How Man’s Courtship Differs from Animal’s (Dec. 16)

How Man’s Courtship Differs from Animal’s
Beauty is an important factor in the attraction between man and
woman. It is knowing beauty that differentiates man from the
animals, which only require that their mates be of the same
Read from Burke’s THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL Vol. 24, pp. 37-48

THE final cause of the difference in character between the passions
which regard self-preservation, and those which are directed to the
multiplication of the species, will illustrate the foregoing remarks
yet further; and it is, I imagine, worthy of observation even upon
its own account. As the performance of our duties of every kind
depends upon life, and the performing them with vigour and efficacy
depends upon health, we are very strongly affected with whatever
threatens the destruction of either: but as we are not made to
acquiesce in life and health, the simple enjoyment of them is not
attended with any real pleasure, lest, satisfied with that, we should
give ourselves over to indolence and inaction. On the other hand,
the generation of mankind is a great purpose, and it is requisite
that men should be animated to the pursuit of it by some great
incentive. It is therefore attended with a very high pleasure; but
as it is by no means designed to be our constant business, it is not
fit that the absence of this pleasure should be attended with any
considerable pain. The difference between men and brutes, in this
point, seems to be remarkable. Men are at all times pretty equally
disposed to the pleasures of love, because they are to be guided by
reason in the time and manner of indulging them. Had any great
pain arisen from the want of this satisfaction, reason, I am afraid,
would find great difficulties in the performance of its office. But
brutes, who obey laws, in the execution of which their own reason

has but little share, have their stated seasons; at such times it is not
improbable that the sensation from the want is very troublesome, because
the end must be then answered, or be missed in many, perhaps
for ever; as the inclination returns only with its season.

T H E passion which belongs to generation, merely as such, is lust
only. This is evident in brutes, whose passions are more unmixed,
and which pursue their purposes more direcdy than ours. The only
distinction they observe with regard to their mates, is that of sex.
It is true, that they stick severally to their own species in preference
to all others. But this preference, I imagine, does not arise from
any sense of beauty which they find in their species, as Mr. Addison
supposes, but from a law of some other kind, to which they are
subject; and this we may fairly conclude, from their apparent want
of choice amongst those objects to which the barriers of their species
have confined them. But man, who is a creature adapted to a
greater variety and intricacy of relation, connects with the general
passion the idea of some social qualities, which direct and heighten
the appetite which he has in common with all other animals; and
as he is not designed like them to live at large, it is fit that he should
have something to create a preference, and fix his choice; and this
in general should be some sensible quality; as no other can so
quickly, so powerfully, or so surely produce its effect. The object
therefore of this mixed passion, which we call love, is the beauty
of the sex. Men are carried to the sex in general, as it is the sex,
and by the common law of nature; but they are attached to particulars
by personal beauty. I call beauty a social quality; for where
women and men, and not only they, but when other animals give
us a sense of joy and pleasure in beholding them, (and there are
many that do so,) they inspire us with sentiments of tenderness and
affection towards their persons; we like to have them near us, and
we enter willingly into a kind of relation with them, unless we
should have strong reasons to the contrary. But to what end, in
many cases, this was designed, I am unable to discover; for I see
no greater reason for a connexion between man and several animals
who are attired in so engaging a manner, than between him and

some others who entirely want this attraction, or possess it in a far
weaker degree. But it is probable, that Providence did not make
even this distinction, but with a view to some great end; though
we cannot perceive distinctly what it is, as his wisdom is not our
wisdom, nor our ways his ways.

THE second branch of the social passions is that which administers
to society in general. With regard to this, I observe, that society,
merely as society, without any particular heightenings, gives us no
positive pleasure in the enjoyment; but absolute and entire solitude,
that is, the total and perpetual exclusion from all society, is as great
a positive pain as can almost be conceived. Therefore in the balance
between the pleasure of general society and the pain of absolute
solitude, pain is the predominant idea. But the pleasure of any particular
social enjoyment outweighs very considerably the uneasiness
caused by the want of that particular enjoyment; so that the strongest
sensations relative to the habitudes of particular society are sensations
of pleasure. Good company, lively conversation, and the endearments
of friendship, fill the mind with great pleasure; a temporary
solitude, on the other hand, is itself agreeable. This may
perhaps prove that we are creatures designed for contemplation as
well as action; since solitude as well as society has its pleasures;
as from the former observation we may discern, that an entire life
of solitude contradicts the purposes of our being, since death itself
is scarcely an idea of more terror.

UNDER this denomination of society, the passions are of a complicated
kind, and branch out into a variety of forms, agreeably
to that variety of ends they are to serve in the great chain of society.
The three principal links in this chain are sympathy, imitation,
and ambition.

IT is by the first of these passions that we enter into the concerns
of others; that we are moved as they are moved, and are never

suffered to be Indifferent spectators of almost anything which men
can do or suffer. For sympathy must be considered as a sort of
substitution, by which we are put into the place of another man,
and affected in many respects as he is affected; so that this passion
may either partake of the nature of those which regard self-preservation,
and turning upon pain may be a source of the sublime or it
may turn upon ideas of pleasure; and then whatever has been said
of the social affections, whether they regard society in general, or
only some particular modes of it, may be applicable here. It is by
this principle chiefly that poetry, painting, and other affecting arts,
transfuse their passions from one breast to another, and are often
capable of grafting a delight on wretchedness, misery, and death
itself. It is a common observation, that objects which in the reality
would shock, are in tragical, and such like representations, the
source of a very high species of pleasure. This, taken as a fact, has
been the cause of much reasoning. The satisfaction has been commonly
attributed, first, to the comfort we receive in considering
that so melancholy a story is no more than a fiction; and, next, to
the contemplation of our own freedom from the evils which we see
represented. I am afraid it is a practice much too common in inquiries
of this nature, to attribute the cause of feelings which merely
arise from the mechanical structure of our bodies, or from the natural
frame and constitution of our minds, to certain conclusions of
the reasoning faculty on the objects presented to us; for I should
imagine, that the influence of reason in producing our passions is
nothing near so extensive as it is commonly believed.

To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a
proper manner, we must previously consider how we are affected by
the feelings of our fellow-creatures in circumstances of real distress.
I am convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no
small one, in the real misfortunes and pains of others; for let the
affection be what it will in appearance, if it does not make us shun
such objects, if on the contrary it induces us to approach them, if
it makes us dwell upon them, in this case I conceive we must have
a delight or pleasure of some species or other in contemplating

objects of this kind. Do we not read the authentic histories of scenes
of this nature with as much pleasure as romances or poems, where
the incidents are fictitious? The prosperity of no empire, nor the
grandeur of no king, can so agreeably affect in the reading, as the
ruin of the state of Macedon, and the distress of its unhappy prince.
Such a catastrophe touches us in history as much as the destruction
of Troy does in fable. Our delight, in cases of this kind, is very
greatly heightened, if the sufferer be some excellent person who
sinks under an unworthy fortune. Scipio and Cato are both virtuous
characters; but we are more deeply affected by the violent death
of the one, and the ruin of the great cause he adhered to, than with
the deserved triumphs and uninterrupted prosperity of the other;
for terror is a passion which always produces delight when it does
not press too closely; and pity is a passion accompanied with pleasure,
because it arises from love and social affection. Whenever we
are formed by nature to any active purpose, the passion which animates
us to it is attended with delight, or a pleasure of some kind,
let the subject-matter be what it will; and as our Creator has designed
that we should be united by the bond of sympathy, he
has strengthened that bond by a proportionable delight; and there
most where our sympathy is most wanted,—in the distresses of others.
If this passion was simply painful, we would shun with the greatest
care all persons and places that could excite such a passion; as
some, who are so far gone in indolence as not to endure any strong
impression, actually do. But the case is widely different with the
greater part of mankind; there is no spectacle we so eagerly pursue,
as that of some uncommon and grievous calamity; so that whether
the misfortune is before our eyes, or whether they are turned back
to it in history, it always touches with delight. This is not an unmixed
delight, but blended with no small uneasiness. The delight
we have in such things, hinders us from shunning scenes of misery;
and the pain we feel prompts us to relieve ourselves in relieving
those who suffer; and all this antecedent to any reasoning, by an
instinct that works us to its own purposes without our concurrence.

IT is thus in real calamities. In imitated distresses the only difference
is the pleasure resulting from the effects of imitation; for
it is never so perfect, but we can perceive it is imitation, and on that
principle are somewhat pleased with it. And indeed in some cases
we derive as much or more pleasure from that source than from the
thing itself. But then I imagine we shall be much mistaken, if we
attribute any considerable part of our satisfaction in tragedy to the
consideration that tragedy is a deceit, and its representations no
realities. The nearer it approaches the reality, and the farther it removes
us from all idea of fiction, the more perfect is its power. But
be its power of what kind it will, it never approaches to what it
represents. Choose a day on which to represent the most sublime
and affecting tragedy we have; appoint the most favourite actors;
spare no cost upon the scenes and decorations, unite the greatest
efforts of poetry, painting, and music; and when you have collected
your audience, just at the moment when their minds are
erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state criminal of
high rank is on the point of being executed in the adjoining square;
in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the
comparative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph
of the real sympathy. I believe that this notion of our having
a simple pain in the reality, yet a delight in the representation, arises
from hence, that we do not sufficiently distinguish what we would
by no means choose to do, from what we should be eager enough
to see if it was once done. The delight in seeing things, which, so
far from doing, our heartiest wishes would be to see redressed. This
noble capital, the pride of England and of Europe, I believe no man
is so strangely wicked as to desire to see destroyed by a conflagration
or an earthquake, though he should be removed himself to
the greatest distance from the danger. But suppose such a fatal accident
to have happened, what numbers from all parts would crowd
to behold the ruins, and amongst many who would have been content
never to have seen London in its glory! Nor is it, either in real
or fictitious distresses, our immunity from them which produces
our delight; in my own mind I can discover nothing like it. I

apprehend that this mistake is owing to a sort of sophism, by which
we are frequently imposed upon; it arises from our not distinguishing
between what is indeed a necessary condition to our doing
or suffering anything in general, and what is the cause of some
particular act. If a man kills me with a sword, it is a necessary condition
to this that we should have been both of us alive before the
fact; and yet it would be absurd to say, that our being both living
creatures was the cause of his crime and of my death. So it is certain,
that it is absolutely necessary my life should be out of any imminent
hazard, before I can take a delight in the sufferings of others,
real or imaginary, or indeed in anything else from any cause whatsoever.
But then it is a sophism to argue from thence, that this
immunity is the cause of my delight either on these or on any
occasions. No one can distinguish such a cause of satisfaction in
his own mind, I believe; nay, when we do not suffer any very acute
pain, nor are exposed to any imminent danger of our lives, we can
feel for others, whilst we suffer ourselves; and often then most
when we are softened by affliction; we see with pity even distresses
which we would accept in the place of our own.

THE second passion belonging to society is imitation, or, if you
will, a desire of imitating, and consequently a pleasure in it. This
passion arises from much the same cause with sympathy. For as
sympathy makes us take a concern in whatever men feel, so this
affection prompts us to copy whatever they do; and consequently
we have a pleasure in imitating, and in whatever belongs to imitation,
merely as it is such, without any intervention of the reasoning
faculty, but solely from our natural constitution, which Providence
has framed in such a manner as to find either pleasure or delight,
according to the nature of the object, in whatever regards the purposes
of our being. It is by imitation far more than by precept, that
we learn everything; and what we learn thus, we acquire not only
more effectually, but more pleasantly. This forms our manners, our
opinions, our lives. It is one of the strongest links of society; it is
a species of mutual compliance, which all men yield to each other,
without constraint to themselves, and which is extremely flattering

to all. Herein it is that painting and many other agreeable arts have
laid one of the principal foundations of their power. And since, by
its influence on our manners and our passions, it is of such great
consequence, I shall here venture to lay down a rule, which may inform
us with a good degree of certainty when we are to attribute the
power of the arts to imitation, or to our pleasure in the skill of
the imitator merely, and when to sympathy, or some other cause
in conjunction with it. When the object represented in poetry or
painting is such as we could have no desire of seeing in the reality,
then I may be sure that its power in poetry or painting is owing to
the power of imitation, and to no cause operating in the thing itself.
So it is with most of the pieces which the painters call still-life. In
these a cottage, a dunghill, the meanest and most ordinary utensils
of the kitchen, are capable of giving us pleasure. But when the
object of the painting or poem is such as we should run to see if
real, let it affect us with what odd sort of sense it will, we may
rely upon it, that the power of the poem or picture is more owing
to the nature of the thing itself than to the mere effect of imitation,
or to a consideration of the skill of the imitator, however excellent.
Aristotle has spoken so much and so boldly upon the force of imitation
in his Poetics, that it makes any further discourse upon this
subject the less necessary.

ALTHOUGH imitation is one of the great instruments used by
Providence in bringing our nature towards its perfection, yet if men
gave themselves up to imitation entirely, and each followed the
other, and so on in an eternal circle, it is easy to see that there never
could be any improvement amongst them. Men must remain as
brutes do, the same at the end that they are at this day, and that they
were in the beginning of the world. To prevent this, God has
planted in man a sense of ambition, and a satisfaction arising from
the contemplation of his excelling his fellows in something deemed
valuable amongst them. It is this passion that drives men to all the
ways we see in use of signalizing themselves, and that tends to make
whatever excites in a man the idea of this distinction so very pleasant.
It has been so strong as to make very miserable men take

comfort, that they were supreme in misery; and certain it is, that,
where we cannot distinguish ourselves by something excellent, we
begin to take a complacency in some singular infirmities, follies, or
defects of one kind or other. It is on this principle that flattery is
so prevalent; for flattery is no more than what raises in a man’s
mind an idea of a preference which he has not. Now, whatever,
either on good or upon bad grounds, tends to raise a man in his
own opinion, produces a sort of swelling and triumph, that is extremely
grateful to the human mind; and this swelling is never more
perceived, nor operates with more force, than when without danger
we are conversant with terrible objects; the mind always claiming
to itself some part of the dignity and importance of the things which
it contemplates. Hence proceeds what Longinus has observed of
that glorying sense of inward greatness, that always fills the reader
of such passages in poets and orators as are sublime; it is what every
man must have felt in himself upon such occasions.

To draw the whole of what has been said into a few distinct
points:—The passions which belong to self-preservation turn on
pain and danger; they are simply painful when their causes immediately
affect us; they are delightful when we have an idea of pain
and danger, without being actually in such circumstances; this delight
I have not called pleasure, because it turns on pain, and because
it is different enough from any idea of positive pleasure.
Whatever excites this delight, I call sublime. The passions belonging
to self-preservation are the strongest of all the passions.
The second head to which the passions are referred with relation
to their final cause, is society. There are two sorts of societies. The
first is, the society of sex. The passion belonging to this is called
love, and it contains a mixture of lust; its object is the beauty of
women. The other is the great society with man and all other animals.
The passion subservient to this is called likewise love, but it
has no mixture of lust, and its object is beauty; which is a name
I shall apply to all such qualities in things as induce in us a sense
of affection and tenderness, or some other passion the most nearly resembling
these. The passion of love has its rise in positive pleasure;

it is, like all things which grow out of pleasure, capable of being
mixed with a mode of uneasiness, that is, when an idea of its object
is excited in the mind with an idea at the same time of having
irretrievably lost it. This mixed sense of pleasure I have not called
pain, because it turns upon actual pleasure, and because it is, both
in its cause and in most of its effects, of a nature altogether different.
Next to the general passion we have for society, to a choice in
which we are directed by the pleasure we have in the object, the
particular passion under this head called sympathy has the greatest
extent. The nature of this passion is, to put us in the place of another
in whatever circumstance he is in, and to affect us in a like
manner; so that this passion may, as the occasion requires, turn
either on pain or pleasure; but with the modifications mentioned in
some cases in sect. n . As to imitation and preference, nothing more
need be said.

I BELIEVED that an attempt to range and methodize some of our
most leading passions would be a good preparative to such an inquiry
as we are going to make in the ensuing discourse. The passions
I have mentioned are almost the only ones which it can be
necessary to consider in our present design; though the variety of
the passions is great, and worthy in every branch of that variety, of
an attentive investigation. The more accurately we search into the
human mind, the stronger traces we everywhere find of his wisdom
who made it. If a discourse on the use of the parts of the body may
be considered as an hymn to the Creator; the use of the passions,
which are the organs of the mind, cannot be barren of praise to
him, nor unproductive to ourselves of that noble and uncommon
union of science and admiration, which a contemplation of the
works of infinite wisdom alone can afford to a rational mind:
whilst, referring to him whatever we find of right or good or fair
in ourselves, discovering his strength and wisdom even in our own
weakness and imperfection, honouring them where we discover
them clearly, and adoring their profundity where we are lost in
our search, we may be inquisitive without impertinence, and elevated
without pride; we may be admitted, if I may dare to say so,

into the counsels of the Almighty by a consideration of his works.
The elevation of the mind ought to be the principal end of all our
studies; which if they do not in some measure effect, they are of
very little service to us. But, beside this great purpose, a consideration
of the rationale of our passions seems to me very necessary for
all who would affect them upon solid and sure principles. It is
not enough to know them in general: to affect them after a delicate
manner, or to judge properly of any work designed to affect
them, we should know the exact boundaries of their several jurisdictions;
we should pursue them through all their variety of operations,
and pierce into the inmost, and what might appear inaccessible,
parts of our nature,
Quod latet arcand non enarrabile fibrd.
Without all this it is possible for a man, after a confused manner,
sometimes to satisfy his own mind of the truth of his work; but
he can never have a certain determinate rule to go by, nor can he
ever make his propositions sufficiently clear to others. Poets, and
orators, and painters, and those who cultivate other branches of the
liberal arts, have, without this critical knowledge, succeeded well
in their several provinces, and will succeed: as among artificers
there are many machines made and even invented without any
exact knowledge of the principles they are governed by. It is, I own,
not uncommon to be wrong in theory, and right in practice; and we
are happy that it is so. Men often act right from their feelings, who
afterwards reason but ill on them from principle: but as it is impossible
to avoid an attempt at such reasoning, and equally impossible
to prevent its having some influence on our practice, surely
it is worth taking some pains to have it just, and founded on the
basis of sure experience. We might expect that the artists themselves
would have been our surest guides; but the artists have been
too much occupied in the practice: the philosophers have done little;
and what they have done, was mostly with a view to their own
schemes and systems: and as for those called critics, they have generally
sought the rule of the arts in the wrong place; they sought it
among poems, pictures, engravings, statues, and buildings. But art
can never give the rules that make an art. This is, I believe, the

reason why artists in general, and poets principally, have been confined
in so narrow a circle: they have been rather imitators of one
another than of nature; and this with so faithful an uniformity, and
to so remote an antiquity, that it is hard to say who gave the
first model. Critics follow them, and therefore can do little as
guides. I can judge but poorly of anything, whilst I measure it by
no other standard than itself. The true standard of the arts is in
every man’s power; and an easy observation of the most common,
sometimes of the meanest, things in nature, will give the truest
lights, where the greatest sagacity and industry, that slights such
observation, must leave us in the dark, or, what is worse, amuse and
mislead us by false lights. In an inquiry it is almost everything to be
once in a right road. I am satisfied I have done but little by these
observations considered in themselves; and I never should have
taken the pains to digest them, much less should I have ever ventured
to publish them, if I was not convinced that nothing tends
more to the corruption of science than to suffer it to stagnate. These
waters must be troubled, before they can exert their virtues. A
man who works beyond the surface of things, though he may be
wrong himself, yet he clears the way for others, and may chance
to make even his errors subservient to the cause of truth. In the
following parts I shall inquire what things they are that cause
in us the affections of the sublime and beautiful, as in this I have
considered the affections themselves. I only desire one favour,—that
no part of this discourse may be judged of by itself, and independently
of the rest; for I am sensible I have not disposed my materials
to abide the test of a captious controversy, but of a sober and even
forgiving examination, that they are not armed at all points for
battle, but dressed to visit those who are willing to give a peaceful
entrance to truth.

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: