Part V, Chapter I, 2

An outstanding artist can bring about a considerable change in the established practices of any of these arts, introducing a new fashion in writing, music, or architecture. Just as the dress of a likable man of high rank, however peculiar and fanciful, soon wins admiration and imitation, so the excellence of an outstanding master recommends his peculiarities, and his manner becomes fashionable in the art he practices. Over these fifty years, Italian tastes in music and architecture have changed considerably through imitation of the peculiarities of certain eminent masters of each art. Quintilian accuses Seneca of corrupting Roman taste by introducing frivolous prettiness in place of majestic reason and vigorous eloquence. Others have made the same charge against Sallust and Tacitus, though on different grounds. They supposedly brought into favor a style that, for all its exceptional brevity, elegance, expressive power, and even poetry, lacked ease, simplicity, and naturalness, and was plainly the product of painstaking, studied affectation. How many great qualities must a writer possess to make even his faults agreeable? After the distinction of refining a nation's taste, perhaps the highest praise an author can receive is to be told that he corrupted it. In our own language, Mr. Pope and Dr. Swift have each introduced a new manner into rhyming verse: the former in long lines, the latter in short. Butler's quaintness has given way to Swift's plainness. Dryden's rambling freedom and Addison's polished but often tedious and prosaic languor are no longer imitated. All long lines are now written in the manner of Mr. Pope's forceful precision.

Nor do custom and fashion rule only over works of art. They likewise influence our judgments of the beauty of natural objects. How many different and even opposite shapes are deemed beautiful among different kinds of things! The proportions admired in one animal differ altogether from those prized in another. Every class of things has its own distinctive form, which wins approval and possesses a beauty distinct from that of any other kind. This led the learned Jesuit Father Buffier to conclude that an object's beauty consists in the form and color most usual among things of its own kind. Thus the beauty of each human feature lies in a certain middle point, equally distant from various ugly forms. A beautiful nose, for instance, is neither very long nor very short, neither very straight nor very crooked, but falls somewhere between all these extremes, differing less from any one of them than they differ from one another. It is the shape nature seems to aim at in every instance. She departs from it in countless ways and very seldom achieves it exactly; yet all her departures still bear a strong resemblance to it. When several drawings are made from one model, they may all depart from it in some respect, yet each will resemble the model more than the drawings resemble one another. The model's general character runs through them all. Those furthest from it will be the oddest and most unusual; though very few copy it exactly, the most faithful drawings will resemble the most careless ones more than the careless ones resemble each other. Similarly, in each species of creature, the most beautiful specimen bears the strongest marks of the species' general structure and most closely resembles the greater part of the individuals classed with it. Monsters, or the completely deformed, by contrast, are always the oddest and least resemble others of their kind. Thus the beauty of each species is in one sense the rarest thing of all, because few individuals attain the middle form exactly; in another sense, it is the commonest, because all deviations from it resemble that form more than they resemble one another. According to Buffier, then, the most usual form is the most beautiful in every kind of thing. That is why we must have some experience in looking at objects of a particular kind before we can judge their beauty or know what their usual, intermediate form is. The finest judgment of human beauty cannot help us judge the beauty of flowers, horses, or any other kind. For the same reason, when climates, customs, and ways of life differ, and those circumstances give the members of a species different general forms, ideas of its beauty also differ. The beauty of a Moorish horse is not exactly that of an English horse. How different are different nations' ideas of a beautiful human form and face! A fair complexion is considered a shocking defect on the coast of Guinea. Thick lips and a flat nose are considered beautiful. In some nations long ears hanging down to the shoulders are universally admired. In China a woman's foot large enough to walk on makes her appear monstrously ugly. Some of the Indigenous nations of North America bind four boards around their children's heads, compressing the tender, pliable bones into a nearly square shape. Europeans are astonished by what they consider the absurd cruelty of this practice, which some missionaries have blamed for the supposed exceptional stupidity of the nations that observe it. Yet those who condemn these people fail to reflect that, until these very last few years, European women had spent nearly a century trying to compress the natural beauty of their rounded figures into just such a square shape. Despite the many distortions and illnesses this practice was known to cause, custom had made it attractive among some of the most civilized nations the world has perhaps ever seen.

Such is this learned and ingenious Father's theory of beauty: its whole charm, on his account, seems to arise from its agreement with the habits custom has impressed on the imagination concerning each particular kind of thing. Yet I cannot believe that even our sense of outward beauty rests entirely on custom. A shape's utility—its fitness for the useful purposes it is meant to serve—plainly recommends it and makes it agreeable to us independently of custom. Some colors please more than others and delight the eye even at first sight. A smooth surface pleases more than a rough one. Variety pleases more than tedious, unvarying uniformity. Connected variety, in which each new feature seems to follow from the one before it and neighboring parts seem naturally related, pleases more than a scattered and disorderly collection of unrelated things. Though I cannot accept that custom is the sole source of beauty, I can grant this much of the ingenious theory: scarcely any outward form is so beautiful that it will please when entirely contrary to custom and unlike everything we are used to seeing among things of its kind; and scarcely any form is so misshapen that it will fail to please when custom consistently endorses it and accustoms us to seeing it in every individual of that kind.

An outstanding artist can make a major change in the established practices of any of these arts. Such a person can create a new fashion in writing, music, or architecture. The unusual, even fanciful clothes of a pleasant person of high rank soon win admiration and imitators. In much the same way, an outstanding master's strengths make the master's peculiar habits appealing, and that personal manner becomes fashionable in the art. In these fifty years, Italian taste in music and architecture has changed considerably through imitation of some outstanding masters' individual styles. Quintilian accused Seneca of spoiling Roman taste, replacing majestic reasoning and vigorous eloquence with trivial prettiness. Others have made a similar accusation against Sallust and Tacitus, though for a different kind of writing. They supposedly made a style fashionable that was very concise, elegant, expressive, and even poetic. Yet, the critics said, it lacked ease, simplicity, and naturalness, and clearly arose from deliberate and highly worked affectation. How many great strengths must a writer have to make even their faults attractive? After being praised for improving a nation's taste, perhaps the highest compliment an author can receive is to be told they spoiled it. In our language, Mr. Pope and Dr. Swift each introduced a new style to rhymed works: Pope in long verse and Swift in short. Butler's quaintness has given way to Swift's plainness. People no longer imitate Dryden's wandering freedom or Addison's careful but often slow and prosaic dullness. Instead, all long verse now follows Mr. Pope's forceful precision.

Custom and fashion rule more than works of art. They also shape our judgments of the beauty of natural things. How many different and even opposite forms are considered beautiful in different kinds of things! Proportions admired in one animal are entirely different from those valued in another. Each kind has its own distinctive shape, approved of for a beauty different from that of any other kind. This led a learned Jesuit, Father Buffier, to conclude that every object's beauty lies in the form and color most usual for things of its kind. In a human face, for instance, he places each feature's beauty at a midpoint among the many other forms we find ugly. A beautiful nose is neither very long nor very short, neither very straight nor very crooked. It falls somewhere between these extremes and differs less from any one of them than they differ from one another. Nature seems to aim at this form in every individual, though she departs from it in many ways and very rarely achieves it exactly. Still, all her variations strongly resemble it. Suppose many people draw from the same model. Each drawing may get something wrong, but all the drawings will resemble the model more closely than they resemble one another. The model's general character will appear in all of them. The strangest drawings will depart the farthest from it. Though few will copy it exactly, the most accurate drawings will resemble the careless ones more than the careless ones resemble one another. Likewise, in every species, the most beautiful individual most strongly displays its general form and resembles most of the other members of its kind. Individuals with extreme deformities, by contrast, look the most unusual and least like the rest of their kind. Beauty within a species is therefore the rarest thing in one sense, since few individuals exactly match the middle form. In another sense, it is the most common, since all the variations resemble it more than they resemble one another. So, according to Buffier, the most usual form is the most beautiful within any kind of thing. That is why we need practice and experience looking at a kind of object before judging its beauty or knowing its usual middle form. Even the finest judgment of human beauty will not teach us to judge the beauty of flowers, horses, or any other kind. Similarly, different climates, customs, and ways of life produce different typical forms within a species, and people therefore develop different ideas of its beauty. A beautiful Moorish horse does not look exactly like a beautiful English horse. How differently people in different countries judge beautiful human shapes and faces! Along the coast of Guinea, a fair complexion is regarded as shockingly ugly; thick lips and a flat nose are seen as beautiful. In some nations, everyone admires long ears hanging to the shoulders. In China, a lady whose feet are large enough to walk on is regarded as monstrously ugly. Some of the Indigenous nations of North America tie four boards around children's heads and, while the bones are still soft and flexible, squeeze their heads into an almost perfectly square shape. Europeans are amazed by what they consider the absurd cruelty of this practice. Some missionaries have even blamed it for what they called the extraordinary stupidity of nations that follow it. But those Europeans fail to reflect that, until these very few years, European women had spent nearly a century trying to squeeze the natural beauty of their round bodies into a similarly square shape. Even though this practice was known to cause many distortions and diseases, custom had made it seem attractive among some of the most civilized nations the world has ever seen.

That is this learned and inventive Father's account of beauty. In his view, its entire appeal seems to come from matching the habits that custom has formed in our imagination for each kind of thing. But I cannot believe that even our sense of outward beauty depends entirely on custom. A shape's usefulness and fitness for its purpose clearly make it appealing independently of habit. Some colors please the eye more than others even when someone sees them for the first time. A smooth surface is more pleasing than a rough one. Variety is more enjoyable than tiresome, unbroken sameness. Variety whose parts connect makes an even better impression. In it, each new thing seems to follow from what came before, and neighboring parts seem naturally related. It is more pleasing than a disorderly collection of unrelated things. So I cannot accept custom as the only source of beauty. Still, I can accept this much of Buffier's clever theory: almost no outward form is so beautiful that it can please us if it is completely unlike the forms we are used to seeing in its kind. And almost no form is so ugly that it cannot please us if custom consistently supports it and we become used to seeing it in every individual of that kind.