are the principal observations which I have to offer on the benevolent affections, in particular. We see by them, and by what I have said on the malevolent passions, that Nature allures us to a particular system of actions, by the pleasure she has annexed to them; and deters us from the opposite system, by the pains of which it is productive. She might have punished alone; but she punishes and rewards also. As it is true that there is a grateful flavour in ripe fruit, and an enticing smell to draw us towards it, it is as true, and as notorious, that there is a real pleasure in benevolence, a charm in compassion, in candour, and in every species of goodness.

We are guided in our physical aversion by nauseous and irritating tastes; and are taught as plainly to love, and to forgive, by those bitter pangs which hatred and resentment never fail to leave behind them, when they are indulged without the restraints of justice. Nothing which it is important we should do, or should avoid, is left to the determination of reason alone, but the object is always secured by aversion, or by desire. We do not eat or drink when reason points out to us to do so, but when the feelings of nature admonish us: we are urged by an impetuous feeling to be compassionate, to resist atrocious injustice, and to do everything which it is necessary for the well-being of society that we should do.

I shall now proceed to make some general observations on the passions and affections, whether benevolent or malevolent.

It has been supposed by some writers, that nature has appropriated some particular signs of the countenance, or gesticulations of the body, to denote some passions, and other signs for other passions: and that we are born with a knowledge of these signs; that is, that, previous to all experience, the child knows the first smile to be the sign of pleasure; and the first frown the sign of pain. This appears to me to be quite a pre

posterous notion. Where the acquisition of any knowledge can be explained by the usual method of experi ence, it is very useless, as well as pernicious, to invent new first principles to account for it. The child sees the nurse smile when she is good-humoured, and therefore connects together, the ideas of smiling and kindness: previous to that, there is no evidence that the child connects any idea with any particular change of the countenance. And if we can suppose a child to have been so educated, that while he was corrected, the person who punished him took care to smile; and while he was praised, it was always accompanied with frowns; to such a child a frown would be the indication of benevolence, and a smile, of resentment. But has nature made the signs of the passions steady and uniform, so that though they are not known at the birth, they are easily learnt and remembered afterwards? The signs of some passions, certainly not. Blushing, which we call the natural sign of shame, certainly cannot exist in a negro: besides, it is a sign of anger, as well as shame; and of innocent bashfulness, as well as guilty shame; and of ill health, and fainting away, and a thousand other affections of mind and body: so that if you choose to say nature has given us this, as an indication to others, of what passes in our minds, it is an extremely dangerous and deceitful guide, and as likely to put us out of the way as in it. There is some fallacy also, in this, that whenever we see what we call the signs of the passions, they are accompanied with such a plain context, that their interpretation is wonderfully facilitated. The face of an angry fish-woman would indicate, I suppose, the signs of the passions; but these signs certainly borrow something of their perspicuity, from the oaths which accompany them; and something from the blows she might bestow on the object of her indignation. However, it cannot be denied that nature has given some very general indications of the passions; and the

doctrine is only ridiculous, when pushed to such extremes as some writers have carried it. If the whole body be taken in, as well as the countenance, the violent agitation of the limbs in great anger, and the perfect state of rest under the feeling of complacency and satisfaction, are, no doubt, phenomena which always follow those affections of mind: nor do I suppose there is nation on the face of the earth, which expresses any content as we express anger, or, vice versa, anger as we do content: at least, no nation, the inhabitants of which, express sudden indignation by assuming a more tranquil position than before; or perfect content by every extravagance of gesture and motion. In these respects, probably, all nations are alike: but the finer signs may differ; for in grief, one muscle, or set of muscles, contracts; in displeasure, another. But it is not simply the contraction of this muscle, which is our sign of the passion; but generally, the effect which this contraction produces upon all the other features of the face for instance, the first mark of dejection is, that it makes the eyebrows rise towards the middle of the forehead, more than towards the cheek; but the effect of this, cannot possibly be the same with a fine Italian face, and with the physiognomy of a Chinese. The general effect upon the countenance, produced by the contraction of the same muscle, must be so different, that the smile of complacency of one race of men, may exactly correspond to the smile of contempt in another. Therefore, if nature has made such a language of looks, it is only vernacular in each particular country; it is not the language of the whole world.

The doctrine of natural signs, taken thus grossly, is true; carried to any greater degree of minuteness, will be found to involve its advocates in a thousand absurdities.

There is a great affinity between all the good affections; and the same affinity between all the malevolent

and painful ones. It is a common thing to become very fond of those whom we pity: approbation, long exercised towards any particular person, generates, at last, affection. So does esteem; and still more, admiration. Everybody is in love with great heroes.

The pleasures of the body are favourable to all the benevolent virtues, -and its pains unfavourable. No one is so inclined to good nature, courtesy, and generosity, when cold, wet, and dirty, as after pleasant feeding, and during genial warmth. A courtier, who had a favour to ask of his master, would never choose a moment of ear-ache, or a fit of the gout, as the happiest opportunity of preferring his request. Count Rumford has been accused of being too fanciful, because he has advanced that there is a great connection between cleanliness and virtue. It is a position, certainly, very capable of being turned into ridicule; but if it be seriously examined, and if the affinity between our feelings be properly attended to, there can surely be no absurdity in conceiving that all the filth and pains of body, and little privations, to which the poor are subjected, must produce an irritation of mind, infinitely more favourable to the malevolent, than to the good passions.

The inference from these facts is, that one very suc cessful method of making people good, is to make them happy; and that the most effectual preventive of punishment, and the most powerful auxiliary to moral advice, is to diffuse over their lives, those feelings of comfort and ease, which have an almost mechanical influence in cherishing the social and benevolent virtues.

That virtue gives happiness, we all know; but if it be true, that happiness contributes to virtue, the principle furnishes us with some sort of excuse for the errors and excesses of able young men, at the bottom of life, fretting with impatience under their obscurity, and hatching a thousand chimeras of being neglected and

Z

overlooked by the world. The natural cure for these errors is, the sunshine of prosperity: as they get happier, they get better; and learn, from the respect which they receive from others, to respect themselves. "When"ever," says Mr. Lancaster, (in his book just published,) "I met with a boy particularly mischievous, I "made him a monitor: I never knew this fail." The cause for the promotion, and the kind of encouragement it must occasion, I confess appear rather singular; but of the effect, I have no sort of doubt.

In the same manner, the bad passions herd together; and where one exists in any strength, the others are much more likely to find an easy reception. Pain, as I have said before, produces anger; fear gives birth to ruelty; displacency is the parent of revenge: so that by gaining one good habit, we have the chance of gaining many others similar to it; and by contracting one bad one, of adding very rapidly to the stock of our imperfections.

Sometimes it happens that passions, originally different from each other, give force to each other. When we would affect any one very much by a matter of fact, of which we intend to inform him, it is a common artifice to excite his curiosity, delay as long as possible to satisfy it, and, by that means, raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before we give him a full insight into the business. We know this curiosity will precipitate him into the passion which we propose to raise, and assist its influence upon the mind. Hope is, in itself, an agreeable passion, and allied to friendship and benevolence; yet it is able, sometimes, to increase anger, when that is the predominant passion. Nothing communicates more force to our emotions, than an opposition of contrary passions, love and revenge; hatred and admiration; gratitude and envy.

"Horror and doubt distract

His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir