and debauchery; to rush on ruin certain and foreseen? You call it pleasure. But is he ignorant that his pleasures are more than ten times counterbalanced by the plagues and even torments which they bring? Does the conviction, or even the experience of this, deter him? On the contrary, with what steady perseverance, with what determined resolution, doth he proceed in his career, not intimidated by the haggard forms which stare him in the face, poverty and infamy, disease and death! What else could induce the man who is reputed covetous, not of money, but of fame—that is, of wind-to sacrifice his tranquillity, and almost all the enjoyments of life; to spend his days and nights in fruitless disquietude and endless care? Has a bare name, think you, an empty sound, such inconceivable charms? Can a mere nothing serve as a counterpoise to solid and substantial good? Are we not rather imposed on by appearances when we conIclude this to be his motive? Can we be senseless enough to imagine that it is the bubble reputation (which, were it anything, a dead man surely cannot enjoy) that the soldier is so infatuated as to seek even in the cannon's mouth? Are not these, therefore, the various ways of self-destroying, to which, according to their various tastes, men are prompted by the same universal principle of self-hatred?

If you should insist on certain phenomena which appear to be irreconcilable to my hypothesis, I think I am provided with an answer. You urge our readiness to resent an affront or injury, real or imagined, which we receive, and which ought to gratify instead of provoking us, on the supposition that we hate ourselves. But may it not be retorted, that its being a gratification is that which excites our resentment, inasmuch as we are enemies to every kind of self-indulgence? If this answer will not suffice, I have another which is excellent. It lies in the definition of the word revenge. Revenge, I pronounce, may be justly "deemed an example of unmixed self-abhorrence and benignity, and may be resolved into that power of imagination by which we apply the sufferings that we inflict on others to ourselves; we are said to wreak our vengeance no longer than we fancy ourselves to suffer, and to be satiated by reflecting that the sufferings of others are not really ours; that we have been but indulging a dream of self-punishment, from which, when we awake and discover the fiction, our anger instantly subsides, and we are meek as lambs." Is this extravagant? Compare it, I pray you, with the preceding explication of compassion, to which it is a perfect counterpart. Consider seriously, and you will find that it is not in the smallest degree more manifest that another, and not ourselves, is the object of our resentment when we are angry, than it is that another, and not ourselves, is the object of our compassion when we are

moved with pity. Both, indeed, have a self-evidence in them which, while our minds remain unsophisticated by the dogmatism of system, extorts from us an unlimited assent.

SECTION II.

THE AUTHOR'S HYPOTHESIS ON THIS SUBJECT.

WHERE SO many have failed of success, it may be thought presumptuous to attempt a decision. But despondency in regard to a question which seems to fall within the reach of our faculties, and is entirely subjected to our observation and experience, must appear to the inquisitive and philosophic mind a still greater fault than even presumption. The latter may occasion the introduction of a false theory, which must necessarily come under the review and correction of succeeding philosophers. And the detection of error proves often instrumental to the discovery of truth; whereas the former quashes curiosity altogether, and influences one implicitly to abandon an inquiry as utterly undeterminable. I shall, therefore, now offer a few observations concerning the passions, which, if rightly apprehended and weighed, will, I hope, contribute to the solution of the present question.

My first observation shall be, that almost all the simple passions of which the mind is susceptible may be divided into two classes, the pleasant and the painful. It is, at the same time, acknowledged that the pleasures and the pains created by the different passions differ considerably from one another both in kind and degree. Of the former class are love, joy, hope, pride, gratitude; of the latter, hatred, grief, fear, shame, anger. Let it be remarked, that by the name pride in the first class (which I own admits a variety of acceptations), no more is meant here than the feeling which we have on obtaining the merited approbation of other men, in which sense it stands in direct opposition to shame in the second class, or the feeling which we have when conscious of incurring the deserved blame of others. In like manner, gratitude, or the resentment of favour, is opposed to anger, or the resentment of injury. To the second class I might have added desire and aversion, which give the mind some uneasiness or dissatisfaction with its present state; but these are often the occasion of pleasure, as they are the principal spurs to actions, and perhaps, more than any other passion, relieve the mind from that languor which, according to that just remark of Abbé du Bos, is perfectly oppressive. Besides, as they are perpetually accompanied with some degree of either hope or fear, generally with both, they are either pleasant or painful, as the one or the other preponderates. For these reasons, they may be considered as in themselves of an indifferent or intermediate kind.

The second observation is, that there is an attraction or association among the passions, as well as among the id as of the mind. Rarely any passion comes alone. To investigate the laws of this attraction would be indeed a matter of curious inquiry, but it doth not fall within the limits of the present question. Almost all the other affections attract or excite desire or aversion of some sort or other. The passions which seem to have the least influence on these are joy and grief; and of the two, joy, I believe, will be acknowledged to have less of the attractive power than grief. Joy is the end of desire and the completion of hope; therefore, when attained, it not only excludes occasion for the others, but seems, for a while at least, to repel them, as what would give an impertinent interruption to the pleasure resulting from the contemplation of present felicity, with which the mind, under the influence of joy, is engrossed. Grief hath a like tendency. When the mind is overwhelmed by this gloomy passion, it resists the instigations of desire, as what would again, to no purpose, rouse its activity; it disdains hope, it even loathes it as a vain and delusive dream. The first suggestions of these passions seem but as harbingers to the cutting recollection of former flattering prospects, once too fondly entertained, now utterly extinct, and succeeded by an insupportable and irremediable disappointment, which every recollection serves but to aggravate. Nay, how unaccountable soever it may appear, the mind seems to have a mournful satisfaction in being allowed to indulge its anguish, and to immerse itself wholly in its own afflictions. But this can be affirmed of sorrow only in the extreme. When it begins to subside, or when originally, but in a weak degree, it leads the mind to seek relief from desire, and hope, and oth. er passions. Love naturally associates to it benevolence which is one species of desire, for here no more is meant by it than a desire of the happiness of the person loved. Hatred as naturally associates malevolence or malice, which is the desire of evil to the person hated.*

The ambiguity, and even penury of all languages, in relation to our internal feelings, make it very difficult, in treating of them, to preserve at once perspicuity and accuracy. Benevolence is sometimes used, perhaps with little variation from its most common import, for charity or universal love; and love itself will be thought by some to be properly defined by the desire or wish of the happiness of its object. As to the first, it is enough that I have assigned the precise meaning in which I use the term; and in regard to the second, those who are duly attentive to what passes within their own breasts will be sensible that by love, in the strictest acceptation, is meant a certain pleasurable emotion excited in the mind by a suitable object, to which the desire of the happiness of the object is generally consequent. The felicity of the object may, however, be such as to leave no room for any desire or wish of ours in regard to it. This holds particular ly in our love of God. Besides, there may be a desire of the happiness of others, arising from very different causes, where there is nothing of that

My third observation is, that pain of every kind generally makes a deeper impression on the imagination than pleasure does, and is longer retained by the memory. It is a common remark of every people and of every age, and consequently hath some foundation in human nature, that benefits are sooner forgotten than injuries, and favours than affronts. Those who are accustomed to attend the theatre will be sensible that the plots of the best tragedies which they have witnessed are better remembered by them than those of the most celebrated comedies. And, indeed, everybody that reflects may be satisfied that no story takes a firmer hold of the memory than a tale of wo. In civil history as well as in biography, it is the disastrous and not the joyous events which are often recollected and retailed.

The fourth observation is, that from a group of passions (if I may so express myself) associated together, and having the same object, some of which are of the pleasant, others of the painful kind-if the pleasant predominate, there ariseth often a greater and a more durable pleasure to the mind than would result from these if alone and unmixed. That the case is so will, I believe, on a careful inquiry, be found to be a matter of experience; how it happens to be so, I am afraid human sagacity will never be able to investigate.

This observation holds especially when the emotions and affections raised in us are derived from sympathy, and have not directly self for the object. Sympathy is not a passion, but that quality of the soul which renders it susceptible of almost any passion, by communication from the bosom of another. It is by sympathy we rejoice with them that rejoice, and weep with them that weep. This faculty, however, doth not act with equal strength in these opposite cases, but is much weaker in the first than in the second. It would, perhaps, be easier to assign the intention of nature in this difference than the cause of the difference. The miserable need the aid and sympathy of others; the happy do not. I must farther observe on the subject, what I believe was hinted once already, that sympathy may be greatly strengthened or weakened by the influence of connected passions. Thus love associates to it benevolence, and both give double force to sympathy. Hatred, on the contrary, associates to it malice, and destroys sympathy.

There are, consequently, several reasons why a scene of

sentiment of feeling which is strictly called love. I own, at the same time, that the term love is also often used to denote simply benevolence or goodwill; as when we are commanded to love all men, known and unknown, good and bad, friendly and injurious. To that tender emotion which qualities supposed amiable alone can excite, the precept surely doth not extend. These things I thought it necessary to observe, in order to prevent mistake in a case which requires so much precision.

pure unmixed joy in any work of genius cannot give a great or lasting pleasure to the mind. First, sympathetic joy is much fainter and more transient than sympathetic grief, and they are generally the sympathetic passions which are infused by poets, orators, painters, and historians; secondly, joy is the least attractive of all the affections. It perhaps can never properly be said to associate to it desire, the great spring of action. The most we can say is, that when it be-. gins to subside, it again gives place to desire, this passion being of such a nature as that it can hardly, for any time, be banished from the soul. Hence it is that the joy which has no other foundation but sympathy quickly tires the mind and runs into satiety. Hence it is also that dramatic writers, and even romance writers, make a scene of pure joy always the last scene of the piece, and but a short one. It may just be mentioned, thirdly, not, indeed, as an argument (for of its weakness in this respect I am very sensible), but as an illustration from analogy, that everything in nature is heightened and set off by its contrary, which, by giving scope for comparison, enhances every excellence. The colours in painting acquire a double lustre from the shades; the harmony in music is greatly improved by a judicious mixture of discords. The whole conduct of life, were it necessary, might exemplify the position. A mixture of pain, then, seems to be of consequence to give strength and stability to pleasure.

The fifth observation is, that under the name pity may be included all the emotions excited by tragedy. In common speech, all, indeed, are included under this name that are excited by that species of eloquence which is denominated the pathetic. The passions moved by tragedy have been com monly said to be pity and terror. This enumeration is more popular than philosophical even though adopted by the Stagyrite himself; for what is pity but a participation by sympathy in the woes of others, and the feelings naturally consequent upon them, of whatever kind they be, their fears as well as sorrows? whereas this way of contra-distinguishing terror from pity would make one who knew nothing of tragedy but from the definition, imagine that it were intended to make us compassionate others in trouble, and dread mis chief to ourselves. If this were really the case, I believe there are few or none who would find any pleasure in this species of entertainment. Of this there occurs an example, when, as hath sometimes happened, in the midst of the performance the audience are alarmed with the sudden report that the house hath taken fire, or when they hear a noise which makes them suspect that the roof or walls are falling Then, indeed, terror stares in every countenance; but such a terror as gives no degree of pleasure, and is so far from coalescing with the passions raised by the tragedy, that, on