Elements of Criticism. Henry Home, Lord Kames
we are sensible of a confused feeling, arising from dissimilar emotions forc’d into union, to wit, the beauty of the description, and the horror of the object described:
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what the glimmering of these livid flames
Casts pale and dreadful?
And with respect to this and many similar passages in Paradise lost, we are sensible, that the emotions being obscured by each other, make neither of them that figure they would make separately. For the same reason, ascending smoke in a calm morning, which inspires stillness and tranquillity, is improper in a picture full of violent action. A parterre, partly ornamented partly in disorder, produces a mixt feeling of the same sort. Two great armies in act to engage, mix the dissimilar emotions of grandeur and of terror:
Sembra d’alberi densi alta foresta
L’un campo, e l’altro; di tant’ aste abbonda.
Son tesi gli archi, e son le lance in resta:
Vibransi i dardi, e rotasi ogni fionda.
Ogni cavallo in guerra anco s’appresta,
Gli odii, e’l furor del suo signor seconda:
Raspa, batte, nitrisce, e si raggira,
Gonfia le nari; e fumo, e fuoco spira.<133>
Bello in sì bella vista anco è l’orrore:
E di mezzo la tema esce il diletto.
Ne men le trombe orribili e canore,
Sono a gli orecchi, lieto e fero oggetto.
Pur il campo fedel, benchè minore,
Par di suon più mirabile, e d’aspeto.
E canta in più guerriero e chiaro carme
Ogni sua tromba, e maggior luce han l’arme.
Gerusalemme liberata, cant. 20. st. 29. & 30.39
Suppose a virtuous man has drawn on himself a great misfortune, by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial: the remorse he feels aggravates his distress, and consequently raises our pity to a high pitch: we at the same time blame the man; and the indignation raised by the fault he has committed, is dissimilar to pity: these two passions, however, proceeding from the same object, are forc’d into a sort of union; but the indignation is so slight, as scarce to be felt in the mixture with pity. Subjects of this kind are of all the fittest for tragedy; but of that afterward.*
Opposite emotions are so dissimilar as not to admit any sort of union, even where they proceed from causes the most intimately connected. Love to a mistress, and resentment for her infidelity, are of that nature: they cannot exist otherwise than in succession, which by the connection of their<134> causes is commonly rapid; and these emotions will govern alternately, till one of them obtain the ascendant, or both be spent. A succession opens to me by the death of a worthy man, who was my friend as well as my kinsman: when I think of my friend I am griev’d; but the succession gives me joy. These two causes are intimately connected; for the succession is the direct consequence of my friend’s death: the emotions however being opposite, do not mix; they prevail alternately, perhaps for a course of time, till grief for my friend’s death be banished by the pleasures of opulence. A virtuous man suffering unjustly, is an example of the same kind: I pity him, and have great indignation at the author of the wrong. These emotions proceed from causes nearly connected; but being directed to different objects, they are not forc’d into union: their opposition preserves them distinct: and accordingly they are found to prevail alternately.
I proceed to examples of dissimilar emotions arising from unconnected causes. Good and bad news of equal importance arriving at the same instant from different quarters, produce opposite emotions, the discordance of which is not felt, because they are not forc’d into union: they govern alternately, commonly in a quick succession, till their force be spent:
Shylock. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? hast thou found my daughter?<135>
Tubal. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.
Shy. Why there, there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Francfort? the curse never fell upon our nation till now, I never felt it till now; two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels! I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; O would she were hers’d at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin. No news of them; why, so! and I know not what’s spent in the search: why, thou loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge, nor no ill luck stirring but what lights o’ my shoulders; no sighs but o’ my breathing, no tears but o’ my shedding.
Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too; Anthonio, as I heard in Genoa—
Shy. What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?
Tub. Hath an Argosie cast away, coming from Tripolis.
Shy. I thank God, I thank God; is it true? is it true?
Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.
Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal; good news, good news, ha, ha: where? in Genoa?
Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats.
Shy. Thou stick’st a dagger in me; I shall never see my gold again; four-score ducats at a sitting, fourscore ducats!
Tub. There came divers of Anthonio’s creditors in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot chuse but break.<136>
Shy. I am glad of it, I’ll plague him, I’ll torture him; I am glad of it.
Tub. One of them shew’d me a ring, that he had of your daughter for a monkey.
Shy. Out upon her! thou torturest me, Tubal; it was my Turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkies.
Tub. But Anthonio is certainly undone.
Shy. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true; go fee me an officer, bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.
Merchant of Venice, act 3. sc. 1.
In the same manner, good news arriving to a man labouring under distress, occasions a vibration in his mind from the one to the other:
Osmyn. By Heav’n thou’st rous’d me from my lethargy.
The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs,
And the loud cries of my dead father’s blood,
Deaf to revenge—nay, which refus’d to hear
The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love
Yet unenjoy’d; what not Almeria could
Revive, or raise, my people’s voice has waken’d.
O my Antonio, I am all on fire,
My soul is up in arms, ready to charge
And bear amidst the foe with conqu’ring troops.
I hear ’em call to lead ’em on to liberty,<137>
To victory; their shouts and clamours rend
My ears, and reach the heav’ns: where is the king?
Where is Alphonso? ha! where! where indeed?
O I could tear and burst the strings of life,
To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty!