PART V.

_The power of passion to adjust our opinions and belief to its gratification._

There is such a connection among the perceptions passions and actions of the same person, that it would be wonderful if they should have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much directed by passion, is a sad truth. It is not less certain, though not so commonly observed, that passion hath an irregular influence upon our opinions and belief. The opinions we form of men and things, are generally directed by affection. An advice given by a man of figure, hath great weight; the same advice from one in a low condition, is utterly neglected. A man of courage under-rates danger; and to the indolent, the slightest obstacle appears unsurmountable. Our opinions indeed, the result commonly of various and often opposite views, are so slight and wavering, as readily to be susceptible of a bias from passion and prejudice.

This subject is of great use in logic; and of still greater use in criticism, being intimately connected with many principles of the fine arts that will be unfolded in the course of this work. Being too extensive to be treated here at large, some cursory illustrations must suffice; leaving the subject to be prosecuted more particularly afterward when occasion shall offer.

Two principles that make an eminent figure in human nature, concur to give passion an undue influence upon our opinions and belief. The first and most extensive, is a strong tendency in the mind to fit objects for the gratification of its passions. We are prone to such opinions of men and things as correspond to our wishes. Where the object, in dignity or importance, corresponds to the passion bestowed on it, the gratification is complete and there is no occasion for artifice. But where the object is too mean for the passion so as not to afford a complete gratification, it is wonderful how apt the mind is to impose upon itself, and how disposed to proportion the object to its passion. The other principle is a strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. This tendency is extremely remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions. By its influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied or suppressed, every thing coloured and disguised, to answer the end of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias.

Beside the influence of the foregoing principles to make us form opinions contrary to truth, the passions themselves, by subordinate means, contribute to the same effect. Of these means I shall mention two which seem to be capital. First, There was occasion formerly to observe[41], that though ideas seldom start up in the mind without connection, yet that ideas which correspond to the present tone of the mind are readily suggested by any slight connection. By this means, the arguments for a favourite opinion are always at hand, while we often search in vain for those that cross our inclination. Second, The mind taking delight in agreeable circumstances or arguments, is strongly impressed with them; while those that are disagreeable are hurried over so as scarce to make any impression. The self-same argument, accordingly as it is relished or not relished, weighs so differently, as in truth to make conviction depend more on passion than on reasoning. This observation is fully justified by experience. To confine myself to a single instance, the numberless absurd religious tenets that at different times have pestered the world, would be altogether unaccountable but for this irregular bias of passion.

We proceed to a more pleasant task, which is, to illustrate the foregoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude when warm, is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor; especially where he is removed out of reach by death or absence[42]. Gratitude in this case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar excellence in his children. To find however these children worthy of the benefits intended them, contributes undoubtedly to the more entire gratification of the passion. And accordingly, the mind, prone to gratify its passions, is apt to conceive a better opinion of these children than possibly they deserve. By this means, strong connections of affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight foundation now mentioned.

Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, is always disguised under some more plausible name. But no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object such an appearance as to answer a complete gratification. It magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on the most humbling circumstances.

_Cassius._ I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Cæsar, so were you; We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter’s cold as well as he. For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tyber chasing with his shores, Cæsar says to me, Dar’st thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?--Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bid him follow; so indeed he did. The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews; throwing it aside, And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point propos’d, Cæsar cry’d, Help me, Cassius, or I sink. I, as Æneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear; so from the waves of Tyber Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man Is now become a god, and Cassius is A wretched creature; and must bend his body, If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake. ’Tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their colour fly, And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world, Did lose its lustre; I did hear him grone: Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas! it cry’d---- Give me some drink, Titinius---- As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. _Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3._

Glo’ster inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could even work himself into a momentary conviction that they were not related.

O strange fasten’d villain! Would he deny his letter?--I never got him. _King Lear, act 2. sc. 3._

When by a great sensibility of heart or other means, grief swells beyond what the cause can justify, the mind is prone to magnify the cause, in order to gratify the passion. And if the real cause admit not of being magnified, the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events.

_Bushy._ Madam, your Majesty is much too sad; You promis’d, when you parted with the King, To lay aside self-harming heaviness, And entertain a chearful disposition.

_Queen._ To please the King, I did; to please myself, I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief; Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb, Is coming tow’rd me; and my inward soul With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves, More than with parting from my Lord the King. _Richard II. act. 2. sc. 5._

The foregoing examples depend on the first principle. In the following, both principles concur. Resentment at first is wreaked on the relations of the offender, in order to punish him. But as resentment when so outrageous is contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion as well as to gratify it, is disposed to paint these relations in the blackest colours; and it actually comes to be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits.

Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part, which gives great and sudden pain, is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause. But as the passion in this case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratification in punishing the innocent; the mind, prone to justify as well as to gratify its passion, deludes itself instantly into a conviction of the action’s being voluntary. This conviction however is but momentary: the first reflection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion vanisheth almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most violent of all passions, has still greater influence. It sometimes forces the mind to personify a stock or a stone when it occasions bodily pain, in order to be a proper object of resentment. A conception is formed of it as a voluntary agent. And that we have really a momentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from considering, that without such conviction, the passion can neither be justified nor gratified. The imagination can give no aid. A stock or a stone may be imagined sensible; but a notion of this kind cannot be the foundation of punishment, so long as the mind is conscious that it is an imagination merely without any reality. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced. “O thou salt and bitter water! thy master hath condemned thee to this punishment for offending him without cause; and is resolved to pass over thee in despite of thy insolence. With reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous[43].”

Shakespear exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence of passion in making us conceive things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in order to justify his resentment, conceives them to be taking part with his daughters.

_Lear._ Rumble thy belly-full, spit fire, spout rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure.---- Here I stand, your brave; A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man! But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join’d Your high engender’d battles, ’gainst a head So old and white as this. Oh! oh! ’tis foul. _Act_ 3. _sc. 2._

King Richard, full of indignation against his favourite horse for suffering Bolingbroke to ride him, conceives for a moment the horse to be rational.

_Groom._ O, how it yearn’d my heart, when I beheld, In London streets, that coronation-day; When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse that I so carefully have dress’d.

_K. Rich._ Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

_Groom._ So proudly as he had disdain’d the ground.

_K. Rich._ So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade had eat bread from my royal hand. This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? would he not fall down, (Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back? _Richard_ II. _act 5. sc. 11_.

Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother’s second marriage, is strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood; because this circumstance gratified his passion; and he deludes himself by degrees into the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one.

_Hamlet._---- That it should come to this! But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two;-- So excellent a King, that was, to this, Hyperion to a satire: so loving to my mother, That he permitted not the wind of heav’n Visit her face too roughly. Heav’n and earth! Must I remember--why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; yet, within a month,---- Let me not think--Frailty, thy name is _Woman_! A little month! or ere those shoes were old, With which she follow’d my poor father’s body, Like Niobe, all tears---- Why, she, ev’n she-- (O heav’n! a beast that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn’d longer--) married with mine uncle, My father’s brother; but no more like my father, Than I to Hercules. Within a month!---- Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes, She married.---- Oh, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. _Act 1. sc. 3._

The power of passion to falsify the computation of time, is the more remarkable, that time, which hath an accurate measure, is less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have no precise standard of less or more.

Even belief, though partly an act of the judgment, may be influenced by passion. Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence. Our wishes magnify the probability of the event as well as the veracity of the relater; and we believe as certain what at best is doubtful.

Quel, che l’huom vede, amor li fa invisibile E l’invisibil fa veder amore. Questo creduto fu, che’l miser suole Dar facile credenza a’ quel, che vuole. _Orland. Furios. cant. 1. st. 56._

For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest evidence. Fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespear, who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philosophers, hath in his _Cymbeline_[44] represented this bias of the mind: for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. And Othello[45] is convinced of his wife’s infidelity from circumstances too slight to move an indifferent person.

If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to reason, the effect will not be quite the same. Judging of the probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction either that it is true or not. But even in this case, it is observable, that the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is produced by rational evidence. If the news be in any degree favourable, our belief is augmented by hope beyond its true pitch; and if unfavourable, by fear.

The observation holds equally with respect to future events. If a future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind, to gratify its passion, never fails to augment the probability beyond truth.

The credit which in all ages has been given to wonders and prodigies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon. Nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, That the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required. A familiar event daily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence. But a strange and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, ought not to be easily believed. It starts up without connection, and without cause, so far as we can discover; and to overcome the improbability of such an event, the very strongest evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has been reckoned difficult to explain this irregular bias of the mind. We are now no longer at a loss about its cause. The proneness we have to gratify our passions, which displays itself upon so many occasions, produces this irrational belief. A story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of dread. These emotions tending strongly to their own gratification, impose upon a weak mind, and impress upon it a thorough conviction contrary to all sense and reason.

Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion; for the mind is disposed to gratify both. A natural propensity is all we have to convince us, that the operations of nature are uniform. Influenced by this propensity, we often rashly conceive, that good or bad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical reasonings beyond just bounds.

Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a telescope is a pleasant illustration. I perceive, says the lady, two shadows inclining to each other, they are certainly two happy lovers. Not at all, replies the curate, they are two steeples of a cathedral.

APPENDIX to Part V.

_Concerning the methods which nature hath afforded for computing time and space._

I introduce here the subject proposed, because it affords several curious examples of the power of passion to adjust objects to its gratification; a lesson that cannot be too much inculcated, as there is not perhaps another bias in human nature that hath an influence so universal, and that is so apt to make us wander from truth as well as from justice.

I begin with time; and the question shortly is, What was the measure of time before artificial measures were invented? and, What is the measure at present when these are not at hand? I speak not of months and days, which we compute by the moon and sun; but of hours, or in general of the time that runs betwixt any two occurrences when there is not access to the sun. The only natural measure we have, is the train of our thoughts; and we always judge the time to be long or short, in proportion to the number of perceptions that have passed through the mind during that interval. This is indeed a very imperfect measure; because in the different conditions of a quick or slow succession, the computation is different. But however imperfect, it is the only measure by which a person naturally calculates time; and this measure is applied on all occasions, without regard to any occasional variation in the rate of succession.

This natural measure of time, imperfect as it is, would however be tolerable, did it labour under no other imperfection than the ordinary variations that happen in the motion of our perceptions. But in many particular circumstances, it is much more fallacious; and in order to explain these distinctly, I must analize the subject. Time is generally computed at two different periods; one while time is passing, another after it is past. I shall consider these separately, with the errors to which each of them is liable. It will be found that these errors often produce very different computations of the same period of time. The computation of time while it is passing, comes first in order. It is a common and trite observation, That to lovers absence appears immeasurably long, every minute an hour, and every hour a day. The same computation is made in every case where we long for a distant event; as where one is in expectation of good news, or where a profligate heir watches for the death of an old man who keeps him from a great estate. Opposite to these are instances not fewer in number. To a criminal the interval betwixt sentence and execution appears miserably short; and the same holds in every case where one dreads an approaching event. Of this even a schoolboy can bear witness: the hour allowed him for play, moves, in his apprehension, with a very swift pace: before he is thoroughly engaged, the hour is gone. A reckoning founded on the number of ideas, will never produce computations so regularly opposite to each other; for a slow succession of ideas is not connected with our wishes, nor a quick succession with our fears. What is it then, that, in the cases mentioned, moves nature to desert her common measure for one very different? I know not that this question ever has been resolved. The false reckonings I have suggested are so common and familiar, that no writer has thought of inquiring for their cause. And indeed, to enter upon this matter at short hand, without preparation, might occasion some difficulty. But to encounter the difficulty, we luckily are prepared by what is said above about the power of passion to fit objects for its gratification. Among the other circumstances that terrify a condemned criminal, the short time he has to live is one. Terror, like our other passions, prone to its gratification, adjusts every one of these circumstances to its own tone. It magnifies in particular the shortness of the interval betwixt the present time and that of the execution; and forces upon the criminal a conviction that the hour of his death approaches with a swift pace. In the same manner, among the other distresses of an absent lover, the time of separation is a capital circumstance, which for that reason is greatly magnified by his anxiety and impatience. He imagines that the time of meeting comes on very slow, or rather that it will never come. Every minute is thought of an intolerable length. Here is a fair and I hope satisfactory account, why we reckon time to be tedious when we long for a future event, and not less fleet when we dread the event. This account is confirmed by other instances. Bodily pain fixt to one part, produceth a slow train of perceptions, which, according to the common measure of time, ought to make it appear short. Yet we know, that in such a state time has the opposite appearance. Bodily pain is always attended with a degree of impatience and an anxiety to be rid of it, which make us judge every minute to be an hour. The same holds where the pain shifts from place to place; but not so remarkably, because such a pain is not attended with the same degree of impatience. The impatience a man hath in travelling through a barren country or in bad roads, makes him imagine, during the journey, that time goes on with a very slow pace. We shall show afterward that he makes a very different computation when his journey is at an end.

How ought it to stand with a man who apprehends bad news? It will probably be thought, that the case of this man resembles that of a criminal, who, in reckoning the short time he has to live, imagines every hour to be but a minute, and that time flies swift away. Yet the computation here is directly opposite. Reflecting upon this difficulty, there appears one capital circumstance in which the two cases differ. The fate of the criminal is determined: in the case under consideration, the man is still in suspense. Every one knows how distressful suspense is to the bulk of mankind. Such distress we wish to get rid of at any rate, even at the expence of bad news. This case therefore, upon a more narrow inspection, resembles that of bodily pain. The present distress in both cases, makes the time appear extremely tedious.

The reader probably will not be displeased, to have this branch of the subject illustrated in a pleasant manner, by an author acquainted with every maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and ornament upon every subject he handles.

_Rosalinda._ I pray you, what is’t a clock?

_Orlando._ You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.

_Ros._ Then there is no true lover in the forest; else, sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock.

_Orla._ Why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper?

_Ros._ By no means, Sir. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

_Orla._ I pr’y thee whom doth he trot withal?

_Ros._ Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se’ennight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.

_Orla._ Who ambles Time withal?

_Ros._ With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.

_Orla._ Whom doth he gallop withal?

_Ros._ With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

_Orla._ Whom stays it still withall?

_Ros._ With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves. _As you like it, act 3. sc. 8._

Reflecting upon the natural method of computing present time, it shows how far from truth we may be led by the irregular power of passion. Nor are our eyes immediately opened when the scene is past: the deception continues while there remain any traces of the passion. But looking back upon past time when the joy or distress is no longer remembered, the computation we make is very different. In this situation, passion being out of the question, we apply the ordinary measure, _viz._ the course of our perceptions; and I shall now proceed to the errors that this measure is subjected to. In order to have an accurate notion of this matter, we must distinguish betwixt a train of perceptions, and a train of ideas. Real objects make a strong impression, and are faithfully remembered. Ideas, on the contrary, however entertaining at the time, are apt to escape an after recollection. Hence it is, that in retrospection, the time that was employed upon real objects, appears longer than the time that was employed upon ideas. The former are more accurately recollected than the latter; and we measure the time by the number that is recollected. I proceed to particulars. After finishing a journey through a populous country, the frequency of agreeable objects distinctly recollected by the traveller, makes the time spent in the journey appear to him longer than it was in reality. This is chiefly remarkable in a first journey, where every object is new and makes a strong impression. On the other hand, after finishing a journey through a barren country thinly peopled, the time appears short, being measured by the number of objects, which were few and far from interesting. Here in both instances a reckoning is brought out, directly opposite to that made during the journey. And this, by the way, serves to account for a thing which may appear singular, that in a barren country the computed miles are always longer, than near the capital, where the country is rich and populous. The traveller has no natural measure of the space gone through, other than the time bestowed upon it; nor any natural measure of the time, other than the number of his perceptions. These being proportioned to the number of visible objects, he imagines that he hath consumed more time on his day’s journey, and accomplished a greater number of miles, in a populous than in a waste country. By this method of calculation, every computed mile in the former must in reality be shorter than in the latter.

Again, the travelling with an agreeable companion produceth a short computation both of the road and of time; especially if there be few objects that demand attention, or if the objects be familiar. The case is the same of young people at a ball, or of a joyous company over a bottle. The ideas with which they have been entertained, being transitory, escape the memory. After all is over, they reflect that they have been much diverted, but scarce can say about what.

When one is totally occupied in any agreeable work that admits not many objects, time runs on without observation; and upon an after recollection must appear short, in proportion to the paucity of objects. This is still more remarkable in close contemplation and in deep thinking, where the train, composed wholly of ideas, proceeds with an extreme slow pace. Not only are the ideas few in number, but are apt to escape an after-reckoning. The like false reckoning of time may proceed from an opposite state of mind. In a reverie, where ideas float at random without making any impression, time goes on unheeded and the reckoning is lost. A reverie may be so profound as to prevent the recollection of any one idea: that the mind was busied in a train of thinking, will in general be remembered; but what was the subject, has quite escaped the memory. In such a case, we are altogether at a loss about the time: we have no _data_ for making a computation. No cause produceth so false a reckoning of time, as immoderate grief. The mind, in this state, is violently attached to a single object, and admits not a different thought. Any other object breaking in, is instantly banished, so as scarce to give an appearance of succession. In a reverie, we are uncertain of the time that is past: but in the example now given, there is an appearance of certainty, so far as the natural measure of time can be trusted, that the time must have been short, when the perceptions are so few in number.

The natural measure of space appears more obscure than that of time. I venture however to enter upon it, leaving it to be further prosecuted, if it be thought of any importance.

The space marked out for a house, appears considerably larger after it is divided into its proper parts. A piece of ground appears larger after it is surrounded with a fence; and still larger when it is made a garden and divided into different copartments.

On the contrary, a large plain looks less after it is divided into parts. The sea must be excepted, which looks less from that very circumstance of not being divided into parts.

A room of a moderate size appears larger when properly furnished. But when a very large room is furnished, I doubt whether it be not lessened in appearance.

A room of a moderate size, looks less by having a ceiling lower than in proportion. The same low ceiling makes a very large room look larger than it is in reality.

These experiments are by far too small a stock for a general theory. But they are all that occur at present; and without attempting any regular system, I shall satisfy myself with a few conjectures.

The largest angle of vision seems to me the natural measure of space. The eye is the only judge; and in examining with it the size of any plain, or the length of any line, the most accurate method that can be taken is, to run over the object in parts. The largest part that can be taken in at one stedfast look, determines the largest angle of vision; and when that angle is given, one may institute a calculation by trying with the eye how many of these parts are in the whole.

Whether this angle be the same in all men, I know not. The smallest angle of vision is ascertained; and to ascertain the largest angle, would not be less curious.

But supposing it known, it would be a very imperfect measure; perhaps more so than the natural measure of time. It requires great steadiness of eye to measure a line with any accuracy, by applying to it the largest angle of distinct vision. And suppose this steadiness to be acquired by practice, the measure will be imperfect from other circumstances. The space comprehended under this angle, will be different according to the distance, and also according to the situation of the object. Of a perpendicular this angle will comprehend the smallest space. The space will be larger in looking upon an inclined plain; and will be larger or less in proportion to the degree of inclination.

This measure of space, like the measure of time, is liable to some extraordinary errors from certain operations of the mind, which will account for some of the erroneous judgements above mentioned. The space marked out for a dwelling-house, where the eye is at any reasonable distance, is seldom greater than can be seen at once without moving the head. Divide this space into two or three equal parts, and none of these parts will appear much less than what can be comprehended at one distinct look; consequently each of them will appear equal, or nearly equal, to what the whole did before the division. If, on the other hand, the whole be very small, so as scarce to fill the eye at one look, its divisions into parts will, I conjecture, make it appear still less. The minuteness of the parts is, by an easy transition of ideas, transferred to the whole. Each part hath a diminutive appearance, and by the intimate connection of these parts with the whole, we pass the same judgement upon all.

The space marked out for a small garden, is surveyed almost at one view; and requires a motion of the eye so slight, as to pass for an object that can be comprehended under the largest angle of distinct vision. If not divided into too many parts, we are apt to form the same judgement of each part; and consequently to magnify the garden in proportion to the number of its parts.

A very large plain without protuberances, is an object not less rare than beautiful; and in those who see it for the first time, it must produce an emotion of wonder. This emotion, however slight, tending to its own gratification, imposes upon the mind, and makes it judge that the plain is larger than it is in reality. Divide this plain into parts, and our wonder ceases. It is no longer considered as one great plain, but as so many different fields or inclosures.

The first time one beholds the sea, it appears to be large beyond all bounds. When it becomes familiar, and raises our wonder in no degree, it appears less than it is in reality. In a storm it appears larger, being distinguishable by the rolling waves into a number of great parts. Islands scattered at considerable distances, add in appearance to its size. Each intercepted part looks extremely large, and we silently apply arithmetic to increase the appearance of the whole. Many islands scattered at hand, give a diminutive appearance to the sea, by its connection with its diminutive parts. The Lomond lake would undoubtedly look larger without its islands.

Furniture increaseth in appearance the size of a small room, for the same reason that divisions increase in appearance the size of a garden. The emotion of wonder which is raised by a very large room without furniture, makes it look larger than it is in reality. If completely furnished, we view it in parts, and our wonder is not raised.

A low ceiling hath a diminutive appearance, which, by an easy transition of ideas, is communicated to the length and breadth, provided they bear any sort of proportion to the height. If they be out of all proportion, the opposition seizes the mind, and raises some degree of wonder, which makes the difference appear greater than it really is.