when struck with wonder, is a trait as expressive as it is natural: all the intellectual faculties are chained by a single object: no one thought foreign to the subject rests in the soul: nonot even an arbitrary change of position in the body. Consequently, the man struck with sudden astonishment ought to remain fixed like a statue to his posture for the time. (See Plate

XIV.)

What species of affection we first consider is perfectly indifferent; the desire which demands that the thing should change its situation, or the contemplation which examines its actually existing state.

The moral philosophers oppose aversion to desire; but, following the general sense which I have attached to this word, aversion also belongs to the class of the desires, because it tends to change a present situation into a better. We have then two sorts of desires: one which strives to attain good, the other which endeavours to avoid evil. This last desire again subdivides itself; since we either desire to remove ourselves from evil, or to get rid of it: we think then of flight or of attack. Since, in all these cases, expression offers very sensible differences, we ought to establish three kinds of desires; one tends

towards enjoyment, the other withdraws itself for safety, and the third approaches anew, to put to flight or destroy the hurtful object. That all these desires are susceptible of infinitely varied modifications is self-evident.

One of the modifications of desire, most worthy of observation, is that of the man who feels an uncomfortableness, a privation, a secret uneasiness, without being able to discover the reason; or, to speak more properly, when a man is tormented by a violent desire, without being conscious of its object. Such is the situation of Sophia, in Emilius and Sophia, by Rousseau: the artless girl is uneasy-restless—she is in love— with whom?-she knows not: pressed on the subject, she avows Telemachus (a being of fiction) as the object of a devouring flame which consumes her, and to which she can neither attribute name nor origin.

This imaginary malady is well known, yet baffles all the skill of Esculapius.

The man in this predicament moves from place to place, from side to side; he turns himself in all possible directions; his hands are constantly rubbing one against the other-or, stretched forward without a determinate design, seize and grasp the first object that comes in their way;

his gait is interrupted and varied into every possible direction: in a word, he makes a thousand movements, not one of which continues any length of time, not one indicates a decided position. We simply perceive, in his general motions, that he is agitated by some violent desire, and that he seeks to avoid some misfortune with which he conceives himself menaced, or that he wishes to wreak his resentment and fury on some object or other.

A different modification on the part of the object is that which we either desire or hold in abhorrence to which we would unite, or from which we would separate ourselves: it is a certain je ne sais quoi, inherent in ourselves, and which leaves in us either a pleasant or a disagreeable sensation.

Under such circumstances the action of gesture has also its characteristical marks: whilst a man of piety endeavours to arrive at a perfect and mystical union with the divinity, he paints by his gestures, his mien, and his motions that complete retirement and detachment from earthly concerns, which always precede these efforts of a devout heart: his joined hands are retired and clasped towards the upper part of his chest; the elbows jetting out will be carried forwards, pro

G

portioned to the force of the devotion; the apple of the eye, directed towards Heaven, will hide itself under the eyelid, and the remainder of the ball will plainly be visible (as in Plate XV).

The wretch tormented by a racking and insupportable idea seeks to deliver himself from it by all manner of dissipations: his gait is as vague and as uncertain as his countenance. He is He is perpetually varying his attitudes, and he keeps continually rubbing his forehead, as if he wished to efface from his memory the last trace of the thought which thus afflicts him.

Such is the situation of the unhappy De Montfort, in the play of the ingenius lady who has favoured the public with the plays on the passions.

While on this subject, I would wish to recommend the perusal of this lady's excellent dramas to every lady and gentleman of the theatres, desirous to improve themselves in the art which they profess. In this painful state, the man tormented by his own conscience is the object of self violence; he is fearful and trembling; a leaf falling, a zephyr whispering fills him with terror, and inclines him to flight.

The answer of Cain, "Am I my brother's keeper?" certainly carries with it an air of effron