to Dryhope whar Will bides, wi' her pled a' rinnin' weet, an' a great muckle sheep's-heid clappit upon her ain, and she gi'es slap slap slap at the byre-door whar Will was sleepin'; an' the callant bangs out wi' a pitchfork, and wud hae stickit her clean through, gin the lassie didna doon wi' the sheep's-heid, and cut her stick up by the loch side, skirlin' an' screamin' like a wild cat. Will was never molested anither times by the jaud; in fact, the puir body died a month or twas after half, through the effects o' fricht, and half o' some lang hame complaint o'a cough. Losh! noo, is'nt that a queer story 23 T Geometry, flying about, and not knowing where to nestle, flew at last into his mouth as he gaped! Aeschines tells a story of Demosthenes, which, if not exaggerated, or put in a false light, will be sufficient to prove that that celebrated orator was at times liable to be embarrassed and thrown into confusion, even on those occasions when he was desirous, of making his best appearance. He seems, indeed, seldom or never to have trusted to the enthusiastic flow of the moment, but to have studied his orations coolly and profoundly in his cave by lamplight, and committed them laboriously to memory for next day's public declamation b Demosthenes was, along with Aeschines, deputed by the Athenians on some special embassy to the court of Philip he had prepared himself beforehand with a fine speech; he was introduced to Philip and his audience, who stood surrounding him with eager curiosity, he began his address, but had hardly pronounced the prooemium, when his voice began to quiver and show symptoms of timidity; as he advanced a little farther into the business-part of his speech, he on a sudden became silent, and stood confounded in a complete incapacity of farther utterance. Philip, perceiving his embarrassment, encouraged him to take heart and proceed in his discourse as he had at first purposed; "seeing he stood not there," he said, esaid, as in a theatre, to suffer any annoyance from impertinent spectators." The orator, being once, thrown into confusion, in vain endeavoured to recollect his sentences and recover himself, Again he attempted to speak, and again stopt in confusion. A disagreeable and rather ludicrous silence ensued, and the herald at last commanded the Athenian ambassadors to withdraw, soltoabib al9ut 10 190ti T sing JOR, alios e'r 0879b 365 SCATTERED NOTICES OF ANTIQUITY, INCIDENTS, APOPHTHEGMS, ANECDOTES, MANNERS, &c.&nd guoy 9 By William Tennant, Author of Anster Fair bab MICE seem to have been regarded with some sort of superstitious reverence by the ancient people of the earth. In the Egyptian hierography the figure of a mouse was understood to typify some unexpected and complete de struction by divine interpositione Apollo in Crete and the Troad, had the name of SMANTHEUS as being the patronising deity of these gentle animals, to whom, he was supposed to have communicated some of his own talent of divination, so that they are enabled to foresee the destruction of the tenement in which they may happen to be lodged, and to make their escape in good time ere the tenement tumble-a faculty, which we have, transferred, less classically, to rats a more unamiable and unpopular quadruped Mice, have obtained celebrity by being prominent agents in three transactions, two of profane, the third of divine history Ashdod, in consequence of the captivity of the ark, was smitten with multitudes of mice; as a trespass offering to remove which, five golden mide were presented to the judges of Israel by the lords of Philistia; Sennacherib's army, when on, the point of invading Egypt, was, according to Herodotus, assailed by a countless army of these animals, who, by devouring their bowstrings, shield-straps, baggage, &c. foiled the invader, and incapacitated him from completing his object. s ecido V 93 On another later occasion, when a colony of the Teucri issued from Crete in quest of settlements in Asia Minor, they were encouraged and authorized by an oracular re- LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES OF sponse to make their abode in that place, where the -b ol bind 9.3 10 EDINBURGH syd earth-born or Indigenes should emerge from their dens ovi zid to 9SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES/.. and make an assault upon theot. This happened to them near Amaxitus, a town of the Troad, where, as they lay encamped during the night-time, a countless host of field-bed J. GRAHAM DALYELL, Esq., in the Chair. mice emerged, swarming from underground, and began Present, Drs Hibbert, Borthwick, Keith; Messrs Gibto nibble away the leathern part of their armour, their buson Graig, Maidment, Siyright, Laing, Dauney, Grebaggage, and eatables. Considering thes, indigenous creagory, &el &oubo pose a goirs sit tures as the fulfilment of the oracle, they settled there; and erected a temple in Chrysa, to Apollo, Smintheus, or Apollo of the Mouse, with a statue of the god, appropriately having a figure of a mouse under his foot. Some geographers have thought that the country called Mysia had its name from this circumstance of the mouse s dad ni est Antiquity, it seems, did not want its wonderful Crichtons. Cicero speaks of one Hippias, who rather out. Crichtoned those of modern times. This man not only boasted that he knew every thing. geometry, music, poetry, philosophy, history, &c.but that the very ring on his finger, the cloak on his shoulders, the shoes on his feet, were all of his own workmanshipalan 11 When Alexander the Great was suing for divine honouns, and the Athenians wished to testify their independence, by refusing him a place in the skies, "Have a care," said Demades to them, advisingly, lest, when you seem to guard heaven, you in reality lose earth!" 11 190yo 30 9289,583 76m doidw bu barber happening to be called to shave Archelaus, him,, 193 How shall shave you, sir?""In silence, was the reply 235sidua das 97 Pro Devongrove May, 18, 1881. id goi bus aga qual 9-1 galesadgoing to to enaloim 1325 to 2 dove to noi a Monday Evening, 9th May, 1831. AFTER several members riety of donations amounced, the secretary proceeded to 69 bi There were then read some curious particulars relative to the conduct of the celebrated Marquis of Montrose, previous to his execution, communicated, from Wod row's Analecta, by James Maidment, Esq. F.S. A. Scot. The secretary next made some remarks on a portion of the history of Scotland in the end of the 9th century, HO as given by George Chalmers, Esq., in his Caledonia, vol. i. pp. 381-2-3. These remarks went to show, what, we believe, is familiar to every student of Scottish his-1))IT tory, namely, that the text of Mr Chalmers's valuable work is not always supported by his authorities; and that, whilst his collections on the early history of Scotland are acknowledged to be the most complete ever brought together on that subject, yet his arguments and inferences from isolated facts and meagre quotations, must in many cases be received with extreme caution. In the instance to which Mr. Gregory's remarks were applied on the present occasion, a comparison of the text with the authorities produces an impression by no means favourable to Mr Chalmers's character as an unprejudiced, a historian, as was shown in a very distinct manner by Mr Gregory. lt to luo uit go bsu00 And there balmy breezes ne'er blow- Ten thousand dread fattrones below! vi br In our last notice of the proceedings of this, societyri page 285, line 24, after the words Burning of EdinbuRinging out through the burgh," insert the words," by the Protector, Somerset, in the year 1545." smus der grundas sindt a ennerred ads for ei f ORIGINAL POETRY." THE WHIRLPOOLingesb of Wnt the songs and the Hotel kijoita | 9ft bugil 199b bliw adt 9.9dw boow sit.in. et bud od 9001 By Thomas Brydson. yesor mils y1972 No eye, save that of wild bird on the wingilog to E'er look'd into thy foam whirl shuddering,bulw Jiri And look'd on aught beside; wo Tisd Thy mighty arms round many a shrieking crew tim Have wound, whose grim and bleaching relies strewly Thy darksome caverns wide, omd 1979{ To find out ble Julley 90 hobneqzaam zi 11 92 16× A solitude of waters round thee liesti 91 101 quae efive dtiw bazz9qah tom zi odw eidt als are To man forbid who breaks that circle dies; Jugmondst adt 9H stil to senor LINEoqu novs sreet-it That solitude is thine! to his 10.979 BThomas Toa, Stoddart." Thou speakest, and the distant islands hears bedzilog oft A 1 1 By smot 2911 91 w 2958 seat J Thine accents on the wind, and prayers of fear yuud Our heart's own choice! Herself may trace Are offer'd at thy shrine, tedt otni bukod 7Th those ahrk efel of Herslo 48q leftm 16000 16 199,00 981 219dto 10 ai The thought they waken in her fond to v Thou speakest ever, yet the secret deep sdt beords, pudr iDevotel worshippelse! maitot q te Of thine own mystery dost ever keep us buts aroissa noiq diw bung golau adt 290b ; are zid she hath guest at them wild feelings, fri some mad Fulhg magi@strain! eu on the tears her müsle brought, when they bade to 38 Her bring them or again! bus adqu, s. od dɔidw svof umelce i ne bienq edi al sy Vain is conjecture, where we cannot know, od glams, she hath guess at welcomes, felt by those Save that thine eddies boil above below, to bin zmoing' qtio sWho gave them silent birthzzi! að end Save that within thee beans to 970 – At sacred Blessings Breathed away 2 Unfeeling now, those who have felt thy power, but al -mie In the pussing hour of thirth two met Long hast thou reign'd a marvel, there's an hourste pats:oivnu no mzuð & rå ylon b118--279011 Dar All shall be known of the mud 901 -She Wath guess'd'at dreams of gladness, on od 26 twoq sdi It ́w bswobo>' zid Thewedryd¶leeper's byd,” 22ndə 350 andiera down juig zi 216 bong, 40 Ae the vigil image of Herself, e datin noong spot and it— Adaddyw di doid | boi That Abated siniling byaybe Jason felindi or 2 niɑged quites - Ils art agua derde, ata Totius THE SEA-GRAVE to fro til lovlAt the trembling hope, the quivering fear, By John Malcolm, to goodia e Oban, May. # I WOULD not depart far at sea, Plunged down in the lone, sullen sea. 901 f ad At pride that knelt to none ad But her, the beautiful, the bright, The best beloved one! 189 THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL; OR, WEEKLY REGISTER OF CRITICISM AND BELLES LETTRES. No. 133. STRAY LEAVES. By Professor Wilson. I. PATRIOTISM. SATURDAY, MAY 28, 1831. WHAT land is there that does not pour forth its own wealth to its inhabitants? The bounty of nature to themselves is acknowledged by all her offspring; and the love of the wildest savage to his dreary home is a rude native patriotism. Deep custom has bound his heart to the good which he understands; but there is a joyous desire and love to the scenes and occupations of his life, in which is a vividness of feeling which custom alone could not give. It is the spirit rejoicing to expatiate in the wealth of life that is spread before it. And if he boast no laws which challenge the loyalty of those they have protected, and if the soil be adorned with no arts which exalt their condition, nevertheless, the hut and the fishy stream, the wood where the wild deer lie, and the pasture of wild moorish hills, form to him a region of delight, and he cleaves to the bosom of that nature from which he has sprung. Such is his patriotism—the germ in its simplest state, of that passion which is unfolded in nobler forms among nobler communities. But the strong original instinct of the human creature is there, not less powerful because it is unexpanded. Every one feels this who is not depressed with evils that bring distaste even upon the sense of life. Here the feeling begins, in the very love to life, and, therefore, it cleaves to those places which are life's home. As the state is nobler, as greater affections are unfolded, and become an essential part of the whole existence, they be. come a part of those feelings which are compounded in the affection of patriotism. Is the warrior glorious in the prowess of his arm; does the nation guard with pious care the bones of the dead, and cherish in song the memory of ancestors who were daring in their own battles, and laid down their life for their renown? The pride of his own triumphs and the remembrance of the great of old, shall mingle in the proud and solemn love which he bears to the land that has been their common birthplace. Or does he live in a city of equal laws-a city where rights are guarded under the shadow of libertywhere pure loves dwell in the bosom of an austere simplicity of manners-and holy fires burn on unviolated altars? His patriotism, more sacred and severe, shall comprehend all these things, which make, the honour of his country, and fill his heart with its purest happiness. Or does his country boast advantages of a different kind? Is she the seat of beautiful arts, which men from all nations come to admire? Then though her boast be only her beautiful sky, and the happy genius of her people, he will feel his heart swell with love and triumph, as he looks upon that beauty, and on the works of that genius. For he too has breathed only beneath that beaming heaven, and his spirit is nursed in its light; he too is endowed with that passionate imagination, which listens delighted to the numbers of soft flowing song, which Price 6d. gazes with intense delight on lovely and majestic forms in his eye lightens the spirit of the creative genius that gave them birth. He loves his country, because he is its child. What nature has poured down on earth and heaven, has been the gladness of life to his soul from the youngest years of his memory. What gifts she has poured on the soul of the people, have fallen also upon him. And from these elements, mixed with all the loves and all the remembrances of life, is formed to him a patriotism, which makes one favoured region of the earth more dear than all the rest, which gives him a pride in the glory of one people, a love to their welfare, a sorrow in their calamity, a shame in their humiliation. It is not the barrenness or luxury of the earth that attaches a people to their soil; it is not the magnitude of empire, or the narrow boundary of a little territory, that determines the question of their national pride. It is not whether they are self-governed and free, or the subjects of a despotic sceptre, that decides whether they feel strongly the bands that unite them with their people. Every climate, and every condition of power, and every form of polity, may bring forth in a people a national spirit, which binds them in love and pride to a country of their own. If there has been among the nations some ancient monarchy, high in its fame in arms, the people who live under it shall not miss the liberties they have never known, but shall take to themselves the renown of the gallant soldiers they have sent forth, and love their country for the recital of her wars. If the luxury and refinement of a splendid court have nourished to a greater height of perfection, in one nation than in all others, the polished courtesies of social life, this distinction of the country will enter into the pride of the national spirit, and into that love which makes one country alone, above all others, the object of permanent desire. If at home and abroad the name of their king arise above that of the nation, and gather to him all her glory in arts and arms, the subject will pride himself in the glory of his monarch; and that very circumstance, which seems to deprive his country of its honours, will, by the self-flattering spirit of national love, be converted into a source of praise. It would be melancholy, indeed, when we see how unequally the greater blessings of nature, of political institutions, and of mind, have been dealt to mankind, if the love of a nation to its lot, and its pride in itself, were limited to one or another of the different conditions of existence that have been assigned them. The spirit of the human race has been differently framed. It has been endowed with the power of knowing and enjoying the good that is given, much more than of suffering from that which is withheld. It has been gifted with a power of creating happiness to itself, by the very vigour of its own spirit of life, and of pouring even beauty around it, from the overflowing of its love. To every people there are given the elements of strong affection to their native land, and to all that it bears; to the people that dwell in it, and the works with which they have crowned it. And this affection, more or less expanded, more or less enlightened, more or less ennobled, is their patriotism. Undoubtedly the feeling is different, according to the character and circumstances of the nation. It is of a higher character, and takes more the appearance of a virtue, as the condition of a people is itself more grateful in contemplation to our moral feelings. Where the whole land rejoices in the light of liberty, where a thousand and a thousand homes are inhabited by peaceful content, where public justice in the state presides over individual happiness, where the objects of a just, high, and natural sympathy are spread wide and numberless around on every side, there, indeed, we look with more satisfaction on that national feeling which embraces them all, and commend it as a nobler patriotism; because we perceive that the objects to which it is directed are worthy of all love and pride, and we foresee that no difficult or costly sacrifices can be required by such a country, which will not be well bestowed in maintaining its rights, or which may not be supported by the feelings which it inspires. But every country, whatever its condition may be, has its own patriotism; nor can any thing utterly destroy it, but that dissoluteness of vice, under which a people cannot long exist as a nation, or that servitude to a foreign dominion, which may extinguish all national | feeling in hopelessness and humiliation. Shame has been called the "sorrow of pride;" but pride, under such sorrow often and long suffered, dies-and with it, in the heart of a nation, dies patriotism. II. PASSION. The capacity of emotion and will, which is designated under the name of Passion, is not only powerful by the cogency with which it exerts its effect over man, but also by the authority which resides in it. For what does he know, naturally, of good or evil, but through these revelations that are made in his mind by pleasure and pain, aversion and desire? Or what help can his reason give him except by the cognizance it is able to take of these emotions, and the comparison it may afterwards make of the different affections which in them he has experienced? Even that supreme principle of Conscience, by which he is the judge of good and evil, however mysteriously it may be itself distinct from all other emotion of pleasure and pain, aversion and desire, is no exception to the remark just made, since it is on these affections and emotions, as they arise in the mind, and on nothing else, that it does itself exert its high jurisdiction. red up. It is in this light, then, that we ought to regard the passionate nature of man; not merely as the source of strong and urgent emotion, not merely as the seat of happiness and suffering, but as that part of his being by which his whole various capacity of good and evil is developed in his nature. When we have felt, the mind becomes a storehouse, in which thoughts and knowledge are treasuBut before we have felt, the determination of the mind is the same. When we have felt, we may say, what do we know of the beauty of love, but that we have loved? What conception of the sanctity of reverential gratitude, but the remembrance of the very feeling as it occupied our mind? What is our thought of the solemnity of religion, but a renewal of that solemnity, which was a present feeling during some of its awful services? But, before love was ever strong, before the benefit was ever understood for which gratitude is felt, before the idea could enter the mind of that Being towards whom religion performs its service, the preparation of these feelings was as determinate in the mind, as the feelings themselves are definite after they are known. allow that these feelings are good-this love, this gratitude, this awe? Then that constitution of the mind is good, in which these feelings are prepared, and by which they are made inevitable; that constitution in which they already exist in the capacity, though not in the exertion. Thus regarding it, and transferring to the constitution and original capacity of these feelings in our mind, that admiration and love with which we are accustomed to look on the actual exhibition of the feelings, we know how to ascribe to this part of our being its real dignity and importance; and to speak of it adequately to the part it bears in human virtue and knowledge. In this way only can we estimate aright the importance and authority that is to be ascribed to the emotions as they arise, considered merely as facts of our nature which in them declares itself as voices from that soul which is of heavenly frame-as inspirations and revealings which come to our intelligence from that power which framed us to feel, and prescribed, in the original structure of our being, the emotion which should belong to each occasion and event in life. The mere feeling or emotion, however, the simple movement which passion gives forth, is not alone of authority, because it leads alike to good and ill. But it is never alone. No feeling arises without the accompanying consciousness that it is right or wrong. The voice of Conscience rises with that of passion, justifying or disallowing. And the emotion which thus arises, self-approved, is the only specific instruction given us in our own minds of what is right; the emotion thus arising, selfcondemned, the only direct instruction so given us of what is wrong. And this allowance or reproval of our feeling in the moment of its birth, is the most authoritative instruction which, within the circle of mere humanity, we can know; for here Nature and Conscience speak in our souls, and both are from God. III. SENSIBILITY. In Passion we find two states perfectly distinct from each other, the emotion arising from contemplation of the object, an affection of pleasure or pain in which the mind may be passive merely; and, arising out of this, the movement of the mind to or from the object. There is also a third state, intimately connected with this last, and yet differing from it,-the state of will. The first point, then, is the susceptibility of impression and emotion. In some minds this exists to a great extent, without producing strong exertion of will. It is then called Sensibility, which regards simply the capacity of being deeply and strongly affected. However, sensibility itself may be of very different characters; as it may be quick and vivid, but transient; or its affections may be more calm, but deep and fixed. The susceptibility of great exhilaration of heart, or of sudden and passionate sorrow, is found under the first character; under the second, deep and steadfast joy, which sustains in the mind no more perhaps than a calm, bright serenity, and yet implies not a tranquil indisposition to be affected, but an extreme and fine sensibility to pleasure. On the other hand, the same temper of mind may produce a settled and enduring melancholy. This is that first affection in which the mind is merely passive. Now, though in considering Passion, we may regard these impressions on the sensibility as given merely in order to prepare and lead on those movements of the will, through which the mind is turned into action, which may be conceived as the ultimate purpose and proper end of these affections of pleasure and pain,-yet, if the emotion should not reach to will, we by no means necessarily esteem this falling short of its seemingly destined end, as a defect in the working of the mind. On the contrary, the affections of the sensibility are often very touching to Do we us to contemplate, or beautiful, majestic, and sublime, when they reach not to the production of any purpose in the will; as the sorrow which is felt for those who mourn, when our sympathy can offer them nothing but its sorrow; as the grief of those who mourn the loss of that which they have loved, when their piety restrains all impatient murmuring at their own privation, and all vain longing towards that which is gone ;-surely their grief, in its simplicity, is most affecting and beautiful. So is the happiness of children, on whom joy falls like the sunshine, and passes away. Such, too, is the admiration we feel for characters of awful greatness, who, in the humility of our reverence, seem to us lifted up far above our imitation. In these instances, and numberless others that will be supposed, all that we see of the Passion is the first simple emotion, strongly declared in the soul, but not passing on to the effects that naturally and properly arise out of the primary feeling. The tendency, therefore, of desire and will to arise out of the first feeling, does not depend on the strength of the emotion, but on many other circumstances. For it shall often be found to be an argument of deep sensibility, that the emotion passes into no other form. Its very force preserves the integrity and simplicity of the feeling. It seems reasonable, indeed, to think that the more deeply any passive emotion settles upon the mind, the less it will be disposed to stir into any new forms of feeling. It is possessed with the simple, single affection. Hence, I believe, it is found, that minds of great feeling are often very slow to derive any purpose from their emotion, even that which necessarily follows; or to coneeive in what manner they shall act upon it; it being long before the first deep impression of emotion is sufficiently exhausted in the mind, to allow it to turn to any other mode of feeling, or to any spontaneous activity. And hence minds which have afterwards been found to be formed for great power and strong passion, have appeared in early life as slow in passion and in thought, because they had this nature of deep affection, and were of the kind that from strong emotion slowly resume their ordinary powers. It is evident that minds so constituted are least of all to be slighted. More is to be expected from them by far than from those which, from the impulse of emotion, are quick to change their state. It is doubtful, indeed, whether a mind that is versatile in its emotions, can have the endowment of great power. Let us imagine, for instance, in what manner the emo. tion of love possesses the mind of a mother looking at her child asleep. We can suppose it to be a deep still feeling that scarce looks more into the future than into the past, but is blest in present consciousness. The more fully her mind is occupied with the present feeling, with its single undisturbed consciousness, the deeper foundation is laid for that powerful and indestructible love which must afterwards be her support in the acts of maternal duty. But the remembrance of the feelings of such hours will afterwards give to her understanding an insight into the constitution of a mother's heart, which she could no otherwise have possessed; it will give her light as to the nature of human affections which she could not else have found. For (I suppose her mind not to be of the lowest order) she will perceive that in that feeling of tender and happy love, there was mysteriously mixed with the yearning of a parent bosom to the being that has sprung from it, the solemn regard of a spirit knowing its own power and destination towards a spirit to which its destination is unknown, and in which all its powers are folded up. And she will perceive how feelings from her highest being may thus mix with those of humblest sort, in such a manner that they shall be known only in the undivided emotion of one entire affection. She will thus understand in a manner no reason could ever teach her, to what a moral world we belong, with what a moral purpose we are framed, when she finds that the tenderest and most human of all her feelings opens up in her mind the consciousness of its sublimer nature, graciously blending in a mother's love the understanding of that sanctity in our being which the austere and awful tongue of religion is at other times required to proclaim, and often proclaims unheard. These higher perceptions making part of such a state of mind, do not destroy its simplicity. They imply nothing of that secondary activity of thought or will which I represented They as interrupting the integrity of the first emotion. show merely how deeply the impression that is made by an object of affection may be carried into our natureinto what depths of our being its capacities of love are extended, when its highest, as well as its lowlier faculties can join in one single, full, unvarying emotion occupying the soul. Or suppose that some upright and ingenuous mind, that had known no stain, is, under the sudden force of some stronger passion, or by fatal circumstances, betrayed into an act by which it feels itself dishonoured. Is it not certain, that the more oppressed it is with humiliation and shame, the more it feels only the weight of its offence, turning aside neither on the one hand to seek for palliatory circumstances and excuses, nor on the other yet imagining that there is any possible expiation or recovery for it,the more, in short, it is possessed and occupied with the single overwhelming consciousness of guilt and shame, the more undoubted evidence it then gives of the strength of moral and pure feeling in itself, and the surer hope it affords, that if there be expiation and recovery before it, its full powers will be exerted, when the mind rises at last to that better prospect, to redeem its transgression? Contrast that self-humbled, sunk spirit, with him who almost, in the moment he has violated his convictions of right, can throw off the one-half of his offence upon the recollection of the circumstances that betrayed him, and the other half on his confident anticipation of redeeming his error in the future. Both these, indeed, are the na tural recoils of the mind from the oppressive sense of wrong committed by itself; but the first is an escape from pain, which a good mind will be cautious in allowing itself at all; the second is that by which such a mind will at last seek to blot out its fault; but it will be late in imagining that it is possible by such atonement to wipe away offence. Let us look at the same instance in the other point of view I have suggested, and consider what understanding such an event would give such a mind, both of itself and of our nature. No fancy, which an unsullied mind can form of the pangs of conscious guilt and dishonour, can approach to the reality. He might apprehend before that there were such pangs in human nature; now he has experienced, and knows what they are. He will never again feel the same proud opinion of himself which he once cherished. But he will ever after know with a certainty for which he had before no grounds, that man is framed as a moral being, when he finds, in addition to his former experience of the happiness of innocence, that there is laid in the very structure of his nature a provision of misery, for every violation of a moral law. Our imagination, it is true, always goes beyond our present experience; and, in addition to that knowledge of our common nature, which every mind derives from the feelings that have been made realities to its intelligence by the presence of the real objects affecting it, it has derived a less certain and more ideal apprehension of other feelings, from its power of placing itself in imagination in the situation of those to whom other objects of pain and pleasure are real. But this visionary conception of feelings which we have not known-though it enlarges our understanding of ourselves and of humankind, (for if our understanding were rigorously restricted to our own experience, we must tread the earth in ignorance)— is always an unsubstantial knowledge. It is no foundation for virtue. It is no strength to support us in the harder tasks of duty. But the same feelings which we may thus ideally and imperfectly conceive, when they have once been our own, when they have been made real by the strong possession they have taken of our souls, directed upon real objects, then they become ever after a part of the strength of our nature. To speak of the case just supposed, he who has felt remorse, has in that remembrance a surer strength for his future virtue, than he had while he only imagined and dreaded it. We may |