Conceiving that we are born merely with a capacity of feeling pleasure and pain, and that from this capacity, directed by association, all the affections of our nature spring, it appears to me that the plainest and most natural arrangement will be, to divide the affections according to their origin, as they are derived from the one or the other of these great principles of our nature, and as they belong to the family of pleasure or of pain.

I shall begin with those affections of the mind which are formed by painful associations; premising, that I by no means intend to pursue this subject as far as it would lead me, or to enter into very minute and accurate distinctions, because such an analysis would be excessively tedious, and would better become a professed treatise on the passions, than a course of Lectures on Moral Philosophy.

All ungrateful passions are the sensation of evil: but it may be evil long past (for the remembrance of which we have no name); or it may be present evil, either of body or mind, and from different causes, as pain, grief, and fear; or it may be the apprehension of evil to come, which is fear. From the sensation of evil, comes the desire of inflicting it, or malevolence. Hence anger, jealousy, malice, envy, and all the train of bad passions, which are all compounded of the same principles, —— displeasure, and a desire of displeasing; or, in more common words, hatred and revenge. So that all the vices of our nature come from remembering evil, feeling it, anticipating it, and inflicting it (the consequence of these three preceding states).

The difference between grief and pain is, that we apply the expression grief to those uneasy sensations which have not the body for their immediate cause; pain, to those which have. The loss of reputation occasions grief; the loss of a limb, pain.

Grief is that uneasy state of mind which proceeds from the loss of some good, or the presence of some evil.

A singular circumstance respecting grief, is, that there is not always, in the suffering person, a very ready disposition to get rid of his sorrow: he clings to the remembrance of it; gathers round about him everything which can recall the idea of what he has lost; and appears to derive his principal consolation from those trains of ideas, which an indifferent person would consider as best calculated to exasperate his affliction. The reason of this, I take to be, that it is pleasant to be pitied, pleasant even to think how we should be pitied if the world were well acquainted with all the minute circumstances of our loss, with all the fine ties and endearments which bound us to the object of our affections. We are fond of representing ourselves to our own fancies as objects of the most profound and universal sympathy. Death never took away such a father, such a husband, or such a son; we dwell upon our misfortunes, and magnify them, till we derive a sort of consolation from reflecting on that exquisite pity to which we are entitled, and which we should receive if the whole extent of our calamity were as well known to others as to ourselves. We dwell upon our affliction, however, not merely from the sympathy to which it appears to entitle us, but because in that train of ideas there are many that give an immediate relief of pleasure, which, though purchased dearly by the subsequent pain to which they expose us, are still resorted to for that immediate pleasure. For instance, a man reduced to sudden poverty, may take some pleasure in thinking a moment on the luxuries which he has been accustomed to enjoy he pays dearly enough for such reflections, when he is forced to perceive what his present state is; but still the train of thought has been pleasant for the moment, it has given him some immediate relief, and therefore he has indulged it. "Grief," says 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 garments with his form."

These two causes appear to me to explain the singular phenomenon, that sorrow should ever be pleasant, and justify the usual poetical expression of the luxury of grief.

Grief, it should be observed, seems to be a general term for all sensation of evil, when that sensation has not a specific name.

That sensation of evil which proceeds from the loss of esteem, has a specific name; it is called shame. Most of the other sensations of evil, -as that which proceeds from the loss of friends, or the loss of fortune, or from frustrated ambition, pass under the common and inclusive name of grief; though there is no reason that I know of, why that uneasiness which proceeds from the loss of power, should not have a specific name as well as that which proceeds from the loss of esteem.

Grief produces resentment or not, according as it is accompanied with the notion of its being occasioned by a voluntary and rational agent. For instance, a young boy walks under an old, ruinous building; a stone falls on his head, and he is killed: in this case you feel nothing but pure affliction:- but you learn immediately after, that some wicked and malicious person has pushed down this stone upon the child's head, and killed him: here grief is immediately followed by resentment; and you are actuated by the strongest and most irresistible motives to do all possible harm to the murderer of your

son.

So that resentment is always preceded by uneasy sensations of the body, that we call pain; or of the mind, which we call grief; though grief and pain do not always produce resentment. It will be curious to investigate the origin and progress of this difference, and to decide

how it is, that precisely the same degree of grief does sometimes produce violent resentment, sometimes not.

As I stated in the last Lecture, it is quite impossible to suppose that a child is born with all those compound notions which enter into the word resentment: for, observe all the knowledge which this implies:-first, you suppose the child of a month old, or a day old, to know that my hand guided the pin with which I pricked him; next, that I can guide my hand where I please; next, that I feel pain as he does, and that he has a right to inflict the same pain as I have inflicted upon him. There is not the slightest evidence that the child has any one of all these ideas; and I would just as soon believe that a child just born could say the three first books of Ariosto by heart, as that he is born with any such wisdom. He learns by experience, that other human creatures feel pleasure and pain as well as himself; that they are allured by pleasure to do him good, and by pain intimidated from doing him harm. Hence the origin of his benevolence and his resentment; of his desire to do harm, or to do good, to his fellowcreatures. A young child of seven or eight months old, if you take him away from any object that attracts his attention, will cry, express great grief, and all that agitation of body, and impatience of mind, which is frequently occasioned by grief; but there is not the slightest appearance of resentment. It never appears

to occur to a child of that age, that you are the cause of his privation; that you can feel pain, and that therefore he will inflict it. It is long after this period, that he acquires this very compound idea; and he acquires it, as he acquires the power of knowing black from white, and tall from short, - by observation.

It may appear very extraordinary that there should be such a prodigious tendency in after-life to connect grief with resentment, when they were not originally connected together by nature. But I think the doctrine.

of acquired perceptions, must convince any man how much the work of association is like an original impression of nature; and how impossible it is to distinguish the laminæ put together by association, from those which were originally solid and continuous. Besides, too, all similar passions naturally generate each other, as we shall see hereafter; and there is a very strong resemblance in the effects of grief, pain, and resentment; and, having once been joined together, the one has the strongest possible disposition to produce the other. I am not speaking of the highest-refined London grief, the grief of civilisation and softness; but the grief of a savage and a child. The grief of nature in its first stage is a violent, impatient, irritating passion, very much resembling anger. The natural effect of grief and pain is, to cry out as loud as possible, and to kick and sprawl in all possible directions; and I believe, if people would do so much more than they do, they would be all the better for it. The sitting on monuments smiling, and the green and yellow melancholy, is quite a subsequent business, entirely the result of education.

Having acquired the feeling of resentment, the child is, of course, very unlearned at first in the application of it; he has not yet learnt what objects have life and feeling, what not; and at the age of two years, when thrown into a violent rage, it is not impossible but that he will beat the chair upon which he has knocked his head, or the table that has thrown him down, as vehemently as if they were capable of suffering from his malevolence. In a very little time he learns the folly of this; distinguishes between objects that feel, and objects that do not; and is more learned and skilful in directing the effusions of his wrath. After he has learnt to direct his resentment only against objects that have life and feeling, education limits the confines of his resentment still more, by infusing in his mind the idea of justice; by instructing him that he must not resent unless the