is a word of which, as Dr Reid observes, the meaning is not precisely ascertained either in common discourse or in the writings of philosophers. In its original import, it denotes every feeling of the mind occasioned by an extrinsic cause; but it is generally used to signify some agitation of mind, opposed to that state of tranquillity in which a man is most master master of himself. That it was thus used by the Greeks and Romans, is evident from Cicero's rendering "passio," the word by which the philosophers of Greece expressed it; by "perturbatio" in Latin. In this sense of the word, passion cannot be itself a distinct and independent principle of action; but only an occasional degree of vehemence given to those dispositions, desires, and affections, which are at all times present to the mind of man; and that this is its proper sense, we need no other proof than that passion has always been conceived to bear analogy to a storm at sea or to a tempest in the air.

With respect to the number of passions of which the mind is susceptible, different opinions have been held by different authors. Le Brun, a French writer on painting, justly considering the expression of the passions as a very important as well as difficult branch of his art, has enumerated no fewer than twenty, of which the signs may be expressed by the pencil on canvass. That there are so many different states of mind producing different effects which are visible on the features and the gestures, and that these features and gestures ought to be diligently studied by the artist, are truths which cannot be denied; but it is absurd to consider all these different states of mind as passions, since tranquillity is one of them, which is the reverse of passion.

The common division of the passions into desire and aversion, hope and fear, joy and grief, love and hatred, has been mentioned by every author who has treated of them, and needs no explication; but it is a question of some importance in the philosophy of the human mind, whether these different passions be each a degree of an original and innate disposition, distinct from the dispositions which are respectively the foundations of the other passions, or only different modifications of one or two general dispositions common to the whole race.

The former opinion is held by all who build their system of metaphysics upon a number of distinct internal senses; and the latter is the opinion of those who, with Locke and Hartley, resolve what is commonly called instinct into an early association of ideas. (See Instinct) That without deliberation mankind instantly feel the passion of fear upon the apprehension of danger, and the passion of anger or resentment upon the reception of an injury, are truths which cannot be denied; and hence it is inferred, that the seeds of these passions are innate in the mind, and that they are not generated, but only swell to magnitude on the prospect of their respective objects. In support of this argument, it has been observed that children, without any knowledge of their danger, are instinctively afraid on being placed on the brink of a precipice; and that this passion contributes to their safety long before they acquire, in any degree equal to their necessities, the exercise of their rational powers. Deliberate anger, caused by a voluntary injury, is acknowledged to be in part founded on reason and reflection; but where anger impels one suddenly to return a blow, even without thinking of doing mischief, the passion is instinctive. In proof of this, it is observed, that instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain, occasioned even by a stroke or a stone, which instantly becomes an object of resentment, that we are violently incited to crush to atoms. Such conduct is certainly not rational, and therefore it is supposed to be necessarily instinctive.

With respect to other passions, such as the lust of power, of fame, or of knowledge, innumerable instances, says Dr Reid, occur in life, of men who sacrifice to them their ease, their pleasure, and their health. But it is absurd to suppose that men should sacrifice the end to what they desire only as means of promoting that end; and therefore he seems to think that these passions must be innate. To add strength to this reasoning, he observes, that we may perceive some degree of these principles even in brute animals of the more sagacious kind, who are not thought to desire means for the sake of ends which they have in view.

But it is in accounting for the passions which are disinterested that the advocates for innate principles seem most completely to triumph. As it is impossible not to feel the passion of pity upon the prospect of a fellow-creature in distress, they argue, that the basis of that passion must be innate; because pity, being at all times more or less painful to the person by whom it is felt, and frequently of no use to the person who is its object, it cannot in such instances be the result of deliberation, but merely the exertion of an original instinct. The same kind of reasoning is employed to prove that gratitude is the exercise of an innate principle. That good offices are, by the very constitution of our nature, apt to produce good will towards the benefactor, in good and bad men, in the savage and in the civilized, cannot surely be denied by any one in the least acquainted with human nature. We are grateful not only to the benefactors of ourselves as individuals, but also to the benefactors of our country; and that, too, when we are conscious that from our gratitude neither they nor we can reap any advantage. Nay, we are impelled to be grateful even when we have reason to believe that the objects of our gratitude know not our existence. This passion cannot be the effect of reasoning, or of association founded on reasoning; for, in such cases as those mentioned, there are no principles from which reason can infer the propriety or usefulness of the feeling. That public spirit, or the affection which we bear to our country, or to any subordinate community of which we are members, is founded on instinct; is deemed so certain, that the man destitute of this affection, if there be any such, has been pronounced as great a monster as he who has two heads.

All the disinterested passions are founded on what philosophers have termed benevolent affection. Instead therefore of enquiring into the origin of each passion separately, which would swell this article to no purpose, let us listen to one of the finest writers as well as ablest reasoners of the age, treating of the origin of benevolent affection, "We may lay it down as a principle (says Dr Reid), that all benevolent affections are in their nature agreeable; that it is essential to them to define the good and happiness of their objects; and that their objects must therefore be beings capable of happiness. A thing may be desired either on its own account, or as the means in order to something else. That only can properly be called an object of desire which is desired upon its own account; and and therefore I consider as benevolent those affections only which desire the good of their object ultimately, and not as means in order to something else. To say that we desire the good of others, only to procure some pleasure or good to ourselves, is to say that there is no benevolent affection in human nature. This indeed has been the opinion of some philosophers both in ancient and in later times. But it appears unreasonable to resolve all benevolent affections into self-love, as it would be to resolve hunger and thirst into self-love. These appetites are necessary for the preservation of the individual. Benevolent affections are no less necessary for the preservation of society among men; without which men would become an easy prey to the beasts of the field. The benevolent affections planted in human nature, appear therefore no less necessary for the preservation of the human species than the appetites of hunger and thirst." In a word, pity, gratitude, friendship, love, and patriotism, are founded on different benevolent affections; which our learned author holds to be original parts of the human constitution.

This reasoning has certainly great force; and if authority could have any weight in settling a question of this nature, we know not that name to which greater deference is due than the name of him from whom it is taken. Yet it must be confessed that the philosophers, who consider the affections and passions as early and deep-rooted associations, support their opinion with very plausible arguments. On their principles we have endeavoured elsewhere to account for the passions of fear and love, (see Instinct and Love); and we may here safely deny the truth of what has been stated respecting fear, which seems to militate against that account. We have attended with much solicitude to the actions of children; and have no reason to think that they feel terror on the brink of a precipice till they have been repeatedly warned of their danger in such situations by their parents or their keepers. Every person knows not only that they have no original or instinctive dread of fire, which is as dangerous to them as any precipice; but that it is extremely difficult to keep them from that destructive element till they are either capable of weighing the force of arguments, or have repeatedly experienced the pain of being burnt by it. With respect to sudden resentment, we cannot help considering the argument, which is brought in proof of its being instinctive, as proving the contrary in a very forcible manner. Instinct is some mysterious influence of God upon the mind exciting to actions of beneficial tendency: but can any benefit arise from wrecking our impotent vengeance on a stock or a stone? or is it supposable that a Being of infinite wisdom would excite us to actions so extravagantly foolish? We learn from experience to defend ourselves against rational or sensible enemies by retaliating the injuries which they inflict upon us; and if we have been often injured in any particular manner, the idea of that injury becomes in time so closely associated with the means by which it has been constantly repelled, that we never receive such an injury—a blow for instance—without being prompted to make the usual retaliation, without reflecting whether the object be sensible or insensible. So far from being instinctive does resentment appear to us, that we think an attentive observer may easily perceive how the seeds of it are gradually infused into the youthful mind; when the child, from being at first a timid creature shrinking from every pain, learns by degrees to return blow for blow and threat for threat.

But instead of urging what appears to ourselves of most weight against the instinctive system, we shall lay before our readers a few extracts from a dissertation on the Origin of the Passions by a writer whose elegance of language and ingenuity of investigation do honour to the school of Hartley.

"When an infant is born (says Dr Sayers*), there is every reason to suppose that he is born without ideas. These are rapidly communicated through the medium of the senses. The same senses are also the means of conveying to him pleasure and pain. These are the hinges on which the passions turn; and till the child is acquainted with these sensations, it would appear that no passion could be formed in his mind; for till he has felt pleasure and pain, how can he define any object, or wish for its removal? How can he either love or hate? Let us observe then the manner in which love and hatred are formed; for on these passions depend all the rest. When a child endures pain, and is able to detect the cause of it, the idea of pain is connected in his mind with that of the thing which produced it; and if the object which occasioned pain be again presented to the child, the idea of pain associated with it arises also. This idea consequently urges the child to avoid or to remove the object; and thus arises the passion of dislike or hatred. In the same manner, the passion of liking or love is readily formed in the mind of a child from the association of pleasant ideas with certain objects which produced them.

"The passions of hope and fear are states of the mind depending upon the good or bad prospects of gratifying love or hatred; and joy or sorrow arises from the final success or disappointment which attends the exertions produced by love or by hatred. Out of these passions, which have all a perceptible relation to our own good, and are universally acknowledged to be selfish, all our other passions are formed."

To account for the passions called disinterested, he observes, that in the history of the human mind we find many instances of our dropping an intermediate idea, which has been the means of our connecting two other ideas together; and that the association of these two remains after the link which originally united them has vanished. Of this fact the reader will find sufficient evidence in different articles of this work (See Instinct, n°19, and Metaphysics, n°101): and, to apply it to the disinterested passions, let us suppose, with Dr Sayers, that any individual has done us many offices of kindness, and has consequently much contributed to our happiness; it is natural for us to feel with some anxiety for the continuance of those pleasures which he is able to communicate. But we soon discern, that the surest way of obtaining the continuance of his friendly offices is to make them, as much as possible, a source of pleasure to himself. We therefore do everything in our power to promote his happiness in return for the good he has conferred upon us, that thus we may attach him to us as much as we are able. Hitherto all is plainly selfish. We have been evidently endeavouring, for the sake of our own future grati- gratification, to promote the happiness of this person; but observe the consequence. We have thus, by contemplating the advantage to be derived to ourselves from promoting the prosperity of our friend, learned to associate a set of pleasant ideas with his happiness; but the link which has united them gradually escapes us, while the union itself remains. Continuing to associate pleasure with the well-being of our friend, we endeavour to promote it for the sake of his immediate gratification, without looking farther; and in this way his happiness, which was first attended to only as a means of future enjoyment, finally becomes an end. Thus then the passion which was originally selfish, is at length disinterested; its gratification being completed merely by its success in promoting the happiness of another.

In this way does our author account for the origin of gratitude; which at last becomes a habit, and flows spontaneously towards every man who has either been or intended to be our benefactor. According to him, it is easy to observe also, that from associating pleasure with the happiness of an individual when we procure it ourselves, it must of course soon follow, that we should experience pleasure from a view of his happiness any way produced; such happiness raising at all times pleasant ideas when it is presented to our minds. This is another feature of a disinterested affection, to feel delight from the mere increase of happiness in the object whom we love.

"It may be objected, perhaps, that parents seem to have an instinctive disinterested love of their offspring; but surely the love of a parent (A) for a new-born infant is not usually equal to that for a child of four or five years old. When a child is first born, the prospect and hopes of future pleasure from it are sufficient to make a parent anxious for its preservation. As the child grows up, the hope of future enjoyment from it must increase; hence would pleasure be associated with the well-being of the child, the love of which would of course become in due time disinterested."

Our author does not analyse pity, and trace it to its source in selfishness; but he might easily have done it, and it has been ably done by his master. Pity or compassion is the uneasiness which a man feels at the misery of another. It is generated in every mind during the years of childhood; and there are many circumstances in the constitution of children, and in the mode of their education, which make them particularly susceptible of this passion. The very appearance of any kind of misery which they have experienced, or of any signs of distress which they understand, excite in their minds painful feelings, from the remembrance of what they have suffered, and the apprehension of their suffering again. We have seen a child a year old highly entertained with the noise and struggles made by its elder brother when plunged naked into a vessel filled with cold water. This continued to be the case for many days, till it was thought proper to plunge the younger as well as the elder; after which the daily entertainment was soon at an end. The little creature had not been itself plunged above twice till it ceased to find diversion in its brother's sufferings. On the third day it cried with all the symptoms of the bitterest anguish upon seeing its brother plunged, though no preparation was then made for plunging itself; but surely this was not disinterested sympathy, but a feeling wholly selfish, excited by the remembrance of what it had suffered itself, and was apprehensive of suffering again. In a short time, however, the painful feelings accompanying the sight of its brother's struggles, and the sound of his cries, were doubtless so associated with that sight and that sound, that the appearance of the latter would have brought the former along with them, even though the child might have been no longer under apprehension of a plunging itself. This association, too, would soon be transferred to every boy in the same circumstances, and to similar sounds and struggles, from whatever cause they might proceed.

Thus, as Dr Hartley observes §, "when several children are educated together, the pains, the denials of pleasure, and the sorrows which affect one, generally extend to all in some degree, often in an equal one. When their parents, companions, or attendants are sick or afflicted, it is usual to raise in their minds the nascent ideas of pains and miseries by such words and signs as are suited to their capacities. They also find themselves laid under many restraints, on account of the sickness or affliction of others; and when these and such like circumstances have raised in their minds desires to remove the causes of their own internal feelings, i.e., to ease the miseries of others, a variety of internal feelings and desires become so blended and associated together, as that no part can be distinguished separately from the rest, and the child may properly be said to have compassion. The same sources of compassion remain, though with some alteration, during our whole progress through life. This is so evident, that a reflecting person may plainly discern the constituent parts of his compassion while they are yet the mere internal and, as one may say, selfish feelings above-mentioned; and before they have put on the nature of com-

(A) That this is true of the father is certain; but it may be questioned whether it be equally true of the mother. A woman is no sooner delivered of her infant, than she cares for it with the utmost possible fondness. We believe, that if she were under the necessity of making a choice between her child of four years, and her infant an hour old, she would rather be deprived of the latter than of the former; but we are not convinced that this would proceed from a less degree of affection to the infant than to the child. She knows that the child has before his fourth year escaped many dangers which the infant must encounter, and may not escape; and it is therefore probable that her choice would be the result of prudent reflection. Though we are not admirers of that philosophy which supposes the human mind a bundle of instincts, we can as little approve of the opposite scheme, which allows it no instincts at all. The care of a mother to her new-born infant is undoubtedly instinctive, as the only thing which at that moment can be associated with it in her mind is the pain she has suffered in bringing it to the world. compassion, by coalescence with the rest. Agreeably to this method of reasoning, it may be observed, that persons whose nerves are easily irritable, and those who have experienced great trials and afflictions, are in general more disposed to compassion than others; and that we are most apt to pity others in those diseases and calamities which we either have felt or of which we apprehend ourselves to be in danger.

The origin of patriotism and public spirit is thus traced by Dr. Sayers: "The pleasures which our country affords are numerous and great. The wish to perpetuate the enjoyment of those pleasures, includes the wish to promote the safety and welfare of our country, without which many of them would be lost. All this is evidently selfish; but, as in the progress of gratitude, it finally becomes disinterested. Pleasant ideas are thus strongly connected with the welfare of our country, after the tie which first bound them together has escaped our notice. The prosperity which was at first desirable as the means of future enjoyment, becomes itself an end; we feel delight in such prosperity, however produced; and we look not beyond this immediate delight. It is thus not difficult to observe in what manner a general and disinterested benevolence takes place in a mind which has already received pleasure from the happiness of a few; the transition is easy towards associating it with happiness in general, with the happiness of any being, whether produced by ourselves or by any other cause whatever."

From this reasoning, our author concludes, that all our passions may be traced up to original feelings of regard for ourselves. "Thus (in the forcible language of a learned writer of the same school) does self-love, under the varying appearance of natural affection, domestic relation, and the connections of social habit, at first work blindly on, obscure and deep, in dirt: But as it makes its way, it continues rising, till it emerges into light; and then suddenly expiring, leaves behind it the fairest issue,"—benevolent affection.

Self-love forsook the path it first purposed, And found the private in the public good.

Thus have we stated the two opposite theories respecting the origin of passions in the mind, and given our readers a short specimen of the reasonings by which they are supported by their respective patrons. Were we called upon to decide between them, we should be tempted to say, that they have both been carried to extremes by some of their advocates, and that the truth lies in the middle between them. "It is impossible but that creatures capable of pleasant and painful sensations, should love and choose the one, and dislike and avoid the other. No being who knows what happiness and misery are, can be supposed indifferent to them, without a plain contradiction. Pain is not a possible object of desire, nor happiness of aversion." To prefer a greater good though distant, to a less good that is present; or to choose a present evil, in order to avoid a greater future evil—is indeed wise and rational conduct; but to choose evil ultimately, is absolutely impossible. Thus far then must be admitted, that every being possessed of sense and intellect, necessarily desires his own good as soon as he knows what it is; but if this knowledge be not innate, neither can the desire. Every human being comes into the world with a capability of knowledge, and of course with a capability of affections, desires, and passions; but it seems not to be conceivable how he can actually love, or hate, or dread any thing, till he know whether it be good, or ill, or dangerous. If, therefore, we have no innate ideas, we cannot possibly have innate desires or aversions. Those who contend that we have, seem to think, that without them reason would be insufficient, either for the preservation of the individual or the continuation of the species; and some writers have alleged, that if our affections and passions were the mere result of early associations, they would necessarily be more capricious than we ever find them. But this objection seems to arise from their not rightly understanding the theory of their antagonists. The disciples of Locke and Hartley do not suppose it possible for any man in society to prevent such associations from being formed in his mind as shall necessarily produce desires and aversions; far less do they think it possible to form associations of ideas utterly repugnant, so as to desire that as good which his senses and intellect have experienced to be evil. Associations are formed by the very same means, and at the very same time, that ideas and notions are impressed upon the mind; but as pain is never mistaken for pleasure by the senses, so an object which has given us only pain, is never associated with any thing that makes it desirable. We say an object that has given us only pain, because it is possible to form such an association between life and the loss of a limb, as to make us grateful to the surgeon by whom it was amputated. Associations being formed according to the same laws by which knowledge is acquired, it by no means follows that passions resulting from them should be more capricious than they are found to be; and they certainly are sufficiently capricious to make us suspect that the greater part of them has this origin; rather than that they are all infused into the mind by the immediate agency of the Creator. If man be a being formed with no innate ideas, and with no other instinctive principles of action than what are absolutely necessary to preserve his existence and perpetuate the species, it is easy to perceive why he is placed in this world as in a state of probation, where he may acquire habits of virtue to fit him for a better. It is likewise easy to perceive why some men are better than others, and why some are the slaves of the most criminal passions. But all this is unintelligible, upon the supposition that the seeds of every passion are innate, and that man is a compound of reason and of instincts so numerous and various as to suit every circumstance in which he can be placed.

If passions, whatever be their origin, operate instantaneously, and if they be formed according to fixed laws, it may be thought a question of very little importance whether they be instinctive or acquired.—This was long our own opinion; but we think, that upon mature reflection we have seen reason to change it. If passions be the result of early associations, it is of the utmost consequence that no improper associations be formed in the minds of children, and that none of their unreasonable desires be gratified. Upon this theory it seems indeed to depend almost wholly upon education, whether a child shall become a calm, benevolent, steady, and upright man; or a passionate, capricious, pricous, selfish, miscreant. By teaching him to resent every petty injury, the seeds of irascibility are sown in his mind, and take such root, that before the age of manhood he becomes intolerable to all with whom he must converse. By exciting numberless desires in his youthful mind, and instantly gratifying them, you make him capricious, and impatient of disappointment; and by representing other children as in any degree inferior to him, you inspire him with the hateful passion of pride. According to the instinctive theory, education can only augment or diminish the strength of passions; according to the other theory, it is the source of by far the greater part of them. On either supposition, parents should watch with solicitude over the actions of their children; but they will surely think themselves obliged to be doubly watchful, if they believe, that through their neglect their children may acquire hateful passions, to which, if properly educated, they might have remained strangers thro' their whole lives. And let it be remembered, that this solicitude should begin at an early period; because the mind is susceptible of deep associations much sooner than is sometimes imagined. Without this susceptibility, no language could be learned; and therefore a child by the time he learns to speak, may have planted in his mind the seeds of passions, on the just regulation and subordination of which depends in a great measure the happiness of mankind. See Moral Philosophy, Part I. Chap. 1, & 2. Part III. n° 216.

Passions and Emotions, difference between them. See Emotions and Passions.

External Signs of Emotions and Passions. So intimately connected are the soul and body, that every agitation in the former produces a visible effect upon the latter. There is, at the same time, a wonderful uniformity in that operation; each class of emotions and passions being invariably attended with an external appearance peculiar to itself. These external appearances, or signs, may not improperly be considered as a natural language, expressing to all beholders emotions and passions as they arise in the heart. Hope, fear, joy, grief, are displayed externally: the character of a man can be read in his face; and beauty, which makes so deep an impression, is known to result, not so much from regular features and a fine complexion, as from good-nature, goodness, sprightliness, sweetness, or other mental quality, expressed upon the countenance. Though perfect skill in that language be rare, yet what is generally known is sufficient for the ordinary purposes of life. But by what means we come to understand the language, is a point of some intricacy. It cannot be by sight merely; for upon the most attentive inspection of the human visage, all that can be discerned are, figure, colour, and motion, which, singly or combined, never can represent a passion nor a sentiment: the external sign is indeed visible; but to understand its meaning, we must be able to connect it with the passion that causes it; an operation far beyond the reach of eye-sight. Where then is the instructor to be found that can unveil this secret connection? If we apply to experience, it is yielded, that from long and diligent observation, we may gather, in some measure, in what manner those we are acquainted with express their passions externally; but with respect to strangers, we are left in the dark; and yet we are not puzzled about the meaning of these external expressions in a stranger, more than in a bosom-companion. Further, had we no other means but experience for understanding the external signs of passion, we could not expect any uniformity, nor any degree of skill, in the bulk of individuals: yet matters are so much better ordered, that the external expressions of passion form a language understood by all, by the young as well as the old, by the ignorant as well as the learned: We talk of the plain and legible characters of that language; for undoubtedly we are much indebted to experience, in deciphering the dark and more delicate expressions. Where then shall we apply for a solution of this intricate problem, which seems to penetrate deep into human nature? Undoubtedly if the meaning of external signs be not derived to us from sight, nor from experience, there is no remaining source whence it can be derived but from nature.

We may then venture to pronounce, with some degree of confidence, that man is provided by nature of Criticism, with a sense or faculty that lays open to him every passion by means of its external expressions. And we cannot entertain any reasonable doubt of this, when we reflect, that the meaning of external signs is not hid even from infants: an infant is remarkably affected with the passions of its nurse expressed on her countenance; a smile cheers it, a frown makes it afraid: but fear cannot be without apprehending danger; and what danger can the infant apprehend, unless it be sensible that its nurse is angry? We must therefore admit, that a child can read anger in its nurse's face; of which it must be sensible intuitively, for it has no other mean of knowledge. We do not affirm, that these particulars are clearly apprehended by the child; for to produce clear and distinct perceptions, reflection and experience are requisite: but that even an infant, when afraid, must have some notion of its being in danger, is evident.

That we should be conscious intuitively of a passion from its external expressions, is conformable to the analogy of nature: the knowledge of that language is of too great importance to be left upon experience; because a foundation so uncertain and precarious, would prove a great obstacle to the formation of societies. Wisely therefore is it ordered, and agreeably to the system of providence, that we should have nature for our instructor.

Such is the philosophy of Lord Kames, to which objections unanswerable may be made. It is part of the instinctive system of metaphysics, which his Lordship has carried farther than all who wrote before him, and perhaps farther than all who have succeeded him in this department of science. That a child intuitively reads anger in its nurse's face, is so far from being true, that for some short time after birth it is not terrified by the most menacing gestures. It is indeed absolutely incapable of fear till it has suffered pain, (see Instinct); and could we constantly observe it with what is called an angry look, it would be cheered by that look, and frightened at a smile. It feels, however, the effects of anger, and is soon capable of observing the peculiarity of feature with which that passion is usually accompanied; and these two become in a short time so linked together in its tender mind, that the appearance of the one necessarily suggests to it the reality of the other.

Should it be said that a loud and sudden noise startles a child immediately after birth, and that, therefore, the infant must be instinctively afraid, the fact may be admitted, without any necessity of admitting the inference. The nerves of an infant are commonly very irritable, and the strong impulse on the auditory nerves may agitate its whole frame, without inspiring it with the passion of fear. The loud noise is, in all probability, not the sign of approaching danger, but the immediate cause of real pain, from which the infant shrinks, as it would from the prick of a pin, or the scorching of a candle. But we have said enough in the article immediately preceding, and in others which are there quoted, to show how the passions may be formed by affections even in early infancy, and yet operate as if they were instinctive. This being the case, we shall through the remainder of this article suffer his Lordship to speak his own language, without making any further remarks upon it. We are induced to do this for two reasons; of which the first is, that many of our readers will probably prefer his theory to ours; and the second is, that his conclusions respecting the signs and language of passion hold equally good from either theory.

We perfectly agree with him, that manifold and admirable are the purposes to which the external signs of passion are made subservient by the Author of our nature.

1. The signs of internal agitation displayed externally to every spectator, tend to fix the signification of many words. The only effectual means to ascertain the meaning of any doubtful word, is an appeal to the thing it represents; and hence the ambiguity of words expressive of things that are not objects of external sense; for in that case an appeal is denied. Passion, strictly speaking, is not an object of external sense; but its external signs are; and by means of these signs, passions may be appealed to with tolerable accuracy; thus the words that denote our passions, next to those that denote external objects, have the most distinct meaning. Words signifying internal action and the more delicate feelings, are less distinct. This defect, with regard to internal action, is what chiefly occasions the intricacy of logic; the terms of that science are far from being sufficiently ascertained, even after much care and labour bestowed by an eminent writer*, to whom, however, the world is greatly indebted, for removing a mountain of rubbish, and moulding the subject into a rational and correct form. The same defect is remarkable in criticism, which has for its object the more delicate feelings; the terms that denote these feelings being not more distinct than those of logic.

2. Society among individuals is greatly promoted by that universal language. Looks and gestures give direct access to the heart; and lead us to select, with tolerable accuracy, the persons who are worthy of our confidence. It is surprising how quickly, and for the most part how correctly, we judge of character from external appearance.

3. After social intercourse is commenced, these external signs, which diffuse through a whole assembly the feelings of each individual, contribute above all other means to improve the social affections. Language, no doubt, is the most comprehensive vehicle for communicating emotions; but in expediency, as well as in power of conviction, it falls short of the signs under consideration; the involuntary signs especially, which are incapable of deceit. Where the countenance, the tones, the gestures, the actions, join with the words in communicating emotions, these united have a force irresistible. Thus all the pleasant emotions of the human heart, with all the social and virtuous affections, are, by means of these external signs, not only perceived, but felt. By this admirable contrivance, conversation becomes that lively and animating amusement, without which life would at best be infipid; one joyful countenance spreads cheerfulness instantaneously through a multitude of spectators.

4. Dissocial passions, being hurtful by prompting violence and mischief, are noted by the most conspicuous external signs, in order to put us upon our guard; thus anger and revenge, especially when sudden, display themselves on the countenance in legible characters. The external signs, again, of every passion that threatens danger, raise in us the passion of fear; which frequently operating without reason or reflection, moves us by a sudden impulse to avoid the impending danger.

5. These external signs are remarkably subservient to morality. A painful passion, being accompanied with disagreeable external signs, must produce in every spectator a painful emotion; but then, if the passion be social, the emotion it produces is attractive, and connects the spectator with the person who suffers. Dissocial passions only are productive of repulsive emotions, involving the spectator's aversion, and frequently his indignation. This artful contrivance makes us cling to the virtuous, and abhor the wicked.

6. Of all the external signs of passion, those of affliction or distress are the most illustrious with respect to a final cause, and deservedly merit a place of distinction. They are illustrious by the singularity of their contrivance; and also by inspiring sympathy, a passion to which human society is indebted for its greatest blessing, that of providing relief for the distressed. A subject so interesting deserves a leisurely and attentive examination. The conformity of the nature of man to his external circumstances is in every particular wonderful: his nature makes him prone to society; and society is necessary to his well-being, because in a solitary state he is a helpless being, destitute of support, and in his distresses destitute of relief: but mental support, the shining attribute of society, is of too great moment to be left dependent upon cool reason; it is ordered more wisely, and with greater conformity to the analogy of nature, that it should be enforced even instinctively by the passion of sympathy. Here sympathy makes a capital figure; and contributes, more than any other means, to make life easy and comfortable. But however essential the sympathy of others may be to our well-being, one beforehand would not readily conceive how it could be raised by external signs of distress; for considering the analogy of nature, if these signs be agreeable, they must give birth to a pleasant emotion leading every beholder to be pleased with human woes: if disagreeable, as they undoubtedly are, ought they not naturally... naturally to repel the spectator from them, in order to be relieved from pain? Such would be the reasoning beforehand; and such would be the effect were man purely a selfish being. But the benevolence of our nature gives a very different direction to the painful passion of sympathy, and to the desire involved in it: instead of avoiding distress, we fly to it in order to afford relief; and our sympathy cannot be otherwise gratified but by giving all the succour in our power. Thus external signs of distress, though disagreeable, are attractive: and the sympathy they inspire is a powerful cause, impelling us to afford relief even to a stranger, as if he were our friend or relation.

It is a noted observation, that the deepest tragedies are the most crowded: which in an overly view will be thought an unaccountable bias in human nature. Love of novelty, desire of occupation, beauty of action, make us fond of theatrical representations; and when once engaged, we must follow the story to the conclusion, whatever distress it may create. But we generally become wise by experience; and when we foresee what pain we shall suffer during the course of the representation, is it not surprising that persons of reflection do not avoid such spectacles altogether? And yet one who has scarce recovered from the distress of a deep tragedy, resolves coolly and deliberately to go to the very next, without the slightest obstruction from self-love. The whole mystery is explained by a single observation: That sympathy, though painful, is attractive; and attaches us to an object in distress, instead of prompting us to fly from it. And by this curious mechanism it is, that persons of any degree of sensibility are attracted by affliction still more than by joy.

To conclude: the external signs of passion are a strong indication, that man, by his very constitution, is framed to be open and sincere. A child, in all things obedient to the impulses of nature, hides none of its emotions; the savage and clown, who have no guide but pure nature, expose their hearts to view, by giving way to all the natural signs. And even when men learn to dissemble their sentiments, and when behaviour degenerates into art, there still remain checks, that keep dissimulation within bounds, and prevent a great part of its mischievous effects: the total suppression of the voluntary signs during any vivid passion, begets the utmost uneasiness, which cannot be endured for any considerable time: this operation becomes indeed less painful by habit; but luckily the involuntary signs cannot, by any effort, be suppressed nor even dissembled. An absolute hypocrisy, by which the character is concealed and a fictitious one assumed, is made impracticable; and nature has thereby prevented much harm to society. We may pronounce, therefore, that Nature, herself sincere and candid, intends that mankind should preserve the same character, by cultivating simplicity and truth, and banishing every sort of dissimulation that tends to mischief.

Influence of Passion with respect to our Perceptions, Opinions, and Belief. So intimately are our perceptions, passions, and actions, connected, it would be wonderful if they should have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much influenced by passion, is a known truth; but it is not less certain, though not so well known, that passion hath also an influence upon our perceptions, opinions, and belief. For example, the opinions we form of men and things are generally directed by affection: An advice given by a man of figure hath great weight; the same advice from one in a low condition is despised or neglected: a man of courage under-rates danger; and to the indolent the slightest obstacle appears insurmountable. All this may be accounted for by the simple principle of association.

There is no truth more universally known, than that tranquillity and sedateness are the proper state of mind for accurate perception and cool deliberation; and for that reason, we never regard the opinion even of the wisest man, when we discover prejudice or passion behind the curtain. Passion hath such influence over us, as to give a false light to all its objects. Agreeable passions prepossess the mind in favour of their objects; and disagreeable passions, not least against their objects: A woman is all perfection in her lover's opinion, while in the eye of a rival beauty she is awkward and disagreeable: when the passion of love is gone, beauty vanishes with it;—nothing is left of that gentle motion, that sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, which formerly, in the lover's opinion, charmed all hearts. To a zealot every one of his own sect is a saint, while the most upright of a different sect are to him children of perdition: the talent of speaking in a friend, is more regarded than prudent conduct in any other. Nor will this surprise any one acquainted with the world; our opinions, the result frequently of various and complicated views, are commonly so flighty and wavering, as readily to be susceptible of a bias from passion.

With that natural bias another circumstance concurs, to give passion an undue influence on our opinions and belief; and that is a strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. That tendency is peculiarly remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions: by its influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied or suppressed, everything coloured and disguised, to answer the end of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias.

We proceed to illustrate the foregoing observations by proper examples.

Gratitude, when warm, is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor; especially where he is removed out of reach by death or absence. The passion in this case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar excellence in his children: but the practice of doing good to these children produces affection for them, which never fails to advance them in our esteem. By such means, strong connections of affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight foundation now mentioned.

Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, cannot be excused but by disguising it under some plausible name. At the same time, no passion is more eager than envy to give its object a disagreeable appearance: it magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on the most humbling circumstances:

Cassius. Cassius. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Cæsar, so were you; We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tyber chafing with his shores, Cæsar says to me, 'Darft thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?'—Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bid him follow; so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews; throwing it aside, And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point propos'd, Cæsar cry'd, 'Help me, Cassius, or I sink. I, as Æneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear; so from the waves of Tyber Did I the tired Cæsar; and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their colour fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose its lustre: I did hear him groan; Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas! it cry'd—Give me some drink, Titinius,— As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. Julius Cæsar, act 1, sc. 3.

Gloster, inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could even force himself into a momentary conviction that they were not related: O strange fasten'd villain! Would he deny his letter?—I never got him.

King Lear, act 2, sc. 3.

When by great sensibility of heart, or other means, grief becomes immoderate, the mind, in order to ju- stify itself, is prone to magnify the cause; and if the real cause admit not of being magnified, the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events:

By/bye, Madam, your majesty is much too sad: You promis'd, when you parted with the king, To lay aside self-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Queen. To please the king, I did; to please myself,

Vol.XIV. Part I.

I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief; Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune's womb, Is coming toward me; and my inward soul With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves, More than with parting from my lord the king.

Richard II, act 2, sc. 5.

Resentment at first is vented on the relations of the offender, in order to punish him; but as resentment, when so outrageous, is contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion, is disposed to paint these relations in the blackest colours; and it comes at last to be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits.

Anger, raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part of the body, is sometimes vented upon the un- designed cause. But as the passion in that case is ab- surd, and as there can be no solid gratification in pu- nishing the innocent, the mind, prone to justify as well as to gratify its passion, deduces itself into a convic- tion of the action's being voluntary. The conviction, however, is but momentary; the first reflection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion vanishes almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most violent of all passions, has still greater influence; it sometimes forces the mind to personify a stock or a stone if it happen to occasion bodily pain, and even to believe it a voluntary agent, in order to be a proper object of resentment. And that we have really a mo- mentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from considering, that without such conviction the passion can neither be justified nor gra- tified: the imagination can give no aid; for a stock or a stone imagined insensible, cannot be an object of punishment, if the mind be conscious that it is an ima- gination merely without any reality (a). Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoying the following words to be pronounced: "O thou salt and Herodotus, bitter water! thy master hath condemned thee to this ill; punishment for offending him without cause; and is resolved to pass over thee in despite of thy insolence; with reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous."

Shakespeare exhibits beautiful examples of the ir- regular influence of passion in making us believe things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his dis- tress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in order to justify his resentment, believes them to be ta- king part with his daughters:

(a) We have already shown how a man may be instigated to wreck his vengeance on a stock or a stone, without ever considering whether it be sensible or insensible: (See Passion). If the story of Xerxes be true, he may have considered the sea as sensible and animated, without dreaming that a stock or a stone is so. The sea was a god among many of the pagans, and was considered as such by Xerxes, or he could not have ap- plauded men for not sacrificing to it. Lear. Rumble thy bellyful, spit fire, spout rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children; You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure.—Here I stand, your brave; A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man! But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul!

King Richard, full of indignation against his favourite horse for carrying Bolingbroke, is led into the con- viction of his being rational:

Groom. O, how it yearnd my heart, when I beheld In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast belird, That horse that I so carefully have drest.

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly as he had dishonour'd the ground.

K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!

That jade had eat bread from my royal hand. This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? would he not fall down, (Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Richard II. Act 5. Sc. 11.

Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother's fe- cond marriage, was strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood, the shortness of the time being a violent circumstance against her; and he deludes him- self by degrees into the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one:

Hamlet. ———— That it should come to this! But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two— So excellent a king, that was to this, Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, That he permitted not the wind of heav'n Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth! Must I remember—why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on: yet, within a month— Let me not think—Frailty, thy name is Woman! A little month! or ere those shoes were old, With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears—why she, ev'n she— {O heav'n! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Wou'd have mourn'd longer} married with mine uncle, My father's brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month!— Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married—Oh, most wicked speed! to post With such dexterity to incestuous Toots! It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Act 1. Sc. 3.

The power of passion to falsify the computation of time is remarkable in this instance; because time, which hath an accurate measure, is less obsequious to our de-

fires and wishes, than objects which have no precise standard of less or more.

Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence; our wishes magnify the probability of the event, as well as the veracity of the relater; and we believe as certain what at best is doubtful:

Quel, che l' huom vede, amor li fa invisibile E l' invisibil fa veder amore. Quello creduto fu, che l' miser fuole Dar facile credenza a quel, che vuole.

Orland. Furios. cant. 1. fl. 56.

For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest evidence: fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope, to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespeare, who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our phi- losophers, hath in his Cymeline represented this bias of the mind; for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. And Othello is convinced of his wife's infidelity from circumstances too slight to move any person less interested.

If the news interest us so low a degree as to give place to reason, the effect will not be altogether the same: judging of the probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction ei- ther that it is true or not. But even in that case, the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of convic- tion which is produced by rational evidence; if the news be in any degree favourable, our belief is raised by hope to an improper height; and if unfavourable, by fear.

This observation holds equally with respect to fu- ture events: if a future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind never fails to augment the pro- bability beyond truth.

That easiness of belief, with respect to wonders and prodigies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon; because nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, That the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required to produce belief; a familiar event daily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence; but to overcome the improbability of a strange and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, the very strongest evi- dence is required. It is certain, however, that won- ders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has been reckoned diffi- cult to explain that irregular bias of mind; but we are now made acquainted with the influence of passion up- on opinion and belief; a story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of gravity and truth, rather an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of dread; and these emotions im- posing on a weak mind, impress upon it a thorough conviction contrary to reason.

Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion. An innate propensity is all we have to convince us that the operations of nature are uni- form: influenced by that propensity, we often rashly think, that good or bad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a telescope is a pleasant illustration: "I perceive (says the lady) two shadows inclining to each other; they are certainly two happy lovers;" "Not at all (replies the curate), they are two steeples of a cathedral."

Language of Passion. Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and everything that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect us greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are none to listen.

But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consolation: immoderate grief accordingly is mute; complaining is struggling for consolation.

It is the wretch's comfort still to have Some small reserve of near and inward wo, Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief, Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn, And glutton-like alone devour.

Mourning Bride, act i. sc. i.

When grief subsides, it then, and no sooner, finds a tongue: we complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of its distress. This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, b. 3. Cambyses, when he conquered Egypt, made Pfammeticus the king prisoner; and for trying his constancy, ordered his daughter to be dressed in the habit of a slave, and to be employed in bringing water from the river; his son also was led to execution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians vented their sorrow in tears and lamentations: Pfammeticus only, with a downcast eye, remained silent. Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced in years, who, being plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name. Cambyses, struck with wonder, demanded an answer to the following question: "Pfammeticus, thy master Cambyses is desirous to know, why, after thou hadst seen thy daughter so ignominiously treated, and thy son led to execution, without exclamings or weeping, thou shouldst be so highly concerned for a poor man, noway related to thee?" Pfammeticus returned the following answer: "Son of Cyrus, the calamities of my family are too great to leave me the power of weeping; but the misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to want of bread, is a fit subject for lamentation."

Surprise and terror are silent passions, for a different reason: they agitate the mind so violently, as for a time to suspend the exercise of its faculties, and among others the faculty of speech.

Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious. Moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when successful, is full of joy expressed by words and gestures.

As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence, nor beats always with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is not only unequal but frequently interrupted: and even during an uninterrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single thought, is justly branded with the character of loquacity; because sensible people express no thoughts but what make some figure: in the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest impulses of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity after interruption.

It is elsewhere observed* that the sentiments ought to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated sentiments require elevated language: tender sentiments ought to be clothed in words that are soft and flowing: when the mind is depressed with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are humble, not low. Words being intimately connected with the ideas they represent, the greatest harmony is required between them: to express, for example, an humble sentiment in high-founding words, is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of feelings; and the discord is not less when elevated sentiments are drestled in low words:

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult. Indignatur item privatis ac prope focco Dignis carminibus narrari coena Thyestae.

Horat. Ars poet. l. 89.

This, however, excludes not figurative expression, which, within moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable elevation. We are sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figurative expression is indulged beyond a just measure: the opposition between the expression and the sentiment makes the discord appear greater than it is in reality.

At the same time, figures are not equally the language of every passion: pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression; but humbling and dispiriting passions affect to speak plain:

Et tragicus plerumque dolet fermeo pedetri. Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque, Proicit ampullas et sequipedalia verba, Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.

Horat. Ars poet. 95.

Figurative expression, being the work of an enlivened imagination, cannot be the language of anguish or distresses. Otway, sensible of this, has painted a scene of distress in colours finely adapted to the subject: there is scarce a figure in it, except a short and natural filial with which the speech is introduced. Belvidera, talking to her father of her husband:

Think you saw what past at our last parting; Think you beheld him like a raging lion, Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps, Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand Fix'd on my throat, while the extended other Grasp'd a keen threat'ning dagger: oh, 'twas thus We last embrac'd, when, trembling with revenge,

B 2 He dragg'd me to the ground, and at my bosom Prefented horrid death; cry'd out, My friends! Where are my friends? swore, wept, rag'd, threaten'd, For he yet lov'd, and that dear love preserv'd me [lov'd]; To this last trial of a father's pity. I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought That that dear hand should do th' unfriendly office. If I was ever then your care, now hear me; Fly to the senate, save the promis'd lives Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.

Venice Preserv'd, act 5.

To preserve the foresaid resemblance between words and their meaning, the sentiments of active and hasty passions ought to be dressed in words where syllables prevail that are pronounced short or fast; for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long or slow. A person affected with melancholy, has a languid and slow train of perceptions. The expression best suited to that state of mind, is where words, not only of long, but of many syllables, abound in the composition; and for that reason, nothing can be finer than the following passage:

In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive Contemplation dwells, And ever-musing Melancholy reigns.

Pope, Eloisa to Abelard.

To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requisite, that the language, like the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words that glide softly: surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require an expression both rough and broken.

It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that, in the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is most at heart; which is beautifully done in the following passage:

Me, me; adsum qui feci: in me convertite ferrum, O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis.

Aeneid. ix. 427.

Passion has often the effect of redoubling words, the better to make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely imitated in the following examples.

Thou sun, said I, fair light! And thou enlighten'd earth, so fresh and gay! Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains! And ye that live, and move, fair creatures! tell, Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here.

Paradise Lost, b. viii. 273.

Both have find'd, but thou Against God only; I, 'gainst God and thee: And to the place of judgment will return; There with my cries importune Heav'n, that all The sentence, from thy head remov'd, may light On me, sole cause to thee of all this wo; Me! me! only just object of his ire.

Paradise Lost, b. x. 930.

In general, the language of violent passion ought to be broken and interrupted. Soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner: language is intended by nature for society; and a man when alone, though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his words utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emotion; and even then by starts and intervals only. Shakespeare's soliloquies may be justly established as a model; for it is not easy to conceive any model more perfect. Of his many incomparable soliloquies, the two following only shall be quoted, being different in their manner.

Hamlet. Oh, that this too, too solid flesh, would Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed: things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.—That it should come to this! But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two— So excellent a king, that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, That he permitted not the winds of heav'n Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth! Must I remember—why, she would hang on him, As if increas'd of appetite had grown By what it fed on: yet, within a month— Let me not think—Frailty, thy name is Woman! A little month! or ere these shoes were old, With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears—why, he, ev'n he— (O heav'n! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer—) married with mine uncle, My father's brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month! Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married—Oh, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to goe— But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Hamlet, act i. sc. 3.

"Ford. Hum! hat is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Mr Ford, awake; awake, Mr Ford; there's a hole made in your belt coat, Mr Ford! this 'tis to be married! this 'tis to have linen and buck baskets? Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now take the leacher; he is at my house; he cannot 'scape me; 'tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halpfenny purse, nor into a pepper-box. But let the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places; tho' what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame."

Merry Wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. i.

These soliloquies are accurate and bold copies of nature: in a passionate soliloquy one begins with thinking aloud, and the strongest feelings only are expressed; as the speaker warms, he begins to imagine one listening, and gradually slides into a connected discourse.

How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models? So far indeed as to give disgust instead of pleasure. pleasure. The first scene of Iphigenia in Tauris discovers that princess, in a soliloquy, gravely reporting to herself her own history. There is the same impropriety in the first scene of Alcestis, and in the other introductions of Euripides, almost without exception. Nothing can be more ridiculous; it puts one in mind of a most curious device in Gothic paintings, that of making every figure explain itself by a written label issuing from its mouth. The description which a parasite, in the Eunuch of Terence (act 2, sc. 2), gives of himself, makes a sprightly soliloquy; but it is not consistent with the rules of propriety; for no man, in his ordinary state of mind and upon a familiar subject, ever thinks of talking aloud to himself. The same objection lies against a soliloquy in the Adelphi of the same author (act 1, sc. 1). The soliloquy which makes the third scene act third of his Hebrera, is insufferable; for there Pamphilus, soberly and circumstantially, relates to himself an adventure which had happened to him a moment before.

Corneille is unhappy in his soliloquies: Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna.

Racine is extremely faulty in the same respect. His soliloquies are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, without interruption or interval: that of Antichus in Berenice (act 1, sc. 2) resembles a regular pleading, where the parties pro and con display their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally faulty: Bajazet, act 3, sc. 7.; Mithridate, act 3, sc. 4.; and act 4, sc. 5.; Iphigenia, act 4, sc. 8.

Soliloquies upon lively or interesting subjects, but without any turbulence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain of thought. If, for example, the nature and sprightliness of the subject prompt a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in a dialogue between two persons; which justifies Falstaff's soliloquy upon honour:

"What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honour pricks me on. But how if Honour prick me off, when I come on? How then? Can honour set a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is Honour? A word.—What is that word honour? Air; a trim reckoning.—Who hath it? He that dy'd a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it; honour is a mere scutcheon; and so ends my catechism."

First Part, Henry IV. act 5, sc. 2.

And even without dialogue a continued discourse may be justified, where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon an important subject; for if in such a case it be at all excusable to think aloud, it is necessary that the reasoning be carried on in a chain; which justifies that admirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the 5th act of Addison's Cato.

Language ought not to be elevated above the tone of the sentiment.

Zara. Swift as occasion, I myself will fly; and earlier than the morn wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late; and yet some news few minutes past arriv'd, which seem'd to shake the temper of the king—Who knows what racking cares disface a monarch's bed? Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp, and strikes his rays through dark, and folded lids, forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake, and force their balls abroad at this dead hour. I'll try.

Mourning Bride, act 3, sc. 4.

The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and laboured for describing so simple a circumstance as absence of sleep. In the following passage, the tone of the language, warm and plaintive, is well suited to the passion, which is recent grief: but every one will be sensible, that in the last couplet save one the tone is changed, and the mind suddenly elevated to be let fall as suddenly in the last couplet:

Il déteste à jamais sa coupable victoire, Il renonce à la cour, aux humains, à la gloire; Et se fuyant lui-même, au milieu des déserts, Il va cacher sa peine au bout de l'univers; Là, soit que le soleil rendit le jour au monde, Soit qu'il finit sa course au vaste feiné de l'onde, Sa voix faiblit redire aux échos attendris, Le nom, le triste nom, de son malheureux fils.

Henriade, chant. viii. 229.

Light and airy language is unsuitable to a severe passion.

Imagery and figurative expression are discordant, in the highest degree, with the agony of a mother, who is deprived of two hopeful sons by a brutal murder. Therefore the following passage is undoubtedly in a bad taste:

Queen. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes! My unblown flowers, new appearing sweets! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, And be not fixt in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings, And hear your mother's lamentation.

Richard III. act 4, sc. 4.

Again:

K. Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child. Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

King John, act 3, sc. 9.

Thoughts that turn upon the expression instead of the subject, commonly called a play of words, being low and childish, are unworthy of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends to any degree of elevation.

In the Amynta of Tasso, the lover falls into a mere play of words, demanding how he who had lost himself, could find a mistress. And for the same reason, the following passage in Corneille has been generally condemned:

Chimene. Mon père est mort, Elvire, et la première épée Dont s'est armée Rodrigue à sa trame coupée. Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eaux, La moitié de ma vie a mis l'autre au tombeau, Et m'oblige à venger, après ce coup funeste, Celle que je n'ai plus, sur celle que me réfute.

Cid, act 3. sc. 3.

To die is to be banish'd from myself: And Sylvia is myself; banish'd from her, Is self from self; a deadly banishment!

Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 3. sc. 3.

Countess. I pray thee, Lady, have a better cheer: If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety

All's well that ends well, act 3. sc. 3.

K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care could not with-hold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.

Second Part, Henry IV, act 4. sc. 11.

Cruda Amarilli, che col nome ancora D'amor, ahi lasco, amaramente insegni.

Pygmalion Fido, act 1. sc. 2.

Antony, speaking of Julius Caesar: O world! thou wast the forest of this hart; And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer, stricken by many princes, Dost thou here lie!

Julius Caesar, act 3. sc. 3.

Playing thus with the found of words, which is still worse than a pun, is the meanest of all conceits. But Shakespeare, when he descends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong; for it is done sometimes to denote a peculiar character, as in the following passage:

K. Philip. What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.

Lewis. I do, my Lord, and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wond'rous miracle; The shadow of myself form'd in her eye; Which being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a son, and makes your son a shadow. I do protest, I never lov'd myself Till now infix'd I beheld myself Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

Faulconbridge. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!

Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! And quarter'd in her heart! he doth espy Himself Love's traitor: this is pity now, That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd there should be In such a love so vile a lout as he.

King John, act 2. sc. 5.

A jingle of words is the lowest species of that low wit, which is scarce sufferable in any case, and least of all in an heroic poem: and yet Milton in some instances has descended to that puerility:

And brought into the world a world of wo. —Begirt th'Almighty throne Beseaching or besieging— Which tempted our attempt— At one flight bound high overleap'd all bound.

With a shout Loud as from numbers without number.

One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an expression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning; and yet somewhat of that kind may be found even among good writers.

Selphian. I beg no pity for this mould'ring clay. For if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth: If burnt and scatter'd in the air; the winds That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty, And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns.

Dryden, Don Sebastian King of Portugal, act 1.

Cleopatra. Now, what news, my Charmion? Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? Am I to live or die? nay, do I live? Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer, Fate took the word, and then I liv'd or dy'd.

Dryden, All for Love, act 2.

If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire, If her chill heart I cannot move; Why, I'll enjoy the very love, And make a mistress of my own desire.

Cowley, poem inscribed "The Request."

His whole poem inscribed My Picture is a jargon of the same kind.

'Tis he, they cry, by whom Not men, but war itself is overcome.

Indian Queen.

Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearsal.

Was't not unjust to ravish hence her breath, And in life's stead to leave us nought but death?

Act 4. sc. 1.

Passions, in medicine, make one of the non-naturals, and produce very sensible effects. Joy, anger, and fear, are the principal. In the two first, the spirits are hurried with too great vivacity; whereas, in fear or dread, they are as it were curbed and concentrated: whence we may conclude, that they have a very bad effect upon health; and therefore it will be best to keep them within bounds as much as possible, and to preserve an inward serenity, calmness, and tranquillity.

Passions, in painting, are the external expressions of the different dispositions and affections of the mind; but particularly their different effects upon the several features of the face: for though the arms, and indeed every part of the body*, serve likewise, by their quick, languid, and variously diversified motions, to express* the passions of the soul; yet, in painting, this difference is. Passions. is most conspicuous in the face. See Painting, p. 620, and Drawing, § 8.

As we have given engravings of Le Brun’s drawings of the passions, we shall here subjoin the account which he has given of each of these heads. See Plates CCCLXXVIII and CCCLXXIX.

1. The effects of attention are, to make the eye-brows sink and approach the sides of the nose; to turn the eye-balls toward the object that causes it; to open the mouth, and especially the upper part; to decline the head a little, and fix it without any other remarkable alteration.

2. Admiration causes but little agitation in the mind, and therefore alters but very little the parts of the face; nevertheless the eye-brow rises; the eye opens a little more than ordinary; the eye-ball placed equally between the eye-lids appears fixed on the object; the mouth half opens, and makes no sensible alteration in the cheeks.

3. The motions that accompany admiration with afflatus are hardly different from those of simple admiration, only they are more lively and stronger marked; the eye-brows more elevated; the eyes more open; the eye-ball further from the lower eye-lid, and more steadily fixed: The mouth is more open, and all the parts in a much stronger emotion.

4. Admiration begets esteem, and this produces veneration, which, when it has for its object something divine or beyond our comprehension, makes the face decline, and the eye-brows bend down; the eyes are almost shut and fixed; the mouth is shut. These motions are gentle, and produce but little alterations in the other parts.

5. Although rapture has the same object as veneration, only considered in a different manner, its motions are not the same; the head inclines to the left side; the eye-balls and eye-brows rise directly up; the mouth half opens, and the two corners are also a little turned up; the other parts remain in their natural state.

6. The passion of desire brings the eye-brows close together and forwards toward the eyes, which are more open than ordinary; the eye-ball is inflamed, and places itself in the middle of the eye; the nostrils rise up, and are contracted towards the eyes; the mouth half opens, and the spirits being in motion give a lively glowing colour.

7. Very little alteration is remarked in the face of those that feel within themselves the sweetness of joy, or joy with tranquillity. The forehead is serene; the eye-brow without motion, elevated in the middle; the eye pretty open and with a laughing air; the eye-ball lively and shining; the corners of the mouth turn up a little; the complexion is lively; the cheeks and lips are red.

8. Laughter, which is produced by joy mixed with surprise, makes the eye-brows rise towards the middle of the eye, and bend towards the sides of the nose; the eyes are almost shut, and sometimes appear wet, or shed tears, which make no alteration in the face; the mouth half open, shows the teeth; the corners of the mouth drawn back, cause a wrinkle in the cheeks, which appear so swelled as to hide the eyes in some measure; the nostrils are open, and all the face is of a red colour.

9. Acute pain makes the eye-brows approach one another, and rise towards the middle; the eye-ball is hid under the eye-brows; the nostrils rise and make a wrinkle in the cheeks; the mouth half opens and draws back: all the parts of the face are agitated in proportion to the violence of the pain.

10. Simple bodily pain produces proportionally the same motions as the last, but not so strong: The eye-brows do not approach and rise so much; the eye-ball appears fixed on some object; the nostrils rise, but the wrinkles in the cheeks are less perceptible; the lips are further asunder towards the middle, and the mouth is half open.

11. The dejection that is produced by sadness makes the eye-brows rise towards the middle of the forehead, more than towards the cheeks; the eye-ball appears full of perturbation; the white of the eye is yellow; the eye-lids are drawn down, and a little swelled; all about the eyes is livid; the nostrils are drawn downward; the mouth is half open, and the corners are drawn down; the head carelessly leaning on one of the shoulders: the face is of a lead colour; the lips pale.

12. The alterations that weeping occasions are strongly marked: The eye-brows sink down towards the middle of the forehead; the eyes are almost closed, wet, and drawn down towards the cheeks; the nostrils swelled; the muscles and veins of the forehead appear; the mouth is shut, and the sides of it are drawn down, making wrinkles on the cheeks; the under lip pushed out, presses the upper one: all the face is wrinkled and contracted; its colour is red, especially about the eye-brows, the eyes, the nose, and the cheeks.

13. The lively attention to the misfortunes of another, which is called compassion, causes the eye-brows to sink towards the middle of the forehead; the eye-ball to be fixed upon the object; the sides of the nostrils next the nose to be a little elevated, making wrinkles in the cheeks; the mouth to be open; the upper lip to be lifted up and thrust forwards; the muscles and all the parts of the face sinking down and turning towards the object which excites the passion.

14. The motions of scorn are lively and strong: The forehead is wrinkled; the eye-brow is knit; the side of it next the nose sinks down, and the other side rises very much; the eye is very open, and the eye-ball is in the middle; the nostrils rise, and draw towards the eyes, and make wrinkles in the cheeks; the mouth shuts, its sides sinking down, and the under-lip is pushed out beyond the upper one.

15. An object despised sometimes causes horror, and then the eye-brow knits, and sinks a great deal more. The eye-ball, placed at the bottom of the eye, is half covered by the lower eye-lid; the mouth is half open, but closer in the middle than the sides, which being drawn back, makes wrinkles in the cheeks; the face grows pale, and the eyes become livid; the muscles and the veins are marked.

16. The violence of terror or fright alters all the parts of the face; the eye-brow rises in the middle; its muscles are marked, swelled, pressed one against the other, and sunk towards the nose, which draws up as well as the nostrils; the eyes are very open; the upper eye-lid is hid under the eye-brow; the white of the eye is encompassed with red; the eye-ball fixes toward the lower part of the eye; the lower part of the eye-lid swells and becomes livid; the muscles of the nose and cheeks swell, and these last terminate in a point toward the sides of the nostrils; the mouth is very open, and its corners very apparent; the muscles and veins of the neck stretched; the hair stands on end; the colour of the face, that is, the end of the nose, the lips, the ears, and round the eyes, is pale and livid; and all ought to be strongly marked.

17. The effects of anger show its nature. The eyes become red and inflamed; the eye-ball is staring and sparkling; the eye-brows are sometimes elevated and sometimes sunk down equally; the forehead is very much wrinkled, with wrinkles between the eyes; the nostrils are open and enlarged; the lips pressing against one another, the under one rising over the upper one leaves the corners of the mouth a little open, making a cruel and disdaining grin.

18. Haired or jealous wrinkles the forehead; the eye-brows are sunk down and knit; the eye-ball is half hid under the eye-brows, which turn towards the object; it should appear full of fire, as well as the white of the eye and the eye-lid; the nostrils are pale, open, more marked than ordinary, and drawn back ward so as to make wrinkles in the cheeks; the mouth is so shut as to show the teeth are closed; the corners of the mouth are drawn back and very much sunk; the muscles of the jaw appear sunk; the colour of the face is partly inflamed and partly yellowish; the lips pale or livid.

19. As despair is extreme, its motions are so likewise; the forehead wrinkles from the top to the bottom; the eye-brows bend down over the eyes, and press one another on the sides of the nose; the eye seems to be on fire, and full of blood; the eye-ball is disturbed, hid under the eye-brow, sparkling and unshied; the eye-lid is swelled and livid; the nostrils are large, open, and lifted up; the end of the nose sinks down; the muscles, tendons, and veins are swelled and stretched; the upper part of the cheeks is large, marked, and narrow towards the jaw; the mouth drawn backwards is more open at the sides than in the middle; the lower lip is large and turned out; they gnash their teeth; they foam; they bite their lips, which are pale; as is the rest of the face; the hair is strait and stands on end.

PASSION-Flower. See PASSIFLORA.