THE soul, independently of those pleasures it derives from the senses, has some which it would have without them, and are proper to itself. Such are those it derives from curiosity, the ideas of its own grandeur and perfections, the idea of its existence, opposed to the thought of annihilation, the pleasure of embracing the whole of a general idea, that of viewing a multiplicity of objects at once, and that of comparing, joining, and separating ideas. These pleasures are, from the nature of the soul, independent of the senses, because they belong to every being that thinks: and it is of small consequence to examine here, whether the soul has these pleasures, as a substance united to the body, or as separated from it, because it always has them, and they are the objects of taste: on which account we shall not distinguish here the pleasures that flow from the nature of the soul, from those that result from its union with the body; these we shall call natural pleasures, and distinguish them from those which the soul creates to itself, by certain associations with these natural pleasures; and in the same manner, and for same reason, we shall distinguish natural and acquired taste.
It is proper we should know the sources of those pleasures of which taste is the judge. The knowledge of natural and acquired pleasures may serve to rectify our natural and acquired taste. We must begin with considering the nature of our being, and know what its pleasures are, to be able at last to measure those pleasures, and even sometimes to feel them.
If the soul had not been united to the body, it would have had clear intelligence, and it is probable that it would have loved what it fully understood: at present we scarcely love any thing that we are thoroughly acquainted with.
Our manner of existing is entirely arbitrary; we might have been made as we are, or otherwise: but if we had been made otherwise, we should have had different feelings; one organ, more or less, in our machine, would have given rise to another kind of eloquence, another kind of poetry; a different contexture of the same organs would have still produced another sort of poetry; for example, if the constitution of our organs had rendered us capable of a longer attention, all the rules about proportioning the disposition of a subject to the measure of our attention, would have been at an end; if we had been made capable of more penetration, all the rules founded upon the degree of our penetration, would have fallen to the ground. In a word, all the laws formed from the contexture of our machine would be different if our machine was not formed in that manner.
If our sight had been weaker, and more confused, fewer mouldings, and greater uniformity, would have been necessary in the parts of architecture; if it had been more distinct, and the mind capable of embracing more things at once, more ornaments would have been proper in architecture: if our ears had been made as those of certain animals, our musical instruments must have been much altered. I am very sensible, that the relations which things have among themselves would have subsisted; but the relation which they have with us being changed, things which at present have a certain effect upon us, would have it no more: and as the perfection of art consists in presenting things to us in such a way as to give us the greatest pleasure possible, there must have been a change made in the arts, because there must have been one made in the manner most proper to give us pleasure.
We are at first ready to believe that the knowledge of the different sources of our pleasure is sufficient to constitute taste; and that when we know what philosophy has told us on the subject, we have taste, and may boldly judge of works. But natural taste is not a theoretical knowledge; it is a quick and exquisite application of rules which we do not even know. It is not necessary to know, that the pleasure we receive from any thing we think beautiful, arises from surprise; it is enough that it does surprise us, and that it surprises as much as it ought, and that neither more nor less.
Thus what may here be said, and all the precepts that might be given to form the taste, can only relate immediately and directly to that which is acquired; though it may have an indirect relation to natural taste: for the acquired taste affects, changes, augments, and diminishes the natural taste; as the natural taste affects, changes, augments, and diminishes that which is acquired.
The most general definition of taste, without considering whether it be good or bad, just or not, is that arising from sensation; but this does not prevent its being applied to things that are intellectual, the knowledge of which gives such pleasure to the soul, that by some philosophers it was considered as the only felicity. The soul understands by its ideas, and by its sensations; it receives pleasure by those ideas and those sensations: for though we oppose idea to sensation, yet while it sees a thing, it feels it; and there are no objects so intellectual, that it does not see, or believs it sees, and consequently that are not felt.
OF THE MENTAL FACULTIES*.
Among the faculties of the mind are genius, good sense, discernment, justness, capacity, and taste.
The existence of these faculties consists in having the organs well constituted relatively to the things to which these faculties are applied. If this disposition of mind is very particular, it is named a talent or capacity for any thing; if it has an intimate connection with certain delicate pleasures, it is called taste; if it is a disposition or turn peculiar to a people, it is called their spirit; as the art of war and agriculture among the Romans, hunting among the savages, &c.
OF CURIOSITY.
The soul is made to think, that is, to perceive; now such a being must have curiosity; for as all things are in a chain, where every idea precedes one, and is followed by another, we cannot like to see one thing, without desiring to see another; and if we had no desire for this, we could have no pleasure in that. Thus, when a part of a picture is shewed us, we wish to see the part that is concealed from us, in proportion to the pleasure which that part we have seen has given us.
It is then the pleasure which one object gives us that incites us to follow another; it is on this account that the soul is always in pursuit of novelty, and is never at rest.
Thus, we shall always be certain of pleasing the mind, by making it see a great many things, or more than it had hoped to see.
By this we may explain the reason why we behold with pleasure a very regular garden, and at the same time are pleased when we view a rural uncultivated scene: it is the same cause which produces these effects.
As we love to see a great many objects, we wish to extend our view, to be in different places and to enlarge our prospects; in short, the mind stretches beyond all bounds, and wishes, if I may use the expression, to extend the sphere of its presence: hence arises the pleasure of viewing distant objects. But how is this to be done? in cities our prospect is confined by houses; and in the country, by a thousand obstacles; scarce can we see a few trees. But here art comes to our assistance, and discovers nature who seeks to be concealed; hence we are in love with art, and admire her more than nature, that is, than nature concealed from our sight: but when we find beautiful situations, when the eye, left at liberty, can range far over the meadows, the rivulets, the hills, and those dispositions of nature, which are in a manner created on purpose to captivate the eye, we are quite otherwise enchanted than when we view the gardens of Le Notre; because nature is always an original, and art only copies her. Thus in painting we are better pleased with a rural landskip, than with the most beautiful garden upon earth; because painting chuses nature only where she is most beautiful, where the eye can extend its view as far as it can reach, and where she may be seen with most pleasure.
That which commonly constitutes a great idea, is, when something is said, that makes us perceive a great many others, and discovers to us all at once what we could not have expected but after a great deal of reading.
Florus, in a few words, represents to us all Hanibal’s faults; “When he might, says he, have made use of his victory, he chose rather to enjoy it:” Cum victoria posset uti, frui maluit.
He gives us an idea of the whole Macedonian war, when he says, “To have entered into it was victory:” Introisse victoria fuit.
He gives us a view of the whole life of Scipio, when, speaking of his youth, he says, “This will be that Scipio, who grows up for the destruction of Africa:” Hic erit Scipio qui in exitium Africæ crescit. You think you see a child who increases and grows up like a giant.
In a word, he makes us see the great character of Hanibal, the state of the world, and all the grandeur of the Roman people, when he says, “Hanibal, a fugitive from Africa, sought over all the world an enemy to the Roman people.” Qui profugus ex Africa, hostem populo Romano quærebat.