with a fixed and clandestine desire to injure, degenerates into malice; the foulest, most despicable, and most devilish of all the passions that can harass an intelligent being, and the most opposite to the character of the Divinity; for God is love, and the stamp of benevolence is printed on every part of creation.

De secretes beantes quel amas innombrable!

Plus l'Auteur s'est cache, plus il est admirable !*
What boundless beauties round us are display'd!
How shines the Godhead mid the darkest shade!

Such, then, are the numerous and diversified families that issue directly or collaterally from the passion of desire, or of aversion as its opposite. 1 stated this passion to be almost universal in its range, and I submit to you whether this statement has not been verified.

:

The two other radical sources into which we are to resolve the remaining passions of the heart are Joy and SORROW of equal weight and moment in the scale of life, but less numerous and complicated in their offspring; and which will therefore detain us but for a few minutes.

Joy, when pure and genuine, is a sweet and vivacious affection. It is the test and index of happiness or pleasure Its influence, like that of gravitation, extends to remote objects; and it lightens the severest labours by its foretaste. It is the breath, the nectar of heaven, and the high reward which stimulates us to a performance of our duty while on earth.

Joy, like several of the preceding passions, has different names assigned to it, in its different stages of ascent; at its lowest point, it is ease, content or tranquillity; at a certain elevation, it is called delight or gladness; somewhat farther in the scale, exultation; beyond this, rapture or transport,-for the terms, as applied to this passion, are synonymous; and advanced far higher, it is ecstasy-joy so overwhelming as to take away the senses, and prevent all power of utterance. Among the Greeks, however, the term ECSTASY was used in a more general sense, and applied to any overwhelming affection, whether of joy or sorrow; and Shakspeare, who has often carried it farther than the Greeks, occasionally makes it a feature of madness or mental distraction, which is not passion but disease. The. following from his Hamlet is an instance of this signification.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatched form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ECSTASY.

Combined with activity, joy produces the light-hearted family of cheerfulness, gayety, mirth, frolic, and jocularity; the best and most lively picture of which that the world has ever seen, is given by Milton in his Allegro, mirth being here placed at the head of the whole.

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee

Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport, that wrinkled care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

* Racine le fils, Poeme de la Religion.

Come, and trip it as you go

On the light fantastic toe.

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.

Possessing features in many respects similar, we meet with another lively tribe, which are equally the offspring of joy, but of joy in alliance with an ardent imagination. These are sentimentalism, characterized by romantic views or ideas of real life; chivalry, which is the sentimentalism of gallantry, caparisoned for action, and impatient to enter the burning list,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With stores of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize.

This extravagant passion had its use in the feudal times; but it has for ages become antiquated, and in modern warfare has certainly too much gone out of fashion.

To the same tribe belongs enthusiasm, the joyous or ecstatic devotion of a high-wrought fancy to some particular cause or party, the chief of which are religion and patriotism: and under the influence of which, the body is wound up to a display of almost preternatural exploits, and an endurance of almost miraculous privations and labour.

The sprightly passion of joy gives birth also to a third tribe, in consequence of its union with novelty. It is a listening and attentive group, and consists of admiration, surprise, wonder, and astonishment; upon which I need not enlarge, except to remark that the word astonishment is, at times, made use of to express a very different feeling, produced by novelty and terror; and which is more accurately distinguished by the name of amazement. These mixed passions, however, are very apt to run into each other, as I shall have occasion to notice more at large in a subsequent study; and perhaps the most exquisite feeling a man can possess of the purely mental kind, is derived from a contemplation of scenery, or a perusal of history, where every thing around him is grand, majestic, and marvellous, and the terrible keeps an equal, or rather nearly an equal pace with the delightful.

The opposite of JOY is SORROW-a fruitful mother of hideous and unwelcome children; fruitful I mean on earth, but shut out with a wall of adamant from the purer regions of the skies.

Sorrow is as much distinguished by different names as any of the preceding affections, according to the height it reaches in the general scale of evil. And hence, at one point, it is sadness; at another, wo or misery; at a third, anguish ; and its extreme verge, distraction or despair.

Connected with a sense of something lost, or beyond our reach, it gives rise to regret and grief: and when in union with a feeling of guilt, it becomes remorse and repentance.

Its two bosom companions, however, are fear and fancy. When allied to the former alone, it produces the haggard progeny of care, anxiety, vexation, and fretfulness; the first of which is thus admirably described by Hawkesworth, in his ingenious but melancholy piece, entitled Life, an Ode; in which care is directly stated, as in the present case, to be a mixed breed of wo or sorrow and fear.

Who art thou, with anxious mien
Stealing o'er the shifting scene?
Eyes with tedious vigils red,
Sighs by doubts and wishes bred;
Cautious step and glancing leer,
Speak thy woes, and speak thy fear.

When sorrow associates herself with both fear and fancy, she then produces the demon brood of dejection, gloom, vapours, moroseness, heaviness, and melancholy; all of them begotten, like the last,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mong horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

Such is the origin of melancholy, as given by Milton, in his Allegro, or ode to Mirth; but in his Penseroso, or ode to Melancholy herself, he derives her from a purer source, and dresses her in the pensive character of a religious recluse. The picture shows a fine imagination; but is, perhaps, less true to nature than the preceding.

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress lawn
Over thy decent shoulders drawn-
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.
There, held in holy passion, still
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad, leaden, downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth at last.

Despair or distraction brings up the rear of the miserable and tumultuous group before us. This passion has generally been contemplated as a mingled emotion; but it is perhaps far less so than most of the rest. It is a concentration of pure, unmitigated horror, equally void of hope, fear, and all moral feeling-an awful type of the torments of the lower world. The sensorial power is hurried forward towards a single outlet, and with a rushing violence that threatens its instantaneous exhaustion from the entire frame, like the discharge of electricity accumulated in a Leyden jar when touched by a brass rod. The eye is fixed; the limbs tremble; upon the countenance hangs a wild and unutterable sullenness. The harrowed and distracted soul shrinks at nothing, and is attracted by nothing; the deepest danger and the tenderest ties have equally lost their command over it.

Despair is, hence, the most selfish of all the passions. In its overwhelming agony, and its pressing desire of gloom and solitude, it approaches to what is ordinarily called HEART-ACHE; but, generally speaking, the emotion is far more contracted and personal, and the action far more precipitous and daring. Despair, as it commonly shows itself, is either hopelessness from mortified pride, blasted expectations, or a sense of personal

ruin.

The gamester, who cares for no one but himself, may rage with all the horror of despair; but the heart-ache belongs chiefly to the man of a warmer and more generous bosom, stung to the quick by a wound he least expected, or borne down, not by the loss of fortune, but of a dear

friend or relation, in whom he had concentrated all his hopes. The well-
known picture of Beverley is drawn by the hand of a master, and he is
represented as maddened by the thought of the deep distress into which
his last hazard had plunged his wife and family; but if his selfish love of
gaming had not triumphed over his relative love for those he had thus
ruined, he would not have been involved in any such reverse of fortune;
nor, without the same selfishness, would he further have added to their
blow by a deed that was sure to withdraw him for ever from all share in
their misery, and overwhelm them with an accumulated shock.
Beverley was in despair, it was his wife who was broken-hearted.*

While

The picture which Spenser has drawn of despair, as seated in his own wretched cave, has been praised by every one from the time of Sir Philip Sidney; but it has always appeared to me that his description of Sir Trevisan, who was fortunate enough to escape from the enchantment of this demon-power, is still more forcibly drawn in the passage where, on the commencement of his flight, he is represented as accidentally meeting with the Red Cross Knight:

He answered nought at all; but adding new
Feare to his first amazement, staring wyde
With stony eyes, and hartless, hollow vew,
Astonisht stood, as one that had aspyde
Infernall furies with their chaines untyde.
Him yett againe, and yett againe, bespake
The gentle Knight, who nought to him replyde ;

But, trembling every ioynt, did inly quake,

And foltring tongue at last these words seem'd forth to shake

"For God's dear love, sir Knight, doe me not stay;

For loe! he comes, he comes fast after mee !"

Eft looking back, would faine have runne away;

But he him forst to stay, and tellen free

The secrete cause of his perplexitie.†`

Such, as it appears to me, are the chief passions or faculties of emotion discoverable in the human mind. I submit, however, the present analysis and classification of them with some degree of diffidence; for, as far as I am aware, it is the first attempt of the kind that has ever been ventured upon; and, like other first attempts, it may perhaps be open to the charge of considerable imperfections and errors. Be this, however, as it may, it at least offers us a new key to the mind's complicated construction in one branch of its study, simplifies its machinery, and perhaps unfolds a few springs which have never hitherto been sufficiently brought into public view.

I have said that the use of the passions is to furnish us with happiness, as that of the intellectual faculties is with knowledge, and that of the faculties of volition with freedom. But from the survey thus far taken, it must be obvious to every one, that the passions furnish us with misery as well as with happiness. And it may, perhaps, become a question with many, whether the harvest of the former be not more abundant than that of the latter. We cannot, therefore, close this subject better than by briefly inquiring whether the passions produce happiness at all? Whether, allowing the affirmative, they produce more happiness than misery, and whether the present constitution of things would be improved if those that occasionally produce misery were to be banished from the list?

Study of Medicine, vol. iv. p. 133. edit. 2d. 1825. † Faerie Queene, b. i, c. ix. 24, 25.

Supposing, by a decree of the Creator, all the mental passions were to be eradicated from the human frame, and nothing were to remain to it but a sense of corporeal pain and pleasure,-what would be the consequence under the present state of things, with this single alteration? Man would cease to be a social being; the sweet ties of domestic life would be cut asunder; the pleasures of friendship, the luxury of doing good, the fine feeling of sympathy, the sublimity of devotion, would be swept away in a moment. The world would become an Asphaltitis, a dead and stagnant sea, with a smooth unruffled calm, more hideous than the roughest tempest. No breeze of hope or fear, of desire or emulation, of love or gayety, would play over it the harmony of the seasons would be lost upon us, and the magnificence of the creation become a blank. The wants and gratifications of the body might instigate us, perhaps, to till the soil; to engage in commerce and mechanical pursuits, and to provide a generation to succeed us. And if literature should exist at all, a few cold and calculating philosophers might spin out their dull fancies upon abstract speculations, and a few Lethean poets write odes upon indifference; but all would be selfish and solitary. The master-tie would be snapped; the spiritus rector would be evaporated, and every man would be a stranger to every man.

To a state of being thus torpid and monotonous, let us now grant the pleasurable passions, and withhold those that accompany or indicate uneasiness. Now, uneasiness, as I have already observed, is, in some degree or other, an essential attendant upon desire, hope, and emulation: and hence these passions must as necessarily be excluded here as under the former scheme. For a similar reason, we must allow neither generosity, nor gratitude, nor compassion; for put away all sorrow and aversion, all mental pain and uneasiness, and such affections could have no scope for their exertion: they must necessarily have no existence.

But still the world would be thronged with a gay and lively troop of passions; love and transport, mirth and jollity, would revel with an uninterrupted career:-not a cloud would obstruct the laughing sunshine; and man would drink his full from the sea of pleasure, and intoxicate himself without restraint.

But how long would this scene of ecstasy continue? Under the present constitution of nature, not a twelvemonth. In less than a year, the world, in respect to its inhabitants, would cease to exist: worn out by indulgence, and destroyed for want of those very uneasinesses, those pains and sorrows, those aversions and hatreds, which, when skilfully intermixed and directed, like wholesome but unpalatable medicines, chiefly contribute to its moral health; and form the best barriers against that misery and ruin, which, when superficially contemplated, they seem expressly intended to produce; but which man must be obnoxious to in a state of imperfection and trial, and would be infinitely more so but for their presence and operation.

The sum of the inquiry, then, is, that all the passions have their use,that they all contribute to the general good of mankind;-and that it is the abuse of them, the allowing them to run wild and unpruned in their career, and not the existence of any of them, that is to be lamented. While there are things that ought to be hated, and deeds that ought to be bewailed, aversion and grief are as necessary to the mind as desire and joy. It is the duty of the judgment to direct and to moderate them; to discipline them into obedience, and to attune them to harmony. The great object of moral education is to call forth, instruet, and fortify the judgment upon this