AN INQUIRY INTO THOSE KINDS OF DISTRESS WHICH EXCITE AGREEABLE SENSATIONS: WITH A TALE.
IT is undoubtedly true, though a phenomenon of
the human mind difficult to account for, that the
representation of distress frequently gives pleasure;
from which general observation many of
our modern writers of tragedy and romance seem
to have dawn this inference, — that in order to
please, they have nothing more to do than to paint
distress in natural and striking colours. With
this view, they heap together all the afflicting
events and dismal accidents their imagination can
furnish; and when they have half broke the
reader's heart, they expect he should thank them
for his agreeable entertainment. An author of
this class sits down, pretty much like an inquisitor,
to compute how much suffering he can inflict
upon the hero of his tale before he makes an end
of him; with this difference, indeed, that the inquisitor
only tortures those who are at least reputed
criminals; whereas the writer generally
chooses the most excellent character in his piece
for the subject of his persecution. The great criterion
of excellence is placed in being able to
draw tears plentifully; and concluding we shall
weep the more, the more the picture is loaded
with doleful events, they go on, telling
..... of sorrows upon sorrows
Even to a lamentable length of woe.
A monarch once proposed a reward for the discovery
of a new pleasure; but if any one could
find out a new torture, or nondescript calamity,
he would be more entitled to the applause of those
who fabricate books of entertainment.
But the springs of pity require to be touched
with a more delicate hand; and it is far from
being true that we are agreeably affected by every
thing that excites our sympathy. It shall therefore
be the business of this essay to distinguish
those kinds of distress which are pleasing in the
representation from those which are really painful
and disgusting.
The view of relation of mere misery can never
be pleasing. We have, indeed, a strong sympathy
with all kinds of misery; but it is a feeling of
pure unmixed pain, similar in kind, though not
in degree, to what we feel for ourselves on
the like occasions; and never produces that melting
sorrow, that thrill of tenderness, to which we
give the name of pity. They are two distinct
sensations, marked by very different external expression.
One causes the nerves to tingle, the
flesh to shudder, and the whole countenance to
be thrown into strong contractions; the other relaxes
the frame, opens the features, and produces
tears. When we crush a noxious or loathsome
animal, we may sympathize strongly with the pain
it suffers, but with far different emotions from the
tender sentiment we feel for the dog of Ulysses,
who crawled to meet his long-lost master, looked
up, and died at his feet. Extreme bodily pain is
perhaps the most intense suffering we are capable
of, and if the fellow feeling with misery alone was
grateful to the mind, the exhibition of a man in
a fit of the toothach, or under a chirurgical operation,
would have a fine effect in a tragedy. But
there must be some other sentiment combined
with this kind of instinctive sympathy, before it
becomes in any degree pleasing, or produces the
sweet emotion of pity. This sentiment is love,
esteem, the complacency we take in the contemplation
of beauty, of mental or moral excellence,
called forth and rendered more interesting by
circumstances of pain and danger. Tenderness
is, much more properly than sorrow, the spring
of tears; for it affects us in that manner, whether
combined with joy or grief; perhaps more in the
former case than the latter. And I believe we
may venture to assert, that no distress which produces
tears is wholly without a mixture of pleasure.
When Joseph's brethren were sent to buy
corn, if they had perished in the desert by wild
beasts, or been reduced (as in the horrid adventures
of a Pierre de Vaud) to eat one another, we
might have shuddered, but we should not have
wept for them. The gush of tears breaks forth
when Joseph made himself known to his brethren,
and fell on their neck, and kissed them. When
Hubert prepares to burn out prince Arthur's eyes,
the shocking circumstance, of itself, would only
affect us with horror; it is the amiable simplicity
of the young prince, and his innocent affection
to his intended murderer, that draws our tears,
and excites that tender sorrow which we love to
feel, and which refines the heart while we do
feel it.
We see, therefore, from this view of our internal
feelings, that no scenes of misery ought to be
exhibited which are not connected with the display
of some moral excellence or agreeable quality.
If fortitude, power, and strength of mind
are called forth, they produce the sublime feelings
of wonder and admiration: if the softer qualities
of gentleness, grace, and beauty, they inspire love
and pity. The management of these latter emotions
is our present object.
And let it be remembered, in the first place,
that the misfortunes which excite pity must no
be too horrid and overwhelming. The mind is
rather stunned than softened by great calamities.
They are little circumstances that work most sensibly
upon the tender feelings. For this reason,
a well-written novel generally draws more tears
than a tragedy. The distresses of tragedy are
more calculated to amaze and terrify, than to move
compassion. Battles, torture and death are in
every page. The dignity of the characters, the
importance of the events, the pomp of verse and
imagery interest the grander passions, and raise
the mind to an enthusiasm little favourable to the
weak and languid notes of pity. The tragedies
of Young are in a fine strain of poetry, and the
situations are worked up with great energy; but
the pictures are in too deep a shade: all his pieces
are full of violent and gloomy passions, and so
over-wrought with horror, that instead of awakening
any pleasing sensibility, they leave on the
mind an impression of sadness mixed with terror.
Shakespear is sometimes guilty of presenting
scenes too shocking. Such is the trampling out
of Gloster's eyes; and such is the whole play of
Titus Andronicus. But Lee, beyond all others,
abounds with this kind of images. He delighted
in painting the most daring crimes and cruel
massacres; and though he has shown himself extremely
capable of raising tenderness, he continually
checks its course by shocking and disagreeable
expressions. His pieces are in the
same taste with the pictures of Spagnolet, and
there are many scenes in his tragedies which no
one can relish who would not look with pleasure
on the flaying of St. Bartholomew. The following
speech of Marguerite, in the Massacre of Paris,
was, I suppose, intended to express the utmost
tenderness of affection.
Die for him! that's too little; I could burn
Piece-meal away, or bleed to death by drops,
Be flayed alive, then broke upon the wheel,
Yet with a smile endure it all for Guise:
And when let loose from torments, all one wound,
Run with my mangled arms and crush him dead.
Images like these will never excite the softer
passions. We are less moved at the description
of an Indian tortured with all the dreadful ingenuity
of that savage people, than with the fatal
mistake of the lover in the Spectator, who pierced
an artery in the arm of his mistress as he was
letter her blood. Tragedy and romance writers
are likewise apt to make too free with the more
violent expressions of passion and distress, by
which means they lose their effect. Thus an ordinary
author does not know how to express any
strong emotion otherwise than by swoonings or
death; so that a person experienced in this kind
of reading, when a girl faints away at parting
with her lover, or a hero kills himself for the loss
of his mistress, considers it as the established etiquette
upon such occasions, and turns over the
pages with the utmost coolness and unconcern;
whereas real sensibility, and a more intimate
knowledge of human nature, would have suggested
a thousand little touches of grief, which,
though slight, are irresistible. We are too gloomy
a people. Some of the French novels are remarkable
for little affecting incidents, imagined with
delicacy, and told with grace. Perhaps they have
a better turn than we have for this kind of writing.
A judicious author will never attempt to raise
pity by any thing mean or disgusting. As we
have already observed, there must be a degree of
complacence mixed with our sorrows to produce
an agreeable sympathy; nothing, therefore, must
be admitted which destroys the grace and dignity
of suffering; the imagination must have an amiable
figure to dwell upon: there are circumstances
so ludicrous or disgusting, that no character can
preserve a proper decorum under them, or appear
in an agreeable light. Who can read the following
description of Polypheme without finding his
compassion entirely destroyed by aversion and
loathing?
.....His bloody hand
Snatched two unhappy of my martial band,
And dashed like dogs against the stony floor,
The pavement swims with brains and mingled gore;
Torn limb from limb, he spreads his horrid feast,
And fierce devours it like a mountain beast;
He sucks the marrow, and the blood he drains,
Nor entrails, flesh, nor solid bone remains.
Or that of Scylla,
In the wide dungeon she devours her food,
And the flesh trembles while she churns the blood.
Deformity is always disgusting, and the imagination
cannot reconcile it with the idea of a favourite
character; therefore the poet and romance-writer are fully justified in giving a larger share
of beauty to their principal figures than is usually
met with in common life. A late genius, indeed,
in a whimsical mood, gave us a lady with her nose
crushed for the heroine of his story: but the circumstance
spoils the picture; and though in the
course of the story it is kept a good deal out of
sight, whenever it does recur to the imagination
we are hurt and disgusted. It was an heroic instance
of virtue in the nuns of a certain abbey,
who cut off their noses and lips to avoid violation;
yet this would make a very bad subject for
a poem or a play. Something akin to this is the
representation of any thing unnatural; of which
kind is the famous story of the Roman charity,
and for this reason I cannot but think it an unpleasing
subject for either the pen or the pencil.
Poverty, if truly represented, shocks our nicer
feelings; therefore, whenever it is made use of
to awaken our compassion, the rags and dirt, the
squalid appearance and mean employments incident
to that state, must be kept out of sight, and
the distress must arise from the idea of depression,
and the shock of falling from higher fortunes.
We do not pity Belisarius as a poor blind beggar;
and a painter would succeed very ill who should
sink him to the meanness of that condition. He
must let us still discover the conqueror of the
Vandals, the general of the imperial armies, or
we shall be little interested. Let us look at the
picture of the old woman in Otway:
.....A wrinkled hag with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and muttering to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red;
Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seemed withered;
And on her crooked shoulder had she wrapt
The tattered remnant of an old striped hanging,
Which served to keep her carcase from the cold;
So there was nothing of a-piece about her.
Here is the extreme of wretchedness, and instead
of melting into pity, we should turn away with
disgust, if we were not pleased with it, as we are
with a Dutch painting, from its exact imitation of
nature. Indeed the author only intended it to
strike horror. But how different are the sentiments
we feel for the lovely Belvidera! We see
none of those circumstances which render poverty
an unamiable thing. When the goods are seized
by an execution, our attention is turned to
the
piles of massy plate, and all the ancient, most domestic
ornaments, which imply grandeur and consequence;
or to such instances of their hard fortune
as will lead us to pity them as lovers: we
are struck and affected with the general face of
ruin; but we are not brought near enough to discern
the ugliness of its features. Belvidera ruined,
Belvidera deprived of friends, without a home,
abandoned to the wide world — we can contemplate
with all the pleasing sympathy of pity; but
had she been represented as really sunk into low
life, had we seen her employed in the most servile
offices of poverty, our compassion would have
given way to contempt and disgust. Indeed, we
may observe in real life, that poverty is only pitied
so long as people can keep themselves from the
effects of it. When in common language we say
a miserable object, we mean an object of distress
which, if we relieve, we turn away from at the
same time. To make pity pleasing, the object of
it must not in any view be disagreeable to the
imagination. How admirably has the author of
Clarissa managed this point! Amidst scenes of
suffering which rend the heart, in poverty, in a
prison, under the most shocking outrages, the
grace and delicacy of her character never suffers
even for a moment: there seems to be a charm
about her which prevents her receiving a stain
from any thing which happens; and Clarissa,
abandoned and undone, is the object not only of
complacence, but veneration.
I would likewise observe, that if an author
would have us feel a strong degree of compassion,
his characters must not be too perfect. The stern
fortitude and inflexible resolution of a Cato may
command esteem, but does not excite tenderness:
and faultless rectitude of conduct, though no
rigour be mixed with it, is of too sublime a nature
to inspire compassion. Virtue has a kind of self-sufficiency; it stands upon its own basis, and
cannot be injured by any violence. It must therefore
be mixed with something of helplessness and
imperfection, with an excessive sensibility, or a
simplicity bordering upon weakness, before it
raises, in any great degree, either tenderness or
familiar love. If there be a fault in the masterly
performance just now mentioned, it is that the
character of Clarissa is so inflexibly right, her
passions are under such perfect command, and
her prudence is so equal to every occasion, that
she seems not to need that sympathy we should
bestow upon one of a less elevated character; and
perhaps we should feel a livelier emotion of tenderness
for the innocent girl whom Lovelace calls
his Rose-bud, but that the story of Clarissa is so
worked up by the strength of colouring, and the
force of repeated impressions, as to command all
our sorrow.
Pity seems too degrading a sentiment to be offered
at the shrine of faultless excellence. The
sufferings of martyrs are rather beheld with admiration
and sympathetic triumph than with tears;
and we never feel much for those whom we consider
as themselves raised above common feelings.
The last rule I shall insist upon is, that scenes
of distress should not be too long continued. All
our finer feelings are in a manner momentary, and
no art can carry them beyond a certain point,
either in intenseness or duration. Constant suffering
deadens the heart to tender impressions;
as we may observe in sailors and others who are
grown callous by a life of continual hardships. It
is therefore highly necessary, in a long work, to
relieve the mind by scenes of pleasure and gaiety;
and I cannot think it so absurd a practice as our
modern delicacy has represented it, to intermix
wit and fancy with the pathetic, provided care be
taken not to check the passions while they are
flowing. The transition from a pleasurable state
of mind to tender sorrow is not so difficult as we
imagine. When the mind is opened by gay and
agreeable scenes, every impression is felt more
sensibly. Persons of a lively temper are much
more susceptible of that sudden swell of sensibility
which occasions tears, than those of a grave and
saturnine cast: for this reason women are more
easily moved to weeping than men. Those who
have touched the springs of pity with the finest
hand, have mingled light strokes of pleasantry
and mirth in their most pathetic passages. Very
different is the conduct of many novel-writers,
who, by plunging us into scenes of distress without
end or limit, exhaust the powers, and before
the conclusion either render us insensible to every
thing, or fix a real sadness upon the mind. The
uniform style of tragedies is one reason why they
affect so little. In our old plays, all the force of
language is reserved for the more interesting parts;
and in the scenes of common life there is no attempt
to rise above common language: whereas
we, by that pompous manner and affected solemnity
which we think it necessary to preserve through
the whole piece, lose the force of an elevated or
passionate expression where the occasion really
suggests it.
Having thus considered the manner in which
fictitious distress must be managed to render it
pleasing, let us reflect a little upon the moral tendency
of such representations. Much has been
said in favour of them, and they are generally
thought to improve the tender and humane feelings;
but this, I own, appears to me very dubious.
That they exercise sensibility, is true; but sensibility
does not increase with exercise. By the
constitution of our frame our habits increase, our
emotions decrease, by repeated acts; and thus a
wise provision is made, that as our compassion
grows weaker, its place should be supplied by
habitual benevolence. But in these writings our
sensibility is strongly called forth without any
possibility of exerting itself in virtuous action,
and those emotions, which we shall never feel
again with equal force, are wasted without advantage.
Nothing is more dangerous than to let virtuous
impressions of any kind pass through the
mind without producing their proper effect. The
awakenings of remorse, virtuous shame and indignation,
the glow of moral approbation — if they
do not lead to action, grow less and less vivid
every time they recur, till at length the mind
grows absolutely callous. The being affected
with a pathetic story is undoubtedly a sign of an
amiable disposition, but perhaps no means of increasing
it. On the contrary, young people, by a
course of this kind of reading, often acquire something
of that apathy and indifference which the
experience of real life would have given them,
without its advantages.
Another reason why plays and romances do not
improve our humanity is, that they lead us to require
a certain elegance of manners and delicacy
of virtue which is not often found with poverty,
ignorance and meanness. The objects of pity in
romance are as different from those in real life as
our husbandmen from the shepherds of Arcadia;
and a girl who will sit weeping the whole night
at the delicate distresses of a lady Charlotte, or
lady Julia, shall be little moved at the complaint
of her neighbour, who, in a homely phrase and
vulgar accent, laments to her that she is not able
to get bread for her family. Romance-writers
likewise make great misfortunes so familiar to our
ears, that we have hardly any pity to spare for
the common accidents of life: but we ought to
remember, that misery has a claim to relief, however
we may be disgusted with its appearance;
and that we must not fancy ourselves charitable,
when we are only pleasing our imagination.
It would perhaps be better, if our romances
were more like those of the old stamp, which
tended to raise human nature, and inspire a certain
grace and dignity of manners of which we
have hardly the idea. The high notions of honour,
the wild and fanciful spirit of adventure and
romantic love, elevated the mind; our novels tend
to depress and enfeeble it. Yet there is a species
of this kind of writing which must ever afford an
exquisite pleasure to persons of taste and sensibility;
where noble sentiments are mixed with
well-fancied incidents, pathetic touches with dignity
and grace, and invention with chaste correctness.
Such will ever interest our sweetest passions.
I shall conclude this paper with the following
tale.
IN the happy period of the golden age, when
all the celestial inhabitants descended to the earth,
and conversed familiarly with mortals, among the
most cherished of the heavenly powers were twins,
the offspring of Jupiter, Love and Joy. Where
they appeared, the flowers sprung up beneath their
feet, the sun shone with a brighter radiance, and
all nature seemed embellished by their presence.
They were inseparable companions, and their
growing attachment was favoured by Jupiter, who
had decreed that a lasting union should be solemnized
between them as soon as they were arrived
at maturer years. But in the mean time
the sons of men deviated from their native innocence;
vice and ruin over-ran the earth with giant
strides; and Astrea, with her train of celestial
visitants, forsook their polluted abodes. Love
alone remained, having been stolen away by
Hope, who was his nurse, and conveyed by her
to the forests of Arcadia, where he was brought
up among the shepherds. But Jupiter assigned
him a different partner, and commanded him to
espouse Sorrow, the daughter of Ate. He complied
with reluctance; for her features were harsh
and disagreeable, her eyes sunk, her forehead
contracted into perpetual wrinkles, and her temples
were covered with a wreath of cypress and
wormwood. From this union sprung a virgin, in
whom might be traced a strong resemblance to
both her parents; but the sullen and unamiable
features of her mother were so mixed and blended
with the sweetness of her father, that her countenance,
though mournful, was highly pleasing.
The maids and shepherds of the neighbouring
plains gathered round, and called her Pity. A
redbreast was observed to build in the cabin
where she was born; and while she was yet an
infant, a dove, pursued by a hawk, flew into her
bosom. This nymph had a dejected appearance,
but so soft and gentle a mien that she was beloved
to a degree of enthusiasm. Her voice was low
and plaintive, but inexpressibly sweet; and she
loved to lie for hours together on the banks of
some wild and melancholy stream, singing to her
lute. She taught men to weep, for she took a
strange delight in tears; and often, when the virgins
of the hamlet were assembled at their evening
sports, she would steal in amongst them, and
captivate their hearts by her tales full of a charming
sadness. She wore on her head a garland
composed of her father's myrtles twisted with her
mother's cypress.
One day, as she sat musing by the waters of
Helicon, her tears by chance fell into the fountain;
and ever since, the Muses' spring has retained
a strong taste of the infusion. Pity was
commanded by Jupiter to follow the st ps of her
mother through the world, dropping balm into the
wounds she made, and binding up the hearts she
had broken. She follows with her hair loose, her
bosom bare and throbbing, her garments torn by
the briars, and her feet bleeding with the roughness
of the path. The nymph is mortal, for her
mother is so; and when she has fulfilled her destined
course upon the earth, they shall both expire
together, and Love be again united to Joy,
his immortal and long-betrothed bride.