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row's Analecta, by James Maidment, Esq. F.S. A. Scot. These details give a very favourable impression of the marquis's conduct in such a trying situation, and have never, we believe, been published.

The secretary next made some remarks on a portion of the history of Scotland in the end of the 9th century, O 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 (Scottishị his-[DITI, A Milled coil,

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 Scot-

land are acknowledged to be the most complete every
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.
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Oban, May.


15 12


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But her, the beautiful, the bright,
The best beloved one!






No. 133.


By Professor Wilson.



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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 a strong affection to their native land, and to all that it bears; to the people that dwell

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


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 hea-in ven, 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

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.



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.

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 treasured up. But 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. Do we 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 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 disal lowing. 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.

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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 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 bat 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

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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.

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 nature-
into what depths of our being its capacities of love are
extended, when its highest, as well as its lowlier facul-
ties can join in one single, full, unvarying emotion occu-
pying 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 The tendency, therefore, of desire and will to arise act by which it feels itself dishonoured. Is it not certain, out of the first feeling, does not depend on the strength that the more oppressed it is with humiliation and shame, of the emotion, but on many other circumstances. For the more it feels only the weight of its offence, turning it shall often be found to be an argument of deep sensi- aside neither on the one hand to seek for palliatory cirbility, that the emotion passes into no other form. cumstances and excuses, nor on the other yet imagining very force preserves the integrity and simplicity of the that there is any possible expiation or recovery for it,feeling. It seems reasonable, indeed, to think that the the more, in short, it is possessed and occupied with the more deeply any passive emotion settles upon the mind, single overwhelming consciousness of guilt and shame, the less it will be disposed to stir into any new forms of the more undoubted evidence it then gives of the strength feeling. It is possessed with the simple, single affection. of moral and pure feeling in itself, and the surer hope it Hence, I believe, it is found, that minds of great feeling affords, that if there be expiation and recovery before it, are often very slow to derive any purpose from their emo- its full powers will be exerted, when the mind rises at tion, even that which necessarily follows; or to con- last to that better prospect, to redeem its transgression? ceive in what manner they shall act upon it; it being long Contrast that self-humbled, sunk spirit, with him who before the first deep impression of emotion is sufficiently almost, in the moment he has violated his convictions of exhausted in the mind, to allow it to turn to any other right, can throw off the one-half of his offence upon the mode of feeling, or to any spontaneous activity. And hence recollection of the circumstances that betrayed him, and minds which have afterwards been found to be formed the other half on his confident anticipation of redeeming for great power and strong passion, have appeared in early his error in the future. Both these, indeed, are the nalife as slow in passion and in thought, because they had tural recoils of the mind from the oppressive sense of this nature of deep affection, and were of the kind that wrong committed by itself; but the first is an escape from from strong emotion slowly resume their ordinary powers. pain, which a good mind will be cautious in allowing It is evident that minds so constituted are least of all to itself at all; the second is that by which such a mind be slighted. More is to be expected from them by far will at last seek to blot out its fault; but it will be late than from those which, from the impulse of emotion, are in imagining that it is possible by such atonement to wipe quick to change their state. It is doubtful, indeed, whe-away offence. ther 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 other'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

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

the design is accomplished.


consider all other human beings, whose situation is dif- without difficulty, we may trace the manner in which ferent from our own, as proving the strength, the depths, the capacities of our common nature, under circumstances of which we can only imagine and conjecture the impression. They are making themselves acquainted with, and realizing in their own breasts, its powers and its miseries, the secrets of its high and awful constitution. They are collectively gathering up that moral knowledge which is the only effectual support of moral opinion. In this manner, humankind is going on making experience of its own nature. And each of us, in his confined and partial experience, must look upon himself as very imperfectly capable of understanding that common nature which he bears indeed in his soul; which may make itself a little felt in sympathy with the passions, the desires, the thoughts, the sufferings of others, but can never fully disclose itself, till the presence of the real objects of those feelings shall rouse up those possible feelings into realities.

I have said that the first state of passion is simple emotion. The passion may end here, or it may not; there are instances, of which I have mentioned a few, in which it appeared to be most fitting that the passion should proceed no farther than this first simple affection of the sensibility. But this, as I observed, appears to be not in our nature the ultimate purpose for which these impressions on our feeling are made; and generally we are able to show that they are important, not only by the present state of mind they produce, but by their results, tending to produce an arousing of active power in the soul. And it will be easy to see how much we are aware of this general law and purpose of our nature, by observing in what manner we are affected by those instances in which the first impression is made, and the result that should follow does not take effect. As, for example, if a man had received some heavy blow in his fortunes, that he should be struck with consternation and pain at the intelligence of a misfortune which shook the security en which his mind had been accustomed to rest, and made the future look threatening, we should easily forgive. We should think it natural, and perhaps even fitting. But what should we say of him if, from that feeling of his calamity, he did not rise to exertion of his powers commensurate with the extent of his injury; if rested in that fear and grief, that first sense of dismay which is useful while it serves to fix in the mind the conception of the magnitude of the injury to be redeemed, and to arouse all its faculties from their indolence of pleasure and accustomed ease, but which is known to us at once as pernicious and dishonouring, if it is prolonged but a little beyond its most necessary season, is recognised as fatal the moment we begin to perceive that it has laid prostrate that will which it should have provoked to the utmost effort of its strength? In such a case, we say that the man, was too weak for his misfortune; and the stopping short of the mind in the first stage of emotion shocks us as with the discovery of some moral fault. What should we think of the sensibility of a father who, on seeing his child in danger, should be thrilled indeed with horror and fear at what he saw, but make no effort for his rescue? That anguish of fear seems then to us to produce its proper effect when it carries him with one strong impulse into the heart of flames for his child's deliverance.

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INFLUENCE OF TIME ON SORRow. When the first burst of Grief has subsided, the suffering that remains takes properly the name of Sorrow. But there are many tempers which prolong this state; and having once received deep cause of sorrow, will not again lift themselves up from it, but, nourishing their pain, stretch one continuous gloom of melancholy over their remaining life. One might be disposed to think that there are few losses, and few minds, to which this extreme prolongation of sorrow can be natural, and that in many instances where it takes place, the mind itself has been too busy in seeking the means of continuing its own affliction. Time is the bringer of consolation; nor does it at all detract from the sincerity or the poignancy of grief, nor from the strength of love, that it has received consolation from time. For this allaying of bitterness is effected, not simply by the interposition of other objects, bringing other thoughts, feelings, and cares, and thus delivering the heart from grief by gaining it from its pristine affections the ready alleviation of all sorrow to minds of little capacity of passion, and that which has been most spoken of by shallow moralists. But time, without injuring the reverence of the first affection, will bring relief by the natural course of the human spirit, as may be understood by considering some of the circumstances which constitute the exceeding bitterness that is felt in the freshness of grief, and the change which, in these respects, is necessarily made by time. Thus, time acts in part by the habitual conviction which it brings on in the mind of the sufferer, that the calamity he deplores is fixed and unalterable, and that, in struggling against it, he is striving with necessity and with the laws of nature. For passion, in its transport, does not bow even under these inflexible laws. Grief, while its loss is yet recent, struggles not merely with the pangs, but with the reality of its affliction. It cannot believe at first that he who was alive is dead. The living image still lives in the soul, and terribly returns upon it in its life and beauty, though the body lies stretched in death; and there is for a long time a dreadful and agonizing struggle between the thoughts of that which has been, and that which is, before the mind can tame down its own vivid recollections, and subdue the image of life, by the shadow of mortality. Its first effort is to bring that struggle to rest, which it will do with time. But when this sort of illusion, which almost unsettles the belief of what has happened, is dispelled or overcome, there still remains— what was mixed with it+the impatience of the mind to submit itself to its evil. This, again, is a feeling which is contrary to nature and reality, and which therefore must be understood by considering the nature of passion. Under a calamity which has just befallen, there is the same feeling which possesses the mind under a calamity certainly announced and inevitable; a disposition to contend against it, with an obscure imagination of the possibility that, by struggling, it may get free from that iron necessity by which it is held. It is no more than a man writhing and galling himself in the chains which he can- 1 not break. Now, this impatient reluctance against his fate, which a brave man may feel for a time who is unexpectedly adjudged to death, but which he overcomes, merely by the conviction that it is inevitable, is precisely what takes place, though with still greater illusion, in the mind on which supportable calamity has fallen. It struggles under its load, as if it were possible, by strugin-gling, to shake it off. It strives, in the impatience and impotence of its grief, against that fate which has not spoken merely, but which has accomplished its decree. This is not the understanding, but the unsubdued blind will, that seems still to feel a power in itself, when all


We are perfectly prepared, then, by natural feeling to judge how far that first emotion may go, and when it must change from passive feeling to active power. We perfectly understand, in such instances, the provision of nature, and see in what manner the primary impression, though it should be useless in itself, may become useful by its immediate effects.

The purpose which we can trace so intelligibly in stances like these, extends widely through human nature and life. Sometimes it requires the most sagacious and learned observer of nature to perceive that it is fulfilled. But every mind must also be full of examples, in which,


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