Of Tragedy / Hume, David

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   Copyright 1995, Christopher MacLachlan (cjmm@st-andrews.ac.uk). See
   end note for details on copyright and editing conventions.[1]

   Editor's note: "Of Tragedy" first appeared in 1757 in Hume's Four
   Dissertations. The text file here is based on the 1875 Green and Grose
   edition. Spelling and punctuation have been modernized.

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   Of Tragedy

           It seems an unaccountable pleasure, which the spectators of a
           well-written tragedy receive from sorrow, terror, anxiety, and
           other passions, that are in themselves disagreeable and
           uneasy. The more they are touched and affected, the more are
           they delighted with the spectacle; and as soon as the uneasy
           passions cease to operate, the piece is at an end. One scene
           of full joy and contentment and security is the utmost, that
           any composition of this kind can bear; and it is sure always
           to be the concluding one. If, in the texture of the piece,
           there be interwoven any scenes of satisfaction, they afford
           only faint gleams of pleasure, which are thrown in by way of
           variety, and in order to plunge the actors into deeper
           distress, by means of that contrast and disappointment. The
           whole heart of the poet is employed, in rouzing and supporting
           the compassion and indignation, the anxiety and resentment of
           his audience. They are pleased in proportion as they are
           afflicted, and never are so happy as when they employ tears,
           sobs, and cries to give vent to their sorrow, and relieve
           their heart, swoln with the tenderest sympathy and compassion.

           The few critics who have had some tincture of philosophy, have
           remarked this singular phenomenon, and have endeavoured to
           account for it.

           L'Abb‚ Dubos, in his reflections on poetry and painting,
           asserts, that nothing is in general so disagreeable to the
           mind as the languid, listless state of indolence, into which
           it falls upon the removal of all passion and occupation. To
           get rid of this painful situation, it seeks every amusement
           and pursuit; business, gaming, shews, executions; whatever
           will rouze the passions, and take its attention from itself.
           No matter what the passion is: Let it be disagreeable,
           afflicting, melancholy, disordered; it is still better than
           that insipid languor, which arises from perfect tranquillity
           and repose.

           It is impossible not to admit this account, as being, at least
           in part, satisfactory. You may observe, when there are several
           tables of gaming, that all the company run to those, where the
           deepest play is, even though they find not there the best
           players. The view, or, at least, imagination of high passions,
           arising from great loss or gain, affects the spectator by
           sympathy, gives him some touches of the same passions, and
           serves him for a momentary entertainment. It makes the time
           pass the easier with him, and is some relief to that
           oppression, under which men commonly labour, when left
           entirely to their own thoughts and meditations.

           We find that common liars always magnify, in their narrations,
           all kinds of danger, pain, distress, sickness, deaths,
           murders, and cruelties; as well as joy, beauty, mirth, and
           magnificence. It is an absurd secret, which they have for
           pleasing their company, fixing their attention, and attaching
           them to such marvellous relations, by the passions and
           emotions, which they excite.

           There is, however, a difficulty in applying to the present
           subject, in its full extent, this solution, however ingenious
           and satisfactory it may appear. It is certain, that the same
           object of distress, which pleases in a tragedy, were it really
           set before us, would give the most unfeigned uneasiness;
           though it be then the most effectual cure to languor and
           indolence. Monsieur Fontenelle seems to have been sensible of
           this difficulty; and accordingly attempts another solution of
           the phaenomenon; at least makes some addition to the theory
           above mentioned.[2]

           'Pleasure and pain,' says he, ' which are two sentiments so
           different in themselves, differ not so much in their cause.
           From the instance of tickling, it appears, that the movement
           of pleasure, pushed a little too far, becomes pain; and that
           the movement of pain, a little moderated, becomes pleasure.
           Hence it proceeds, that there is such a thing as a sorrow,
           soft and agreeable: It is a pain weakened and diminished. The
           heart likes naturally to be moved and affected. Melancholy
           objects suit it, and even disastrous and sorrowful, provided
           they are softened by some circumstance. It is certain, that,
           on the theatre, the representation has almost the effect of
           reality; yet it has not altogether that effect. However we may
           be hurried away by the spectacle; whatever dominion the senses
           and imagination may usurp over the reason, there still lurks
           at the bottom a certain idea of falsehood in the whole of what
           we see. This idea, though weak and disguised, suffices to
           diminish the pain which we suffer from the misfortunes of
           those whom we love, and to reduce that affliction to such a
           pitch as converts it into a pleasure. We weep for the
           misfortune of a hero, to whom we are attached. In the same
           instant we comfort ourselves, by reflecting, that it is
           nothing but a fiction: And it is precisely that mixture of
           sentiments, which composes an agreeable sorrow, and tears that
           delight us. But as that affliction, which is caused by
           exterior and sensible objects, is stronger than the
           consolation which arises from an internal reflection, they are
           the effects and symptoms of sorrow, that ought to predominate
           in the composition.'

           This solution seems just and convincing; but perhaps it wants
           still some new addition, in order to make it answer fully the
           phaenomenon, which we here examine. All the passions, excited
           by eloquence, are agreeable in the highest degree, as well as
           those which are moved by painting and the theatre. The
           epilogues of Cicero are, on this account chiefly, the delight
           of every reader of taste; and it is difficult to read some of
           them without the deepest sympathy and sorrow. His merit as an
           orator, no doubt, depends much on his success in this
           particular. When he had raised tears in his judges and all his
           audience, they were then the most highly delighted, and
           expressed the greatest satisfaction with the pleader. The
           pathetic description of the butchery, made by Verres of the
           Sicilian captains, is a masterpiece of this kind: But I
           believe none will affirm, that the being present at a
           melancholy scene of that nature would afford any
           entertainment. Neither is the sorrow here softened by fiction:
           For the audience were convinced of the reality of every
           circumstance. What is it then, which in this case raises a
           pleasure from the bosom of uneasiness, so to speak; and a
           pleasure, which still retains all the features and outward
           symptoms of distress and sorrow?

           I answer: This extraordinary effect proceeds from that very
           eloquence, with which the melancholy scene is represented. The
           genius required to paint objects in a lively manner, the art
           employed in collecting all the pathetic circumstances, the
           judgment displayed in disposing them: the exercise, I say, of
           these noble talents, together with the force of expression,
           and beauty of oratorial numbers, diffuse the highest
           satisfaction on the audience, and excite the most delightful
           movements. By this means, the uneasiness of the melancholy
           passions is not only overpowered and effaced by something
           stronger of an opposite kind; but the whole impulse of those
           passions is converted into pleasure, and swells the delight
           which the eloquence raises in us. The same force of oratory,
           employed on an uninteresting subject, would not please half so
           much, or rather would appear altogether ridiculous; and the
           mind, being left in absolute calmness and indifference, would
           relish none of those beauties of imagination or expression,
           which, if joined to passion, give it such exquisite
           entertainment. The impulse or vehemence, arising from sorrow,
           compassion, indignation, receives a new direction from the
           sentiments of beauty. The latter, being the predominant
           emotion, seize the whole mind, and convert the former into
           themselves, at least tincture them so strongly as totally to
           alter their nature. And the soul, being, at the same time,
           rouzed by passion, and charmed by eloquence, feels on the
           whole a strong movement, which is altogether delightful.

           The same principle takes place in tragedy; with this addition,
           that tragedy is an imitation; and imitation is always of
           itself agreeable. This circumstance serves still farther to
           smooth the motions of passion, and convert the whole feeling
           into one uniform and strong enjoyment. Objects of the greatest
           terror and distress please in painting, and please more than
           the most beautiful objects, that appear calm and
           indifferent.[3] The affection, rousing the mind, excites a
           large stock of spirit and vehemence; which is all transformed
           into pleasure by the force of the prevailing movement. It is
           thus the fiction of tragedy softens the passion, by an
           infusion of a new feeling, not merely by weakening or
           diminishing the sorrow. You may by degrees weaken a real
           sorrow, till it totally disappears; yet in none of its
           graduations will it ever give pleasure; except, perhaps, by
           accident, to a man sunk under lethargic indolence, whom it
           rouzes from that languid state.

           To confirm this theory, it will be sufficient to produce other
           instances, where the subordinate movement is converted into
           the predominant, and gives force to it, though of a different,
           and even sometimes though of a contrary nature.

           Novelty naturally rouzes the mind, and attracts our attention;
           and the movements, which it causes, are always converted into
           any passion, belonging to the object, and join their force to
           it. Whether an event excite joy or sorrow, pride or shame,
           anger or good-will, it is sure to produce a stronger
           affection, when new or unusual. And though novelty of itself
           be agreeable, it fortifies the painful, as well as agreeable
           passions.

           Had you any intention to move a person extremely by the
           narration of any event, the best method of encreasing its
           effect would be artfully to delay informing him of it, and
           first to excite his curiosity and impatience before you let
           him into the secret. This is the artifice practised by Iago in
           the famous scene of Shakespeare; and every spectator is
           sensible, that Othello's jealousy acquires additional force
           from his preceding impatience, and that the subordinate
           passion is here readily transformed into the predominant one.

           Difficulties encrease passions of every kind; and by rouzing
           our attention, and exciting our active powers, they produce an
           emotion, which nourishes the prevailing affection.

           Parents commonly love that child most, whose sickly infirm
           frame of body has occasioned them the greatest pains, trouble,
           and anxiety in rearing him. The agreeable sentiment of
           affection here acquires force from sentiments of uneasiness.

           Nothing endears so much a friend as sorrow for his death. The
           pleasure of his company has not so powerful an influence.

           Jealousy is a painful passion; yet without some share of it,
           the agreeable affection of love has difficulty to subsist in
           its full force and violence. Absence is also a great source of
           complaint among lovers, and gives them the greatest
           uneasiness: Yet nothing is more favourable to their mutual
           passion than short intervals of that kind. And if long
           intervals often prove fatal, it is only because, through time,
           men are accustomed to them, and they cease to give uneasiness.
           Jealousy and absence in love compose the dolce peccante of the
           Italians, which they suppose so essential to all pleasure.

           There is a fine observation of the elder Pliny, which
           illustrates the principle here insisted on. It is very
           remarkable, says he, that the last works of celebrated
           artists, which they left imperfect, are always the most
           prized, such as the Iris of Aristides, the Tyndarides of
           Nicomachus, the Medea of Timomachus, and the Venus of Apelles.
           These are valued even above their finished productions: The
           broken lineaments of the piece, and the half-formed idea of
           the painter are carefully studied; and our very grief for that
           curious hand, which had been stopped by death, is an
           additional encrease to our pleasure.'[4]

           These instances (and many more might be collected) are
           sufficient to afford us some insight into the analogy of
           nature, and to show us, that the pleasure, which poets,
           orators, and musicians give us, by exciting grief, sorrow,
           indignation, compassion, is not so extraordinary or
           paradoxical, as it may at first sight appear. The force of
           imagination, the energy of expression, the power of numbers,
           the charms of imitation; all these are naturally, of
           themselves, delightful to the mind: And when the object
           presented lays also hold of some affection, the pleasure still
           rises upon us, by the conversion of this subordinate movement
           into that which is predominant. The passion, though, perhaps,
           naturally, and when excited by the simple appearance of a real
           object, it may be painful; yet is so smoothed, and softened,
           and mollified, when raised by the finer arts, that it affords
           the highest entertainment.

           To confirm this reasoning, we may observe, that if the
           movements of the imagination be not predominant above those of
           the passion, a contrary effect follows; and the former, being
           now subordinate, is converted into the latter, and still
           farther encreases the pain and affliction of the sufferer.

           Who could ever think of it as a good expedient for comforting
           an afflicted parent, to exaggerate, with all the force of
           elocution, the irreparable loss, which he has met with by the
           death of a favourite child ? The more power of imagination and
           expression you here employ, the more you encrease his despair
           and affliction.

           The shame, confusion, and terror of Verres, no doubt, rose in
           proportion to the noble eloquence and vehemence of Cicero: So
           also did his pain and uneasiness. These former passions were
           too strong for the pleasure arising from the beauties of
           elocution; and operated, though from the same principle, yet
           in a contrary manner, to the sympathy, compassion, and
           indignation of the audience.

           Lord Clarendon, when he approaches towards the catastrophe of
           the royal party, supposes, that his narration must then become
           infinite]y disagreeable; and he hurries over the king's death,
           without giving us one circumstance of it. He considers it as
           too horrid a scene to be contemplated with any satisfaction,
           or even without the utmost pain and aversion. He himself, as
           well as the readers of that age, were too deeply concerned in
           the events, and felt a pain from subjects, which an historian
           and a reader of another age would regard as the most pathetic
           and most interesting, and, by consequence, the most agreeable.

           An action, represented in tragedy, may be too bloody and
           atrocious. It may excite such movements of horror as will not
           soften into pleasure; and the greatest energy of expression,
           bestowed on descriptions of that nature, serves only to
           augment our uneasiness. Such is that action represented in the
           Ambitious Stepmother, where a venerable old man, raised to the
           height of fury and despair, rushes against a pillar, and
           striking his head upon it, besmears it all over with mingled
           brains and gore. The English theatre abounds too much with
           such shocking images.

           Even the common sentiments of compassion require to be
           softened by some agreeable affection, in order to give a
           thorough satisfaction to the audience. The mere suffering of
           plaintive virtue, under the triumphant tyranny and oppression
           of vice, forms a disagreeable spectacle, and is carefully
           avoided by all masters of the drama. In order to dismiss the
           audience with entire satisfaction and contentment, the virtue
           must either convert itself into a noble courageous despair, or
           the vice receive its proper punishment.

           Most painters appear in this light to have been very unhappy
           in their subjects. As they wrought much for churches and
           convents, they have chiefly represented such horrible subjects
           as crucifixions and martyrdoms, where nothing appears but
           tortures, wounds, executions, and passive suffering, without
           any action or affection. When they turned their pencil from
           this ghastly mythology, they had commonly recourse to Ovid,
           whose fictions, though passionate and agreeable, are scarcely
           natural or probable enough for painting.

           The same inversion of that principle, which is here insisted
           on, displays itself in common life, as in the effects of
           oratory and poetry. Raise so the subordinate passion that it
           becomes the predominant, it swallows up that affection which
           it before nourished and encreased. Too much jealousy
           extinguishes love: Too much difficulty renders us indifferent:
           Too much sickness and infirmity disgusts a selfish and unkind
           parent.

           What so disagreeable as the dismal, gloomy, disastrous
           stories, with which melancholy people entertain their
           companions? The uneasy passion being there raised alone,
           unaccompanied with any spirit, genius, or eloquence, conveys a
           pure uneasiness, and is attended with nothing that can soften
           it into pleasure or satisfaction.

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           [1][COPYRIGHT: (c) 1995, Christopher MacLachlan (cjmm@st-
           andrews.ac.uk), all rights reserved. Unaltered copies of this
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           from the copyright holder. When quoting from this text, please
           use the following citation: The Writings of David Hume, ed.
           James Fieser (Internet Release, 1995).

   EDITORIAL CONVENTIONS: Note references are contained within square
   brackets (e.g., [1]). Spelling and punctuation have been modernized.

           [2]Reflexions sur la poetique, 36

           [3]Painters make no scruple of representing distress and
           sorrow as well as any other passion: But they seem not to
           dwell so much on these melancholy affections as the poets,
           who, tho' they copy every emotion of the human breast, yet
           pass very quickly over the agreeable sentiments. A painter
           represents only one instant; and if that be passionate enough,
           it is sure to affect and delight the spectator: But nothing
           can furnish to the poet a variety of scenes and inci dents and
           sentiments, except distress, terror, or anxiety. Compleat joy
           and satisfaction is attended with security and leaves no
           farther room for action.

           [4]Illud vero perquam rarum ac memoria dignum, etiam suprema
           opera artificum, imperfectasque tabulas, sicut, Irin
           Aristidis, Tyndaridas Nicomachi, Medeam Timomachi, et quam
           diximus Venerem Apellis, in majori admiratione esse quam
           perfecta. Quippe in iis lineamenta reliqua, ipsaeque
           cogitationes artificum spectantur, atque in lenocinio
           commendationis dolor est manus, cum id ageret, extinctae. Lib.
           xxxv,11.

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