the ordinary and cooler operations of the mind. We might as well maintain, that because the child or ignorant person, under the influence of fear, believes that he saw a ghost or hobgoblin, all our conceptions are made up of such trumpery of superstition.

The professor endeavours to corroborate his singular opinion upon this subject by some observations of Dr. Reid, although, in truth, they have no relation to the point. “In considering those sudden bursts of passion," says Mr. Stewart, "which lead us to wreak our vengeance upon inanimate objects, Dr. Reid endeavours to show, that we have in such cases, a momentary belief that the object is alive." I confess," says he, "it seems to me impossible that there should be resentment against a thing which, at that very moment, is considered as inanimate; and consequently incapable of intending hurt, or of being punished. There must, therefore, I conceive be some momentary notion or conception, that the object of our resentment is capable of punishment." In another passage, the same author remarks," that men may be governed in their practice by a belief which, in speculation, they reject. I knew a man," says Dr. Reid, "who was as much convinced as any man of the folly of the popular belief of apparitions in the dark; yet he could not sleep in a room alone, nor go alone into a room in the dark. Can it be said that his fear did not imply a belief of danger? This is impossible. Yet his philosophy convinced him, that he was no more in danger in the dark when alone than with company. Here an unreasonable belief, which was merely a prejudice of the nursery, stuck so fast as to govern his conduct, in opposition to his speculative belief as a philosopher and man of sense. There are few persons who can look down from the battlements of a high tower without fear; while their reason convinces them that they are in no more danger than when standing upon the ground." These are the passages of Dr. Ried's works, which the professor alleges in confirmation of his

doctrine, that in conception and imagination we have a momentary belief of the presence of the object conceived or imagined. It will readily be seen that he has hit wide of the mark. All the classes of phenomena mentioned by Dr. Reid, are totally distinct from those of conception and imagination, under which the professor strives to reduce them. But although the doctrine of Dr. Reid tends in no degree to relieve the opinion of the professor from that glaring absurdity, which in legible characters is stamped upon it, yet it is itself by no means free from error. When the child, for example, or foolish boy strikes, in resentment, the stone or inanimate object which has hurt him, is it be concluded that he really believes it to be sensible, and capable of receiving injury or punishment? By no means. He conceives of it, for a moment, indeed, as being possessed of sensibility, and susceptible of injury, but he does not even for an instant, believe it to be animate. A wide distinction obtains in such cases between conceiving or imagining, and believing; which, although not noted in ordinary parlance, should be strictly attended to by the philosopher. In the vague phraseology of ordinary conversation, we are in the habit of saying, that we really believed the object or scene to be before us, which we have heard described by the orator with more than usual strength and beauty of colouring, or exhibited by the actor with extraordinary happiness of manner, and this mode of speaking may be sufficiently precise and accurate for purposes of daily intercourse; but surely, it is not, although positively asserted by professor Stewart, strictly and philosophically true. No illusion of this kind can ever be rendered so perfect, that we really believe the object to be present which is merely exhibited to the passions and imagination, however strongly they may be excited by it. We shall find this always to be true, when we come nicely to analyze our feelings, however transported we may have been at the time, and borne away by the tumult and impetuosity of our emotions.

And the same observation applies to the most finished representations of the "well-trod stage," even if "Johnson's learned sock be on, or sweetest Shakspeare, fancy's child, warble his native wood notes wild." Even in the highest wrought scenes of tragedy, when the imitation approaches nearest to perfection, the consciousness never deserts the heart that it is a fiction.* It is this inward consciousness which at the same time that the heart abandons itself to grief, and pours out in tears its virtuous sensibilities, so softens and assuages our sorrows, as to prevent them from rending and overwhelming the bosom, and renders the indulgence of emotions, thus mitigated, altogether delightful. If they could be conceived to be completely real, our pains in the indulgence of such sympathies, would become too sharp to be endured. We should fly from such unmitigated anguish. Who would croud the theatre, evening after evening, to see a real Othello, from the impulses of a furious jealousy put his Desdemona to death, or witness the touching madness of Ophelia, which would make every fibre of the heart, vibrate with agony, or weep at the expiring anguish of a Hamlet or a Cato? The people may, for a few instances, be attracted by curiosity to see the last dying struggles of the wretch who is condemned to death, and in the days of Greece and Rome, or those of tilts and tournaments, in later periods, they might derive a degree of satisfaction, from witnessing in their amphitheatre those contests in their games which terminated fatally. Their pleasure arose, on these occasions, much more from witnessing the feats of prowess and martial address in the combatants, than from their fatal terminations. But could it ever be made the favourite amusement of the people to see man

*During the representation of a tragedy," says professor Stewart, "I acknowledge, that we have a general conviction that the whole is a fiction, but I believe, it will be found, that the violent emotions which are sometimes produced by the distresses of the stage, take their rise, in most cases, from a momentary belief, that the distresses are real."

kind butcher each other from the influence of those malignant passions, whose direful conflicts it is the province of the drama to portray? Who would have taken pleasure in being a spectator of the scenes which passed in Rome in the times of proscription by Sylla and Marius, or in the civil wars of Pompey and Cæsar, or in the sanguinary days of Robespierre and Marat during the French revolution? And yet all these transactions furnish interesting matter for the tragic muse, and when represented upon the stage afford a high degree of enjoyment; and such is the mysterious con stitution of our nature, that while the real action of these scenes would greatly shock and offend us; in the representation, the nearer the imitation approaches to reality, the more exquisite is the pleasure we derive from it. In the exhibition of such matters upon the stage, there appears to be just enough of similitude to facts which really take place to awake our virtuous sympathies, and not enough to torture and rend the heart with real agony. Besides the enjoyment we derive from simple imitation, which is always agreeable, we se cretly applaud ourselves for the generous sensibility of which we are conscious, and this consideration serves also to en hance our enjoyment on such occasions. We look upon the distortions of countenance in the Laocoon, and the features of the dying Gladiator with delight, as displaying the exquisite skill of the artist, and an exact representation of nature; but who would take pleasure in having such objects presented to him in real life? That, therefore, which would be most shocking, and even revolting to the feelings in real life, may by the skill of the poet, the orator, or artist, be converted into a source of the most refined satisfaction.

Mr. Burke, in his excellent Treatise upon the Sublime and Beautiful, in the main agrees with the opinions I have expressed above. "In imitated distresses," says he," the only difference is the pleasure resulting from the effects of imitation; for it is never so perfect, but we can perceive it is imitation,

and on that principle are somewhat pleased with it. And, indeed, in some cases, we derive as much or more pleasure from that source, than from the thing itself. But, then, I imagine, we shall be much mistaken, if we attribute any considerable part of our satisfaction in tragedy to the consideration that tragedy is a deceit, and its representations no realities. The nearer it approaches to reality, and the further it removes us from all idea of fiction, the more perfect is its power. But be its power of what kind it will, it never approaches to what it represents. Choose a day on which to represent the most sublime and affecting tragedy we have; appoint the most favourite actors; spare no cost upon the scenes and decorations; unite the greatest efforts of poetry, painting, and music; and when you have collected your audience, just at the moment when their minds are erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state criminal of high rank is on the point of being executed in the adjoining square; in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the comparative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph of the real sympathy." These doctrines are just, and in exact correspondence to those which we have before stated. But in regard to the last sentiment expressed by the ingenious author, there can be no doubt that, on any single occasion, the theatre would be deserted, however high might be the expectations of the audience, if it were reported that a criminal of high rank was to be executed in the adjoining square; but in order fairly to test the matter, suppose the same scene should be repeated in the square adjoining the theatre throughout a whole season, would the real or fictitious tragedy be most sedulously attended? I think scarcely any one can entertain a doubt on the subject. Men would be attracted by curiosity as well as sympathy, to witness a few executions of state criminals; but they would soon find their appetite for such an indulgence, if it be one, cloyed by repetition, and these scenes become too