Chapter V: Part I: Causes evolved of the emotions and passions (2)

Self-preservation is to individuals a matter of too great importance to be left entirely under the guardianship of self-love, which cannot be put in exercise otherwise than by the intervention of reason and reflection. Nature hath acted here with her usual precaution and foresight. Fear and anger are passions common to all men; and by operating instinctively, they frequently afford security when the slower operations of deliberative reason would be too late. We take nourishment commonly, not by the direction of reason, but by the incitement of hunger and thirst. In the same manner, we avoid danger by the incitement of fear, which often, before there is time for reflection, placeth us in safety. This matter then is ordered with consummate wisdom. It is not within the reach of fancy, to conceive any thing better fitted to answer its purpose, than this instinctive passion of fear, which, upon the first surmise of danger, operates instantaneously without reflection. So little doth the passion, in such instances, depend on reason, that we often find it exerted even in contradiction to reason, and when we are conscious that there is no hazard. A man who is not much upon his guard, cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to be aimed in sport; nor closing his eyes at the approach of what may hurt them, though he is confident it will not come their length. Influenced by the same instinctive passion of fear, infants are much affected with a stern look, a menacing tone, or other expression of anger; though, being incapable of reflection, they cannot form the slightest judgement about the import of these signs. This is all that is necessary to be said in general. The natural connection betwixt fear and the external signs of anger, will be handled in the chapter of the external signs of emotions and passions.

Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm; anger, by repelling it. Nothing indeed can be better contrived to repel or prevent injury, than anger or resentment. Destitute of this passion, men, like defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief[24]. Deliberate anger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to require any explanation. If my desire be in general to resent an afront, I must use means, and these means must be discovered by reflection. Deliberation is here requisite; and in this, which is the ordinary case, the passion seldom exceeds just bounds. But where anger suddenly inflames me to return a blow, the passion is instinctive, and the action ultimate; and it is chiefly in such cases that the passion is rash and ungovernable, because it operates blindly, without affording time for reason or deliberation.

Instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain, which, when sudden and excessive as by a stroke on a tender part, ruffling the temper and unhinging the mind, is in its tone similar to anger. Bodily pain by this means disposes to anger, which is as suddenly raised, provided an object be found to vent it upon. Anger commonly is not provoked otherwise than by a voluntary injury. But when a man is thus beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an object. The man who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by an inflammable temper held a proper object, merely because he was the occasion of the pain. It is still a stronger example of the kind, that a stock or a stone, by which I am hurt, becomes an object for my resentment. I am violently incited to bray it to atoms. The passion indeed in this case is but momentary. It vanisheth with the first reflection, being attended with no circumstance that can excuse it in any degree. Nor is this irrational effect confined to bodily pain. Inward distress, when excessive, may be the occasion of effects equally irrational. When a friend is danger and the event uncertain, the perturbation of mind occasioned thereby, will, in a fiery temper, produce momentary fits of anger against this very friend, however innocent. Thus Shakespear, in the _Tempest_,

_Alonzo._---- Sit down and rest.
Ev’n here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
_Act 3. sc. 3._

The final words, _Well, let him go_, are an expression of impatience and anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father, dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the human mind, is by Shakespear exhibited upon another occasion, and finely painted. In the tragedy of _Othello_, Iago, by dark hints and suspicious circumstances, had roused Othello’s jealousy; which, however, appeared too slightly founded to be vented upon Desdemona, its proper object. The perturbation and distress of mind thereby occasioned, produced a momentary resentment against Iago, considered as occasioning the jealousy though innocent.

_Othello._ Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;
Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof.
Or by the wrath of man’s eternal soul
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog,
Than answer my wak’d wrath.

_Iago._ Is’t come to this?

_Othello._ Make me see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge or loop
To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!

_Iago._ My Noble Lord----

_Othello._ If thou dost slander her and torture me,
Never pray more; abandon all remorse;
On horrors head horrors accumulate;
Do deeds to make heav’n weep, all earth amaz’d:
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than that.
_Othello, act 3. sc. 8._

This blind and absurd effect of anger, is more gaily illustrated by Addison, in a story, the _dramatis personæ_ of which are a cardinal, and a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is represented as minuting down every thing that is told him. The spy begins with a low voice, “Such an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends within my hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltron;” and after having given his patron time to take it down, adds, “That another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation.” The cardinal replies, “Very well,” and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with reports of the same nature, till the cardinal rises in great wrath, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him out of the room[25].

We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at play, and wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious passion, is satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause and effect, of which Congreve, in the _Mourning Bride_, gives one beautiful example.

_Gonsalez._ Have comfort.

_Almeria_. Curs’d be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,
Curs’d my own tongue that could not move his pity,
Curs’d these weak hands that could not hold him here,
For he is gone to doom Alphonso’s death.
_Act 4. sc. 8._

I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the examples above given, it appears to be an absurd passion and altogether irrational. But we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to subject this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection. It was given us to prevent or to repel injuries; and, like fear, it often operates blindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequences. The very first sensation of harm, sets it in motion to repel injury by punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would lose its threatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against violence and mischief. When such is and ought to be the nature of the passion, it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as it sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All the harm that can be done by the passion in this case, is instantaneous; for the shortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to do much harm in an instant.

SECT. VI.

_Emotions caused by fiction._

The attentive reader will observe, that in accounting for passions and emotions, no cause hitherto has been assigned but what hath a real existence. Whether it be a being, action, or quality, that moveth us, it is supposed to be an object of our knowledge, or at least of our belief. This observation discovers to us that the subject is not yet exhausted; because our passions, as all the world know, are moved by fiction as well as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, so remarkably addicted to truth and reality, one should little dream that fiction could have any effect upon him. But man’s intellectual faculties are too imperfect to dive far even into his own nature. I shall take occasion afterward to show, that this branch of the human constitution, is contrived with admirable wisdom and is subservient to excellent purposes. In the mean time, I must endeavour to unfold, by what means fiction hath such influence on the mind.

That the objects of our senses really exist in the way and manner we perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge. When I see a man walking, a tree growing, or cattle grazing, I have a conviction that these things are precisely as they appear. If I be a spectator of any transaction or event, I have a conviction of the real existence of the persons engaged, of their words, and of their actions. Nature determines us to rely on the veracity of our senses. And indeed, if our senses did not convince us of the reality of their objects, they could not in any degree answer their end.

By the power of memory, a thing formerly seen may be recalled to the mind with different degrees of accuracy. We commonly are satisfied with a slight recollection of the chief circumstances; and, in such recollection, the thing is not figured as present nor any image formed. I retain the consciousness of my present situation, and barely remember that formerly I was a spectator. But with respect to an interesting object or event which made a strong impression, the mind sometimes, not satisfied with a cursory review, chutes to revolve every circumstance. In this case, I conceive myself to be a spectator as I was originally; and I perceive every particular passing in my presence, in the same manner as when I was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw yesterday a beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and was greatly moved with her distress. Not satisfied with a slight recollection or bare remembrance, I insist on the melancholy scene. Conceiving myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every circumstance appears to me as at first. I think I see the woman in tears and hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a complete idea of memory there is no past nor future. A thing recalled to the mind with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as in our view, and consequently as presently existing. Past time makes a part of an incomplete idea only: I remember or reflect, that some years ago I was at Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the Ratcliff library; and I remember that at a still greater distance of time, I heard a debate in the house of Commons about a standing army.

Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every particular that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter exceeding clear in itself, and of which every person must be conscious; and yet I find no small difficulty to express it clearly in words; for it is not accurate to talk of incidents long past as passing in our sight, nor of hearing at present what we really heard yesterday or perhaps a year ago. To this necessity I am reduced, by want of proper words to describe ideal presence and to distinguish it from real presence. And thus in the description, a plain subject becomes obscure and intricate. When I recall any thing in the distinctest manner, so as to form an idea or image of it as present; I have not words to describe this act, other than that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing in my presence. This means not that I am really a spectator; but only that I conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a consciousness of presence similar to what a real spectator hath.

As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, it is expected, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as distinguished on the one hand from real presence, and on the other from a superficial or reflective remembrance. It is distinguished from the former by the following circumstance. Ideal presence arising from an act of memory, may properly be termed _a waking dream_; because, like a dream, it vanisheth upon the first reflection of our present situation. Real presence, on the contrary, vouched by eye-sight, commands our belief, not only during the direct perception, but in reflecting afterward upon the object. And to distinguish ideal presence from the latter, I give the following illustration. Two internal acts, both of them exertions of memory, are clearly distinguishable. When I think of an event as past, without forming any image, it is barely reflecting or remembering that I was an eye-witness. But when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a complete image of it, I perceive it ideally as passing in my presence; and this ideal perception is an act of intuition, into which reflection enters not more than into an act of sight.

Though ideal presence be distinguished from real presence on the one side and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is however variable without any precise limits; rising sometimes toward the former, and often sinking toward the latter. In a vigorous exertion of memory, ideal presence is extremely distinct. When a man, as in a reverie, drops himself out of his thoughts, he perceives every thing as passing before him, and hath a consciousness of presence similar to that of a spectator. There is no other difference, but that in the former the consciousness of presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But this is seldom the case. Ideal presence is often faint, and the image so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remembrance.

Hitherto of an idea of memory. I proceed to consider the idea of a thing I never saw, raised in me by speech, by writing, or by painting. This idea, with respect to the present matter, is of the same nature with an idea of memory, being either complete or incomplete. An important event, by a lively and accurate description, rouses my attention and insensibly transforms me into a spectator: I perceive ideally every incident as passing in my presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial narrative produceth only a faint and incomplete idea, precisely similar to a reflective recollection of memory. Of such idea, ideal presence makes no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea, as it doth into a reflective idea of memory. I believe that Scipio existed about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the famous battle of Zama. When I revolve in so cursory a manner that memorable event, I consider it as long past. But supposing me to be warmed with the story, perhaps by a beautiful description, I am insensibly transformed to a spectator. I perceive these two heroes in act to engage; I perceive them brandishing their swords, and exhorting their troops; and in this manner I attend them through every circumstance of the battle. This event being present to my mind during the whole progress of my thoughts, admits not any time but the present.

I have had occasion to observe[26], that ideas both of memory and of speech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are produced by an immediate view of the object; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is fainter than an original perception. The insight we have now got, unfolds the means by which this effect is produced. Ideal presence supplies the want of real presence; and in idea we perceive persons acting and suffering, precisely as in an original survey. If our sympathy be engaged by the latter, it must also in some measure be engaged by the former. The distinctness of ideal presence, as above mentioned, approacheth sometimes to the distinctness of real presence; and the consciousness of presence is the same in both. This is the cause of the pleasure that is felt in a reverie, where a man, losing sight of himself, is totally occupied with the objefts passing in his mind, which he conceives to be really existing in his presence. The power of speech to raise emotions, depends entirely on the artifice of raising such lively and distinct images as are here described. The reader’s passions are never sensibly moved, till he be thrown into a kind of reverie; in which state, losing the consciousness of self, and of reading, his present occupation, he conceives every incident as passing in his presence, precisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or reflective remembrance hath not this effect. It may be agreeable in some slight degree; but the ideas suggested by it, are too faint and obscure to raise any thing like a sympathetic emotion. And were they ever so lively, they pass with too much precipitation to have this effect. Our emotions are never instantaneous: even those that come the soonest to perfection, have different periods of birth, growth, and maturity; and to give opportunity for these different periods, it is necessary that the cause of every emotion be present to the mind a due time. The emotion is completed by reiterated impressions. We know this to be the case of objects of sight: we are scarce sensible of any emotion in a quick succession even of the most beautiful objects. And if this hold in the succession of original perceptions, how much more in the succession of ideas?

Though all this while, I have been only describing what passeth in the mind of every one and what every one must be conscious of, it was necessary to enlarge upon it; because, however clear in the internal conception, it is far from being so when described in words. Ideal presence, though of general importance, hath scarce ever been touched by any writer; and at any rate it could not be overlooked in accounting for the effects produced by fiction. Upon this point, the reader I guess has prevented me. It already must have occurred to him, that if, in reading, ideal presence be the means by which our passions are moved, it makes no difference whether the subject be a fable or a reality. When ideal presence is complete, we perceive every object as in our sight; and the mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no leisure for reflection of any sort. This reasoning, if any one hesitate, is confirmed by constant and universal experience. Let us take under consideration the meeting of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of the Iliad, or some of the passionate scenes in King Lear. These pictures of human life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of reality not less distinct than that given by the death of Otho in the beautiful description of Tacitus. We never once reflect whether the story be true or feigned. Reflection comes afterward, when we have the scene no longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still clearer light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory narrative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, occupy the mind so little as to solicit reflection. And accordingly, a curt narrative of feigned incidents is never relished. Any slight pleasure it affords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for want of truth.

In support of the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive argument. Upon examination it will be found, that genuine history commands our passions by means of ideal presence solely; and therefore that with respect to this effect, genuine history stands upon the same footing with fable. To me it appears clear, that our sympathy must vanish so soon as we begin to reflect upon the incidents related in either. The reflection that a story is a pure fiction, will indeed prevent our sympathy; but so will equally the reflection that the persons described are no longer existing. It is present distress only that moves my pity. My concern vanishes with the distress; for I cannot pity any person who at present is happy. According to this theory, founded clearly on human nature, a man long dead and insensible now of past misfortunes, cannot move our pity more than if he had never existed. The misfortunes described in a genuine history command our belief: but then we believe also, that these misfortunes are at an end, and that the persons described are at present under no distress. What effect, for example, can the belief of the rape of Lucretia have to raise our sympathy, when she died above 2000 years ago, and hath at present no painful feeling of the injury done her? The effect of history in point of instruction, depends in some measure upon its veracity. But history cannot reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the facts. Such reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails at the same time to poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for those who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside, history stands upon the same footing with fable. What effect either of them may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the ideas they raise; and with respect to that circumstance, fable is generally more successful than history.

Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, theatrical representation is the most powerful. That words independent of action have the same power in a less degree, every one of sensibility must have felt: A good tragedy will extort tears in private, though not so forcibly as upon the stage. This power belongs also to painting. A good historical picture makes a deeper impression than can be made by words, though not equal to what is made by theatrical action. And as ideal presence depends on a lively impression, painting seems to possess a middle place betwixt reading and acting. In making an impression of ideal presence, it is not less superior to the former than inferior to the latter.

It must not however be thought, that our passions can be raised by painting to such a height as can be done by words. Of all the successive incidents that concur to produce a great event, a picture has the choice but of one, because it is confined to a single instant of time. And though the impression it makes, is the deepest that can be made instantaneously; yet seldom can a passion be raised to any height in an instant, or by a single impression. It was observed above, that our passions, those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a succession of impressions; and for that reason, reading and still more acting have greatly the advantage, by the opportunity of reiterating impressions without end.

Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions are excited; and till words produce that charm they avail nothing. Even real events intitled to our belief, must be conceived present and passing in our sight before they can move us. And this theory serves to explain several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A misfortune happening to a stranger, makes a less impression than happening to a man we know, even where we are no way interested in him: our acquaintance with this man, however slight, aids the conception of his suffering in our presence. For the same reason, we are little moved with any distant event; because we have more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that happened in our neighbourhood.

Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has a fine effect in language. For what other reason than that it aids the conception of ideal presence? Take the following example.

And now with shouts the shocking armies clos’d,
To lances lances, shields to shields oppos’d;
Host against host the shadowy legions drew,
The sounding darts an iron tempest flew;
Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries,
Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise,
With streaming blood the slipp’ry field is dy’d,
And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.

In this passage we may observe how the writer inflamed with the subject, insensibly slips from the past time to the present; led to this form of narration by conceiving every circumstance as passing in his own sight. And this at the same time has a fine effect upon the reader, by advancing him to be as it were a spectator. But this change from the past to the present requires some preparation; and is not graceful in the same sentence where there is no stop in the sense; witness the following passage.

Thy fate was next, O Phæstus! doom’d to feel
The great Idomeneus’ protended steel;
Whom Borus sent his son and only joy
From fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.
The Cretan jav’lin reach’d him from afar,
And pierc’d his shoulder as he mounts his car.
_Iliad_, v. 57.

It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period; for this is an anticlimax in description:

Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends,
And at the goddess his broad lance extends;
Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,
Th’ ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove:
Her snowy hand the razing steel profan’d,
And the transparent skin with crimson stain’d.
_Iliad_, v. 415.

Again, describing the shield of Jupiter,

Here all the terrors of grim War appear,
Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear,
Here storm’d Contention, and here Fury frown’d,
And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown’d.
_Iliad_, v. 914.

Nor is it pleasant to be carried backward and forward alternately in a rapid succession:

Then dy’d Seamandrius, expert in the chace,
In woods and wilds to wound the savage race;
Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,
To bend the bow and aim unerring darts:
But vainly here Diana’s arts he tries,
The fatal lance arrests him as he flies;
From Menelaus’ arm the weapon sent,
Through his broad back and heaving bosom went:
Down sinks the warrior with a thund’ring sound,
His brazen armor rings against the ground.
_Iliad_, v. 65.

It is wonderful to observe, upon what slender foundations nature, sometimes, erects her most solid and magnificent works. In appearance at least, what can be more slight than ideal presence of objects? And yet upon it entirely is superstructed, that extensive influence which language hath over the heart; an influence, which, more than any other means, strengthens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from their private system to exert themselves in acts of generosity and benevolence. Matters of fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be inculcated without taking advantage of ideal presence. But without it, the finest speaker or writer would in vain attempt to move any of our passion: our sympathy would be confined to objects that are really present: and language would lose entirely that signal power it possesseth, of making us sympathize with beings removed at the greatest distance of time as well as of place. Nor is the influence of language, by means of this ideal presence, confined to the heart. It reaches also in some measure the understanding, and contributes to belief. When events are related in a lively manner and every circumstance appears as passing before us, it is with difficulty that we suffer the truth of the facts to be questioned. A historian accordingly who hath a genius for narration, seldom fails to engage our belief. The same facts related in a manner cold and indistinct, are not suffered to pass without examination. A thing ill described, is like an object seen at a distance or through a mist: we doubt whether it be a reality or a fiction. For this reason, a poet who can warm and animate his reader, may employ bolder fictions than ought to be ventured by an inferior genius. The reader, once thoroughly engaged, is in that situation susceptible of the strongest impressions:

Veraque constituunt, quæ bellè tangere possunt
Aureis, et lepido quæ sunt fucata sonore.
_Lucretius, lib. 1. l. 644._

A masterly painting has the same effect. Le Brun is no small support to Quintus Curtius; and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief of scripture-history is perhaps founded as much upon the authority of Raphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon that of the sacred writers[27].

In establishing the foregoing theory, the reader has had the fatigue of much dry reasoning. But his labour will not be fruitless. From this theory are derived many useful rules in criticism, which shall be mentioned in their proper places. One specimen, being a fine illustration, I chuse to give at present. In a historical poem representing human actions, it is a rule, that no improbable incident ought to be admitted. A circumstance, an incident, or an event, may be singular, may surprise by being unexpected, and yet be extremely natural. The improbability I talk of, is that of an irregular fact, contrary to the order and course of nature, and therefore unaccountable. A chain of imagined facts linked together according to the order of nature, find easy entrance into the mind; and if described with warmth of fancy, they produce complete images, including ideal presence. But it is with great difficulty that we admit any irregular fact; for an irregular fact always puzzles the judgement. Doubtful of its reality we immediately enter upon reflection, and discovering the cheat, lose all relish and concern. This is an unhappy effect; for thereafter it requires more than an ordinary effort, to restore the waking dream, and to make the reader conceive even the more probable incidents as passing in his presence.

I never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem; and I now find my taste justified by reason; the foregoing argument concluding still more strongly against imaginary beings, than against improbable facts. Fictions of this nature may amuse by their novelty and singularity: but they never move the sympathetic passions, because they cannot impose on the mind any perception of reality. I appeal to the discerning reader, whether this be not precisely the case of the machinery introduced by Tasso and by Voltaire. This machinery is not only in itself cold and uninteresting, but is remarkably hurtful, by giving an air of fiction to the whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or the Dispensary, may employ machinery with success; for these poems, though they assume the air of history, give entertainment chiefly by their pleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery contributes in a singular manner. It is not the aim of such a poem, to raise our sympathy in any considerable degree; and for that reason, a strict imitation of nature is not required. A poem professedly ludicrous, may employ machinery to great advantage; and the more extravagant the better. A just representation of nature, would indeed be incongruous in a composition intended to give entertainment by the means chiefly of singularity and surprise.

For accomplishing the task undertaken in the beginning of the present section, what only remains is, to show the final cause of the power that fiction hath over the mind of man. I have already mentioned, that language, by means of fiction, has the command of our sympathy for the good of others. By the same means, our sympathy may be also raised for our own good. In the third section it is observed, that examples both of virtue and of vice raise virtuous emotions; which becoming stronger by exercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit as well as by principle. I now further observe, that examples drawn from real events, are not so frequent as to contribute much to a habit of virtue. If they be, they are not recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom, to form us in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same improvement from fable that we receive from genuine history. By this admirable contrivance, examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without end. No other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue habitual; and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add another final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows, that the author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the happiness of his creatures, than for the regularity of their conduct. The power that fiction hath over the mind of man, is the source of an endless variety of refined amusement, always ready to employ a vacant hour. Such amusement is a fine resource in solitude; and by sweetening the temper, improves society.