and alder-trees. Many a tranquil happy hour have we spent, pacing them in the fading gleam of twilight, cheered by the song of the blackbird, and dreaming of distant scenes. some o' us; an' then she had lang yellow hair, hangin' doon anent her snub nose-an' a wee short neck—an' a splae foot; in short, she was the maist ill-faured jade as ever hirpled frae ae end to the ither o' St Mary's Loch. It's no kent whether Jean was quite canny or no; there was something sae unco queer aboot the cratur, an' she leuch like nae mortal in this wide warld. Mony a time hae I heard her, half-a-mile aff-an' an eldritch scream she gied, for it went frae Meggat Foot up to Bourhope Head, and floated ower far aboon the Berry-bush awa to Etterick-water, and settled doon by Thirlestane-lumtap. time wud she be seen stan'in' ower the loch-edge to luk at her ungainly sell in the bonnie and calm water; an' she gied sic queer smirks, ane wud hae thocht her stark mad. Though Cowper, in his Task, and Wordsworth, in his Excursion, aimed at the same object, "to compose a philosophical poem, containing views of man, nature, and society," they pursued it by widely different means. The former seized upon the follies and vices of society, and lashed them with keen satiric ardour, alternately exhorting, commanding, and contemning; or pouring before his readers, with all the prodigality of genius, the varied knowledge, exuberant fancy, restless curio- They say Jean had neither faither nor mither, but sity, desires, beliefs, and passions, with which his heart was found a' alane up near Bodsbeck, a puir skirlin' bairn; and mind were filled. He made the public his conand Wat Anderson's colley cam upon her, and wud hae fidants, and in his communings with them used no dis- eaten her up gin it were nae for Wat himsell, who tuik guise. He addressed himself to all classes and degrees the young brat under his plaid, and gied her a soup o' of men, and by all classes and degrees he is read. He is parritch, an' the wee thing thrived; an' Wat, when he strictly a national poet-his strains are part of the wealth died, left it a hantle siller an' a bit o' a hut up the Oxand glory of England, as much as St Paul's or West- cleuch. But never a mortal did she speak to, gin it were minster Abbey. Wordsworth has never aimed at this nae ane of Wat's family an' an auld pedlar that brought extensive popularity, and we may safely prophesy will a' sorts o' flummery gear, for Jean was a dressy lass, and never attain it. His motto is the words of Milton-weel likit to rigg hersell oot in braw colours, an' mony a "Fit audience let me find though few." Happy in himself, he goes on weaving his interminable verse-soft, picturesque, diffusely solemn, and often sublime, as if he had caught an echo of the harp of Milton, and reasoning high on men and angels. In his retirement, weeds have mingled with the flowers-fungous shoots have crept round and disfigured the stem. A mistaken and ridiculous theory as to what are the fittest objects for poetry, has drawn the poet into numberless puerilities and absurdities; and his fine solemn didactic vein of meditation, thus misapplied, has not unfrequently tended to heighten and point the satire with which he has been assailed. His style of versification also seems" sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," and wants that brief elegance, sententious force, and elasticity, and those concentrated bursts, unexpectedly kindled up, and lightening all around, which mark the page of Cowper. It is surprising that a writer possessing such high and unquestioned genius should fail to perceive the absurdity of investing the meanest subjects with this factitious importance of rendering his pedlars and villagers philosophers and dialecticians, or of paraphrasing the language and ideas of humble life. Such subjects are not per se fit themes for poetry, and can only be elevated into such communion by the grace and fancy of the bard. To describe them as Wordsworth has, in some of his lyrical and minor poems, attempted to do, with an affectation of strict fidelity, is calculated to excite only our wonder, derision, and regret. But fortunately the poet is a bad observer of his own rules. In the midst of all his perverseness and obstinacy, the genius of the woods ever and anon reclaims his erring steps, and conducts him unconsciously to the true and living waters of inspiration "The intelligible forms of ancient poets, These are the genuine sources of Wordsworth's power -the key to his strength and greatness. JEAN ANDERSON. A SONSY kimmer was Jean Anderson, an' ill-faured to boot. In troth I never luked upon a mair out-o'-theway piece of flesh. She was round as a hedgehog-baith humph-backit and bandy-legged,—and maist awsomely did she squint wi' ane o' her goggle een—an' gaped wi' her muckle mou', as if she wad fain tak a swallow o' Weel, it happened ae forenoon that Jean met in wi' Will Laidlaw, a fine hearty callant, wham the maister at Dryhope had hired to herd his sheep roun' about the Coppercleuch. Will was but a new-comer, an' it was the first time Jean had seen him. "A braw day, lass," quoth he, but no a word did she answer, but she comes straight up to him and luks him in the face like ane o' his ain collies, and she gies him a daut on the showthers, muttering a' the while, "The bonnie mannie the bonnie mannie.” She's a queer ane, thocht Will, and he axed her to stan' aside, but Jean was no sae easy persuaded; but she shoves in her great yellow pow richt anent the callant's face. "Tak that for yer impudence, ye hussy," quoth Will, accompanying his words wi' a stounder on Jean's great blowsy haffits; but the lass was in no way deterred from returning the callant's salute wi' a smack o' a kiss that garred him sputter a' ower his beard. In fact, Jean was in luve wi' Will, and she gaed him chase a lang day roun' about the Meggat hills, but Will got the start, and left the hirplin' body in the lurch. There's a muckle stane down by Coppercleuch, ca'd Kitty Crench's Stane. Kitty Crench was the auld mermaid that swam aboot St Mary's Loch, and mony a time, on the moonlit nichts, is she kent to be gatherin' luckan gowans doon by in the meadow at Meggat Foot, or she gangs up to the grey rocks, and sits kaimin her lang hair, and there she sings queer sangs of hersell and the water-kelpie, that bides by Bourhope, and the hagbrownies, and the puddock fairies, and a' sic queer craturs. Well, what does Jean do, aboot gloamin' time, but she sits hersell doon on Kitty's stane, and just as Will Laidlaw comes by to return to Dryhope, up she springs wi' an unco skirl, and gets haud o' the callant roun' about the neck, and Will thinks he's in the han's o' the deil, an' an awfu' wark he maks to get loose; but Jean was a hard-gripper, and, what wi' Will's fricht an' her ain strength, she gars the chield stotter doon amang the heather, till baith cam' plump, heid an' heels, ower into the loch. Ain's luve is no sae ill to cool, when there's nae stannin' ground, and the jaud lets quit o' Will in a jiffy, after findin' hersell amaist droonin'. As for the callant, he maks oot in his ain way, and thanks his starns for so unlooked for an escape frae sic an awsome fiend as Kitty Crench. Jean gat hame girnin', an' vowed a pretty revenge for Will's unmannerly behaviour. Au' what do ye think the kimmer does? A nicht or twa after, doon she comes 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 time by the jaud; in fact, the puir body died a month or twa 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? Τα σποράδην, OR, SCATTERED NOTICES OF ANTIQUITY, INCIDENTS, APOPHTHEGMS, ANECDOTES, MANNERS, &c. By William Tennant, Author of " Anster Fair." 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 destruction by divine interposition. Apollo in Crete and the Troad, had the name of SMINTHEUS, 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 mice 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. 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 response to make their abode in that place, where the earth-born or Indigenes should emerge from their dens and make an assault upon them. This happened to them near Amaxitus, a town of the Troad, where, as they lay encamped during the night-time, a countless host of fieldmice emerged, swarming from underground, and began to nibble away the leathern part of their armour, their baggage, and eatables. Considering these indigenous creatures 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. 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. 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 proœmium, 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," 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. When Alexander the Great was suing for divine honours, 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!" A garrulous barber happening to be called to shave Archelaus, asked him, "How shall I shave you, sir ?”— " In silence," was the reply. Devongrove May, 18, 1831. LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES. Monday Evening, 9th May, 1831.. J. GRAHAM DALYELL, Esq., in the Chair. Present,-Drs Hibbert, Borthwick, Keith; Messrs Gibson Craig, Maidment, Sivright, Laing, Dauney, Gregory, &c. &c. AFTER several members had been admitted, and a variety of donations announced, the secretary proceeded to read a letter addressed by Professor Wallace to J. T. Gibson Craig, Esq. F.S. A. Scot., pointing out that the commonly received opinion of the great Napier of Merchiston's being interred in St Giles's Church, was erroneAntiquity, it seems, did not want its wonderful Crich- ous; and showing, by a quotation from a rare work by tons. Cicero speaks of one Hippias, who rather out. Hume of Godscroft, published very soon after Napier's Crichtoned those of modern times. This man not only death, that his remains lie in the parish church of 'St boasted that he knew every thing,-geometry, music, Cuthbert. The professor's letter concluded by suggestpoetry, philosophy, history, &c.-but that the very ringing the raising a monument over Napier's grave; and on his finger, the cloak on his shoulders, the shoes on his feet, were all of his own workmanship. Hipponicus the geometer, though profoundly skilled in the particular art which he professed, was in other matters naturally of an obtuse and unpenetrating genius. He was remarkable for his large gaping mouth, which gave occasion to the witty Arcesilaus to remark of him, that certainly there never existed a Scotsman more entitled to such a tribute of national respect. When the present political excitement has subsided, we trust, for the honour of Scotland, that some progress will be made in erecting a permanent memorial of this illustrious individual. 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. 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, 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 history, 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 historian, as was shown in a very distinct manner by Mr Gregory. In our last notice of the proceedings of this society, page 285, line 24, after the words "Burning of Edinburgh," insert the words," by the Protector Somerset, in the year 1545." ORIGINAL POETRY. THE WHIRlpool. By Thomas Brydson. No eye, save that of wild bird on the wing, Thy mighty arms round many a shrieking crew A solitude of waters round thee lies, Thou speakest, and the distant islands hear Thou speakest ever,-yet the secret deep Vain is conjecture, where we cannot know, Save that thine eddies boil above-below, Save that within thee be, Unfeeling now, those who have felt thy power. Long hast thou reign'd a marvel,—there's an hour All shall be known of thee. Oban, May. THE SEA-GRAVE. By John Malcolm. I WOULD not depart far at sea,— Although o'er its fathomless gloom, Wake the sleeper no more, Yet there to the slumberer clings, Darkly clasping the spoil, And there comes no ray of the morn, Nor gleam of the moon's silver horn,— Nor the eve's rosy light, Nor the pale stars of night, Gild the gloom of the waters forlorn. And there balmy breezes ne'er blow— Ten thousand dread fathoms below. The voices of gladness on high, Many ships shall sail over the head I would that my slumbers should be Far away from the deep-moaning sea. LINES. By Thomas Tod Stoddart. OUR heart's own choice! Herself may trace The thought they waken in her fond She hath guess'd at their wild feelings, in In the tears her music brought, when they bade She hath guess'd at welcomes, felt by those Who gave them silent birth At sacred blessings breathed away In the passing hour of mirth! She hath guess'd at dreams of gladness, on At the vigil image of herself, At the trembling hope, the quivering fear, But her, the beautiful, the bright, 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. 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. 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 become 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 na-creating happiness to itself, by the very vigour of its own tions 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 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 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 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 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. 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 in-thority, because it leads alike to good and ill. But it is spires. 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. 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 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. The mere feeling or emotion, however, the simple movement which passion gives forth, is not alone of au 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 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 restrai..s Thus regarding it, and transferring to the constitution all impatient murmuring at their own privation, and all and original capacity of these feelings in our mind, that | vain longing towards that which is gone ;-surely their we |