"source; from a desire of being able to do whatever is "agreeable to our own inclination. Slavery mortifies us, because it limits our power.

"Even the love of tranquillity and retirement, has "been resolved by Cicero, into the same principle.

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"The desire of power is also, in some degree, the "foundation of the pleasure of virtue. We love to be "at liberty to follow our own inclinations, without being subject to the control of a superior: but this "alone is not sufficient to our happiness. When we "are led, by vicious habits, or by the force of passion, "to do what reason disapproves, we are sensible of a "mortifying subjection to the inferior principles of our

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nature, and feel our own littleness and weakness. A "sense of freedom and independence, elevation of mind, " and the pride of virtue, are the natural sentiments of "the man, who is conscious of being able, at all times, "to calm the tumults of passion, and to obey the cool "suggestions of duty and honour."

LECTURE XXV.

ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY.

STATEMENT OF DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. OF CONTRAST. OF THE TWO KINDS OF NOVELTY. OF VARIETY. -EFFECTS OF CHANGE. AND THE EXPLANA

EFFECTS OF SURPRISE.

TION OF THOSE EFFECTS. HOW FAR NOVELTY IS AGREEABLE. — EXPLANATION OF THE PLEASURE of novelty.

WONDER, surprise, and admiration, -words often confounded, — denote, in our language, sentiments, which though allied, are also in some respects distinct from one another. What is new and singular, excites that sentiment which, in strict propriety, is called wonder; what is unexpected, surprise; and what is great or beautiful, admiration.

We wonder at all the rare phenomena of nature; at meteors, comets, and eclipses; at singular plants and animals; and at everything, in short, with which we have before been, either little, or not at all acquainted; and we still wonder, though forewarned of what we shall see.

We are surprised with those things which we have seen very often, but which we little expected to meet with in the place where we find them. We are surprised at the sudden appearance of a friend, whom we have seen a thousand times, but whom we did not imagine we were to see then. We admire the beauty of a plain, or the vastness of a mountain, though we have seen both often before; and though nothing appears to

us in either, but what we had expected with certainty to see. Or, to take it by illustration, and to exemplify the usages of the three words in one object: The first time I see St. Paul's, I wonder at it; the hundredth time, I only admire it. If I wake in a coach, and find myself in St. Paul's Churchyard, when I thought I was in Pall Mall, I am surprised by the appearance of the building. For the first time of seeing such a building, surprise, admiration, and wonder, might all be excited at the same moment; afterwards, surprise and admiration, or admiration alone.

When an object of any kind, which has been for some time expected and foreseen, presents itself, whatever be the emotion which it is by nature fitted to excite, the iind must have been prepared for it, and must even in some measure have conceived it before, because the idea of the object having been so long present to it, must have excited some degree of the same emotion which the object itself would excite. The change, therefore, is less considerable, and the passion which it excites glides gradually, and easily, into the heart without violence, pain, or difficulty. But the contrary of all this happens when the passion is unexpected. If it be a strong passion, the heart is thrown by it into a violent and convulsive emotion, such as sometimes occasions immediate death sometimes the suddenness of the ecstasy so entirely disjoints the frame of the imagination, that it never after returns to its former tone and composure, but falls either into a frenzy, or habitual lunacy; or such as almost always occasions a momentary loss of reason, or of that attention to other things which our situation or our duty requires. From the apprehension of these consequences, we are very cautious of communicating bad news on a sudden. The panic terrors which sometimes seize upon whole armies in the field, or great cities, when an enemy is in the neighbourhood, and which deprive, for a time, the most determined of all

deliberate judgment, are never excited but by the sudden apprehension of danger.

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Fear, though naturally a very strong passion, never rises to such excesses, unless exasperated by wonder, from the uncertain nature of the danger, and by surprise, from the suddenness of the apprehension. There are some very interesting observations on this subject in the tracts of Dr. Adam Smith; one passage from which I shall take this opportunity of quoting. "Surprise, is not to be regarded as an original emotion, of a species distinct from all others. Violent and sudden "change produced upon the mind, when an emotion of any kind is brought suddenly upon it, constitutes the "whole nature of surprise. But when not only a pas"sion, and a great passion, comes all at once upon the mind, but when it comes upon it while the mind is in "the mood most unfit for conceiving it, the surprise is "then the greatest. Surprises of joy when the mind is "sunk into grief, or of grief when it is elated with "joy, are therefore the most insupportable.

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change is, in this case, the greatest possible. Not "only a strong passion is conceived all at once; but a strong passion, the direct opposite of that which was "before in possession of the soul. When a load of "sorrow comes down upon the heart that is expanded "and elated with gaiety and joy, it seems not only to

damp and oppress it, but almost to crush and bruise "it, as a real weight would crush and bruise the body. "On the contrary, when, from an unexpected change of fortune, a tide of gladness seems, if I may say so, to "spring all at once within it, when depressed and con"tracted with grief and sorrow, it feels as if it suddenly "extended and heaved up with violent, irresistible force, "and is torn with pangs, of all others the most exqui"site, and which almost always occasion faintings, "deliriums, and sometimes instant death. For it may "be worth while to observe, that though grief be a

"more violent passion than joy, as, indeed, all uneasy "sensations seem naturally more pungent than the opposite agrecable ones, - yet, of the two, surprises "of joy are still more insupportable than surprises of grief."

These observations are very true, and very interesting; but they would have been introduced, perhaps, with greater accuracy, if the phenomena to which they refer, had been classed under the head of contrast rather than surprise; for contrast and surprise, though feelings which very much resemble each other, are unquestionably very separable and distinct. This is a case which will set the distinction between contrast and surprise in a strong light: If I have long been suffering from abject poverty, and suddenly receive the intelligence of coming into possession of a large fortune, the unexpectedness of the news excites in me the feeling of surprise; but another distinct feeling is excited in me, by the contrast which I draw between my present fortune, and my past: which last feeling, I should have had, even though I had expected my riches every day for a twelvemonth past.

Not only grief and joy, but all the passions, are more violent when opposite extremes succeed each other. No resentment is so keen as that which follows the quarrels of lovers; -no love so passionate, as that which attends their reconciliation: when near relations quarrel, they are generally ten times more vindictive than ordinary disputants. Contrast, produces just the same effects in the body. Moderate warmth, appears to be intolerable heat, if felt after extreme cold. What is bitter of itself, will seem more bitter, when tasted after what is very sweet. A dirty white, looks bright and pure, when placed by a jet black. In short, the vivacity of every sentiment, and of every sensation,

* Dr. Adam Smith's "History of Astronomy," p. 8.