Nay, the
rudeness
of the work increases this cause of grandeur, as excludes the idea of art and contriv ance; for dexterity produces another sort of effect, which different enough from this.
Edmund Burke
Wolves have not more strength than several species of dogs; but, on account of their unmanageable fierceness, the idea of a wolf is not
? it is not excluded from grand descrip tions and similitudes. Thus we are affected by strength, which is natural power. The power which arises from institution in kings and commanders, has the same connection with terror. Sovereigns are fre quently addressed with the title of dread majesty. And it may be observed, that young persons, little acquainted with the world, and who have not been used to approach men in power, are commonly struck with an awe whichItakes away the free use of their
despicable;
faculties. When
prepared my
seat in the street,
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(says J0b,) the young men saw me, and hid themselves. Indeed so natural is this timidity with regard to power, and so strongly does it inhere in our consti tution, that very few are able to conquer but by mixing much in the business of the great world, or by using no small violence to their natural disposi tions. know some people are of opinion, that no awe, no degree of terror, accompanies the idea of power; and have hazarded to affirm, that we can
the idea of God himself without any such emotion. purposely avoided,'when first con sidered this subject, to introduce the idea of that
contemplate
? and tremendous Being, as an example in an argument so light as this; though frequently oc curred to me, not as an objection to, but as strong confirmation of, my notions in this matter.
in what am going to say, shall avoid presumption, where almost impossible for any mortal to speak with strict propriety. say then, that whilst we con sider the Godhead merely as he an object of the understanding, which forms complex idea of power. wisdom, justice, goodness, all stretched to degree far exceeding the bounds of our comprehension, whilst we consider the divinity in this refined and ab stracted light, the imagination and passions are little or nothing affected. But because we are bound,
the condition of our nature, to ascend to these pure and intellectual ideas, through the medium of sensi ble images, and to judge of these divine qualities by their evident acts and exertions, becomes extremely hard to disentangle our idea of the cause from the effect by which we are led to know it. Thus, when we contemplate the Deity, his attributes and their operation, coming united on the mind, form sort of
great
hope,
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sensible image, and as such are capable of affecting the imagination. Now, though in a just idea of the
none of his attributes are predomi nant, yet, to our imagination, his power is. by far the most striking. Some reflection, some comparing, is necessary to satisfy us of his wisdom, his justice, and his goodness. To be struck with his power, it is only necessary that we should open our eyes. But whilst
Deity, perhaps
we contemplate so vast an object, under the arm, as it were, of almighty power, and invested upon every side with omnipreseuce, we shrink into the minute ness of our own nature, and are, in a manner, anni hilated before him. And though a consideration of his other attributes may relieve, in some measure, our apprehensions; yet no conviction of the justice with which it is exercised, nor the mercy with which it is tempered, can wholly remove the terror that'nat urally arises from a' force which nothing can with stand. If we rejoice, we rejoice with trembling; and even whilst we are receiving benefits, we cannot but shudder at a power which can confer benefits of such mighty importance. When the prophet David con templated the wonders of wisdom and power which are displayed in the economy of man, he seems to be struck with a sort of divine hIorror, and cries out,
looks upon it as the last effort of philosophical forti tude, to behold without terror and amazement, this immense and glorious fabric of the universe:
Huuc solem, et stellas, et decedcntia eertis Tempura momentis, sunt qui formidine nulla Imbuti speetent.
Lucretius is a poet not to be suspected of giving way
? made! An heathen poet has a sentiment of a similar nature; Horace
fearfully and wonderfully am
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to superstitious terrors; yet, when he supposes the whole mechanism of nature laid open by the master of his philosophy, his transport on this magnificent view, which he 11as represented in the colors of such bold and lively poetry, is overcast with a shade of secret dread and horror :
His ibi me rebus qumdam divina voluptas Percipit, atque horror; quod sic natura,tua vi Tam manifests. patens, ex omni partc retecta est.
But the Scripture alone can supply ideas answerable
to the majesty of this subject. In the
wherever God is represented as appearing or speak ing, everything terrible in nature is called up to heighten the awe and solemnity of the Divine pres ence. The Psalms, and the prophetical books, are crowded with instances of this kind. The earth shook, (says the Psalmist,) the heavens also dropped at the presence of the Lord. And what is remarkable, the painting preserves the same character, not only when he is supposed descending to take vengeance upon the wicked, but even when he exerts the like pleni tude of power in acts of beneficence to mankind.
Tremble, thou earth . ' at the presence of the Lord; at the presence of the God of Jacob ; which turned the rock into standing water, the flint into a fountain of waters . ' It were endless to enumerate all the passages, both in the sacred and profane writers, which establish the general sentiment of mankind, concerning the insep arable 'l1nl0n of a sacred and reverential awe, with our ideas of the divinity. Hence the common max im, Primus in orbe deos fecit timer. This maxim may be, as I believe it is, false with regard to the origin of religion. The maker of the maxim saw how
I 1
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these ideas were, without considering
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that the notion of some great power must be always precedent to our dread of it. But this dread must necessarily follow the idea of such a power, when it is once excited in the mind. It is on this principle that true religion has, and must have, so large a mix ture of salutary fear; and that false religions have generally nothing else but fear to support them. Be fore the Ohristian religion had, as it were, human ized the idea of the Divinity, and brought it somewhat nearer to us, there was very little said of the love of God. The followers of Plato have something of
and only something; the other writers of pagan
antiquity, whether poets or philosophers, nothing at all. And they who consider with what infinite atten
tion, by what disregard of every perishable object, through what long habits of piety and contemplation that any man able to attain an entire love and
devotion to the Deity, will easily perceive that
not the first, the most natural, and the most striking effect which proceeds from that idea. Thus we have traced power through its several gradations unto the highest of all, where our imagination finally lost and we find terror, quite throughout the progress, its inseparable companion, and growing along with
as far as We can possibly trace them. Now, as power undoubtedly capital source of the sublime, this will point out evidently from whence its energy
derived, and to what class of ideas we ought to unite it.
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SECTION VL PRIVATION.
ALL general privations are great, because they are all terrible; vacuity, darkness, solitude, and silence. With what a fire of imagination, yet with what ss verity of judgment, has Virgil amassed all these cir cumstances, where he knows that all the images of a tremendous dignity ought to be united at the mouth of hell! Where, before he unlocks the se crets of the great deep, he seems to be seized with a religious horror, and to retire astonished at the bold
? ness of his own design:
'
Dii, quibus imperinm est animarum, umbraeque silentes! Et Chaos, et Phlegethon ! loca nocte silentia late!
Sit mihi fas audita loqui ! sit numine vestro
Pandere res alta term et caligine mersasl
Ibant obscuri, sola sub nocte, per mnbram, Perque domos Ditis vacuas, et inania regna.
" Ye subterraneous gods ! whose awful sway The gliding ghosts, and silent shades obey :
O Chaos hoarl and Phlegethon profound ! Whose solemn empire stretches wide around ; Give me, ye great, tremendous powers, to tell Of scenes and wonders in the depth of hell; Give me your mighty secrets to display
From those black realms of darkness to the day. "
PITT.
"Obscurethey went through dreary shades that led Along the waste dominions of the dead. "
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SECTION VII. vasrmzss.
GREArN1<:ss* of dimension is a powerful cause of the sublime. This is too evident, and the observa tion too common, to need any illustration; it is not so common to consider in what ways greatness of dimension, vastness of 'extent or quantity, has the most striking effect. For, certainly, there are ways and modes wherein the same quantity of extension shall produce greater effects than it is found to do in others. Extension is either in length, height, or
Of these the length strikes least; a hundred yards of even ground will never work such an effect as a tower a hundred yards high, or a rock or moun tain of that altitude. I am apt to imagine, likewise, that height is less grand than depth; and that we are more struck at looking down from a precipice, than looking up at an object of equal height ; but of that I am not very positive. A perpendicular has more force in forming the sublime, than an inclined plane, and the effects of a rugged and broken surface seem stronger than where it is smooth and polished. It would carry us out of our way to enter in this place into the cause of these appearances, but certain it is they afford a large and fruitful field of specula tion. However, it may not be amiss to add to these remarks upommagnitnde, that as the great extreme of dimension is sublime, so the last extreme of little ness is in some measure sublime likewise; when we attend to the infinite divisibility of matter, when we pursue animal life into these excessively small, and
* Part IV. sect. 9.
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yet organized beings, that escape the nicest inquisi tion of the sense ; when we push our discoveries yet downward, and consider those creatures so many de grees yet smaller, and the still diminishing scale of existence, in tracing which the imagination is lost as well as the sense; we become amazed and con founded at the wonders of minuteness; nor can we distinguish in its effect this extreme of littleness from the vast itself. For division must be infinite as well as addition; because the idea of a perfect unity can no more be arrived at, than that of a complete whole, to which nothing may be added.
SECTION VIII. INFINITY.
ANOTHER source of the sublime is infinity ; if it does not rather belong to the last. Infinity has a tendency to fill the mind with that sort of delightful horror, which is the most genuine effect, and truest test of the sublime. There are scarce any things which can become the objects of our senses, that are really and in their own nature infinite. But the eye not being able to perceive the bounds of many things, they seem to be infinite, and they produce the same effects as if they were really so. We are deceived in the like manner, if the parts of some large object are so continued to any indefinite number, that the imag ination meets no check which may hinder its extend
ing them at pleasure.
Whenever we repeat any idea frequently, the mind,
by a sort of mechanism, repeats it long after the first cause has ceased to operate. * After whirling about,
* Part IV. sect. 11.
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when we sit down, the objects about us still seem to whirl. After a long succession of noises, as the fall of waters, or the beating of forge-hammers, the ham mers beat and the waters roar in the imagination long after the first sounds have ceased to affect it; and they die away at last by gradations which are scarcely perceptible. Ifyou hold up a straight pole, with your eye to one end, it will seem extended to a
almost incredible? " Place a number of uni form and equi-distant marks on this pole, they will
cause the same deception, and seem multiplied with out end. The senses, strongly affected in 'some one manner, cannot quickly change their tenor, or adapt themselves to other things ; but they continue in their old channel until the strength of the first mover decays. This is the reason of an appearance very frequent in madmen ; that_they remain whole days and nights, sometimes whole years, in the constant repetition of some remark, some complaint, or song; which hav ing struck powerfully on their disordered imagination in the beginning of their frenzy, every repetition reinforces it with new strength, and the hurry of their spirits, unrestrained by the curb of reason, continues it to the end of their lives.
length
? SECTION SUCCESSION AND UNIFORMITY.
SUccEssIoN and uniformity of parts are what con stitute the artificial infinite. 1. Succession ; which is requisite that the parts may be continued so long and in such a direction, as by their frequent impulses on
* Part IV. sect. 13.
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the sense to impress the imagination with an idea of their progress beyond their actual limits. 2. Uni formity; because, if the figures of the parts should be changed, the imagination at every change finds a check ; you are presented at every alteration with the termination of one idea, and the beginning of an other ; by which means it becomes impossible to con tinue that uninterrupted progression, which alone can stamp on bounded objects the character of infinity. It is in this kind of artificial infinity, I believe, we ought to look for the cause why a rotund has such a noble effect. * For in a rotund, whether it be a build ing or a plantation, you can nowhere fix a boun dary; turn which way you will, the same object still seems to continue, and the imagination has no rest. But the parts must be uniform, as well as circularly
to give this figure its full. force; because any difference, whether it be in the disposition,'or in the figure, or even in the color of the parts, is highly prejudicial to the idea of infinity, which every change must check and interrupt, at every alteration com mencing a new series. On the same principles of succession and uniformity, the grand appearance of the ancient heathen temples, which were generally oblong forms, with a range of uniform pillars on every side, will be easily accounted for. From the same cause also may be derived the grand effect of the aisles in many of our own old cathedrals. The form of a cross used in some churches seems to me not so eligible as the parallelogram of the ancients ; at least, I imagine it is not so proper for the outside. For,
* Mr. Addison, in the Spectators concerning the pleasures of the imagination, thinks it is because in the rotund at one glance you see
do not imagine to be the real cause.
? disposed,
half the building. This I
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supposing the arms of the cross every way equal, if you stand in a direction parallel to any of the side walls, or colonnades, instead of a deception that makes the building more extended than it is, you are cut oif from a considerable part (two thirds) of its actual length; and, to prevent all possibility of
progression,the arms of the cross taking a new direc tion, make a right angle with the beam, and thereby wholly turn the imagination from the repetition of the former idea. Or suppose the spectator placed where he may take a direct view of such a building, what will be the consequence? the necessary conse quence will be, that a good part of the basis of each angle formed by the intersection of the arms of the cross, must be inevitably lost; the whole must of course assume a broken, unconnected fig1u'e; the lights must be unequal, here strong, and there weak; without that noble gradation which the per spective always etfects on parts disposed uninterrupt edly in a right line. Some or all of these objections will lie against every figure of a cross, in whatever view you take it. I exemplified them in the Greek cross, in which these faults appear the most strongly; but they appear in some degree in all sorts of crosses. Indeed, there is nothing more prejudicial to the grandeur of buildings than to abound in angles; a fault obvious in many; and owing to an inordinate thirst for variety, which, whenever it prevails, is
sure to leave very little true taste.
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SECTION X. MAG'NITUDE. IN BUILDING.
T0 the sublime in building, greatness of dimension seems requisite; for on a few parts, and those small, the imagination cannot rise to any idea of infinity. N0 greatness in the manner can effectually compen sate for the want of proper dimensions. There is no danger of drawing men into extravagant designs by this rule; it carries its own caution along with it. Because too great a length in buildings destroys the purpose of greatness, which it was intended to pro mote; the perspective will lessen it in height as it gains in length; and will bring it at last to a point; turning the whole figure into a sort of triangle, the poorest in its effect of almost any figure that can be presented to the eye. I have ever observed, that col onnades and avenues of trees of a moderate length were, without comparison, far grander than when they were suffered to run to immense distances. A true artist should put a generous deceit 0n the spec tators, and effect the noblest designs by easy meth ods. Designs that are vast only by their dimensions are always the sign of a common and low imagina tion. N0 work of art can be great, but as it deceives ; to be otherwise is the prerogative of nature only. A good eye will fix the medium betwixt an excessive length or height (for the same objection lies against both), and a short or broken quantity: and perhaps it might be ascertained to a tolerable degree of ex
actness, if it was my purpose to descend far into the "
particulars of any art.
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SECTION XI. INFINITY IN PLEASING OBJECTS.
INFINITY, though of another kind, causes much of 0iu' pleasure in agreeable, as well as of our delight in sublime images. The spring is the pleasantest of the seasons ; and the young of most animals, though far from being completely fashioned, afford a more agree able sensation than the full-grown; because the imagi nation is entertained with the promise of something more, and does not acquiesce in the present object of the sense. In unfinished sketches of drawing, I have often seen something which pleased me beyond the best finishing; and this I believe proceeds from the cause I have just now assigned.
SECTION XII. DIFFICULTY.
ANOTHER source of greatness is diflicultg/. * When any work seems to have required immense force and labor to effect the idea grand. Stonehenge, neither for disposition nor ornament, has anything admirable; but those huge rude masses of stone, set on end, and piled each on other, turn the mind on the immense force necessary for such work.
Nay, the rudeness of the work increases this cause of grandeur, as excludes the idea of art and contriv ance; for dexterity produces another sort of effect, which different enough from this.
* Part IV. sect. 6.
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SE CTION XIII. MAGNIFICENCE.
MAcNIFICENCE is likewise a source of the sublime. A great profusion of things, which are splendid or valuable in themselves, is magnificent. The starry heaven, though it occurs so very frequently to our view never fails to excite an idea of grandeur. This cannot be owing to the stars themselves, separately considered. The number is certainly the cause. The apparent disorder augments the grandeur, for the ap
of care is highly contrary to our ideas of magnificence. Besides, the stars lie in such appar ent confusion, as makes it impossible on ordinary oc casions to reckon them. This gives them the advan tage of a sort. of infinity. In works of art, this kind of grandeur which consists in multitude, is to be very cautiously admitted; because a profusion of excel lent things is not to be attained, or with too much difiiculty; and because in many cases this splendid confusion would destroy all use, which shou. ld be at tended to in most of the works of art with the greatest care; besides, it is to be considered, that unless you can produce an appearance of infinity by your disor der, you will have disorder only without magnificence. There are, however, a sort of fireworks, and some other things, that in this way succeed well, and are truly grand. There are also many descriptions in
the poets and orators, which owe their sublimity to a richness and profusion of images, in which the mind is so dazzled as to make it impossible to attend to that exact coherence and agreement of the allusions,I which we should require on every other occasion.
? pearance
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do not now remember a more -striking example of this, than the description which is given of the king's
army in the play of Henry IV.
"All furnished, all in arms, All plumed like ostriches that with the wind
Baited like eagles having lately bathed:
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun in midsummer, Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry with his beaver on
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury; And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus. "
In that excellent book, so remarkable for the vi vacity of its descriptions, as well as the solidity and penetration of its sentences, the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach, there is a noble panegyric on the high priest Simon the son of Onias ; and it is a very fine
example of the point before us : --
How was he honored in the midst of the people, in his
coming out of the sanctuary! He was as the morning star in the midst of a cloud, and as the moon at the full ;_ as the sun shining upon the temple of the llfost
lfigh, and as the rainbow giving light in the bright clouds: and as the flower of roses in the spring of the
year, as lilies by the rivers of waters, and as the frank inoense-tree in summer; as fire and incense in the cen ser, and as a vessel of gold set with precious stones ; as a_ fair olive-tree budding forth fruit, and as a cypress which groweth up to the clouds. When he put on the robe of honor, and was clothed with the perfection
of glory, when he went up to the holy altar, he made the garment of holiness honorable. He himself stood by the hearth of the altar, compassed with his brethren round
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about; as a young cedar in Libanus, and as palm-trees compassed they him about. So were all the sons of Aaron in their glory, and the oblations of the Lord in their hands, go.
SECTION XIV. LIGHT.
HAVING considered extension, so far as it is capable of raising ideas of greatness; color comes next under consideration. All colors depend on light. Light therefore ought previously to be examined ; and with it its opposite, darkness. With regard to light, to make it a cause capable of producing the sublime, it must be attended with some circumstances, besides its bare faculty of showing other objects. Mere light is too common a thing to make a strong impression on the mind, and without a strong impression noth ing can be sublime. But such a light as that of the sun, immediately exerted on the eye, as it overpowers the sense, is a very great idea. Light of an inferior strength to this, if it moves with great celerity, has the same power; for lightning is certainly productive of grandeur, which it owes chiefly to the extreme ve locity of its motion. A quick transition from light to darkness, or from darkness to light, has yet a greater effect. But darkness is more productive of sublime ideas than light. Our great poet was convinced of this; and indeed so full was he of this idea, so en tirely possessed with the power of a well-managed darkness, that in describing the appearance of the Deity, amidst that profusion of magnificent images, which the grandeur of his subject provokes him to
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pour outupon every side, he is far from forgetting the obscurity which surrounds the most incomprehensible of all beings, but
" With majesty of dark-ness round Circles his throne. "
And what is no less remarkable, our author had the secret of preserving this idea, even when he seemed to depart thegfarthest from when he describes the light and glory which flows from the Divine presence light which by its very excess converted into species of darkness -- _
" Dark with excessive liqht thy skirts appear. "
Here an idea not only poetical in high degree, but strictly and philosophically just. Extreme light,
overcoming the organs of sight, obliterates all ob jects, so as in its effect exactly to resemble darkness. After looking for some time at the sun, two black spots, the impression which leaves, seem to dance
before our eyes. Thus are two ideas as opposite as can be imagined reconciled in the extremes of both and both, in spite of their opposite nature, brought to concur in producing the sublime. And this not the only instance wherein the opposite extremes oper ate equally in favor of the sublime, which in all
things abhors mediocrity. _
N_ xv. LIGHT IN BUTLDING
AS the management of light matter of impor tance in architecture, worth inquiring, how far this remark applicable to building. think, then,
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that all edifices calculated to produce an idea of the _sublime, ought rather to be dark and gloomy, and this for two reasons ; the first that darkness itself
on other occasions known by experience to have greater effect on the passions than light. The second that to make an object very striking, we should
make as different as possible from the objects with which we have been immediately conversant; when therefore you enter building, you canhot pass into
greater light than you had in the open air; to go into one some few degrees less luminous, can make only trifling change; but to make the transition thoroughly striking, you ought to pass from the great est light, to as much darkness as consistent with the uses of architecture. At night the contrary rule will hold, but for the very same reason; and the more highly room then illuminated, the grander will the passion be.
SECTION XVI.
COLOR CONSIDERED AS PRODUCTIVE OF THE SUBLIME.
AMONG colors, such as are soft or cheerful (except perhaps a strong red, which cheerful) are unfit to
? An immense mountain cov ered with shining green turf, nothing, in this
respect, to one dark and gloomy; the cloudy sky more grand than the blue; and night more sublime and solemn than day. Therefore in historical paint ing, a gay or gaudy drapery can never have happy effect: and in buildings, when the highest degree of the sublime intended, the materials and ornaments ought neither to be white, nor green, nor yellow, nor
produce grand images.
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blue, nor of a pale red, nor violet, nor spotted, but of
sad and fuscous colors, as black, or brown, or deep
purple, and the like. Much of gilding, mosaics, paint ing, or statues, contribute but little to the sublime. This rule need not be put in practice, except where an uniform degree of the most striking sublimity is to be produced, and that in every particular; for it ought to be observed, that this melancholy kind of greatness, though it be certainly the highest, ought not to be studied in all sorts of edifices, where yet grandeur must be studied ; in such cases the sublim
must be drawn from the other sources; with strict caution however against anything light and ant; as nothing so effectually deadens the whole taste of the sublime.
SECTION XVII. SOUND AND LOUDNESS
THE eye not the only organ of sensation by which sublime passion may be produced. Sounds have
great power in these as in most other passions. do not mean words, because words do not affect simply
their sounds, but by means altogether different. Excessive loudness alone sufficient to overpower the soul, to suspend its action, and to fill with terror. The noise of vast cataracts, raging storms, thunder, or artillery, awakes great and awful sensation in the mind, though we can observe no nicety or artifice
those sorts of music. The shouting of multitudes
? has similar effect; and
the sound, so amazes and confounds the imagina tion, that, in this staggering and hurry of the mind,
by the sole strength of
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the best established tempers can scarcely forbear be ing borne down, and joining in the common cry, and common resolution of the crowd.
SECTION XV III. sunnmmnss.
A SUDDEN beginning, or sudden cessation of sound of any considerable force, has the same power. The attention is roused by this; and the faculties driven forward, as it were, on their guard. Whatever, either in sights or sounds, makes the transition from one extreme to the other easy, causes no terror, and con sequently can be no cause of greatness. In every thing sudden and unexpected, we are apt to start; that we have perception of danger, and our na ture rouses (us to guard against it. It may be ob served that single sound of some strength, though but of short duration, repeated after intervals, has
grand effect. Few things are more awful than the striking of great clock, when _the silence of the night prevents the attention from being too much
? The same may be said of single stroke on drum, repeated with pauses and of the succes sive firing of cannon at distance. All the effects mentioned in this section have causes very nearly alike.
SECTION XIX. INTERMITTING.
LOW, tremulous, intermitting sound, though it seems, in some respects, opposite to that just men
dissipated.
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tioned, is productive of the sublime. It is worth
while to examine this a little. The fact itself must . be determined by every man 9s own experience and reflection. I have already observed, that night * increases our terror, more perhaps than anything else; it is our nature, when we do not know what
may happen to us, to fear the worst that can hap pen; and hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible, that we often seek to be rid of at the hazard of certain mischief. Now some . 1ow, confused, uncer tain sounds, leave us in the same fearful anxiety con cerning their causes, that no light, or an uncertain light, does concerning the objects that surround us.
Quale per inccrtam lunam sub luce maligna Est iter in sylvis.
" A faint shadow of uncertain light, Like as lamp, whose life doth fade away; Or as the moon clothed with cloudy night
Doth show to him who walks in fear and great aff'right. " Sraxsan.
But light now appearing, and now leaving us, and so 0if and on, even more terrible than total darkness and sort of uncertain sounds are, when the neces sary dispositions concur, more alarming than total silence.
N XX. run CRIES or ANIMALS.
SUCH sounds as imitate the natural
voices of men, or any animals in pain or danger, are capable of conveying great ideas; unless be the well-known voice of some creature, on which we are used to look with contempt. The angry tones of wild
" Sect. 3.
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beasts are equally capable of causing a great and awful sensation.
Hinc cxaudiri gemitus, iraequc leonum
Vincla recusantu|n, ct sera sub nocte rudentum ; Sctigerique sues, _atque in prmscpibus ursi
S? BvlI'8 ; ct formw magnorum ululare lupornm.
It might seem that these modulations of sound carry some connection with the nature of the things they represent, and are not merely arbitrary ; because the natural cries of all animals, even of those animals with whom we have not been acquainted, never fail to make themselves sufficiently understood ; this can not be said of language. The modifications of sound, which may be productive of the sublime, are almost infinite. Those I have mentioned are only a few instances to show on what principles they are all
? built.
_
SECTION XXI.
SMELL AND TASTE. -- BITTERS AND srnuCmIzs.
SMELLS and tastes have some share too in ideas of greatness; but it is a small one", weak in its nature, and confined in its operations. I shall only ob serve that no smells or tastes can produce a grand sensation, except excessive bitters, and 'intolerable stenches. It is true that these affections of the smell and taste, when they are in their full force, and lean directly upon the sensory, are simply painful, and accompanied with no_sort of delight; but when they are moderated, as in a description or narrative, they become sources of the sublime, as genuine as any other, and upon the very same principle of a moder
ated pain. " A cup of bitterness " ; " to drain the bit
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163
ter cup of fortune " ; " the bitter apples of Sodom " ; these are all ideas suitable to a sublime description. Nor is this passage of Vi1gil without sublimity, where the stench of the vapor in Albunea conspires so hap pily with the sacred horror and gloominess of that
prophetic forest:
At i-ex sollicitus monstris oracula Fauni
Fatidici genitoris adit, lucosque sub alta Consulit Albunca, nemorum qum maxima sacro Fonte sonar; sazvamque exhalet apaca Illephitim.
In the sixth book, and in a very sublime description, the poisonous exhalation of Acheron is not forgot ten, nor does it at all disagree with the other images amongst which it is introduced:
Spelunca alta fuit, vastoque immanis hiatu
Scrupea, tuta la/:u nfgro, nemornmque tenebris; Quam super hand ulla: poterunt impnne volantes Tenderc itcr pennis : talis sese halitus atria
Faucibus eflizndens supera ad convezraferebat.
I have added these examples, because some friends, for whose judgment I have great deference, were of opinion that if the sentiment stood nakedly by itself, it would be subject, at first view, to burlesque and ridicule; but this I imagine would principally arise from considering the bitterness and stench in com pany with mean and contemptible ideas, with which it must be owned they are often united ; such an union degrades the sublime in all other instances as well as in those. But it is one of the tests by which the sub limity of an image is to be tried, not whether it be comes mean when associated with mean ideas; but whether, when united with images of an allowed grandeur, the whole composition is supported with dignity. Things which are terrible are always great;
? ? ? ? "'1 164 on THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
but when things possess disagreeable qualities, or such as have indeed some degree of danger, but of a danger easily overcome, they are merely odious; as toads and spiders.
SECTION XXII. FEELING. --PAIN.
OF feeling little more can be said than that the idea of bodily pain, in all the modes and degrees of labor, pain, anguish, torment, is productive of the sublime; and nothing else in this sense can produce it. I need not give here any fresh instances, as those given in the former sections abundantly illustrate a remark that, in reality, wants only an attention to nature, to be made by everybody.
Having thus run through the causes of the sublime with reference to all the senses, my first observation (Sect. 7) will be found very nearly true; that the sublime is an idea belonging to self-preservation ; that it is, therefore, one of the most affecting we have; that its strongest emotion is an emotion of dis tress; and that no pleasure* from a positive cause belongs to it. Numberless examples, besides those mentioned, might be brought in support of these truths, and many perhaps useful consequences drawn from them--
? 1
Sed fugit interea, fugit irrevocabile tempus, Singula dum capti circumvectamur amore.
* Vide Part I. sect. 6.
? ? ? ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
PART III.
SECTION I. or BEAUTY.
I65
Ir is my design to consider beauty as distinguished from the sublime; and, in the course of the inquiry, to examine how far it is consistent with it. But pre
vious to this, we must take a short review of the opin ions already entertained of this quality; which I think are hardly to be reduced to any fixed princi ples ; because men are used to talk of beauty in a figurative manner, that is to say, in a manner ex
tremely uncertain, and indeterminate. By beauty, I mean that quality, or those _qualities in bodies, by which they cause love, or some passion similar to it. I confine this definition to the merely sensible quali ties of things, for the sake of preserving the utmost simplicity in a subject, which must always distract us whenever we take in those various causes of sympa thy which attach us to any persons or things from secondary considerations, and not from the direct force which they have merely on being viewed. I likewise distinguish love, (by which I mean that sat isfaction which arises to the mind upon contemplating anything beautiful, of whatsoever nature it may be,) from desire or lust; which is an energy of the mind, that hurries us on to the possession of certain objects, that do not affect us as they are beautiful, but by means altogether different. We shall have a strong desire for a woman of no remarkable beauty; whilst the greatest beauty in men, or in other animals,
_
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though it causes love, yet excites nothing at all of desire. Which shows that beauty, and the passion caused by beauty, which I call love, is different from desire, though desire may sometimes operate along with it ; but it is to this latter that we must attribute those violent and tempestuous passions, and the con sequent emotions of the body which attend what is called love in some of its ordinary acceptations, and not to the effects of beauty merely as it is such.
SECTION II.
? it is not excluded from grand descrip tions and similitudes. Thus we are affected by strength, which is natural power. The power which arises from institution in kings and commanders, has the same connection with terror. Sovereigns are fre quently addressed with the title of dread majesty. And it may be observed, that young persons, little acquainted with the world, and who have not been used to approach men in power, are commonly struck with an awe whichItakes away the free use of their
despicable;
faculties. When
prepared my
seat in the street,
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(says J0b,) the young men saw me, and hid themselves. Indeed so natural is this timidity with regard to power, and so strongly does it inhere in our consti tution, that very few are able to conquer but by mixing much in the business of the great world, or by using no small violence to their natural disposi tions. know some people are of opinion, that no awe, no degree of terror, accompanies the idea of power; and have hazarded to affirm, that we can
the idea of God himself without any such emotion. purposely avoided,'when first con sidered this subject, to introduce the idea of that
contemplate
? and tremendous Being, as an example in an argument so light as this; though frequently oc curred to me, not as an objection to, but as strong confirmation of, my notions in this matter.
in what am going to say, shall avoid presumption, where almost impossible for any mortal to speak with strict propriety. say then, that whilst we con sider the Godhead merely as he an object of the understanding, which forms complex idea of power. wisdom, justice, goodness, all stretched to degree far exceeding the bounds of our comprehension, whilst we consider the divinity in this refined and ab stracted light, the imagination and passions are little or nothing affected. But because we are bound,
the condition of our nature, to ascend to these pure and intellectual ideas, through the medium of sensi ble images, and to judge of these divine qualities by their evident acts and exertions, becomes extremely hard to disentangle our idea of the cause from the effect by which we are led to know it. Thus, when we contemplate the Deity, his attributes and their operation, coming united on the mind, form sort of
great
hope,
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sensible image, and as such are capable of affecting the imagination. Now, though in a just idea of the
none of his attributes are predomi nant, yet, to our imagination, his power is. by far the most striking. Some reflection, some comparing, is necessary to satisfy us of his wisdom, his justice, and his goodness. To be struck with his power, it is only necessary that we should open our eyes. But whilst
Deity, perhaps
we contemplate so vast an object, under the arm, as it were, of almighty power, and invested upon every side with omnipreseuce, we shrink into the minute ness of our own nature, and are, in a manner, anni hilated before him. And though a consideration of his other attributes may relieve, in some measure, our apprehensions; yet no conviction of the justice with which it is exercised, nor the mercy with which it is tempered, can wholly remove the terror that'nat urally arises from a' force which nothing can with stand. If we rejoice, we rejoice with trembling; and even whilst we are receiving benefits, we cannot but shudder at a power which can confer benefits of such mighty importance. When the prophet David con templated the wonders of wisdom and power which are displayed in the economy of man, he seems to be struck with a sort of divine hIorror, and cries out,
looks upon it as the last effort of philosophical forti tude, to behold without terror and amazement, this immense and glorious fabric of the universe:
Huuc solem, et stellas, et decedcntia eertis Tempura momentis, sunt qui formidine nulla Imbuti speetent.
Lucretius is a poet not to be suspected of giving way
? made! An heathen poet has a sentiment of a similar nature; Horace
fearfully and wonderfully am
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to superstitious terrors; yet, when he supposes the whole mechanism of nature laid open by the master of his philosophy, his transport on this magnificent view, which he 11as represented in the colors of such bold and lively poetry, is overcast with a shade of secret dread and horror :
His ibi me rebus qumdam divina voluptas Percipit, atque horror; quod sic natura,tua vi Tam manifests. patens, ex omni partc retecta est.
But the Scripture alone can supply ideas answerable
to the majesty of this subject. In the
wherever God is represented as appearing or speak ing, everything terrible in nature is called up to heighten the awe and solemnity of the Divine pres ence. The Psalms, and the prophetical books, are crowded with instances of this kind. The earth shook, (says the Psalmist,) the heavens also dropped at the presence of the Lord. And what is remarkable, the painting preserves the same character, not only when he is supposed descending to take vengeance upon the wicked, but even when he exerts the like pleni tude of power in acts of beneficence to mankind.
Tremble, thou earth . ' at the presence of the Lord; at the presence of the God of Jacob ; which turned the rock into standing water, the flint into a fountain of waters . ' It were endless to enumerate all the passages, both in the sacred and profane writers, which establish the general sentiment of mankind, concerning the insep arable 'l1nl0n of a sacred and reverential awe, with our ideas of the divinity. Hence the common max im, Primus in orbe deos fecit timer. This maxim may be, as I believe it is, false with regard to the origin of religion. The maker of the maxim saw how
I 1
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? inseparable
these ideas were, without considering
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that the notion of some great power must be always precedent to our dread of it. But this dread must necessarily follow the idea of such a power, when it is once excited in the mind. It is on this principle that true religion has, and must have, so large a mix ture of salutary fear; and that false religions have generally nothing else but fear to support them. Be fore the Ohristian religion had, as it were, human ized the idea of the Divinity, and brought it somewhat nearer to us, there was very little said of the love of God. The followers of Plato have something of
and only something; the other writers of pagan
antiquity, whether poets or philosophers, nothing at all. And they who consider with what infinite atten
tion, by what disregard of every perishable object, through what long habits of piety and contemplation that any man able to attain an entire love and
devotion to the Deity, will easily perceive that
not the first, the most natural, and the most striking effect which proceeds from that idea. Thus we have traced power through its several gradations unto the highest of all, where our imagination finally lost and we find terror, quite throughout the progress, its inseparable companion, and growing along with
as far as We can possibly trace them. Now, as power undoubtedly capital source of the sublime, this will point out evidently from whence its energy
derived, and to what class of ideas we ought to unite it.
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SECTION VL PRIVATION.
ALL general privations are great, because they are all terrible; vacuity, darkness, solitude, and silence. With what a fire of imagination, yet with what ss verity of judgment, has Virgil amassed all these cir cumstances, where he knows that all the images of a tremendous dignity ought to be united at the mouth of hell! Where, before he unlocks the se crets of the great deep, he seems to be seized with a religious horror, and to retire astonished at the bold
? ness of his own design:
'
Dii, quibus imperinm est animarum, umbraeque silentes! Et Chaos, et Phlegethon ! loca nocte silentia late!
Sit mihi fas audita loqui ! sit numine vestro
Pandere res alta term et caligine mersasl
Ibant obscuri, sola sub nocte, per mnbram, Perque domos Ditis vacuas, et inania regna.
" Ye subterraneous gods ! whose awful sway The gliding ghosts, and silent shades obey :
O Chaos hoarl and Phlegethon profound ! Whose solemn empire stretches wide around ; Give me, ye great, tremendous powers, to tell Of scenes and wonders in the depth of hell; Give me your mighty secrets to display
From those black realms of darkness to the day. "
PITT.
"Obscurethey went through dreary shades that led Along the waste dominions of the dead. "
Dnrnsx.
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SECTION VII. vasrmzss.
GREArN1<:ss* of dimension is a powerful cause of the sublime. This is too evident, and the observa tion too common, to need any illustration; it is not so common to consider in what ways greatness of dimension, vastness of 'extent or quantity, has the most striking effect. For, certainly, there are ways and modes wherein the same quantity of extension shall produce greater effects than it is found to do in others. Extension is either in length, height, or
Of these the length strikes least; a hundred yards of even ground will never work such an effect as a tower a hundred yards high, or a rock or moun tain of that altitude. I am apt to imagine, likewise, that height is less grand than depth; and that we are more struck at looking down from a precipice, than looking up at an object of equal height ; but of that I am not very positive. A perpendicular has more force in forming the sublime, than an inclined plane, and the effects of a rugged and broken surface seem stronger than where it is smooth and polished. It would carry us out of our way to enter in this place into the cause of these appearances, but certain it is they afford a large and fruitful field of specula tion. However, it may not be amiss to add to these remarks upommagnitnde, that as the great extreme of dimension is sublime, so the last extreme of little ness is in some measure sublime likewise; when we attend to the infinite divisibility of matter, when we pursue animal life into these excessively small, and
* Part IV. sect. 9.
? depth.
? ? ? "I 148 on THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
yet organized beings, that escape the nicest inquisi tion of the sense ; when we push our discoveries yet downward, and consider those creatures so many de grees yet smaller, and the still diminishing scale of existence, in tracing which the imagination is lost as well as the sense; we become amazed and con founded at the wonders of minuteness; nor can we distinguish in its effect this extreme of littleness from the vast itself. For division must be infinite as well as addition; because the idea of a perfect unity can no more be arrived at, than that of a complete whole, to which nothing may be added.
SECTION VIII. INFINITY.
ANOTHER source of the sublime is infinity ; if it does not rather belong to the last. Infinity has a tendency to fill the mind with that sort of delightful horror, which is the most genuine effect, and truest test of the sublime. There are scarce any things which can become the objects of our senses, that are really and in their own nature infinite. But the eye not being able to perceive the bounds of many things, they seem to be infinite, and they produce the same effects as if they were really so. We are deceived in the like manner, if the parts of some large object are so continued to any indefinite number, that the imag ination meets no check which may hinder its extend
ing them at pleasure.
Whenever we repeat any idea frequently, the mind,
by a sort of mechanism, repeats it long after the first cause has ceased to operate. * After whirling about,
* Part IV. sect. 11.
? _
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when we sit down, the objects about us still seem to whirl. After a long succession of noises, as the fall of waters, or the beating of forge-hammers, the ham mers beat and the waters roar in the imagination long after the first sounds have ceased to affect it; and they die away at last by gradations which are scarcely perceptible. Ifyou hold up a straight pole, with your eye to one end, it will seem extended to a
almost incredible? " Place a number of uni form and equi-distant marks on this pole, they will
cause the same deception, and seem multiplied with out end. The senses, strongly affected in 'some one manner, cannot quickly change their tenor, or adapt themselves to other things ; but they continue in their old channel until the strength of the first mover decays. This is the reason of an appearance very frequent in madmen ; that_they remain whole days and nights, sometimes whole years, in the constant repetition of some remark, some complaint, or song; which hav ing struck powerfully on their disordered imagination in the beginning of their frenzy, every repetition reinforces it with new strength, and the hurry of their spirits, unrestrained by the curb of reason, continues it to the end of their lives.
length
? SECTION SUCCESSION AND UNIFORMITY.
SUccEssIoN and uniformity of parts are what con stitute the artificial infinite. 1. Succession ; which is requisite that the parts may be continued so long and in such a direction, as by their frequent impulses on
* Part IV. sect. 13.
Ix.
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the sense to impress the imagination with an idea of their progress beyond their actual limits. 2. Uni formity; because, if the figures of the parts should be changed, the imagination at every change finds a check ; you are presented at every alteration with the termination of one idea, and the beginning of an other ; by which means it becomes impossible to con tinue that uninterrupted progression, which alone can stamp on bounded objects the character of infinity. It is in this kind of artificial infinity, I believe, we ought to look for the cause why a rotund has such a noble effect. * For in a rotund, whether it be a build ing or a plantation, you can nowhere fix a boun dary; turn which way you will, the same object still seems to continue, and the imagination has no rest. But the parts must be uniform, as well as circularly
to give this figure its full. force; because any difference, whether it be in the disposition,'or in the figure, or even in the color of the parts, is highly prejudicial to the idea of infinity, which every change must check and interrupt, at every alteration com mencing a new series. On the same principles of succession and uniformity, the grand appearance of the ancient heathen temples, which were generally oblong forms, with a range of uniform pillars on every side, will be easily accounted for. From the same cause also may be derived the grand effect of the aisles in many of our own old cathedrals. The form of a cross used in some churches seems to me not so eligible as the parallelogram of the ancients ; at least, I imagine it is not so proper for the outside. For,
* Mr. Addison, in the Spectators concerning the pleasures of the imagination, thinks it is because in the rotund at one glance you see
do not imagine to be the real cause.
? disposed,
half the building. This I
? ? ? on THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL. 151
supposing the arms of the cross every way equal, if you stand in a direction parallel to any of the side walls, or colonnades, instead of a deception that makes the building more extended than it is, you are cut oif from a considerable part (two thirds) of its actual length; and, to prevent all possibility of
progression,the arms of the cross taking a new direc tion, make a right angle with the beam, and thereby wholly turn the imagination from the repetition of the former idea. Or suppose the spectator placed where he may take a direct view of such a building, what will be the consequence? the necessary conse quence will be, that a good part of the basis of each angle formed by the intersection of the arms of the cross, must be inevitably lost; the whole must of course assume a broken, unconnected fig1u'e; the lights must be unequal, here strong, and there weak; without that noble gradation which the per spective always etfects on parts disposed uninterrupt edly in a right line. Some or all of these objections will lie against every figure of a cross, in whatever view you take it. I exemplified them in the Greek cross, in which these faults appear the most strongly; but they appear in some degree in all sorts of crosses. Indeed, there is nothing more prejudicial to the grandeur of buildings than to abound in angles; a fault obvious in many; and owing to an inordinate thirst for variety, which, whenever it prevails, is
sure to leave very little true taste.
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SECTION X. MAG'NITUDE. IN BUILDING.
T0 the sublime in building, greatness of dimension seems requisite; for on a few parts, and those small, the imagination cannot rise to any idea of infinity. N0 greatness in the manner can effectually compen sate for the want of proper dimensions. There is no danger of drawing men into extravagant designs by this rule; it carries its own caution along with it. Because too great a length in buildings destroys the purpose of greatness, which it was intended to pro mote; the perspective will lessen it in height as it gains in length; and will bring it at last to a point; turning the whole figure into a sort of triangle, the poorest in its effect of almost any figure that can be presented to the eye. I have ever observed, that col onnades and avenues of trees of a moderate length were, without comparison, far grander than when they were suffered to run to immense distances. A true artist should put a generous deceit 0n the spec tators, and effect the noblest designs by easy meth ods. Designs that are vast only by their dimensions are always the sign of a common and low imagina tion. N0 work of art can be great, but as it deceives ; to be otherwise is the prerogative of nature only. A good eye will fix the medium betwixt an excessive length or height (for the same objection lies against both), and a short or broken quantity: and perhaps it might be ascertained to a tolerable degree of ex
actness, if it was my purpose to descend far into the "
particulars of any art.
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SECTION XI. INFINITY IN PLEASING OBJECTS.
INFINITY, though of another kind, causes much of 0iu' pleasure in agreeable, as well as of our delight in sublime images. The spring is the pleasantest of the seasons ; and the young of most animals, though far from being completely fashioned, afford a more agree able sensation than the full-grown; because the imagi nation is entertained with the promise of something more, and does not acquiesce in the present object of the sense. In unfinished sketches of drawing, I have often seen something which pleased me beyond the best finishing; and this I believe proceeds from the cause I have just now assigned.
SECTION XII. DIFFICULTY.
ANOTHER source of greatness is diflicultg/. * When any work seems to have required immense force and labor to effect the idea grand. Stonehenge, neither for disposition nor ornament, has anything admirable; but those huge rude masses of stone, set on end, and piled each on other, turn the mind on the immense force necessary for such work.
Nay, the rudeness of the work increases this cause of grandeur, as excludes the idea of art and contriv ance; for dexterity produces another sort of effect, which different enough from this.
* Part IV. sect. 6.
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SE CTION XIII. MAGNIFICENCE.
MAcNIFICENCE is likewise a source of the sublime. A great profusion of things, which are splendid or valuable in themselves, is magnificent. The starry heaven, though it occurs so very frequently to our view never fails to excite an idea of grandeur. This cannot be owing to the stars themselves, separately considered. The number is certainly the cause. The apparent disorder augments the grandeur, for the ap
of care is highly contrary to our ideas of magnificence. Besides, the stars lie in such appar ent confusion, as makes it impossible on ordinary oc casions to reckon them. This gives them the advan tage of a sort. of infinity. In works of art, this kind of grandeur which consists in multitude, is to be very cautiously admitted; because a profusion of excel lent things is not to be attained, or with too much difiiculty; and because in many cases this splendid confusion would destroy all use, which shou. ld be at tended to in most of the works of art with the greatest care; besides, it is to be considered, that unless you can produce an appearance of infinity by your disor der, you will have disorder only without magnificence. There are, however, a sort of fireworks, and some other things, that in this way succeed well, and are truly grand. There are also many descriptions in
the poets and orators, which owe their sublimity to a richness and profusion of images, in which the mind is so dazzled as to make it impossible to attend to that exact coherence and agreement of the allusions,I which we should require on every other occasion.
? pearance
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do not now remember a more -striking example of this, than the description which is given of the king's
army in the play of Henry IV.
"All furnished, all in arms, All plumed like ostriches that with the wind
Baited like eagles having lately bathed:
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun in midsummer, Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry with his beaver on
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury; And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus. "
In that excellent book, so remarkable for the vi vacity of its descriptions, as well as the solidity and penetration of its sentences, the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach, there is a noble panegyric on the high priest Simon the son of Onias ; and it is a very fine
example of the point before us : --
How was he honored in the midst of the people, in his
coming out of the sanctuary! He was as the morning star in the midst of a cloud, and as the moon at the full ;_ as the sun shining upon the temple of the llfost
lfigh, and as the rainbow giving light in the bright clouds: and as the flower of roses in the spring of the
year, as lilies by the rivers of waters, and as the frank inoense-tree in summer; as fire and incense in the cen ser, and as a vessel of gold set with precious stones ; as a_ fair olive-tree budding forth fruit, and as a cypress which groweth up to the clouds. When he put on the robe of honor, and was clothed with the perfection
of glory, when he went up to the holy altar, he made the garment of holiness honorable. He himself stood by the hearth of the altar, compassed with his brethren round
:
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about; as a young cedar in Libanus, and as palm-trees compassed they him about. So were all the sons of Aaron in their glory, and the oblations of the Lord in their hands, go.
SECTION XIV. LIGHT.
HAVING considered extension, so far as it is capable of raising ideas of greatness; color comes next under consideration. All colors depend on light. Light therefore ought previously to be examined ; and with it its opposite, darkness. With regard to light, to make it a cause capable of producing the sublime, it must be attended with some circumstances, besides its bare faculty of showing other objects. Mere light is too common a thing to make a strong impression on the mind, and without a strong impression noth ing can be sublime. But such a light as that of the sun, immediately exerted on the eye, as it overpowers the sense, is a very great idea. Light of an inferior strength to this, if it moves with great celerity, has the same power; for lightning is certainly productive of grandeur, which it owes chiefly to the extreme ve locity of its motion. A quick transition from light to darkness, or from darkness to light, has yet a greater effect. But darkness is more productive of sublime ideas than light. Our great poet was convinced of this; and indeed so full was he of this idea, so en tirely possessed with the power of a well-managed darkness, that in describing the appearance of the Deity, amidst that profusion of magnificent images, which the grandeur of his subject provokes him to
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pour outupon every side, he is far from forgetting the obscurity which surrounds the most incomprehensible of all beings, but
" With majesty of dark-ness round Circles his throne. "
And what is no less remarkable, our author had the secret of preserving this idea, even when he seemed to depart thegfarthest from when he describes the light and glory which flows from the Divine presence light which by its very excess converted into species of darkness -- _
" Dark with excessive liqht thy skirts appear. "
Here an idea not only poetical in high degree, but strictly and philosophically just. Extreme light,
overcoming the organs of sight, obliterates all ob jects, so as in its effect exactly to resemble darkness. After looking for some time at the sun, two black spots, the impression which leaves, seem to dance
before our eyes. Thus are two ideas as opposite as can be imagined reconciled in the extremes of both and both, in spite of their opposite nature, brought to concur in producing the sublime. And this not the only instance wherein the opposite extremes oper ate equally in favor of the sublime, which in all
things abhors mediocrity. _
N_ xv. LIGHT IN BUTLDING
AS the management of light matter of impor tance in architecture, worth inquiring, how far this remark applicable to building. think, then,
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that all edifices calculated to produce an idea of the _sublime, ought rather to be dark and gloomy, and this for two reasons ; the first that darkness itself
on other occasions known by experience to have greater effect on the passions than light. The second that to make an object very striking, we should
make as different as possible from the objects with which we have been immediately conversant; when therefore you enter building, you canhot pass into
greater light than you had in the open air; to go into one some few degrees less luminous, can make only trifling change; but to make the transition thoroughly striking, you ought to pass from the great est light, to as much darkness as consistent with the uses of architecture. At night the contrary rule will hold, but for the very same reason; and the more highly room then illuminated, the grander will the passion be.
SECTION XVI.
COLOR CONSIDERED AS PRODUCTIVE OF THE SUBLIME.
AMONG colors, such as are soft or cheerful (except perhaps a strong red, which cheerful) are unfit to
? An immense mountain cov ered with shining green turf, nothing, in this
respect, to one dark and gloomy; the cloudy sky more grand than the blue; and night more sublime and solemn than day. Therefore in historical paint ing, a gay or gaudy drapery can never have happy effect: and in buildings, when the highest degree of the sublime intended, the materials and ornaments ought neither to be white, nor green, nor yellow, nor
produce grand images.
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blue, nor of a pale red, nor violet, nor spotted, but of
sad and fuscous colors, as black, or brown, or deep
purple, and the like. Much of gilding, mosaics, paint ing, or statues, contribute but little to the sublime. This rule need not be put in practice, except where an uniform degree of the most striking sublimity is to be produced, and that in every particular; for it ought to be observed, that this melancholy kind of greatness, though it be certainly the highest, ought not to be studied in all sorts of edifices, where yet grandeur must be studied ; in such cases the sublim
must be drawn from the other sources; with strict caution however against anything light and ant; as nothing so effectually deadens the whole taste of the sublime.
SECTION XVII. SOUND AND LOUDNESS
THE eye not the only organ of sensation by which sublime passion may be produced. Sounds have
great power in these as in most other passions. do not mean words, because words do not affect simply
their sounds, but by means altogether different. Excessive loudness alone sufficient to overpower the soul, to suspend its action, and to fill with terror. The noise of vast cataracts, raging storms, thunder, or artillery, awakes great and awful sensation in the mind, though we can observe no nicety or artifice
those sorts of music. The shouting of multitudes
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the sound, so amazes and confounds the imagina tion, that, in this staggering and hurry of the mind,
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the best established tempers can scarcely forbear be ing borne down, and joining in the common cry, and common resolution of the crowd.
SECTION XV III. sunnmmnss.
A SUDDEN beginning, or sudden cessation of sound of any considerable force, has the same power. The attention is roused by this; and the faculties driven forward, as it were, on their guard. Whatever, either in sights or sounds, makes the transition from one extreme to the other easy, causes no terror, and con sequently can be no cause of greatness. In every thing sudden and unexpected, we are apt to start; that we have perception of danger, and our na ture rouses (us to guard against it. It may be ob served that single sound of some strength, though but of short duration, repeated after intervals, has
grand effect. Few things are more awful than the striking of great clock, when _the silence of the night prevents the attention from being too much
? The same may be said of single stroke on drum, repeated with pauses and of the succes sive firing of cannon at distance. All the effects mentioned in this section have causes very nearly alike.
SECTION XIX. INTERMITTING.
LOW, tremulous, intermitting sound, though it seems, in some respects, opposite to that just men
dissipated.
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tioned, is productive of the sublime. It is worth
while to examine this a little. The fact itself must . be determined by every man 9s own experience and reflection. I have already observed, that night * increases our terror, more perhaps than anything else; it is our nature, when we do not know what
may happen to us, to fear the worst that can hap pen; and hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible, that we often seek to be rid of at the hazard of certain mischief. Now some . 1ow, confused, uncer tain sounds, leave us in the same fearful anxiety con cerning their causes, that no light, or an uncertain light, does concerning the objects that surround us.
Quale per inccrtam lunam sub luce maligna Est iter in sylvis.
" A faint shadow of uncertain light, Like as lamp, whose life doth fade away; Or as the moon clothed with cloudy night
Doth show to him who walks in fear and great aff'right. " Sraxsan.
But light now appearing, and now leaving us, and so 0if and on, even more terrible than total darkness and sort of uncertain sounds are, when the neces sary dispositions concur, more alarming than total silence.
N XX. run CRIES or ANIMALS.
SUCH sounds as imitate the natural
voices of men, or any animals in pain or danger, are capable of conveying great ideas; unless be the well-known voice of some creature, on which we are used to look with contempt. The angry tones of wild
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beasts are equally capable of causing a great and awful sensation.
Hinc cxaudiri gemitus, iraequc leonum
Vincla recusantu|n, ct sera sub nocte rudentum ; Sctigerique sues, _atque in prmscpibus ursi
S? BvlI'8 ; ct formw magnorum ululare lupornm.
It might seem that these modulations of sound carry some connection with the nature of the things they represent, and are not merely arbitrary ; because the natural cries of all animals, even of those animals with whom we have not been acquainted, never fail to make themselves sufficiently understood ; this can not be said of language. The modifications of sound, which may be productive of the sublime, are almost infinite. Those I have mentioned are only a few instances to show on what principles they are all
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SECTION XXI.
SMELL AND TASTE. -- BITTERS AND srnuCmIzs.
SMELLS and tastes have some share too in ideas of greatness; but it is a small one", weak in its nature, and confined in its operations. I shall only ob serve that no smells or tastes can produce a grand sensation, except excessive bitters, and 'intolerable stenches. It is true that these affections of the smell and taste, when they are in their full force, and lean directly upon the sensory, are simply painful, and accompanied with no_sort of delight; but when they are moderated, as in a description or narrative, they become sources of the sublime, as genuine as any other, and upon the very same principle of a moder
ated pain. " A cup of bitterness " ; " to drain the bit
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ter cup of fortune " ; " the bitter apples of Sodom " ; these are all ideas suitable to a sublime description. Nor is this passage of Vi1gil without sublimity, where the stench of the vapor in Albunea conspires so hap pily with the sacred horror and gloominess of that
prophetic forest:
At i-ex sollicitus monstris oracula Fauni
Fatidici genitoris adit, lucosque sub alta Consulit Albunca, nemorum qum maxima sacro Fonte sonar; sazvamque exhalet apaca Illephitim.
In the sixth book, and in a very sublime description, the poisonous exhalation of Acheron is not forgot ten, nor does it at all disagree with the other images amongst which it is introduced:
Spelunca alta fuit, vastoque immanis hiatu
Scrupea, tuta la/:u nfgro, nemornmque tenebris; Quam super hand ulla: poterunt impnne volantes Tenderc itcr pennis : talis sese halitus atria
Faucibus eflizndens supera ad convezraferebat.
I have added these examples, because some friends, for whose judgment I have great deference, were of opinion that if the sentiment stood nakedly by itself, it would be subject, at first view, to burlesque and ridicule; but this I imagine would principally arise from considering the bitterness and stench in com pany with mean and contemptible ideas, with which it must be owned they are often united ; such an union degrades the sublime in all other instances as well as in those. But it is one of the tests by which the sub limity of an image is to be tried, not whether it be comes mean when associated with mean ideas; but whether, when united with images of an allowed grandeur, the whole composition is supported with dignity. Things which are terrible are always great;
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but when things possess disagreeable qualities, or such as have indeed some degree of danger, but of a danger easily overcome, they are merely odious; as toads and spiders.
SECTION XXII. FEELING. --PAIN.
OF feeling little more can be said than that the idea of bodily pain, in all the modes and degrees of labor, pain, anguish, torment, is productive of the sublime; and nothing else in this sense can produce it. I need not give here any fresh instances, as those given in the former sections abundantly illustrate a remark that, in reality, wants only an attention to nature, to be made by everybody.
Having thus run through the causes of the sublime with reference to all the senses, my first observation (Sect. 7) will be found very nearly true; that the sublime is an idea belonging to self-preservation ; that it is, therefore, one of the most affecting we have; that its strongest emotion is an emotion of dis tress; and that no pleasure* from a positive cause belongs to it. Numberless examples, besides those mentioned, might be brought in support of these truths, and many perhaps useful consequences drawn from them--
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Sed fugit interea, fugit irrevocabile tempus, Singula dum capti circumvectamur amore.
* Vide Part I. sect. 6.
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PART III.
SECTION I. or BEAUTY.
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Ir is my design to consider beauty as distinguished from the sublime; and, in the course of the inquiry, to examine how far it is consistent with it. But pre
vious to this, we must take a short review of the opin ions already entertained of this quality; which I think are hardly to be reduced to any fixed princi ples ; because men are used to talk of beauty in a figurative manner, that is to say, in a manner ex
tremely uncertain, and indeterminate. By beauty, I mean that quality, or those _qualities in bodies, by which they cause love, or some passion similar to it. I confine this definition to the merely sensible quali ties of things, for the sake of preserving the utmost simplicity in a subject, which must always distract us whenever we take in those various causes of sympa thy which attach us to any persons or things from secondary considerations, and not from the direct force which they have merely on being viewed. I likewise distinguish love, (by which I mean that sat isfaction which arises to the mind upon contemplating anything beautiful, of whatsoever nature it may be,) from desire or lust; which is an energy of the mind, that hurries us on to the possession of certain objects, that do not affect us as they are beautiful, but by means altogether different. We shall have a strong desire for a woman of no remarkable beauty; whilst the greatest beauty in men, or in other animals,
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though it causes love, yet excites nothing at all of desire. Which shows that beauty, and the passion caused by beauty, which I call love, is different from desire, though desire may sometimes operate along with it ; but it is to this latter that we must attribute those violent and tempestuous passions, and the con sequent emotions of the body which attend what is called love in some of its ordinary acceptations, and not to the effects of beauty merely as it is such.
SECTION II.
