Yet not unconſcious.] Lucret. l. 2. v. 921. Nec me animi fallit quam ſint obſcura, ſed acri Percuſſit thyrſo laudis ſpes magna meum cor, Et ſimul incuſſit ſuavem mi in pectus amorem Muſarum; quo nunc inſtinctus mente vigenti Avia Piëridum peragro loca, nullius ante Trita ſolo: juvat integros accedere fonteis, Atque haurire: juvatque novos diſcerpere flores; Inſignem meo capiti petere inde coronam, Unde prius nulli velarint tempora Muſae.

As Memnon's marble harp.] The ſtatue of Memnon, ſo famous in antiquity, ſtood in the temple of Serapis at Thebes, one of the great cities of old Egypt. It was of a very hard, iron-like ſtone, and, according to Juvenal, held in its hand a lyre, which being touch'd by the ſun-beams, emitted a diſtinct and agreeable ſound. Tacitus mentions it as one of the principal curioſities which Germanicus took notice of in his journey through Egypt,; and Strabo affirms that he, with many others, heard it.

Say, why was man, &c.] In apologizing for the frequent negligence of the ſublimeſt authors of Greece, Thoſe god-like geniuſes, ſays Longinus, were wellaſſured that nature had not intended man for a low-ſpirited or ignoble being: but bringing us into life and the midſt of this wide univerſe, as before a multitude aſſembled at ſome heroic ſolemnity that we might be ſpectators of all her magnificence, and candidates high in emulation for the prize of glory; ſhe has therefore implanted in our ſouls an inextinguiſhable love of every thing great and exalted, of every thing which appears divine beyond our comprehenſion. Whence it comes to paſs, that even the whole world is not an object ſufficient for the depth and rapidity of human imagination, which often ſallies forth beyond the limits of all that ſurrounds us. Let any man caſt his eye through the whole circle of our exiſtence, and conſider how eſpecially it abounds in excellent and grand objects, he will ſoon acknowledge for what injoyments and purſuits we were deſtined. Thus by the very propenſity of nature we are led to admire, not little ſprings or ſhallow rivulets, however clear and delicious, but the Nile, the Rhine, the Danube, and much more than all, the ocean, &c. Dionyſ. Longin. de Sublim. §. xxxiv.

Th' empyreal waſte.] Ne ſe peut-il point qu'il y a un grand eſpace audelà de la region des etoiles? Que ce ſoit le ciel empyreé, ou non, toûjours cet eſpace immenſe qui environne toute cette region, pourra être rempli de bonheur & de gloire. Il pourre être conçu comme l'ocean, où ſe rendent les fleuves de toutes les creatures bienheureuſes, quand elles ſeront venues à leur perfection dans le ſyſtême des etoiles. Leibnitz dans la Theodicee, part. i. §. 19.

Whoſe unfading light, &c.] It was a notion of the great M. Huygens, that there may be fix'd ſtars at ſuch a diſtance from our ſolar ſyſtem, as that their light ſhall not have had time to reach us, even from the creation of the world to this day.

—the neglect Of all familiar proſpects, &c.] It is here ſaid, that in conſequence of the love of novelty, objects which at firſt were highly delightful to the mind, loſe that effect by repeated attention to them. But the inſtance of habit is oppos'd to this obſervation; for there, objects at firſt diſtaſteful are in time render'd intirely agreeable by repeated attention.

The difficulty in this caſe will be remov'd, if we conſider, that when objects at firſt agreeable, loſe that influence by frequently recurring, the mind is wholly paſſive and the perception involuntary; but habit, on the other hand. generally ſuppoſes choice and activity accompanying it: ſo that the pleaſure ariſes here not from the object, but from the mind's conſcious determination of its own activity; and conſequently increaſes in proportion to the frequency of that determination.

It will ſtill be urged perhaps, that a familiarity with diſagreeable objects renders them at length acceptable, even when there is no room for the mind to reſolve or act at all. In this caſe, the appearance muſt be accounted for, one of theſe ways.

The pleaſure from habit may be meerly negative. The object at firſt gave uneaſineſs: this uneaſineſt gradually wears off as the object grows familiar; and the mind finding it at laſt intirely removed, reckons its ſituation really pleaſurable, compar'd with what it had experienced before.

The diſlike conceiv'd of the object at firſt, might be owing to prejudice or want of attention. Conſequently the mind being neceſſitated to review it often, may at length perceive its own miſtake, and be reconcil'd to what it had look'd on with averſion. In which caſe, a ſort of inſtinctive juſtice naturally leads it to make amends for the injury, by running toward th e other extreme of fondneſs and attachment.

Or laſtly, tho' the object itſelf ſhould always continue diſagreeable, yet circumſtances of pleaſure or good fortune may occur along with it. Thus an aſſociation may ariſe in the mind, and the object never be remember'd without thoſe pleaſing circumſtances attending it; by which means the diſagreeable impreſſion it at firſt occaſion'd will in time be quite obliterated.

As when Brutus roſe, &c.] Cicero himſelf deſcribes this fact— Caeſare interfecto—ſtatim cruentum altè extollens M. Brutus pugionem, Ciceronem nominatim exclamavit, atque ei recuperatam libertatem eſt gratulatus. Cic. Philipp. 2. 12.

Where virtue riſing from the awful depth. Of truth's myſterious boſom, &c.] According to the opinion of thoſe who aſſert moral obligation to be founded on an immutable and univerſal law, and that pathetic feeling which is uſually call'd the moral ſenſe, to be determin'd by the peculiar temper of the imagination and the earlieſt aſſociations of ideas.

Lycéum.] The ſchool of Ariſtotle,

Academus.] The ſchool of Plato.

Iliſſus.] One of the rivers on which Athens was ſituated. Plato, in ſome of his fineſt dialogues, lays the ſcene of the converſation with Socrates on its banks.

At laſt the Muſes roſe, &c.] About the age of Hugh Capet, the founder of the third race of French kings, the poets of Provence were in high reputation; a ſort of ſtroling bards or rhapſodiſts, who went about the courts of princes and noblemen, entertaining them at feſtivals with muſic and poetry. They attempted both the epic ode and ſatire, and abounded in a wild and fantaſtic vein of fable, partly allegorical, and partly founded on traditionary legends of the Saracen wars. Theſe were the rudiments of the Italian poetry. But their taſte and compoſition muſt have been extremely barbarous, as we may judge by thoſe who followed the turn of their fable in much politer times; ſuch as Boiardo, Bernardo Taſſo, Arioſto, &c.

Valcluſa.] The famous retreat of Franceſco Petrarcha, the father of Italian poetry, and his miſtreſs Laura, a lady of Avignon.

Arno.] The river which runs by Florence, the birth-place of Dante and Boccacio.

—the rage Of dire ambition, &c.] This relates to the cruel wars among the republics of Italy, and the abominable politics of its little princes, about the the fifteenth century. Theſe at laſt, in conjunction with the papal power, intirely extinguiſhed the ſpirit of liberty in that country, and eſtabliſh'd that abuſe of the fine arts which has ſince been propagated over all Europe.

Thus from their guardians torn, the tender arts, &c.] Nor were they only loſers by the ſeparation. For philoſophy itſelf, to uſe the words of a noble philoſopher, being thus ſever'd from the ſprightly arts and ſciences, muſt conſequently grow droniſh, inſipid, pedantic, uſeleſs, and directly oppoſite to the real knowledge and practice of the world. Inſomuch, that a gentleman, ſays another excellent writer, cannot eaſily bring himſelf to like ſo auſtere and ungainly a form: ſo greatly is it changed from what was once the delight of the fineſt gentlemen of antiquity, and their recreation after the hurry of public affairs! From this condition it cannot be recovered but by uniting it once more with the works of imagination; and we have had the pleaſure of obſerving a very great progreſs made towards their union in England within theſe few years. It is hardly poſſible to conceive them at a greater diſtance from each other than at the revolution, when Locke ſtood at the head of one party, and Dryden of the other. But the general ſpirit of liberty, which has ever ſince been growing, naturally invited our men of wit and genius to improve that influence which the arts of perſuaſion give them with the people, by applying them to ſubjects of importance to ſociety. Thus poetry and eloquence became conſiderable; and philoſophy is now of courſe obliged to borrow of their imbelliſhments, in order even to gain audience with the public.

From paſſion's power alone, &c.] This very myſterious kind of pleaſure which is often found in the exerciſe of paſſions generally counted painful, has been taken taken notice of by ſeveral authors. Lucretius reſolves it into ſelf-love, Suave mari magno, &c. lib. II. 1. As if a man was never pleas'd in being moved at the diſtreſs of a tragedy, without a cool reflection that tho' theſe fictitious perſonages were ſo unhappy, yet he himſelf was perfectly at eaſe and in ſafety. The ingenious and candid author of the reflexions critiques ſur la poeſie & ſur la peinture, accounts for it by the general delight which the mind takes in its own activity, and the abhorrence it feels of an indolent and unattentive ſtate: And this, join'd with the moral applauſe of its own temper, which attends theſe emotions when natural and juſt, is certainly the true foundation of the pleaſure, which as it is the origin and baſis of tragedy and epic, deſerved a very particular conſideration in this poem.

—when the pious band, &c.] The reader will here naturally recollect the fate of the ſacred battalion of Thebes, which at the battle of Chaeronéa was utterly deſtroy'd, every man being found lying dead by his friend.

Philip.] The Macedonian.

—where the pow'rs Of fancy, &c.] The influence of the imagination on the conduct of life is one of the moſt important points in moral philoſophy. It were eaſy by an induction of facts to prove that the imagination directs almoſt all the paſſions, and mixes with almoſt every circumſtance of action or pleaſure. Let any man, even of the coldeſt head and ſobereſt induſtry, analyſe the idea of what he calls his intereſt; he will find that it conſiſts chiefly of certain images of decency, beauty and order, variouſly combined into one ſyſtem, the idol which he ſeeks to injoy by labour, hazard, and ſelf-denial. It is on this account of the laſt conſequence to regulate theſe images by the ſtandard of nature and the general good; otherwiſe the imagination, by heightening ſome objects beyond their real excellence and beauty, or by repreſenting others in a more odious or terrible ſhape than they deſerve, may of courſe engage us in purſuits utterly inconſiſtent with the laws of the moral order.

If it be objected, that this account of things ſuppoſes the paſſions to be merely accidental, whereas there appears in ſome a natural and hereditary diſpoſition to certain paſſions prior to all circumſtances of education or fortune; it may be anſwer'd, that tho' no man is born ambitious or a miſer, yet he may inherit from his parents a peculiar temper or complexion of mind, which ſhall render his imagination more liable to be ſtruck with ſome particular objects, conſequently diſpoſe him to form opinions of good and ill, and entertain paſſions of a particular turn. Some men, for inſtance, by the original frame of their minds, are more delighted with the vaſt and magnificent, others on the contrary with the elegant and gentle aſpects of nature. And it is very remarkable, that the diſpoſition of the moral powers is always ſimilar to this of the imagination; that thoſe who are moſt inclin'd to admire prodigious and ſublime objects in the phyſical world, are alſo moſt inclin'd to applaud examples of fortitude and heroic virtue in the moral. While thoſe who are charm'd rather with the delicacy and ſweetneſs of colours, and forms, and ſounds, never fail in like manner to yield the preference to the ſofter ſcenes of virtue and the ſympathies of a domeſtic life. And this is ſufficient to account for the objection.

Among the ancient philoſophers, tho' we have ſeveral hints concerning this influence of the imagination upon morals among the remains of the Socratic ſchool, yet the Stoics were the firſt who paid it a due attention. Zeno, their founder, thought it impoſſible to preſerve any tolerable regularity in life, without frequently inſpecting thoſe pictures or appearances of things which the imagination offers to the mind. (Diog. Laert. l. vii.) The meditations of M. Aurelius, and the diſcourſes of Epictetus, are full of the ſame ſentiments; inſomuch that this latter makes the 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 , or right management of the fancys, the only thing for which we are accountable to providence, and without which a man is no other than ſtupid or frantic. Arrian. l. i. c. 12. & l. ii. c. 22. See alſo the Characteriſtics, vol. 1. from p. 313, to p. 321. where this Stoical doctrine is embelliſhed with all the eloquence and graces of Plato.

—how folly's aukward arts, &c.] Notwithſtanding the general influence of ridicule on private and civil life, as well as on learning and the ſciences, it has been almoſt conſtantly neglected or miſrepreſented, by divines eſpecially. The manner of treating theſe ſubjects in the ſcience of human nature, ſhould be preciſely the ſame as in natural philoſophy; from particular facts to inveſtigate the ſtated order in which they appear, and then apply the general law, thus diſcovered, to the explication of other appearances and the improvement of uſeful arts.

Behold the foremoſt band, &c. ] The firſt and moſt general ſource of ridicule in the characters of men, is vanity or ſelf-applauſe for ſome deſirable quality or poſſeſſion which evidently does not belong to thoſe who aſſume it.

Then comes the ſecond order, &c. ] Ridicule from the ſame vanity, where tho' the poſſeſſion be real, yet no merit can ariſe from it, becauſe of ſome particular circumſtances, which, tho' obvious to the ſpectator, are yet overlook'd by the ridiculous character.

Another tribe ſucceeds, &c. ] Ridicule from a notion of excellence in particular objects diſproportion'd to their intrinſic value, and inconſiſtent with the order of nature.

But now ye gay, &c. ] Ridicule from a notion of excellence, where the object is abſolutely odious or contemptible. This is the higheſt degree of the ridiculous; as in the affectation of diſeaſes or vices.

Thus far triumphant, &c.] Ridicule from falſe ſhame or groundleſs fear.

Laſt of the, &c. Ridicule from the ignorance of ſuch things as our circumſtances require us to know.

—ſuffice it to have ſaid, &c.] By comparing theſe general ſources of ridicule with each other, and examining the ridiculous in other objects, we may obtain a general definition of it equally applicable to every ſpecies. The moſt important circumſtance of this definition is laid down in the lines referr'd to; but others more minute we ſhall ſubjoin here. Ariſtotle's account of the matter ſeems both imperfect and falſe; 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 , ſays he, 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 : the ridiculous is ſome certain fault or turpitude without pain, and not deſtructive to its ſubject. (Poetic. c. v.) For allowing it to be true, as it is not, that the ridiculous is never accompany'd with pain, yet we might produce many inſtances of ſuch a fault or turpitude which cannot with any tolerable propriety be called ridiculous. So that the definition does not diſtinguiſh the thing defined. Nay farther, even when we perceive the turpitude tending to the deſtruction of its ſubject, we may ſtill be ſenſible of a ridiculous appearance, till the ruin become imminent and the keener ſenſations of pity or terror baniſh the ludicrous apprehenſion from our minds. For the ſenſation of ridicule is not a bare perception of the agreement or diſagreement of ideas; but a paſſion or emotion of the mind conſequential to that perception. So that the mind may perceive the agreement or diſagreement, and yet not feel the ridiculous, becauſe it is engroſſed by a more violent emotion. Thus it happens that ſome men think thoſe objects ridiculous, to which others cannot endure to apply the name; becauſe in them they excite a much intenſer and more important feeling. And this difference, among other cauſes, has brought a good deal of confuſion into this queſtion.

That which makes objects ridiculous is ſome ground of admiration or eſteem connected with other more general circumſtances, comparatively worthleſs or deformed; or it is ſome circumſtance of turpitude or deformity connected with what is in general excellent or beautiful: the inconſiſtent properties exiſting either in the objects themſelves, or in the apprehenſion of the perſon to whom they relate; belonging always to the ſame order or claſs of being, implying ſentiment or deſign; and exciting no acute or vehement emotion of the heart.

To prove the ſeveral parts of this definition: The appearance of excellence or beauty connected with a general condition comparatively ſordid or deformed, is ridiculous; for inſtance, pompous pretenſions to wiſdom join'd with ignorance and folly in the Socrates of Ariſtophanes; and the applauſe of military glory with cowardice and ſtupidity in the Thraſo of Terence.

The appearance of deformity or turpitude in conjunction with what is in general excellent or venerable, is alſo ridiculous: for inſtance, the perſonal weakneſſes of a magiſtrate appearing in the ſolemn and public functions of his ſtation.

The incongruous properties may either exiſt in the objects themſelves, or in the apprehenſion of the perſon to whom they relate: in the laſt-mention'd inſtances they both exiſt in the objects; in the inſtance from Ariſtophanes and Terence, one of them is objective and real, the other only founded in the apprehenſion of the ridiculous character.

The inconſiſtent properties muſt belong to the ſame order or claſs of being. A coxcomb in fine cloaths bedaubed by accident in foul weather, is a ridiculous object; becauſe his general apprehenſion of excellence and eſteem is referr'd to the ſplendour and expence of his dreſs. A man of ſenſe and merit in the ſame circumſtances, is not counted ridiculous; becauſe the general ground of excellence and eſteem in him, is, both in fact and in his own apprehenſion, of a very different ſpecies.

Every ridiculous object implies ſentiment or deſign. A column placed by an architect without a capital or baſe, is laugh'd at: the ſame column in a ruin cauſes a very different ſenſation.

And laſtly, the occurrence muſt excite no acute or vehement emotion of the heart, ſuch as terror, pity, or indignation; for in that caſe, as was obſerv'd above, the mind is not at leiſure to contemplate the ridiculous.

Whether any appearance not ridiculous be involved in this deſcription, and whether it comprehend every ſpecies and form of the ridiculous, muſt be determined by repeated applications of it to particular inſtances.

Aſk we for what fair end, &c.] Since it is beyond all contradiction evident that we have a natural ſenſe or feeling of the ridiculous, and ſince ſo good a reaſon may be aſſign'd to juſtify the ſupreme being for beſtowing it; one cannot without aſtoniſhment reflect on the conduct of thoſe men who imagine it is for the ſervice of true religion to vilify and blacken it without diſtinction, and endeavour to perſuade us that it is never applied but in a bad cauſe. Ridicule is not concerned with meer ſpeculative truth or falſehood. It is not in abſtract propoſitions or theorems, but in actions and paſſions, good and evil, beauty and deformity, that we find materials for it; and all theſe terms are relative, implying approbation or blame. To aſk then whether ridicule be a teſt of truth, is, in other words, to aſk whether that which is ridiculous can be morally true, can be juſt and becoming; or whether that which is juſt and becoming, can be ridiculous. A queſtion that does not deſerve a ſerious anſwer. For it is moſt evident, that as in a metaphyſical propoſition offer'd to the underſtanding for its aſſent, the faculty of reaſon examines the terms of the propoſition, and finding one idea which was ſuppoſed equal to another, to be in fact unequal, of conſequence rejects the propoſition as a falſehood: ſo in objects offer'd to the mind for its eſteem or applauſe, the faculty of ridicule feeling an incongruity in the claim, urges the mind to reject it with laughter and contempt. When therefore we obſerve ſuch a claim obtruded upon mankind, and the inconſiſtent circumſtances carefully concealed from the eye of public, it is our buſineſs, if the matter be of importance to ſociety, to drag out thoſe latent circumſtances, and by ſetting them full in view, convince the world how ridiculous the claim is; and thus a double advantage is gained; for we both detect the moral falſehood ſooner than in the way of ſpeculative inquiry, and impreſs the minds of men with a ſtronger ſenſe of the vanity and error of its authors. And this and no more is meant by the application of ridicule.

But it is ſaid, the practice is dangerous, and may be inconſiſtent with the regard we owe to objects of real dignity and excellence. I anſwer, the practice fairly managed can never be dangerous; men may be diſhoneſt in obtruding circumſtances foreign to the object, and we may be inadvertent in allowing thoſe circumſtances to impoſe upon us; but the ſenſe of ridicule always judges right: the Socrates of Ariſtophanes is as truly ridiculous a character as ever was drawn.—True; but it is not the character of Socrates, the divine moraliſt and father of ancient wiſdom. What then? did the ridicule of the poet hinder the philoſopher from detecting and diſclaiming thoſe foreign circumſtances which he had falſely introduced into his character, and thus rendering the ſatiriſt doubly ridiculous in his turn? No: but it nevertheleſs had an ill influence on the minds of the people. And ſo has the reaſoning of Spinoza made many atheiſts; he has founded it indeed on ſuppoſitions utterly falſe, but allow him theſe, and his concluſions are unavoidably true. And if we muſt reject the uſe of ridicule, becauſe by the impoſition of falſe circumſtances, things may be made to ſeem ridiculous, which are not ſo in themſelves; why we ought not in the ſame manner to reject the uſe of reaſon, becauſe by proceeding on falſe principles, concluſions will appear true which are impoſſible in nature, let the vehement and obſtinate declaimers againſt ridicule determine.

The inexpreſſive ſemblance, &c.] This ſimilitude is the foundation of almoſt all the ornaments of poetic diction.

By theſe myſterious ties, &c.] The act of remembring ſeems almoſt wholly to depend on the aſſociation of ideas.

Into its proper vehicle, &c.] This relates to the different ſorts of corporeal mediums, by which the ideas of the artiſt are rendered palpable to the ſenſes; as by ſounds, in muſic; by lines and ſhadows, in painting; by diction, in poetry, &c.

—One purſues The vaſt alone, &c.] See the note to ver. 18 of this book.

Waller longs, &c.] O! how I long my careleſs limbs to lay Under the plantane ſhade; and all the day With am'rous airs my fancy entertain, &c. WALLER, Battle of the Summer-Iſlands. Canto I. And again, While in the park I ſing, the liſt'ning deer Attend my paſſion and forget to fear, &c. At Pens-hurſt.

—Not a breeze, &c.] That this account may not appear rather poetically extravagant than juſt in philoſophy, it may be proper to produce the ſentiment of one of the greateſt, wiſeſt, and beſt of men on this article; one ſo little to be ſuſpected of partiality in the caſe, that he reckons it among thoſe favours for which he was eſpecially thankful to the gods, that they had not ſuffered him to make any great proficiency in the arts of eloquence and poetry, leſt by that means he ſhould have been diverted from purſuits of more importance to his high ſtation. Speaking of the beauty of univerſal nature, he obſerves that there is a pleaſing and graceful aſpect in every object we perceive, when once we conſider its connection with that general order. He inſtances in many things which at firſt ſight would be thought rather deformities, and then adds, that a man who enjoys a ſenſibility of temper with a juſt comprehenſion of the univerſal order—will diſcern many amiable things, not credible to every mind, but to thoſe alone who have entered into an honourable familiarity with nature and her works. M. Antonin. iii. 2.