a fictitious narrative in prose, which professes to exhibit the natural workings of the human heart, the happiness and misery of private life, and above all, the nature of the affection called Love, and the consequence of indulging it in certain circumstances.

The novel sprung out of the old romance, and has been censured for insipidity, as its parent was for extravagance. (See ROMANCE.) That the greater part of those absurd things, which, under this title, are daily issuing from the press, deserve all the contempt with which they can be treated, is a position which we feel not ourselves inclined to controvert; but we cannot admit that any species of writing is in itself insipid, merely because numbers have attempted it without success. The heroic poems of Blackmore are universally known to be contemptible performances; and if we had before us all the heroic poetry that has ever been written, how many thousands of volumes should we have as mean as either Prince Arthur, King Arthur, Eliza, or Alfred? Yet no critic has hitherto dared to maintain, that heroic poetry is an insipid species of writing.

But to the novel objections have been urged of more importance than its insipidity. It has been often affirmed with learned solemnity, that the perusal of novels tends to corrupt the youth of both sexes; to produce effeminacy in men and extravagant notions of the happiness of love in women; that it diverts the minds of the former from more serious and useful studies, and exposes the latter to the arts of seduction. That there are too many novels to which this objection is applicable in its full force, is a fact which we are afraid cannot be denied; but when it is admitted, let not these performances be again accused of insipidity; for were they insipid, they could have no such consequences. It is by laying fast hold of the heart that they lead it astray. That a novel might be written so as to interest the heart in behalf of virtue, as much as any one has ever warped it to the side of vice, is a truth which no man will ever venture to call in question who has any knowledge of human nature; and therefore we are decidedly of opinion, that there may be novels worthy at once of the perusal of inexperienced youth and hoary wisdom. A critic, by no means too indulgent to works of fancy, and among whose failings laxity of morals has never been numbered, thus expresses himself on the subject of novel-writing:—"These familiar histories may perhaps be made of greater use than the solemnities of professed morality, and convey the knowledge of vice and virtue with more efficacy than axioms and definitions. But if the power of example is so great, as to take possession of the memory by a kind of violence, and produce effects almost without the intervention of the will, care ought to be taken, that, when the choice is unrestrained, the best examples only should be exhibited; and that what is likely to operate so strongly, should not be mischievous or uncertain in its effects."

We have said, that the novel professes above all things to exhibit the nature of love and its consequences. Whether this be essential to such performances may perhaps be reasonably questioned; but it has been made an important part of the drama in most novels, and, we think, with great propriety. It is the object of the novelist to give a true picture of life, diversified only by accidents that daily happen in the world, and influenced by passions and qualities which are really to be found in conversing with mankind. To accomplish this object, he conceives a hero or heroine, whom he places in a certain rank of life, endued with certain qualities of body and mind, and conducts, through many vicissitudes of fortune, either to the summit of happiness or to the abyss of misery, according to the passion which he wishes to excite in his readers. In the modern novel, this hero or heroine is never placed on a throne, or buried in a cottage; because to the monarch and the cottager no difficulties occur which can deeply interest the majority of readers. But among the virtuous part of the intermediate orders of society, that affection which we call love seldom fails, at some period of life, to take possession of the hearts of both sexes; and wherever it has place, it must be productive of happiness or of misery. In the proper management of this passion consists much of the difficulty of the novel-writer. He must exhibit his hero as feeling all the pangs and pleasures of love, as sometimes animated with hope, and sometimes ready to sink into despair, but always exerting himself to obtain the gratification of his wishes. In doing this, care should be taken, either that he never transgress the laws of virtue, or at least that he never transgress them with impunity.

"It is justly considered as the greatest excellency of art to imitate nature; but it is necessary to distinguish those parts of nature which are most proper for imitation: greater care is still required in representing life, which is so often discoloured by passion or deformed by wickedness. If the world be promiscuously described, I cannot perceive (says the great critic already quoted) of what use it can be to read the account; or why it may not be as safe to turn the eye immediately upon mankind, as upon a mirror which shows all that presents itself without discrimination. It is therefore not a sufficient vindication of a character, that it is drawn as it appears; for many characters racters ought never to be drawn: nor of a narrative, that the train of events is agreeable to observation; for that observation which is called knowledge of the world will be found much more frequently to make men cunning than good. The purpose of these writings is surely not only to show mankind, but to provide that they may be seen hereafter with less hazard; to teach the means of avoiding the snares which are laid by treachery for innocence, without inferring any wish for that superiority with which the betrayer flatters his vanity; to give the power of counteracting fraud, without the temptation to practise it; to initiate youth by meek encounters in the art of necessary defence; and to increase prudence without impairing virtue.

"Many writers, for the sake of following nature, so mingle good and bad qualities in their principal personages, that they are both equally conspicuous; and as we accompany them through their adventures with delight, and are led by degrees to interest ourselves in their favour, we lose the abhorrence of their faults, because they do not hinder our pleasures, or perhaps regard them with some kindness for being united with so much merit.—There have been men indeed splendidly wicked, whose endowments threw a brightness on their crimes, and whom scarce any villany made perfectly detestable, because they never could be wholly divested of their excellencies; but such have been in all ages the great corruptors of the world; and their resemblance ought no more to be preferred than the art of murdering without pain.

"In narratives, where historical veracity has no place, there should be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue; of virtue not angelical, nor above probability (for what we cannot credit we shall never imitate), but the highest and purest that humanity can reach, which, exercised in such trials as the various revolutions of things shall bring upon it, may, by conquering some calamities and enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can perform. Vice (for vice is necessary to be shown) should always disgust; nor should the graces of gaiety, or the dignity of courage, be so united with it, as to reconcile it to the mind. Wherever it appears, it should raise hatred by the malignity of its practices, and contempt by the meanest of its stratagems; for while it is supported by either parts or spirit, it will seldom be heartily abhorred."

If these observations be just, and to us they appear unanswerable, Richardson's Lovelace is a character which ought never to have been drawn. In the graces of gaiety and the dignity of courage, in liberality without profusion, in perseverance and address, he everywhere appears as the first of men; and that honour with which he protects the virtue of his Rosebud, if any instruction is to be drawn from it, can only lead the admirers of Richardson to believe that another Clarissa might be in perfect safety were she to throw herself upon the honour of another Lovelace. Yet in the composition of this splendid character there is not one principle upon which confidence can securely rest; and Lovelace, whilst he is admired by the youth of both sexes, and escapes the contempt of all mankind, must excite in the breast of the cool moralist sentiments of abhorrence and detestation.

A French critic speaking of this character, says, "By turns I could embrace and fight with Lovelace. His pride, his gaiety, his drollery, charm and amuse me: his genius confounds me and makes me smile; his wickedness astonishes and enrages me; but at the same time I admire as much as I detest him." Surely this is not the character which ought to be presented to the inexperienced and ardent mind.

The most perfect characters which we at present recollect in any novel are Richardson's Granditon and Fielding's Allworthy. The virtues of the former are perhaps tinged with moral pedantry, if we may use the expression; and the latter suffered himself to be long imposed upon by the arts of the hypocrite and the philosophical coxcomb; but without some defects they would not be human virtues, and therefore no objects of human imitation. Clarissa is an excellent character: she has as much perfection as can be expected in woman, whilst she exhibits, at the same time, some obvious defects.

As it is the object of the novelist to interest the heart, and to communicate instruction through the medium of pleasure, his work, like a tragedy or comedy, should be true, exhibiting a hero or heroine, whose success every incident should contribute to forward or to retard. In this respect no work of fancy has ever surpassed the Tom Jones of Fielding. It is constructed upon principles of the soundest criticism, and contains not a single event which does not in some way contribute towards the winding up of the piece. A living author, deeply read in Grecian literature, and far from being prejudiced in behalf of any modern, has been heard to say, that had Aristotle seen Tom Jones, he would have pronounced it a poem perfect in its kind.

Against this sentence another critic of name has entered his protest, and strenuously maintained that nothing can be a poem which is not written in verse. We shall judge of the truth of this conclusion by comparing it with the principles from which it is deduced. Having laid down as a maxim incontrovertible, that "the end of poetry is pleasure, to which life itself must be subservient," he very justly infers from this idea, that "poetry should neglect no advantage that fairly offers itself, of appearing in such a dress or mode of language as is most taking and agreeable to us. It follows (he says), from the same idea of the end which poetry would accomplish, that not only rhythm, but numbers properly so called, is essential to it, and that it cannot obtain its own purpose unless it be cloathed in verse." He then proceeds to ask, "What, from this conclusion, are we to think of those novels or romances as they are called, which have been so current of late through all Europe? As they propose pleasure for their end, and prosecute it, besides, in the way of fiction, though without metrical numbers, and generally indeed in harsh and rugged prose, one easily sees what their pretensions are, and under what idea they are ambitious to be received. Yet as they are wholly destitute of measured sounds (to say nothing of their other numberless defects), they can at most be considered but as hasty, imperfect, and abortive poems: whether spawned from the dramatic or narrative species, it may be hard to say. Unfinished things, one knows not what to call, Their generation's so equivocal.

However, such as they are, those novelties have been generally well received: Some for the real merit of their execution; others, for their amusing subjects; all of them, for the gratification they afford, or at least promise, to a vitiated, pallid, and sickly imagination, that last disease of learned minds, and sure prognostic of expiring letters. But whatever may be the temporary success of these things (for they vanish as fast as they are produced), good sense will acknowledge no work of art but such as is composed according to the laws of its kind."

Of this severe criticism the author himself has given us what amounts to a complete confutation. He tells us, that the ancients looked for so much force and spirit of expression in whatever they dignified with the name of poem, as sometimes to make a question "whether comedy were rightly referred to this class, because it differed only in measure from mere prose?" Their doubt (he justly adds) might have been spared or at least resolved, if they had considered that comedy adopts as much of this force and spirit of words as is consistent with the nature and dignity of that pleasure which it pretends to give: For the name of poem will belong to every composition whose primary end is to please, provided it be so constructed as to afford all the pleasure which its kind or sort will permit."

If this decision be just, and we readily admit it, a well composed novel is intitled to the appellation of a poem, though it be written in prose and in a style not remarkable for elevation. The business of the novelist is to interest the heart by a display of the incidents of common life. In doing this, he must exhibit scenes that are probable, and record speeches that are natural. He is not at liberty to invent, but only to select objects, and to call from the mass of mankind those individuals upon which the attention ought most to be employed. The more closely he adheres to this rule, the more deeply does he interest us in his narrative; because every reader sees at once that it is possible he may at some time or other be in circumstances nearly resembling those of the hero of the tale. But the business of life is not transacted in pompous language, nor the speeches of real lovers made in verse either rhymed or blank. Were Tom Jones or Clarissa Harlowe to be translated into verse, we shall venture to assert that they would quickly lose their hold of the public mind; because the hero and heroine would then appear in a light which every heart must feel to be unnatural.

It is well observed by Johnson, that the task of the novel writer "requires, together with that learning which is to be gained from books, that experience which can never be attained by solitary diligence, but must arise from general converse and accurate observation of the living world. Their performances have, as Horace expresses it, plus oneris quantum variae minus, little indulgence, and therefore more difficulty. They are engaged in portraits of which every one knows the original, and can detect any deviation from exactness of resemblance. Other writings are safe, except from the malice of learning, but these are in danger from every common reader; as the flipper ill executed was confused by a shoemaker who happened to stop in his way at the Venus of Apelles." It is in thus faithfully copying nature that the excellence of Fielding consists. No man was ever better acquainted with the shades which diversifies characters, and none ever made his personages act and speak more like real men and women in the particular circumstances which he describes.

"But the fear of not being approved as a just copier of human manners, is not the most important concern that an author of this class ought to have before him. Novels are written chiefly to the young, the ignorant, and the idle, to whom they serve as lectures of conduct and introduction into life. In every such work, it should therefore be carefully inculcated, that virtue is the highest proof of understanding, and the only solid basis of greatness; and that vice is the natural consequence of narrow thoughts; that it begins in mistake, and ends in ignominy; and since love must be introduced, it should be represented as leading to wretchedness, whenever it is separated from duty or from prudence."

the civil law, a term used for the constitutions of several emperors, more particularly those of Justinian. They were called novels, either from their producing a great alteration in the face of the ancient law, or because they were made on new cases, and after the revival of the ancient code.

NOVELTY, or NEWNESS. Of all the circumstances that raise emotions, not excepting beauty, nor even greatness, says Lord Kames*, novelty hath the most powerful influence. A new object produces instantly an emotion termed wonder, which totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all other objects. Conversation among the vulgar never is more interesting than when it turns upon strange objects and extraordinary events. Men tear themselves from their native country in search of things rare and new; and novelty converts into a pleasure the fatigues and even perils of travelling. To what cause shall we ascribe these singular appearances? To curiosity undoubtedly; a principle implanted in human nature for a purpose extremely beneficial, that of acquiring knowledge; and the emotion of wonder raised by new and strange objects, inflames our curiosity to know more of such objects. This emotion is different from admiration; novelty, wherever found, whether in a quality or action, is the cause of wonder; admiration is directed to the person who performs anything wonderful.

During infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of wonder, in some degree; because, during infancy, every object at first sight is strange as well as new: but as objects are rendered familiar by custom, we cease by degrees to wonder at new appearances, if they have any resemblance to what we are acquainted with; for a thing must be singular as well as new, to raise our wonder. To save multiplying words, we would be understood to comprehend both circumstances when we hereafter talk of novelty.

In an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces another, not a single object makes its appearance unexpectedly: the mind thus prepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one after another without perturbation. But when a thing breaks in unexpectedly, and without the preparation of any connection, it raises an emotion, known by the name of surprize. That emotion may be produced by the most familiar object, as when one unexpectedly meets a friend who was reported to be dead; or a man in high life, lately a beggar. On the other hand, a new object, however strange, will not produce the emotion, if the spectator be prepared for the sight: an elephant in India will not surprize a traveller who goes to see one; and yet its novelty will raise his wonder: an Indian in Britain would be much surprized to stumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields; but the creature itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise his wonder.

Surprise thus in several respects differs from wonder: unexpectedness is the cause of the former emotion; novelty is the cause of the latter. Nor differ they less in their nature and circumstances, as will be explained by and by. With relation to one circumstance they perfectly agree; which is, the shortness of their duration: the instantaneous production of these emotions in perfection, may contribute to that effect, in conformity to a general law. That things soon decay which soon come to perfection: the violence of the emotions may also contribute; for an ardent emotion, which is not susceptible of increase, cannot have a long course. But their short duration is occasioned chiefly by that of their causes: we are soon reconciled to an object, however unexpected; and novelty soon degenerates into familiarity.

Whether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear point. It may appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital qualities should afford any matter for a doubt: but when we are engrossed by any emotion, there is no place for speculation; and when sufficiently calm for speculation, it is not easy to recall the emotion with accuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes delightful: the terror which a tyger inspires is greatest at first, and wears off gradually by familiarity: on the other hand, even women will acknowledge that it is novelty which pleases the most in a new fashion. It would be rash however to conclude, that wonder is in itself neither pleasant nor painful, but that it affumes either quality according to circumstances. An object, it is true, that hath a threatening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty: but from that experiment it doth not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable: for it is perfectly consistent, that we be delighted with an object in one view, and terrified with it in another. A river in flood swelling over its banks, is a grand and delightful object; and yet it may produce no small degree of fear when we attempt to cross it: courage and magnanimity are agreeable; and yet, when we view these qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our terror.

In the same manner, novelty may produce two effects clearly distinguishable from each other: it may, directly and in itself, be agreeable; and it may have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire terror; for when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our ignorance of its powers and faculties affords ample scope for the imagination to dress it in the most frightful colours. The first sight of a lion, for example, may at the same instant produce two opposite feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful passion of terror: the novelty of the object produces the former directly, and contributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is analysed, we find that the power which novelty hath indirectly to inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being in every circumstance agreeable. The matter may be put in the clearest light, by adding the following circumstance. If a lion be first seen from a place of safety, the spectacle is altogether agreeable without the least mixture of terror. If, again, the first sight puts us within reach of that dangerous animal, our terror may be so great as quite to exclude any sense of novelty. But this fact proves not that wonder is painful: it proves only, that wonder may be excluded by a more powerful passion. Every man may be made certain from his own experience, that wonder raised by a new object that is inoffensive, is always pleasant; and with respect to offensive objects, it appears, from the foregoing deduction, that the same must hold as long as the spectator can attend to the novelty.

Whether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a question not less intricate than the former. It is certain that surprize inflames our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend; and not less our terror when we stumble upon anything noxious. To clear that question, the first thing to be remarked is, that in some instances an unexpected object overpowers the mind, so as to produce a momentary suspension: where the object is dangerous, or appears so, the sudden alarm it gives, without preparation, is apt totally to unhinge the mind, and for a moment to suspend all its faculties, even thought itself; in which state a man is quite helpless; and if he move at all, is as like to run upon the danger as from it. Surprise carried to such a height, cannot be either pleasant or painful; because the mind, during such momentary suspension, is in a good measure, if not totally, insensible.

If we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it must be where the unexpected object or event produceth less violent effects. And while the mind remains sensible of pleasure and pain, is it not natural to suppose, that surprize, like wonder, should have an invariable character? It would appear, however, that surprize has no invariable character, but affumes that of the object which raises it. Wonder being an emotion invariably raised by novelty, and being distinguishable from all other emotions, ought naturally to possess one constant character. The unexpected appearance of an object, seems not equally intitled to produce an emotion distinguishable from the emotion, pleasant or painful, that is produced by the object in its ordinary appearance: the effect it ought naturally to have, is only to swell that emotion, by making it more pleasant or more painful than it commonly is. And that conjecture is confirmed by experience, as well as by language which is built upon experience: when a man meets a friend unexpectedly, he is said to be agreeably surprized; and when he meets an enemy unexpectedly, he is said to be disagreeably surprized. It appears, then, that the sole effect of surprize is to swell the emotion raised by the object. And that effect can be clearly explained: a tide of connected perceptions glide gently into the mind, and produce no perturbation; but an object breaking in unexpectedly, founds an alarm, roules the mind out of its calm state, and directs Novelty. its whole attention to the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly so. Several circumstances concur to produce that effect: on the one hand, the agitation of the mind and its keen attention prepare it in the most effectual manner for receiving a deep impression; on the other hand, the object, by its sudden and unforeseen appearance, makes an impression not gradually as expected objects do, but as at one stroke with its whole force. The circumstances are precisely similar where the object is in itself disagreeable (a).

The pleasure of novelty is easily distinguished from that of variety: to produce the latter, a plurality of objects is necessary; the former arises from a circumstance found in a single object. Again, where objects, whether coexistent or in succession, are sufficiently diversified, the pleasure of variety is complete, though every single object of the train be familiar; but the pleasure of novelty, directly opposite to familiarity, requires no diversification.

There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in proportion. The lowest degree is found in objects surveyed a second time after a long interval; and that in this case an object takes on some appearance of novelty, is certain, from experience: a large building of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field embellished with trees, lakes, temples, statues, and other ornaments, will appear new oftener than once: the memory of an object so complex is soon lost, of its parts at least, or of their arrangement. But experience teaches, that, even without any decay of remembrance, absence alone will give an air of novelty to a once familiar object; which is not surprising, because familiarity wears off gradually by absence: thus a person with whom we have been intimate, returning after a long interval, appears like a new acquaintance. And distance of place contributes to this appearance, not less than distance of time: a friend, for example, after a short absence in a remote country, has the same air of novelty as if he had returned after a longer interval from a place nearer home:

the mind forms a connection between him and the remote country, and bestows upon him the singularity of the objects he has seen. For the same reason, when two things equally new and singular are presented, the spectator balances between them; but when told that one of them is the product of a distant quarter of the world, he no longer hesitates, but clings to it as the more singular: hence the preference given to foreign luxuries, and to foreign curiosities, which appear rare in proportion to their original distance.

The next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in objects of which we have some information at second hand; for description, though it contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether remove the appearance of novelty when the object itself is presented: the first sight of a lion occasions some wonder, after a thorough acquaintance with the correctest pictures and statues of that animal.

A new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known species, is an instance of a third degree of novelty: a strong resemblance among individuals of the same species, prevents almost entirely the effect of novelty, unless distance of place or some other circumstance concur; but where the resemblance is faint, some degree of wonder is felt, and the emotion rises in proportion to the faintness of the resemblance.

The highest degree of wonder ariseth from unknown objects that have no analogy to any species we are acquainted with. Shakespeare in a simile introduces that species of novelty:

As glorious to the sight As is a winged messenger from heaven Unto the white up-turned wond'ring eye Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him When he beholds the lazy-pacing clouds And fails upon the bottom of the air.

Romeo and Juliet.

One example of that species of novelty deserves peculiar attention; and that is, when an object altogether new is seen by one person only, and but once.

(a) What the Marshal Saxe terms le cœur humain, is no other than fear occasioned by surprise. It is owing to that cause that an ambush is generally so destructive: intelligence of it beforehand renders it perfectly harmless. The Marshal gives from Caesar's Commentaries two examples of what he calls le cœur humain. At the siege of Amiens by the Gauls, Caesar came up with his army, which did not exceed 7000 men; and began to entrench himself in such hurry, that the barbarians, judging him to be afraid, attacked his entrenchments with great spirit. During the time they were filling up the ditch, he issued out with his cohorts, and by attacking them unexpectedly struck a panic that made them fly with precipitation, not a single man offering to make a stand. At the siege of Alesia, the Gauls infinitely superior in number attacked the Roman lines of circumvallation, in order to raise the siege. Caesar ordered a body of his men to march out silently, and to attack them on the one flank, while he with another body did the same on the other flank. The surprise of being attacked when they expected a defense only, put the Gauls into disorder, and gave an easy victory to Caesar.

A third may be added not less memorable. In the year 846, an obstinate battle was fought between Xamire king of Leon and Abdoulrahman the Moorish king of Spain. After a very long conflict, the night only prevented the Arabians from obtaining a complete victory. The king of Leon, taking advantage of the darkness, retreated to a neighbouring hill, leaving the Arabians masters of the field of battle. Next morning, perceiving that he could not maintain his place for want of provisions, nor be able to draw off his men in the face of a victorious army, he ranged his men in order of battle, and, without losing a moment, marched to attack the enemy, resolving to conquer or die. The Arabians, astonished to be attacked by those who were conquered the night before, lost all heart: fear succeeded to astonishment, the panic was universal, and they all turned their backs without almost drawing a sword. These circumstances heighten remarkably the emotion; the singularity of the spectator concurs with the singularity of the object, to inflame wonder to its highest pitch.

In explaining the effects of novelty, the place a being occupies in the scale of existence, is a circumstance that must not be omitted. Novelty in the individuals of a low class is perceived with indifference, or with a very slight emotion; thus a pebble, however singular in its appearance, scarce moves our wonder. The emotion rises with the rank of the object; and, other circumstances being equal, is strongest in the highest order of existence; a strange insect affects us more than a strange vegetable; and a strange quadruped more than a strange insect.

However natural novelty may be, it is a matter of experience, that those who relish it the most are careful to conceal its influence. Love of novelty, it is true, prevails in children, in idlers, and in men of shallow understanding; and yet, after all, why should one be ashamed of indulging a natural propensity? A distinction will afford a satisfactory answer. No man is ashamed of curiosity when it is indulged to acquire knowledge. But to prefer any thing merely because it is new, shows a mean taste which one ought to be ashamed of; vanity is commonly at the bottom, which leads those who are deficient in taste to prefer things odd, rare, or singular, in order to distinguish themselves from others. And in fact, that appetite, as above-mentioned, reigns chiefly among persons of a mean taste, who are ignorant of refined and elegant pleasures.

Of this taste we have some memorable instances in men of the highest and the best education. Lucian tells the following story of Ptolemy I., which is as disgraceful to him, as honourable to his subjects. This prince had ransacked the world for two curiosities: one was a camel from Bactria all over black; the other a man, half black half white. These he presented to the people in a public theatre, thinking they would give them as much satisfaction as they did him; but the black monster, instead of delighting them, affrighted them; and the party-coloured man raised the contempt of some and the abhorrence of others. Ptolemy, finding the Egyptians preferred symmetry and beauty to the most astonishing productions of art or nature without them, wisely removed his two enormous trifles out of sight; the neglected camel died in a little time, and the man he gave for a song to the musician Thespis.

One final cause of wonder, hinted above, is, that this emotion is intended to stimulate our curiosity. Another, somewhat different, is, to prepare the mind for receiving deep impressions of new objects. An acquaintance with the various things that may affect us, and with their properties, is essential to our well-being; nor will a slight or superficial acquaintance be sufficient; they ought to be so deeply engraved on the mind, as to be ready for use upon every occasion. Now, in order to a deep impression, it is wisely contrived, that things should be introduced to our acquaintance with a certain pomp and solemnity productive of a vivid emotion. When the impression is once fairly made, the emotion of novelty being no longer necessary, vanishes almost instantaneously; never to return, unless where the impression happens to be obliterated by length of time or other means; in which case the second introduction hath nearly the same solemnity with the first.

Delighting wisdom is nowhere more eligible than in this part of the human frame. If new objects did not affect us in a very peculiar manner, their impressions would be so slight as scarce to be of any use in life; on the other hand, did objects continue to affect us as deeply as at first, the mind would be totally engrossed with them, and have no room left either for action or reflection.

The final cause of surprise is still more evident than of novelty. Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to self-preservation; but self-love, which operates by means of reason and reflection, and impels not the mind to any particular object or from it, is a principle too cool for a sudden emergency; an object breaking in unexpectedly, affords no time for deliberation; and in that case, the agitation of surprise comes seasonably to rouse self-love into action: surprise gives the alarm; and if there be any appearance of danger, our whole force is instantly summoned to shun or to prevent it.