Monday, January 11, 2021

Disordered Loves

This thematic link between Austen and Dante can be explored by using the vocabulary of the Purgatorio to describe disordered love in Mansfield Park. Like the former, the latter represents a variety of disordered loves in the principal characters. The Purgatorio divides these loves into three categories: perverted love, defective love, and excessive love. Pride, envy, and wrath, are perverted loves, and, to various degrees, Sir Thomas, but especially Maria, Julia, Henry, and Mary represent these vices. By her sloth, Lady Bertram represents defective love. Hers is a will too weak or lazy to pursue the good. Excessive love includes avarice, prodigality, gluttony, and lust. Mrs. Norris has an excessive love of money, or avarice, while Tom's wasteful spending and dissipation demonstrate his prodigality. Furthermore, Maria's adultery with Henry, which continues for an extended period of time after their initial flight, reveals the way in which the perverted loves of pride, envy, and wrath can so affect the will that it loses the power to curb wrong desires; they then become excessive desires such as lust.


Joyce Kerr Tarpley, Constancy and the Ethics of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park, p. 137. Tarpley, of course, is not indicating a historical influence; rather the argument is that you can see that Mansfield Park has a theme of what can be called disordered loves from how easily the language of the Purgatorio, which is explicitly on the theme of disordered loves, can be adapted to describe the novel.

Margaret Morrison (1954-2021)

 I see from the Department of Philosophy at the University of Toronto that Margie Morrison has died. She was a very charming person, capable of both extremely rigorous analysis and lightly playful humor. I didn't know her extremely well; as a graduate student, I co-instructed an Intro course with her and talked with her a number of times. (I don't remember details at this distance, but I think there was a scheduling error that led to me being brought in to help cover it over; I did a history-survey portion of the course as a sort of preparation for her more problem-focused component.) When a philosopher dies, you always wish you had vivid memory of deep philosophical discussions with them, but in reality you mostly remember small, pleasant conversations about not much. In my case, I mostly remember talking to her about Anselm (she liked Anselm, not so much for the content as for his logical focus, how he put arguments together) and about her car (which she liked having, but with Toronto's public transportation rarely drove, and then mostly to make sure it was still working). Such are most of our memorable human connections, I suppose: light touches that you don't forget, in which the importance is less the content than the people themselves. 

Her published work, in philosophy of science, was always excellent and thought-provoking, and the profession is the less for the loss of her.

Sunday, January 10, 2021

The Sublimity of Nature

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. “Here's harmony!” said she; “here's repose! Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene.”
[Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, Chapter XI.]

Lustral Illumination

 Today is the feast of the Holy Baptism of the Lord.

He was born
and was baptized
that by His Passion
He might cleanse the water.
-- Ignatius of Antioch, Ephesians 18:2


Gelder, Aert de - The Baptism of Christ - c. 1710

Aert de Gelder, The Baptism of Christ (c. 1710); Aert de Gelder (1645-1727), famous for painting in style that focused on telling a story, was one of Rembrandt's most talented students.

Pusillanimity
by St. John Henry Newman

-- "I have need to be baptized of Thee, and comest Thou to me?"

How didst thou start, Thou Holy Baptist, bid
To pour repentance on the Sinless Brow!
Then all thy meekness, from thy hearers hid,
Beneath the Ascetic's port, and Preacher's fire,
Flow'd forth, and with a pang thou didst desire
He might be chief, not thou.

And so on us at whiles it falls, to claim
Powers that we dread, or dare some forward part;
Nor must we shrink as cravens from the blame
Of pride, in common eyes, or purpose deep;
But with pure thoughts look up to God, and keep
Our secret in our heart.

At Sea.
June 22, 1833.


Saturday, January 09, 2021

Mansfield Park and Hugh Blair's Sermons (Re-Post)

This is re-posted from five years ago.

Hugh Blair was a notable philosopher of the Scottish Enlightenment, most famous for his work on rhetoric and belles lettres, but in direct contact with many of the major philosophical names of the period. (As an example, Blair is the intermediary between David Hume and George Campbell in their dispute over miracles.) His sermons were also widely read as excellent examples of polished homiletics. Blair's sermons are specifically mentioned in Mansfield Park:

"You assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit."

It's just a side-mention. It is also a mention by Mary Crawford, and because of that association some people have concluded that Austen -- who read sermons extensively -- was not a fan of Blair.

However, I wonder if there is more to the matter than might seem to be the case at first. Mansfield Park crosses themes with several of Blair's sermons. One that is quite noticeable is that Blair's sermons are a work Austen certainly would have read that uses the word 'constancy' in a sense much like that in which Austen uses it in the novel. Indeed, one of his sermons, Sermon XV of Volume I, is entitled, "On the Motives to Constancy in Virtue".

In the sermon, Blair imagines a man who has decided to devote himself to virtue. However, it turns out to be quite difficult:

The peace which he hoped to enjoy, is interrupted, either by his own frailties, or by the vices of others. Passions, which had not been thoroughly subdued, struggle for their accustomed gratification. The pleasure which he expected to find in devotion, sometimes fails him; and the injustice of the world often sours and frets him. Friends prove ungrateful; enemies misrepresent, rivals supplant him: And part, at least, of the mortifications which he suffers, he begins to ascribe to virtue.

Blair's purpose in the sermon is to argue that, despite occasional appearances, the difficulties of life never provide a sufficient reason to be "weary in well-doing". He raises several points to back this up. (1) Every state of life has its difficulties, so if the aim is to avoid having a difficult life, it's an aim that can't be guaranteed, no matter what one does. (2) More importantly, vice actually increases the difficulty of life even when it isn't obvious that it is doing so. Contrary to what we usually think, self-denial is not the exclusive province of virtue; self-denial, in fact, is common to both virtue and vice. Disorder in one's passions mean that some of your desires will go unmet, and whenever you are doing something wrong you are denying yourself some kind of good. (3) Difficulties associated with virtue, on the other hand, since virtue is linked with moderation of passions, are more bearable, because moderation of passion itself can ease the pain and hardship. Virtue, in other words, better prepares us for when things do not go our own way -- which, inevitably, they sometimes will. Virtue gives its bearer an independence of fortune:

It is the peculiar effect of virtue, to make a man's happiness arise from himself and his own conduct. A bad man is wholly the creature of the world. He hangs upon its favour, lives by its smiles, and is happy or miserable, in proportion to his success. But to a virtuous man, success, in worldly undertakings, is but a secondary object. To discharge his own part with integrity and honour, is his chief aim. If he has done properly what was incumbent on him to do, his mind is at rest; to Providence he leaves the event.

At the same time, while virtue may seem at first to restrict the enjoyments you can have, the truth is actually the opposite: genuine virtue allows worldly pleasures, in proper moderation and place, and adds to them its own pleasures. (4) Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy, due to the future life.

Another of the sermons in Volume I is Sermon XI, "On the Duties of the Young", in which we also find a connection with constancy:

Too many of the pretended friendships of youth, are mere combinations in pleasure. They are often founded on capricious likings; suddenly contracted, and as suddenly dissolved. Sometimes they are the effect of interested complaisance and flattery on the one side, and of credulous fondness on the other. Beware of such rash and dangerous connections, which may afterwards load you with dishonour. Remember that by the character of those whom you choose for your friends, your own is likely to be formed, and will certainly be judged of by the world. Be slow, therefore, and cautious in contracting intimacy; but when a virtuous friendship is once established, consider it as a sacred engagement. Expose not yourselves to the reproach of lightness and inconstancy, which always bespeak, either a trifling, or a base mind. Reveal none of the secrets of your friend. Be faithful to his interests. Forsake him not in danger. Abhor the thought of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice or hurt.

The whole of Sermon XI is worth reading, actually, in this respect, since a large number of themes in the sermon are shared with Mansfield Park. It's true, of course, that the moral dangers of youth are fairly universal, so it's possible that convergence rather than interaction explains the resemblances. But it is suggestive nonetheless.

Moral Judgment and Aesthetic Judgment

 One of the things that makes Mansfield Park interesting is its exploration of the interaction between aesthetic and moral judgment. Both are recognized as important in the novel -- it is important for Fanny's development, including her moral development, that she has a naturally cultivated, and not artificially distorted, taste for beautiful things. It's one of the things, for instance, that gives her the occasional boldness needed to start developing her moral strength. In doing this, MP is giving a new presentation for an old idea; as I've noted before, it is rare to find any moral philosopher in the history of ethics, East or West, who does not recognize important links between aesthetic and moral judgment. The splitting of the two in abstract discussions, as if they had little or nothing to do with each other, seems primarily to be an aberration of the twentieth-century West.

MP, however, also recognizes the danger of this interaction between aesthetic and moral judgment. They are not the same, and very bad things can come of using aesthetic judgment to perform the task of moral judgment. The Crawfords are aesthetically pleasing in almost every way. They are charming and fun. Mary is pretty in appearance and Henry is engaging in manner, and they are both lively and witty. What is more, they live their own lives almost entirely by aesthetic, rather than moral. judgment. Being human, they neither of them lack the latter, and despite having no upbringing or practice to help them, occasionally rise to good moral judgment. But their lives are aesthetic lives, lived by taste and not by principle. And, of course, the problems of this are inevitably going to show.

I think it's clear enough when you look at human behavior that people have difficulty distinguishing aesthetic judgment and moral judgment. This is not a matter of intelligence or experience; you find very intelligent and experienced people who, like the Crawfords, cannot really distinguish them at all. Indeed, you find plenty who can recognize a distinction in the abstract but in the concrete obviously conflate them. It's just a result of the fact that aesthetic judgment and moral judgment do necessarily exist in interplay, so nobody can distinguish them without reflection and nobody can do it consistently without practice. Trying to separate them completely in actual practical life would require a very unhuman ethics; but by the same token, distinguishing them takes work.

And, of course, they need to be distinguished. We see this very easily when we look at questions of condemnation; trying to use aesthetic judgment to do what moral judgment should do inevitably leads to injustice. You can walk up a very pretty primrose path to some very nasty things. We find that often (not always, but quite often) when people react with vehemence against something, they are reacting with vehemence against the aesthetics of it, and while sometimes this is quite justified as far as it goes, the vehement revulsion is not itself a moral judgement. Thus when we find cases of people responding out of all proportion to the badness of the things, I think we can usually blame it on using aesthetic judgment as if it were moral judgment.

The rule of thumb seems to be something like this. When you are condemning something, the question to ask is, "What, precisely, is the morally wrong thing here?" (This rule of thumb does not cover every kind of case. But it covers a great many of the most important ones.) Something can be aesthetically bad in general; for instance, you can have a situation that is jarring and discordant not from any particular feature but from a whole blend of things. But you can't have moral wrongness except by way of some particular things that are morally wrong. So it's important to ask ourselves, whenever, we are inclined to condemn anything, what particular thing is wrong. If we can't -- if we can't articulate what's wrong, if we find that every attempt to do so never gets out of generalities, if we find ourselves falling back on general labels -- that is at least a good sign that our inclination to condemn is aesthetic, not moral.

This is complicated by the fact that we sometimes fool ourselves into thinking that we are talking about something precise, when really we are just describing some general features in a lot of different ways. The real idea is that if someone has done something morally wrong by words, for instance, then this can only be by particular words said in a particular context that makes them wrong. What are they? If someone has done something morally wrong by deeds, we should be able to identify a particular action that is wrong in a particular context. We should be able to give the concrete details that don't themselves depend on abstractions and generalities. Moral judgment can involve abstractions and generalities, but it is always about something concrete, particular, definite. What is the concrete, particular, definite wrongness? If you can't say, you are probably judging aesthetically, and it is important to avoid treating this kind of judgment as a genuine moral judgment.

None of this, again, implies that aesthetic judgment is itself to be disparaged, or that it is unimportant for the moral life. It's just that we should not treat our judgments about how we experience a situation as if they were judgments about moral good and bad. Aesthetic judgment doesn't see people as people, for instance; it sees them as good or bad features of the environment. Now, it's absolutely true that a person can be a bad feature of the environment in some way; but this is not the same as being, or acting as, a bad person. There are absolutely kinds of aesthetic goodness we want built into our society, but we should avoid treating this as a superior end to ends like justice and mercy and charity, which in their different ways will often require us to have some endurance or tolerance for things we do not like, even for things we justifiably do not like, or to give some benefit of the doubt to them that makes us uncomfortable, or simply to have a sense of proportion that recognizes that there are things much, much more important than how these things come across to us. The moral judgment does not make the aesthetic judgment insignificant -- both the virtue of temperance with respect to our own actions and a good sense of proportion about those of other people, for instance, require both, clearly distinguished but clearly interacting. But we are very often unjust to people, even to people who would be justifiably condemned if we did so on better grounds and in better ways, when we make the aesthetic judgment do the work of the moral judgment.

Of course, what goes for condemnation goes for other kinds of judgment, as well; it's just that condemnation is a particularly easy point at which to see how we can go very wrong.

Thursday, January 07, 2021

Feast Them Upon the Wideness of the Sea

On the Sea
by John Keats

It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be mov'd for days from whence it sometime fell,
When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vex'd and tir'd,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody,--
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quir'd!