, to make man resign
any opinion or belief which he has been always
accustomed to entertain, that he will frequently
cling to it after being stripped of every argument
which he can urge in its defence, after being-
obliged to admit every proposition and deduction
that has been brought forward to disprove it. I
doubt not, therefore, but the doctrine which makes
all emotions and passions pleasing to the soul,
and admits no passion or emotion whatever to be
disagreeable to it, will, notwithstanding the ar-
guments by which I have supported it, appear
to many readers extravagant and visionary. At
the same time, it surely cannot be thought extra-
vagant in me to ask why they think so. If they
can assign any reason which I cannot disprove, or
if they can disprove the arguments by which I
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 273
have endeavoured to support it, I shall acknowledge
myself in error, but to be condemned without reason
is not to be condemned at all, for such a condem-
nation only exculpates the criminal and criminates
the judge. If my theory be erroneous, I should feel
the most unfeigned pleasure in seeing it refuted, as
the discovery of truth is the only object at which I
aim, and at which all men should aim ; for if know-
ledge be power, error must necessarily be weak-
ness ; but as I believe it cannot be refuted, I wish
to avoid as much as possible, provoking any an-
swer. I shall therefore, state and reply to the
only objections which, in my opinion can be made
to it. These objections are two. The first that
even admitting every passion to possess more or less
of pleasure, yet there is a clear distinction between
those passions which are entirely pleasing, and those
which are mixed with a great portion of pain, and
that consequently the latter should he termed pain-
ful, or disagreeable passions, and not classed with
the former. To this objection I reply by admit-
ting, very readily, there is a difference between
unqualified pleasure and that which is mixed with
pain, but there is also a difference betwixt snow and
paper, and yet both are white, for no man will
maintain that paper is not white, simply because it
is not as white as snow. It is then as absurd to
maintain that passions mixed with painful feelings
ought to be called painful or disagreeable passions,
274 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
as to maintain that a white colour mixed with
any of the darker shades, ought to be called not a
white but a dark colour. Every thing is called
white in which the white colour predominates, but
when any other predominates, it loses the name of
white and takes that of the predominating colour.
By the same rule, all passions should be called
pleasing, however mixed with pain, while pleasure
predominates, and I have already shewn that plea-
sure predominates in them all. In fact, all pas
sions without exception must be painful, if a mix-
ture of pain be sufficient to render them so, for
there is no passion exempt from it, and those pas-
sions which afford the highest raptures are those
which produce the most acute and agonizing pains.
Love is the strongest of all the passions :
Love, strong as death, the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
and therefore it is the most delightful. Its plea-
sures rise to that high rapture and ecstacy which no
other passion can impart, and yet what are all human
pains compared to those of the lover. When Or-
pheus visited the pale nations of the dead in search
of his fair one, (whether he visited them or not, is
a matter of indifference, for we know it is only
what a lover would not hesitate to do,) he knew the
dangers to which he was exposing himself, and
consequently he was not ignorant of the pains
which he was likely to endure. Why then expose
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 275
himself to them if the pleasure of regaining his
Eurydice was not greater than all the pains
which hell was able to inflict? Some shallow rea-
soners and frigid philosophers inform us, and I have
never seen the assertion disputed, that intense pain
is more painful than intense pleasure is pleasing,
but the assertion is disproved by constant expe-
rience. A school-boy will run after his favourite
pleasure though he is certain he can only enjoy it
at the expense of a flogging ; the lover smiles at
the perils which oppose his wishes, and braves even
death itself in all its horrifying and subduing as-
pects, rather than evade the grim monster by re-
signing his hopes, and abandoning his mistress.
Pain, then, cannot terrify us in the same degree that
pleasure attracts us, for we force our way through
all the perils to which our passion exposes us, soon-
er than forfeit or abandon the object of our desires.
The passions which communicate this strong and
rapturous pleasure, are those which are numbered
among the pleasing and agreeable passions, but, as
I have just shewn, their attendant pains are infi-
nitely greater than those which accompany pas-
sions that impart but a slight degree of pleasure.
In fact, the pains which accompany the strong or
rapturous passions are so intense that they fre-
quently lead either to death or to madness. Or-
pheus, who braved the pains of hell itself in pursuit
of his Eurydice, enjoyed, no doubt, a pleasure in
t2
276 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
regaining her, which neither pencil can paint, nor
language can describe; but did not the pain which
he felt in losing her surpass any affliction that can
result from what are called the disagreeable or
painful passions?
Now under hanging mountains
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
All alone,
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan,
And calls her ghost
For ever, ever, ever lost.
Now with furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he gloivs
Amidst Rhodope's snows.
See, wild as the wind o'er the desert he flies !
Hark, Haemus resounds with the Bacchanal's cries.
Ah see he dies !
This picture of the distresses and agonies of love
are not a mere fiction of imagination so far as re-
gards its effects, though it may be as regards Or-
pheus, for we have examples every day before our
eyes of love terminating in death or madness. Yet
amidst these afflictions, pleasure is predominant.
Orpheus glows even when he trembles, a circum-
stance which is finely marked by the poet. It may,
therefore, be safely laid down as a rule, that in
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 277
proportion as our passions and their accompanying-
pleasures are intense, in the same proportion, and
neither more nor less, are the pains which result
from not being permitted to enjoy them. It is idle
then to talk of passions unaccompanied by pain,
for no instance can be produced of a man who felt
no pain in being debarred from the enjoyment of
the object by which his passion was produced.
Such a passion has no existence, and he who pre-
tends to it is a hypocrite. The pains attendant on
our passions can never be removed until the pas-
sion itself be extinguished. The means of extin-
guishing passion are gratification or repulsion.
The moment the passion is gratified it ceases, no
matter what the passion may be. The passions of
envy, malice, hatred, &c. are as completely extin-
guished by gratification as those of love and friend-
ship. The moment a person obtains all the satis-
faction he wishes for, he ceases to hate. Passion
is also destroyed by repulsion, or a strong deter-
mination of mind not to yield to the tyranny
which it attempts to exercise over us ; but while we
do yield, passion is a pleasure which no intensity
of pain can induce us to resign. The intensity of
the pains which accompany passion can never rise
so high as the intensity of the pleasure that in-
duces us to endure them. Pleasure and pain ac-
company all passions ; and as, in no passion can
278 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
they be extinguished without the extinction of the
passion itself, neither is there any passion, in which
the pleasure anticipated does not exceed the pain
virtually and immediately felt.
The other objection which I anticipate by reply-
ing to it here, is, that though all passions should
even be allowed to be pleasing to those by whom
they are felt, yet the disagreeable passions as ha-
tred, malice, avarice, &c. are disgusting to the rest
of mankind. The miser it will be said finds plea-
sure in amassing wealth, but the miser and his
passion are equally detestable in the eye of every
liberal mind, avarice, therefore, is a disagreeable or
painful passion.
This objection is more specious than the former
but the argument on which it rests is a mere phan-
tom. The passion of avarice is a mere feeling in
the mind which it is unwilling to resign, but whe-
ther unwilling or not, it can create neither pleasure
nor pain in him by whom it is not felt. How can
a feeling that has no existence create pain ? and the
feeling which constitutes avarice has no existence
except in the breast of the miser. Its pleasures
and pains are, therefore, confined to the miser
alone, and can produce no emotion in him by whom
the passion is not felt. I admit, we abhor the miser
and his passion ; but this feeling of abhorrence is
not avarice itself, but a detestation of it. If this
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 279
feeling of abhorrence be painful to us, why attri-
bute the pain to any other cause than that which
produces it, namely, a feeling of abhorrence ? This
feeling surely is not avarice, and consequently the
pain which results from it cannot be traced to
avarice, or to any thing but that simple feeling of
abhorrence by which it is produced.
280
PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
CHAP. X.
The true Source of the Pleasures derived from Tragic
Representations deduced from the tivo preceding Chap-
ters. The secret of giving Dramatic interest to Tra-
gedies intended for Representation.
It appears; from every view which we can
take of our emotions and passions, for I believe I
have taken the most general view of them which
can be taken, that they are all pleasing to the soul,
or, in other words, that the pleasure arising from
this source, is not confined to certain emotions, or
to certain passions, as is generally imagined, but
that it is the effect of all emotions and passions
whatever. It appears also, that all strong sensa-
tions are pleasing to us except in three in-
stances, and that the sensations produced by scenes
of tragic distress do not come within the limits of
these three exceptions. Whatever, then, creates
either of these affections within us, produces plea-
sure, and if the scenes exhibited in the represen-
tation of tragic distress, be calculated to excite
them, pleasure must be the necessary consequence
of witnessing such scenes. At the same time, it
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 281
must be very obvious, that the object of every
scene, of every situation, in a word, of every thing-
presented to us on the stage, is not to teach us
something of which we were already ignorant, but
to excite such a strong feeling within us, as the
contriver of it imagined it was calculated to excite.
He knows, that if he succeed in producing this
feeling, it will necessarily please, though he does
not reflect, at the same time, that any other strong
feeling would please as well, provided it was in
harmony with those which preceded and followed
it. If then, we are so constituted by nature, as
to derive pleasure from every species of agency
that excites strong impressions within us, whether
they be sensations, emotions, or passions, except
as before excepted, and if Tragic representations
be a species of agency fitted to excite such impres-
sions, and if the impressions which it makes do
not come within the limits of the three exceptions
or instances in which strong sensations fail of im-
parting pleasure, it follows, that the pleasures de-
rived from Tragic representations, arise from their
being a species of agency fitted to produce strong
sensations, emotions, and passions, within us, and
from our being so constituted by nature as to find
pleasure in every affection of the mind that assumes
a strong and energetic character. Let us now see
of what use this knowledge can be to the tragic
poet.
282 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
In the first place, if a knowledge of the cause
from which Tragic pleasure arises, were sufficient
to enable him to invent his plot, create his images,
dispose of his situations and characters, in such a
manner as to be certain of always producing plea-
sure, it is very obvious, that all tragedies would
prove successful, whether produced by a writer of
little talent, or a writer of genius. If this were
the case, I believe all my readers would wish, that
the source of Tragic pleasure had never been dis-
covered, as it would approximate the most stupid
writer of tragedies to Shakspeare and Corneille.
The one would please as well as the other ; and
while the audience were pleased, they would not
refuse the stupid author of their pleasure a por-
tion of that merit which belongs only to genius.
An acquaintance, however, with the cause of Tragic
pleasure, will still leave the writer of genius, and the
dunce, as far removed from each other as ever, for
reasons which will immediately appear. I must first,
however, answer an objection which may probably
be made to the propriety of tracing a cause, which,
when known, is of no advantage to the tragic poet,
and which, consequently, is rather curious than
useful. In the first place, though a knowledge of
the cause which produces Tragic pleasure will not
enable the writer of tardy intellect to approach
nearer to the rapid strides of genius than he can
at present, yet it does not follow that it can be of
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 283
no service to him, because it may enable both him
and the writer of genius to attain to a higher de-
gree of excellence than they otherwise could have
attained. But granting it, for a moment, to be
entirely a question, the resolution of which tends
only to gratify curiosity, is there not still some-
thing gained by becoming acquainted with it?
Our ignorance of the cause of any effect, creates
a certain wish of becoming acquainted with it,
and a consequent anxiety until the wish be grati-
fied. Is there not something gained by removing
this anxiety, and gratifying the curiosity by which
it is excited ? This gratification produces pleasure,
and if pleasure be of no use, why go to the theatre
at all ? why read the tragedies of Shakspeare or
Corneille ? The only advantage that can be de-
rived from going to the theatre is the pleasure
which it imparts. Indeed, the only advantage
that can be derived from riches, power, knowledge,
prowess, or from any other source whatever, con-
sists in the pleasure which it imparts, or the pains
which it enables us to avoid. As pleasure, or happi-
ness, then, is the ultimate object of all our pursuits,
it is equally desirable, and equally useful, from
whatever source it arises.
A knowledge, however, of the source of the
pleasures derived from Tragic representations, will
serve a higher purpose than that of gratifying
curiosity alone; for he who knows that the sensa-
284 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
tions which his characters and situations shall
excite in the mind of the audience will be pleas-
ing in proportion as they are strong and affecting,
will necessarily avoid, as much as possible, the
error of those who more frequently appeal to the
understanding than to the sympathies of men. It is
said that Moliere read his plays to his old servant,
Laforet, to see what impression they would make
upon her, and that he generally trusted to the re-
sult of this experiment. It cannot be supposed,
at the same time, that he had a high regard for
her understanding, and consequently he considered
feeling alone, to be the proper touchstone of dra-
matic criticism. It would be erroneous, however,
to suppose, that he who appeals incessantly to the
feelings, and who writes under a conviction that it
is only by producing strong sensations, emotions,
and passions, that he can succeed in communicat-
ingTragic pleasure; it would be erroneous, I say, to
suppose, that such a writer must necessarily please,
because the sentiments which he puts into the
mouths of his characters, and the situations in
which he places them, may not always excite those
feelings which he intends them to excite. It may
be said, that, according to my theory, it matters
little what feeling they excite, provided it be a
strong one. I admit it ; but it seldom happens that
any situation or sentiment will produce a strong
sensation, which is out of its place, and which
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 285
does not harmonize with what precedes, and also
with what follows, if we be antecedently acquaint-
ed with it. Hence it follows, that the situation
which produces the most powerful impression in
one tragedy, might, if copied, produce no sensa-
tion at all in another; for if we perceived that it
did not naturally arise from the preceding and
harmonize with the subsequent train of events,
this perception would strip it, in a very great de-
gree, of the power which it possessed over the mind,
in the tragedy from which it was copied. It is in \
the perception of this harmony, that the writer of
genius triumphs over inferior intellects, nor is it
possible to point out any means by which the lat-
ter can ever approach him. The reason is obvious :
the eye of genius penetrates, at a glance, the whole
structure which it has erected : — it perceives not
only the entire of the design which it aims to ac-
complish, but it perceives also the relation which
each individual member, circumstance, image,
situation, sentiment, particular trait of character,
and mode of action, in which this particular
trait is apt to exert itself, bears to the general
design. If, therefore, in the impetuosity of its
rapid career, it should create any image, express
any sentiment, invent any situation, or trait of
character, which, though just in itself, has no re-
lation to the whole assemblage of parts, it in-
stantly detects the inappropriateness of its own
286 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
creation : it perceives that though the sentiment
which it expresses is true, it is still a sentiment
which has no accordance with the purpose for
which it was intended.
Sed nunc non erat his locus.
lit is not so much the business of the tragic writer
to express what is true, as to express truths that be-
long or may belong to the immediate circumstances
from which they arise. He who says that two and
two make four, that two right lines cannot inclose a
space, says what cannot be contested ; but if he in-
troduce this saying without necessity, if it have no
pertinence to the circumstance from which it is
supposed to arise, he is only laughed at for his
pains. We naturally say to him, it is very true
that two and two make four, — that two right lines
do not inclose a space, but why make use of the
observation ? what have these truths to do with
the subject in question? The writer of genius, I
say, perceives the absurdity of saying what is true,
of inventing a situation which is affecting in its
own nature, if they do not arise naturally from the
preceding circumstance, or the general tenor, or
ultimate tendency of the whole design. Here,
unhappily, the writer of slow intellect, who pos-
sesses neither delicacy of taste, nor quickness of
discrimination, completely loses himself. He ima-
gines relations where there is no relation, and
creates discord where all is harmony in his opinion.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 287
It is of little importance for su&h a writer to know,
that strong sensations, emotions, and passions, are
all pleasing to the soul, and that the pleasures
arising from Tragic representations, are all owing
to the agency by which these affections of our
nature are produced. It may serve him so far as
to perceive that his object should be to produce
those affections ; but if he cannot perceive how far
one sentiment or situation agrees with another, he
will bring forward the most affecting situations
under the greatest disadvantages.
The only advantage he can derive from becom-
ing acquainted with the source of Tragic pleasure,
is, that it will induce him to address himself ex-
clusively to the sensitive nature of man. And in
doing so, he will, no doubt, succeed better than a
writer of greater talent, who imagines that he can
only succeed by creating a perfect harmony be-
tween all the members which compose his work,
and therefore attends more to this harmony than
to the nature of the elements which he harmonizes
with each other. Without harmony of parts, or,
at least, an appearance of harmony, there can, it
is true, be no Tragic pleasure ; but mere harmony
is of little use, if the things harmonizing with each
other be not originally fitted to produce strong
sensations. This is best proved by examples. I
shall first quote passages, which, though beautiful
in themselves, lose their effect through want of
288 PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO
harmony, or, in other words, because they do not
arise naturally from the circumstances from which
they are made to arise. The following passage is
beautiful in itself, but, as it is supposed to arise
from extreme grief, it has little effect upon us, be-
cause we know that real and undisguised grief
would express itself with less art and study.
Almeria. O no ! Time gives increase to my afflictions.
The circling hours, that gather all the woes
Which are diffus'd through the revolving year,
Come heavy laden with th' oppressive weight
To me ; with me, successively, they leave
The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares,
And all the damps of grief that did retard their flight :
They shake their downy wings, and scatter all
The dire collected dews on my poor head,
Then fly with joy and swiftness from me.
Mourning Bride, Act I, Scene I.
It is difficult to meet with any thing more beau-
tiful than the following passage in Pope's Elegy to
the Memory of an unfortunate Lady, and yet we
cannot endure it, because it is not the effusion of
real feeling, though it affects to be so. " It is not,"
says Lord Kaimes, very justly, " the language of
the heart, but of the imagination, indulging its
nights at ease, and by that means, is eminently
discordant with the subject.''
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ?
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 289
What, though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter' d o'er thy tomb ; —
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast :
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.
The following passage from the last act of the
Careless Husband is natural and affecting in itself,
but when we reflect that it does not harmonize
with the general manners and language of Lady
Easy, or the characteristic mildness of her charac-
ter, the effect is lost upon us. We should instantly
sympathize with the joy which it expresses, if it
came from a person capable of feeling such exqui-
site raptures.
Lady Easy. O the soft treasure ! O the dear reward of long-
desiring love. ' »Thus ! thus to have you mine, is something
more than happiness j 'tis double life, and madness of abound-
ing joy.
We see, then, that passages which are beautiful
in themselves, lose a great portion of their effect
upon the mind, when they do not harmonize with
the whole assemblage of parts with which they are
connected, and particularly with the immediate
circumstances from which they arise. But even
want of harmony is more tolerable than insipidity,
though it be all of a piece, simply because insipid-
ity, however consistent it may be with the entire
u
290 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
of the parts to which it is united, can never rouse
the mind to life and energy, can never excite those
stronger feelings without which pleasure can have
no existence. We are frequently pleased, in spite
of us, with a passage which has neither harmony
in itself, nor with any thing else, and which is even,
in some degree, unintelligible, if it contain some
grand and striking images, which lift the soul
above itself, and waft it, it knows not where, and
it " cares not wherefore." The following passage
is quoted by an eminent critic, as an instance of
pure rant and extravagance ; and yet the images
are so grand and imposing in themselves, that
though Lucan has carried his extravagance too far
in the principal idea, we cannot help feeling a cer-
tain glow of pleasure in dwelling on the splendour
of the scene presented to us. This pleasure, it is
true, would be greater if there were more consis-
tency ; but though this inconsistency lessens, it
cannot entirely extinguish the sublime emotion.
— — Romanum nomen, et cnme
Imperium magno est tumuli modus. Obrue Saxa
Crimine plena deum. Si tola est Herculis Oete,
Et Juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseia $ quare
Uuus in Egypto magno lapis ? Omnia Lag!
Rura tenere potest, si nullo cespite nomen
Haeserit. Erremus populi, cinerumque tuorum,
Magne metu nullas Nili calcemus arenas. — L. viii. 1. 79B.
Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies,
Where'er R )itie's empire stretches, Pompey lies.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 291
Par be the vile memorial then convey'd !
Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid.
Shall Hercules all Oeta's heights demand,
And Nysa's hill for Bacchus only stand ;
While one poor pebble is the warrior's doom,
That fought the cause of Liberty and Rome ?
If Fate decrees he must in Egypt lie,
Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply
Yield the wide country to his awful shade,
Nor let us dare on any part to tread,
Fearful we violate the mighty dead.
}
Iii fact, so powerfully are we swayed by what-
ever excites a deep and powerful sensation in us, that
we forget the greatest extravagance of expression
when it arises from extreme and violent passion,
but then extreme passion makes us only ridicule
the person in whom it is exhibited, if we perceive no
sufficient cause for it, because we suspect it is all a
trick. In the following passage from the Phaedra
of Racine, the earth, the ocean, and the very heavens
are horror-struck at the monstre sauvage of the
poet, and yet we excuse the boldness of the picture,
because we perceive that the exaggeration of The-
ramene is suggested by his own fears.
Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage ;
La terre s'en emeut, l'air en est infect^,
Le flot qui l'apporta recule epouvante" !
Insipidity, on the contrary, or any scene or de-
scription not fitted to excite strong sensations, will
fail of imparting pleasure, however well adapted
u2
292" PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
it may be to its place. Hence it is, that Shak-
speare seldom affects us where he has no opportu-
nity of exciting passion or emotion, or where he
purposely strays into reasoning* and observation.
How lifeless and uninteresting is the following
passage from Hamlet.
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition ; and indeed it takes
From our achievements, though performed at height,
The pith and marrow of our attribute.
So oft it chances in particular men,
That for some vicious mole of Nature in them,
As, in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty,
Since Nature cannot choose his origin,)
By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,
Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason j
Or by some habit, that too much o'erleavcns
The form of plausive manners ; that these men,
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
(Being Nature's livery, or Fortune's scar,)
Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo,
Shall in the general censure take corruption,
From that particular fault. Act I, Scene 7.
Racine had a fine opportunity, in the following
soliloquy, of describing the tumults, anxieties, and
distracting cares, excited in the breast of a lover
who had been obliged to conceal his passion for
several years, and consequently of exciting that
corresponding sympathy in the audience that wou'ld
have yielded them the highest degree of Tragic
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 293
pleasure. He has not done so, however, and con-
sequently we read or hear it spoken with perfect
indifference, on account of its tameness, its cold,
phlegmatic reasoning-, where all should be the ex-
pression of strong and violent feeling, and its con-
sequent unfitness to excite in us those sensations,
or feelings, in the absence of which Tragedy must
always fail of imparting pleasure :
He bien ! Antiochus, es tu toujours le meme ?
Pourrai je, sans trembler, lui dire,je vous aime?
Mais quoi ! dejk je tremble j et mon coeur agite
Craint autant ce moment que je l'ai souhaite.
Berenice autrefois m'ota toute esperance.
Elle m'imposa meme un eternal silence.
Je me suis tu cinq ans j et, jusques a ce jour,
D'un voile d'amitie" j'ai couvert mon amour.
Dois-je croire qu'au rang ou Titus la destine
Elle m'ecoute mieux que dans la Palestine ?
II l'epouse. Ai-je done, attendu ce moment,
Pour me venir encore declarer son amant ?
Quel fruit me reviendra d'un aveu temeraire ?
Ah ! puis qu'il faut partir, partons sans lui deplaire.
Retirons-nous, sortons ; et, sans nous decouvrir,
Allons loin de ses yeux l'oublier, ou mourir.
He" quoi'! souffrir toujours un tourment quelle ignore !
Toujours verser des pleurs qu'il faut que je devore !
Quoi ! m£me en la perdant redouter son courroux !
Belle reine, et pourquoi vous offenseriez-vous ?
Biens-je vous demander que vous quittiez l'empire ?
Que vous m'aimiez ? Helas ! je ne viens que vous dire
Qu' apres metre long temps flatte que mon rival
Trouveroit a ses vceux quelque obstacle fatal.
294 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
Aujourd' lmi qu'il peut tout, que votre hymen s'avauce,
Exemple in fortune - d'une longue Constance,
Apres cinq ans d'amour, et d'espoir superflus,
Je pars, fidele encore, quandje n'espere plus.
Au lieu de s'offeuser, elle pourra me plaindre.
Quoi qu'il en soit, parlons ; c'est assez nous contraindre.
Et que peut craindre, helas ! un amant sans espoir,
Qui peut bien se r£soudre a ne la jam'ais voir I
Berenice, Acte I, Scene 2.
In the two following passages, Shakspeare had
an equal opportunity of describing the influence
of grief over the mind, and consequently of ex-
citing in us those corresponding sympathies, which,
as in the former case, would strongly affect us. He
has failed, however, like Racine, and is far below
him in dignity. Whenever Shakspeare sinks, he
sinks to the earth, whenever he rises, he out-tops
the heavens. If Racine does not always keep in
the midway, at least he never rises so high, or sinks
so low.
Queen. Ah my poor princes ! ah my tender babes !
My unblown flow'rs, new-appearing sweets !
If vet your gentle souls fly in the air,
And be not fixed in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy wings,
And hear your mother's lamentation.
Richard HI. Act IV, Scene 4.
King Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child j
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks., repeats his words,
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 295
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form $
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
King John, Act III, Scene 6.
-r
It is obvious, then, that nothing will please in
Tragedy, but what produces a strong sensation ;
and, consequently, no vastness of conception, ac-
curacy of description, felicity of expression, per-
fection of method, in a word, no exuberance of
idea, or rapidity of genius, will ever produce a
tragedy fit for representation, unless it teem with
scenes, images, sentiments, and situations, which
are fitted to produce strong sensations in the au-
dience. The writer of slow intellect who presents
us with such scenes and situations will please in-
finitely more, however discordantly he may have
connected them together, than a writer of the
brightest genius, who displays all his art in the
production of sentiments which, while they require
not only great industry, but great discrimination
of idea to arrive at them, serve only to puzzle the
understanding, instead of affecting the sensitive
part of out' nature. He may produce a tragedy that
proves him a man of genius, but yet he may shew
himself totally ignorant of the human heart, and
particularly of the source of those pleasures which
he seeks to produce. Addison's Cato sufficiently
evinces the genius of its author, and yet its want
of success proves, that Addison was ignorant of
296 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
the secret of producing Tragic pleasure, which is
merely saying, that he knew not that this pleasure
arises from the creation of such images, circum-
stances, and situations as strongly affect the sensi-
j tive part of our nature, and that a mere appeal to
the understanding is totally barren of delight. The
advantage which the Tragic writer derives from
knowing the true source of Tragic pleasure is,
therefore, very obvious ; and, consequently, the
utility of the inquiry which forms the subject of
the present work. It is true, that a writer of the
most ordinary talent^ the moment he perceives the
true source of Tragic pleasure, may avoid the
errors of those who have been ignorant of it, as
well as the writer of genius; but though both keep
equally clear from this rock, the writer of limited
views is continually striking against others, while
the former, having once ascertained the point for
which he is bound, ventures boldly into the great
ocean, perceives at a distance the rocks in which
the other is entangled, sails round them, and enters
triumphantly into the haven for which he is
bound. But, though the writer of genius retains
always his superiority over the Baviad tribe, it is
still clear, and verified by long experience, that a
writer of the greatest genius will be shipwrecked
in tragedy, if he mistake the true source of Tragic
pleasure. The number of eminent authors who
have failed in this species of writing, while they
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 297
have attained the highest eminence in others,
prove, that without knowing, antecedently, whence
Tragic pleasure arises, no exuberance of genius
will succeed in producing a tragedy fitted for the
Stage. Several living writers, of no very high
character, have given us tragedies which have suc-
ceeded perhaps beyond their own expectations ;
while writers of much greater eminence have com-
pletely failed. From the dramatic attempts of
Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott, it is very evident
they have mistaken the true source of Tragic plea-
sure. Neither Shakspeare himself, nor, perhaps,
any other Tragic writer, could tell in what the
secret of producing this pleasure consists, and,
consequently, their success has arisen from having
been guided instinctively into the true path by the
natural impulse of their own genius. Shakspeare
drew all his scenes, characters, and situations from
nature : he travelled not into the ideal world in
search of abstruse sentiments, or catachrestical
associations : he appealed not to the understand-
ing, but to the feelings of human nature. He was
perfectly acquainted with the human heart, and
the influence which is exercised upon it by external
circumstances. He is full of allusions to the pre-
judices, the manners, the traditions, the weak-
nesses, and popular opinions of his age, and, conse-
quently, wrote what came home to the feelings,
and not to the intellect, of every individual. He
298 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
therefore seldom fails of producing strong sensa-
tions, though he was, in ali probability, perfectly
ignorant of the cause to which he owed his success,
namely the excitement of strong sensations, emo-
tions, and passions. " Shakspeare," says Dr.
Johnson, u is, above all other writers, at least
above all modern writers, the poet of nature, the
poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror
of manners and of life. His characters are not
modified by the customs of particular places, un-
practised by the rest of the world, by the particu-
larities of studies or professions, which can ope-
rate but on small numbers, or by the accidents of
transient fashions, or temporary opinions : they are
the genuine progeny of common humanity, such
as the world will always supply, and observation
will always find. His persons always act and
speak by the influence of those general passions
and principles by which all minds are agitated, and
the whole system of life is continued in motion."*
It was from this close adherence to human na-
ture that Shakspeare succeeded so admirably in
awakening all those slumbering emotions and pas-
sions which lie dormant in the human breast, and
which require only those kindred images, circum-
stances, and situations, which naturally arise from
the condition of our nature, and from the rela-
* Preface to Shakspeare.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 299
fcions that eternally connect man to man, to rouse
them into life and being. He sought not after those
remote allusions which lie beyond the pale of sen-
sitive recognition, and can be grasped only by pure
intellection. Hence all his scenes, ail his senti-
ments, even his very reasoning and philosophy,
wear the genuine stamp of sensible existence.
Every thing is brought home to our feelings, so
that the representation is not a mere symbol, or
faint image of nature. It can hardly be called a
copy, for the imitation approaches so nearly to the
original, that it has the same effect upon us as if it
were nature itself. The impression is therefore of
a strong and ardent character, and such an impres-
sion is always pleasing to us, if the theory which
I have adopted on the subject be founded in truth.
In Shakspeare there are no forced images : every
thing arises naturally from the circumstance which
produces it, and therefore every thing affects us ;
first, because the image itself is clear, palpable, and
distinct, such as requires no exercise of mind to
comprehend it, but which every person recognizes
instinctively, the moment it is presented to him ;
secondly, because it is in perfect harmony with the
circumstance from which it arises, and conse-
quently loses no portion of its effect upon us ; for,
as I have shewn in the above examples, wherever
we perceive a want of harmony, — wherever we
perceive an image, or a description, that seems to
300 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
be at variance with the circumstance from which
it is made to arise, our nature revolts against it,
unless it be so beautiful in its own nature, that we
cannot help being pleased with it. Like a female
of extraordinary beauty, but of immoral propen-
sities, we gaze upon her with a sensation which is
far from being disagreeable, though we reprove
ourselves, at the same moment, for being capable
of feeling it.
The images of Shakspeare, then, have this two-
fold advantage, that they are, in themselves, fitted
to produce strong sensations in us, and that they
render these sensations still stronger by their ari-
sing naturally from the circumstance which pro-
duce them. We are pleased with them, not only
on their own account, but from the satisfaction of
perceiving, that they are not counterfeits. Thus it
is we are pleased with a beautiful female of amia-
ble and interesting manners, after a very short
acquaintance ; but this pleasure is greatly diminish-
ed, if we happen tc discover that her morals are
not in perfect unison with her manners and person ;
while, on the other hand, it is greatly increased, if
we discover that her virtues and sweetness of dis-
position are of a still more endearing, and engaging
character than her personal attractions. It is so
in tragedy : a beautiful image will please, from its
own native beauty, whether we meet with it in
Shakspeare, or some inferior poet; but the latter
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 301
takes away from the pleasure, by placing it in a
situation to which it is not adapted — by making
it arise from a circumstance or sentiment with
which it has no immediate relation, no relation
whatever but what exists in the remote and far-
fetched associations of the poet. Thus, however
beautiful the image may be in itself, the poet deba-
ses it, by making it appear a perfect counterfeit,
an unnatural creation, while, in Shakspeare, the
pleasure which the very same image is fitted to im-
part by its own native beauty, or the characters,
or situations with which it is associated, is greatly
increased by the satisfaction of perceiving, that it
is not merely beautiful, but true to nature; — that it
is such an image as the circumstance from which
it arises is fitted to suggest ; that it is in perfect
harmony with the characters and situations with
which it is connected ; and that no other image can
be substituted in its stead, without weakening the
general effect ; and, consequently, without dimi-
nishing the pleasure which it imparts. The images
and situations, therefore, which please us in Tra-
gedy, are those which are not only fitted, from their
own nature, abstracted from the circumstances
with which they are connected, to excite strong
sensations, but which, at the same time, have the
appearance of arising by a kind of unavoidable
necessity, from the circumstance of the moment;
and which cannot be displaced by any other images,
302 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
or sentiments more natural, or better fitted to their
immediate place.
By beautiful images, beautiful sentiments, beau-
tiful situations, beautiful scenes, beautiful deli-
neations of the heart and its affections, emotions,
and passions, I mean any image, sentiment, &c.
which produces a strong impression upon us, and
affects us deeply, whether it be in its own nature
beautiful or deformed,, Nothing, it is true, will
affect us as strongly when it is improperly, as
when it is naturally introduced, unless the poet
has the art of concealing its want of just applica-
tion ; but a description may be extremely natural,
or, at least, appear so to us, and consequently
extremely beautiful, though the object described
should be extremely deformed. No one will deny,
that Milton's description of Death is highly beau-
tiful, though the portrait represents him as the
most horrid of objects.
The other shape,
If shape it might be called, that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,
Or substance might be called, that shadow seem'd,
For each seemed either : black it stood as Night,
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,
And shook a dreadful dart.
Whether this be, or be not, a true portrait of
death, is of no importance whatever, if it be a
portrait of the image we are apt to form of him
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 803
in our own minds ; and it is the perfect agreement
or harmony that exists between this portrait of the
grim monarch of terrors, and the image which we
generally form of him ourselves, combined with
the fitness of death, in its own nature, to produce
strong sensations, that constitute the beauty of the
description. Hence it is, that the most ordinary,
and the most disagreeable objects, have been made
the subjects of paintings that are highly admired.
What renders the imitation of such objects, how-
ever, beautiful, is the harmony, or accordance
which we perceive* between them and the original,
that is, the resemblance which they bear to each
other. That the beauty, and, consequently, the
pleasure, arises from this resemblance, is rendered
evident by a very simple circumstance : it is this,
that whenever the imitation is so complete, as to
make it be mistaken for the original, the beauty is
lost, because we can no longer perceive any resem-
blance whatever ; for a thing cannot resemble it-
self, as resemblance supposes a likeness between
things which are not the same, and also supposes
appearances in which they agree, and others in
which they disagree. Where they disagree in all
their appearances, there is no resemblance, and
where they agree in all, the idea of resemblance
never occurs to us. One egg cannot be called a
resemblance of another, for this would be to call
it a resemblance of itself. We can never admire
imitations which are mistaken for their originals :
304 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
this is evident in the imitation of roses, fruit, &c.
because they are capable of being imitated so per-
fectly, that the imitation is frequently mistaken for
the original. An artificial apple creates no plea-
sure, because we can perceive no resemblance : we
mistake it for an apple itself, and even when we
detect the illusion, the original sensation still re-
mains, because we are still unable to trace any
resemblance. It still presents itself to our senses,
not the imitation of an apple, but an apple itself,
and, in every thing that appeals to the sensitive
part of our nature, it is the correspondent emo-
tion, or the impression which it makes, and not
any deduction of the reasoning faculty, that deter-
mines our pleasure. Reason tells us to no pur-
pose, that an artificial apple is a mere imitation ;
for while it appears a real apple to our senses, we
cannot help feeling that sensation which is pro-
duced by a real apple, let us reason on the differ-
ence between reality and imitation as much as we
will. There is, consequently, in painting, a point
beyond which the painter must not venture ; and,
in mere portraits of external nature, the greatest
artist is he, who can reach this point without pass-
ing over it. It is a knowledge, however, which
cannot be communicated by art; unless the painter
feel it, he cannot be taught it.
Nee majls arte traditur quam gustus aut odor.
The entire of the pleasures imparted by the imi-
tations of natural objects which are indifferent to
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 305
us arises, therefore, from perceiving the accuracy
with which they are imitated. Pigs, dogs, sheep,
shepherds, &c. are represented in some landscapes
less beautiful than they are in nature : and yet,
such landscapes may be finer paintings, and, con-
sequently, more beautiful, than those in which the
painter has studied to make his shepherds well-
formed men, because, what we admire in such
paintings, is not the beauty of the shepherd or his
dogs, but the art with which they are imitated, or,
in other words, the correctness of the resemblance.
I am aware, that Mr. Payne Knight, while he ad-
mits them to be beautiful, attributes their being so,
not to any resemblance which they bear to their
originals, but to the omission of such qualities as
are disagreeable in the original, and the selection
only of such as are pleasing. But, when we con-
sider, that the representation of an old man, bend-
ing with age and infirmities, will be pronounced
by every person, a more beautiful figure in a
picture, when executed by a superior artist, than
the figure of a beautiful, well-formed youth,
when executed by an inferior hand, Mr. Knight's
theory can have little claim to our attention. In
the painting of such objects, I agree with Mr.
Price, that "they can never produce beautiful,
that is, lovely pictures ;"* for it is obvious that
* Price's Dialogues.
X
306 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
there is nothing in the figures themselves, except
when they are supposed to be influenced by some
strong passion, that can interest us ; and, therefore,
it is not the figures or painting, but the accuracy
of the imitation, that gives us pleasure. It is,
however, a pleasure of a light character, and is as
different from the pleasures imparted by an histo-
rical painting, which represents deep and affecting
situations, as the pleasures of comedy from that of
tragedy. The characters and scenes represented
in a comedy, have nothing interesting in them-
selves : they produce no strong impression, and are
forgotten the moment they pass out of our sight ;
but yet we are pleased for the time being, because
we cannot help admiring the fidelity with which they
represent their originals in nature. It is curious to
observe, how much learning has been wasted in
attempting to shew, why tragedy pleases more than
comedy; but the moment we come to perceive,
that comedy pleases us merely as an imitation, not
as representing things that would strongly affect us
in reality, while tragedy pleases not only as an
imitation, but also as representing characters,
events, catastrophes, &c. which would strongly
excite our sympathies, if we beheld them in real
life, we have little difficulty in perceiving what all
the writers on the subject have never yet perceived ;
why tragedy affects us more than comedy. The
representations in comedy resemble the imitation
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 307
of ordinary objects in painting. We regard not
the objects, but we regard the truth and accuracy
with which they are imitated. In tragedy, it is
different : we regard the objects themselves, be-
cause we could not avoid regarding them in real
life ; and we also regard the great art which is
necessary to represent them properly. Hence it
happens, that in tragedy we are not satisfied with
mere imitation : we seek, at the same time, to
behold characters that are strongly marked, and
which, consequently, produce strong sensations in
us. We love to see them placed in situations which
would affect us powerfully, if we met with them
in real life. If, however, we place such characters
and situations in the hands of an inferior writer,
they will cease to interest us, because he will
destroy them in the imitation. He will make
emotions co-exist that cannot possibly exist toge-
ther : he will disunite what ought to be united, and
connect what ought to be unconnected. Instead
of harmony, then, there will be a perpetual discords
however well any characters may be fitted in them
selves to affect us strongly. Human nature is so con-
stituted, particularly in men of refined feelings, that
it cannot relish what is, in itself, most pleasing to
it, if it be accompanied by palpable inconsisten-
cies. We relieve a man whom we know to be sud-
denly reduced from a state of affluence to compa-
rative distress, and we find a pleasure in sympa-
x2
308 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
thizing with his misfortunes, if he endure them as
a man. But this sympathy and pleasure instantly
cease, if we know him to exaggerate his misfor-
tunes, or if we see him perfectly unaffected by
his sudden translation from affluence to poverty,
because our own feelings tell us, that we could not
endure such a change without feelings unknown to
those who have always lived in the state to which
we are reduced. There is something, then, in the
man's conduct that clashes with our feelings, and
destroys our sympathy; and this something is a
want of consistency; for man is the creature of
circumstances, and when we perceive a man unaf-
fected by that influence which the situation in
which he is placed ought to exercise over him, we
naturally feel, whether we reason upon it or not,
that there is a something inconsistent in the man's
character. The Tragic writer, consequently, who
cannot observe consistency of character, of man-
ners, sentiments, &c. will perpetually offend us,
even though he should place situations before us
that are strongly affecting in themselves. Men of
a sanguine and ardent temperament, however, will
enjoy these situations, notwithstanding the incon-
sistencies which accompany them, for they are so
strongly affected by the feelings of the moment, that
the inconsistencies escape them ; or, if they be so
palpable as to force themselves upon their attention,
yet the disagreeable sensations which they are calcu-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 309
lated to produce, is lost in the ardour and intensity
of the stronger emotions which they excite. These in-
consistencies, however, would be as disagreeable to
them as to others, if they were perfectly cool at
the moment they perceived them ; but the warmth
of passion either throws a veil over them, or makes
them appear like the lighter shades in painting.
The shade that is scarcely visible in painting, from
the stronger shade by which it is obscured, would
appear distinct and palpable, if this stronger shade
were removed. It is so with man : while he is
under the dominion of passion, he has only a faint
perception of things that would be glaringly ma-
nifest if he could remove the passion that throws
them into shade, and gives them a sort of ideal or
imaginary existence. Tragedy, then, loses a great
part of its effect where there is inconsistency, or
want of harmony perceived ; and yet, in tragedy,
as well as in painting, there may be harmony with-
out producing tragic pleasure. We should look
upon the finest of Titian's landscapes with indiffer-
ence, if the human species did not appear in it,
and yet all the harmony of light, shade, colouring,
perspective, &c. might be as well observed without
the appearance of any figure whatever. The finest
landscapes always please us less than the figures
which appear in them, and the celebrated ArcU iia
of Poussin would, perhaps, never be heard of, weie
it not for the figures with which he has peopled it.
310 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
More, then, depends on the things harmonizing
with each other, than on harmony itself; and
men of sanguine temperaments, as I have just
observed, are satisfied with the slightest con-
nexion, if the things connected be pleasing in them-
selves, that is, if they produce strong sensations.
Situations that are not fitted to produce strong
sensations will please no person, however harmo-
niously combined, while those which are fitted to
produce them, will please, even in the midst of
inconsistencies, men of an ardent temperament,
or any man who has once yielded to the sensations
which they are fitted to produce, so that strong
sensations and tragic pleasure will be always found
to accompany each other, by whatsoever means
they are excited* The monument represented in
Poussin's Arcadia, enclosing the remains of a
young female, a circumstance which is made known
by the statue placed upon the tomb, after the man-
ner of the ancients, and the four young children
who happen to meet it unexpectedly in this smi-
ling country, where pleasure and festivity were
only sought after, and only anticipated, produces
a stronger sensation in the mind, and, consequently,
imparts more pleasure, than all the smiling and
romantic objects which the painter has scattered
over this Elysian scene. If it be asked why the
representation of this event affects us so strongly,
I reply, because it would affect us in real life, be-
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 311
cause we could not pass by such a tomb, and read
such an inscription, where all was joy and pleasure,
and festivity around, without shedding a silent
tear, or, at least, (supposing our natures too stub-
born and untractable to yield to so soft and de-
lightful an emotion) without being moved. Such
a tomb, met in a church -yard, or in a wilderness,
where it stood unconnected with kindred asso-
ciations, would not produce this effect. Our sym-
pathies, then, would be weakened in the first place,
by being divided between different objects ; and,
in the second, by being ourselves antecedently in
no pleasing mood, from the dull scenery which
surrounded us, for, as I have already observed, the
more happy we are ourselves, the more prepared
we are to sympathize in the woes of others. The
unfortunate man is incapable of all those softer
and milder affections which resolve themselves
into sympathy. The tomb affects us, then, in
painting, because it would affect us in real life.
It is so in tragedy: the representation of common
scenes, and common events, makes no impression
upon us, but what arises, as in painting, from the
exactness of the imitation, its resemblance to the
original, and the consequent skill of the artist who
produced so natural an imitation. We admire not
the objects presented in such paintings, because
they would not affect us in real life, but still we
admire the skill and powers of the artist. The
312 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
f pleasure, consequently, is of a light character, and
can never approach the pleasure arising from paint-
ings, which represent events and circumstances,
which, in real life, would affect us strongly. In
beholding these paintings, we forget entirely the
artist, and are attentive only to the deep and af-
fecting situations which are placed before us. When-
ever we perceive a display of mental energy, and
comprehension of idea, we are pleased, though this
energy should be exercised on subjects of no in-
terest. The style of the great Venetian painters
seldom approaches closely to nature ; — the expres-
sion and colouring are equally feeble, and yet their
paintings have always ranked among the first pro-
ductions of the art, not, obviously, because they
please the mere organs of sense, not because the
eye dwells upon them with pleasure, but because
we perceive that they display the greatest technical
skill, and the most consummate acquaintance with
the science or principles of the art. They please,
however, only those who are acquainted with those
principles, because they address themselves to the
discursive, not to the sensitive faculties. He who
merely judges through the medium of his feelings,
looks upon them with the utmost indifference, and
yet, it is only he who is affected through the
senses that can properly be said to be affected at
all ; and it is only the painting that addresses
itself to the feelings, not to our understanding, that
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 313
can ever produce a powerful impression. What
appeals to our reason may produce a light, agree-
able sensation; and he who judges exclusively by
reason may feel a sensation of a similar character ;
but it is only what appeals to our feelings that
can affect us strongly ; and it is only he who
judges by his feelings that can be strongly affected.
It is, therefore, necessary to distinguish that light
pleasure which arises from mere imitation, or from
a perception of the superior skill of the artist,
whether displayed in correct imitation or otherwise,
from that stronger, and more impassioned feeling
which arises less from the correct imitation of
nature, than from the very nature of the things
which are imitated. This holds equally true in
poetry, music, and all imitations whatever. They
please us not only as imitations or copies of nature,
but also as the representations of things which, in
their own nature, interest us strongly. The latter
however is always the greater pleasure. I am
more pleased with a portrait of my friend than
with that of a stranger, allowing both to be equal-
ly well executed, simply because the person it re-
presents is more interesting to me than a stranger ;
but I am still pleased with the portrait of a stranger
if it be well executed, though the pleasure is much
less than in the former case. The one is the plea-
sure of mere imitation, the other of imitation, and
the thing imitated. If the portrait of the stranger
314 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
had been executed with greater skill than that of
my friend, it would still impart less pleasure, which
shows that the subject is of more importance than the
genius with which it is executed. A lover would not
exchange an indifferent portrait of his fair one for the
transfiguration of Raphael. Hence a tragic writer
of inferior talent, will produce a more pleasing and
successful tragedy, if he be happy in his subject,
than a writer of the most transcendent genius,
whose imitation is of things that are not fitted in
themselves to excite strong sensations. Can any
thing, then, be more obvious than that no power
of genius can avail a tragic writer, unless he know,
antecedently, what it is that produces Tragic
Pleasure, or unless he know that Tragic Pleasure
can only be produced by producing strong sensa-
tions, emotions, or passions, a position which it
has been the object of this work to establish. Pos-
sessed of this knowledge, he selects only such subjects
and characters, and places them in such situations
and relations to each other as affect us strongly ;
but, without a knowledge of what causes this
pleasure, he takes up his subject at random, un-
less, like Schlegel, he adopt an erroneous theory,
and imagine that a feeling of the dignity of human
nature is the cause of Tragic Pleasure. If, how-
ever, he adopt this theory, his situation is still
worse, because he always aims at supporting the
dignity of his characters. In doing so, his charac-
THE 90URCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 315
ters have no character, because they are toujours
le meme, always the same unchanged and un-
changeable beings. With such beings we cannot
sympathize. We know instinctively they are not
such men as we are ourselves ; that they have not
a particle of human nature in them ; in a word,
that they are the mere creatures of the under-
standing, who have no nature of their own, and
are mere automatons in the hands of the poet. It is
very evident that he who acts a dignified part where
there is no occasion for it, acts as unnaturally as
Captain Flash, who, to conceal his fears, cries out,
" ivhat a damned passion I am in." If the captain
were really in a passion, he would never have thought
of it ; because a man under the immediate influence
of passion, never reflects that he is in a passion,
having his whole mind directed to the object by
which his passion has been excited. It is equally
unnatural to be dignified on all occasions, or, more
correctly speaking, upon any occasion in which it is
not called for, or which does not put our dignity to
the test. " There is a time to laugh and a time
to cry," and there is no dignity in either. The
dignified man consequently neither laughs nor
cries ; but the natural man, he who is guided by
the original laws of his own nature, and the in-
fluences by which it is governed, laughs and cries
whenever he has cause. It is only natural beings,
however, with whom we can sympathize in tragedy,
316 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
for the instant we perceive, or even suspect the
least appearance of art, we awaken from the illu-
sion that has laid hold of our sympathies ; and
laugh either at our own folly or the unskilfulness
of the poet, whose violation of nature, or want of
art to conceal his art, has awoken us from our
reams.
All the other theories which I have quoted on
the subject of Tragic Pleasure would lead us into
similar violations of nature. They restrain the
poet from entering into that wide career which
nature has placed before him. They tell him that
though man is subject to an infinite number of
different propensities, sensations, feelings, passions,
affections, and modes of sympathy, he must at-
tend only to one law or affection of his nature ; that
he must perpetually endeavour to keep this affec-
tion alive ; that he must make all his characters, in
whatever* situation he places them, act under the
influence of this affection, and obey no other law
or propensities of his nature. Hence, his charac.
ters will be more influenced in their sentiments
more determined in the course which they intend to
pursue, by the influence of this particular affection,
than by the influence of the situation in which
they are placed, while the natural man acts always
under the influence of the moment. His affec-
tions, feelings, sentiments, and sympathies, are,
consequently, changing with every change of cir-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 317
cumstance and external influence, so that the
tonjours le meme of th systematic poet can never
be applied to him.
The theory which I have adopted on the source
of Tragic Pleasure, confines the poet to no par-
ticular system. In every tragedy there must be
a system, so far as regards the unity, harmony,
design, plot, &c. of the piece ; but if it appear,
from what I have advanced on the subject, that
all strong sensations, emotions, and passions, are
pleasing to man, it is very obvious that the tragic
poet is not confined to any particular law or affec-
tion of his nature, because he is pleased with every
sentiment and situation that produces a strong im-
pression ; provided always that these sentiments
and situations arise naturally from the progress of
events. If it should be asked, how is the poet
to know whether his images, situations, sen-
timents, &c. are naturally placed, and harmonize
with each other, I reply, that this knowledge cannot
be communicated by any precepts of art, and that
he who has not taste and judgment to discover the
propriety of the relations which he has formed be-
tween all the individual members of his piece,
must be satisfied to remain ignorant of it. It is
in this discrimination, and perception of propriety,
that the writer of genius displays his superiority.
The characters, images, sentiments, affections,
modes of sympathy, circumstances, situations,
318 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
events, &c. that may be introduced into a tragedy,
are each of them infinitely diversified. There may
be an infinite diversity of character, an infinite
variety of images, sentiments, &c. Again, there
is an infinite number of modes in which they can
be brought together. In this infinity of conjunc-
tions, and infinite variety of things conjoined, it is
very obvious that no less than an infinity of rules
can enable us to distinguish propriety from im-
propriety ; because the image, sentiment, &c.
which is proper in one conjunction, would be ab-
surd in another. Yet, in all this variety, the writer
of just feeling can determine instinctively without
rule or precept.
To bring the whole of what I have said on this
subject to a conclusion ; it is obvious that the
pleasures derived from Tragic Representations do
not arise from a sense of the dignity of human
nature, nor from any other particular sense ; that
every thing, except in the cases which I have al
ready mentioned, pleases us which produces a
strong impression, and that nothing can please us
when this strong impression is not made. If it be
asked what produces a strong impression ; I an-
swer, the question is easily resolved. The monu-
ment in the Arcadia of Poussin, the ghost in
Hamlet, the dagger in Macbeth, the tempest in
Lear, the poison taken by Romeo, and a thousand
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 319
similar causes will produce strong sensations in us,
all of which will be attended with pleasure.
But if it be asked, what other, or how many
other causes produce strong sensations ? I an-
swer, that the number is without number. I
could point out some hundreds, perhaps some
thousands of them ; but this could serve no pur-
pose, as not only thousands but millions would
still remain. If, however, I am asked how is the
tragic writer to determine whether the circum-
stances and situations in which he places his charac-
ters please or not ; I think I can give a general
rule. If he place any of his characters in such a
situation as would produce a strong sensation in
himself, were he placed in it, it will produce the
same sensation in the audience. They are men
who are governed by the same influences by which
he is governed. If, therefore, he invent a situation
which would strongly affect himself were he placed
in it, this situation will equally affect the audience ;
and they will sympathize with any person whom
they find placed in it, provided it be introduced
without inconsistency. But, perhaps it may be
said, that a tragic writer cannot always tell how
he would feel affected in a certain situation, and,
consequently, cannot determine how to conduct his
characters through it. If this should be the case,
I would advise such a writer to leave tragedy to
others, and turn to something else. If nature has
320 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
denied him feeling, it cannot be imparted to him
by art ; and if he possess it, he can never be at a
loss to determine how he would feel affected in any
situation. I am willing to allow, that the audience
will feel strongly affected by passages, sentiments,
and situations in a tragedy, which would have no
effect on some tragic writers ; but then I deny, that
such writers could ever have placed such passages,
sentiments, or situations before them. He who
cannot feel affected by what he writes himself, will
never affect those who read his productions. Nature
has wisely ordered, that he who has no ardour of
feeling in himself should be incapable of produc-
ing any thing that can excite it in others. He,
therefore, who hopes to produce an affecting tragedy
without original sensibility of feeling, is building
castles in the air. If he cannot feel himself, he
cannot make others feel.
■■ Si vis me flere,
Dolendum est priraum tibi ipsi.
/ The tragic writer should, therefore -, never aim
| to excite weak or feeble sensations. He should al-
l ways seek to produce effect by the agency of natural
pauses ; for if he fail in producing strong sensa-
tions, his tragedy can have no interest, and, con-
sequently, can impart no pleasure. The desire of
producing effect in painting, generally leads to a
perverted taste ; particularly where the subject is
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 321
a portrait of sensible or external nature ; as land-
scapes, &c. The transitions in painting- never should
be too sudden, except on extraordinary occasions,
because the appearances of nature are generally
united by shades which gradually melt into each
other ; and unless the painter delineate with a
delicate hand these associating shades, he does
violence to nature, and destroys that effect which
he intended to produce. A portrait of human
nature, however, should essentially differ from tha
of sensible or inanimate existence ; because the ap-
pearances which it presents are totally different.
Inanimate nature, as I have just shewn, varies
its appearances by insensible degrees; but ani-
mate or human nature, starts suddenly and pre-
cipitately from one appearance, or extreme, to
another ; and our philosophy fails us the moment
we attempt to discover a connecting link. The
man who is at this moment a lamb will present
himself at the next moment a raging lion ; and
the dramatic writer, who would give a faithful
portrait of human nature, must start suddenly
after him, and paint him as he finds him. If he
cannot keep pace with the rapidity and violence of
human passion, but wait to inform us of the im-
perceptible causes that lead from one passion to
another, he is no describer of human nature ; be-
cause, the very man who rushes from one extreme
of passion to another, cannot always tell himself
322 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
the secret impulse by which he is guided. The
tragic poet must, therefore, describe appearances,
or portraits of human nature which are totally
distinct from each other, though they lie side by
side. The links, or shades, by which these ap-
pearances or extremes of passion are united, must
be kept in the back-ground, and their discovery left
to the imagination of the reader or spectator. He
must therefore always study what the painter of
inanimate nature should almost always avoid ;
namely, the production of effect. The transitions
in the prominent features of his characters, their
humours, passions, and eccentricities, must be
sudden and rapid, in order to keep pace with the
untamed energies and instant determinations of
human nature. The poet who does this cannot
possibly awaken in us cold or feeble sensations ;
and the poet who neglects to do so, writes only to
amuse himself ; for he who cannot follow human
passion, or tread in her footsteps, whether she
mount the daring steeps that oppose her progress,
or rush down the precipices which threaten her
with instant destruction, will write tragedy to no
purpose if it be intended for representation. A
tragedy not teeming with circumstances fitted to
produce either strong emotions or passions, is
sealed with the signet of oblivion, and its first
representation will most probably be its last, except
it be represented before an audience of philosophers.
THE SOURCR OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 323
Addison's Cato, no doubt, would succeed very well
if we could once throw off human nature, and view
every thing through the medium of the understand-
ing. We can hardly meet with a finer picture of the
precipitancy of human determination, and the sud-
denness with which it starts from one extreme to the
other, from the slumber of indolence to the whelm-
ing impetuosity of passion, than what is repre-
sented in the following passage ; and yet it is not
so much a picture of human nature as the real
instinctive expression of nature itself.
Osmyn. By heav'n t.rou'st roused me from my lethargy,
The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs,
And the loud cries of my dead father's blood :
Deaf to revenge, — nay, which refused to hear/
The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love
Yet un enjoyed : what not Almeira ould
Revive or raise, my people's voice has waken'd.
my Antonio, I am all on fire ;
My soul is up in arms ready to charge,
And bear amidst the foe with conquering troops.
1 hear 'em call to lead 'em on to liberty,
To victory : their shouts and clamours rend
My ears, and reach the heavens : where is the king ?
Where is Alphonso ? ha ! where ! wher^ indeed ?
O I could tear and burst the strings of life,
To break these chains. Off, off ye stains of royalty !
Off slavery ! O curse ! that I alone
Can beat and flutter in my cage ; when I
Would soar, and stoop at victory beneath !
Mourning Bride, Act 3, Scene 2.
324 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
The tragic poet, however, though he can never
bring forward a tragedy that will succeed on the
stage, unless it teem with those deep, striking,
and affecting situations which excite strong sensa-
tions iti us, should still carefully avoid attempting
to create these sensations too soon ; not only be-
cause his audience are not prepared for them, and
must be warmed to passion by degrees ; but be-
cause the entire interest is lost if a stronger sensa-
tion be followed by a weaker. The instant our
feelings are raised to the highest, and that we know
there is nothing to follow which can affect us
more powerfully than we are at the moment, we
instinctively make a motion to rise and be gone-
We cherish the sensation with which we are
impressed as a sacred and hallowed feeling ; a
test of our humanity which it would be an insult
to our nature to suffer to be eradicated by the
slighter sympathies which are to follow. But if
some deeper and more affecting scene is still
to be presented to us, we prepare ourselves for a
still greater trial and exercise of our sympathies ;
and we regard the strong sensation of the moment
only as a foretaste of those deep and heart-rending
emotions by which it is to be followed ; because
the stronger the sensation the greater our pleasure.
The poet must, therefore, so order his scenes
and situations that they shall rise in interest and
THE SOURCE OF TRAG1CC PLEASURE. 325
importance, so that a more affecting* shall never
precede a less affecting- scene ; for in this case a
stronger sensation would precede a weaker, and,
consequently, destroy its effect. Every scene will
have its full effect upon us if it be stronger, or
produce stronger sensations than that which pre-
cede it ; but we are inattentive to what we should
otherwise consider the most affecting scene, if it
should happen to be preceded by one still more
affecting ; a proof, among' many others, that the
strongest sensation is that which our nature
embraces with the most adhesive grasp. It is,
therefore, only from the creation of scenes fitted
to excite these strong impressions, that the tragic
writer, whatever genius he may possess, can ever
hope to succeed in such pieces as he intends for the
stage ; for, in the absence of such scenes, he will
derive no advantage from following the theories of
those who deduce Tragic Pleasure from " a sense of
the dignity of human nature ;" nor from " a com-
parison between the tranquillity of our own situation
and the distress to which the victims of Tragic
Representation are exposed ;" nor from " our feel-
ing of moral improvement which is gratified by the
view of poetical justice, in the reward of the good
and the punishment of the wicked ;" nor from
" fable operating on our passions, by representing
its events as operating in our sight, and deluding
ns into a conviction of reality ;" nor from " the
326 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
energies and violent efforts displayed in feats of
strength, courage, and dexterity, or the calm
energies of virtue called forth by the exertions of
passive fortitude ;" nor from any other source what-
ever, as I have clearly proved in the first part of
this work. The tragic poet may be acquainted
with all these theories, and a thousand more, as-
cribing the entire pleasure to one particular feeling
of our nature ; but unless he present the audience
with a succession of scenes, situations, &c. creat-
ing a greater and a greater interest ; and, conse-
quently, exciting stronger and stronger sensations,
the audience will depart unsatisfied, and the plea-
sure, whose origin has been the subject of the
present work, will be found to have no existence.
The tragic poet selects his characters either from
the real or ideal world, from history or imagina-
tion. The latter being a mere copy or type of the
former, produces, as in all cases of imitation, a
weaker impression. Two poets of equal genius,
and equally happy in the selection and invention
of their subject, will have very different success
with the public, if one take his subject from history,
the other from imagination ; for that which has
only the appearance of reality, but which we know
to be the pure offspring of fiction, can never affect
us like that which we know to be founded in real
facts. Facts derive their interest from two sources,
and affect us, accordingly, either as individuals or
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 327
as men in general. A fact is either important on
its own account, or important as regards a certain
number of individuals. If the former, it in-
terests all mankind : if the latter, it interests only
the individuals concerned, and this last interest is
always the strongest. Hence every nation takes
more delight in tragedies taken from its own his-
tory than in those taken from the history of other
nations ; and in those taken from the history of
other nations more than in tragedies taken from
imagination. But facts of a momentous and im-
portant nature are interesting to all men, from the
mere circumstance of their being important, though
not so interesting to any particular nation, as those
which are taken from its own history. A tragedy,
however, may be founded in the history of our
country and still be uninteresting. Du Bos justly
observes, that the subject of the Eneid was more
interesting to the Roman people than to any other
nation ; and it may be truly said, that the subject
of Richard III. is more interesting to an English-
man than Coriolanus. There are exceptions how-
ever to this rule. A tragedy, from whatever history
it is taken, will be more interesting to all nations, if
it excite strong sensations and give a true portrait of
human nature, than a tragedy taken from the history
of any particular nation will be to the very nation
from which it is taken, if it describe passions, feel-
ings, and sympathies, that could not arise naturally,
328 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
either from the individual characters of the dramatis
personce, or the peculiar situation in which they
are placed. Lear, for instance, is a tragedy that
must interest all mankind, because it is a perfect
delineation of human nature, of its frailties, and its
passions. When I say it is a perfect delineation of
human nature, I mean to say, that it is a perfect
picture or description of the manner in which
particular characters act or are acted upon when
placed in particular situations. Whenever an in-
dividual is placed in a distressful situation, we
cannot help sympathizing with him, to whatever
country he belongs.
Homo sum ; human'i nihil a me alienum puto.
It is certain, however, that, cceteris paribus, we
will enter more deeply into the feelings, and share
more in the affections of our own countrymen, than
in those of any other.
It is obvious then, that the best tragedy is that
which unites both the interests of which I have
spoken ; namely, the tragedy which, from its
very nature, interests all mankind, and from its
subject is more particularly interesting to the nation
for which it is written.
Having shewn that writers of the greatest genius
may fail, and have failed in producing that interest
without which a tragedy is frequently damned on
the first night of its representation, while writers
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 329
of inferior merit have succeeded beyond all expec-
tation, a question naturally arises, how this comes
to pass ; for if both be equally ignorant of the
true source of Tragic Pleasure, why should not the
one succeed as well as the other ? The theory which
I have adopted on the subject will, if I mistake
not, easily explain the mystery. The pleasure
arising from Tragic Representation, as I have
already shown, arises not from beauty of language,
delicacy of sentiment, beauty of imagery, refine-
ment of idea, nicety of discrimination, chastity
of expression, purity of style, perspicuity of dic-
tion, simplicity of manners, or any of those quali-
ties which constitute the beauty of language in
general. These characteristics of elegant style,
however, are those which are chiefly sought after
and most generally acquired by elegant and polish-
ed writers ; for that which we are most eager and
solicitious of obtaining is generally that which we
are most certain of acquiring. In proportion, how-
ever, as we refine and polish our style, and attain those
attic graces, and that elegance of taste which enti-
tle us to rank among classical writers, we frequent-
ly lose that energy, that vigour, that enthusiasm?
that rapidity, that vivida vis animi, that u soul of
soul," which is the very essence and quintessence,
and life and spirit, of the tragic muse ; and with-
out which no tragedy ever imparted that pleasure
which has been the subject of our inquiry. He
330 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
who dwells too long in analyzing and scrutinizing
the propriety of every thing he says, loses in strength
and energy of sentiment what he gains in purity
and accuracy of expression. While the head is at
work in purifying our language and arranging our
thoughts, the heart and its operations shrink from
a task totally opposite to their nature, and subside
insensibly into a dead calm. The moment this
calm takes place, the tragic writer has no longer
any source whence he can draw his portraits and
delineations of human nature, but the faint recol-
lections of former and half- forgotten feelings, or
the suggestions of fancy and imagination. Imagi-
nation, however, supplies us only with images that
are fit to amuse itself. A writer of imagination
pleases only the imagination of his readers ; the
writer of feeling alone can reach the heart, and
raise into being all the slumbering and latent
faculties, energies, and sympathies of our nature.
Hence it is that in all countries, the most polished
and elegant writers have had least success in writing
for the stage. Racine was, perhaps, the most cor-
rect writer that France ever produced, not except-
ing Voltaire himself, but as a dramatic writer he
is greatly inferior to Corneille. Yet Corneille had
neither the grace, the elegance, the delicacy of
expression, nor beauty of versification which charac-
terize Racine. To what then does Corneille owe
his superiority if not to that fire and animation
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 331
which was not suffered to grow cool in the act of
composition. He suffered not his imagination to
go in pursuit of far-fetched associations, or linger
iu the council-room of the understanding to dis-
cuss which of many terms was the most elegant
and refined. He did not, like Racine, turn his
object round about and view it in all directions
before he ventured to describe it, but seized on it
under the first aspect that presented itself to his
view. He described accordingly the impression
which it made upon him vividly and warmly, but
Racine suffered the impression to die away while
he was considering the aspect in which he should
represent it to the audience. Elegance, dress,
adornment, and polish, is therefore the very bane
of that energy and native strength of diction which
alone can rouse into life and being those strong
sensations, emotions, and passions, to which tragic
pleasure owes its existence. It is not necessary to
recur to the French stage to prove this truth. As
Corneille surpassed Racine, so did Shakspeare pre-
cede all the dramatic writers of his country, at
least all whose names are worthy of notice. But
Shakspeare precedes them not only in order of time,
but in order of dramatic genius. Voltaire calls him
a savage ; but he was a savage which the refined
Voltaire himself could never equal. He was no doubt
a savage — a total stranger to the lighter charms
and graces of classic elegance and refinement,
332 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
but such charms and graces are fit only to amuse
the imagination, for there never was an instance
of any tragedy succeeding of which those lighter
charms and graces formed the principal character.
Theselight-winged graces and embellishments are
all the offspring of art : they are a species of machi-
nery devised and constructed by the co-operation
of the understanding and imagination ; but the
expression of real and undisguised feeling, or the un-
folding of feeling exactly as it is felt, has no alliance
whatever with art : it is the work of nature and its
charms are the charms of nature. It is difficult how-
ever for him who is chiefly solicitous about the form
of his expression to attain to these charms, because
the understanding and the heart can never be
brought into action at the same moment, without
weakening each other. He who is all life and feel-
ing, and passion, has no time to exercise, or rather
never thinks of exercising his understanding, but
writes what his feelings and passions inspire ; but
he who loves to consult his understanding alone,
and pays no attention to his feelings, has neither
feeling nor passion to give inspiration to his muse.
The critics of the present day are greatly per-
plexed in seeking to account for the barrenness and
poverty of our dramatic productions. The author
of " a Letter to the Dramatists of the Day," which
appeared lately in the London Magazine, has many
good observations on the subject, but though his
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 383
letter is a pretty long one. and runs through more
than one number of the Magazine, all the precepts
he lays down to regulate the conduct of drama-
tic writers may be rigidly followed, and yet fail
of producing that interest, and of imparting that
pleasure, which is sought for on the stage, and
without producing which no tragedy ever succeed-
ed. The critic who lays down a just principle
without knowing why it is just, and, consequently,
without being able to assign a reason for it, tends
frequently to lead his followers astray instead of
withdrawing them from their errors ; for what we
call true principles in criticism are all, without
an individual exception, false principles, if im-
properly applied : they are only true in their right
place. Hence it is, that when we point out an
error in the productions of an ignorant writer, and
lay down the principle by which we prove it to be
wrong, he adopts this principle afterwards as a
guide ; not only in similar cases, but in cases where
it has no application^ and where consequently it
becomes as erroneous as the principles by which
he was originally guided. Hence it is that writers
who cannot perceive when they ought to be guided
by a principle, and when they ought to avoid it,
are always sailing between Scylla and Charybdis,
always either in the frying pan or in the fire ; for
as Horace observes,
Dum vttant stulti vitla hi contraria currunt.
334 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
It is impossible, however, for any writer to know
whether a principle be applicable to him or not,
unless he know out of what the truth of the prin-
ciple arises ; and as the author of the letter just
alluded to is very evidently ignorant of the true
source of Tragic Pleasure, ail the precepts he lays
down, though true in themselves, are of no use
to the dramatic writer, because he does not explain
when and where they are true, when and where
they are applicable, and why they are applicable.
One of the reasons he assigns for the superiority
of our ancient over our modern dramatic writers,
is, that their plots were more interesting. This is a
mere woman's reason. To what purpose is the
dramatist told that his piece can have no success
unless he has an interesting plot, unless he is told,
at the same time, what renders a plot interesting.
Who is sostupid as not to know that his plot should
be interesting if he knew how to render it so : and
who does not endeavour to render it so as much as
he can ? To say then that the plot should be in-
teresting is to say nothing ; and to say that the
ancients were superior to the moderns, because
their plots were more interesting, is only saying they
were superior because they were superior, which
is, as I have already observed, a woman's reason.
But if this gentleman, who, by the bye, treats the
poor dramatists very cavalierly, were asked what
renders a plot interesting, what constitutes the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 335
elements of an interesting plot, and in what man-
ner should these elements be brought together and
disposed of, he would mid himself as nonplussed as
the dramatists, for out of the same elements, in-
cidents, sentiments, situations. &c. some millions
of plots could be formed all totally different from
each other, and yet all of them interesting, all of
them natural. But how is all this to be effected
unless by bringing the various constituent ingre-
dients or elements together in a different manner?
Now, if Mr. Lacy, the writer of this letter, could
point out how they could be brought together in
so many millions of ways, and form so many mil-
lions of plots, all interesting and natural, the
dramatists would have good reason to thank him ;
but when he says to them, go to, you race of dunces,
who cannot perceive that the sole cause of your
failure consists in not making your plots interest-
ing enough, they may very justly turn round upon
him and say, who could have thought of telling
us so but such a dunce as yourself? We know a
great part at least of our failure consists in not
having succeeded in giving our plots sufficient in-
terest ; but unless you can instruct us how to do
so, how much wiser are you than ourselves ? It is
absurd to lay down, or pretend to lay down, rules
to govern the dramatic writer, so far as regards the
harmony that exists between all the parts of his
composition, for as some millions of interest-
336 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
ing tragedies may be formed out of a few elements,
so also may some millions of false, uninteresting
ones. Each of these tragedies, however, is to be
governed by laws and principles peculiar to itself ;
and the critic must certainly have more presump-
tion than understanding who would legislate to
dramatists, and point out to them all these laws
and principles before these millions of tragedies
were composed, as each of them should have laws
peculiar to itself. The fact is, that all the laws,
canons, and principles of criticism that have ever
been promulgated, owe their existence to the works
on which they were originally founded ; and it is a
fact equally certain, that they can have no appli-
cation to works of a different nature, except in
those points wherein they agree with each other.
Hence, if any writer commenced an original work,
original not only in its design, but in its manner
and execution, he should be governed by principles
that were never heard of before, because the
subject was different from any that was ever handled
before. It is in the nature of every subject to create
laws for itself ; for if it were governed by the laws
and principles of any other subject, it would, in-
stead of being an original subject, be a mere copy
of that subject by whose laws it was governed. To
suppose that there are fixed laws and principles to
which all subjects must conform, is to suppose
that there are certain fixed qualities without which
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 337
no woman, no statue, no painting, no any thing
can be beautiful. Now if there be such qualities
Ishould wish to know what they are. Critics and
philosophers, it is true, have racked their brains
in search of them, but have they ever found them ?
have any two of them agreed as to the common
quality or qualities which constitute beauty ? Du-
gald Stewart places them in colour, form, and
motion, but in doing so is he not even more ab-
surd than Mr. Lacy, the author of the letter on
which I am now commenting. To what purpose
are we told that beauty consists in colour, form,
and motion, unless we are told what particular
colour, what particular form, and what particular
motion constitute beauty? The most deformed
animal in the creation has colour and form ; and
as to motion, Mr. Stewart himself must acknow-
ledge it is not an essential ingredient in beauty,
for there are millions of objects which all men will
pronounce beautiful, and yet they have no motion
whatever, unless they receive it from some external
impulse. The Apollo of Belvidere has no motion
in itself, and yet all men acknowledge it a beauti-
ful statue. If then we confine beauty to colour
and form, a Hottentot female, with her " head
coining first and her tail coming after," is a
beautiful woman, for she has colour and form.
In fact, if colour and form constitute beauty, all
338 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
objects are beautiful, for all objects have colour
and form. Professor Stewart's theory of beauty
is, therefore, perfectly chimerical, and so are all
the other theories that have ever been formed on
the subject, which I could prove as absurd as Mr.
Stewart's, if the nature of my subject permitted
me to enter into the question. A painting maybe
beautiful, and a horse may be beautiful, but wherein
does a horse resemble a painting- ? If then we can
lay down no fixed principles that constitute beauty,
why pretend to lay down fixed principles by which
a writer is to be guided whatever be his subject.
Hence it is, that a thousand, a million, nay millions
of tragedies may all be interesting and beautiful,
and yet all different from each other, and governed
by laws peculiar to themselves. To say then that
modern tragedies are unsuccessful because their
plots are not interesting, is equivalent to saying a
woman is not beautiful because she is ugly. If
the writer of this letter, however, perceived, that the
interest of a plot consisted in its being adapted to
excite strong sensations, emotions, or passions, he
would have given the gentlemen to whom he ad-
dressed himself a clue to the production of an
interesting plot ; because they would perceive that
however ingenious they were in devising it, how-
ever skilfully and intricately it was composed, it
still had no chance of succeeding on the stage,
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 339
unless it was calculated to excite those stronger
affections of the mind in the excitement of which
Tragic Pleasure can alone consist.
Mr. Lacy very justly observes, that a tragedy
may be interesting without poetic ornament or
embellishment, and uninteresting, however highly
adorned by imagery, elegance of diction, and other
attributes merely poetical; but what avails it to
know that tragic interest does not consist in
these qualities of writing without knowing in what
it consists. This, however, Mr. Lacy imagines
he has discovered when he informs the dramatist
that the first grand leading essential attribute of
drama, whereby it is distinguished from ail other
species of literature, and without which it is not
what it professes to be, is action. It is difficult to
conceive how action can be considered a species of
literature, or in other words, how that part of the
drama which consists of action can be considered
a species of literature. But Mr. Lacy himself
puts an irrefutable objection to his own theory
into the mouths of the dramatists, which I shall
first quote, and afterwards bring another objection
against it myself, which I am of opinion will com-
pletely set his theory at rest.
"My belief deceives me, say you?'' (he makes the
dramatists speak,) however impalpable our plots
may be, however unattractive, insubstantial, and
delible our stories, still our plots are plots, our
z2
340 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
stories are stories, and being carried on or related
by the several characters prefixed to our tragedies,
under the denomination of dramatis persona?, con-
stitute the action of our pieces ; e now, infidel, we
have thee on the hip.' "
To these objections to his own theory Mr. Lacy re-
plies in his own peculiar and swaggering manner,
- Soft you ; a word or two before you go. What
are we speaking of, gentlemen defendants ? Drama?
No. Tragedy ? No. But of legitimate drama,
effective tragedy." Bravo, Mr. Lacy, if effec-
tive words have any effect, you are completely in
the right box. But, to be serious, Mr. Lacy then
proceeds to shew that their tragedies are not effec-
tive ones. But what has all this to do with
the objection of the dramatists to his theory of
action. They say, we have plots and stories which
are carried on by the dramatis persona?, and, there-
fore, we have action. If then action alone renders
a tragedy interesting, ours should be interesting?
and their want of interest proves that something
else is required to confer interest on dramatic works.
Mr. Lacy endeavours to get over this unanswer-
able objection by saying, we are not talking of the
d rama, nor of tragedy, but of legitimate drama, effec-
tive tragedy. Softly, Mr. Lacy, you are not talk-
ing of either. The question regards not the drama,
nor tragedy, nor legitimate drama, nor effective
tragedy : you are talking of action, Mr. Lacy, and
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 341
your business is to prove that the whole interest of
dramatic works arises from action. Because you
maintain that the failure of modern tragedies arises
from want of action. But how is this proved by
shewing that their tragedies are not effective. This
is mere matter of fact, not matter of reason-
ing ; but your business was to show, not that
their tragedies were not effective, but that the
want of action was the cause of their not being
effective. The matter at issue between you and
the dramatists is this: — you say their tragedies
fail for want of action, — they say, no; — our
tragedies have action. Not being able to prove
the contrary, you say, we are not talking of
tragedy but of effective tragedy ; and because their
tragedies are not effective their argument does not
apply. It happens, however, that you are talking
of neither. Action is your subject. But, say you,
Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, or Othello, is superior to
all their tragedies " on the sole ground of action."
Indeed ! And pray, Mr. Lacy, who told you so ?
This is a mere assertion of your own, and assertions
require proofs. Who knows but their superiority
arises from some other cause? That action is not the
sole cause is evident, for all our modern tragedies
have action as well as those of Shakspeare. {Sup-
posing' I were to say, that Shakspeare's plays were
superior to our modern ones, because they awaken
stronger sensations, emotions, and passions, in the
342 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
human breast ; might I not be as near the truth as
you aie? If you ask my proofs, I have given
them already. But you will reply, no doubt, that
sensations are produced by action. This cannot
be, for if they were, our modern tragedies would
produce them. But the action, you say, should
be perpetual. I say no, and I say, also, that
whether the action be perpetual or not, it is at no
time the action, but the nature of the action, that
creates the interest ; and without knowing what
this nature is, we may p teach to eternity about
action, and leave om* readers as wise as they were
at setting out. Who has more action than he who
talks most vehemently? and what can be less
pleasing than this action, unless it arise from
strong and powerful emotions. To say that the
action should be perpetual, is to maintain the
wildest and most senseless of all theories. There
must be proper pauses between those parts which
most strongly affect the mind; for if no such
pause were granted, if the interest continued in-
creasing without a moment's intermission, the
consequence would be, that every individual would,
in a very short time, be so overpowered by his feel-
ings that he would either abandon the theatre to re-
lieve the intensity of his emotions, (for the extreme
of pleasure is always painful,) or otherwise, by
arming himself against his own feelings, and sub-
duing them by force, he would remain insensible
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 343
to the most affecting scenes that could afterwards
be represented on the stage. The sensitive soul is
so formed by nature that it always relieves itself
in some manner, which frequently leads it to run
suddenly from one extreme to another. Hence it
frequently passes from the extreme of pity to
that of indifference. Mr. Lacy is an enemy to
speechification, because it causes a cessation of ac-
tion, but some of the finest and most affecting scenes
in tragedy are to be met with in speeches, par-
ticularly in love speeches. Whoever would reject
that inimitable scene in the third act of Romeo and
Juliet ; in which Juliet endeavours to make Romeo
believe that it is not yet day ; whoever, I say, would
reject this scene because it makes a pause in the
action, possesses certainly no very enviable taste.
The fact is, that all those things which Mr. Lacy
finds fault with, are all right in their right place,
and all right things are wrong when out of their
place.
But if action be truly the real source of tragic
interest, what need is there of good performers or
good tragic writers ? Any person who is quick
enough upon his legs can display as much action
as Kean or Kemble, but would any nimble
person be able to give the same interest to his
action. But Mr. Lacy will reply, every body
knows that the action of an indifferent performer
cannot please, however full of action he may
344 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
be : but if every body knows it, why labour to
prove what every body knows to be wrong? If
then mere action will not please by itself, it is a
mere accident accompanying the real cause of
Tragic Pleasure. But if we are ignorant of this
real cause, to what purpose are we made acquainted
with the accident? Will Mr. Lacy pretend to say,
that whoever is made acquainted with the accident
must necessarily be acquainted with the cause ? If
he does he will find himself greatly in error. We
all know that pleasure may be communicated
through the medium of action, but we know also
that every species and mode of action will not
impart this pleasure. And to hit upon that par-
ticular mode which is most effective and natural,
so far from being known to every person, is known
to very few. It is the study of a man's life, nor
can even this study acquire it without natural
genius. To know, then, what particular action
pleases, hie labor, hoc opus est. What avails it there-
fore to dwell on the necessity of action, for we may
be acquainted with this necessity and still be as in-
capable of producing tragic interest as if we knew
nothing about it. Mr. Lacy accordi ngly advises the
dramatists of the day to fill up their tragedies with
action, if I mistake not, to little purpose, for a play
may be ever so full of action and active scenes, and
impart no pleasure whatever. Shakspeare advises
to " suit the action to the word, and the word to
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 345
the action ;" but unless both be suited to the senti-
ments, circumstances, situations, feelings, sympa-
thies, and emotions, from which they are supposed
to arise, and also to that infinite variety of influences
which arise from the union, contrast, and opposi-
tion of these sentiments, circumstances, situations,
&c, neither the word nor the action, however well
suited they may be to each other, will ever impart
that interest from which Tragic Pleasure arises. I
shall take my leave of Mr. Lacy by concluding,
that a rapid succession of events will never impart
Tragic Pleasure, unless each event be interesting in
itself, and arise naturally from those which pre-
ceded it ; and that the art of conferring this in-
terest upon, and preserving this harmony between,
all the events, is an art of which we may be totally
ignorant, however well aware we may be that such
a succession of events is necessary.
But while I thus shew that however well the
dramatists of the day may be acquainted with the
necessity, if not of perpetual action, at least of an
approach to it, they might still be as far from
knowing the true secret of producing Tragic
Pleasure, as if they were perfectly ignorant of it ;
I may be required to assign a better reason my-
self for the failure of modern tragedies, if I know
a better. Mr. Lacy may say to rne,
■ Si quid novisti rectius istis
Candidus imperii ; si non, his utere niecum.
346 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
The demand is just and I shall endeavour to com-
ply with it.
Some writers attribute the failure of modern
tragedies to " the introduction of French rules,
both in criticism and composition." These rules,
they say, " gradually changed " the " aspect" of the
drama, " and brought along with it a taste for the
principles and structure of the Greek tragedy, on
which the French is founded, and which indeed it
very closely resembles."* But to this explanation
two objections very obviously present themselves ;
first, why should the introduction of French rules
produce the effect ascribed to it ; for if our
dramatic performers happened instead of deterio-
rating to be greatly improved, when these rules
were introduced, the improvement might be ac-
counted for in the same manner ; and instead of
saying, that French rules corrupted our taste for
dramatic compositions, the reviewer might say,
that the improvement which took place at the
time, was entirely owing to the introduction of
these rules. It avails nothing then to say that
French rules corrupted our drama, unless a reason
be assigned, shewing that French rules are calcu-
lated to produce such an effect. The second objec-
tion to the cause to which the reviewer ascribes
* Quarterly Review, vol. 17, Article, Shell's Apostate.
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 347
the failure of our late tragedies is, that if he even
assigned a reason we should look upon it with
great suspicion, for if it were a good reason, why
not produce the same effect in France. French
rules are surely followed more by French than by
English dramatists ; and if there beany thing in the
nature of those rules calculated to destroy the in-
terest of dramatic compositions, the more they
are followed the more the interest is destroyed.
The French, however, do not complain as we do ;
though if the reason ascribed by the reviewer were
a good one, they would have much greater reason
for complaint, unless it can be shewn that they
are differently constituted from us, and are conse-
quently differently affected by the same influences.
That their habits and manners are different I am
very ready to admit, but that they differ from us
in the original passions and propensities of human
nature, no man can assert without publishing, at
the same time, his own ignorance of human nature,
and of the history of the human species. In
all countries, and in all ages, these passions and
propensities are the same. They are as immutable
as nature itself, while habits and manners are
eternally presenting a new aspect. The delinea-
tion of habits and manners, however, is not the
object of tragedy. It is entirely conversant in dis-
closing and pourtraying the original sympathies
and affections of the heart, and leaves habits and
348 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
manners to the airy pencil of the Comic muse.
Accordingly, France, England, and all countries
differ materially in their comedies, because in
all countries comic writers find the manners and
habits of the country in which they live, the most
fertile source of comic wit. Hence it is that in
all countries comic writers choose the time in
which they live for the scene of their comedies ;
whereas the scene of a tragedy is always, or, at
least, should always be placed in remoter times.
If the scenes of a comedy were placed in a former
age, the writer could not describe the manners of that
age ; and if he were even acquainted with them
and succeeded happily in turning them into ridicule,
his wit would be lost upon his audience, because
they could not perceive the force of it without being
themselves familiar with the manners which it ridi-
culed or exposed. It is different with tragedy, for in
all ages human passion is the same, and, therefore,
a scene laid three hundred years ago, can describe
no other passions than those which exist at present.
Whatever, then, has led to the deterioration of
English tragedy, would produce the same effect in
any other country; and as the cause to which the
reviewer ascribes it, operated more in France than
here, the effect which he also ascribes to it would
be more striking there, and the want of interest in
French would be still greater than in English
tragedies.
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 349
The insipidity which we do so much complain
of in modern English tragedies, appears to me to
arise from one cause, and our complaint of them
from two, namely, from the cause that virtually
renders them insipid, and which I shall presently
endeavour to explain, and from a disposition in
those who affect to be critical judges in the mat-
ter, to make our best tragedies appear worse than
they are. A critic never obtains so much credit
by praise as by censure, because, when he points
out the beauties of any composition, he only de-
scribes what is actually placed before him : he
only calls things by their proper names, and we
read him under an impression that the author on
whom he comments is greatly his superior, be-
cause he himself acknowledges his merits, in
pointing out his beauties ; and as we seldom praise
those of whom we form no higher opinion than of
ourselves, we are always inclined to suspect that
the person praised is a greater man than he who
praises him. But the critic who finds fault pro-
claims himself at once a greater man than he
whom he censures, for he virtually says, I would
not commit such a blunder as this, I would treat
the matter differently ; and yet it is certain that a
more exquisite discrimination and a more cultiva-
ted taste are necessary to perceive what is beauti-
ful than to expose what is vicious and imperfect.
350 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
We have little difficulty in describing a deformed
man so as to make any person acquainted with him
know who is meant by the description, but where
there is nothing marked in the countenance, such
a description would be found very difficult, and the
difficulty increases as the face approaches to perfect
beauty. The critics, however, or those who are pro-
fessedly so, are not the only people who complain of
the insipidity of our modern tragedies, though they
are perhaps the original cause of ail the complaint,
for whatever they say is reported over and over
again by those who affect to be as wise as them-
selves. The old tragedies have no complaints of
this kind to apprehend. Their character and dif-
ferent degrees of merit are long since fixed and
established, and the critic finding how difficult it
is to remove fixed opinions and impressions long
entertained, finds it more prudent to say nothing
about them.
That there is, however, in the generality of our
modern tragedies a real insipidity cannot be doubt-
ed, and this insipidity appears to me owing to their
not producing those strong sensations, emotions,
and passions, without which there can be no tragic
interest. They appeal more to the understanding
than to the heart: and in proportion as the under-
standing is exercised, the heart and its sympathies
not only remains, but are obliged to remain, dor-
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 351
raant. But why, it will be asked, do modern
writers appeal less to the feelings than the ancients?
Is not human nature, and human passions, and
human propensities, and natural genius, the same
now as it was in the days of Shakspeare ? That
human nature and human passions are the same I
admit ; but it is in the very nature of human
nature to be governed, modified, and determined
by external circumstances. Now, if the circum-
stances operating on the human mind at present
be different from those by which it was influenced
in the days of Shakspeare, it is natural the effect
should be different. That the influences are different,
at least with regard to writers, is a matter of fact
too well known and too well authenticated to require
proof. To quote historic testimony to prove it, would
be mere pedantry. In the days of Shakspeare the
dramatist, or the dramatis persona?, or more proper-
ly, their representatives on the stage, addressed
themselves to an audience who judged of every cir-
cumstance, situation, and sentiment, by their feel-
ings ; an audience whose judgment was not govern-
ed by the squares and compasses of criticism, who
were totally unacquainted with those factitious
and acquired feelings, those unnatural impressions
and unreal sympathies arising from ideal associa-
tions, false reasoning, false deductions, false prin
ciples, false theories of right and wrong, and all
352 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
those gathering, collecting, and collected elements
of error which always increase with the increase
of knowledge. In the state of nature, all men are
equally wise, because all men have but one and the
same avenue to knowledge, — namely, the light of
natural reason or common sense. Metaphysical,
logical, and every other species of abstract learn-
ing, is therefore unknown, and no person, unless, an
impostor who professes to hold communication
with a spirit, can pretend to be wiser than another,
or at least so much wiser that his ipse dixit should
be taken upon any question without hesitation or
investigation. The consequence is, that as no
person professes to knowledge, no person attempts
to lead another astray by false principles, or false
reasoning, because reason and its principles are
equally unknown. Every man speaks as he feels,
because he knows that even if his feelings and
observations be wrong, he addresses himself to
those who are incapable of setting him right.
In the progress of civilization it continues for
a considerable time to be the same, and it was
nearly the same in the days of Shakspeare. He
collected his knowledge of human nature^ and
of the human heart, not from books and prin-
ciples of reasoning, but from mixing with the
world, from becoming moulded in its ways, habi-
tuated to its manners, versed in all the various
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 353
modes of feeling which it experiences under vari-
ous influences. He studied not from a copy but
from the original. He viewed not man through
books, through the picture given of him by others,
but he viewed him as he found him. His tragedies,
therefore, compared to ours, are like an original
painting compared to a copy. It has the fresh-
ness, richness, and raciness of nature. It partakes
of the quality of the soil, which it describes, or,
in other words, Shakspeare attributes to his cha-
racters only those feelings which he knew he
would feel himself were he placed in their situa-
tion, while our modern tragedies describe not man
as he is, but as he appears to be through the
speculum of books. Hence they are a cold, bar-
ren, and unhealthy offspring, incapable of excit-
ing those strong sensations, emotions, and pas-
sions, which is the soul and sole origin of Tragic
Pleasure.
The modern dramatist, compared to Shakspeare,
stands exactly in the same situation with Virgil
compared to Homer. Homer addressed himself
to men who judged of right and wrong, of virtue
and vice, of genius and stupidity, by their feelings
alone. He had, therefore, no occasion to exercise
his reason or analyzing faculties in composing his
Iliad, because reason appeals only to reason. It
addresses itself to the understanding not to the
heart and its sensibilities, the passions and their
Aa
354 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
caprices. If the Iliad were, therefore, the offspring
of reason and judgment, it is likely we should
have never heard of it. Those for whom it was
composed, and to whom it was repeated by the
itinerant bards of the time, of which he was one
himself, could endure only what was stripped of
all intellectual disguise, and appealed to the feel-
ings and passions at once. Homer had, therefore,
only to write as he felt, for there can be no mystery
in the expression of our feelings : they are not
only understood but felt at the same moment ; but
he who writes not what he feels to be true, but
what he imagines to be true, what has no existence
but what it derives from a certain process of
reasoning which the writer happened to fall into,
may write what is not only perfectly unintelligible,
from the manner in which it is expressed, (for
nothing requires greater art and method than to
place complicated ideas and deductions drawn from
remote and abstract sources, in a luminous order,)
but what is perfectly erroneous, be it expressed
how it may. Such a writer cannot be so sure of
pleasing, or of rendering himself understood, as he
who writes nothing but what the feelings and im-
pulses of the moment suggest. The latter pleases
all men ; he pleases those who judge only by their
feelings, for the reasons already mentioned, and
he pleases civilized society, because, though it is
capable of appreciating works that are the result
THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 355
of judgment and abstract intellect, it cannot still
divest itself of that common feeling which is born
with man, and which never can be totally extin-
guished, though education may serve to chasten,
refine, and moderate its energies.
Our reasoning faculties may be perfected, or, at
least, advance to the utmost bounds of human in-
telligence, but our original feelings and sympathies
remain in a manner the same, and keep no pace
with the progress of intellect. Hence the same
agency produces the same feeling or passion in
the poet that it produces in the peasant, because
the one is as much the creature of feeling as the
other ; but if we address their reasoning faculties,
we find them very differently affected by the enun-
ciation of the same truth. The latter, perhaps,
is incapable of understanding it, and hardly ever
perceives the principles on which its truth is
founded. How different then must be his impres-
sions from him who not only perfectly understands
it, but understands also why it is true, and can
trace its relations to a thousand other truths. It
is obvious, then, that when we address ourselves
to the understanding of the peasant, we must ad-
dress him differently from the poet, who seizes our
meaning at a glance. But if we would excite the
same passion or emotion in them, we should ad-
dress them both alike. What pleases or ruffles
the temper of the one will please and ruffle the
A a2
356 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
temper of the other. The appearance of a ghost
will produce the same awful sensations in them.
The dagger of the assassin just going to be plung-
ed into its innocent victim, will excite the same
horror and indignation in both. Whatever agency
then is brought forward to excite the feelings will
affect all men, the learned and the unlearned alike.
Hence it is evident that the tragedy which pleases
in one age will please in another, — will please in
all ages, as neither the changes that take place in
the expansion of intellect, nor the improvements
made in the arts and sciences, tend to alter in the
least the original passions of our nature. What-
ever then pleased in the days of Shakspeare would
please at present ; and whatever pleases at present
would please in the days of Shakspeare, for the
original passions of our nature are always the
same. It is from an ignorance of this truth, or at
least from a forgetfulness of it, that our modern
dramatic writers have so miserably failed in tra-
gedy. They seem to be of opinion that, as they
address a more intelligent and enlightened audi-
ence than those whom Shakspeare addressed, they
should address them in a different manner, that
their language should be highly polished, their
sentiments highly poetic to please the taste of the
age, forgetting that in tragedy there is no taste
exercised whatever. When we are pleased or dis-
pleased we are so because we cannot help it, and,
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 357
therefore taste is out of the question. In tragedy,
the most sparkling and brilliant sentence that ever
was penned by a poet will produce no effect upon
us, unless it describe some circumstance, or re-
present some situation or image, calculated to
make a strong impression upon us, and even then
it does not serve in the least to heighten the effect
which such a circumstance or situation would pro-
duce, without the colouring of diction. On the
contrary, it tends materially to lessen the effect by
drawing our attention from the thing described to
the glitter of words in which it is described. Be-
sides, this glitter of words is so much at variance
with all feelings of a deep and intense character,
that it makes us suspect that the feelings and pas-
sions described are all affected; knowing as we
do, that passion is never studious of expression,
never seeks to clothe itself in the light robes of
poetic imagery. It is not, then, the mode of de-
scribing, but the nature of the thing described,
that creates tragic interest, but onr modern
tragic writers seem to place the whole efficacy
in the form of expression ; while it is certain
that whatever pleases in tragedy, will please,
express it as you will, provided always that the
language be natural and conformable to common
usage. When Lear says to his daughters,
•»aib 10 hsssslq 9*i jjsdw bszh
Filial ingratitude !
e btt$ Jl<u^ { ,. , . ,, 4l . , i
Is it not as this mouth should tear this -hand
358 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
For lifting food to it ? but I'll punish home.
No — I will weep no more — in such a night
To shut me out ! Pour .on, I will endure.
In such a night as this, O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all —
Oh ! that way madness lies 5 let me shun that 5
No more of that.
We are evidently affected not by any peculiar
happiness of expression, for it has neither grace
nor elegance, (qualities which should be rather
avoided than sought after in tragedy, as they make
passion wear a gay, and, consequently, an un-
natural appearance,) but by the feelings of indig-
nation excited in us by that species of ingratitude
which Lear describes. It is not the form of
expression but the thing described that affects us,
and pomp of expression serves only to weaken the
effect. The most beautiful passages in Shakspeare
are the most simply and unostentatiously express-
ed, because their beauty consists not in the expres-
sion, but in the scene or image pictured to the
mind.
What words can be more simple and less orna-
mental than the following, and yet in this single line
Lee shews the power of love more strongly than if it
were encumbered with all the images that ever
wantoned in the dreams of the poet,
" Then he would talk ! Good gods how he would talk."
In short, no tragedy will ever succeed where the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 359
language is elaborate and highly finished, for such
language is always the language not of nature
but of art. It requires a long apprenticeship to
the art of writing and the elegancies of diction,
whereas passion never stops a moment to study
the beauties of expression, but always seizes in-
stinctively those terms which are nearest at hand,
and those are always what the passion or situa-
tion of the moment suggests. Hence it is that
rhyme is totally destructive of nature in tragedy,
for who can be supposed capable of passion who
has patience to stop until he finds words and mea-
sures that jingle and harmonize with each other?
Our modern dramatists fail, therefore, because
they trust more to the virtue and efficacy of lan-
guage than they ought ; because they do not per-
ceive that the whole of Tragic Interest arises from
the intensity of the scenes and situations which
they place before us, not from describing them in
flowery and poetic language, because they do not
perceive that such language, so far from adding
new interest to these scenes, only strips them of that
deep interest which they are in themselves, inde-
pendently of poetic colouring, fitted to excite, be-
cause they address their audience as an enlighten-
ed and cultivated assembly, who have too much
taste to cherish any thing that is not impressed
with the characters of grace and elegance, instead
of addressing them as natural beings who, with all
360 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
their intellectual refinement, cannot be moved to
tears by any agency whatever, but what would call
forth the same hallowed stream in the days of
their youth, before science and the arts had polish-
ed their manners, and given accuracy to their per-
ceptions of truth and error, for the manners have
no .relation whatever with the deeper passions
of the heart. The former are always changing,
the latter never. Hence it is that the comic
should be governed by different laws from the
tragic writer ; for as manners are always changing,
so should comedy always change along with them,
having manners also for their object. But the
laws governing the tragic writer are always the
same/ because the heart, and its original affections,
are always the same. Comedy, however, resem-
bles tragedy in one respect, namely, in not admit-
ting elegance of diction, or of expression, except
when it ridicules high life; for wit loses its
character, and is no longer wit, when it appears
studied, and whatever is highly dressed out and
ornamented has always this appearance. In all
other respects it differs from tragedy.
Tragic interest consists, therefore, in placing
the characters in deep situations, and describing
faithfully the passions and emotions which such
situations are fitted to produce ; and as they pro-
duce the same sensations and passions in all men,
the tragedian should address his audience not as
° OJ Uilio
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 361
a refined and cultivated assembly, but as a body
of men who will be influenced by no situation or
passion but what is natural to them antecedent to
the progress of civilization and science. During*
the representation of a deep tragedy all men are
the same; we are all natural beings, and moved
only by natural influences. We are no longer mem-
bers of polished society, no longer held in restraint
by the forms and etiquette of courtly manners, or
intellectual cultivation. We are no longer the
creatures of art, but become once more the
natural man, and live for the moment in the state
of nature. Until our tragedians, therefore, cease
to address us as critical judges of literary excel-
lence and refined taste, who are more delighted
with fine expressions and poetic imagery than with
those deep situations which are calculated to affect
us in a state of nature ; in a word, until they give
us credit for being, during the representation, the
mere children of nature, they can never hope to
excite those sensations, emotions, and passions,
from which Tragic Pleasure derives its sole exis-
tence. This, however, they never do : in fact, they
seem afraid of doing it. They write as if the
audience came to criticise, not to be moved or
odi vlljjjrfjifil
affected by those powerful impulses of nature which,
while we are men, we cannot resist whether we
will or will not ; and when we cease to be men,
and to be governed by those impulses which are
362 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
not natural to man, we are no longer those beings to
whom the tragic writer addresses himself. Let him
then address us as men, not as cold critics, or half-
animated stoics, and he will find us respond to all
the deep and affecting scenes which he places be-
fore us, provided they be natural and rise naturally
from each other ; provided he never justifies us in
saying non sequitur. And the more nakedly and
divested of the pomp of language he introduces
these scenes, the more complete will be his triumph.
If beauty of language and poetic ornaments can
at all be admitted, they must find expression only
from such of the characters as are not deeply in-
terested in what is going forward. Perhaps in the
opening scenes they may be natural in the mouths
of the principal characters before passion gets fast
hold of them, before love and misfortune renders
them insensible to all the lighter charms and
elegancies of language.
Itiswith the tragic actor as with the tragic writer.
He should take nature only for his model. Those
who are initiated into the mysteries of the art by
precept and example, who are taught to imitate
the mode of acting adopted by another, can never
hope to arrive at any eminence in this difficult art.
It is true that certain acquirements are necessary,
and must become natural from habit, to him who
would attempt to represent naturally the woes and
misfortunes of others; among which may be men-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGfC PLEASURE. 363
tioned, that general knowledge of men and things,
that acquaintance with good writers, which enables
him to seize at once upon the meaning, force,
and application of their sentiments, and those
mechanical, or personal accomplishments which
give grace and elegance to all the movements and
attitudes of the body, as fencing, dancing, &c.
These, however, being once acquired, practice alone
can after render us perfect in dramatic action and
expression, for the moment we attempt to follow
another, closely and rigidly, our action necessarily
becomes unnatural and constrained, simply be-
cause, instead of acting as the situation in which
we are placed naturally prompts us, we are think-
ing only of doing our parts as we are taught to do
it, which, in other words, is only doing it mecha-
nically. It is only he who acts as the situation in
which he is placed prompts him to act, that can
possibly act naturally, and hence the cold, drawl-
ing, whining, declamatory tone so frequent on the
stage ; a tone which no person can mistake for the
genuine and unpremeditated tone of nature, but
he who imagines that whatever is usual must
necessarily be right. It is impossible for any two
to act exactly alike, and act naturally at the same
time; for as we all differ more or less in our
natural tempers and dispositions, so are we more
or less differently affected by the same circum-
stances and situations. It is true that what makes
364 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
one man angry will make another angry, if
both yield to their natural passions, and suffer
reason to exercise no influence over them, but it is
equally true that this anger will operate on them
differently, and that they will express it in a dif-
ferent manner. In the prominent or leading cha-
racteristics of passion they will both agree, but in
all its lighter shades they will differ from each
other, as much as their natural tempers differ
from each other before they became ruffled by this
momentary agitation ; and it is in giving a just
expression to those lighter shades of passion that
all finished excellence in acting consists. It is easy
to affect being in a rage ; so easy, indeed, that the
most senseless and mindless cartman or coach-
man can affect it if he will, because the more
striking qualities of the passion are easily taken
off; but who can affect it with that very identical
cast of countenance, and those very w T rithings and
contortions of body which he would naturally
assume, if he really felt what he describes. It is,
however, only by assuming this very cast of coun-
tenance, and these very contortions of body, that
he can act naturally,or in his own natural manner;
and he who has no manner of his ow T n has no
manner whatever, because in abandoning his own,
in order to attain that of another, he loses both,
for the lighter shades and indescribable expressions
which passion assumes in some men, can never be
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 365
imitated except by those who possess originally
the same tempers and dispositions, of which there
are few instances ; and, even in these few, the imi-
tation is merely accidental. They imitate because
they cannot help imitating, without acting con-
trary to their natural dispositions : because their
dispositions being naturally alike, they are al ik
affected by similar influences and similar situa-
tions ; and as similar affections lead to similar
modes of external action, and give a similar cast
to the expression of the countenance, they will
appear on the theatre to imitate without any in-
tention of doing so. Instruction may enable an actor
to appear tolerable, but natural, unpremeditated
acting can alone attain to excellence. Every man's
manner is natural provided it be his own manner,
nor can any man act a passion unnaturally if he
be in earnest, if he feel that he is not imitating
the action of another, but acting what his own
feelings, emotions, and sympathies inspire. Hence
a thousand actors may act differently and yet all
act equally natural, so that nothing can be more
fallacious than the opinion that there is only
one mode of acting the same part properly,
that, consequently, this mode alone should be
adopted, and that whoever excels in it should be
held as a model to all others. This is, in fact, sup-
posing the actors to be all machines, who have no
sd i3V3ii nm ,o m%$ noiggsq doidw
366 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
feeling whatever of their own, no peculiar way of
being affected by the situations in which they are
placed. It is supposing that they are all cast in
the same mould by the hand of nature, and all
affected in the same identical degree by the same
circumstances and situations. But is the suppo-
sition true ? Who that ever heard an affecting story
told in a small circle of friends, ever perceived any
two affected alike ? It is true, indeed, they all felt
a melting and subduing influence, an influence
that drew them nearer the hapless victim of woe :
but were they all melted in the same degree ? did
all equally commiserate ? Did all enter equally
deep into the feelings of the distressed object, and
all grasp equally alike the associations and images
of horror that flitted round his mind, clouding all
the rays of hope that gleamed through the sad pros-
pect that lay before him ? Yet, differently as they
felt affected, they all felt naturally affected, because
each felt the impression in exact proportion to his
natural degree of sensibility, combined with his
conception of the real state of the person described.
But the diversity of modes in which they were
affected could not be greater than the diversity of
modes in which theyexpressed their feelings, as every
mode of feeling assumes instinctively an expression
of countenance peculiar to itself. If then all dra-
matic excellence consists in a close imitation of
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 367
nature, no two actors should act exactly alike, for
we have here a group of natural actors who are all
placed in the same situation, yet all act their part
differently and naturally at the same time. But
it may be asked, may not actors act alike, and
express their feelings alike, when they are all placed
in the same situation, and still act naturally ? I
reply confidently they cannot ; and I would wish
to call the attention of those gentlemen at the
theatre, who endeavour to teach others to act
like themselves, to attend to the arguments or
reasoning by which I prove it, as it must convince
them that all such acting is false and unnatural.
Let any individual in this small group be supposed
the most naturally affected among them, and let
all the rest wish to appear just as much affected as
he is, the consequence is, that those who possess
less natural sensibility than he does, can never
appear affected so deeply as he does, without
forcing themselves into a passion of which they
are incapable, and, consequently, without running
into rant and fustian. We see at once that he
who acts such a part as this acts a part that is not
natural to him, that he affects a virtue which he
does not feel. We see he is labouring to be pathe-
tic, though it is not in his nature to be so. In-
stead, therefore, of stopping at the exact point
where he wishes to stop, of imitating his model
exactly, he generally goes beyond him and tears
368 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
the passion to rags ; for the moment a man
is driven out of his proper element, and attempts
to act what he is not qualified to act, he is set
completely adrift, and, like a man hurried along by
a tempest, he has not a leg to stand upon. Had he
continued to act that part which he acted be-
fore he sought to imitate, he would not only act
naturally, but, so perfect is the harmony that
exists between natural passion and our sense of
what is natural, that we should perceive instinc-
tively the expression of his countenance to be nature
itself. Hence it is obvious, that those who possess lit-
tle sensibility always act unnaturally when they at-
tempt to imitate those who possess more sensibility
than themselves; and not only that they always act
naturally when they act in their own way, but
also that we are pleased with such acting. I
would be far from insinuating that an actor of
little sensibility can ever attain to any eminence
on the stage, whether he acts in his own peculiar
way or attempts that of another; but I maintain
that it is only by acting in his own way that he
can attain all that eminence of which he is capa-
ble ; for if he act otherwise he acts unnaturally,
and if it be possible to act unnaturally and still
attain to eminence, I have only to say that the
public are no judges of good acting, and have no
standard to be guided by if they abandon the
golden standard of nature. In fact, though an
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 369
actor can never rise to distinction without possess-
ing that natural sensibility which responds to every
influence, a sensibility which can neither be in-
fused by instruction nor caught by imitation ; it is
still possible for an actor of very unenviable
talents to acquire more credit, and impart more
pleasure to his auditors by following his own pecu-
liar manner, than we could easily be made to be-
lieve if the truth was not confirmed by experience.
The instance of William Peer, related in the
Guardian, is the only one I shall mention, because
one instance is as good as a hundred, where it is
confirmed by public feeling. It is thus related in
the eighty second number of that work.
" Mr. William Peer, of the Theatre Royal, was
an actor at the restoration, and took his theatrical
degree with Better ton, Kynaston, and Harris.
Though his station was humble he performed it
well, and the common comparison between the
stage and human life, which has been so often
made, may well be brought out upon this occa-
sion. It is no matter, say the moralists, whether
you act a prince or a beggar, — the business is to do
your part well. Mr. William Peer distinguished
himself particularly in two characters, which no
man ever could touch but himself. One of them
was the speaker of the prologue to the play which
is contrived, in the tragedy of Hamlet, to awake
the consciences of the guilty princes. Mr. Wil-
Bb *
370 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
liam Peer spoke that preface to the play with such
an air, as represented that he was an actor, and
with such an inferior manner as only acting an
actor, as (that he) made the others on the stage
appear real great persons and not representatives.
This was a nicety in acting that none but the
most subtle player could so much as conceive. I
remember his speaking these words, in which
there is no great merit but in the right adjustment
of the air of the speaker, with universal applause.
For us and for our tragedy,
Here stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently.
Hamlet says, very archly, upon the pronouncing
of it, Is this a prologue or a poesy of a ring ?
However, the speaking of it got Mr. Peer more re-
putation than those who speak the length of a
puritan's sermon every night will ever attain to.
Besides this, Mr. Peer got great fame upon another
little occasion. He played the apothecary in Caius
Marius, as it is called by Otway, but Romeo and
Juliet, as originally in Shakspeare. It will be neces-
sary to recite more out of the play than he spoke,
to have a right conception of what Peer did in it.
Marius, weary of life, recollects means to be rid of
it, after this manner : —
I do remember an apothecary,
That dwelt about this rendezvous of death :
Meagre and very rueful were his looks,
sharp misery had worn hira to the bones.
.balwoarf
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 371
When this spectre of poverty appeared Marius ad-
dresses him thus,
no y
I see thou art very poor,
Though raay'st do any thing ; — here's fifty drachms,
Get me a draught of what will soonest free
A wretch from all his cares.
When the apothecary objects that it is unlaw-
ful, Marius urges,
Art thou so base and full of wretchedness
Yet fear'st to die ? Famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression stareth in thy eyes,
Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back ;
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's laws ;
The world affords no law to make thee rich, —
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.
Without all this quotation the reader could not
have a just idea of the visage and manner which
Peer assumed when, in the most lamentable tone
imaginable, he consents, and delivering the poison
like a man reduced to the drinking it himself if
he did not vend it ; says to Marius,
My poverty, but not my will, consents :
Take this and drink it off, the work is done.
It was an odd excellence and a very particular cir-
cumstance this of Peer's, that his whole action of
life depended upon speaking five lines better than
any man else in the world. But this eminence
lying in so narrow a compass, the governors of
the theatre observing his talents to lie in a certain
knowledge of propriety, and his person permitting
Bb2
372 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
him to shine only in the two above parts, his
sphere of action was enlarged by the addition of
the post of 'property man.' "
This circumstance in the life of Peer shews that
minds of limited capacities are those which bene-
fit least by the light of culture or the guidance of
authority or precept. They see but a short way,
and their feelings never stray beyond the horizon
of their perceptions. Their homely feelings and
perceptions may, therefore, be said to be better
acquainted with each other than the more diversi-
fied feelings and preceptions of a man of genius ;
and this acquaintance produces so perfect a har-
mony, or familiarity, between them that they both
seem to be cast in the same mould ; and we instinc-
tively acknowledge the correctness of that taste
which suits, even in little things, "the action to the
word, and the word to the action." Hence it is,
that men of narrow parts have always something
more fixed in their character than men of enlarged
and comprehensive minds. They have a certain
manner of thinking and of feeling, from which
they seldom deviate ; and the range of this com-
merce between the passive and active powers be-
ing so extremely limited, the same round of thought
and feeling must frequently recur, and thus stamp
a character for them, which is recognized after a
very short acquaintance.
Will it then be said that Peer could have sue-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 373
ceeded in this humble part better than he did, had
he abandoned his own simple natural manner of
acting and adopted that of some of his superiors ?
If so, why could none of his superiors equal him in
this humble part ? His excellence then evidently
arose from his acting it in his own way. Had he
followed another he could certainly do it no bet-
ter than his original, which is saying, in other
words, he could not perform it as well as he did,
as none of his contemporaries could act it as well.
But the fact is, he could not perform it even as
well, for the reasons I have already mentioned.
The person, then, whom I have selected from this
little group cannot evidently improve his inferiors,
because, by endeavouring to imitate him, they be-
come ridiculous and unnatural, and it only re-
mains to be ascertained whether he can improve
those who possess more natural sensibility than
himself, and who consequently enter more deeply
into the feelings of the individual whose misfor-
tunes are described.
Those who possess little sensibility are naturally
cool and steady, from which they possess the
power of viewing attentively the actions and man-
ners of others. This close attention enables them,
in a great degree, to imitate the external attitude
and movement of body, though they cannot com-
municate to their attitudes and movements the
same expression and feeling. A servant can bow
374 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
like his master, and imitate ail his actions, but he
neither knows the proper time and place, nor, if
he did, could he communicate to them that in-
expressible grace, that silent eloquence which
beam in the lustre of speaking eyes and an intel-
ligent countenance. So far then as regards mere
external attitude, a man of little soul and little
feeling can imitate, however incapable he may be
of that grace and elegance to which refined taste
and feeling can alone attain. There is another
reason why a person of little feeling succeeds in
the imitation of action. Exclusive of that at-
tention which his coolness and callousness enables
him to pay to form, he is not prevented by any re-
tiring and bashful modesty, by any nervous and
tremulous sensibility of feeling, from imitating his
original as well as he can. If he fail he is not
put to the blush, and, in general, he knows not
whether he fails or not, because natural insensibility
of feeling renders us also insensible of our errors and
mistakes. It gives to pedantry the air of wisdom,
andconferson measured action and measured tones
the characters of thought and judgment. He, there-
fore, who has little sensibility of feeling may succeed
in imitating the action, though not the expression,of
those to whom nature has imparted it with a more
liberal hand ; but the latter has no chance what-
ever of imitating the former. The stoic may, by
the influence of some powerful feeling, be occasion-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 375
ally warmed to rapture, but the enthusiast can by
no means whatever place himself in the situation
of the stoic. When I say by no means whatever,
I mean by no sudden means. Even death cloth-
ed in all its terrors cannot completely subdue and
indurate an ardent mind. He may be terrified
but he cannot be rendered insensible. He may
affect insensibility ; — he may look cool, grave,
and religious, if some powerful cause obliges him
to do so ; but this affectation can impose on no
man who has any knowledge of human nature. A
sensible mind cannot endure constraint ; it pants
for its native liberty, and though it feels no desire
to abuse it, it cannot endure the chains of ignoble
servitude. We perceive instinctively the constraint
which it is endeavouring to exercise over itself.
It feels, instinctively, that it is debasing its own
nature to assume the character and manners of a
nature inferior to itself; while he who is conscious
of his own inferiority, instead of feeling any con-
scientious scruples in imitating superior natures,
thinks it the greatest happiness if he can succeed
in the imitation. He feels himself ennobled at the
moment, for we cannot even imitate virtuous and
generous emotions without feeling a portion of their
influence. Some of the best feelings of human
nature may sometimes be awakened in the breast
of an evil man, but the good man cannot descend
in a moment and feel like a villain — Nemo repente
376 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
jit turpissimus. We are, therefore, so constituted
by nature that refined and delicate feelings have
an abhorrence to what is gross, while gross and
hardened feelings never enjoy happier moments
than when they are aroused by some momentary
excitement, and become sensible of feelings which
approximate them to more exalted and sensible
natures. Hence, when any distressing scene is
placed before us, or represented in description, as
in the case which I have supposed, those who from
natural insensibility of feeling are little affected,
become strongly affected if they behold some in-
dividual of a sensible and sympathetic mind melt-
ed into tears by the same scene or relation. We
are all, more or less, prone to sympathize with the
sympathies of others, however insensible we may
be by nature ; whereas those who are naturally
tender and sympathetic, instead of throwing off
their sympathies, instead of ceasing to feel for the
victim of distress, because they perceive others un-
moved by it, only become more and more strongly
affected. It is, then, contrary to the nature of the
human mind for a man to resign his feelings be-
cause he sees others cool, whereas it is perfectly
in accordance with our nature to be melted
by the feelings of others, even though we cannot
feel in the same degree. If those then who pos-
sess little sensibility, in the group which I have
supposed, could not succeed in imitating and be-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASttgE. 377
coming as strongly affected as he whom I have made
their model, it is obvious, from the reasons I have
just assigned, that they would come nearer to him
at least than those who possessed more natural sen-
sibility than himself, because the natural progress
is from little to great, not from great to little, sen-
sibility. He who is overcome by grief and afflic-
tion cannot endure the idea of moderating his
woe. On the contrary, he indulges and caresses
it, and would despise himself if he thought him-
self capable of abandoning his sweet regrets, and
becoming as cool and unconcerned as those around
him. He looks upon them as cold, heartless, and
callous beings, furnished indeed with the organs
of sense, but organs that hold no intelligence with
the understanding, no sympathy with the heart,
or, more properly speaking, which have neither
heart nor understanding to commune with them.
If, then, it be less -difficult to rouse us to mental
energy, if it be more easy to excite than to con-
geal our sympathies, if we be more capable of be-
ing impressed with the feelings and emotions of
others than of restraining the ardour of our own,
and bringing them down to the coldness and in-
difference of those who are incapable of the
warmer and tenderer affections ; it is, consequent-
ly, easier for him, who undertakes to instruct
another in dramatic action and expression, to suc-
ceed in disciplining and improving those who have
378 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
less natural sensibility than himself, than those
who tremble at every pore, and who feel without
instruction all the affections and sympathies which
the situations and circumstances in which they are
placed are calculated to excite. He may succeed,
in some degree, with the former, because he may
awaken in them a portion of that feeling by which
he is moved himself ; but the latter do not require
to be roused, and as I have already shewn, they
cannot be restrained without becoming unnatural.
In fact, the ardent mind, the mind of quick sen-
sibility, or at least its possessor, has an indelible
contempt for him who would indurate that energy
and flow of soul that enters into all the feelings
of others, and sympathizes with all their sympa-
thies, while the cold-hearted man, instead of
contemning him whose affections and sympathies
are warmer than his own, looks upon him, and has
a secret consciousness that he is a being of an
order superior to himself. If he cannot imitate
him then, and feel like him, it is not because he
contemns such feelings, but because he is totally
incapable of them ; and, consequently, if he affect
them, his action and expression is forced and un-
natural.
Hence it happens that those who are most capa-
ble of excellence in some characters, have no
chance whatever of succeeding in others, or of
succeeding in any character of certain plays. Those
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 379
who possess quick and sympathetic feelings can
never act mechanically, can never, like the cold in-
sensible man, affect to feel when there is nothing to
move him. If he has, therefore, to act a part where
deep passion is to be represented without, a suffi-
cient cause to excite this passion, the natural deli-
cacy of his feelings revolt from the affectation of
a passion which there is nothing to excite. Yet
he knows the audience will have it so, and that he
must either whine and moan, and shed artificial
tears, or be damned for his coldness and want of
passion. And yet his coldness and want of passion
arises from having too much real feeling, a feeling
that vibrates and responds to every influence, but
revolts from that hypocrisy which melts into tears
without any cause for sorrow. In attempting,
therefore, to express himself in the sad accents of
woe, he runs into rant and vociferation ; and, both
in action and expression, he is equally unnatural,
because he does violence to the honesty of his own
nature. Give him cause to be moved and he will
respond to its influence: give him no cause and you
will find it dangerous to rely upon him. In such a
case trust to the coldest feelings rather than to his.
Judge not then of the dramatic powers of any actor
by his success in a particular play, for if it be cold,
barren, and void of interest, if it require of him
to get into a passion without placing him in those
deep and affecting situations which are calculated
380 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
to excite passion, the more dramatic genius he
possesses, or in other words, the more sensibility
he possesses, the less can he excel. Of this we had
a clear instance in Miss Kelly's Constance, in the
Vespers of Palermo. This young lady is all soul
and feeling, and until the quickness of her sen-
sibilities are retarded by a long course of acting,
she will never succeed in any character where a
display of passion is required without any cause,
or at least any sufficient cause to excite it. When
I say without any cause, I am aware that our very
worst writers of tragedy place their principal
characters in very distressful situations ; and so
far, it might be supposed, there is room for pas-
sion ; but this supposition is erroneous. Whoever
has the least idea of consistency, instead of sym-
pathizing with him who is placed in a very dis-
tressful situation, hisses him off the stage if he
find him placed in it without necessity, or rather
if he has not been driven into it either by the im-
petuosity of his own passions, or by a natural and
regular chain of events. Nor can we even then
sympathize with him unless his language shews that
he is himself strongly affected by the situation in
which he is placed. If it be said that we are not to
know whether he be or be not ; that our business
is to sympathize with him when we find him in evil
plight, I reply that sympathy is no matter of busi-
ness, that it does not depend upon our will, and
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 381
that no man can feel the emotion called sympa-
thy, however desirous he may be to feel it, unless
he possess from nature a tender and sensitive
mind, and is acted upon at the moment by
some agency or circumstance fitted to awaken it.
I reply, also, that we cannot help knowing- whether
he be or be not affected by his situation. " Out
of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh,"
and he who is strongly affected by his situation
cannot help expressing himself in a language in-
dicative of his feelings. If, then, the writer
make him speak the affected language of passion,
instead of pouring out his soul in the genuine,
spontaneous effusions of passion itself, we cannot
sympathize with his pretended griefs : we look
upon him as a hypocrite unworthy our commise-
ration. If, again, it should be objected that we
should pity all men alike who are equally distress-
ed, no matter how differently they may feel affect-
ed by their situation, I reply, we should not. The
man who is placed in a perilous situation, but has,
at the same time, too much stubbornness of nerve,
or too much natural insensibility to be affected by
it, is not a subject fitted to excite our sympathy.
If it be asked why, I reply, because he is himself
incapable of sympathizing in the woes of others ;
— because that callousness of feeling which
renders him insensible to his own misfortunes,
renders him also incapable of sympathizing or
382 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
feeling for the misfortunes of others. Insensibility
in distress is a barbarous virtue : it is the virtue
of a savage, and savages alo ne are noted not
only for possessing but for displaying it as a
virtue. It is true that many make a boast of it
in civilized countries ; but it should be recollected
that there are savages in courts and colleges,
while the fine thrill of generous sympathy frequent-
ly warms the devoted breast of the savage Indian
— savage as we are pleased to call him, but savage
however in name, not in nature.
If, then, the tragic writer places any of his
characters in a very affecting situation, but still
makes him speak a language Avhich proves either
that he is not affected by it, or only pretends to
be, neither the audience nor the person who re-
presents him on the stage, can sympathize in his
distress ; and without such sympathy the actor of
fine feeling must inevitably fail. Of this Miss
Kelly's Constance, to which I alluded above, affords
a signal proof. Notwithstanding the success that
attended her Juliet, she is supposed to have failed
in Constance. This is a mistake ; the failure was
not hers but the author's. In her first appearance
in the third scene, she and Raimond di Precida
assume the character of lovers. But the history
of their loves is totally concealed from us. The
first time they were smitten with each other's
affections, the manner in which the soft secret
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 383
escaped them, all the little jealousies, sighs, and
tears, that follow in the train of Cupid, are care-
fully kept out of sight, and they are represented
stark staring in love with each other all at once.
Who can sympathize with such love ? who can,
without a moment's preparation, enter into the
feelings of two ardent lovers without knowing how
or where they became attached to each other?
If the audience cannot, neither can those who per-
sonate their character. It is so contrary to nature
not only to fall deeply in love in an instant, but
still more to talk openly and undisguisedly of a
passion formed so abruptly, that a delicate and
sensible mind either shrinks from a task that does
such violence to its nature, or if it attempt to
accomplish it, runs, as I have already observed,
into rant and extravagance. How natural is Miss
Kelly in the character of Juliet, because there she
is first introduced to Romeo, and neither of them
openly declares their affection for the other, in the
first interview. Their passion progressively and
naturally increases, and so do also the sympathies
of the audience. Without this natural progress
and gradual disclosure of passion, the audience can
never sympathize with it. If, then, it were possi-
ble for Miss Kelly to affect and represent naturally
a passion which it was impossible she could feel in
a moment, yet to the audience this natural repre-
sentation of passion would appear complete rant.
384 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
because there is no shade or colouring of passion
that ever swayed the human breast, or ever was
represented on the stage, can affect an audience,
unless it be so introduced as to make them feel it
themselves. Without such a feeling every display
of passion appears to the audience a mere farce, a
burlesque, or caricature of nature. It matters
not how natural the passion may be in itself, if
the audience remain cool spectators of it ; because
this coolness makes it appear to them perfectly
unnatural. Miss Kelly, therefore, in representing
the warm and devoted lover, appeared to the
audience to go beyond all just bounds, and to be
more in love than she ought to be, simply because
they were themselves at the moment, as cold as
stoics ; for instead of being warmed gradually to
passion, they were required to fall in love at once,
or rather to sympathize with a passion which, from
its being so suddenly introduced, they had every
reason to believe had no existence. It passed
with them as mere cant and hypocrisy. Accord-
ingly they begged leave to decline sympathizing
with it. There is always reason in passion though
it never reasons ; or, in other words, we can
never work ourselves into passion by any act
of our own will, without some circumstance
capable of moving us to it, and the perception
of this circumstance is the reason we yield to
its influence. No man can become angry with
THE SOURCE OF TRAGTC PLEASURE. 385
another without a cause, let him wish it, ever so
much. There is therefore always some reason for
it. Offer a man the wealth of the British empire
for becomingangry with an innocent, good-natured
man, who never offended any person, and he would
find it impossible to enjoy the prize : there can be
no anger where there is no provocation. It is so
with all the other passions : not one of them
depends on our will. No man ever fell in love by
an act of the will. There must be some charm,
either mental or personal in the object of our
affections, or at least, we must fancy such ; and a
fancied or ideal charm exercises as powerful, and
frequently a more powerful spell over the heart
than a real one. If then passion does not depend
upon the will, if there must be always an exciting-
cause, and if no cause or agency can excite, that
does not appear to be natural, and if it be un-
natural to appear deeply in love in a moment, and
still more so to avow it openly, how could the
audience be affected by that open avowal of pas-
sion which appears in the first interview between
Raimond and Constance, admitting that Miss
Kelly acted it naturally. But this is admitting
an impossibility, for the same reason that prevent-
ed the audience from sympathizing in such sud-
denly avowed passion, prevented Miss Kelly also.
The more alive she was to good acting, and to
nature, the more difficult was it for her to represent
Cc
386 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
naturally what was unnatural in itself; for as I
have just observed, passion does not depend upon
our will, and unless the actor feel it, he can never
represent it naturally.
Perhaps it may be replied, that the dramatis
personce never fee J at all, that they know the woes
and griefs, and loves, and sad regrets, which they
describe are all imaginary ; that there is, conse-
quently, no real cause to affect them, and that
their acting must, accordingly, be the pure result
of art and study, of fixed and predetermined
movements, attitudes, signs, gestures, and expres-
sion. If this reason be good, I would ask, why
is the audience affected? They are just as well
convinced as the actors themselves, that all is mere
imitation, that there is no real distress endured,
no real cause for passion or sympathy ; and yet they
sympathize, and yet they are moved — nay, often
moved to tears. If, then, the audience be moved
by imaginary distress, why suppose the actors in-
capable of being moved by it also. They are
mete men and women, mere flesh and blood like
ourselves, endowed with the same susceptibilities,
capable of the same emotions, swayed, prompted,
animated, deterred, encouraged, captivated, and
enslaved by the same influences and agency ; or,
if there be any difference, it is that they are more
susceptible of these influences than we are, for it is
only the person of quick sensibility that will ever
THK SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 387
succeed in depicting the woes and sympathies of
others. That there is a great deal of art and
study necessary in the minor, or mere mechanical
departments of acting cannot be doubted, but the
advantages arising from this study are merely
those of conferring grace and elegance on every
action and movement. Grace and elegance may he
acquired by education, but the power of pourtray-
ing the secret workings and emotions of the heart
is " beyond the reach of art.'* Nature, and nature
only can confer this power. It is the privilege of
tender, sensible, and sympathetic minds who are
moved by the slightest appearances of distress and
pain. In comedy there is not a particle of sym-
pathy required : on the contrary, the more sympa-
thy, the greater is the danger of not succeeding in
it. There is a virtue allied to sensibility which
but ill sorts with the levity of the comic muse ;
but as it is possible to be gay and playful, and
witty without the sacrifice of any virtuous feeling,
as there is " a time to laugh as well as a time to
cry" — as we may jest at the foibles or mishaps
of others, and yet so express our jest as to deprive
it of every appearance of malignity, or insensi-
bility, so it is also possible for a tender, sympathe-
tic mind to excel in comedy where it is only play-
ful and innocent. Tragedy, however, is the great
field where the softer and sympathetic affections can
display all their powers, if placed in deep andaffect-
cc2
388 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
ing situations, and left to express their deeper tones
and expressions of sorrow in their own natural
way; for the very attempt to imitate another c hills
that keen sensibility which is the soul and inspirer
of all good acting. In all imitation, except the
imitation of nature, there is trick and art, and
this very trick and art extinguish that feeling and
passion which alone can lead to excellence in
Tragic Representation. It is thought that the
lady of whom I have just spoken, has benefitted
little by the lessons she has received at Co vent
Garden ; and if she has received such lessons there
can be little doubt of their evil effect, except
where they are confined to the inferior or orna-
mental parts of acting. But the expression of
passion cannot be taught and appear natural at
the same time. A studied, mechanical movement
of the features is easily distinguished from the
expression of nature, as might be frequently re-
marked in the late Mr. Kemble. It is true that
the passion of love throws all who are its victims
into nearly the same attitude of body and expres-
sion of countenance : " the head," as Mr. Burke
describes it, " reclines something on one side, the
eyelids are more closed than usual, and the eyes
roll gently with an inclination to the object, the
mouth is a little opened, and the breath drawn
slowly, with now and then a low sigh, the whole
body is composed, and the hands fall idly to the
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 389
sides ;" but let any person who knows love only
by name, put himself into this position ; let him
roll his eyes, half close his mouth, &c. and com-
pare him with another who is not only in the same
position, but who is actually in love, and you
will instantly perceive how widely the works of
art stand removfd from those of nature. With-
out feeling what we describe, or being affected by
it, we may roll our eyes to eternity, but will never
appear like him whose eyes are rolled not design-
edly but through the unconscious influence of
passion. Miss Kelly, however, so far from having
any thing studied or affected in her manners, ap-
pears to me a much more natural describer of the
softer passions and melting sympathies of the
heart than Miss O'Neil. She does not possess, it
is true, equal excellence in those parts where feel-
ing and passion are not required, but this is only
a stronger evidence of her dramatic genius ; for
excellence in the unimpassioned parts is the result
of art and long experience, and may be acquired
by very inferior performers, whereas it is doubtful
whether any great performer ever excelled in them.
Who has ever surpassed Kean in displaying the
stronger and more turbulent passions of the mind,
and who fails more where there is neither passion
nor emotion to inspire him. " It is singular," says
the author of an essay on the dramatic genius of
Kean, in Blackwood's Magazine, " that Mr. Kean,
390 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
who has nearly banished the mock-heroic from our
stage, should be the very person who at times
exhibits the most of it. In fact, this is his grand
fault. He frequently gives what is called the level
speaking of a part, in a style that would not disgrace
an amateur theatre or school-room. It is difficult
to account for this. The practice itself is no
doubt to be attributed to early habits ; but how
it happens that he has not yet reformed it we are
at a loss to guess. Give him something to do and
he does it better than any one else could, but give
him nothing, and he makes worse than nothing of
it. There are parts of almost every one of his
characters that he mouths even worse than f many
of our players do.' "
These observations are true, but they leave the
mind dissatisfied, as the critic acknowledges his
inability to account for Kean's not being able to
leform his early habits, or in other words, for his
failure in those parts which require no passion.
This appears to me easily accounted for. No man
ever excelled in things of no importaace who was
calculated for great things. The mind bent on
the accomplishment of some great object, directs
all its powers to its attainment. It keeps its eye
continually fixed upon it, and overlooks ail the
petty insignificant objects which it meets in its
course. These objects, however, are those which
the niggard, unaspiring mind pays most attention
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 391
to, for finding itself unable to grapple with things
of greater magnitude, it withdraws from the at-
tempt and directs all its little powers to the little
objects which are placed within its reach. The
mind which takes in an extensive prospect, and
spurns the contracted views of short-sighted in-
tellect, can never form so intimate an acquaintance
with any individual object that moves within it,
as he who confines his attention to a point. Hence
all men of genius are found extremely deficient in
little things. They carry no small change about
them, and, therefore, appear simpletons in mat-
ters with which little minds are intimately con-
versant. He who excels in pourtraying the deeper
and intenser passions, looks with perfect indiffer-
ence on those intermediate and connecting parts
which have neither value nor importance in them-
selves, and serve only as links to bind the more
interesting parts together. No man is a greater
fool, or at least, at greater loss in chit-chat con-
versation, than a man of genius, but introduce
some important subject, and he glows with all the
energies of inspired intellect. It is exactly with the
tragic writer of genius as with the tragic actor :
u give him nothing to do and he makes worse than
nothing of it," or, to speak more plainly, he fails
in those intermediate parts which are the mere
links of the drama, — parts which have no interest
in themselves, but which are still indispensable,
392 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY fNTO
as there i ould be no unity of design or action
without them. Who is more wretched than Shaks-
peare in the parts to which I allude. If Shaks-
peare, says Lord Kaimes, in his Elements of
Criticism, " upon any occasion fall below himself,
it is in those scenes where passion enters not : by
endeavouring in that case to raise hisdialogueahove
the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes
deviates into intricate thought and obscure expres-
sion." As an instance of this observation Lord
Kaimes quotes the following specimen,
They clepeus drunkards, and with swinish phrase,
Soil our addition ; and, indeed, it takes
From our achievements, though performed at height,
The pith and marrow of our attribute.
So oft it chances in particular men,
That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
As in their birth (wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin.)
By the c'ergrowth of some complexion
Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ;
Or by some habit that too much o'erlevens
The form of plausive manners ; that these men
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
(Being nature's livery or fortune's scar,,)
Their virtues, else be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo,
Shall, in the general censure, take corruption
From that particular fault.
Hamlet, Act I. Scene 7.
If Shakspeare, then, has failed in the secondary
parts, where there was no room for passion, no
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 393
agency to excite it, no wonder that Kean has failed
also, and that in these parts he endeavours to
substitute stage effect for nature.
If, then, a great actor can only excel where
great passion or emotion is excited, what greater
proof can we need that the excitement of strong
sensations, emotions, and passions, is the soul and
origin of Tragic Pleasure. But this tumultuous
agitation of mind must not be excited in a moment;
the feelings of the audience must be gently and
insensibly won to sympathy and passion, and
whoever flatters himself with an opinion that he
can rouse them in a moment, will find himself as
much deceived as Mrs. Hemans, in her Vespers of
Palermo. It is true, indeed, that the cold, heart-
less monotony of Mrs. Bartley, — her drawling,
whining, declamatory tone would be sufficient to
damn any play ; but it is equally true that no
dramatic power could redeem it. What surprised
me most was to find that notwithstanding her in-
tolerable tameness, some critics seemed to think
that she acquitted herself better than Miss Kelly.
It is certain that no two could differ more ; but it
is equally certain that whoever prefers the former
has as much taste for dramatic representation as
an ancient stoic. I would sooner trust to the
frozen feelings of old Diogenes in his tub, than to
such a critic. In the first place, Mrs. Bartley can-
not excite the slightest sensation, emotion, or pas-
394 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
sion in any of her auditors, without which it is
idle to talk of Tragic Pleasure. Some may be
ignorant enough to admire her formal strut and
measured action, but whoever pretends to be
pleased with her is either a hypocrite, or the dupe
of his own imagination. Miss Kelly's only fault
consisted in affecting to be a violent lover the
moment she appeared on the stage, and the audi-
ence, always true to nature, refused to sympathize
with so sudden, and, consequently, so unnatural
a passion. But what alternative remained for her ?
The language of love was put into her mouth,
and she must either reject it and frame a speech
for herself, or suit her action and manner to the
warmth of her diction. It is true, indeed, that
she wants the tragic powers of Kean, — and that
confidence in herself which can only be attained
by long experience : she wants those daring
energies and that madding riot of dramatic
genius in which he so eminently excels ; but she
exerts as great a power in her weakness, and
exercises as absolute a dominion over the heart
and its affections in her retiring and yielding sen-
sibility, as he does in all his strength. He excites
terror, she excites sympathy : these, according to
Aristotle and the critics, are the legitimate objects
of the drama. The countenance of Kean assumes,
it is true, a great variety of expression, yet it has
always more of a stern, obstinate, and command-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 395
ing, than of a tender and sympathetic character.
Perhaps it may be thought, that this energy of
soul is of a higher order than the softer and ten-
derer affections. If this be so, it must depend on
the meaning we attach to a mind of a high order,
for it certainly is not of a more virtuous and
endearing character, virtue itself being only ano-
ther name for mildness, sweetness, goodness, and
sensibility of mind. That this is a fact can be
easily proved from the conduct of mankind in
general. Who is it the world most esteems, the
man of a strong, uncompromising, unbending
spirit, or the man of fine and yielding sensibility?
to which of these characters would we entrust all
the secrets of our heart ? Which of them would
confer on our darker moments the sweetest repose ?
Certainly no man acquainied with human nature
will hesitate to say the latter. Burke justly
observes, that " those virtues which cause admi-
ration and are of the sublimer kind, produce ter-
ror rather than love, such as fortitude, justice,
wisdom, and the like. Never was any man amiable
by force of these qualities. Those which engage
our hearts, which impress us with a sense of loveli-
ness, are the softer virtues ; — easiness of temper,
compassion, kindness, and liberality, though cer-
tainly those latter are of less immediate and
momentous concern to society, and of less dignity.
But it is for that reason that they are so amiable.
396 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
The great virtues turn principally on dangers,
punishments, and troubles, and are exercised
rather in preventing the worst mischiefs than in
dispensing favours ; and are, therefore, not lovely
though highly venerable. It is rather the soft
green of the soul on which we rest our eyes, that
are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects.
Perhaps this attachment to the softer virtues of
humanity may be supposed to arise from the
general weakness and frailties of human nature :
perhaps it may be said, that we love those who are
weak because we are weak ourselves — pares, it
will be said, e cum paribus facile congregantur ;
but who will trust to the truth of this assertion,
when he finds that those very men whose virtues
are of a stubborn and energetic character, find
themselves less happy with men of their own
stamp than with those who possess the weaker
and softer virtues. They are called weak, how-
ever, only because they assume that appearance,
for in reality they arise from a real though secret
greatness and strength of mind. On this subject
I could say much, but all I could say would be
little better than an echo of what Mr. Knight has
said of it in his " Principles of Taste." I shall,
therefore, rest the strength of my observations on
the following extract from that work.
" Neither is the yielding pliability of a mild
and gentle temper to be considered as a mental
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 397
weakness, though often called so : for, to comply
or yield with ease, dignity, and propriety, requires
more real energy of mind, than can be displayed
in any stubbornness and obstinacy of resistance :
since that sort of stubbornness or obstinacy, which
rests upon no principle of reason, honour, or in-
tegrity, is like the restiveness of a mule, nothing
more than sullen stupidity. Hence fools are al-
most always ill-tempered ; and generally sulky
and obstinate; while persons of very enlarged
minds, and very vigorous understandings, are, as
generally, good-tempered and compliant." " Thus
it is that men, who lead armies, and govern
empires, with the utmost vigour and ability, are
in their own families often governed by their
wives, their mistress, or their children : — That
humoursome hoy, said Themistocles, pointing to his
infant son, governs Greece ; for he governs his
mother, his mother governs me, I govern Athens,
and Athens governs Greece,
" Persons, on the contrary, of really weak
characters, are always tenacious and opiniative
in trifles : for, as their little vanity feels itself in-
terested in maintaining any opinion which they
have once advanced, the more insignificant the
object, and the more absurd the opinion, the more
obstinately and violently will they contend ; since
the greater is the humiliation of confessing, and
the shame of retracting error."
3D8 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
ff Whatever tends to exalt the soul to enthu-
siasm, tends to melt it at the same time : whence
tears are the ultimate effect of all very sublime
impressions on the mind ; — as much of those of a
joyous, as those of a melancholy cast :
my plenteous joys
Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves
In drops of sorrow
says the benevolent Duncan, on contemplating*
the prosperity of his kingdom, and the happiness
and filial attachment of his subjects. Every gene-
rous, as well as every tender feeling of sympathy,
when it reaches a certain pitch of rapture and
enthusiasm, relieves its fulness in tears."
The department of acting, therefore, in which
Miss Kelly excels, is not less interesting, less at-
tractive, or in reality less potent in the influence
which it exercises over the heart, than the more
daring and terror-inspiring energies of Kean; but
she wants his experience, and the confidence that
naturally arises out of it. A young performer can
never be brought too frequently on the stage, an
old one should appear as seldom as possible. If
Kean, for instance, retired for twelve months from
the stage, he would only return to it with renewed
confidence. " Practice makes perfect," is an old
saying-, and once perfect the habit becomes a
second nature to us. Kean could therefore expe-
rience no want of confidence from appearing less
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 399
frequently, whereas he would evidently acquire
great, very great advantages from it. The feelings,
blunted by continual acting, would have time to
recover their natural sensibility and original
powers, which, when combined with that judgment
and experience which he already possesses, would
lead him to the greatest height of excellence.
How diiferent is the case with young performers.
What chiefly leads to their failure is want of con-
fidence ; and confidence can only be acquired by
appearing frequently on the stage, by making
them familiar with their audience. Their sensi-
bility, at the same time, stands in no danger of
being dulled by repetition : it is as yet too green to
feel the chilling cold of insensibility. To me it
appears doubtful whether many have not more
confidence in their first performance than they
have in many of their subsequent ones, if they
appear but seldom: for if they succeed in their
first appearance, the trepidation of feeling that
arises from the laudable ambition of supporting
their acquired fame, produces a nervousness and
restlessness of mind of which they were totally
unconscious in their first essay ; and the more
conscious they are of their own powers, the more
strongly are they affected by this mental agitation^
for it is the same sensibility that leads to excel-
lence in dramatic action that induces this anxiety
SahfiOqqis
400 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
and trepidation of mind. Were they incapable of
this feeling 1 they would be equally so of that excel-
lence which they are so ambitious of obtaining.
This affection, however, can only be removed by
a frequent appearance on the stage ; and if I
mistake not, Miss Kelly would far surpass her pre-
decessor, Miss O'Neil, if she appeared more fre-
quently before her audience. In saying so, I am
influenced by two motives, the one a sense of
duty to the public, the other of duty to herself.
Be thou the first true merit to befriend,
His praise is lost who waits tiil all commend.
But when we recommend real merit to public
notice, whom do we serve most, the individual
possessing it or the public ? The latter, certainly ;
for the former promotes the happiness of thou-
sands, while they can only make him happy in re-
turn. It is, therefore, a duty which every writer
owes the public, to direct its attention to those
who possess energies of mind, which, when effici-
ently applied to their proper objects, tend either to
promote the enjoyment of life, or improve the
intellectual and moral faculties. When Miss Kel-
ly first appeared at Covent Garden, in the charac-
ter of Juliet, I went to see her, and communicated
the result of my observations to the editor of the
European Magazine. I cannot, therefore, give
my opinion of her Juliet better than in the lan-
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 401
guage of the feelings which she inspired at the
moment. I cannot, however, give it in the original
state, as the editor omitted some parts of it.
In the balcony scene, where Romeo first sees
Juliet in private, she seems to be no imitator of
the unhappy fair — she is Juliet herself — she ap-
pears the sad victim of the passion she represents.
When Romeo says,
" — Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords."
The wistful gaze of un dissembled passion' ar-
rests all her faculties. Her eyes, which in the
latter scenes seem to wander with a heavenly
distraction, and to be every where and no
where, are now immoveably fixed on those of
Romeo, and drink the delicious poison of love.
They seem not to rest upon, but to devour their
object.
When she pronounces the words
" Well, do not swear."
her eyes, her countenance, her every feature,
claim forgiveness for having required of him to
swear to the fidelity of his attachment, while she
seems, at the same time, to inhale the soft and
enchanting intoxication of love. Her " sweet
love, adieu," and her *' good night, good night,"
were still more enchanting, more enthusiastic,
more lovely, more infatuating. In pronouncing
these syren exclamations, her very soul almost
Dd
402 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
appeared in view. It seemed to come forward
and converse in her countenance ; and so it did,
so far as feeling can embody the invisible, and in-
conceivable nature of the mind.
Her interview with the Nurse, in the second
act, is exquisitely performed, and the mere reader
of the play can have but a very inadequate idea
of the beauty of this scene — her eagerness to meet
the Nurse, whom she fondly hails as the harbinger
of joyful news, and her exclamation,
te O heaven ! she eomes.'*
fills every heart with participating expectation ;
while joy, mingled with fear and apprehension, is
strongly pourtrayed in her countenance. Though
joy would seem to be predominant, yet she dreads
to become acquainted with the fearful tidings. In
the third act, where the Nurse returns, and leads
her to suppose that Romeo has been slain, we
never saw, indeed we never conceived, even in idea,
so exquisite an image of enraged innocence. When
she cries out —
idT
<c What devil art thou that doest torment me thus,"
-khniiiioo IfilltoMlM Vi * ^° 9I0ni
the furies seemed seated on her brow : every
feature was pregnant with rage, but yet it was
rage without a sting. She soon expiated, however,
the crime of becoming an infuriate ; and presented
us with the finest picture of repentance and self-
reproach that imagination can conceive.
THE S
OURCB OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 403
In the garden scene, in the third act, where
she endeavours to convince Romeo that it is not
yet day, in order to detain him, she surpasses all
her predecessors. He, who could hear her with-
out emotion repeat the following words, when
Romeo is in the very act of parting from her,
must have drank the milk of tigers in his infancy.
—anoog Birit lo Yta£9d ^d* ^°
" O heaven ! I have an ill-divining soul :
Methinks I see thee, now thou'rt parting from me,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb ;
Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look\st pale."
Miss Kelly's chief excellence evidently con-
sists in the delineation of the deeper and intenser
passions. If we mistake not, however, her natural
manners are of a more gay and playful character
than those of Miss O'Neil, and consequently we
think her more likely to succeed in comedy than
her predecessor. Her action is natural and un-
embarrassed : every movement seems to arise from
the impulse of the moment, though her attitude is
not perhaps always so imposing as Miss O'Neil's.
The cause seems to be, that Miss O'Neil threw
more of her own mind and intellectual conception
of character into her action, and consequently was
partly guided by her feelings, and partly by her
reason ; but Miss Kelly seems not to reason at all ;
she is the mere creature of the influences by whcih
she is acted upon. She would seem never to have
considered how she ought to act in any particular
404 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO
situation, but permits herself to be carried away
instinctively by the influence which the situation
exerts over her at the moment. What she loses,
therefore, in dignity she gains in sweetness, artless-
ness, and nature. There is no influence lost upon
her, for she responds to the slightest impulse, — the
highest excellence in dramatic representation. —
Art and study only serve to counteract or suppress
the divine enthusiasm of nature : the eyes no
longer speak the eloquent language of love, no
longer brighten with hope, or languish with de-
spair. Every movement is marked with affectation,
and every attitude is constrained and unnatural.
The truth of these observations never, perhaps,
has been more triumphantly illustrated than in the
fair subject of the present memoir. We never saw
the secret workings of indomitable love more
powerfully displayed, or more ably sustained
throughout. Her characteristic excellence seems
to consist in giving expression to the different
emotions, which naturally arise at the same
instant from the opposite influences by which she
is acted upon. A secret foreboding of her un-
happy fate throws a browner shade over her hap-
piest and most animated moments, so that even
her joy seems mingled with melancholy musings.
This is an excellence of difficult attainment, and
Miss Kelly seems to have made it her particular
study. She has studied it, however, only from
THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 405
her own feelings, for in real life, whenever human
nature is acted upon by different influences, they
excite that tumultuous crowd of emotions, which
confine themselves not to the heart, but manifest
their existence in the expression and agitation of
the countenance. This strong tide of mingled
emotions is not merely to be found in the action
and expression of this lovely actress ; she seems
to have the same command over her voice that
she has over her passions, affections, and sympa-
thies."
I must now take leave of my readers. There
are many other questions connected with the
subject of Tragic Representations and Tragic
Pleasure, which I intended to treat of here, most
of which regard the dramatic writer more than
the dramatic actor, as the fable, manners, senti-
ments, diction, unities of action, time, and place,
&c. ; but having, since the work went to press,
undertaken the Editorship of the European Maga-
zine, I find its duties render the completion of my
intentions impossible at the moment. I shall, how-
ever, have frequent opportunities, through the
medium of that work, of completing my original
design.
o* ema* tffea eeiM
D. Sidney & Co. Printers,
Northumberland Street, Strand,
od cima <aawo ifflaea
— — - — - —
Lately published, by the same Author,
CRITICAL DISSERTATION
,CȣS t .GH AW OH S
ON THE
NATURE AND PRINCIPLES
OP
Natura fieret laudabile carmen an arte
Quantum est : ego nee studium sine divite vena,
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium, alterius sic
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. Hoh.
%* In this volume, the various theories adopted by former writers on
Taste, are critically examined. The Author enters iuto a philosophical
investigation of all the Important questions connected, not only with
Taste itself, but with its proper objects ; and seeks to unfold its
nature, and the process by which it is improved and perfected. The
work will be found to contain, in all respects, an original view of the
subject, both in design and execution, under the following heads :—
1. On the nature of Taste, and wherein it differs from Sensibility, or
the emotion that attends the perception of Beauty.— 2. On Beauty ab-
stractedly considered as an object of Taste.— 3. On the Standard of
Taste.— 4. On tiie Taste of particular ages and nations, and the necessity
of studying the ancient models.— 5. On the influence of habit in matters
of Taste.— 6. On the alliance of Taste and Criticism.— 7. On the proper
objects of Taste.
Elegantly printed in 8vo. price 12s. in boards.
.336 t HTWST *&•£ * *° * OH,ra,A
■
■ (9 1
[iq saodJ bste
.iibassflils
T>U"
14 DAY USE
RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED
LOAN DEPT.
This book is due on the last date stamped below,
or on the date to which renewed. Renewals only:
Tel. No. 642-3405
Renewals may be made 4 days prior to date due.
Renewed books are subject to immediate recall.
KEC'D LP m 1 72 -4 PM 6 4
FEB2 813?4 10
- - -
_ .
'JAN 11980 6*
CK. K^w
LD21A-40m-8,'71 TT . Gen . eral }-£**& .
(P6572sl0)476-A-32 Umvers g^2*g 1,foril,a
J.C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES
CD3532137M
v *■