Part V, Chapter I, 1

Part V: On the influence of custom and fashion on sentiments of moral approbation and disapprobation. Consisting of one section.

On the influence of custom and fashion on our ideas of beauty and ugliness.

Besides the principles already discussed, others exert considerable influence on human moral sentiments and are chiefly responsible for the many conflicting and inconsistent opinions held in different ages and nations about what deserves blame or praise. These principles are custom and fashion, which govern our judgments of every kind of beauty.

When we have frequently seen two things together, the imagination acquires the habit of passing easily from one to the other. When the first appears, we expect the second to follow. Each brings the other to mind of its own accord, and our attention glides easily between them. Even if there is no intrinsic beauty in their union, once custom has joined them we feel something wrong in their separation. Either seems awkward without its familiar companion. We miss what we expected, and our habitual ordering of ideas is disturbed by the disappointment. A suit of clothes, for example, seems incomplete without even the most trivial ornament that usually accompanies it; we perceive a shabbiness or awkwardness in the absence of so much as a button at the hip. Where a union has some natural propriety, custom heightens our sense of it and makes a different arrangement seem even more disagreeable than it otherwise would. Those accustomed to seeing things done with taste are more repelled by anything clumsy or awkward. Where the combination is improper, custom weakens or entirely removes our sense of its impropriety. Those accustomed to slovenly disorder lose all sense of neatness or elegance. Styles of furniture or dress that seem ridiculous to strangers give no offense to those used to them.

Fashion differs from custom—or rather, it is a particular kind of custom. What everybody wears is not fashionable; what people of high rank or standing wear is. The graceful, easy, commanding manners of the great, joined with the usual richness and splendor of their dress, lend grace to the very shape they happen to give it. So long as they keep wearing that shape, our imaginations associate it with refinement and magnificence; even if it is indifferent in itself, it appears, through that association, to possess something refined and magnificent as well. Once they abandon it, it loses all its apparent grace and, now worn only by people of lower rank, seems to share their supposed shabbiness and awkwardness.

Everyone admits that dress and furniture are entirely subject to custom and fashion. Yet their influence extends far beyond this narrow domain: it reaches everything that can be a matter of taste, including music, poetry, and architecture. Styles of dress and furniture change continually; when a fashion admired five years ago looks ridiculous today, experience convinces us that its popularity owed chiefly or entirely to custom and fashion. Clothes and furniture are not made of particularly durable materials. An elegantly designed coat wears out in twelve months and can no longer keep its design in fashion. Furniture styles change less rapidly because furniture usually lasts longer. Within five or six years, however, they generally undergo a complete revolution, and every person sees them change many times in a lifetime. The works of other arts last much longer and, if well conceived, can perpetuate their designs as fashions for far longer. A well-designed building may stand for centuries; a beautiful melody can pass by a kind of tradition through successive generations; a well-written poem may endure as long as the world. Each can continue for ages to give currency to the particular style, taste, or manner in which it was made. Few people live to see a major change of fashion in any of these arts. Few have enough experience of, and familiarity with, the different fashions of distant ages and nations to become thoroughly comfortable with them or to judge them impartially against those of their own age and country. Few, therefore, are willing to admit that custom or fashion has much influence on their judgments of beauty and its opposite in these arts. Instead they imagine that every rule they think each art should follow is founded on reason and nature, not on habit or prejudice. Yet a little attention may convince them otherwise: custom and fashion govern architecture, poetry, and music no less completely than dress and furniture.

For example, can anyone give a reason why a Doric capital belongs on a column eight diameters high, an Ionic volute on one of nine, and Corinthian foliage on one of ten? Nothing but habit and custom establishes the propriety of these pairings. An eye used to seeing a particular proportion joined with a particular ornament is offended when they are separated. Each of the five orders has ornaments peculiar to it; substituting others offends anyone acquainted with the rules of architecture. Some architects, indeed, claim that the ancients assigned ornaments to each order with such exquisite judgment that none equally suitable could be found. Yet it is rather hard to believe that these forms, however pleasing, are the only ones that suit those proportions, or that five hundred others would not have suited them just as well before custom became established. Still, once custom has established rules for building, provided they are not utterly unreasonable, it would be absurd to exchange them for rules merely as good, or even for rules with a slight natural advantage in elegance and beauty. A person appearing in public in clothes quite unlike those commonly worn would look ridiculous, however graceful or convenient the new outfit might be in itself. There is a similar absurdity in decorating a house in a manner wholly different from what custom and fashion prescribe, even if the new ornaments are somewhat superior in themselves to the familiar ones.

According to the ancient rhetoricians, a particular meter or verse form was naturally suited to each kind of writing, because it naturally expressed the character, sentiment, or passion that ought to prevail there. One verse form, they said, suited serious works and another cheerful ones; to exchange them would, they thought, be deeply improper. Modern experience, however, seems to contradict this principle, plausible though it may appear in itself. The English meter of burlesque is the French meter of heroic poetry. The tragedies of Racine and Voltaire's Henriad are written in the same meter as,

Thus said to my lady the knight full of care.

The French meter of burlesque, conversely, is much the same as the ten-syllable heroic meter in English. Custom has led one nation to associate solemnity, sublimity, and seriousness with the very measure that another associates with all that is light, flippant, and ridiculous. Nothing could seem more absurd than an English tragedy in French Alexandrines, or a French tragedy in English ten-syllable verse.

Part V: How custom and fashion influence our feelings of moral approval and disapproval. This part has one section.

How custom and fashion affect our ideas of beauty and ugliness.

Other forces besides those already described strongly influence our moral feelings. They are the main reasons why people in different times and countries disagree so much about what deserves blame or praise. Those forces are custom and fashion, which also govern our judgments of every kind of beauty.

When we often see two things together, our imagination gets used to moving easily from one to the other. When we see the first, we expect the second to follow. Each brings the other to mind without effort, and our attention moves easily between them. Their combination might have no beauty apart from habit. Yet once custom joins them in our minds, separating them feels improper. One thing looks awkward without its usual companion. We miss what we expected, and that disappointment disturbs our habitual pattern of thought. A suit, for example, looks incomplete without even the smallest ornament normally worn with it. Even the absence of a button at the hip can make it look plain or awkward. If two things naturally belong together, custom strengthens that impression. A different arrangement then looks even more unpleasant than it otherwise would. People used to seeing things arranged with good taste are more disturbed by anything clumsy or awkward. But if two things are joined improperly, habit reduces or even removes our sense of the problem. People used to messy disorder lose their sense of neatness and elegance. Forms of furniture or dress that seem ridiculous to strangers do not offend those who are used to them.

Fashion differs from custom, or rather is a particular kind of custom. Fashion is not what everyone wears; it is what people of high rank or standing wear. Powerful people's graceful, relaxed, commanding manners, together with their usual rich and splendid clothes, make even the particular shape they give their clothes look graceful. As long as they keep wearing it, we associate that shape with refinement and splendor. Even if there is nothing special about it on its own, this association makes it seem refined and splendid too. As soon as they abandon it, it loses its apparent grace. Because only people of lower rank now wear it, it seems to take on their supposed plainness and awkwardness.

Everyone agrees that custom and fashion completely govern dress and furniture. But their power extends well beyond these things. It reaches anything we judge by taste, including music, poetry, and architecture. Styles of dress and furniture keep changing. What we admired five years ago seems ridiculous today. Experience thus shows us that those styles owed their popularity mostly or entirely to custom and fashion. Clothes and furniture do not last very long. A stylish coat wears out in a twelve-month and cannot keep its design fashionable much longer. Furniture changes more slowly because it usually lasts longer. But it generally changes entirely in five or six years, and every person sees many furniture fashions in a lifetime. Works in the other arts last much longer. When well designed, they can keep their style fashionable for a much longer time. A good building can stand for many centuries. A beautiful tune can be passed on by tradition through many generations. A well-written poem may last as long as the world. For ages, each keeps its particular style, taste, or manner fashionable. Few people see the fashion in any of these arts change greatly during their lifetimes. Few have enough experience with styles from distant times and nations to feel fully at ease with them or judge them impartially against the styles of their own time and country. So few people are willing to admit that custom or fashion much affects their judgment of beauty in these arts. They think every rule they want artists to follow is based on reason and nature, not habit or prejudice. But a little thought can show them otherwise. Custom and fashion have as much power over architecture, poetry, and music as they have over clothes and furniture.

For example, why should a Doric capital belong on a column eight diameters high, an Ionic spiral on one of nine, and Corinthian leaves on one of ten? Nothing but custom and habit makes these pairings seem right. Our eyes are used to seeing each proportion with a particular ornament, so a different pairing would offend us. Each of the five architectural orders has its own ornaments. Anyone who knows the rules of architecture would object if they were swapped for others. Some architects even say the ancients chose each order's ornaments with such excellent judgment that no others could fit as well. But it is hard to believe that these forms, however pleasing they are, are the only ones that fit these proportions. Before custom established the rules, five hundred other forms might have fitted equally well. Still, once custom has established building rules, so long as they are not completely unreasonable, it is foolish to replace them with rules that are merely as good. It may even be foolish to replace them with rules that have a slight natural advantage in elegance and beauty. A person who went out wearing clothes completely unlike what anyone else wears would look ridiculous, however graceful or practical the new outfit might be. It seems just as absurd to decorate a house in a way completely unlike what custom and fashion prescribe, even if the new decorations are somewhat better on their own.

Ancient teachers of rhetoric thought that each kind of writing naturally called for its own meter or verse form. They believed that form naturally expressed the character, feeling, or passion that should dominate the work. One meter suited serious works and another lighthearted ones, they said. Swapping them would be highly improper. Yet modern experience seems to contradict this otherwise plausible idea. A verse form used for comic parody in English is used for heroic poetry in French. The tragedies of Racine and Voltaire's Henriad use the same meter as this line: “Thus said to my lady the knight full of care.” Conversely, the French comic verse form is much like the ten-syllable meter of English heroic verse. Custom makes one nation associate seriousness, grandeur, and dignity with the meter that the other associates with lightheartedness, flippancy, and comedy. Nothing would seem more absurd than an English tragedy in French-style Alexandrine verse, or a French tragedy in English-style ten-syllable verse.