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severity and restraint of a college-education, repairs to the capital disposed to every sort of excess. The play-house becomes his favorite amusement; and he is enchanted with the gaiety and splendour of the chief personages. The disgust which vice gives him at first, soon wears off, to make way for new notions, more liberal in his opinion; by which a sovereign contempt of religion, and a declared war upon the chastity of wives, maids, and widows, are converted from being infamous vices to be fashionable virtues. The infection spreads gradually through all ranks, and becomes universal: How gladly would I listen to any one who should undertake to prove, that what I have been describing is chimerical! but the dissoluteness of our young men of birth will not suffer me to doubt of its reality. Sir Harry Wildair has completed many a rake; and in the Suspicious Husband, Ranger, the humble imitator of Sir Harry, has had no slight influence in spreading that character. What woman, tinctured with the play-house morals, would not be the sprightly, the witty, though dissolute Lady Townly, rather than the cold, the sober, though virtuous Lady Grace? How odious ought writers to be who thus employ the talents they have from their Maker most traitorously against himself, by endeavouring to corrupt and disfigure his creatures! If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him with remorse in his last moments, he must have been lost to all sense of virtue. Nor will it afford any excuse to such writers, that their comedies are entertaining; unless it could be maintained that wit and sprightliness are better suited to a vicious than a virtuous character. It would grieve me to think so; and the direct contrary is exemplified in the Merry Wives of Windsor, where we are highly entertained with the conduct of two ladies, not more remarkable for mirth and spirit than for the strictest purity of manners,



THIS subject was purposely reserved for a separate section, because it could not, with perspicuity, be handled under the general head. An emotion accompanied with desire is termed a passion; and when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified. Now the gratification of every passion must be pleasant; for nothing can be more natural, than that the accomplishment of any wish or desire should affect us with joy; I know of no exception but when a man stung with remorse desires to chastise and punish himself. The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion; because it makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate in its nature, not having a tendency to any thing beyond. On the other hand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what we desire; for if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is equally natural that disappointment should produce sorrow.

An event, fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident,

without being foreseen or thought of, and which therefore could not be the object of desire, raiseth an emotion of the same kind with that now mentioned; but the cause must be different; for there can be no gratification where there is no desire. We have not however

far to seek for a cause it is involved in the nature of man, that he cannot be indifferent to an event that concerns him or any of his connexions; if it be fortunate, it gives him joy; if unfortunate, it gives him sorrow.

In no situation doth joy rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of any violent distress of mind or body; and in no situation doth sorrow rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of what makes us happy. The sensibility of our nature serves in part to account for these effects. Other causes concur: one is, that violent distress always raises an anxious desire to be free from it, and therefore its removal is a high gratification; nor can we be possessed of any thing that makes us happy, without wishing its continuance; and therefore its removal, by crossing our wishes, must create sorrow. The principle of contrast is another cause: an emotion of joy arising upon the removal of pain, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former distress: an emotion of sorrow, upon being deprived of any good, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former happiness :

Jaffier. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity
But's happier than me. For I have known
The luscious sweets of plenty: every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never waked but to a joyful morning.

Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn,

Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening.

Venice Preserv'd, act 1. sc. 1.

It hath always been reckoned difficult to account for the extreme pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain; as when one is relieved from the rack, or from a violent fit of the stone. What is said explains this difficulty in the easiest and simplest manner : cessation of bodily pain is not of itself a pleasure, for a nonens or a negative can neither give pleasure nor pain; but man is so framed by nature as to rejoice when he is eased of pain, as well as to be sorrowful when deprived of any enjoyment. This branch of our constitution is chiefly the cause of the pleasure. The gratification of desire comes in as an accessory cause; and contrast joins its force, by increasing the sense of our present happiness. In the case of an acute pain, a peculiar circumstance contributes its part; the brisk circulation of the animal spirits occasioned by acute pain, continues after the pain is gone, and produceth a very pleasant emotion. Sickness hath not that effect, because it is always attended with a depression of spirits.

Hence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occasions a mixt emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful: the partial diminution produceth joy in proportion; but the remaining pain balanceth the joy. This mixt emotion, however, hath no long endurance; for the joy that ariseth upon the diminution of pain, soon vanisheth, and

leaveth in the undisturbed possession, that degree of pain whiefs remains.

What is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable to the distresses of the mind; and accordingly it is a common artifice, to prepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our fears.



ONE feeling there is that merits a deliberate view, from its singularity as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a passion, seems uncertain: the former it can scarce be, because it involves desire; the latter it can scarce be, because it has no object. But this feeling, and its nature, will be best understood from examples. A signal act of gratitude produceth in the spectator or reader, not only love or esteem for the author, but also a separate feeling, being a vague feeling of gratitude without an object; a feeling, however, that disposes the spectator or reader to acts of gratitude, more than upon an ordinary occasion. This feeling is overlooked by writers upon ethics; but a man may be convinced of its reality, by attentively watching his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal act of gratitude: he will be conscious of the feeling, as distinct from the esteem or admiration he has for the grateful person. The feeling is singular in the following respect, that it is accompanied with a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without having any object: though in that state, the mind, wonderfully bent on an object, neglects no opportunity to vent itself; any act of kindness or goodwill that would pass unregarded upon another occasion, is greedily seized; and the vague feeling is converted into a real passion of gratitude in such a state, favours are returned double.


In like manner, a courageous action produceth in a spectator the passion of admiration directed to the author; and beside this wellknown passion, a separate feeling is raised in the spectator, which may be called an emotion of courage; because, while under its influence, he is conscious of a boldness and intrepidity beyond what is usual, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert this

emotion :

Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis

Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.-Æneid, iv. 158.

Non altramente il tauro, ove l'irrita
Geloso amor con stimoli pungenti,
Horribilmente mugge, e co muggiti

Gli spiriti in se risveglia, e l'ire ardenti:

E' corno aguzza a i tronchi, e per ch' invita.

Con vani colpi a'la battaglia i venti.-Tasso, cant. 7. st. 55.

So full of valour that they smote the air

For breathing in their faces.-Tempest, act. 4. sc. 4.

The emotions raised by music independent of words, must be all of this nature: courage roused by martial music performed upon instruments without a voice, cannot be directed to any object: nor can grief or pity raised by melancholy music of the same kind have an object.

For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action, highly agreeable to the spectator: beside veneration for the author, the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which disposeth him to great and noble actions; and herein chiefly consists the extreme delight every one hath in the histories of conquerors and heroes.

This singular feeling, which may be termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue, resembles in one respect, the well-known appetites that lead to the propagation and preservation of the species. The appetites of hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind before they are directed to any object; and in no case whatever is the mind more solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence of any of these appetites.

The feeling I have endeavoured to unfold, may well be termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue; for it is raised in a spectator, or in a reader, by virtuous actions of every kind, and by no other sort. When we contemplate a virtuous action, which fails not to prompt our love for the author, our propensity at the same time to such actions is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual emotion. But no man hath a propensity to vice as such on the contrary, a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the author ; and this abhorrence is a strong antidote against vice, as long as any impression remains of the wicked action.

In a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing; and here a delightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful to observe what incitements there are to virtue in the human frame; justice is perceived to be our duty; and it is guarded by natural punishments, from which the guilty never escape: to perform noble and generous actions, a warm sense of their dignity and superior excellence is a most efficacious incitement.* And to leave virtue in no quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an admirable contrivance, by which good example commands the heart, and adds to virtue the force of habit. We approve every virtuous action, and bestow our affection on the author; but if virtuous actions produced no other effect upon us, good example would not have great influence the sympathetic emotion under consideration bestows upon good example the utmost influence, by prompting us to imitate what we admire. This singular emotion will readily find an object to exert itself upon; and at any rate, it never exists without producing some effect, because virtuous emotions of that sort are in some degree an exercise of virtue; they are a mental exercise at least, if they appear not externally. And every exercise of virtue, internal and external, leads to habit; for a disposition or propensity of the mind, like a limb of the body, becomes stronger by exercise.

* See Essays on morality and natural religion, part 1. ess. 2. ch. 4.

Proper means, at the same time, being ever at hand to raise this sympathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a good mea. sure, supply the want of a more complete exercise. Thus, by proper discipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue : intercourse with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested actions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathetic emotion in constant exercise, which by degrees introduceth a habit, and confirms the authority of virtue with respect to edu. cation in particular, what a spacious and commodious avenue to the heart of a young person is here opened!



In the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by which things are connected, have a remarkable influence on the train of our ideas. I here add, that they have an influence no less remarkable in the production of emotions and passions. Beginning with the former, an agreeable object makes every thing connected with it appear agreeable; for the mind gliding sweetly and easily through related objects, carries along the agreeable properties it meets with in its passage, and bestows them on the present object, which thereby appears more agreeable than when considered apart.* This reason may appear obscure and metaphysical, but the fact is beyond all dispute. No relation is more intimate than that between a being and its qualities and accordingly every quality in a hero, even the slightest, makes a greater figure than more substantial qualities in others. The propensity of carrying along agreeable properties from one object to another, is sometimes so vigorous as to convert defects into properties: the wry neck of Alexander was imitated by his courtiers as a real beauty, without intention to flatter: Lady Percy, speaking of her husband Hotspur,


-By his light

Did all the chivalry of England move,

To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass,

Wherein the noble youths did dress themselves.

He had no legs that practis'd not his gait:

And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish,
Became the accents of the valiant:

*Such proneness has the mind to this communication of properties, that we often find a property ascribed to a related object, of which naturally it is not susceptible. Sir Richard Grenville in a single ship, being surprised by the Spanish fleet, was advised to retire. He utterly refused to turn from the enemy; declaring, "he would rather die, than dishonour himself, his country, and her Majesty's ship." Hakluyt, vol. 2. part 2. p. 169. To aid the communication, of properties in instances like the present, there always must be a momentary personification: a ship must be imagined a sensible being to make it susceptible of honour or dishonour. In the battle of Mantinea, Epaminondas, being mortally wounded, was carried to his tent in a manner dead; recovering his senses, the first thing he enquired about was his shield; which being brought, he kissed it as the companion of his valour and glory. It must be remarked, that among the Greeks and Romans it was deemed infamous for a soldier to return from battle without his shield.

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