proper to accustom them, in their earlier days, to a species of conversation and behaviour which they must afterwards be obliged to endure.

'Ay,' says he, 'Charles, this is your way; the follies of mankind are familiar to you, and you are always ready to find an apology for them; but I, who, for many years, have only heard of them, cannot be supposed to bear their defects with as much patience. I am sick of this town of your's; and, though I could have as much pleasure as any man in witnessing such elegant manners, and partaking in such agreeable conversation, as we saw and enjoyed during a part of this evening; if I must purchase it by sharing in the intemperance, the noise, and the folly which succeeded it, should you wonder if I long to return to my books and my solitude?' K.

N° 77. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1780.

All impediments in fancy's course
Are motives of more fancy.

SHAKSPEARE.

AMIDST the variety of objects around us, philosophers have frequently been employed in pointing out and distinguishing those which are the sources of pleasure, and those which are productive of pain; they haye

endeavoured also to investigate the causes and the qualities in the different objects by which their effects are produced. I suspect that, in many cases, we must be obliged to have recourse to the original constitution of our frame, and that the most penetrating philosophical inquiries can often go no farther than to say, Thus Nature has made us.

But whatever may be the original sources of our pleasure and pain, it is certain that there are various circumstances which may be pointed out, as adding to, or diminishing, both the one and the other; circumstances by which the warmth of expectation may be heightened or allayed, and the pangs of disappointment increased or mitigated.

It is a common observation, the justice of which, I believe, will not be disputed, that every passion increases according to the difficulty there is in its gratification. When once a desire for a certain object is raised, every opposition which occurs to the attainment of it, provided it be not such as cuts off all hopes of succeeding, and every perplexity and embarrassment thrown in the way, when the mind is engaged in the pursuit, inflames the desire; the object becomes heightened and exaggerated in our ideas, the mind grows more attached to it, and the expectation of enjoyment from the possession is increased.

it

To account for this appearance in our nature, it may be observed, that nothing is so apt to make an object figure in the imagination, as to have our attention long and earnestly fixed upon it. This makes appear in stronger and more lively colours. If it be an object of desire, it appears more and more calculated to give pleasure; if an object of aversion, it appears more and more calculated to produce pain. Every time we view it, there is an addition made to the impression we have received. The sensations it has already given us still continue, and the passion it

has created receives additional force. If the object be pleasant, the mind dwells upon its good, if disagreeable, upon its bad qualities: it broods over them, it amplifies, it exaggerates them.

Now, no circumstance is so much calculated to fix the attention upon any particular object, as those difficulties which arise in our pursuit of it. The mind, unwilling to be overcome, cannot think of submitting to a defeat, or of giving up those expectations of enjoyment which it has formed. Every little opposition, therefore, that is met with, every obstruction thrown in the way, calls forth a fresh consideration of the object. We take a view of it in its every form, to try if we can get the better of those difficulties, and remove those obstructions. The object itself, meanwhile, gains complete possession of the soul It swells and heightens in our imagination, and is no longer seen as it is by other men, nor as it would be by the same person, were other objects allowed to have place in his mind, or to divide his attention.

From this circumstance in our nature, that fixing our attention upon any one object, or set of objects, is apt to increase or heighten them in our imagination, a variety of remarks might be made, tending to illustrate the history of the human heart. It is owing to this circumstance, that a general lover seldom forms an attachment to any particular object. It is from the same cause, that the gentleman, who follows no particular profession, seldom exaggerates the advantages of any one. It is the merchant, who limits his views solely to commerce, that sees in too strong a light the advantages of trade; it is the man of learning, who is shut up within the walls of a college, that exaggerates the advantages of literature; it is the scholar, who confines himself to one branch of science, that is the complete pedant. The

moral philosopher wonders how any man can be occupied by the dry, unpleasant study of the mathematics, while the curious fabric of the human mind remains unexplored. The mathematician is equally surprised that any man should compare the certainty of mathematical evidence to the vague inquiries of the moral philosopher. The geometrician, who by the intreaty of his friends, was prevailed with to read the Cid of Corneille, wondered that any body should admire a thing in which nothing was proved. And the learned Budæus, when he was writing his treatise concerning the Roman as, being interrupted by his maid-servant, who told him the house was on fire, bade her go tell his wife, for that he did not mind family-matters. What a pity is it,' says a learned foreign Professor, in writing to his Correspondent in this country, what a pity is it, that the illustrious Dr. Franklin, the discoverer of electricity, and the author of so many inventions in the sciences, should descend from the sublime heights of philosophy, to employ his time and study in directing the trifling and unimportant contentions of

nations!'

6

It would far exceed the bounds of this paper to exhaust this subject, or to take notice of the different remarks which may be drawn from it, either with regard to human sentiments and conduct, or in relation to the fine arts*. I shall therefore confine myself to one other observation, on a point which has been treated of by Mr. Addison, in the 40th Number of the Spectator, where he justifies, against the ruling opinion at that time, the practice of those writers of tragedy, who disregard what are called the rules of poetical justice. To his defence of that practice, I think we may add one argument, which

See Elenients of Criticism.

seems to have escaped him, drawn from the effect of the opposition above-mentioned, to heighten our passion for a particular object.

There is implanted in the mind of every man a desire that virtue should be followed by reward, and vice by punishment. But this desire, liké every other, gathers new strength by opposition, and rises upon resistance. When, therefore, a virtuous man, amidst all his virtue, is represented as unhappy, that anxiety which we feel for his happiness becomes so much the greater; the more undeserved calamities he meets with, the higher is that principle raised, by which we desire that he should attain an adequate reward; the more he is environed and perplexed with difficulties, the more earnestly do we wish that he may be delivered from them all; aad, even when he is cut off by premature death, we follow his memory with the greater admiration; and our respect and reverence for his conduct are increased so much the more, as all our prayers for his happiness in this life are disappointed.

On the other hand, with regard to the vicious, nothing excites so strongly our indignation against vice, or our desire that it should be punished, as our beholding the vicious successful, and, in the midst of his crimes, enjoying prosperity. Were we always to see the vicious man meeting with a proper punishment for his guilt, wretched and unhappy, our eagerness for his punishment would subside, and our hatred against him would be converted into pity; his guilt would be forgotten, and his misfortunes only would affect us. Before the trial of an atrocious criminal, the unanimous voice of the Public is, that he should be led out to punishment. Suppose him condemned, how altered is that voice? His fate is now universally pitied and deplored; and, did not the safety of thousands, depend on his suffering,