^^.3 TRANSACTIONS OP THE MOYAIL imiSH ACABEMir. VOL. XII. ^ KT., A ^. late, relative to Uack Horizon Glass opposite S- CONTENTS. SCIENCE. Page I. AN Explanation of the Method of Adjustment of the JRac.k Horizon Glass of Hadleys Quadrant, by two near objects; also a Description of a Projected Ad- dition to the Quadrant for refecting that Adjustment, according to the Method of Mr. Blair. By the Rev. James Little. - - .'3 II. Two proofs of the Binomial Theorem^ by the Rev. Samuel Vince, A. M. F. R. S. Flumian Professor of Astronomy and Experimental Philosophy, in the Uni- versity of Cambridge. — Communicated by the Rev. J. Brinkley - - 31 III. On certain Properties of Numbers, by the Rev. Samuel Vince, A. M. F. R. S. and Plumian Professor of As- stronojny in the University of Cambridge. — Communi- cated by the Rev. J. Brinkley - 31 IV. An Account of a very remarkable Water Spout, which appeared at Ramsgate, July Kith, 1810, — by the Rev, S. Vince, A. M. F. R. S. Plumian Professor of Astro- nonu) in the University of Cambridge. Communicated by the Rev. J. Brinkley - - -29 b . . ' / IV Pag«5 V. An Account of Observations made at the Observatory of Trinity College, Dublin, zmth an Astronomical Circle^ eight feet in diameter, which appear to point out an Annual Parallax in certain fixed Stars. Also a Catalogue of l^orth Polar distances of forty - seven principal fixed Stars, from recent observations, and a comparison thereof with those of the same Stars, obtained by other Instruments, and by the same InstrU' ment, at a former period. By John Brinkley, JJ. D. M. R. I. A. F. R. S. and Andrews' Professor of As- tronomy in the University of Dublin - *S5 VI. Analytical Investigations respecting Astronomical Re- fractions, and the application thereof to the formation of convenient Tables, together with the results of ob- servations of Circumpolar Stars, tending to illustrate the Theory of Refractions. By John Brinkley, D. D. M. R. I. A. F. R. S. and Andi-ews' Professor of As- tronomy in the Univcrify of Dublin - 77 VII. Appendix to the Account of Observations tnade at the Observatory of Trinity College, Dublin, which appear to point out an Annual Parallax in certain fixed Stars, i}c. ^-c. By the Rev. J. Brinkley, D. D. F. R. S. M. R. I. A. and Andrews' Professor of Astronomy in the University of Dublin - J19 * The folio of this page, and the seven subsequent ones, are, by an error of the press, duplicates of the folios of the eight preceding pngcs. POLITE LITERATURE. Page I. AN Essay on the subject proposed by the Royal Irish Aca- demyy viz. " Whether, and how far, the Pursuits of Scientific and Polite Literature, assist, or obstruct each other." A prize Essay. By William Phelan, Esq. A. B. T. C. D. - - 3 II. An Essay on the subject proposed by the Royal Irish Academy viz. " on the Influence of Fictitious History on Modern Manners." A prize Essay. By Miss Har- riet Kiernan - - 61 III. An Essay on the question proposed by the Royal Irish Academy, viz. " on the Influence of Habit, considered in conjunction with the Love of Novelty." A prize Essay. By Andrew Carmichael, Esq. M. R. I. A. 99 IV. An Essay on the Invention of Alphabetic Wi'iting. By Andrew Carmichael, Esq. M. R. I. A. 168 SCIENCE. VOL. xir. '■--So ' .wDiVju. AN EXPLANATION OF THE METHOD OF ADJUSTMENT OF THE OF HADLEY'S QUADRANT, BY TWO NEAR OBJECTS : ^I'P Ui.. ALSO A DESCRIPTION OF A PROJECTED ADDITION TO THE QUADRANT^.,' / 50H REFLECTING THAT ADJUSTMENT ACCOKDING TO THE METHOD OF MR. BLATR,, BY THE REV. JAMES LITTLE. ■^ca^^id^O^^^ ,Rcad, January 28th, 1811. How desirable as well as difficult it is, to adjust on every occasion the Back Horizon Glass of Hadley's Quadrant with necessary precision, is declared by the many different con- trivances which have been suggested for that purpose ; and this I hope will procure an indulgent approbation of the pre-^ sent, as well as the future, attempts that may be made for that end, till it shall be accomplished in every manner de- sirable. The mode of its adjustment, by two near objects,, has been described by the late Rev. Mr. Ludlam in his trea- tise on the quadrant ; and it may b}' this be accurately per- formed, if executed with due and intelligent attention to the. » B 2 requisite circumstances : but as neither Mr. Ludlam, nor any other person that I know, has explained the grounds of the directions he has given ; and as these directions will pro- bably be applied in an unskilful and negligent manner, un- less it be generally understood and impressed of what im- portance they are : as moreover this is the method, at least the most generally practicable, of adjusting the back hor". glass, as well as of trying the accuracy of the construc- tion of the quadrant for effectiug it in Mr. Blair's method ; and is also subservient to the contrivance hereafter men- tioned for accomplishing it in the same Avay ; it is necessary, before I proceed to the description of it, to state the prin- ciples on which Mr. Ludlams judicious instructions are founded. He directs that the back horizon glass may be adjusted at i-ight angles to the index glass, by the means of two near objects, such as two lines sustaining plummets in water, or two candles *, &c. lying in the plane of the quadrant placed horizontal, and in a line joining the objects equidist- ant from the quad'.; one of them being before, and the other behind the observer; by reversing the instrument by 'turning it half round in its own plane, and shifting its posi- tion laterally on cither sidc^ till the images of the two objects are seen, through the back sight vane, to coincide, when each of them alternately is viewed by the observer, by di- • WTien plummets are used, they must bo placed at opposite doors or windows against the light of the sky: and if candles be employed, their light should he seen tlirough a small slit in a screen placed before each. *. \ a72 OT J.l£. del. SinJitfrV- / ^<:.:cA.r > Fi^. S i ^y Al/Ai \f> 9 • k \s -^-^ ■^ 9lt' rect vision after a half turn of the instrument; the index fixed at 0, and the back horizon glass shifted, till the images are brought to coincide, whichsoever of them be viewed directly. The quadrant is to be supported on a moveable stand, on the points of two erected pins fixed on the stand, inserted into two conical holes made in the middle of the heads of the screw pins in the back of the instrument, which fasten the central pins supporting the index and the back horizon glass j the placing the respective glasses alternately on these points, in the manner represented in fig. ]., will veveree the quadrant, by giving it just a semicircular mo- tion in its own plane. The manner of performing this ad- justment has been fully described b}' Mr. Liicllam, to whom I refer; but as I have seen no demonstration of its accuracy, 1 give the following proof of it ; assuming the established optical principles. Let A P Q (fig. 1.), be the octant, fixed on two points ^mder the centres of the index glass A, and the back hori- zon glass B, or any two other fixed points ; and let C and c be the two candles or objects by which the glass B is to be adjusted. The image of the object C will be seen by the eye E, looking through the sight vane, coincident with the object c, when the stand of the quadrant is properly placed, by the ray E B, parallel to A C, if the glasses are at right angles. Let the quadrant now be turned half round, and placed on the points in the position a p q ; and if the back horizon glass is properly adjusted, then the eye -looking 6 *^; " ' through the vane at e, will see the reflected image of tiie object c coincident with the object C : because in these dif- ferent positions of the quadrant, the incident rays become the reflected ones, and vice versa ; and the index glass in the 2ad position a, will be parallel to the same, as it was in the 1st position A ; as also the horizon glass b to B. But if the speculums A and B were not rightly adjusted at right angles to each other, the reflected ray B E \a the former position of the quadrant would not he parallel to the incident ray C A, but these rays would make an angle, equal, (suppose) to £ B M (or E B N) ; and consequently this B M (or B NJ is the reflected ray, by which, and in the direction of which, the image of the object C is seen : then the object c must be placed at m (or n) in order to coin- cide with the image of C, which appears only in the direc- tion of M B (or N S), f,et them coincide in m ; and let the quadrant no^v be turned half round, and put into the position a p q ; in which the glasses a and A, and b and B are parallel : the angle of incidence is now one half of the angle m a d greater than half c a A or CAB by the angle c a m; so that the reflected ray ad will fall without the angle cab', and will therefore either fall quite without the hori- zon glass b, or at least at a distance from its centre : in the former case the image of c would not be seen by the eye at c at all, unless the index glass were so long, and the object c so near, that a ray in g could fall on it in an angle so much less than the half of /« a d, as that the reflected ray g h would fall on the glass b, and be again reflected to the eye at e.* But if the rays forming the ijnage are reflected from the middle part only of the mirrors, the image of m orn could not be seen to coincide with C by the eye at e ; for if the incident ray were different from c «, as suppose m a, the re- * Int)rder to understand the theory of the reflection of the rays forming the image seen in the back horizon glass, the following circumstances are to be considered : 1st, Because the speculum b is parallel to B, whatever inclination B has, which di" verts the image of the object C from the point c to m, the same inclination 6 also has, tending to divert the image of c to o, let the reflected rays g b or ad fall where they will on the speculum, or with whatever inclination. 2d, If the mirrors were at right angles, the rays m a, m g would be reflected from the mirror b, in a direction parallel to themselves, i. e. the ray m a falling on the point d ill the mirror ft, would be reflected in d o parallel to m a; and the ray m g falling on h, in the mirror b, would be reflected in h i parallel to m g : but when the mirrors are inclined to each 6ther, the rays d o , and h i will decline from such parallelism in an angle equal to c am double the inclination of the mirrors. 3d, When the angle cam exceeds the angle a m g subtended by half the length of the mirror a, by a difference equal to, or exceeding the angle, subtended by half the length of the horizon glass at the middle of the index glass ; all the rays reflected from the latter will fall without the horizon glass, and not be reflected by it ; but when the angle c a m is less than this, some of the rays incident on the index mirror a, will fall from it on the mirror b, and be again reflected : and since the object c or m is so near that there is a considerable diffierence in the incidences of the rays diverging from it on the mirror a, from the point a to g, (the greatest difi'ereuce equal to a »i g), and the same in the reflections from the mirror 6, the image of the object c placed at m, may be seen in different places by some of the rays diverging from this mirror. 4th, The diffierence of the incidences of the jays m a and mg is that of their reflec- tions in a d and g h ; and the difference of the incidei»ces of a d and g h will be that of their reflections from the mirror b ; and the angular motion of the speculum b will be half of either these or those, in order to its reflecting one of these rays in the same di- rection in which the other liad been reflected. W' 8 fleeted raj would be difFerent from a h', i. e. it would not fall on the speculum in the point b, nor consequently be seen< (by the eye at e), to coincide with C ; but would fall without a b as at d, and would be reflected in do; in which direc- tion the image would be seen, and would be painted in the bottom of the eye, in a different place from that of the di- rect image of C; so that these images would be divaricated ; and it would be necessary to make them unite, by givino- such a motion to the little mirror, as would have made the first reflected ray B E parallel to the incident ray C A , by which the first image would be transferred from vi to c, and the second image from o to the eye at e. In the same manner it may be shewn, that if the second reflected ray tended to any point N on the other side of the line B E, from an inclination of the speculum B on the other side, there would be a divarication of the images to the eye at e, till such inclination of the glass was removed. It also appears that the objects C and c, by which the ad- justment is made, may be placed very near the instrument, provided the reflection be made from the middle part only of the glasses, especially of the index-glass, the incidence of rays being difFerent in different parts of it; for unless the sight vane or eye hole for the little mirror, be large, so as that tiie eye could shift across the vane the axis of vision, which ought to be fixed, or the hole be very near the mirror; the image, if reflected from a part of it distant from the middle, would yet not appear coincident with the object seen 9 . directly through the middle, so as to prevent the separation of the images ; because when the rays which form both imafes, cross one another, and proceed in different direc- tions, though they should even cross in the same point in the mirror, yet they will penetrate the eye diverging, and form different images on the retina. But if the image may be seen by reflection from any part of the index-glass a, the angle of incidence of a ray m g, (of the near object c re- moved to m,) falling on that glass at a point g distant from its middle point a, will be less than that of a ray incident on the point a, by the angle a m g: (for if the line a g were produced, the external angle at g would be equal to the angle at a and also to a m g together ; and therefore as much as the external angle at g is encreased above that at a, as falling toward a perpendicular from m to the line ag (El. 1. 32. cor.) the internal one, or the angle made with the mirror, is diminished ;) but if the incidences on a and g were equal, the reflections would be so too ; i. e. both m a and m g, and also ad and gh would be parallel ; which is the case when the object is very remote, the angle a m g then vanishing. Also since by reflection from any number of plane mirrors, the direction of the rays is changed, but not their inclination to each other, the ang. am g made by the rays incident on the index-glass, will be likewise the measure of their divergence reflected from the horizon glass. * If therefore the glasses * The angle b a d h equal to c a m, and the angle made by e J and o d is equal to either ; and au angular motion of the speculum 6 equal to half of any of these VOL. XII. C 10 are uncovered, the eye may see the image of w, (by rays in*- cident on a and g in the mirror a, and on d and h in the mirror 6,) in different places, whose angular distance is amg; and if the sight vane or hole at e be of any breadth, the second reflected image may be seen in two extreme places, whose distance will be as near to that anglie as the breadth of the vane and of the horizon glass will allow, and it may be also seen coincident with the direct image C, because the unsilvered part of the glass b extends- across its whole breadth, so that in whatever part of it the reflected image appears, the sight may be directed through that part to C. * angles would make do issue parallel to be;- But if tHe speculums were uncovered, thedif. ference only of the angles amg and cam would require to be corrected by an angular motion of the speculum b,. which would be half of this difference ; and this being done the image of m would be seen in the direction ft e by the ray m g, wliile the same image' would be visible at an angular distance equal to a m g, by the ray m a; so that the image of c or m might be- seen in different places under the same inclination of the glasses; i. e. the adjustment would be uncertain.. * To shew that what is here stated is applicable to observations made with the quadrant, let d (fig, 2.) be a luminous body, from which light falls on the mirror a b with an angle of incidence «f/ e : its image will be visible to an eye at e in the direction e/, when the angle efc is equal to c/rf; Let the mirror be turned on its axis/, carrying the perpendicular/ c with it : when this has arrived to the position/g-, the angle of incidence will be encreased hy cfg; and the angle of reflection must be augmented by the same, so as now to be equal to dfg: if therefore the image is to be seen still in the point /i and no other point in the speculum, the eye must be placedat A ; when g-/A will be equal to g f d; in which case the angle efh will be equal to twice tjie angular motion af i of the speculum, or of its perpendicular c/, which is the same ; i. e. ef h will be equal to twice cfg. If the eye may be shifted, from the place h to a different place, as n, by looking through a hole or vane, whose breadth is equal to the interval h n, the imag»^ of the object d may be seen by reflection from the mirror i A: in a different place or di- 11 From this it appears, that to adjust the horizon glass pro- perly by two near objects, the face of both mirrors should be covered, except the middle parts only, or means must be used to view the images by those rays only, which are inci- dent on the middle of both mirrors But if according to Mr. Ludlam's direction, the object C be seen directly through the middle of the glass ft, and if the image of no other part of the glass a, but its middle part also, can be seen by re- flection from the middle of the mirror b; then no rays inci- dent on any other part g of the index glass could be seen to coincide with the object C. Suppose this to be effected as Mr. Ludlam directs, by covering the index glass with a piece of card-paper, equal in size to itself, and lying close to it, having a black line marked on the middle perpendicular to the plane of the instrument : and the whole card to be made visible in the horizon glass h, and the black line to appear in rectioB n m, visible iu the mirror not in the place/, but in m, by a ray dm, reflected in w» n, making an angle with the former line of vision /A equal to the angle/ rf in ; and as the eye shifts along the interval h n, carrying with it the axis of vision through the dif- ferent points in that interval, tlie line of direction of the image, or its visible place will also shift through the interval/ m in the mirror with an angular motion tinally equal to the angle/ rf m. Hence the place of a very near object seen by reflection from a mirror through a vane, also very close to the mirror as in the back observation for this adjust- ment, may be very inaccurately determined, unless it be seen only in that place or spot in the mirror from which spot the image had been reflected in a reversed position of the quadrant in the adjustment. When the object d is so remote, that the angle/ d m be- comes insensibly small, tben the apparent place of the image will be the same, in what- ever part of / m in the mirror it is seen reflected from : but when the object is near, since the axis of vision cannot be fixed by contracting the eye-hole to a point, the images must be seen iu the same place iu the mirror. c 2 appear in the middle oft, through which the object C is seen directly. As the whole card covering the mirror a, is seen equidistant from the extremities of b, every point in the surface of a, and consequently every ray reflected from such point, must be in the same manner seen to preserve their re- lative positions, and as the picture of a seen in b, should occupy nearly its whole surface ; the extremities of a, or any rays reflected from such extremities, could not be seen in the centre of b; but if the objects C and c, being small, could not subtend at the eye so great a space as the whole mirror a, the image of c would cover but a small part of the image of a ; and if that image proceeded by reflection not from the centre, but the extremity of a, it would be visible in the extremity of the image of a as seen in b; i. e. at a distance from the centre of b, (and consequently remote from the image of C ;) if it were seen in the centre of 6, it must be reflected from the centre of a; but if the whole surface of a were not apparently coincident with that of b, this might not be the case. Hence appears the justness of Mr. Ludlam's direction^ that the centres of both mirrors should be seen to coincide in the horizon glass with the object seen directly ; for the images can appear thus, in both positions of the quadrant coincident only under a certain and invariable position of the specula, though their whole surfaces were uncevered ; it is hard however to distinguish by the eye what is the IS middle part ofi the back horizon glass. * By the glass herein- after proposed to be used for Mr. Blair's adjustment, instead of the polished edge of the index glass, the beam of light is reflected to the eye undivided, which Avill allow the axis of vision to pass through the axis of the back horizon glass ; as it ought to do, whether for adjustment of this glass, or for taking angles ; and as the axis of vision cannot be the same * Tliis glass lies so obliqueto the eye, that I thiak it yet remains to be enquired what is to be considered as its middle part, whether the middle of the fore or back surface or the middle of its substance, or lastly that ppiut in the Siinie, -which is the vertex of tiie angle made by the incident ray with the sanre refracted by its fore surface after re- flection from its silvered surface* . It would appear to me of litlle moment, which of the two beams of light, proceeding, singly from the middle of the index-glass, and re_ fleeted double from the two surfaces of the horizon glass, be chosen for adjustment as the fixed axis of vision, (for both cannot be iudiscriminatejy used, as emerging from dif- ferent parts of the glass,) provided the reflected image be seen only by the same beam, , issuing from the same part of the horizon glass in all reversals of the quadrant ; were it not that the axis of vision ought to pass through the middle or axis of the glass, for the convenience of direct as well as reflex vision ; according to which the reflected ray cannot, in the oblique position of the glass, impinge on the middle of either sur- face ; but must be made (by turning the instrument in its plane, and placing the sight vane properly,) to fall on its fore surface between the middle of it, and the edge next the eye, if the reflection is to be made from the fore surface; and between the middle and the remote edge, if the image reflected from the back surface is to be seen. The proper place for reflection in the designed axis of vision, may be marked on the face of the glass, by sticking to it a fine waxed thread; and thea the black line on the card before mentioned, covering the face of the index^lass, (or such another thread fixed along the middle of it,) must be made to coincide with this thread in every posi- tion of the quadrant for this adjustment; and as two images of the line will appear from the two surfaces, one only of them must be invariably used : the card to be removed im. order to view the objects, when the line on it is made coincident with the thread. 14 • for both these, since the incidence of the rays from the middle, and of those from the normal edge of the index glass on the horizon glass, is different ; so the position of the back sight vane, and the position and direction of a tele- scope, (if one be used,) must be altered for these different purposes. The vane may, without moving its support, have its position changed, by having the eye hole.made in a little 'moveable plate fastened on the support ; but a complicated motion would be requisite for the telescope, to place it in the best manner for each of the above intentions. If it is expected to answer by only a circular motion of its upright stand, changing its direction, without moving it from its place, the stand should be placed as near as possible to the back horizon glass ; for the farther it is removed from it, the more distant in one of its two positions will its axis be from the axis of that glass. To ascertain the direction of the sight and of the telescope in making an observation by the edge of the .index-glass, or of the glass here to be proposed for. the same purpose, let a moveable rule or square, perpendicular to the face of the quadrant, be applied to the farther side of the quadrant opposite to the back horizon glass; and when the direct and reflected images are brought to unite, as the eye looks through the axis of the glass, let the rule be shifted, till its edge is made to appear in the place of their coincidence. ^If then a mark be made on the side of the quadrant at the edge of the rule, a line drawn from the mark through the axis of '15 the horizon glass, will point out the axis of visfon and direc- tion of the telescope. If the position of the latter be wrong, the observations will be erroneous, unless Mr. Hadley's cor- rection be applied. * If the object which bj the eye at JE is seen in m, i. e. the object c removed to m, were to be brought to appear to the eye at e to coincide with C, by giving the mirror h an angular motion sufficient for thisj such motion would be too great ; for then the incident ray ma, and the reflected ray 6 €\ would not be parallel, nor consequently the glasses perpendicular: only half this motioH must be given, and then the stand changed, or the object w moved to c, till the object and image are made to unite; (it being the same in effect, whe*- ther the stand be moved toward the object, or line joining the objects, or the object toward the stand) ; and then the qua^ drant must be turned half round to its first position, and the images brought half way together by turning the horizon glass and united as before: this- to be repeated atevery semirevolu- tion, so often as necessary, till the adjustment of the horizon glass is perfected'. When the objects C &cc are very distant, a small removal of the quadrant to the right or left of a line joining the objects^ * Whether the eye, which- is itself a telescope, and with a large aperture, ever re- quires a correction of this sort, when it looks through a sight vane,, is not questioned ; nor whether it views any thing obliquely ; i. e. whether its axis be always the axis of its vision ; but enough is said here to shew the errors that may arise in some cases, from looking through an eytj hole or vane of too great magnitude; and these errors would not be corrected by using, a telescope, unless Mr. Hadley's correction, (in hia- ith corollary,) were applied. 16 will make no sensible difference in the angle of incidence and reflection of the rays, nor consequently alter the place of the images, as would be the case if the objects were near. If the quadrant, instead of being turned half round from the position A F Q to ap q^ were to be so inverted, that tlie in- dex and horizon glasses A and B should be placed on the lines E c, C e, the adjustment could not be made, unless the ob- jects were so remote, that the interval between the glasses would make an insensible angle at either of the objects, and that any little motion on either side of a line joining the objects, which might accidentally be given in reversing the quadrant, would cause likewise only an imperceptible divari- cation of the images. For if the quadrant were to be turned upside down, and so that the centres of the mirror would fall on the lines C c, E c as before, the centre A on D, and B on F ; then the angle of incidence of a ray falling from C on Dy would be different from that of a ray from C on A ; it would therefore not be reflected to F ; so that it would be necessary to turn the instrument in its plane, in order to make the image of C be visible in the horizon glass ; by which the glasses in the 2d. position would not be parallel to them- selves as they were in the 1st. nor is there any certain posi- tion in which they could be placed, as this will depend on the distance of the objects. So that the horizon glass cannot be adjusted by reversing the face of the octant, unless the objects by which this is to be done, are so far removed, that the distance between the glasses subtends at them an imper- 17 ceptible angle'; which Mr. Ludlam says will be, when thej are removed at least half a mile oft": * and for the same rea- sons, the adjustment cannot be made by the observer's turn-; ing himself half round with the instrument, without revers- ing it, unless the objects arc at a distance as great as this, if it be not fixed on the same points, as above directed ; by which alone the parallelism of the glasses is preserved, and also the same incidences and reflections, which are only ex- changed one for the other by a half turn of the instrument ; so that when the horizon glass is rightly adjusted, the direct and reflected images are reciprocally visible and coincident. By this mode of adjusting the back horizon glass, by placing the quadrant on two fixed points between two near objects, a contrivance is made practicable, of using with full advan- tage the excellent method proposed by Mr. Blair of adjust- ing it at all times, by placing it parallel to a reflecting plane perpendicular to the index glass : for ascertaining which per- pendicularity, the above mode of adjustment is necessary; as Avithout knowing and making allowance for any deviation from it, in all observations taken, they would all be erroneous ; wdiich circumstance, as also this adjustment being the test of the accuracy of the addition, which I am to propose to the furniture of the quadrant, is the reason why 1 have been so diffuse in the explanation of this method. The reflecting plane Mr. Blair proposed to be formed of t This depends on the magnifying power of the telescope, and the snjallness of the ang. it will render disccrnable. VOL. XII. D 18 the lower edge of the index glass itself, by grinding and po- lishing this edge perpendicular to the plane of the glass. The adjustment would be thus rendered admirably easy and certain, if the edge of the glass be formed perfectly plane and truly at right angles to it's face ; were it not that this edge is neces- sarily ,so narrow, as not to afford a sufficient field of view to the observer, for distinguishing the object by which the ad- justment is to be made : for the rays fall on the edge of the mirror so obliquely (making an angle with the plane of the edge, of no more than about 21 or 22 degrees, and forming oii the back horizon glass an image equal in breadth, on its oblique surface, to the edge), that if the index glass were so great as half an inch in thickness, its edge would subtend at the eye near the horizon glass an optic angle of about 85 mi- nutes ; and if its thickness be, as usual, 1th of an inch, it would take in a field of only about 20 minutes; which is too small to distinguish with ease the terrestrial objects to be viewed, though it would serve with difficulty for adjustment by the contact of the edges of the direct and reflected imaires of the sun or moon : this however it would do with all facility, if the thicknesses of the index and horizon glasses were such, and so proportioned to each other, that the image of the former might be reflected from the fore and back surfaces of the back horizon glass, single, so as to form one image of double breadth, by the double reflection : for which purpose the buck horizon glass must be very thin, and the index glass too thick; as otherwise the image from the under surface of 19 the former would emerge at a distance from that reflected from its face ; and the interval would to the naked eye ap- pear like a shaded list, preventing the contact of the images observed from being seen by the double reflection, and con- fining the field to one of the images emerging from one sur- face of the glass ; which will be as contracted as above stated.* However, as it will always be easier and more * This will readily ai)pear on inspection of Fig. 3 : in which A is the index glass, and B the back horizon glass, placed at right angles to each other ; each glass being Jth ^ of an inch in thickness : on which a beam of light a b, proceeding from a remote object S, is incident on the edge of the mirror A, in an angle with the plane of the edge of about 22 degrees, being the complement of the angle of incidence on the same ; which in the quadrant is generally about at least 68 degrees: from which edge it is reflected to the glass B, and reflected again'from both surfaces of the same; the extreme rays a and h of the beam of light, being throughout its progress, distinguished by the same letters ; and those reflected from the back surface marked a 2, and h 2 : their course (as the fig. itself will shew), is traced with sufficient exactness; from which it appears, that the beam of light a b, contracted by reflection from the mirror A to the li^Xh part of an inch in breadth, preserves the same dimension till it enters the eye ; both in the beam *■, reflected from the anterior surface of the glass B, and in the beam 2 reflected from its back surface: for though this latter is diff"used when it has penetrated the surface of the glass, it is again contracted on emerging from it ; and is, as reflected from both sur- faces, become a double and divided beam, the interval between both its parts being al- most the thickness of each of them, which is equal to the sine of 22 degrees to a radius jth of an inch : and if the thickness of the index glass were to that of the horizon glass, as the sine of the refraction of the rays to its cosine, the interval between the beams would be equal to the breadth of either. To fill up the vacuity of the reflected light in this interval, by making the beams x and z issue contiguous, the thickness of the index glass must be to tliat of the horizon glass, as double the sine of refraction, to the cosine : tliis may be made evident as follows. Let tiie beam of light a b (fig. 4.), be reflected from the edge of the index glass A t» D 2 20 pleasant to adjust by Mr. Blair's method, when the eyo takes in a sufficient field of view ; and moreover as not every where a quadrant can be procured, furnished with an index tlie horizon glass D, iu tlie same manner, and with the same incidences, refractions and reflections as in fig. 3 ; on the mirror C it will occupy a space / /, equal to the breadth of the edge of the mirror A ; and will cover the equal space It r, on the back surface of the mirror B ; after reflection from which, it will be refracted in the surface Ik, enier,r;ing in the beam z; the several rays iu this beam issuing at distances from / toward k, equal to the distances of their first incidence from i toward 1; the last ray b i emerging coincident with the ray I a: so that if the beam x did not fill the space i I, the beam s would not fill the space k I, but would leave an interval next to /equal to the deficiency toward i. Let the line p r be drawn perpendicular to the mirror, bisecting the line / 1, and the angle of incidence and reflection / r i, and parallel to c # the cosine of the angle of re- fraction n I s, which angle is equal to c s I. In the similar triangles s c I, r p i, the side r p, the thickness of the mirror B, is to p i half the thickness of the mirror ^, as « c the cosine of the angle of refraction, to c i or s n the sine of the same ; so that when the thick- ness of the mirror B, is p r the cosine of refraction, the thickness of the mirror A must be double of p i the sine of the same angle. Now to make the index mirror of so great thickness may produce a small inaccuracy, when angular distances are to be taken bc- ,tween very near objects, at which a small part of the length of this mirror would subtend a perceptible angle; for the thicker the glass is, and the greater the complement of the angle observed, the greater intervals on its surface will there be between the places of iucidence and emergence of the rays forming the reflected images; which will therefore be seen, sometimes by rays issuing from the middle of this mirror, and sometimes by rays distant from the same : from which variation I have above stated the errors that may arise: and because every minutia in the construction or use of this admirable instrument is deserving attention, it may be worth while to shew the manner in which this hap- pens. Let I G (fig. .5.) be the index glass, in its position when the index is at o, and //the ttorizon glass at right angles to it ; its adjustment being made by the reflected image of an object .V, seen by the eye at E to coincide with another opposite object visible in the direction E //. The image of S is conveyed to the eye by the ray S A refracted in A C, 21 mirror, whose edge is grouiid accaratel}' at right angles to its plane, and the edge also set up perpendicular to theplaneof the instrument; (for which the purchaser must generally rely on reflected from C to B, thence refracterl again in B 11, and reflected by the mirror 7/' in // E parallel to S A. Since the mirror //, and the axis of vision E H are fixed, the ray a fj K also fixed, in all observations taken; and every object must be seen by rays nl- timately coincident with B H. Suppose it be required to find the angulaV distance of anotlier object s, from the object seen directly in the line E H; and that for this pur- pose, and to make the image of s appear in E H, the index is moved to the position " i g, through half the angular distance SAs of the objects, (the lines SA and EH being supposed the same, and the interval AH to be accounted for) ; then the inwe will be seen by the ray s a, inflected, as before traced, in the lines a c, c b, h H, and HE', and the thickness of the index glass being moderate, there will be an interval between the place of incidence on it of the rays S A and* a, so small as to be imper- ceptible, and to occasion no error. But if the thickness of this mirror were great, as AD ox ad, and the rays to be reflected from D and d; the image of S would be visible by the ray J? j», proceeding in ;> D, D B, B H, and f/\E ; and the image of s by the ray t e, e d, d b, b H, H E. So tlrat when the adjustment was made, by the ray Rj) incident at p ; the object s wouhl afterward be seen, and the angle s A S measured, by the r>y t e, incident at e, considerably distant from p. If the object s was very remote, the rays saand fe would be as it were parallel, and their incidences and course the same ; but if the object s were near, as at r, then the incidences would diflcr, and the error of observation be equal to tlie angle era, so much the greater, as the object is nearer, or ■ as the compIeme«it of the aDgu^dr distance observed is greater: and the same will be the caacin the fore as well as in the back observation; which latter may be made as true as the former, if the line of direction of the sight be accurately fixed, by a long eye-tube, or telescope rightly placed, and if the other requisites above mentioned be observed. Thus though in observing remote objects, and for naulical uses, no iHconvenience will arise from the thickness of tlieindex glass ; (which if it be duly proportioned, as here stated, to that of the horizon glass, and its edge truly formed, is doubtless the best and surest mechanical organ for adjusting the latter); and though no error can hence arise in performing the above described adjustment ; wherein the position of tiie index glass 22 the maker ; and few artists can be furnished with the exqui- site apparatus, which must be employed for effecting tiic former); I think it may be to many desirable to have an to the object is not changed, nor consequently the incidences of the rays on it ; yet in observing very near objects, as the height or angular distances of buildings, offsets in surveys, bearings^ &c. a .great thickness of the index glass will produce a variable error, which though trifling, is unsatisfactory in an instrument, whose general excellence would make one wish it to be exempt from even the smallest imperfection. And this error can be diminished only by choosing such a certain position for the index glass with respect to its centre of motion, as would cause a part of the field of view to be lost in measuring angles but little exceeding 90°, when the rays fall very obliquely on the index glass, and when also the error eucreases, as does the complement of the observed angle to 180 degrees. For the point e (in fig. 5.), can be made to approach to the point j», only as the triangle e d h, which is of given dimensions, shifts toward the mirror H, by its angle b advancing toward it in the line h H, the triangle being moved parallel to itself; by w hich the point h would fall beyond the end of the mirror i g at g, and the field would be contracted. But the face of the mirror et, and consequently the triangle e b d, will be elevated, by advancing toward H, more or less, as the centre of motion of the in- dex is placed farther from, or nearer to, the line p B the face of the index glass : so that the point of incidence of the ray t e cannot fall nearer to that of the ray R p, with- out causing a part of the field to be lost, and this where it is most contracted. It has been made evident here, that if the thickness of die index and horizon glasses be equal, or as formerly in use, there will be an interval between the beams of light re- flected from the opposite surfaces of the Jatfer ; and in this interval the reflected image is not visible to the observer; who can only see there the object directly through the glass: and if he is to view both images coincident, he can only do so in the space filled by the beams ; as in x or 3 fig. 3 ; for if he attempted to make the extremities of the images to coincide at the internal edge of either of the reflected beams, he could not hold the quadrant steady enough to keep them there ; for which purpose it would require to be absolutely immoveable. On these accounts, if advantage is to be taken of the double reflection, (without which the narrowness of either beam of light, and the evanescence of the reflected 2S easy contrivance to be substituted, where required, instead of this operation on the edge of the mirror ; and which can be executed with httle additional labour by any instrument- maker ; so as to afford a sufficient field of view, with a ca- pacity for accurate adjustment. This I have effected by the contrivance of a second small index mirror; requiring only one plane surface, and fixed on the index at right angles to the great mirror ; being totally free and detached from the index mirror, and capable of every adjustment for itself, without interfering with, or impeding any motion requisite for that purpose for the index glass, or altering its position. The following description of such a one, Avhich I have made, will shew that it is a very simple ajid easily fabricated addition to the quadrant. image in their interval of separation, will make the observation witli the naked eye un- certain and troublesome) ; it is neccsary that the light from both surfaces of the glass, should be contiguous, having no interval ; which can only be effected, either by making the index glass almost one quarter of an inch thick, or by reducing the thickness of the horizon glass to less than t'jth of an inch; or by such a mutual compensation of both, as would still leave one as much too thick as the other would be too thin, for the uses above stated: and though this may be remedied, while yet the glasses remain of thcit- due and proper dimensions, by using a telescope, whose aperture is large enough to take in botti beams of the reflected light v/itlt the interval of their separation ; yet in ordinary quadrants, of simpler construction and more moderate price, not designed to be furnished with a telescope, or mirror with a polished edge, I cannot but think that an easy and cheap substitution for both, would, if found to answer, be very useful ; as securing at all times the advantages of Mr. Blair's invention for the back observation, (at least for taking altitudes), to those navigators, who do not furnish themselves with a more perfect and expensive instrument ; as well as to those who on land desire, in sur- veys, to ascertain large angular distances by the quadrant ; or by an artificial horizoa 24 The ichnographical plan and position of both the mirrors is represented in fig. u. as they are fixed on the head of the index. jB is the great mirror, and b is the cock supporting it, with its case ; D the wing or adjusting lever of the cock ; /and g the screws for erecting it perpendicular to the plane of the instrument in the usual manner; and e e are the steady pins in the index fastening the cock ; d d are two pins on which the edge of the mirror rests. A is a round brass plate, with a milled edge of the same size with the head of the index, and with the fig, both being three inches in diameter, and screwed fast to it, concentric with the index, by the four screws s ss s screwed into the in- dex. C is the little mirror screwed to the plate by the screw h passing through the Aving IL of its cock c : it is erected and fastened perpendicular by means of the screws h and i, in the same manner as the mirror B is by the screws y and g: m is a steady pin fastened in the cock c, inserted into a hole in the plate A ', and k another strong steady pin rivetted in the plate, the upper part of which, being cylindrical passes up through a hole in the strong bar or wing E of the cock c, which hole it exactly fills, but allowing the cock to be elevated or depressed a little for adjustment of the mirror, without any angular mo- to take altitudes or angles exceeding 45 degrees, to find the latitude, &c., for whicli the back horizon glass must be used. It is also desirable for the interests of science and navigation, that quadrauts of snfRcieot performance should be made capable of being fabricated in different places. 25 tion about the centre of the index. Thus by the screws A and if and the steady pins k and m, the little mirror is made erect arid fixed on the plate A : it is also set at right angs. to the index mirror B, by loosening a little the screws s s s s, and turn- ing the whole plate A by its milled edge, round its centre on either side, so far as necessary ; and when this is found to be accurately effected, the screws sss-s- are to be again made fast; when the little mirror will be perpendicular both to the plane of the instrument, and also to that of the great mirrors and cannot,^ without suffering violence, alter its position.. This circular motion of the plate A, and of the little mirror fastened to it, is permitted, without communicating any mo- tion or even contact of it, to the index-glass, its cock, steady pins, or screws, by the following contrivance. Through the plate A are cut long holes or slrts, formed as represented in the fig. concentric with it, at the places of the screws s s s s, f, and g, and also at the pins d d and e e . these slits are made just so wide, as that the screws and pins will not touch them, and that the heads of the screws will, when screwed down, press upon the edges of the slits : the slits at e g are not represented in the fig. to avoid confu- sion : the slits at s and g should be so long as to allow the plate A to turn through the space about -~\.\i of an inch on each side of the screws fixed erect; and the slits atdd, e e^ and f, may be shorter, according as they lie nearer the cen-r tre, each slit bounded within the same sector of a circle., VOL. XII^ £ 20 Through these sHts in the plate A, the screws s s s s, f, and ^ g are inserted, and all except g fastened in the head of the index i in which latter, the pins e e penetrate also through the wing D of the cock of the index-glass, to steady it. ^ The edge of the index-glass D rests on the pins d d, which project only so ftir above the surface of the plate J, as to keep the nHr^ and the wing D of its cock clear of it, so as that the plate can turn about under both without touching tliem : and the bar or wing E of the cock c lies about |th of an inch above the wing D, so as to be quite clear of it, and permit adjustment by raising or depressing the wing. It may be supposed that the cock c and its wing E must at first be so formed that the mirror C, when fastened to them, will be nearly at right angles to the mirror J3, when the bar E lies parallel to the index mirror, and the screws, &c. are in the middle of the slits in the plate A ; that a small metion of the plate A on either side, will suffice for an exact adjustment of the mirror C, There is a round hole in the middle of the plate A, a good deal wider than the head of the pin, about which the index turns ; and the plate is made to turn concentric with the pin by a little ring or sock'.'t R, brazed in the hole in the plate, or by an annular ledge formed on it projecting downward below the under surface of the plate about TTth part of an inch. The outside of this projecting ring is to be exactly fitted into a circular groove or cavity formed in the index, so 27 far distant from the head of the pin, that the ring will not touch it, nor affect its motion or position. Tlie cock c and its cap are formed with an indenture in. them, (as in the fig.) at the end of the index-gUiss, in order that the mirror C may He nearer to it, which will allow the little mirror to be made broader, Avithout enlarging the brass plate A and the head of the index ; while the part of the cock not indented may, as well as its wing -E, be mad^ so massive and strong, as not to be bent and strained easily by any accident : a notch is cut in the aide of the bar E at the screw/, to allow this screw to be turned, without touching the bar: thus both the mirrors may be adjusted independent on each other. The little mirror C requires not to be silvered on the back, and consequently its opposite surfaces need not be parallel, so that it may be made of a piece of well polished and plane looking glass, but the polish must be taken away from its back surface by grinding it on a plate with fine emery and water ; and the surface thus made rough should be smeared over with a feather dipt in oil of turpentine mixed with lampblack, to prevent all reflection from that surface. The addition of this mirror to the index adds no trouble to the business of fixing the index-glass: the extra work re- quired is that of the little mirror and of the plate d ; and the fabrication of this plate will be greatly facilitated, if it be cast from a model, in which the slits and perforations, and E 2 28 the central annular ledge, (the former to be of a size a little less than requisite in the. plate when finished,) are already made in their proper places. The plates cast from this model will require no measurement nor piercing, and only want to be filed, turned and polished. The mirror C is to be adjusted by making it, by a fore ob- servation, parallel to the back horizon glass, by turning with the left hand the plate A by its milled edge, till the images of the object viewed are seen to coincide ; and then fastening the plate A to the index by the screws s s s 5 : it follows, that the back horizon glass must itself be for this purpose previ- ously adjusted at right angles to the index-glass, in the way before mentioned, Avhich may always on land be easily per- formed. And I should imagine that even atsea, when the sea is calm, it might perhaps be practicable, by fixing up two papers, with a black line drawn vertically on each, on the adja- cent sides of two masts of the ship ; by which lines, the qua- drant fixed on two points of a moveable stand, placed on deck between the two masts, may have the back horizon glass ad- justed as above, in order by this means to try at any time whe- ther the little mirror C has its adjustment altered i which, however, must be very unlikely to happen, especially if the contiguous sides of the plate A and of the index be not po- lished, lest the plate should slide on the index. At other times the back horizon glass is to be adjusted by the mirror C, supposed to be itself right in position ; and indeed considering that this mirror is not, as the horizon glasses are, rested on the 39 points of two pins like a lever, and that these glasses are moved and secured, not by the outer edges of the circular plates of their frames, but by the small axes of those plates, very near the centres of their motion ; whereas the mirror C is fastened firmly on a broad plate, screwed tight near its margin by 4 screws to the head of the index, it is not easy to conceive how it can alter its adjustment ; though from the above mode commonly in use for fixing the horizon glasses, it is not unaccountable why they should frequently do so, not being fastened by the margins of their frames. These frames, however, are sometimes moved by endless screws playing ia their ratched edges ; and this construction when well executed, is much better than the former. Read 21st May, 1810. Two Proofs of the BmOMIAL THEOREM, hj the REV. SAMUEL VINCEy A.M.F.R.S. Plumian Professor of Astronomy and experimental Philosophy, in the University of Cambridge Eead May, 1810 When n is a whole positive number, it is proved bjr common algebra, that (Ifo;) " = 1 + w* + n. -==ii?^ + - - -n. "-=i "idtlx'+ &c. Now if this be not true when w is a fraction, let the general co-efficient be C + w. ~- "-^^ .r'. Then the quan- tity C must vanish when w=l,2, oo. Now as C is expressed in terms of w and given co-efficients, it must alv^ays be of the same form whatever n is, and, as it must vanish Avhen w— I, 2, oo, it must be represented by ^^ ^ n ix n 2 X n — 00—^^(7/ — an~\+ &c.) where r is infinite j this therefore must be the value of C. But when n is a fraction, this value of C becomes infinite, which it cannot be, and as no other value of C can enter in addition, but this, the gene- ral value of the co-efficient of x can be no other than n. n — 1 n — r-\- X 3 ITi-EM ALITER. Let n and s be indefinitely great, whole, positive numbers, 80 that -7- may represent any fraction ; then by common algebra (i + ^)-= i+nsx + ns^-f^'+ScciP') {i + x)" = J+nx 4. n.^x^+ Stc. (P). Now it is proved in my Fluxions, that (i+a)— may be represented by a series of the form 1 + cf.r 4. ijr + &c. (P)— , where the form of the series in respect to x is the same as that of the above series ; we have therefore only to consider what is the relation of the corres- ponding co-efficients. Now the series (P') and (P) are ex- actly of the same form in every respect, the factor ns in the former being represented by n in the latter. If therefore we perform the same operation on these two series, the re- sults must have the same form, and whatever change maj' take place on ns in (P'), the same must take place on ji in (P). If therefore we extract the s Root of (P') and (P), the forms of the two series expressing the roots must be the same, and the roots be deduced by the same rule. Now the 33 reiluction of ( p') to (P) is made by writing for the quantity jis in (P') that quantity divided by the root s to be ex- tracted, or writing 71 for ns ; the reduction is therefore made simply by the root s to be extracted, dividing ns by s, and writing the quotient for m; hence we extract the s root of (P) by the same rule, that is, by writing for n in (PJ, n divided by s ; hence n It matters not liow the s" root of the series of the form 1 + ax -\- bx^+ &c. can be extracted, or whether we should have been able to accomphsh it if we had not known that the series (P*) and {p) are represented by {i+cc)"' and (i+.r)". By whatever process the / root of (P') is extracted, whether discoverable or not, by the same process the s" root of (P) will be extracted. The Binomial Theorem shews the series (P) to be the s" root of (P'), which is all we want to ascer- tain. VOL. XII. On certain Properties of Numbers, by the REV. SAMUEL VINCE, A M. F. R. S. and Plumian Professor of Astro- nomy, in the University of Cambridge. An extract of a letter to the Rev J. Brinkky, D. D. F. R. S. M. R. I. A. and An- drews' Professor of Astronomy in the University of Dublin. Ramsgate, June 26, 1810. EuLER in his Introductio in Analysim Infnitorum, in the chapter de partitione Numerorum, has shown, that bj a com- bination of the numbers in each of the Geometric Series 1, 2, 4, 8, &c. and 1, 3, 9, 27, &c. all the natural numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, &c. may be formed, as far as the sum of each series goes. This he has proved, from assuming the products of an indefinite 8 4 8 number of factors(l+jr )(l + a' )(1+^ )^l + x ) &c. in the first instance, and( 0? +1+.T ){^ t + I +x j(^ x +1+0:' ^&c. in the second; shewing that in each case, such products may 8 3 be represented by a series containing the terms i +x+x +x 4 +x + &c. the indices of which must necessarily arise from the combination of the indices in the assumed factors. But 35 ^ the property now stated may be otherwise proved in a very simple manner immediately from the expression for the sum of each series, I have also added the rules for filling up the intervals of the terms, which Euler has not given ; and shew- ed under what circumstances, other series will have the same property. First, for the seines 1, 2, 4, 8, &c. The sum of 1+2+4+8+ 2 ""^ "~l-S; hence, 8+1=2 the next term. The difference, then, between the sum 5' of w terms, and the next term 2," is 1 ; therefore the sum S of n lerms, carries on within 1 of the next term. If therefore you can for n terms, make up all the natura,! num- bers to their sum, you make them all up to the number next less than the next term S ; and by adding all those numbers K to 2 , you get all the numbers to the number next less than «+i 2 . If therefore the rule be true for n terms, it must be true for n+l terms. Now if we take two terms 1, 2, we get 1+2=3, that is, we get all the numbers as far as the sum of the two numbers, and within 1 of the next term. But, as pro- ved above, if the rule be true for 2 terms, it must be true for 3 terms; if true for 3 terms, it must be true for 4 terms ; and so on; hence, the rule is true in general. 56 Secondly, for the Series 1 , 3, 9, 27, &c. The sum of 1+3 + 9+27+ s'~L^zzS ; hence, tl 25+1=3 the next term. The difference, then, between the sum 5 of w terms and the next term 3 is S+i ; therefore the sun» S subtracted from the next term 3", leaves 5+ 1] that is, it brings jou back to the number next greater than the sum S. If therefore j-ou can for 7i terms make up all the numbers to S, the same numbers subtracted from the n+i" term will bring you back to S+i, the number next greater than ■S'; thus you fill up all the numbers in the interval between the n term and the w + l' term ; and if the same numbers be added to the w-|-l" term, you make up all the numbers as far as the sum of w+1 terms ; if therefore the rule be true for n terms, it must be true for n+i terms. Now if we take two terms 1, 3, we have 3 — 1=2, 3+1=4, and 4 subtracted from the next term 9> leaves 5 the next number greater than the sum , of two terms. But, as proved above, if the rule be true for 2 terms, it must be true for 3 terms ; if true for 3 terms, it must be true for 4 terms ; and so on ; hence, the rule is true in general. The intervals of the first series may be filled up by the following Rule. o Let A be any number, and 2" the term next less than A. Take ^^ next less than A—2"; 2* next less than ^—2"— 2'; 37 2* next less than A — 2" — 2*^ — 2 , and so on till there be no remainder; and-then 2"+2'"+S*-f2'+ &c. = A. In the second series, all the numbers in the general interval from 3— 3"~i 3"^! &c. i to 3"+3""'+3'""' + &c. +1, including those terms, may be made up by the following Rule. After 3" for the j^rs^ term put — 3"'"' for 3""' times, then cyphers as often, and then + 3°'"' as often. For the second term put — 3""" for 3"~ times, then cyphers as often, and then +3""^ as often ; this to be continued three times. For the tJiird term put — S""" for 3" ' times, then cyphers as often, and then 4-3""' as often ; this to be continued nine times. For the fourth term put — 3"~ for 3"~ times, then cyphers as often, and then +3"~ as often; this to be continued ifz2?en;y- seven times. In general, for the r ' term put — 3"""^ for 3"~' times, then cyphers as often, and then +3""^ as often ; this to be con- r— 1 tinned 3 times. Proceed thus through all the terms, and you will fill up all the numbers. But besides these two series, there are many others which have the same property ; of these, the two first terms must 58 necessarily be 1,2, or 1, S, or the interval between the two first terms cannot be filled up. The series must also have this further property, that the sum preceding any term (P) must reach at least half way from (P) to the next term (Q), or to (Q — i). The following series have this property. 1, 2, o, 10, 17, &c. 1, 2, 7 17, 33, &c. 1, 3, 6, 10, 15, &c. 1, 3, 9, 19, 33, &c. and many others ; but the series which requires the smallest number of terms to fill up the interval from 1 to any given number, is, 1, S, 9, 27, 81, &c. An Account of a -oery remarkable WATER SPOUT, which ap'- peared at Ramsgate, July l6, 1810, a little before 3 o'clock in the afternoon, just after a Thunder Storm; by the REV. S. VINCE, A.M.F. R. S. Plumian Professor of Astronomy and Experimental Philosophy at Cambridge. IN the annexed figure, L M N" represents a cloud, in which there first appeared a figure in the form jP G, resembling an huge serpent; this immediately stretched itself out in an hori- zontal direction AM B; at J5 it turned at right angles down- ward in the direction J5 C to the sea D E, the sea immedi- ately under it rising up in a cylindrical form v w x y io meet it. The horizontal part, (which was straight), I judged to be about 3 or 400 yards long, and the perpendicular part B C in the proportion now represented, the greatest diameter of which I estimated to be about o or 6 feet. It was attended with an hissing noise, and continued about 5 minutes, when it almost instantaneously disappeared, every part of it at the same time dissolving as it were into air, the water in the sea then ceasing to rise up. Water Spouts are an electrical phe- nomenon, lightning being sometimes seen to play in them» Perhaps this, which appears to be of a very singular form (for I have never seen such a one described), maj be thus account- ed for. If the cloud L M N, and the air at B were charged 40 with different powers, the spout might take the horizontal di- rection MB; and if the air at B, and the sea immediately under it were also charged with different poAvers, the spout might take a perpendicular direction downward, and the sea rise up to meet it. The spout could not be water in its li- quid state, for water in that state projected from the cloud, must necessarily have descended in a curve; and further, had it been water in that state, whpn the supply from the cloud ceased, from the ceasing of the cause, it would have disap- peared gradually from the cloud, shortening till it vanished at the sea; whereas it vanished altogether almost instantane- ously. From all the circumstances attending the spout, it ap- pears that it was nothing but part of the clouddrawnout in a very condensed state, for although the cloud was very black, the spout was much blacker, the part in the cloud appearing very distinctly in the cloud itself. On this supposition we may account for the sudden disap- pearance of the spout; since, by the operation of the elec- tric power, the watery vapour might be resolved into its two constituent airs, and thus disappear almost in an instant. All water spouts, as they are produced by the same cause, Ave may conclude to be of the same nature, that is, a very condensed watery vapour. They have, perhaps, been con- sidered as water, from the torrents of rain which frequently attend them, so as to render it difficult to distinguish that from the spout; and also from the rising up of the sea where they fall, the effect being such as might arise from the falling of such abody of water as the spout has been supposed to be. Re/rac?u)n H Jn Account of Observations made at theObsevvatory of TRINITY" COLLEGE, DUBLIN, with an Astronomical Circle, eight feet in diameter, which appear to point out an annual parallax in certain fixed stars. Also a Catalogue of North Polar distances of forty-seven prin- cipal fixed stars, from recent observations, and a compariso*i thereof with those of the same stars, obtained by other instru- ments, and by the same instrument, at a former period. By JOHN BRINKLEY, D. D. M. R. 1. A. F. R. S. and ANDREWS' Professor of Astronomy, in the University of Dublin. Read May 9, 1 814. To prove the motion of the earth about the sun, bj actual observation of change of distance from some of the fixed stars, at different times of the year, has long been an object of research. Soon after the Copernican System be* came generally adopted, and while Astronomy was yet in an imperfect state, tliis was considered in some measure ne- cessary to establish the truth of that system. Afterwards the discoveries in physical astronomy made this enquiry, as far as the above motive was concerned, less interesting. YOL. XII. ft 34 Modern astronomers have looked to this object principally with a view of ascertaining whether any apparent annual motion of the fixed stars, from this cause, existed necessary to be noticed, in computing the mean place from the observed. Dr. Bradley, by his celebrated observations, which led him to the discovery of the aberration of light, first esta- blished that as to certain stars no parallax existed capable of being noticed. His observations were made with an in- strument, that, for observations near the zenith, has not since been surpassed. Since his time it seems to have been generally allowed, that the annual parallax of every fixed star was too small to be noticed, till lately M. Piazzi, of Palermo, conceived that his observations pointed out a parallax in certain stars. An account of his conclusions is given in the Conn, des Temps, 1808, together with an account of some observa- tions made at Rome on a Lyrs. My observations, by the eight feet circle, which com- menced in 1808, have pointed out also a parallax in a Lyra, but considerably less than that observed by M. Piazzi. It is only with respect to this star and Arcturus that our conclu- sions agree in pointing out a parallax.* My observations * I can only refer to the account of M. Piazzi's observations given in the Con. des Temps. 1808, p. 4'32. In which it is mentioned that the observations themselves are to be found in the 10th vol. of the Italian Society. By the account in the Con. des Temps, it appears that M. Piazzi observed in Procyon, a parallax of declination, such 35 tend to point out a parallax in a. Lyroe, a, Aquilae, Arcturus, « Cygni, and « Ophiuchi, and some others. M. Piazzi considers c& Aquilas as having no discernible parallax, whereas my ob- servations tend to point out that a Aquilae has a greater parallax than any other star that I have observed. Besides this discordance between the results of my observations and those of M. Piazzi, it is to be noticed that other results ob- tained by instruments executed by the first artist, and by observers justly celebrated, do not accord with mine in point- ing out a parallax. Itis therefore with great diffidence that I offer my results to the Academy. These results tend to prove that the parallax (the angle subtended at the star by the diameter of the earth's orbit) of a Ljtsb, by 152 ob- servations amounts to 2" ; of » Aquilp. The greatest zenith distance of the pole star when above the pole as affected by parallax, is on Oct. 4. and the least on April 2. Here as well as in the results which follow, the refraction has been com- puted by the French tables. < ' 55 Polaris in the Autumn. Time of Observation. Face of Circle. Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1, Jsn- Mult, for Time of Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Mult. Paral- Observation. Ja«. 1.1811. jp-j 1809, Oct 5 7 22 EW EW EW 3:4. 54. 43,22. 45,01 44,50 ^ ,99 ,99 ,94. 1811, Oct. 16 22 23 E W W 34r54^4*,27 45,42 45,38 _ ,97 ,94 ,9* • 26 29 Nov. J EW EW EW 46,75 47,04. 43,70 ,91 ,94 ,88 27 Nov. * Id' w E ; W 46,42 45.*7- 46,07 ,91 ,85 ,71 6 1.4. 17 EW EW 42,71 43,67 ,84 ,77 .73 20 29 1812, Oct. a) E W : W 45i,*9 ♦7,4^ 45,32 ,69 ,95 EW 47,06 la 1.9 81 EW EW EW 45,57 45,09 46,4,5 ,72 ,71 ,69 34 25 26 ; E w > E 46, 8» 45,W ,94 ,9* ,92 ■ 29 Dec 3. 7 EW EW EW 44,95 46,70 46,97 ,58 ,51 .44 27' Nov. 3 E w E 45i,19i 44(,5* 47,65« ,92 ,91 ,87 - 10 12 1810, Nov. 6 EW EW EW 44,57 47,44 44,58 ,39 ,36 ,84 5 6 7 E w E 46,84 45,44. 44,93 ,85 ,84 ,83 26 Dec. 1 EW EW 43,85 45,64 ,60 ,53 8 W 44,61 ,82 Mean of 39 observations gives mean zenith distance = 34° 54' 45", 51 — 79p. Comparing the two last sets of observations, viz. 23 in spring and 39 in autumn, we have 45",24+,76p. = 45", 51— ,79/> ov p = 0' ,17. From which may be inferred that « Polaris has no sensible- parallax. 56 cc Polaris S. P. in the Spring. Time of Observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1, 1811. Mult. for Paral. Time of Observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist Jan. 1, ISII. Mult. for Paral. 1809, Apr. 14 20 23 EW EW EW 38 18 48,55 49,89 49,81 ,96 ,94 93 1810, Ap. 19 26 27 EW EW EW 38 18 47,54 47,83 48,36 ,94 ,90 ,89 May 9 10 14 EW EW EW 44.,81 46,48 46,96 ,80 ,78 .74 28 30 May 2 EW EW EW 46,45 45,61 45,34 ,88 ,87 ,86 18 22 23 EW EW EW 47,58 45,44 47,08 ,70 ,67 ,66 5 1813, May 5 9 EW W E 48,76 48,09 46,67 ,83 ,83 ,79 24 June 4 15 EW EW EW 45,68 46,38 46,16 ,65 ,47 ,30 16 19 20 W E W 49,20 48,03 47,29 ,72 ,68 ,67 17 25 July 10 EW EW EW 45,77 45,74 46,21 ,26 ,15 + ,09 21 26 28 29 June 1 E W E W E 47,92 48.71 47,00 48,58 46,89 ,66 ,59 ,56 ,55 ,52 O Jf II Mean of 32 gives mean zenith distance = 38 18 47, 21 — ,68/>. 67 - '• . oc Polaris S. P. in the Autumn. Time of Observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1, 1811. Mult. for Paral. Time of Observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan, 1, 1811. Mult. for Paral. 1809, Aug. 25 Sep. 30 Oct. 5 EW EW EW ;/ / // 3a 18 46,97 48,11 44,78 + ,78 ,99 ,99 1811, Nov, 3 5 6 E W W 38 IS 45,48 47,53 47,50 + .87 ,8* ,85 24 28 31 EW EW i;w 46,20 4.S,98 47,95 ,93 ,91 ,88 11 18 22 E W E 47,70 49,49 46,27 ,80 .72 ,66 Nov. 16 17 18 EW EW EW 45,25 46,51 45,42 ,73 ,72 1812, Oct. 14 15 20 W E W 45,77 47,45 46,57 .98 ,98 ,-95 19 21 23 EW EW EW 47,14 45.79 46,90 ,71 ,69 ,66 21 23 25 E W W 46,90 48,10 47,30 ,95 ,94 ,93 Dec. 1 11 1810, Nov. 16 FW EW EW 46,75 46,98 47,35 ,53 .37 ,72 27 28 29 E W E 46,07 45,75 47,87 ,91 ,91 ,90 1811, Oc. 15 16 19 W E W 46.31 46.07 47,31 ,98 ,98 ,96 Nov. 2 3 4 E W E 45,46 46.66 47,05 ,87 ,87 ,86 2i 25 Nor. 1 W E W 46,25 45,35 46,99 ,93 ,93 ,88 5 W 6 E 7 W 45,65 45,83 47,68 ,8S .85 ,84 The mean of 42 observations gives mean zenith distance = 3&M8'.46",76-[-,84p. A comparison of the mean of the observations in spring and of the mean of these in Autumn gives 4?",21 — ,68p = 46,76 + ,84p. or p = 0'',30 from which also I infer that the parallax of » Polaris (if any) is too small to require to be noticed. VOL. XII. 58 Aquilae. Time of Observation t Face of Mean Zen. Dist. Circle Jan. 1, 1811. Mult. for Paral. Time of Observation 1 Face ofMean Zen. Dist. Circle Jan. 1, 1811. Mult. for Paral. 1809, July 20 Aug. 21 22 E E W 45 0 32,48 27,44. 27,99 + 0,48 0,32 0,32 1811, Aug. 6 10 16 W W W 45 d 28,89 30,46 31,57 + ,42 .40 ,36 23 24 27 E W W 29,60 29,88 28,35 0,31 0,.S0 0,28 19 20 22 E W E 28,83 28,68 31,99 ,34 ,34 ,32 28 1810, July 30 Aug. 26 W w E 29,07 30,90 28,82 0,27 0,45 0,29 25 27 31 W E W 31,80 28,69 31,03 ,30 ,28 ,25 1811, July 14. 16 20 E W W 28,80 28,99 29,18 0,50 0,49 0,48 Sep. 1 1812, Aug, 6 7 E E W 29, U 28,29 29,29 ,24 ,42 ,42 21 22 23 E W E 31,48 30,77 27,84 0,48 0,48 0,48 8 9 16 W E W 29,88 32,15 29,54 ,41 ,40 ,36 26 29 31 1 Aug. 3 W E W E S0,63 30,34 30,81 31,38 0,47 0.46 0,46 0,44 24 25 26 Sep. 5 E W E W 28,13 27,07 28,79 31,02 ,.'?0 ,29 ,28 ,21 The mean of the above 38 observations gives mean zen. dist. »= 45° 0' 29^74 +,38/>. The effect of annual parallax as to « Aquilse makes the zenith distance greatest, Dec. 29, and least June 29. 59 X Aquilffi. Time of Observation Faee of Circle Mean Zen. D ist. Jan. 1, 1811. Mult. for Paral. Time of Observation Face of C ircle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1, 1811. Mult. foV Paral. 1808, Nov. 29 Dec. 19 22 W EW E\V 45 0 32,49 34,22 32,97 0,44 0,51 0,52 1811, Dec. 13 18 21 W E W o 45 6 31,40 32,63 33,36 0,50 0,53 0,52 1809, Jan. 30 Feb. 11 16 E E E 30,63 32,42 30,73 0,44 0,37 0,33 29 1812, Jan. 4 8 E W E 31,33 32,56 29,84 0,52 0,51 0,50 1810, Feb. 4 13 18 E W E 29,17 31,58 31,58 0,41 0,35 ,038 21 29 30 W E W 29,68 32,10 32,22 0,48 0,44 0,44 Mar. 10 13 1811, Jan. 2Y VV E E 33,26 31,06 30,53 0,16 0,13 0.45 1813, Jan. 20 25 Feb. 3 E W E 31,08 33,61 32,00 0,48 0,46 0,41 28 Feb. 3 13 W W E 32,99 32,92 .31,80 0,45 '0,42 0,35 6 9 15 W E W 32,61 31,75 32,01 0,40 0,38 0,34 19 23 24 Dec. 11 W E W E 3i,l6 32,29 33,55 29,44 0,31 0,28 0,27 0,50 19 20 21 22 E 29,78 W 31.98 E 31,07 W i 32,65 0,31 0,30 0,29 0,29 The mean of the above 38 observations gives the mean zen. dist, 45° 0' 3r',87 — ,40;?. Hence by comparing the preceding set of observations with these, we have 29^74 + ,38jP = 3r',87 — ,40p orp = 2",73. Hence the parallax of « Aqui]se = 5",5. Tiie refractions in the k2 60 French tables have been used in the above. Had Bradley's refractions been used, the parallax would have come out considerably greater. The value of p is less exact, on ac- count of the smallness of its co-efficients. A mean of 20 observations near six o'clock in the evening, gives mean zenith distance = 4o°.0'. 30",64 — ,\p. The mean of the above 76 = 4fl.O. 30,80 — ,01^?.* * M. Delambre in his remarks on M. Piazzi's observations, proposes to examine the effects of the parallaxes in changing the right ascensions. This confirmation would be very satisfactory, and might be readily attained, were some stars so much affected by parallax as M. Piazzi has supposed. But if the parallaxes be so small as my observations tend to point out, no expectation of this kind could be entertained as to « Lyrae, Arcturus, and a, Cygni. As to y Aquilae, the right ascensions in March and September would differ by about — of a second of time, and, under the circumstances of the case, it would require attention to detect this quantity, but it might b*e done. If this difference exist it ought to be allowed for in computing the apparent from the mean right asceasion. 61 Arcturus. Time of observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1. 181 1. Mult. for Paral. Time of observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1, 1811 Mult. for Paral. 1808, Oct. 27 31 Nov.l E W W 33 12 5i',86 52,88 56,15 ,54 ,55 ,56 1811, Oct. 16 18 25 W W E 33 12 55,72 55,57 55,02 ,7? ^ ,48 ,53 11 27 29 EW EW EW 53,55 52,93 54,51 ,60 ,61 ,61 26 Nov.l 3 W w E 55,01 56,21 52,72 ,53 ,56 ,57 Dec 10 13 U EW EW EW 53,14 52,50 52,74 .59 ,59 ,59 18 19 22 w E E 55,87 55,71 56,67 ,61 ,61 ,61 1810, Sept. 6 iO 21 W W E 52,56 57,61 53,98 ,12 ,16 ,27 29 Dec. 1 1813, Oct. 14 W w E 54,49 53,94 56,02 ,61 ,61 ,46 Nov. 5 6 16 E W W 53,75 55,48 56,62 ,57 ,58 ,60 19 31 Nov. 2 E W E 55,16 56,52 54.27 ,49 ,56 ,57 22 26 Dec. 1 E W E 55,42 54,86 55,97 ,61 ,61 ,61 3 11 12 W E W 57,61 .55,23 55,90 ,57 ,60 ,60 10 1811, Oct. 11 12 E W E 53,57 56,74 £5,84 ,59 ,44 ,45 14 Dec. 14 16 W E W 57,50 56,32 57,69 ,60 ,58 ,57 In deducing these results from the observations of Arcturus, the annual change of N. P. D. has been taken = +16",81. The annual proper motion of Arcturus may be considered in some measure uncertain, and it may be thought that the conclusi>)n respecting parallax will be affected thereby. But this is not the case. Let the annual variation in JV. P. D. = I8",81+e. * Then the mean of the above 42 observations gives the mean zenith distance = 33' 12' 55", 11 — ,54/> — ,4:e. * The annual variation in N. P. D. of Arcturus seems by my observations to be at least + 19",1. But the interval since they commenced is too short to speak with much conSdence. ' Arcturus. Time of observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1, 1811. Mult. for Paral. ; Time of observation Face of Circle yiean. Zen. Dist. Jan. I, 1811. Mult. for Paral. 1809 April 20 28 May 14 E EW EW 33 12 53,83 54,85 53,70 + ,52 ,56 ,60 1811 May 19 26 29 E E W 3°3 12 56,07 52,35 53,79 + ,61 ,61 ,61 21 June 25 1810 AprU 25 W EW E 54,64 51,80 53,27 ,61 ,52 .53 June 9 12 17 E W W 52,83 53,89 54,71 ,60 ,59 ,56 26 27 28 W E W 56.24 51,90 53,76 ,55 ,55 ,56 18 1813, May 11 16 W E W 52,89 53.32 56,07 ,56 ,60 ,61 30 May 2 ^ 4 E W E 51,48 52,22 55,26 ,57 ,57 ,57 20 28 29 E W E 54,16 54,95 52,87 ,61 ,61 ,61 5 6 29 W E W 53,10 53,34 52,41 ,58 ,58 ,61 30 June 2 4 W E W 55,48 55.52 52,69 ,61 ,01 ,60 31 1811, May 11 16 E W E 54,27 56,77 53,11 ,61 ,60 ,61 5 8 E W - 53,81 53,17 ,60 ,59 From the above 35 observations the mean zenith distance = 33" 12' 53" ,80+,59p — ,35e. Hence 55", ll—,54p—,45e = 53,80 rf-,59p— ,35e p= 1",1— ,09e. e cannot be so great as half a second, and therefore ,09e is too small to be noticed. Therefore from these results the parallax of Arcturus = 2",2; And by 77 observations, the mean zenith distance = 33''.12' 54",45+,05j) — ,4e. By 15 observations in July and August, mean zen. dist. = 33° 12' 54", 50 + ,2p + ,68e. 63 Cygni. Time of Observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1.1812. Mult. for Paral. Time of Observation Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist Jan. 1. 1812. Mult. for Paral. l«10, Mar. 9 10 17 W E W 8 46 26,21 26,31 23,91 ,59 ,58 ,49 1813, Jan. 9 10 E W 0 26,78 24,44 ,8« ,88 18 181 I.Jan. 28 Feb. 3 W W w 24,77 21,77 23,59 ,48 ,89 ,87 n 19 25 E E W 24,03 24,50 26,53 ,88 ,88 ,90 23 24 28 E W E 26,42 25,68 25,35 ,74 ,73 ,70 Feb. 4 & 6 E W E 25,81 26,46 22,83 ,90 ,86 ,86 Mar. 12 14. 1813, Jan. 8 W E W 26,22 25,64 25,55 ,56 ,53 ,88 1813, Dec. 26 27 28 1814, Jan. 4 W E W w 23,48 27,29 24,40 23,81 ,81 81 ,82 The above 24 observations give the mean zen. dist. 8. 46' 25",07— ,76i>. 64 « Cygni. Time of Observation Face of Circle Mean Zen- Dist. Jan. 1, 1812- Mult. Face of Circle Mean Zen. Dist. Jan. 1, 1812. Mult. for Paral. for Paral. Time of Observation 181 1, July 26 28 Aug. 3 W E E 8 46 22,77 24,49 24.24 + /,90 ,90 ,89 181 I.Sep. 5 1812, Aug. 24 25 E E W S 46 26,63 24,03 26,09 + .67 ,77 .76 10 13 16 ,85 ,83 .82 26 27 Sep. 5 E W W 23.98 22,93 24,81 ,75 .74 .67 w E W 23,08 24,31 22, 1 a 19 20 22 E W E 22,93 21,03 24,90 ,80 .80 -,•39 7 10 11 E W E 23,87 22,52 23,67 .64 .61 ,60 25 27 31 W E W 21,22 22,54 21,59 ,76 ,74 ,72 12 W Oct. 1 E 23,46 23,78 ,59 .33 The above 23 observations give the mean zcn. dist. = 8" 46' 23",48 + ,74p. Hence 25",07— ,76p = 23",48 + ,75p Therefore p = 1",06 And the parallax of « Cygni = 2",1. 65 REMARKS. If the results deduced from the preceding observations should be admitted, it follows that the brightest fixed stars are not so near to us as some others. « Aquilae, which is far exceeded in splendor by « Lyras and Arcturus is only at half the distance of the two latter. However extraordinary this may appear, it results from observations that appear to me fully adequate for the conclusion. My observations on a. Lyroe were commenced with the view of examining the question of parallax ; but the results of the observations of a A-quilae forced themselves as it were on my notice. This star would not on any account have been selected for the investigation. The effect of the annual pa- rallax in declination is only about half the whole parallax; The star itself has not that splendid appearance that would lead us to suppose it as near as many others. Also its 2enith distance in this latitude being so much as 45', some uncer- tainty in so delicate an enquiry might be apprehended from refraction. My conclusions may be considered as deriving little or no support from the results of the observations of M. Piazzi. According to him (as appears from the Conn, des Temps 3808) the double parallax of a Lyrai is nearly five seconds, according to me only two seconds. VOL. XII. . L 66 According to him the double parallax of Arcturus is less than that of a Lyras (the quantity is not stated in Conn, des Tenips.) according to me two seconds. According to him « Aquil* has no sensible parallax; ac- cording to me the double parallax is five seconds and an half. According to him Procj'on has a considerable double pa- rallax amounting to about QOf' ; according to my observa- tions it has no sensible parallax. According to him Sirius has a considerable parallax. This star in this latitude is too much affected by refraction to af- ford any satisfactory conclusion. The small changes of zenith distances which I find in a Lyras, in Arcturus and in a Cygni, and from which I con- clude the parallax of each, will, it is not doubted, make astronomers hesitate as to the degree of confidence with which they will receive them. It is not pretended that these quantities can be ascertained to the tenth of a second ; but by continuing the observations, it appears to nic, that I shall at last arrive at that degree of exactness. There seem to be no sources of errors in making these observations, which will not disappear by taking a mean of a great number of observations. However, until my conclusions are supported by other instruments, it is not likely that I shall impress astronomers with the same confidence which I myself pos- sess as to the results. 6?) The astronomer royal, Mr. Pond, observing with the nevv mural circle, made by Mr. Troughton, has not hitherto con- firmed my results, although he finds indications of parallax in « Lyrje and a. Aquilas. * I had felt such confidence in my re- sults that 1 did not doubt that one of the first services that would be rendered to astronomy, by the Greenwich mural cir- cle, would be the confirmation of the existence of annual pa- rallaxes in certain stars. But, allowing the greatest accu- mcy in the observer, and excellence in the instrument, I conceive a very probable account has been given, why this has not yet taken place. Many of the stars, even of the second magnitude, such as Polaris, y Draconis, &c. may be affected by a parallax in declination, amounting to a fraction of a second. Were we certain that the standard stars were not affected by parallax, or had we ascertained the quantity, if any, then the method of observing by the mural circle would be far preferable to the methods of ob- serving in which the plumb line is used.-)- * Phil. Trans. 1813, part 2. f I can feelingly bear testimony to the great superiority of the mural circle over our instrument, as to the convenience of the observer, and the consequent facility of multi- plying observations. In the mural circle no care is necessary but in making and reading off the observations. In our circle the previous examination of the plumb line is often a very tedious and sometimes unsatisfactory operation. Many observations have been lost thereby, a serious inconvenience in a climate ill adapted to astronomical observa- tions. The calm weather which we so often experience during a high state of the barometer, both in summer and winter, is generally unfavourable to the astronomer, be- L 2 68 The same number of observations that I have given might have been completed in a smaller space of time, but un- favourable skies, necessary interruptions, and the expecta- tion of having my results confirmed by other instruments have made the earlier observations less numerous than they otherwise would have been. It soon appeared that increas- ing the number of observations would not materially change the results that I had already deduced. However the con- sistency of the observations in the several years may with some add weight to the conclusions. My future exertions shall be directed in making such ob- servations as may serve to throw further light on this subject. If I should meet with any circumstances that shall appear to me to invalidate the conclusions 1 have now ventured to make, I shall cheerfully communicate them, I shall be fully satisfied with the consciousness of having, to the utmost, ex- erted myself, as my duty led me, in the examination of this important question. ing attended with a cloudy atmosphere. Clear skies oftener prevail during high winds. These circumstances are much against the use of the plumb line. 69 MEAN NORTH POLAR DISTANCES OF FORTY-SEVEN PRIN- CIPAL FIXED STARS, JAN. 1, 1813. Names of Stars. No. of Obs. By Ref. in French Tables. Co-lat. 36° 36' 46" 5 N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813. Ref Brad. Tab. Co-lat. 45 ',8 N.P.D G P D * Polaris * $ Ursae min. * /S Cephei 36 38 21 1 41 21,77 15 4 49,45 20 15 31,41 2^71 49,26 31,14 + 6^08 — 0,31 — 0,44 ii + 0,14 * a Ursae maj. * a Cephei jS Ursa; maj. 10 9 18 27 14 30,88 28 12 13,90 32 37 4,72 30,29 13,30 4,07 + 1.17 — 0,83 — 0,29 f Ursae maj. * a Cassiopeae ^ Ursae maj. 19 8 8 33 1 22,05 34 29 22,59 34 54 42,68 21,44 21,91 41,01 -f 0,80 * y Ursae maj. » y Draconis • n Ursae maj. 10 27 20 85 15 56,22 38 29 3,70 39 44 58,37 55,53 3,00 57,61 — 0,26 + 0,65 + 0,27 + 0,28 * a Pcrsei * Capella * a Cygni 10 30 22 40 48 51,36 44 12 20,71 45 22 58,34 50,62 19,90 57,52 + 2,05 + 0,57 — 0,60 + 2,34 — 0,42 + 0,48 — 1,90 * « Lyrae * Castor * Pollux 51 10 10 51 23 0,84 57 42 47,54 61 31 50,07 59,93 46,64 55,12 -- 0,53 - - 0,09 -- 1,23 + 2,21 — 0,48 + 0,91 + 0,11 — 2,40 — 0,55 * 0 Tauri * a AndromedoB * a Cor. bor. 18 10 19 61 33 4V,22 61 56 30,32 62 38 55,51 43,19 29,31 54,44 + 0,47 + 0,30 4-0,99 + 0,37 • + 2,44 — 0,09 — 2,28 + 0.81 — 2,34 * a Arietis * Arcturus * Aldebaran 9 20 20 67 25 36,76 69 50 19,33 73 52 35,98 35,82 18,19 34,62 + 0,67 -f. 0,89 -- 0,74 + 0,41 — 1,90 — 0,79 -t- 1,35 — 1,09 — 1,64 70 Names of Stars. * /S Leonis * a Herculis * » Pegasi * Pegasi * Regulus * a Ophiuchi ;} Aquilse * a, Orionis * a Serpentjs * Procyon Ceti a Aquarii K Ilydrse Rigel Spica Virg. 1 a. Capricorn. 2 a. Capricorn. ■2 a, Librae Sirius Antares No. of Obs. 18 10, 15 10 20 25 10 30 10 18 18 16 10 10 12 10 13 9 10 10 10 10 Ref. by Frencli Tables, Co-lat. 26° 36' 46",5 N PD Jan. 1, 1813. 74 22 56,44 75 23 14,64. 75 47 52,80 75 51 21,18 77 7 23,06 77 17 40,49 79 50 1,34 81 36 59,85 84 3 5,22 82 38 15,94 82 58 38,81 84 18 15,33 86 39 2,04 91 13 21,75 97 51 10,99 98 25 34,27 100 10 51,33 103 4 36,09 103 6 52,03 105 15 22r59 103 28 4,27 116 0 16,77 Brad. Ref. Co lat, 45",8 y.p.D 55,22 13,22 51,71 20,00 21,79 39,19 0,11 58,54 3,79 14,69 37,40 .13,87 0,74 19,96 9,39 32,67 49,23 34,09 49,68 20,02 2,47 13,77 4- 2,0^ — 0,18 + 0,82 — 3,17 + 0,00 — 1,04 + 1,00 + 0,91 4- 0,90 — 0,57 _ 0,03 — 2,76 + 0,5.5 — 0,98 + 0,12 — 2,67 -f 0,.30 — 0,53 + 1.03 + 1,86 + 0,49 + 0,01 + 1,68 + 1.91 + 1,18 + 2,07 + 1,36 + 2,64 + 2,67 - 1,77 + 2,86 + 0,53 + 1,14 — 0,41 — 0,46 + 0,49 + 1,45 — 0,61 — 0,74 — 2,16 + 0,57 — 2,23 + 2,04 D + 3,33 — 2,26 + 0,19 — 0,46 + 0,42 — 1,25 — 2,55 — 2,53 — 3,31 1,35 — 1,49 + 0,19 —. 0,67 + 0,90 + 0,82 __ 0,41 ~- 0,60 — 3,04 + 0,89 + 1,41 — 2,11 + 1,55 71 I find by above 500 observations of circumpolar stars the latitude of the observatory of Trinity College, Dublin, 53" 23' 13",5 using the French tables of refractions published in 1806. Or 5.T 5J3' 14",2 using Bradley's refractions. In the preceding catalogue the third column shews the mean north polar distance, Jan. 1, 1813, the refractions ha- ving been computed by the French tables, to which tables I give the preference for reasons assigned in the paper which follows this. The fourth column shews the seconds of the north polar distances, as computed by Bradley's tables. It appeared to rae on several accounts of much impor- tance, to compare observations made nearly at the same time by different instrun^ents. The mural circle at the royal observatory, Greenwich, and the circle at the observatory of Trinity College, Dublin, may be ranked amongst the best instruments that have been constructed. As soon therefore as I was informed that the Greenwich circle was in use, I determined to repeat my observations of the principal fixed stars, and the present catalogue is the result of observations in the latter part of the year 1812 and in the year 1813. To institute a comparison between the north polar dis- tances deduced by Mr. Pond and myself, it is necessary that the same tables of refraction should be used by each. Therefore as Mr. Pond has used the tables of Bradley, I also computed my observations by the tables of Bradley, and the result of the comparison of the observations is found 72 ill the column G. The quantity in G is to be applied to the fourth column to give the north polar distances by the Greenwich mural circle. The 30 stars marked * are those which Mr. Pond uses as standard stars ; the north polar distances of which he has determined by a great number of observations in 1812 and 1813. (vid. Phil. Tran. 1813, part 2.) Now among these 30 stars there arc 24 in which the results do not differ by 1", four in which the differences exceed 1", but do not amount to 2", and two in which the differences exceed 2", but do not amount to 2"i. This is highly creditable to the divisions of our circle. In the Greenwich circle the errors of divisions, if any, will entirely disappear in a mean of a great number of observations, in consequence of the teles- cope being moveable. And in fact in this way Mr. Pond has ascertained that the errors of division of the Greenwich circle are too small to be noticed. (Phil. Tran. 1813, p. 281.) In our instrument the effect of the errors of division in the mean of the six readings of the microscopes, cannot be made to disappear. The above comparison shews satisfactorily that no material error can arise from thence. For the stars not marked * the comparison has been made with the north polar distances given in the Phil. Tran. 1813, part 1. The differences as to these low stars are greater, and may probably be attributed partly to the uncer- tainty of refraction, and partly to the use of Bradley's tables. . In Dr. Bradley's formula for refraction the effect of the IS change of temperature ou the quantity of refraction is taken too great. This appears certain by the direct experiments of T.Mayer, Dalton and Gai-Lussac on the expansion of air at different temperatures. It also appeared evident to nie by observations of low stars in different temj^eratures. The consequence of which is, that even supposing the utmost accuracy in the instruments and in the observations, the zenith distances of stars will appear greater in winter than in summer, and the more so the greater the zenith distance. The column P shews the quantity to be applied to the fourth column to obtain the north polar distances according to M. Piazzi, at Palermo. His north polar distances given in the Conn des Temps, 1812, having been reduced to Jan. 1, 1813, and also reduced to what they would have been ac- cording to Bradley's refractions. I do not know the exact date of these observations, but I suppose them recent. I believe also that M. Piazzi takes the mean refraction at 45' = 57",4 and makes the same allowance for changes in the thermometer as Dr. Bradley. If so, the correction to be applied to the north polar distances, as determined by M. Piazzi, to give what would have resulted from the use of Bradley's refractions = — 0",69— 0",5 (tan. N,P.D,—55\ 53% This quantity has been applied accordingly. The column D is the difference between my results in 1809 and 1813. The quantities according to their signs are to be applied to the results in column 4, to give what would have resulted from the observations in 1809- In makiug VOL. XII. M 74 this comparison, the annual motions in north polar distance, as given in the last catalogue of Dr. Maskelyne, have been used. These certainly are in several instances inaccurate from the proper motions used, and to this may be attributed some of the differences between 1809 and 1813, but it is by no means a sufficient explanation as to others. In the case of /S Leonis, particularly, there appears a difference that I cannot attempt to account for. Considerable differences be tween the results of observations of the same star when se- parated by several years have, however, been before ob- served in several instances, and yet remain to be accounted for. A comparison of the means of the results of the ob- servations of Dr. Hamilton, at Armagh, M. Piazzi, at Pa- lermo, and Mr. Pond, at Westbury made about the. sfime period, (Phil. Trans. 1806) and of the present results of the Greenwich, and of our instrument, furnishes a striking in- stance. A comparison some years hence of the present results and of new ones obtained by the, same instruments will pyo- . uiJ ca ii 4*, V^ a= *^t 4- bably clear up this pomt. ., ,^ ■It mav also be remarked that the observations in 1809 were computed by Bradley's refractions, and also no, '^tt^^- tion was paid to the circumstance of parallax. The resujts of 1813 are from, observatibns made when the zenith dia- tjance^ from the, effects of parallax were greatest and! least. ...jflence also perhaps may be explained part of the differences k) cQlunrin JP. 75 In computing my observations I have used max. aberra- tion of light = 20",00 Lunar nut. inN,P.D.=^S" ,'iS sin. {AR — Long. moon*)s node) + 1,22 sin. (^R+Long. moon's node) Solar nut. in N.F.D. = 0",48 sin. (2 Long. sun—^H.) M 2 Ajialytkal investigations respecting ASTRONOMICAL RE- FRACTIONS and the application thereof to the formation of s convenient TABLES together with the results of observations of circumpolar Stars, tending to illustrate the Theory of Re" fractions. Bij JOHN BRINKLEY, D. D. M. R. I. A.. F. R.S. andi ANDREWS' Professor of Astronomy, in the University of Dublin. Read May 9, 1814; A BRIEF detail will explain the objects of this paper.- M. Le Comte Laplace first shewed that the fluxional expres- sion for refraction may be integrated by approximation, as = far as about 74° from the sjenith, without a knowledge of the variation of density in the atmosphere. * T. Simpson had deduced by the princi plies of the 8th sec-- fion of the first book of Newton's Principia, the fluxional* expression for refraction, by considering a particle of light: as a body acted on by a force tending to the centre of the earth .-|- He and others since deduced the integral on the hypothesis, that the density of the atmosphere decreased. * M^c. c^. Lit. JO. c 1. toni. 4; f Math, Dissertations, p. 51, && 78 ijfiilR)rhir>\^-TlS^mV^^ lo^ftti of the integralis that used by Bradley. ■ •■"'•' >•'■->» JVivy*;. :>..» i.-.^ ^ Laplace uses the sahfie' liietbod of oblkfnTng the fluxional equation as Simpson had done, and then proceeds to investi- gate tho laws of reflection and refraction. He deriveb y an analytical process . the conclusions, which Newton had de (luced in the 14th section of the first book of the Principia. Laplace next dtrrivGs his fundamental fluxional expression for refraction which he shews may be integrated as far as 74° from the zenith, without a knowledge of the variation of density in the atmosphere. In this paper the same fluxional expression, that Laplace obtained, is deduced by a very short method, and by using the common principle of the given ratio of the sines of in- cidence arid refraction. Besides the simplicity of the inves- tigation it has the advantage of avoiding hypothetic prin- ciples lespecting the rays of light. The integration of the fluxional expression is also obtained by a method that may be considered as entitled to notice. If the surface of the earth were a plane, then whatever the law of variation of the densities of the different strata of air parallel thereto might be, the refractiou for any zenith distance would be simply found from the knowledge of the refractive force at the surface, by tbe constant ratio of the sines of in- cidence and refraction. By the method given this part is separated from the rest, and the effect of the spherical form of the atmosphere is shewn. The formula for refraction , 79 consists of two parts, one the refraction that would take place were the earth a plane, the other the effect due to the spherical form. The latter at 80° zenith distance amounts only to about 12", and at 40° zenith distance is in- sensible. It is shewn that at 80' 4o' the error of the formula deduced cannot amount to half a second, whatever be the variation of density in the atmosphere. ;As the approximate formula for refraction as far as about 74° from ,the zenith is independent of the law of variation of dejnsily, it follows that, whatever law be assumed, the same conclusion ought to be deduced as far as about 74°. This is shewu from direct investigation by assuming different laws of variation of density ; which beside affording some conclu- sions useful in our euauAfipS P», this subject, may be consi- ,^^pi;ed..api.u.terestiug., ^ ., ,,i.,Xl^(^ rpsult? Qf th^ .ex4>eriment8 of M. M. Biot & Arago ,pr; the rf * — 1, (vid. Newton's Optics, book 3, Prop. 10. Horsley's edition, vol. 4, p. 171.) Therefore let 6 ^ = A;* — i, h being a constant quantity Then k=VT±Tf and m == ^/ T+T(f) Hence OC=a sin. 6 ^'+^(>> ^^ l+bf — 'LL sin. d 1 + 4 (p)) and OP =r ' , ^ —-^ Therefore Ji' = g- 2{l + fi,) r v/l + *f- — 8in.«9(l+6(f)) _ (2) N 3 d4 This is Jyaplace's fundamental equation (3) vid. Mec. Cel. torn, 4, \). 244. b here corresponding to -^ iu Laplace's formula. 2. The integral of this equation from g = (f ) to § = 0 gives the atmospherical refraction required. It is obvious tliat to obtain the complete integral, it is necessary to know the relation between r and §, or the law of diminution of the density of the atmosphere. This is at present unknown ; but notwithstanding, we can approximate sufficiently to the value of R for all values of ^ less than about 80°. From the zenith to 74° zenith distance the result is the same whether we approximate to the integral, without know- ing the relation of r and §, or whether we assume any given relation, and reduce equation (2) to a convenient form for fipding the integral. Also by assuming two certain laws of variation of density we may obtain two integrals, one of which must give the re- fraction greater than the truth, and the other less. We find that as far as 80° 45', * these refractions do not differ by one second, therefore a mean of the two must always give the refraction true within half a second so far from the zenith. * The apparent zenith distance of the bright star, Capella, when below the pole, is in this latitude =i80''45', and having made many observations of this star S. P, I have taken that zenith distance as a limit. 85 Jipproximate integration of the Fluxional Equation. 3. Let Q represent the refraction that would take place if the surface of the earth were a plane, and the different strata of air parallel thereto, in which case the ratio of a to r would be the ratio of equality. Therefore equation (2) — pi sin. e ^ I ^b (p) feecomes Q = ^Trb7T7T^f^^^^^T(^)^^7T=^ ^ (3) Hence R ^ J^V^/-izr_(JL±^'^) ) ^"lll- r ■v/ I -f i p _ /i ^- i (p) \ ^ sin. « 9^ Let-^=1~. W r :w ^, • _ Qji— «) Then JR — -j======-— ———.-— -^ rr— (5) '1 ^bf~n-\-b{f)\ sin. ^9 or jR = Q (1 — s) (1 — s tan. ■= ^) = Q — -^^ neglecting the second and higher powers of s, also §, (§) and their powers* It is obvious that for the part of the atmosphere which makes the refraction sensible, 5 must be very small. By equat. (3) Q = — -J /> p. tan. 0 neglecting §>, (§) and their powers. • Hence ii = Q + f^rh~ nearly. (6) Now/^s= gs— /gs = is—f~~ r\f\c> „J ^ Smiles I (m — I) Itan.Q ■, .,, lakmff w = 1,0003 and— = -rr— = -— -, i rr-^—r, = 14 o ' a 4000 800 a cos. • d sm. \" nearly. The terms which have been neglected, must obvi- ously be much less. The limit may be thus computed. Let the equations (S) and (5) of the last article be ex- panded, neglecting products of three dimensions of s, f and (^) and we shall obtain (0-f)) Now of the terms that compose the factor of ^ ''''"', the '^ 2 COS. » r first 5 has already been considered and found not to produce in integrating a quantity greater than a few seconds, as far as ^=80° ; therefore after integration, the 2d and 4th on account of the smallness of b (§) and b § must be quite insensible; but the third— i^ s ' tan. ' 6, will produce a term f _ ^f^"'^""''? =« S fbs^ tan. ^6 ^ 3 p 6 s'stan. ^ g . T7os7^ if 2co:i. » e The law of decrease of the density of the atmosphere is between that which a uniform temperature gives, and that of the density decreasing uniformly, as will be shewn further ■on. The true value of the above integral, wiU therefore he 8& between the values deduced from an uniform temperature and an uniform density. (1) For an uniform temperature. The density on this hy^ pothesis is as the compressing force, and we have the well known equation ( — -1 ) -f ^ = (^) c ^ where c = 2,7 12S &c. or f = (f) c /_ as as ^ ssc= — — sc — -re + «» trom s = o Therefore from s = o to s == i and from g = {§) io § = o —a ^_j2illi«i^=Hllll^- il having taken c ~= o on »/ 4co«. »8 '2 COS.' 9 a* =» account of jts extreme smallness, it being = — __ — I \ oOO V 2,7128^ whence the term in question produces a quantity in seconds= S I - {m—\)tan. ^9 (I " CO*. * 9 MM. 1 // Taking tf = 80° 45', — and m as before this quantity = 2",60 Taking fi = 74' It a= 0", 16 a quantity not requiring notice. 89 (2) If the density of the air decrease uniformly, it wiU be proved that s == llLzJL ^ IL nearly if) « R^»o^ /• ^fl'^'t""-'^ _ /• 3?btan.3Q f (f)—p) Y I' ncnLt,J T^~Q y~~ COS.' 6 ^ if) ^ a' = [from ? = 0 to ^ = a] 'M^tlx^ = [ia seconds] 2 (j«— 1 ) ; » fare. 3 fl a ' COS. * 9 si)i. l" Taking ^ = 80° 45' this quantity = r',73. Consequently the true value of fUhlI1^<^ is between 2",60 and i",73 c/ 4 COS. * 80° 45' ' " and therefore the mean cannot err quite half a second from the truth, and so the following formula may be considered as giving the refraction as far as 80° 45' true to less than half a second, viz. Refraction = Q - S'!!ii}lL^±± + lin-zllLl''±lI, (7) a COS. « e sin. 1" 2 a * cos. * 8 sin. V ^' ^ The third term is insensible when ^ is less than 74° and the second and third insensible when 0 is less than 40° It is evident that the two first terms must be derived from assuming 0711/ law of variation of density, and then investi- gating the quantity of refraction as far as these terms. The following investigations in different hypotheses of density may be considered useful. VOL. XII. o V 0 + %) .UHi UiH 90 Hypothesis of uniform density. 5 Let CR be the radius of the uniform atmosphere, the height of which is / (vid. Fig.) ^ = angle of incidence at the point R; t = VRC^ then ref. iR') =^ O' — t, and -~ sin. 6 = sin. t = ^^- (1) Hence am sin. ^ = (a+0 sin. (/ + E) (2) but supposing the surface of the earth a plane ms'm.6 = sin. (^ + Q) (3) Hence sin. ^ + E) = ""' ^'+J^ (4) a making Z, ^ and R to vary, in order to apply Taylor's Theorem. '^ ' Byequat. (4) O+R) cos. (t+R) = -_ ~/ I ^» sin. (^+Q) By equat. (I) f G0S.4 ^ ""' i' . sin. ^ a(l+__) Hence computing R+R + 8cc. making R= Q, t==6 -^o and then — = -^, we have by Taylor's Theorem R = Q _ I- ( tan. (^+Q) — tan. ^ ) + &c. (5) But tan. (^ + Q) = tan. & + -^^ + &c. —I s=— — — — -) T 91 Also making m and Q vary in equation (3) We get by help of Taylor's Theorem Q = Qn — 1) tan. 6 &c. Hence substituting in equal. (5) li == Q (_w— ) tan. ^^ ^^^ found before in art. 3. ^' a COS. ^ 9 Hypothesis of density decreasing uniformly. Q. 13y the density decreasing uniformly is understood, that the density is as the distance from the highest part of the atmosphere. It is obvious that in this hypothesis, not taking into consideration the variation of gravity, the height of the atmosphere will be double of that of an uniform atmosphere of an uniform gravity. And it is also obvious that the effect of the variation of gravity can be but small. Lest however there should be any doubt on this head, it will be safer to investigate the height of the atmosphere on this hypothesis, gravity being supposed to vary. Let this height = t the pressure at any height z =p the pressure at the surface = (p) a, /, g &c. as before. Then p == 7^-7x1-} the gravity at the surface being re- presented by unity. o 2 92 On this hypothesis. - Therefore^ = ^^,1^ and by integration, /. = Mil. + qiL h. log. ia+z-) + -7^, + comt. Hence this integral from z == I' to z = o gives The right hand side of this equation being expanded ac- ' cording to the powers of — there results ip) = (f) (^ - £- &^-) but (p) = (?) ; Hence is easily deduced I' = ^l -h y^ nearly Having obtained I' we immediately deduce by equal, (i) the relation between § and r on this hypothesis, Whence -^ = 1 + ^-^ (^ + -^) or regarding only one dimension ot — '— =1 ^^ x a ^ ' 11 or _1_ = (l±h-\ 6(r)a 5 being introduced to form the r V1+6CpJ/ factor 6 f . 93 ''•Let l + ig= X, 1 + i (f ) = (*) and jii^ = / Then equat. (2) of art. 1 gives ]^ _ — XX sin. 6 (x) ^ 2 {x) -^ x\/ x--(llflL sin.' S 2/- 3 — XX Sin. t* (x)^^ -i£=iiW ; 2/-1 This by integration gives R = L_ (Circ. Arc. rad. 1 and sin. = (^)««.« ) + constant. When R = 0, ? = (e) Therefore constant = ^yr-^ 6. Hence the integral from ^ = (f) to ^ = o gives 13 _ ^ & — -L- CCirc. Arc. rad. 1 and sin, = ( i+Mp))-' or nearly ""•! — = sin. (^ — (2/— 1) R) This is equivalent to Simpson's Rule, page 58, Math. Dissert. 94 By the well known analogy between the sum and difF. of the sines of two arcs and the tangents of the i sum, and T difF, the equat. (3) gives Tan. ^ R = i-( Mzzlj b (J) ta„. {J - -£=1 R) (« orR=i-(,)tan.(*-(j|l,-i-(R) = From equation (5) we may obtain the same conclusions as in art. 3. ' For if the surface of tlie earth were a plane, equation (5) would become Q = {m — 1) tan. (^+ \ Q) nearly Also because R and Q are very nearly equal at all zenith distances less than 80°. By equat. (4) R = (m— 1) tan. (^ + iQ— /Q). From this equation it readily appears that R= (m-l)tan. (^+i-Q) ^\IS— Therefore R = Q (^-i)^J°"-fl, as before in art. 3. ^ a COS. * S ^ ■-.'■. . ^ ^The formula used by Bradley \% R=.k tan. (9 — nR). He determined n from the comparison of the horizontal refraction, and the refraction at a given altitude. This would be exact if the density of the atmosphere decreased uniformly. But k and thence n may be determined by direct experiments on the refractive force of air, and also by observations of circumpolar stars at zenith distances not greater than 80°. With these values oik and n the refractions at the horizon and low altitudes may be computed, and are not found to agree with observations, therefore the density of the atmosphere does not decrease uniformly. 95 7. Remark. This last conclusion might have been very easily deduced from equat. (6) art. 3; but the above investi- ' gation has been used for the sake of deriving the formulas of Simpson and Bradley. By equat. (4) art. 3 s = 1 — — Therefore, by equat. (2) art. 6,s= IfizLLx H. Hence by equat. (6) art. 3. Q b I (p) tan. 9 __ q (m — \)ltan 9 ^ '2 a COS. ^9 ^ a cos. > 9 ' Hypothesis of an uniform temperature. 8. By the equat. (6) art\ 5 we; also derive the same Cbh- clusion on the hypothesis of an uniform temperature, in which case, as has been stated art- 4* —as '•: '; { v^ , ^ as f = (f) c ' or /J = — f- (i) G ^ Hence by equation (6) art. 5. /' As ^ 0 c - — f'''^=(froms=otos=l) 2 COS. ^ 9 before. lU)itanV-'iJ}^ _, ,. ^ _ n — fcl>iifl! as 96 Reduction of the formula for refraction to one convenient for computation. — Comparison with Laplace's formula. 9. From the equation which takes place, supposing the surface of the earth a plane. Viz. m sin. 6 = sin. C^'+Q) We obtain, making m constant, m sin. ^ = Q cos. (^-HQ) 0 = Q cos. (^ + Q)— Q ' sin; (^+Q) Hence making Q = 0 and then w = m — 1 we have by Taylor's theorem Q = (m— 1) tan. 6 + JH^JH- tan. ^ ^ + &c. taking m— 1 = ,0003 and 6 = 80'. 45' (in — 1) ' tan. ^ 9 n't 1 ^Tin. 1" ' the following terms are therefore insensible. Hence substituting in equat. (7) art. 4. We obtain for all values of 6 less than about 80°.45' R == (>»— 1) t<^n. fl {m—\)ltan.Q , 5 (m—\) I ' tan. ^ 6 Im. V a COS.'' 9 sin. 1'' 2 a- cos. ^ 9 sin, 1" (ni—\) ' tan. 3 ^ /-JN + 2«"». 1'' The two last terms are insensible except when 0 is nearly 80'. 10. The formula of Laplace (p. 268. tom. 4. Mec. celest.) I in seconds of a degree = -^i—[^i A + ——g > in whicli « =: -l^M- = i^^^'> But '^''^'^ = "''~^ Therefore expanding "^^^ by the powers of m — 1 « = (w— 1) — i (m— 1) ' &c. substituting this value for ctin Laplace's formula. „o,r^, -n_/? (»i — 1 ) tan, fl (w — 1) I toM. & (m — I) « ent of the zenith distance can be taken out at once, and the inconvenience of proportioning for the minutes of zenith dis- tance avoided, which is greater than the new inconvenience occasioned by the second table. Hence the tables here given 102 may be considered more convenient for observations of the sun, moon, and planets. In computing these tables 57",72 was substituted in the above formula instead of 57",82, and therefore the refraction deduced from these tables will agree with those deduced by the French tables. 103 TABLES FOR RETRACTION. Table 1. Table 2, Barometer. Far. ! Therm. o I Logarithms. Far. 1 I'herm. o 1 Logarithms. Far. Therm. o Logarithms 10 11 12 0.3283 0.3273 0.3263 34 35 36 0.3048 0.3039 0.3030 58 59 60 0.2827 0.2818 0.2809 13 14 15 0.3253 0.324-3 0.3233 37 38 39 0.3020 0.3011 0.3001 61 62 63 0.2800 0.2791 0.2782 16 17 18 0.3223 0.3213 0.3203 40 41 42 0.2992 0.2983 0.2974 64 65 66 0.2773 0.2764 0.2755 19 20 21 0.3193 0.3133 0.3173 43 44 45 0.2965 0.2956 0.2946 67 68 69 0.2746 0.2737 0.2728 22 2+ 0.3163 0.3154. 0.3144 46 47 48 0.2937 0.2928 0.2919 70 71 72 0.2720 0.2711 0.2703 25 26 27 0.3134 0.3124 0.3114 49 ,50 51 0.2910 0.2900 0.2891 73 74 75 0.2694 0.2685 0.2677 28 29 30 0.3105 0.3095 0.3086 52 53 54 0.2881 0.2872 0.2863 76 77 78 0.2668 0.2660 0.2652 31 32 33 0.3076 0.3067 0.3058 55 56 57 0 2854 0.2845 0.2836 79 80 81 0.2644 0.2636 0.2627 -L . — Z. D. 28,50 29,00 29,50 30.00 30,50 o '■ H // " ii 80 10,5 10,7 10,9 11,1 11,* 79 8,1 8,3 8,5 8,7 8,9 78 6,3 6,4 6,6 6,7 6,9 77 5.1 5,2 5,3 5,4 5,8 76 4,1 4,2 4,3 4,4 4,5 75 34 3,4 3,5 3,6 3,7 74 3,0 3,0 3,1 3.1 3,2 73 2,5 2,5 2,6 2,6 2,6 72 2,1 2,1 2,2 2,2 2,2 i 71 ',8 1,8 1,9 1,9 1,9 70 1,5 1,5 1,5 1,6 1,6 69 68 1,3 1,3 1.3 1,4 1,4 1.2 1,2 1,2 1,2 1,2 67 1,0 1,0 66 0,9 0,9 65 0,8 0,3 64 0,7 0,7 63 0,6 0,<5 62 0,6 0,6 61 0,5 0,5 60 0,5 \ 0,.5 58 0,4 0,4 1 56 0,3 0,3 54 0,3 0,3 52 0,2 0,2 50 0,2 0,2 45 0,2 0,2 40 0,1 0,1 30 0,0 0,0 0 0,0 0,0 Logarithm in Tab. I. + log. barom. + log. tan. zenith dist. = log. ap- proximate refraction. i\ppr. ref. — Number Tab. 2. = refraction. Example. Zenith dist. 71°. 26', barom. 29,76 inches and therm. 4S°. Log. Tab. 1 Log. barom. -'^ Log. tan. 7 1 ".26 Ref. 173,4 =:2'.53",4 Log. approx. ref. 175"4 - 2.2439 0.2965 1.4736 0.4-738 Appi'. ref. 175' ',4 Tab. 2. 2, 0 104 The Co-latitude of the Observatory of Trinity College, Dublin, deduced from Observations of Circumpolar Stars, by different Tables of Refraction.— Observed Refractions of Capella^ be- low the Pole. 14. Comparisons of the Co-latitude as determined by stars near to, and remote from the pole, serve for a criterion of the accuracy of the tables of refraction used. In the following table the co-latitude is determined by four different methods of computing the refraction. 1. In column A, by the formula 56", 9 tan. (^— 3, 2 ref.) bar. 500 ^ 29,6 ^ ^50 + therm. ' 2. In column B, by the formula d&',9 tan. (^—3 ref.) >; bar. 400 29,6 350 + therm. 3. In column C, by the preceding tables, which give the same results as the French tables. 4. In column D, by the value of "^ = 57",82 as de- ' •' sin. 1 duced from experiment. The second formula is Bradley's. The first formula is what appeared to me by my observa- tions in 1 809, to give the refraction at low altitudes more ex- actly than Bradley's formula, and also to give the effects of the changes of temperature more exactly. 105 But both these formulae must be considered empirical. Wears that observations of circumpolar stars are not adapted for obtaining extreme accuracy* and that tli^ quantity of mean refraction at 45" so determined cannot rea- sonably be depended on to less than a quarter of a second. The direct experiment for determining the refractive force of ait may be made independently of the divisions of an in- strument. The whole quantity of refraction is ascertained, instead of the differences of refractions as in circumpolar stars. There are also other sources of accuracy by which the result may berendered very exact. For the above reasons, the determination -7— n;= 57",82 or ' ««. 1" ' the mean refraction at 45" (bar. 29, t>0 and therm. 60) = 57,67 appear to me more to be relied on. 16. In deducing the above value of ^^^-^ from the observations of circumpolar stars, 1 only used such stars as were less than 80" from the zenith when below the pole. It is well known to those conversant in observations made with good instruments that near the horizon an irregularity in refraction hitherto unexplained shews itself. This com- mencing even at less zenith distances than 80°, is at first very small, but increases to a very considerable irregularity as we approach the horizon. The bright star Capella being within the limits of this irre- gularity has not been used for the co-latitude. A considerable number of observations of this star below the pole have how- ever beenvmade by me, which may serve for two purposes. 104 (1) To shew the effects of the abovementioned irregularity ot refraction, by which it appears that at zenith distances not greater even than 80°, no use can be made of observations for the nicer purposes of astronomy. (2) As it is reasonable to suppose this unexplained irregu- lariTiy* will disappear from a mean of a great number of ob- servations, this star, which is just at the limit where the quantity of refraction ceases to be independent of the vari- ation of density, may also serve as a criterion of the exactness of the value of "'"~;. or of the quantity of mean refraction. The refraction observed and the refraction computed by the formula in Art. 11. are placed by the side of each other, and also the correction of the computed refraction to give the ob- served refraction. This correction is often far beyond the limit of the error of observation, and is to be attributed to the above- mentioned irregularity of refraction. * The hypothesis upon which refractions are computed is that the different strata of air / are concentrical with the earth's surface, circumEtances may he easily imagined to affect this hypothesis, with respect to low stars. lie ■yfhs'.viicfractions of Capelta below the Pole. Time of Observations. Bar. Ther. int. Conijjut. llelrac. Observed Kefrac. Corr. comp. Time of Observation. Bar. Ther. int. Comput. Kefrac. Observed llefrac. Corr. comp. ref. I SOS, July 28 Aug. 1 1 23 29,50 29,51 29,97- 63 61 67 -; i S0,3 31,9 32,6 5 28,8 29,1 31,3 — \",5 -2,8 — 1,3 1811, Jan. 23 27 28 30,33 29,40 29,32 32 27 24i 6 s"4 5 56,3 57,5 / // . » 5,2 5 59,S 55,3 + 1,8 + 3,5 — 2,2 24. SO Nov. 23 29,9 .S ■ 29.16 29,84 66 62i 42 33.4 20,8 49,7 33,9 26,2 42,4 + 0,5 1 — 0,6 — 73 July 1 3 6 29,64 29,49 29,78 • 64i 54i 61i 30,7 36,5 3t,4 31,6 42,9 43,7 + t),9 + 6,4 + 9,3 Dec. 4. 21 1 809, Jan. 20 29,77 29,30 29,31 44 31 30 47,4. 52,1 52,7 43,5 47,8 48,3 — 3,9 -4,3 — 4,4 9 14 16 29,8 1 29,42 29,46 64i 581 57i 32,5 32,4 34,6 35,8 32,6 36,2 + 3,3 + 0.2 + 2,6 22 May 29 June 14- 29,33 29,^0 29,70 27 54 54 55,6 36,7 38,9 48,5 4:;,o 41,6 — 7,1 + 2,7 17 20 21 29,46 29,80 29,73 58 63t 64 33,3 33,2 32,1 34,7 35,3 29,4 + L4 + 2,1 -2,7 15 17 July 8 29,72 29,61 29,90 55 56 63 38,4 S6,5 34,6 38,8 38,6 39,1 + 0,4 + 2,1 + 4,5 + 1,2 + *.6, — 3,3 22 23 26, 29,78 29,83 30,00 28,67 2.S,S7 29.75 61 62 65i 34,8 34,5 34,1 36,6 40,1 37,5 + 1,8 + 5,6 + 3-4 10 15 17 29,97 29,88 29,80 63 62i 55i - 35,5 34,7 38,9 36,7 39,3 35,6 Dec. 9 9 13 40i 38 40 37,2 41,4 50,3 34,0 37,0 *7,1 — 3,2 — 4,4 — 3,2 18 19 23 29,89 20,92 29,71 571 60 60 38,4 37,1 34,7 41,0 38,3 35,5 + 2,6 + 1,2 + 0,8 18 29,15 29 29.84 1812, Jan. 4 ! 29,20 451 30i 29i 39,0 68,8 51,9 34,1 54,2 43,7 — 4,9 — 4,6 -8,2 Aug. 22 24 18 10, Jan. 20 29,19 29,16 29,83 53 55 58i 33,9 32,1 37,2 29,8 30,5 40,0 — 4,1 — 1,6 + 2,8 14 20 Oct. 28 29,42 29,69 29,33 37 37 43i 48,4 51.9 40,1 47,2 50,1 38,1 — 1.2 -1,8 — 2,0 22 23 25 30,12 30,02 29,98 62 62i 57 37,2 36,4 39,9 43,« 42 0 42,7 + 6,4 + 5,6 + 2,8 Dec. 9 21 31 29,12 29,48 29,57 36 35 40 50,0 50,7 47.9 46,7 50,6 47,8 — 3,3 — 0,1 -2,1 July I 8 24 29,58 29,50 29,73 58 58 59 34,6 33,8 35,7 39,4. 36,7 29,9 + 'H« + ■^■9 1 -^5,8| 1813, Jan. 4 11 18 29,59 29,36 29,88 42 34 36 46,5 50,0 54,7 39,4 42,7 52,0 -7,1 — 7,3 — 2,7 27 Aug. 14 181 1, Jan. 20 29,24 29,29 29,60 58 58 37 .30,4 31,4 51,5 25,2 27,3 42,9 — 5,2 — 4,1 -8.6 19 25 30,02 30,15 35 29 57.2 6 3,5 . 5"'.3 6 3,6 + 0,1 + 0,1 The preceding 65 observations give the mean correction = - 0",49. This would give J:^, == 57",74 and the ref. at 45" =i: 5J",58 very nearly the same as the; French tables, but this exactness cannot be depended on, even if we supposed the irregularity of refraction to disappear in the mean, be- cause the zenith distances of Capella above and below the pole may be affected by errors of division. If we suppose the co-laiitude exact, and take the error of the mean of the six microscopes in each position of Capella = 0",5 and also take the error of refraction arising from using the mean be- tween uniform temperature and uniform density = 0",25. The above correction may become = — (0"49i-l,00+ 0",25) =-- 1",74 or it may become + 0,76. •The first will make the ref. at 45' = 57",37 the second - - =57 ,79 These are probably two limits. •^ 'Limits of Refraction. — Observed Refractions of a- L'yi-iB below the Pole. 17. It has been stated' in art. 4. tliaCtlie quantity or at- mospherical refraction is less than would result from an uni- form temperature in the atmosphere and greater than what would result from a density decreasing uniformly. 11^2 (t) 'Vhe former readily appears from the equation lk = ~ art. 1, For since the temperature decreases as we ascend, it fol- lows that the satne density takes place at a distance from the surface greater than in the case of an uniform temperature. Now the only variable quantity in OC is f, therefore OC re- maining the same, OP is increased, and consequently R diminished, therefore refraction ory R is greater in the case of uniform temperature than in the actual state of the atmos- phere. (2) By the annexed observed refractions of a Lyrie, below the pole, it will appear that the actual refraction is greater than would take place, did the density of the air decrease uniformly. The mean of these 42 observations of « Lyrae below the pole gives the refraction at the zenith distance 87° 42' 1(/' = 17' ?b",5, the mean of the heights of the barom. =: 29,50, and the mean of the heights of the therm. = 55'',0. These heights of the barom. and therm, give, (vid. art. 11.) !^ = 59",50 and , ^ ., i = 3,803. Hence if the density of the air decreases uniformly, 113 At 87°. 42'. 10", refraction = 59", 5 tan. (87'. 42^. tO" — 3,803 r)* =16'. 51", 0. This refraction is less by 35",5 than the mean of the ob- served refractions. Hence we may safely conclude that the actual quantity of refraction is between the results from an uniform temperature and from a density decreasing uni- formly. Laplace has shewn the same from the horizontal refrac- tions computed on each hypothesis, and compared with the observed horizontal refraction. But it does not appear that the mean observed horizontal refraction has hitherto been as- certained with much accuracy. Laplace has also in the case of uniform temperature in- tegrated the fluxional equation for refraction, in which he * This form or r=zk tan. (S — nr) may be readily computed by help of an auxiliary angle y. log. tan. y = log. tan. fl -f- log. (i^„fc^„. i„ ) + i log- then log. r = t log. ^-^^ ^„ + log. tan. \ y _ , , . . fc t*.n. 8 — ft tan. n r For h tan. (9 — nr) = -— j— — — ^ ' l+tan.itan.nr Hence -L-^— ;^— = tan. 9 n«tn. 1'' let taa. iyzzr V y- sin. 1" then 'Ji!lJl^!L2!L V -~t— tan. y = tan. 9 a ft *«'«• 1 Whence log. tan. y =: tan. 9 4- &c. &c. &c. VOL. XII. R lU has exhibited a striking specimen of his great mathematical skill (vid. Mec. eel. torn. 4. p. 246— 253 ) His series is sufficiently convenient for computing the hori- zontal refraction, but in deducing from it tiie refraction at 87°43'l0" zenith distance, a good deal of calculation is ne- cessary. I deduce the value of a=,0G02882 for the heights of the barometer and therm, abovementioned, and then the six first terms of the series (Mec. eel. torn. 4. p. 251)= 817" + I7r',4 + 50",2 + 17",4 + 6",4 + 2",7 + &c. The sum of this series must be nearly == 106?". Therefore we have at zen. dist. 87"42'10", barom. 29,50 and therm. 35°. Refraction, density decreasing uniformly = 16.'5r'',0 by observation - = 17- 26, 5 uniform temperature - =17.47,0 Hence as far as this zenith distance the refraction differs only a few seconds from the mean resulting from the two hypotheses. The difference is far less than what may arise from the irregularity of refraction. At the same zenith distance, and same heights of the barom. and therm. By the French tables ref. = 17'.21",0 .By Bradley's formula = I7 48, 2 By what 1 considered an improvement of Brad- ley's formula vid. art. 14 == 1? 25, 3 , 1116 Refractions of « Lyra below the Pole. Time of Observation „ Ther. Barom. .^^_ Ther. ex. Zenith distance observed Ee£ observed Cerr. French Tables 1809, Jan. 22 Feb. 18 20 29,25 30,01 29,78 25 43i 43i 0 / // 87 42 1,6 42 40,7 42 41,6 17 57,4 17 24.8 17 24,2 4- 23,7 + 3,4 + 10,7 TMar. 5 12 IS 10, Feb. 13 30,09 30,05 28,94. 42i 44 34 30 42 33,0 42 22,1 42 57,0 17 34,7 17 46,2 17 3,1 + 8,7 4- 26,0 — 3,6 19 Mar. 17 1811, Jan.l8 30,02 29,62 29,90 32 36 33i 29i 33 32 42 5,9 42 31 yO 42 12,2 17 55,6 17 33,4 17 38,1 + 10,2 4- 9.* — 0,2 23 28 Feb. 3 30,27 29,35 25 27i 324 2li SO 41 55,1 41 58,5 42 94,3 17 56,6 17 54,6 17 20,4 4- 9.« + 22,7 - 7,7 29,44. 31i 7 8 12 29,24 29,28 29,03 39 39 38 38 35 34 ■ 42 52,5 42 51,2 42 58,4 . 17 3,2 17 4,7 16 58,4 — 2,8' — 2,3 — 2,6 ', 13 Dec. 28 1812. Jan. 2 28,91 29,39 29,07 35 30i 3li 33 25i 30 43 8,3 42 3,0 42 22,0 16 53,7 17 38,7 17 21,2 — 10,2 i + 12,2 + 6,9 3 4 7 28,95 29,11 29,93 23\ 27t 82 26i 23i 31 42 34,0 41 56,2 42 2,1 17 9,5 17 47i6 17 42,6 — 5,8 + 24,6 + 0,6 21 30 Feb. 7 29,6t 29,18 29,42 .34 39 38 35 33 42 1,2 42 36,4 42 27,2 17 47,9 17 19,2 17 26,4 -f 20,7 + 17,2 + 13,9 Dec. 22 1813, Jan. 1 29,66 29,64 29,90 33 36 42i 26t 31 40 41 48,0 42 9,1 42 23,0 17 50,7 17 32,7 17 19,5 + 21,1 4- 9,4 4- 0,7 11 19 26 29,52 30,04. 30,16 36 36 33 31i 32 28 42 11,8 41 58,2 41 46,2 17 33,2 17 49,2 18 3;2 -f 14,2 + 12,6 4- 16,1 Feb. 6 15 18 29,40 28,50 29,26 39 40 39 38 38 37i 42 4;, 8 43 24.8 43 0,0 17 5,6 16 29,6 16 55,0 _ 5,1 — 10,0 — 12,0 R 2 116 Refractions of a Lyrae below the Pole. Time of observation „ Ther. Barom, .^^ Ther. ex. Zenith distance observed Ref. observed Corr. French Tables 1813, Feb, 22 Dec. 26 27 29,2+ 30,19 30,01 42 35i 36i 364 314 34 87 42 52,3 41 55,8 42 21,2 17 3,3 17 43,6 17 18,5 + 4"o + 0,1 — 17,3 31 ISU.Jan. 1 4 , 29,88 29,69 29,11 35i 35 26i 334 32i 23 42 1,0 42 21,2 41 59,6 17 40,0 17 20,1 17 42,7 + 7,5 — 8,4 + 17,4 22 26 27 29,88 28,95 28,78 21 33 32i 17 324 304 41 25,7 42 56,2 42 49,8 18 22,2 16 52,8 16 59,4 + 18,2 — 16,5 — 4,2 29 Feb. 13 28,63 29,67 314 4li 29 39 42 51,5 42 47,1 16 58,4 17 6,3 — 2,1 — 8,4 To the preceding observed refractions of a Lyras S.P. are annexed the corrections to be applied to the refractions com- puted by the French tables to give the observed refractions. These corrections sufficiently point out the irregularities of refraction at low altitudes. The French tables from 74" zenith distance to the horizon may be considered less empirical than any other, since they are deduced from a formula of Laplace assumed so, that, partaking both of the arithmetical and geometrical progressions of variation of density, it gives the diminution of heat observed in ascending in the atmosphere. Gay Lussac having ascended in a balloon to a considerable height found the diminution of temperature nearly as resulted from Laplace's formula. 117 But from the circumstances of the case there seems to be no reason lo expect any exact and convenient method of de- termining the quantity of refraction for low altitudes. It is not likely the irregularities will be ever submitted to any law, and investigations respecting formulce for refractions for zenith distances greater than about 80° may be considered more curious than useful. For less zenith distances, the French tables, as it has been a principal object of this paper to shew, seem as accurate as can be desired. APPENDIX to the Account of observations made at the ObseV' vatory of TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, which appear to poi7it out an annual Parallapc in certain fixed Stars, 4-c ^c. By JOHN BRmKlEY, D. D. M. R. I. A. F. R. S. md Andrews' Professor of Astronomy in the University of Dublin. Read March 6, 1815. X HE results from the observations of Arcturus, « Lyrae, ft Aquilse and a, Cygni made during the last twelve months' agree sufficiently with the former results, and combined therewith, may be considered as adding additional weight to what I have before stated respecting the parallax of these stars. » , Arcturus. By 20 observations in May, June and July, 1814, mean zenith distance, Jan. 1, 1814. 33«. 13'. 5l",54>+,57p 120 / By 20 observations, October, Novem- ber, December, 1814, mean zenith distance, Jap. 1, 1814. 53« 15' 5r,60-~^5p 1,26 .;, , Combining these observations with the 77 observations be- fore given, p = 1,1 or the double parallax = 2",2 as before. The above 40 observations (taking the annual motion in N. P. D. = + 18,81) give the mean N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813 = 69" £0' 19",66 The former determination gives 69 50 19 >S3 -/ Draconis. By 26 observations in June, July and August, 1813 and 1814, the mean zenith distance, Jan. i, 1814, 1». 52'. 17",74 By 32 observations, November, De- cember, January and February, 1813, 1814 and 1815, the mean ze- nith distance, Jan. 1, 1814, 1 52 17 ,86 This indicates no sensible parallax, and the argument from thence derived appears very conclusive. This star passes the meridian within about half an hour of the passage of 121 a Lyrae, and is not quite 13° distant in declination from it. Therefore if any unknown cause should occasion an appear- ance of parallax, and render the observations of a Lyrae in- accurate, the same ought to affect the observations of y Dra- conis in a similar way. But the above results shevv that it is not the case, and consequently afford a powerful argument that the difference of the zenith distances of a. Lyrs in sum- mer and winter is occasioned by parallax. The above 58 observations give the mean N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813, 38° 29' 3",o8 By the former determination 3 ,70 « Lj'fSB. Bj' 20 observations In June, July and August, 1814, the mean zenith dis- tance, Jan. 1,18I4 14" 46' lO",87+,78 /> By 20 observations in Decern. 1814, January and February, 1815, the mean zenith distance, Jan. 1, 1814, 14 4(5 12,00 — ,78p Hence p ?p >77ii^ ,:b7=vO":,72. o In computing the above observations the French refrac- tions were used. In the former computation of theobserva- tions of a. Lyrs, Bradley's refractions were used. Had ihe French refractions been used, the parallax, as was observetl, would have been 2", or p= 1". Combining the forHier'126' VOL. XII. s in observations with the above 40, p= 0",9 or the doubfopa- rallax from 166 observations = r',8. The above 40 observations give' the mean ''' N. P.D.Jan. 1, 1813, 51'2rj'0",94 13 observations in August and September, *S14 - - 51 23 0,51 The former determination - 51 23 0 84 If we reckon the observations near six o'clock in the even- ing, we may consider the determination of the parallax of a Ljr® as resting on 205 observations of that star. a Aquilas. I was able to obtain only 10 observations of this star in 1814, near the time when the zenith distance from parallax appears least, I have therefore joined with these 11 observa- tions when the zenith distance is near its mean quantity. In this way the errors of observation have a greater influence on account of the smallness of the co-efficient of p. The result * gives a parallax greater thaia before, but being com- bined with the former one, the conclusion is not materially ' different. It sufficiently establishes the great parallax ot a Aquilae. * If tl»e 10 observations only had been used, the result would hare agreed very nearly mlk the fonner result. Its By 24. observations in tfee winter, .;. mean zenith distance, January 1, ;araoiU By 21 observations, summer and' autumn, 1814, mean zenith dis- .,, tam:e,> Jan. 1. 1814, .ci,i 45' 0' 5",00+,21;, Hence ;^=-^==:3",5 Combining this result with the result of the 76 observations before given p = 3,"0, or the double parallax = 6", This re- suit exceeds the former by half a second, but, as has been observed, the smallness of the co-efficient of p necessarily precludes great accuracy. The above 45 observations (taking the mean annual motion in N. P. D. = 9", 12) give the mean N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813 = 81° 36' 59",42 The former determination was gi 3g ^p 8^ Of Cygni. By 12 observations near conjunc- tion, mean zenith distance, Jan. * _ ^' ^^*^' - , 8<'45'59"42-,80p By 10 observations near opposi- tion, mean zenith distance, Jan. ■''^^*^' - 8 45 58,47 + ,72;» 124 These observations are too few in number to be of much weight by themselves, but, combined with the former 47 ob- servations, give p = 0",9 or the double parallax = 1",8. The former conclusion was 2",1. The above 22 observations give the mean N. P. D. Jan. 1, 1813, 45' 2^ 58",06 The former determination was 45 22 58 »34 POLITE LITERATURE. VOL. XII. * - AN • ESSAY ON THE SUBJECT PROPOSED BT - THE ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY, " Whether, and how far, the pursuits of Scientific, and Fo- lite Literature, assist, or obstruct, each other." If we can direct the lights we derive from the exalted speculations of philosophy upon the humbler field of the imagination, we may not only communicate to the taste a sort of philosophical solidity, but we may reflect back upon the severer sciences some of the graces and elegances of taste, without which the greatest pror ticicncy in those sciences will always have the appearance of something illiberal. ^ Burke's Introduction to Treatise on Sublime and Beautiful. Among the many errors of the understanding, by which the learned have been misled in their conclusions, or dis- tracted in their attempts at more cautious investigation, few have been of greater injury to the cause of truth, than the n)istake of a concomitant for a cause, of a casual for a necessary connection, and a fortuitous contiguity in point of time for som£ fixed and established relation in the great sys- 4 tern of natural dependencies. Cotemporary pliasnoincna we accustom ourselves either to- refer to one common principle of causation, or to attribute to the one some degree of influ- ence on the production of the other i we are naturally pleased with this order of things to which we ourselves have given existence, and we veil our rashness in instituting analogies^ under the specious appellations of " love of simplicity," and " a study to preserve unbroken the general harmony of na- ture." An error of this kind has for a long time partially prevailed relative to the subject proposed by the Academ}' for discussion, arid though in itself it by no means requires a formal refutation, yet from it's connection with our ques- tion it derives at present a degree of adventitious import- ance. It has been observed, that while science in these latter ages has soared to a height not only inaccessible but incom- prehensible to the ancients, Polite Literature still remains in the neighbourhood of those regions where the remotest anti- quity had placed her — that while the pensive brow of the severer Muse has been gradually relaxing into a smile of greater complacency, the votaries of her more graceful sister have had but little reason to boast of any cncrease in her partiality. Hence it has been concluded, that there is sonie natural repugnance between the two pursuits, and that parti- cular attachment to one must necessarily be attended by inferiority in the other. Thus the grand cause of Learning has been split into factions, and the two presiding deities been considered not as allies faithfully and perseveringly united in the dispensation of tlx? blessings of civilisation and refinement, but as rivals, each jealous of the other's ascend- ancy, and punishing any particular attention paid to her competitor by manifest indications of coldness and neglect. In order to answer this objection, there wilJ be no occasion to enter into a. minute historical account of their connection in their origin, progress, and decline in each country, where their happy influence has been felt : it will be sufficient at present to mention a few leading facts, from which it may be seen, that the two pursuits are not in their own nature irre- concileably averse to each other; and to enumerate some cir- cumstances, from which we may easily account for their comparative states in ancient and modern times, without ' having recourse to such a bold and unwarranted hypothesis. In that twilight state of human existence,, which inter- venes between the dreary gloom of savage solitude, and the chearful lustre of civilised society, the poets were the first who, from their superior elevation of soul, were enabled to catch the first partial rays of knowledge, as they struggled through the clouded atmosphere of error and the mists of superstition. It must, indeed, be confessed that the light, which they thus contributed to diffuse over the yet unex- plored paths of learning, was in some degree diverted from the direct line of philosophical accuracy, and tinged with the lively and variegated hues of poetry ; their knowledge of a new star was announced by the deifi^cation of some cele (i brated mortal; their altempls to explain celestial phenomena, or describe the constitution of the universe, were delivered under allegorical representations; and their morality, instead of being inculcated in the plain didactic form, was insinuated in the specious garb of narraiive and of fable. ]3ut, there- fore, to deny tl>e original union of poetry and philosophy, would be as unreasonable (says an * old writer), " as to as- sert that day-light proceeded from some other cause than thp diffusion of the sun's beams over the surface of the earth. For if we deliver poetry from the restraints of metre and versification, and remove the veil of mythological obscurity in which its sentiments are enveloped, what other difference will then remain between it and philosophy, than adifierence as to the dates of their respective origin .''" " During the earlier ages (continues -f he) the human mind required a milder species of philosophy, that would calm the restless- ness inseparable from primitive rudeness, sooth the affec- tions by the blandishments of harmony, captivate the atten- tion by interesting fable, and lead mankind, as it were by the hand, into the paths of knowledge ; in short reason was * Maximus Tyrius, Dissert. 9. 'Oion "» ns >) tjiv i^!f«v eoWo rl ■nyyia-mro wXrni riXt^ ^Zj iriTTOf h( y?') >i Toy r,Xiov kVej yn; ^sot-ra «?iXo rl n ijj,t(xy, a-ru rot ra rrs TOitjTixn; 5rpos ^»Xocro(J>iav tyti. KaJ yaj woilTtxii Tt ~«XXo Er< 1 f«4TE;a;> ,>! Sta fitvSwy SniJ-ayuyiKTu avrrt), xat ^.iree;i(EipiEtT(ci; \a,^«,vtf d^ tit9(«» tv; itaiitif then in its infancy, and demanded from its ms'tfuctors such treatment as children receive from their nurses." We are not to imagine, that these expressions of the Greek writer are necessafi'lj confined to moral philosophy, tliough the nature of the subject, of which he is treating in that dissertation, prevents him from extending the observation, for (as Mr, Twining * remarks) the earliest philosophy was natural phi- losophy, and the earliest vehicle of that philosophy was verse. ' Oipheus, Hesiod, Parnlenides, Empedocles, and Thalesj.kte all mentioned by Plutarch as poet-philosophers of this kind, and Pythagoras is isaid to have written a poem on the Universe in Hexameters." Bui to return toTyrius — •f- *' When at length (says he) reason had encreased in strength and approached to the maturity of manly understanding, it became filled with incredulity and suspicion, too judicious to admit the fables without investigation, or approve of the obscurity in which their signification was involved; then it was that philosophy was divested of her former decorations; the pompous train of poetic imagery was dismissed, and the mystic veil of allegory removed from before her." Yet, though they tluis became separate, they were still S3'mpa- thetic existences, they flourished not, but in association, they appeared uiuted in one common fate and governed by * Comnienfary on Aristotle's Poetics. ©ne common law, they seemed as mutual moons, each inva- riably attending the other in its revolutions through the uni- verse, each deriving its chief lustre, and more resplendent radiance, from the same inexhaustible source of light and truth, yet not a little enlivened by the reflex beams of the other. And although the* genius of the Roman people seemed averse from such pursuits, every man in the earlier ages of that state devoting himself particularly to those studies, which were calculated to procure him political pre-eminence, and even to the latest period of the Commonwealth the policy or superstition of the Senate discountenancing the Grecian .philosophy, yet has Rome produced on a philoso- phical subject one of the most sublime, and occasionally, the most harmonious poems in any language; and when learning began to sink under the overwhelming force of bar- barism, we fmd Bocthius, one of the latest of Roman poets, •singing a hynm of consolation to declining philosophy. If we carry our historical view still farther, we find that in the gloomy interval of Gothic ignorance, both were equally neg- ^leoted and uncultivated, that these were the ages of phantas- tic hypotheses and unmeaning quibbles, as well as monkish rhymes and puny witticisms, and that religion was equally corrupted by absurd legendary tales, and frivolous stories of saints and devils, as by the scholastic jargon of metaphysi- * Fopulo Romano nunquam ea copia fuit, quia prudentissirous quisque maxinie i>«> gotiosus erat, ingeiiiuni nemo sioe corpore exercebat. Sail. Bel. Cat. cal theology. Whatever has been said of the original union of poetry with philosophy may be extended to eloquence ; for, in the earlier ages of learning, the philosopher and orator also were united, and it was supposed that their respective ends would be most effectually accomplished by their co-ex- istence ; * " Hanc enim perfectam philosophiam semper pu- tavi, quas de maximis quasstionibus copiose posset et ornate dicere." After the light of learning was restored, the two arts continue still associated, those countries which have been particularly distinguished for their poets, orators, his- torians, and critics, have also to boast of the most illustrious names on the records of mathematics and philosophy, whe- ther natural, moral, or metaphysical. To conclude this sketch of their connected history, we may say (adopting an idea of -f Grattan's) that in every country Polite Literature has rocked the cradle of Philosophy in its infancy, has la- mented it's decline, and followed it's fall ; that it hailed it's re- suscitation, when it rose from the tomb of Gothic barbarism, and has since uniformly accompanied it in its descent through the vale of time, and that .wherever the sublime communica- tions of science have been disregarded, there the politer muse has not deigned to raise her fascinating voice, i. The mathematical sciences, like the objects of which they treat, maybe considered as quantities capable of en- • TuUy Thsc. Quaest. J " I have rocked tlie criidle of Irisli Independence, and 1 have followed its hearse." VOL. XIL. C 10 Grease by the addition of the least part, it is in their nature» therefore to be progressive, and since the grounds of com- parison are innumerable, and the circumstances of relation infinitely diversified, their progress knows np assignable li- mit. If the extent of number considered in one direct line transcend the utmost efi'orts of thought, and outstrip the- Kiost rapid methods of calculation, what are we to think if this infinity be propagated on every side by the inexhaustible power of combination, each successive change presenting a new order of the whole system, resolvable into an indetermit- nate number of new dispositions among its elementary parts, and every different mode of juxtaposition susceptible of an endless variety of relations undiscovered during the contencb. plation of former arrangements ? Again, if on account of the innumerable variations in the length, the number,^ and mutual inclination of lines and surfaces, pure geometEy ^one afford such a vast field for speculation, that the human intel>- lect, after having exspatiated there for near three thousand years, finds still new tracts aboundiog in objects! unnoticed by former inquiries, what bounds can now be prescribed to diseo^very, when new and extensive principles have been adopted, new modes of investigation applied, when regions, hitherto unknown, even in name, or considered incapable of being rendered subject to mathematical research, have been added to the dominions of science ? In scientific subjects every new discovery, however noble in itself, however admir- able for the skill and ingenuity displayed in the research. -11 tind the simplicity and universality of the conclusion, de- rives its principal claim on our consideration from the ferti- lity with which it supplies new deductions, each successively •unfolding new properties, and pointing out relations hitherto -unobserved. Thus every step that we ascend in the progress i^F discovery, at the same time that it gives us a more com- manding view of the ground that we have passed, enables us to catchaglimpee of some more elevated pinnacle, which the interposing objects had hitherto prevented us from ob- serving, and when at length we have obtained the possession -erf" ithis 'eminence, we value it chiefly as it facilitates our ap- proach to a summit Still more elevated and remote. The •discovery, for which fPythagoras thanked the gods by the -sacrifice of a whole hecatomb, was entitled to the gratitude of future mathematicians -for consequences of which the phi- losopher himself could 'have had no conception, for establish- ing the connection between arithmetic and geometry, and Opening the passage to trigonometrical computation. The -exultation, which drew from Archimede the proud exclama- 'tion '* EvpfiKct," has long been lost in the ardor of ulterior ^discovery ; and his method of eKhaustions, beautiful and ac- curate, and scientific as it is, retains it's place in the list of great discoveries principally from it's having given birth to the method of indivisibles, and prepared the way for the more extensive and philosophical reasonings of the immortal Newton. The observations and researches of every one whose name is mentioned in the history of Science, from the 1^ . first rude gaze of the Babylonian shepherd to the accurate examinations of a modern astronomer, assisted by the elabo- rate apparatus of a royal observatory, all were indispensably necessary for the perfection of astronomical knowledge, and the consummation of that great monument of human indus- try and human understanding. Before a Newton or a La Place could have shone forth upon the world, it was likewise necessary that the Egyptian husbandman should have made the first feeble efforts at geometrical measurement, that suc- ceeding and more enlightened minds should have contributed their assistance in extending and improving the confined views of the former, that Euclid, and Apollonius, and Ar- chimede should have added their labours, and that after- ward, in a more advanced age, Cavallerius, Vieta and Wal- lis, should have enriched with unexpected treasures, and enlarged with new possessions, the orbis habitabilis of the scientific world. Thus, even though no very distinguished man should arise for ages, the great work of science conti- nues advancing, fresh materials are every day added to the mass of acquirements ; every year, as it passes, brings some new offering of light and truth, until at length, when the fulness of time is arrived, and a sufficient quantity of splen- dor has been collected in this chaos of accumulated infor- mation, the whole collected body undergoes one general purification, one effulgent soul is made the receptacle of all the light thus separated and refined, fresh rays of origina IS brightness are annexed to it, and it becomes a sun to illumi- nate a long succession of future ages. But with respect to those more refined and elegant pur- suits that are usually comprehended under the name of Belles Lettres, it may be easily perceived that the case is widely different. From the very constitution of his nature, and from the state in which he finds himself, in the very inr fency of societ}-^, man is necessarily an orator, and the ob- jects and business of oratory are nearly the same in all ages. Among all the melancholy pictures that travellers have given from time to time of human degradation, hardly any one has ever yet been exhibited of a race of men denying the existence of a Supreme Being. However defiled and disfi- gured the character of the Creator might have been by at- tributing to it their own depraved propensities, they still con- sidered Him with awe and reverence, and submissively of- fered the homage of their adoration. Hence we always find, in every age and nation, some whose peculiar office it was to appease the Deity by prayer, and to unfold the secrets of their wild mythology, to set forth to the people the supposed revelations of their god, and to explain the superstitious rites observed in their worship, to prescribe rules of conduct for the living, and to celebrate the praises of such departed he- roes and sages, who had formerly improved and adorned their community. Such were the offices of a priest in the earliest days, and these necessarily introduced the characters of poet and. of orator, of both conjointly, for at first the di- 14 vision was xniknowTi^, oratory e^f.ry where lisped in niraibens, and * " song" was considered, " but as the eloquence of truth." Again, man has nerer been 'found to exist in that state of absolute solitude, which some philosophers are so €ond of imposing on the world as the state of nature ; he is every where a social animal, and as to the nature of the as- sociation, 'the connection of an insignificant tribe of savages differs not so much in kind, ais in degree, from the consti- tution of the most powerful and civilised nation* In the councils of the most barbatous horde, leagues offensive and defensive, truces and alliances, justice and injustice, -life and death, war, p^ice, and commerce, are the subjects of de- bsite: and of what other description are the decisions of the most learned tribunals, or the discussions of the most en- lightened senates ? If from the consideration of such rude times and uncivilised people, we pass to those periods of Greece and Rome when the powers of oratory were most conspicuous, we will find that all those subjects which are ever introduced in "the speeches of the most refined and learned speakers, were then almost as well understood as at the present day. Whatever related to the administration of -states, or management of families, to prudence in legislation, and vigour and dexterity in execution; whatever tends to produce wisdom in council, address in business, and ele- gance in conversation, all these were perfectly understood and successfully practised. Few modern orators could be instanced who would bear a comparison with Cicero, in their * Gertrude of Wyoming. 15 knowledge of the various duties of life, the distinctions of virtue and vice, and all those delicate questions which are so ably and elegantlj discussed in his philosophical writ- ings. Erom such obvious considerations it appeal's, that the ob- jects of eloquence admit of but trivial variation, and in like manner it will appear from a little reflection, that the man- ner of treating the subjects^ of discussion is no less limited. ** Initium' dicendi (says QuintiUan) dedit natura, initiutn artis, observatio/' As Nature has bestowed on all men the first rudiments and principles of oratory, so has observation and exp erience gradually suggested tJiose rules which have established it as an art^ and received the sanetion of all civi- lised and enlightened nations. If w& nosv, consider what that is, from' the observation and experience of which men have been enabled to draw these precepts, it is immediately evident that this source is human nature ; by a conformity with this is the whole art to be judged, and the value of eacbi particular precept to be estimated; and all the atchievemenfe that have ever been performed in oratory, resulted from a judicious management of the passions, intermixed with well- timed appeals to the common sense of the audieace. But as amidst all the fluctuations of manners and customs, the diffusion of knowledge, and the progress of refinementi, maukind, from the barbarian to the philosopher, partake of ©ne common nature, this identity imposes on Uie orator an. Jl6 linalterable necessity of exerting his persuasive powers nearly in the same manner. Poetry is an imitative, or rather a descriptive art, and the objects with which it is principally conversant, are the actions and characters of man, and the external appearance of nature. Now that the actions and characters of mankind are nearly the same in all ages, we need not here repeat; and as to the manners, it is an observation equally old and just, that the most favourable , asra for the higher orders of poetry is a period of imperfect civilisation. In this state, man being more dependant on his own individual exertions, than in a more perfect form of society, is less under the necessity of regulat- ing his behaviour according to the pleasure of those around him, his actions are restrained by no artificial deUcacy, his manners mellowed indeed from the harsh asperity of the sa- vage, but far from that insipid sweetness too generally found in the modern fine gentleman. The bold swellings of his soul are not taught to subside to the level of good breeding, nor is the strong and varied expression of his feeling lost in (what is too often) the monotony of decorum. Here there- fore, before man has assumed that veil of politeness, which, except to a very minute inspector, gives such an uniform appearance to society, the poet has an opportunity of ob- serving the natural movements of the mind, the original and unconstrained features of the human character. Accord- ingly we find in Homer the most natural characters, which jvill always retain their power over the mind, because being ^7 founded in our nature, similar ones will daily fall under the observation of all in every age and country. As man ad- vanced in civilisation, the poet was obliged gradually to have recourse more to his invention than observation, and hence poetical characters began to assume less of the species, and more of the individual, less of those grand and striking features, that are common among men in general, and more of those unimportant and accidental differences, that are the result rather of private caprice than general nature. Of this we have a remarkable instance in one of the greatest' poetical characters that England ever produced. " Spenser (says * Mr. Hume) contains great beauties, a sweet and har- monious versification, easy elocution and fine imagination, yet does the perusal of his work become tedious. This effect is usually ascribed to the change of manners, but manners have changed more since Homer's time, and yet that poet still remains the favourite of every reader of taste. Homer copied true natural manners, which, however uncultivated, will always form an agreeable picture ; but the pencil of the English poet was employed in drawing the affectations and conceits of chivalry.' — Hence in a great measure it arises, that in a highly civilised country, the lighter departments of poetry are always more successfully cultivated than the higher. Even in such compositions, however, we should not be surprised, if absurd, and perhaps sometimes unnatural • History of England, App. 3. ' VOL. XII. D 18 representations of manners be introduced ; or if at best the characters, however true, should be superficially traced in the ever-varying tints of custom and fashion, rather than deeply and distinctly marked by the impressive stamp of pas- sion and of nature. We should ever remember that all can- not be equally novel and natural, and that a poet, if he be strictly confined to the latter class, must make the same con- fession and defence to which Terence had resorted so many ages before him. Eas se non negat Personas transtulissc ex Graeca Quod si personis iisdem uti aliis non licet. Qui magis licet currentes servos scribere, Bonas matronas facere, meretrices tnalas, Parasitum edacem, gloriosum militem, Puerum siipponi, falli per servoni senem, Amare, odisse, suspicari? denique Ii)ulhiin est jam dictum, quod non dictum sit prius, Quare aequom est, vos cognoscere et ignoscere. Quae veteres factitarunt, si faciunt novi. Prol. ad Eunuch. If we now turn our attention to the grand source, from which poetry derives all its similes, allusions and illustration*, it is immediately apparent that the progress of time has not added to natural objects any qualities with which they were not originally endowed, and therefore no such object is bet- ter adapted now to excite in the mind a train of poetical images, than it had been in the primaeval days of poetry. 19 Whatever exalts the imagination by its sublimity, raises our admiration at it's magnificence, or awes us into a still more violent emotion by its terrific grandeur; whatever on the other hand fascinates us by its beauty, charms us by the harmonious variety of it's colours, or delights by the exqui- site delicacy of it's proportions, every such object was equal- ly, and, in some cases, better qualified to make the same impression on the poetic mind three thousand years from the present period. The din of battle, and the roaring of the winds and waters, must have possessed the same solemn and fearful qualities ; the melody of the lyre, the gaiety of a vintage feast, and the serene tranquillity of a summer's eve, must have had the same chearful and enlivening effect in the days of Homer, as at present. When Virgil breaks forth into that exclamation " Oh quis me gelidis in vallibus Haemi Sistat, et ingenti ratnorum protegat umbra ! or cries out, " Oh fortunati nimium, sua si boua norint, Agricolae !" the charms of a country life must have appeared as attrac- tive to him, as to Thomson or any other modern. And Horace, when , he sang the following verses, must have felt the pleasing pain of love with a sensibility as exquisite as Moore himself can pretend to — ♦ 20 Urit me Glycerse nitor, Spleiideiitis Pario marinore purius, Urit grata protervitas, Et vultus piiniuin lubricus aspici." — The fields of UUin were as green, and the health of Morven as gloomj, in the days of the real Ossian as of his pretended trans- lator, " the blue waves of Erin" presented then as brilHant a prospect, " when they rolled in the hght of the morning," and the interval of ages has certainly not rendered " the grey mountains" more capable of producing a train of melan- choly ideas. It may be said that the store of nature is in- exhaustible, and that a true poet will always find something there, which though it had escaped the notice of his prede- cessors, is capable of being used to advantage, as an apt illustration of his sentiments, and a valuable ornament of his composition. That this is true in a philosophical sense, there can be little room for doubting, it is certain that we may be for ever approaching to a more intimate ac(iuaintance with the works of the Creator, without ever arriving at complete knowledge ; He alone, who made them, can perfectly compre- hend the design, utility, and extent of His own stupendous performance; but its truth in that sense in which only it is considered advantageous to the poet, will appear, on a little consideration, to be extremely questionable It must be granted, that bj' a close and minute examination of sur- rounding objects, several ideas will suggest themselves, which would escape the transient glances of a more careless ob- 21 server: but in order that your comparison should make the desired impression on the hearer, he must be previously ac- quainted with that fact or natural appearance to which your simile alludes. The end of poetry is not so much to instruct as to please, and the business of the poet is not to inform his reader of the existence of that phenomenon itself, but to dis- >. cover to him some connection between it and the subject which it was intended to illustrate. It is in this respect nearly the same with poetical description as with logical definition, and in order that a definition be intelligible, it is necessary that your reader should be previously acquainted with the signi- fication of all the terms used in the explanation. I have not thought to make any mention of history in this slight survey of the Belles Lettres, for as it is evidently much more limited in its objects, and circumscribed as to the use of ornament and illustration, than poetry or oratory, it must admit of still less variation ; different successive histories may be composed, but they are all models of the same grand fabric, the colour- ing, the arnaments, and the style of architecture varying per- haps in the minuter parts, but the general outline, the pro- portion of the principal members, and the most striking features unaltered. < It has been now shewn that the sciences are in themselves progressive, both from the nature of their objects considered in the abstract, and the inexhaustible variety of the creation^ contemplated in a philosophical manner. The objects of the ,||^ poUter arts, on the contrary, admit of but trivial alteration^ at - and that is of such a nature as to produce rather delicacy than strength, a chaste and frugal accuracy, rather than an irregukir and exuberant boldness. The sciences address themselves to the reason, a faculty which grows with their growth and strengthens with their strength, the extent of whose improvement is illimitable, and which we are led to expect may continue its progress through an endless series of ages. The Belles Lettres on the contrary appeal to the com- mon sense, the passions, and that branch of the imagination, where the train of thought is suggested rather by sensation than reflection ; the first of which three is nearly the same in the savage and philosopher, but in the other two, the Celtic or Scandinavian bard has a great and evident advantage over the refined versifyer of modern times. From these consi- ^ derations it is abundantly evident that there is no occasion to have recourse to the hypothesis mentioned in the beginning of this essay, but there are other circumstances, which, though they are well known as the principal causes of the retarda- tion of the ancients, it may not be proper entirely to omit.* 1st. In philosophical investigations they made no use of ma- thematical reasoning, or of that species of induction, which > since Lord Bacon's time has been justly called philosophical. ' 2d. In pure mathematics they were too cautious in their me- thods of demonstration, the foundations of mathematical * I have avoided mentioning any of the other causes enumerated by Bacon, because ip5 they have been equally prejudicial to modern, as to ancient, writers; it would be easy to give instances, were it to the present purpose. 93 learning indeed were laid with due attention to strength and security, and its base was constructed with solidity and ele- gance, but still the plan was confined, and the dimensions of the intended fabric contracted ; that microscopic nicety, with which they examined every minute particle of the mass, pre- vented them from taking a general survey of the rich mate- rials that lay before them ; and thus when they came to the construction of the pillar itself, they were unable to pro- duce any thing worthy of the exertions or talents employed on it, or of the pedestal prepared for its support. Having thus treated at large of this objection, it is proper that we come to the more immediate consideration of the question itself. Without entering therefore into a panegyric on the reasoning faculty, it is fit that we state briefly, that as it is the distinguishing and noblest faculty of men, so like- wise it is that which demands the most diligent cultivation ; its fruits, though the richest and most abundant, are scarcely ever spontaneous, and no high degree of literary excellence, vyhether in polite or scientific learning, has ever been attained without a due discipline and improvement of it. The savage of Otaheite may have been gifted with as much natural talent as Milton or Newton, and yet when we reflect on the transcen- dent sublimity of mind, which characterised these great men, and the groveling spirit of the other, we ace almost tempted to pronounce them not of the same species. There is no one, who will deny the advantage and necessity of this cultivation of the reasoning faculty for the production of the orator, the 24 critic, or the historian, but it may be said, perhaps, " that as reason and imagination are independent faculties, this neces- sity of tlie improvement of the former cannot be alleged in the case of poetry, which may be called the exclusive province of the imagination — that in times, when reason had been but little cultivated, brilliant instances of poetic genius have appeared, and that Homer himself, the great father of poetry, flourished in the very infancy of reason." But it is to be re- membered, that Homer, and the others, who shone forth amidst the obscurity of rudeness, were indebted to their strength of reason and accuracy of judgment, no less than the vigour of their imagination. The works of Homer in particular abound with sentiments and reflections replete with understanding and wisdom ; the numerous speeches with which his poems are interspersed, display' the reasoning faculty, in a degree of excel- lence not unworthy the most experienced philosopher ; and if we consider the times in which he lived, the knowledge and learning which appears throughout his writings, has highly deserved that admiration with which it has been received by posterity. Horace says, " that wisdom is the origin and source of all good writing," and wisdom is not the endow- ment of nature, but the effect of long and patient study, of continued exercise and unremitting perseverance. If the nccessit}' of improving and consolidating the understanding was so great in the times of Horace, as this and several pas- sages of his works declare, it must be allowed, that among all the disadvantages under which tragic and epic poetry 25 labours at the present day, it would be a most presumptuous attempt, even in a mind of the greatest natural abilities, to undertake such a pursuit as will almost necessarily bring him into competition with the ancients, were not these circum- stances, in which he is unavoidably inferior, counterbalanced by the opportunities of a more comprehensive education. -And if in the review of modern literature, we should find any, who, though uneducated and uninstructed, with their reason undirected and their knowledge not much extended beyond the informations of sense, have by the sole force of native talent raised themselves to an eminence inaccessible to others though possessed of all the artificial aids that the most elaborate cultivation can bestow, we are hence not to conclude that learning is of no utility, and improvement of the reason super- fluous, but rather to reflect, how much more decisive would be the victory of the one, how much more complete the de- feat of the other, if these extraneous advantages had been equally withheld or equally communicated. But it has been the universal opinion of mankind in every age, that educa- tion is necessary for the perfection of the faculties, and reason seems to be the only one (if perhaps we except memory,) that disciphne can improve or. exercise strengthen. In our infancy the reasoning power makes no appearance, the mind has then no opportunity of comparison, being distracted by the multitude and variety of objects ; even those which his more experienced eye afterward contemplates with indiffer- ence, being adorned with the fresh and glossy complexion of VOL. XII. E &6 novelty. His mind is as yet occupied only by individual and unconnected ideas, and the world presents to him an uneven appearance, composed of innumerable detached and irregu- lar surfaces, which perplex him by the confused and scattered manner, in which they reflect their light to his intellectual eye. Even for a considerable time after the reasoning power has begun to unfold itself, his apprehension continues waver- ing and his judgment feeble, he examines with the uneasiness natural to incapacity, and pronounces with hesitation and reluctance. Nor is it to be imagined that time alone would be a sufficient remedy for this imperfection, in an undirected mind this distraction of thought usually subsides into listless- ness and indifference ; the wonder caused by the novelty is gone, but it is not succeeded by cool deliberation, they are satisfied with the confused notions casually caught up while the objects attracted their attention, and at the same time derive no profit from their experience, for along with this cold disregard for every thing that is familiar, they still re tain a restless and insatiate curiosity. Of the truth of this we may have abundant proof in the illiterate of every coun- try, who evince complete insensibility and disregard to fami- liar objects, even though they have the strongest claims to their attention, and at the same time are anxiously inquisitive with regard to every thing that has the recommendation of novelty. And * there are iDAny even among those, who may * Reid App. to Home's Sketcbes, Vol. III. be called learned, that from the habit they have acquired of submitting their opinions to the authority of others, or from some otlier principle, that operates more powerfully than the love of truth, suffer their judgment to be carried along to the end of their days, either by the authority of a leader, or of a part}', or of a multitude, or" by their own passions. Such persons, however learned, however acute, may be said to be children all their lives. : Having thus seen that the improvement of the reasoning faculty is indispensably necessary to all those who would aim »t excellence in any department of polite literature, even in poetry with which it is apparently' least connected, we ai'e now to examine what description of study is best adapted for this purpose, what mode of instruction might correct the judgment without encumbering or retarding the fancy, might confirm the strength and sagacity of the reason in its pursuit, and enlarge the field of the imagination by its possession. And first, for the discipline of the understanding no study has ever been thought so proper as tliat of mathematics, almost all the ablest writers on the subjects of education and human^ faculties have recommended it, and their opinion has been sanctioned by the approbation of those learned and enlight- ened men of every country, to whom has been committed the superintendance of academic instruction. Quinctilian expressly inculcates the advantage of mathematical learning to an orator ; and Locke says that he would have all children leiirn mathematics, "not, says he, to make them mathema- 28 licians, but to make them reasonable creatures ;" to which opinion Dr. Reid agrees, for two reasons. First, "because there is no other branch of science, which gives such scope to long and accurate trains of reasoning," by which the mind Avill be gradually restrained from its natural tendency to run into extraneous matter, and insensibly acquire the habit of persevering pursuit and steady application. Secondly, Be- cause in mathematics there is no room for authoiit/^ or pre- judice of any kind whicli may give a false bias to the under- standing." It may indeed be urged with some appearance of plausibility, that as one of the chief requisites for a poetical character is a susceptibility of the attractions of no- velty, any mode of discipline which tends to remove that, must be vitally injurious to the cause of poetry. But we are to remark, that novelty in itself does not constitute an ob- ject fit for the taste or imagination to dwell on ; it is not a quality of the thing itself, properly speaking, but merely re- lative to the observer, and therefore, unless it be united to the inherent and permanent qualities of beauty or sublimit}^, it can have but little claim on the poet's attention. No one ever asserted that novelty alone was sufficient to render poems, pictures or other representations agreeable, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to assign a reason, why that which is thus universally rejected as a foundation for the secondary, should be admitted as a constituent and original cause of the primary pleasures of the imagination. ' Addison, indeed, and Akenside after him, have enumerated novelty among the sources of the primary pleasures of the imagina- tion, but Addison lived in the infancy of criticism when the philosophy of ta»te was as yet unknown, and Akenside, in the revival of his celebrated poem, has omitted it altogether, comprehending all in that twofold division sanctioned by the authorities of Burke and Alison. The real value of novelty Dr. Reid has thus happily expressed. " When novelty is altogether separated- from the consideration of worth and utility,, it. makes but a slight impression upon a truly correct taste. Every discovery in nature, in the arts and sciences has a real value, and gives a rational pleasure to a good taste. But things that have no other recommendation but novelty, are fit only to entertain children,, or those who are distressed from a vacuity of thought. This quality of objects may therefore be compared to a cypher in arithmetic, which adds greatly to the value of significant figures,, but when put by itself, signifies nothing at all." Mathematical studies, therefore, though they in a great measure remove that sensibility to novelty which is generally supposed essential to a poetical character, are not on that ac- count alone to be considered inimical to the imagination. The exercise and improvement of reason, whatever effect it may have in regulating and directing the passions, neither seeks nor tends entirely to suppress them. In the present state of criticism, we should be much more inclined to doubt the soundness of a man's taste, than admire the delicacy of his feeling, Avho could exspatiate with rapture on the charms- ^m . 30 of a prospect in general, without being able to point out those particular objects which had principally contributed to call forth his admiration. No one will say, that the study of philosophical criticism is a pursuit calculated to injure the imagination ; to say that a man can attain to a high rank in poetical reputation, without learning what to avoid or what to imitate, or why the former should be rejected, and tlie latter adopted, would be absurdity too gross for '.refutation. In order to succeed in a composition of your own, you must have investigated the principles, and searched into human nature for the causes of that success in others ; you should not be content with a few fruits, that chance might present or desultory observation procure, you should endeavour to get possession of the parent stock, from which all the scions shoot forth, and from which issues the vital principle that is necessary for the preservation, the beauty and the strength of the whole body. This taste which is thus necessary for a poet is nothing else but a refined judgment ; they are not two distinct powers of the mind, but different species of the same faculty ; that, which when employed on scientific subjects is called reason, in matters of critical enquiry, will receive the^ appellation of taste; the objects with which the mind is en- gaged vary, but it is the same understanding that is exercised in both cases. " If then," it may be urged, " these two are really not essentially different from each other; if it be the same judgment that is exercised in both enquiries, where is the occasion for mathematical study of which a poet or ora- 31 tor can never make any direct use in his works ; will not the perusal of works on taste and criticism be sufficient to give him that strength of conception and justness of thought, which is so much insisted on, as being requisite for all men ?" To this it may be answered, that at the period best adapted for the strengthening of the faculties, the mind scarcely knows any other evidence but that of sense, and is perplexed and confused at the simplest abstract question ; any attempt therefore to turn the mind immediately, and without prepa- ration, to a study abounding in minute and subtle distinctions, where the medii termini are perhaps never intuitively con- nected with the extremes, or with each other, must be at- tended with extreme labour and difficulty. The conclusions, never drawn with demonstrative force, would to such a mind^ appear entirely unsatisfactory, nay, without a previous ac- quaintance Avith logic, he would be unable, from the diffuse style in which such compositions are generally^ written, tO' comprehend the tendency of the argument, or perceive whe- ther the induction be fairly made from the particular in- stances previously laid down as the foundations of a theory.. li: has been remarked, as a signal instance of the wisdom and- benevolence of the Deitv, t^hat darkness conves not on us- suddenly ; we ^are prepared for the cliange by the gradual de-- crease of light, until at length the moon almost impercepti-' bly resumes her station in the heavens. In such gradation- should we arrange the succession of studies for the enlisjhten- ing of the mental eye, we should not plunge it at once from 32 the lustre of sensitive knowledge into the obscure mazes of metaphysical criticism, we should first indulge it in the con- templation of the splendor of mathematical demonstration, then let it enjoy the milder and less irresistible light of phi- losophical reasoning, and last of all commit it to those more attenuated beams, that enliven the regions of taste and cri- ticism. " The truth is," says Addison, " there is nothing more absurd, than for a man to set up for a critic, without a good insight into all the parts of learning, whereas many of those, who have endeavoured to signalise themselves by works of this nature among our English writers, are not only defi- cient in the:abovementioned particulars, but plainly discover by the phrases they make use of, and by their confused way of thinking, that they are not acquainted with the most ob- vious and ordinary systems of arts and sciences." Here we have pointed out to us by the first great critic of our nation, the fundamental cause of the errors of his predecessors ; he refers it entirely to their " want of a good insight into all the parts of learning." And if the opinion of such a man as Addison wanted any support on such a subject as criticism, the distinguished success with which it has been prosecuted of late by men conspicuous for their scientific acquirements, .is the strongest and most satisfactory corroboration of his judgment. And the same elegant and ingenious author ob- serves, that " it is not sufficient for a man who sets up for a taste in criticism, to have perused the Ancient and Modern Classics with attention, unless he has also a clear and logical SB head." Aristotle, who was the best critic, was also one of the best logicians that ever appeared in the world." Though fully conscious of the advantages resulting from the study of logic,- I should have hesitated to mention it as useful for the acqui- sition of a just and delicate taste, were I not thus sheltered by the authority of the most elegant of critics. At the pre- sent day, the prejudice against that art runs so high that the very mention of it, when treating of polite literature, is in danger of being accounted. absurd and pedantic ;.and to enter into a formal vindication of it, and a detailed exposition of the benefits accruing from its cultivation, would (beside that it would extend this little essay much beyond the intended limits) be only transcribing the eulogiums of several, distin* guished not only for their scientific knowledge, but more elegant and refined literature. It will, however, perhaps not be superfluous to mention one instance, where logic seems of the utmost importance to the poet and the critic. The chief requisites for a truly noble and sublime style, are energy of thought and justness of sentiment, such as when clad in the plainest garb, will display sufficient internal marks of an in* hercnt and unalienable dignity. For this purpose Longinus advises us to examine splendid passages of the poets and orators, " lest they should possess only that semblance of majesty, which is often produced by a profusion of figurative expression and rhetorical ornament, when on the contrary,, if more accurately inspected, they Avould be found empty and superficial, and meriting the contempt rather than the VOL. xn. p 34 approbation of every sound and genuine critic." * Quinc- tilian also tells that there are some who pay more attention to elegance of expression, and brilliancy of metaphor, than to real strength of conception, correctness of opinion, and weight of argument. -j' Pope has said, that a little learning is a dangerous thing, and his own Essay on Man is a memo- rable and lasting instance of the truth of his observation. Had he possessed that logical acumen which seems to be so much despised, he would not have been seduced by the art- ful sophistry of Bolingbroke into a defence and illustration of the doctrine of fatalism. That he was seduced, is evident, both from the conduct of Bolingbroke, who is said to have ri- diculed him, among his confidential friends, for having adopt- ed principles, of which he did not .perceive the tendenc}'-, and also from that ardor of delight and profusion of grati- tude, with which Pope accepted and acknowledged the gra- tuitous defence set up by Warburton. That Pope was thus deceived by the specious arguments of his insidious preceptor, cannot be attributed to a natural defect in the discursive faculty, on the contrary the manner in which he treats this very subject is a sufficient proof that he possessed it in a very high degree: nor can we imagine that he adopted these dogmas immediately and without ex- * Ml) Tiva jnEys^a; ej^o* ^a»Taj-*a» lavrnv 'r woXu -a^oc-KUza-i to eix« •m^oo'a.yx'sjXaTTCj/.mv, avasr- f Sunt qui ueglecto rcrum pondere et viribus stnteiiliarum, si vel inania verba in Iios niodos depravaverint, suuiinos se judicent artifices, ideoque noii desiuuut eos nectere. amination, that trembling sensibility which he always mani- fested with regard to his literary reputation, will not al- low us to suppose it; it remains then that we account for it by his ignorance of that art, which professes to unfold the most complicated chain of fallacy, and guide the mind in safety through the labyrinth of ingenious sophistry. Here then we see an important advantage to be derived to the poet from the study of the art of reasoning ; and the same instance is sufficient to prove its still more indispensable ne- cessity to the critic. " The Essay on Man" says Johnson *, " abounded in splendid amplifications and sparkling senten- ces, which were read and admired, with no great attention to their ultimate purpose; it's flowers caught the eye, which did not see what the gay foliage concealed, and for a time flourished in the sunshine of universal approbation.. So little was any evil tendency discovered, that, as innocence is un- suspicious, many read it for a manual of piety." Here was that semblance of majesty, against which Longinus advises the Clitic to be so cautious, and with such dexterity and ele- gance was the counterfeit wrought, that it was received as genuine by the universal English nation; and for the disco- very of the imposture, the world was indebted, not to any of the wits and more refined critics of the da}', but to a pro- fessed writer on the subject of logic. Thus have we seen that subjects of a lighter and more ele- gant turn arc capable of being treated with encreased. per- * Life of Pope. 3G spicacity in consequence of tlie rectification of the taiste aareive, that the sphere of the imagination is encreased in a ■much greater proportion than the actual number of addi- , . .46 tional notions acquired by the enlargement of literacy know- ledge. It may be said, that the mind may be overpowered with the weight of knowledge, if encreased beyond a certain li- mit, and the imagination will be perplexed by the number of ideas and consequent difficulty of choice; thus their mul- tiplicity will prevent their use, and the disappointed scholar will too late find the natural vivacity of his fancy deadened, his original perspicacity clouded and obscured, and will la- ment the loss of that time, which might have been more ad- vantageously employed in the contemplation of the beauty and sublimity of the sensible creation. It may appear a confirmation of this, that the thoughts and sentiments of persons in a state of comparative rudeness, where there is little information beyond that of sense, are generally consi- dered bolder and more poetical than those of other persons ; and that the effusions of youthful poets are supposed to shew an exuberant redundancy of imagery, that is usually much diminished in the days of improved reason and accumulated knowledge. As to the first, however, we should not ascribe it so much to a more vivid force of imagination, as the po- verty of language invariably' attending imperfect civilisation. All languages are in some degree metaphorical, it would be impossible to have distinct appropriate signs for every object of thought, therefore we are constrained to borrow the names properly applied to more familiar ideas, and extend them to others with which we are not so long or so intimately ac- m quainted. And if in such a copious language as that pf our's, there be ^&vi words that are not used in a variety of significations, what a complicated heap of metaphor must that tongue be, which does not consist of the twentieth part of our vocabulary ? Besides, though the language abound thus in metaphor, it by no means follows that it is, therefore, more poetical or sublime; the style is generally very uneq.ual; if one passage is somewhat beyond the level of ordinary poe- try among us, the next is as much below it. We know that in natural objects, a country abounding in sudden declivities and steep ascents, strikes the eye as much mOre picturesque;' and perhaps more elevated, than a tra-ct of as great height in reality, but less diversified in it's appearance. If this be so in the primary objects of the imagination, (and I believe every one accustomed to the observation of nature will assent to it) it may, by an easy, and apparently just analogy, be transferred to the secondary. As accuracy of proportion, therefore, diminishes the visible height of an object, so a composition, the s^'mmetry of whose parts is re-^' gulated by an accurate taste, will not impress upon the ima- gination at first view, those ideas of sublimity and boldness, that are so powerfully excited by the perusal of the wild pro- ductions of untutored ftincy. The second opinion above mentioned, that the early poems of men possessed of real' poetical talent, abound in a gay luxuriancy of thought, un- equalled in their n>aturer works^ is 'alsO very questionable. On the contrary, I believe it will be found, by examining the juvenile pieces of our own celebrated poets, that a povertjr of idea prevails uniformly among them. Thej even seem conscious of their own defect, for whenever they seize upon a favourable or happy idea,, they seem unwilling ever to let it escape, and it is compelled to drag it's way through twenty or perhaps thirty lines, Roscommon says of the French poe- try, compared with the Knglish, " The sterling bullion of one Englbh line. Drawn to French wire, would in whole pages shine." and some old critic, (Lucian, I believe) speaking of that passage in the Odyssey, which has been so admirably trans- lated by Pope, and begins thus ; " With many a weary step, and many a groan. Up a high bill he heaves a huge round stone." Makt. says, ** if it were Apollonius or Callimachus that attempted this description, how many verses would they have employed in tracing the ascent of the stone, and how, many more would they have found necessary to conduct it down the eminence, whither it had been moved with such tedious labour, as well of the poet, as the criminal." Such a difference as is here pointed out between French and English poetry in general, or be- tween the sublime conciseness of Homer, and the minute and feeble refinements of Apollonius, may be observed be- tween the compositions , of the same poet in youth and in 49 maturity, between the fall grown majesty of the author of the ^neid, and the crude imbecility of that Virgil, *' Qui modo Culicem fleverat ore rudi." Mart. If then we are to conclude that the productions of a poet are thus improved by time, not only in correctness but in imagination, (and such a conclusion may be drawn without much apprehension of error) and if it cannot be attributed to an encrease in the warmth of his feelings, or in his sensi- bility with regard to the beauties of external Nature, the only remaining method of accounting for it is to ascribe it altogether to the augmentation of his intellectual wealth by the rich and varied offerings that philosophy presents. The sciences assist the imagination not only by encreasing the opportunities of combination, but also in a manner still more important for the purposes of poetry, by raising a sus- ceptible mind to such a fervor of enthusiasm as can scarcely ever be excited by the impulse of unassisted sense. " Every * accession of knowledge in itself is pleasant, and affecting. Even mathematical truths, which have the least intercourse with human passions, are not received with cold indifference when considered as purely speculative, without any attention to their use or application ; we are delighted with them, nay sometimes even transported by what metaphysical critics call the beauty of theorem." • Leland on Eloquence, p, 3. yoL. XII. u , ' ad ** For man loves knowledge, and the beams of trutli More welcome touch his understanding's eye. Than all the blandishments of sound his ear. Than all of taste his tongue. Nor ever yet The melting rainbow's vernal tinctured hues To me have sliewn so pleasing, as when first The hand of Science pointed out the path. In which the sun-beams, gleaming from the west,. Fall on the wat'ry cloud, whose darksome veil Involves the Orient, and that trickling shower. Piercing thro' every crystalline convex Of clustering dew-drops to tlieir flight opposed-. Recoil at length, where, concave all behind. The internal surface of each glaiisy orb Repels their forward passage into air. That thence direct they seek the radiant goal. From which their course began; and as they strike- In different lines the gazer's obvious eye. Assume a different lustre, through the breed Of colours changing from the splendid rose To the pale violet's dejected hue.'.' Akenside. * Thus even in questions of a nature completely abstracted and mathematical, the mind is capable of enjo3nng a pure and serene satisfaction. It 4s- true that at first the difficulty attending the investigation will preponderate over any gratifi- cation that the beauty or utility of the^conclusion is naturally calculated to produce, but his susceptibility of emotion will; * I have taken the liberty of inserting this passage at full length, not only ou account of the force with which the beginning of it bears upou the argument, but also because the remainder of it may be considered as a fair specimen of the manner in which sub- jects so decidedly mathematical should be treated by a poet. 51 increase with his skiil, aud attractions hitherto unobserved or unheeded will every moment present themselves to his no- tice. And when his judgment has thus become more exact and refined, those difficulties, which at first were attended with trouble and uneasiness, will now constitute no inconsi- derable portion of his pleasure ; they will be to hirn so many testimonies of the skill, the sagacity and invention of his au- tlior, will transport him with admiration of his genius, and exeite in him a reverence for every I'elic connected with his memory. Thus will the young philosopher be amply repaid for the obstacles that impeded his progress, by the enjoy- ment of a pure delight, more tranquil, indeed, but not less satisfactory than that rapidity of impulse with which we are sometimes hurried along by the more commanding features of the material creation. But when the soul is led along to take a more distinct survey of the earth, to observe its various climes, each amply supplied with those productions best suited to the nature of the country, and the accommodation of its inhabitants; when it beholds the numberless tribes of animals that people the distant regions of the earth, the pathless ocean, and the purer element that surrounds us';* when it discovers the myriads of inhabitants on every leaf of every plant, and remarks the perfect constitution and regular form with which each of them has been gifted ; the young philosopher seems then to have acquired a new sense, he has jvery Avhere ap opportunity of tracing out beauties imper* ev ceptible to most observers of nature, and in the contempla- tion even of objects most familiar to him before, he feels — " that kind access of joy. Which spring on each fair object, while we trace Through all its fabric, wisdom's artful aim Disposing every part, and gaining still. By means proportioned, her benignant end." He is now to enjoy a still more sublime delight; the first wish of Virgil, (whom no one will call cold to tlie sensible beauties of nature) was — " Me vero primum dukes ante omnia Musae, Quarum sacra fero ingenti percussus amore, Accipianf, caelique vias et sidera monstrent. Quid tantum properent Oceano se lingere soles Hyberni, vel quse tardis mora noctibus obsit, Unde tremor terris, qui vi niaria aha tumescant Objicibus rupti9> rursusque in seipsa residant.'" What Virgil wished for in vain, the poet of the present day has an opportunity of acquiring with ease, and displaying with effect. Under the guidance of Newton, he may range through the solar system, and survey the planets, still obe- dient to the laws of truth, returning to retrace the paths allotted to them, pursue the devious comet, " that goeth so far, and no farther," and perceive the majestic sovereign of the system in conscious dignity still remaining immoveable. If at length his mind should traverse, with Ilcrschel, the full orb of being, he will catch a gUmpse of that glory, which no 53 ^ finite intelligence is capable of comprehending, he will see^ ia prospect, millions of systems, rising before him, but thej only conceal from him the thousands of millions that lie be- yond; and when innumerable suns, not one of whose r£i.ys is permitted ever to enlighten the corporeal e3'e of man, ' blaze out upon him, his keen conception will be dazzled by an excess of lustre, and he will sink into that delirium of joy, that, if ever there be a moment of poetical inspiration, is best calculated to produce it. When he compares this sublime assemblage, with that scene (however splendid it may be) that presents itself to the natural eye, he will cry: out witii Akenside — " Who, that from Alpine heights, his labouring eye Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey The Nile, or Ganges, rolling his bright wave Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade. And continents of sand, will turn his gaze. And mark the wand'rings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet V Thus have I feebly endeavoured to point out the advan- tages that may be derived both to the reason and the imagi- nation, from scientific pursuits ; it must, however, be re- marked, that for the former all the branches of science are not equally useful; and for the latter, no science whatsoever, except, perhaps, moral philosophy, should be cultivated to its fullest extent, and pursued through all its varieties of minuteness. ]n the abstract mathematics, the. mind, for the purpose of discipline, has not so much occasion for the con- ^ chision as the premises; in this intellectual chace, it is not the possession of the prey, but the invigoration of our own powers, that should be the primary object. It is evident to every one that this end is not so happily attained by the analytic metliods so much; in use at present, as by the an- cient geometry. For the youth who is destined to be a mere mathematician, algebra offers, in general, an eas}' and com- pendious mode of advancing in knowledge, but his know- ledge is not philosophy, it is not (to borrow a logical defini- tion) ** acquired by the sole force of reason." Were it ne- cessary to insist on this, it would be easy to illustrate it by a comparison of^ the truths contained in the 2d book of Euclid, as treated by that geometer, and as they would be by an analyst, or b}' remarking the dift'erence between a de- monstration, as it is handled by Hamilton, and by Emerson or L'Hospital ; and perhaps still more strongly by observing, that mere characters, of whose meaning no one has or ever can have any conception, (they being supposed the marks of inconsistent notions, as the very name, "impossible quan- tity," denotes,) are as proper objects of analytical compu- tation, except in the mechanical difficulty of managing them, as real and adequate ideas. Again it may be prejudicial to the imagination to enter with minute accuracy into any scientific enquiry. He Avho has been too long habituated to the consideration of abstruse metaphysical enquiries, the patient investigation of mathe- 55^ matical relation, or the examination of the individual and peculiar qualities of natural objects, rather than those which admit of comparison with others, can have but faint concep- tions of that vivid glow of feeling, which animates him who has beai principally conversant with more elegant and refined pursuits. That entlmsiastic emotion which the latter de- lights to indulge in is a stranger to the breast of the mathe- matician, and if it sliould occasionally intrude, it is treated with suspicion, and considered, perhaps, dangerous, cer- tainly unnecessary and extravagant.' In the works of the more eminent poets and orators, we occasionally find those noble darings of the soul, which are subject to no critical control ; they acknowledge no judge but the fervid spirit that gave them birth, and elude the force of those laws which compress the more terrestrial particles of composition into system and subordination, but are insuflScient to restrain the aerial subtlety of the " divinae particula auras." He who wishes to scrutinise such passages with metaphysical accu- racy may pronounce them contrary to the dictates of sove- reign reason; but though he thinks himself justified in ex- pressing partial disapprobation at the indiscretion of temerity, evinced in the attempt, he cannot refuse, like the Lacede- monians of old, the tribute due to transcendent prowess and distinguished success. Such efforts no preparatory disci- pline can enable us to make ; such fruits no cultivation can bring forth, they must be tlie spontaneous offerings of a lux-- uriant soil, and in a cold climate would decay even in th& / 56 hot-beds of the most elaborate education. When Homer, in endeavouring to raise to the highest pitch our conception of the Vionors of a battle, says, Aeion 5 ingde^ otucc^ hs^m 'Aiimtui, ^jtt^ ' &c. he falls into one of those errors, which made Plato say, that as he raises his men to the dignity of gods, so he de- grades his deities to the condition of men, of those very crea- tures» whom he has called the most miserable of animals; yet none of his poetical readers would wish to have it ex- punged from tli€ passage, of which il is so grand an orna- ment. When Demosthenes broke forth into his celebrated » , oath, 'Ov fji^a. Tus iv MagaOam, &c. or Burke into his eulogium on the Queen of France, and lamentation for the extinction of chivalry, it is hardly possible that they could have produced *uch towering sublimity by study or deliberation, passion and native genius alone could have effected it. It will not be improper therefore to mark particularly those circumstances in which a peculiar opposition seems to sub- sist between the two pursuits. 'J'he first cannot be expressed better than in the words of Lord Bacon ; in the preface to the Novum Organum, he has these words (In Philosophia) " Mens rebus morigera sit, nee impotenter rebus insultet," and the same great man elsewhere * says, " Poesis animum erigit et in sublime rapit, rerum similia ad animi desideria acconimociando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit et his- toria) submittendo." The second is nearly the same as Locke • De Augm. Scknt. \ 'if draws between wit and judgment, the one ctynsista more irt forming pleasant pictures to amuse the fancy, by assembling^ those ideas that have the least resemblance, the other on the contrary is exercised in separating those that have the least! difference. This distinction, however, i« not to be consi- dered complete. For although it must be confessed, that as- imitation is the principal object of poetry, that faculty whose province is the discovery of similitudes claims the chief at- tention ; still it is requisite that we should examine, whether the coincidence be perfect or not, and if not, determine acn curately the extent of their parallelism, and precisely mark out the points where they begin to diverge. To have a can- fused general perception of the resemblance is by no means- sufficient, if those features of the picture which are evidently unlike their archetypes be as strongly delineated and highly coloured, as those in which the mind is delighted with the^ correspondence. Thii*dly, a philosophical talent requires the most obstinate patience, and caution approaching to timi- dity ; " a philosopher," says Bacoii', *' must always be sus- picious of his own natural disposition, aud be continually On the watcli, lest it lead him into error ;" it is incumbent oil him as much as possible to stop the natural current of his ideas, and fix his thoughts imumtably on one subject ; where-' as a poet succeeds best by giving loose reins to his imagina- tion, by following the impulse of passion, and indulging him- self in that train of thought into which the mind is almost imperceptibly led by the observation of some particular ob" VOL. XII. I ,o8 jects. Even where there is no apparent object for reflection, in the movements of unrestrained reverie, the suggestions of the muse are often most propitious : Cowper seems to hint that no inconsiderable portion of his beautiful poem, the Task, was composed during the Hstless musings that attend a single person, when he has taken his solitary seat by an evening fire. To these we might perhaps add the circum- stances, which Bacon, in the first, third and fourth instances of what he calls idola tribus, enumerates as prejudicial to the interests of philosoph}'. If we should now proceed to examine all those less impor- tant differences that arise from the peculiar modes of philo- sophical and polite composition, it would not only extend this essay to an improper length, but perhaps subject the writer to the necessity of intruding himself into ground al- ready pre-occupied by formal treatises on the subject. Un- equal as he is to enter on questions of delicate criticism, and too conscious of his own inability to venture into a competi- tion with others of character deservedly high, he has re- trenched several parts that might be claimed as their exclusive property. And where the subject is of long continuance,, and almost invites discussion from its nature, it is almost im- possible to advance any thing valuable or important without incurring the danger of repetition. 'Jims an objection has been urged by Locke, and renewed with Fcdoubled force by Warburton, that all figurative language is an abuse of words,, that whatever exceeds the strict bounds of logical and meta- 59 physical accuracy is arbitrary and capricious, and therefore to be avoided as a vice, particularly in philosophical and seri- ous composition. This opinion they both seem to have formed from a mistake of a censure passed by Lord Bacon, on the old philosophers, for ornamenting their pieces with the graces and elegances of rhetoric. " Auctoribus ipsis suspecta," says he, " ideoque artificiis quibusdam munita fecere. But this is not meant as a reprehension of an ornamented style in ge- neral, but founded solely on the imperfect state of science among them ; for so artful and ingenious was their method of treating their subjects, that they succeeded in deceiving the world into an opinion, that every science, which had received the polish of their hands, was cultivated to the utmost possible degree of perfection. The charge itself has been ably refuted by Dr. Leland, in his Essay on Eloquence, and to mention any thing here on the subject would be only to transcribe his in- genious work. And though modern philosophers appear in general to neglect the beauty of their language, or elegance in arranging the parts of the question they consider, yet we have a sufficient number to serve as instance? how much might be done in this way. In metaphysics the style and the matter of Stewart are equally topics for praise and ad- miration; and the fragment of the Latin imitation of I,ocke, by Mr. Gray, shews of what an exquisite degree of poetical beauty the subject is susceptible, 'i'lie lectures of Davy will be long remembered in this city for their eloquence and per- .spicuity, and the Anti-Lucretius of Polignac abounfls in har- 60 maoious lines and happy expressions, though occasionally it deserves the censure of Voltaire for the use of terms techni- cally scientific. Such are the opinions tliat have suggested themselves to the author of this little essay on the question proposed by the academy : he has purposely contracted it, in some places, for the reasons mentioned above, and in others, the pressure of ill health, and the necessary avocations of a more extended and difficult pursuit have prevented him from paying that attention, which the importance of the toj)ic required. Im- perfect as it is, he would not have ventured to obtrude him* self on the notice of the academy, were he not confident that they would be disposed to look with indulgence, on even a feeble endeavour to point out some of the advantages result- ing from a combination of those studies, which have been jointly and equally cherished in this country by their fostering care. They have generously and successfully imdertaken the erection of a temple to learning, where the strength and soli- dity of science is combined with the light and graceful ele- gance of polite literature, and cannot therefore be displeased at the officiousness of him, who would wish " to * partake in the work, though not in the inscription, content to assist in the preparation of that cement, which is intended to unite the various and diversified materinis employed in the con- struction of the edifice itself." jVCADEMICUS. iJ :S 8 4. Y INFLUENCE OF FICTITIOUS HISTORY MODERN MANNERS. " Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion. And give it false presentments ..... I, under fair pretence of friendly ends. And well placed words of glozing courtesy. Baited with reasons not uuplausible. Wind me into the easy-hearted man, And hug liim into sparejs. MiLTOIt's Co»vs> ^T a period when so many works of imagination issue from the press every, day giving birth to some new fiction, it appears particularly seasonable, that a question, relative to^ the influence such productions may have on the manners of the present age, should be instituted by an academy, whose object has ever been the investigation of truth, and the ad- 62 vancement of science; and at the same time that I presume to offer my sentiments upon the subject proposed, to the notice of the academy, I would bespeak its indulgence — that " Jiaf'5 f^ixgom," which only the wise, and the learned, are capable of affording. The power which fiction, from the remotest antiquity, has usurped over the human mind, must be evident even to him who is but little acquainted with the history of mankind — but accurately to ascertain how much is to be ascribed to it, rather than to other co-existent and powerful causes, is a task that involves in it considerable difficulty, a difficulty that will be found to apply even to those times, when the influence of fiction must have been most felt; when it was sought for with the greatest avidity, and received with the most universal delight. Before I enter on the more immediate subject of this essay, which relates merely to modern times, it will be agreeable, and I hope, will not be considered unnecessary, to take a brief view of the origin of fiction, and of its influ- ence upon the manners and morals of the Greeks and Ro- mans ; should it be thought that, in so doing, I depart some- what from the subject proposed, I desire to shield myself under the authority of Dr. Johnson, who says, " To judge rightly of the present, we must oppose it to the past, for all judgment is comparative."* • Rasselas. 63 In the early heroic times, the warrior was accustomed to be roused by the songs of the bards, whicii reminded him of the heroic actions of his ancestors, and which, set to music, were impressed upon his memory, and were continually on his lips, whether he joined the choruses of his countrymen, or was in secret stimulated by them to deeds of fame. Thus Homer has introduced Aehilles, sitting on the shore,, and singing to his lyre. " Tix a' [Jpoii ^fivcc iifiroiMyo) ^"f^jyyi Xiyitj, Triv apir' ff ivajaiv, wloXiv 'HtTtaivos iXia-a-a;' Tr &yi flufiM irsfTtv, aah J'«p« x^la av^fuii." II. ix. And in a later age, we find Tyrtaeus animating the Spartans, and leading them to battle, by the divine influence of his poetry, in which he sung the renown of ancient warriors, and set before them the rewards of valour ; victory, and its attendants, glory and honour. We also find Solon employ- ing the same means to excite the Athenians ta make war upon the Megareans ; a subject, the bare mention of which,, in sober prose, and stripped of the embellishments of fiction, would have incurred the penalty of death. But the poets, as they proceeded to study nature more in- timately, and to seek the most powerful causes of things, finding that the relation of human actions merely, however illustrious, was insufficient for their purpose, sought the in- tervention of supernatural agency. Men of such a profes- 64 sion as theira had little .to do with the reason and sober judgment of their hearers, The imagination, and the pas- sions, were to be wrought upon, for " there is something in the mind of man, sublime and elevated, which prompts it to overlook all obvious and familiar appearance, and to feign to itself, other, and more extraordinarj." * Accordinglj^ the actions of several pei-sons are attributed to one, and those actions adorned with every circumstance that could make them interesting, or excite to emulation ; and that the glory resulting from them might never be forgotten, or their bene- fits lost to mankind, the hero that achieved them is exalted into the assembly of the divinities, to watch over his fa- voured votaries ; to infuse into their hearts his undaunted spirit, aiad to give stren^h and energy to their bodies, It cannot be' doubted that to the fictions of the poets may be ascribed, in a great degree, the undaunted, and' warlike spirit of the first ages. Equally striking ai'e the effects of those fictions upon their morals. The poets, ignorant of the true God, and' of the Unity of the Divine perfections, divided amongst a number of separate beings, what they imagined were attribu^tes of deity ; -f- and in the creation of such imaginary beings, hav- • Kurd's DissertatioiiSi t The Pelasgians (according to Herodotus,) sacrificed and prayed to gods to whom they gave no name, or distinguishing appellation, it was therefore the poets that iiitro. ducfd th* belief of those numerous deities, and their names. MiTFOKD's Grecian History, vol. i. p. 88: 65 ing no other standard to direct their fancies, were obliged to enlarge the idea of some human creature, and at the same time that they magnified his virtues, could not avoid magni- fying also his vices. Hence, we are presented with the most disgusting representations of every kind of vice in the ac- tions of the heathen divinities. It is not the furies with their snakes, or the abominable harpies that excite our abhor- rence; no, it is the great God, that wields the thunder-bolt, and at whose nod the earth trembles ! when we behold him, exerting his omnipotence for the purpose of gratifying the most disgraceful passions, and for the perpetration of the most shocking crimes ; — it is the goddess of beauty, whose magical charms awaken love and admiration in the bosoms of gods and men ; when we behold her, instead of present- ing those modest charms, ^nd that chaste deportment, which give to beauty its highest perfection, displaying the wanton and indelicate manners of an abandoned courtesan. We may learn from a passage in Terence, how great encouragement to dissoluteness those fictions were, in which was depicted the immoral conduct of the gods : for we find a young man de- claring with what greater willingness he was induced to com- mit a crime, when accidentally reminded, that he Avas au- thoFised by the example of the great God himself. " At quem Deutft ? qui templa coeli summa sonitu conciitit. Ego homuncio hoc non faceremt ego illud vero ita feci, ac lubens." VOL. XIII. K 66 The scenes that were exhibited in the temples at the cele- bration of some of the festivals, and the orgies of Bacchus, are instances of the same kind, that cannot be thought of without horror. It is remarkable that the Roman people were eminent for their virtue and chastity, until the time that Greece was sub- dued by their arms. Five hundred years had elapsed, from the foundation of their city, before a divorce was known at Rome ; but as soon as this event took place, which was about the time the Romans began to have intercourse with the Greeks, the change in their manners is apparent, and this change may be very well referred, at least in a considerable degree, to the introduction of the fictions of the Grecian My- thology, so that in this respect, as much as in the arts, may it be said, " Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit." Those law-givers, who annexed such severe punishments to the breach of the conjugal vow, certainly adopted at the same time the most effectual method of preventing it, by erecting temples to chastity. Agreeabl}^ to this, we find Numa, in order to make his people honest, transforming Bona Fides into a goddess, and building a temple to her wor- ship ; and perhaps it was owing to the want of such a device, in the Grecian law-givers, that Greek knavery forms such a contrast to Roman honesty ; and if we enquire into the causes that made the Romans excel every other nation in the ert and practice of war, we cannot avoid ascribing much im- 67 portance to the belief, that they were the children of Mars, and under his peculiar protection. With respect to prose compositions, that rank under the class of fiction, there is reason to think that, generally speak- ing, they were unknown to the Greeks and Romans ; how- ever, we hear of the Milesian, Ionian, and Sybaritic Tales, and" although they have perished, we know them to have been of a licentious and immoral nature; we know also, that these people were remarkable for effeminacy and immo- rality above all the other inhabitants of Greece or Italy. There is therefore here presumptive evidence, that their man- ners and morals were much influenced by fictitious writings, and vice versA,. That the fictions of the poets contributed very much to that taste and refinement which characterised the Greeks more than any people that ever existed, cannot, I think, be denied, especially when we consider that it is only in pro- portion to his acquaintance with the writings in which these fictions are found, that we are accustomed to give any man the reputation of a refined and elegant scholar. It must be admitted that there were other causes beside these, for th» superior elegance of the Greeks, but nothing could be de- vised more likely to produce it, than the machinery of the poets. In a rich and beautiful country, on which nature had profusely lavished her charms, it was impossible to turn where some poetical fancy was not presented to the mind : every meadow, and every grove abounded in its satyrs, and 68 hamadryads, and every fountain and river had its appro- priate nymph or deity ; a rosy-fingered goddess unbarred every morning the gates of the east, and they vrere closed in the evening by another more sombre, but not less interesting deity ; in short, no spot could be visited, that was incapable of presenting to the view the most attractive and exquisite imagery, * But the Greeks, as is always the case, with their indepen- dance, lost also their mental superiority among the nations, and their genius and energies were left buried among the ruins of their country. If we again turn our eyes toward Italy, we shall find that the subjugation of the Greeks changed as well the manners, as the nlorals, of their conquerors. The rough and brutal iiianners of the old Roman were, by degrees, lost in the re- finement and elegance of the Greek. The Grecian writers exclusively occupied the attention of the Roman student, and their greatest geniuses aspired only to the glory of imi- tating them. For several ages, the Latin language had been adopted by the learned in every nation of Europe; but it was destined to undergo the fate of the Greek. About the beginning of the eighth century, the Arabians entering Spain, and establishing the seat of their empire at Cordova, changed the language of the country. • See L'Introduction au Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis. 69^ This peru^d, the darkest of the European annals, was the time when^ Arabian literature was in its most flourishing State. " The Saracens," (to use the words of Mr. Gibbon,) confident in the riches of their native tongue, and disdain- ing the study of any .foreign idiom, deprived themselves of the principal benefit of a familiar intercourse with Greece and Rome, the knowledge of antiquity, purity of taste, and freedom of thought ; so that there is no example of a poet, orator, or even historian, being taught to speak the language W of the Saracens. Cordova, with a few adjacent towns, gave birth to more than three hundred writers, and a library was formed, that consisted of 600,000 volumes."* The efi'ect of all this on the Europeans was what might have been with reason expected. A manuscript cited by Du Cange acquaints us, that the Spaniards, soon after the irruption of the Sara- cens, neglected the study of Latin, and captivated by the no- velty of the oriental tales imported by the Saracens, suddenly adopted a pomp of stile, and an affected elevation of dic- tion I and the ideal tales of these eastern invaders, recom- mended by a brilliancy of description, a variety of imagery and an exuberance of invention, were eagerly caught up, and universally diffused. -f- These tales passed over from Spain into France and Italy, and from thence to the north : and when the Europeans afterwards flocked in such numbers * Roman Empire, vol. x. t Warton's first Dissertation, Hist. English Poetry, vol. i. 70 around the standard of the cross, and " legions of poets" accompanied the ; nnies to the Holy Land, religion and su-* perstition, with their saints and daemons, in those hetero- geneous compositioms, were engrafted with the eastern ideas of magic and dragons, and in course of time with theGothic ideas of female excellence, and phantastic honour — to which may be added, the ideas of magnificence derived also from the east, the vast distance from whence, gave the greater force and credibility to their fictions. Thus we find the Arabians uniting with the Scandinavians in forming a new and irregular species of composition, which was to be as various in its effects, as the characters and man- ners of the nations it embraced ; and if, in taking this re- trospect, we find that the purity of style, and dehcacy of taste of the classic authors was thus for a season entirely lost, -we shall have less reason to regret it when we reflect that a too servile imitation of those exquisite models, had they been more diffused, might have fettered genius, and restrained the sublime flights of untutored imagination ; we may-even presume that the empire of literature has on this account been extended and enlarged. * * Mr. Warton very ingeniously reconciles his own hypothesis, namely, that the Ara- bians were the authors of romantic fiction in Europe, with that of the Bishop of Dro- more, who derives it from the ancient songs of the Gothic bards and scalds; and with the testimony of Mons. Mallet, the Danish historian, who'isof the same opinion. Mr. Warton brings forward many proofs of the eastern origin of some of the Scandina- vian tribes: first, that they are said to have emigrated witlr their leader Odin, imme- # 71 Having, as briefly as possible, considered the effects of fiction in general, upon the m;inners of the ancient Greeks and Romans ; I come now to more modern times, and to en- quire what influence is to be ascribed to those particular pro- ductions which rank under the denomination of romances and novels. I have already glanced at their origin, which is plainly oriental. The term romance has been traced by Monsieur Huet to the Provenpal Troubadours, who composed their songs in a language that was a mixture of Latin and Gallic,, and on this account called romanz or romance; but although the bi- shop wrote expressly on the origin of that particular species of composition, to which they give the name, he has entirely relinquished the most important part of his subject (whicL would have been the romances of chivalry) contenting him- self with giving a dry detail of the poems of the Provencal Troubadours, to which the others have hardly any other rela- tion, than similarity of name.* From Mons. Huet, we obtain diately after the overthrow of Mithridates, from the region of Asia, now called Georgia, and to have settled in Norway and Denmark : And secondly, the remarkable, and <;on- spicuous similarity between many of the customs of the Asiatics, of tlie Georgians iu particular, and those of the inhabitants of the nortli, even at this day. *i»ii[ >' >- 1 Warton's Hist, of English Poetrj*, vol. i. * Mr. W^arton is of opinion, that there were two sorts of French troubadours, that are not sufficiently distinguished : that the poetry of the first consisted of satires, moral fables, allegories, and sentimental sonnets; and that the latter' class composed metrical romances, which formed a distinct species, and ought to be considered sepa« 72 little else than a list of these poems, and the names of some Greek authors, who flourished in the decline of the Roman Empire, amongst whom the most remarkable is Heliodorus, Bishop of Trica, who was deprived of his bishopric, for be- ing the author of Theagenes and Chariclea, which was then supposed to have baneful effects upon the manners of youth, though it is not at present considered as having such a ten- dency. The earliest specimens we have of romance, as it existed for a long period in Europe, are the histories of Arthur and Charlemagne, compiled, as is supposed, from ancient legends, by Geoffry of Monmouth, and Turpin, the monk, in the ele- venth century, though some imagine them to be as old as the eighth. The high veneration in which these histories were held, and the enthusiasm which a bare recital of them was calculated in particular circumstances to produce, is demonstrated by a fact recorded in our own annals of the Minstrel Taillifer, who, at the battle of Hastings, advanced before William's army, singing the songs of Charlemagne and Roland. These histories gave birth to innumerable others, but it was chivalry, and the croisades, that afforded the most abun- dant materials and encouragement to fictitious history. lately ; they seem to have commenced at a later period, and not until after the croisades Jiad effected a^reat change in tl»e manners and ideas of the western world. Hist. English Poetry. 73 ' The institution of chivalry was founded originally in princi- ples of humanity and justice. When the different kingdoms of Europe were broken and divided into several smaller states; and when the weakness of the law had enabled the more powerful baron, without any risk to himself, to do violence to those whom age, profession, or sex, had rendered inca- pable of resisting him ; — some kind of protection was re- quired, more ready in its application, and more permanent in its effects, than Avhat could be derived from the casual ex- ertions of a neighbouring chieftain, however virtuous, or however courageous. To redress some of the grievances that would naturally arise from such a state of society, was the object of the in- stitution ; an object worthy of admiration 1 nor can we avoid attributing a considerable degree of ingenuity to a scheme that was calculated to keep alive the martial spirit of the times, (which was then of the highest importance,) by the exercise of virtues, in all other cases so incompatible with it. For it was not merely the martial spirit that was cherished by this means; " Les preceptes," says Mons. de la Curne de Ste. Palaye, * " renferm^s dans le serment de la Chevalerie, sont le germe de toute la morale repandue dans les Ouvrages de nos Poetes, et de nos Romanciers :" And by paying some regard to those circumstances, we shall be tolerably well able to estimate the reciprocal importance of chivalry and ro- VOL. XII. L * Memoires de TAcademic des Inscriptions, &o Tom. xx. mance. Chivalry was certainly the parent of romance ; but the refiuenieut and sentiments then new to the European world, which the institution of chivalry introduced, must have been necessarily confined to courts, and to the higher orders, for a much longer period than was actually the case, had not romance, in a manner, multiplied the number of knights, and presented as in a mirror, to all classes of so- ciety, the resemblance of what was acting in courts, and in camps, heightened generally by the enthusiasm of unfettered genius. The fact that it was to the old romances we are in- debted for the -most perfect information which has been af- forded to us on the subject of chivalry, by Mons. de Ste. Palaye, v/ho acknowledges that he derived it from them, is sufficient to make us view those productions in a light mu^h less ridiculous than we have been accustomed to do ; in the same manner as the exhibition of a lady and gentleman dressed according to the costume of those times would be highly interesting, notwithstanding the smile they might excite. Theiruth and reality of the representations of the romance writers is also proved by a curious document preserved by Montfaucon,* which informs us that raany of the romances -of the fourteenth century owed their origin to a register which every knight was obliged to make of his yearly adventures, .and to place in some castle : nor is this proof invalidated by * MoDumeDS de la Mouarcbie Franj^aise. 75 the enchanters, dragons, and other absurdities that were in- termingled with the adventures ; it is rather confirmed by them, as such was the popular belief of the times. In an- other point of view, the early romances must be considered important; they were the first productions written in the vernacular tongue, and were what first made learning popu- lar. The Provenpal writers led the way, by writing in a lan- guage intelligible to the ladies and common people : It was from them Dante formed his idea of writing his Inferno in Italian, and not, as he had originally intended, in Latin : To which circumstance may be traced the perfection of the Italian and of the other European languages. Candour thus obliges us to regard the romances, as favour- able to the progress of literature ; at the same time it must be admitted, that they were made use of by the monks, the au- thors of most of them, to cherish a spirit of superstition and fanaticism, very inimical to it. Mons. de Ste. Pala3'e, further informs us that the object of the writers of romances was to excite to emulation ; and had they been actuated by a spirit of genuine Christianity, we might have seen the most bene- ficial consequences resulting from their influence ; — but in all their compositions there was such a mixture of profaneness and immorality with religion, as could not fail of having the most injurious tendency : They inculcated beside, the ridi- culous punctilio of defending women, even on occasions the most dishonourable — We must therefore differ from a learned # 76 and judicious critic, * who considers tlvose romances as com- positions of the " truly moral and heroic kind ;" had this been the case, they would not surely have excited the complaints, invectives, and sermons of the most excellent and zealous men in Europe. Beside, if we consider the grossness of the manners of those times, it is highly improbable that such writings would have been so eagerly caught up, and so universally admired, had they not been accommodated to the depraved taste of the readers, -f- I might have thought it necessary, perhaps, to give further proofs of the dangerous consequences resulting from tire old romances, and of the power which they possessed over the minds of persons of all descriptions, had not the great Cer- vantes, in his admirable Don Quixotte, exhausted every thing that could, or need, be said upon the subject ; and demon- strated, by the success of his work, that no other mode of attack, than that which he adopted, would have been at- tended with equal success. It is remarkable that Cervantes had been anticipated by Chaucer, in his attempt to ridicule these productions, and also, in his manner of doing so. I shall be excused for quoting a passage from the Letters of Bishop Hurd, in which he makes us acquainted with the motives that induced our venerable poet to compose a Tale (the Rhyme of Sir Thopas,) at a period, when the manners of romance were almost realised. " We are to observe," says his lordship, " that this is Chaucer's own Tale, and that • Dr. Blair. t Don, G. Mayan's Life of Cervantes. 77 ,iu the progress of it, tlit good seiis6 of the host ii rtiad6 to ji^reak in upon him, and interrupt him. Chaucer approves l)is disgust, and changing his note, tells the simple tale of Meliboeus, a vioral tale, vertuous, as he terms it, to shew what sort of fictions were most expressive of real life, and most proper to be put into the hands of the people. It is further to be noted, that the Boke of the Giant Oliphant, and Chyle, Thopas, was not a fiction of his own, but a story of antique frame, and very celebrated in the days of chivalry : so that nothing could better suit the author's design of discrediting the old romances, than the choice of this venerable legend, for the vehicle of his satire upon them." He adds, " the ridicule Chaucer bestowed upon them, hastened the fall of both chivalry and romance."* ,4 \^k The character, which truth has made it necessary to give of the old romances, will not apply to the more modern ones of Sir Philip Sidney, &c. &c. and of " Scudery dont la fer- tile plume, pent tons les mois sans peine, enfanter un vo- lume." f They, however, revived the " Old Court of Leve" and the mode of spiritualising and abstracting the passion, which had such an effect upon the manners of the French people, as has never been effaced ; and if we con- sider the character, with regard to love, of a nation which was so very much engrossed with those subjects ; :J: we must con- clude that their tendency is very unfavourable to virtue, * Kurd's Letters on Chivalry and Romance. f Boileau. • ^ t L'Academie Franpaise traita dans ces premieres seances plusieurs sujets qui concer- noient ramour, I'on rit encore dans I'hotel de Longueville, les personnes les plus qua- • .78 Though the form that fictitious writing has assumed within the last century, is doubtless of a very different kind from all that we have hitherto been considering, and though se* veral causes now unite to prevent romances and novels from being so influential on manners, as in the infancy of society ; — yet, when we reflect that they are in the hands of every one, without distinction of age, sex, or condition, we can scarcely avoid attributing to them a considerable degree of import- ance. We observe that people generally catch the manners of those they associate with ; that the artisan is distinguish- able from the man of fashion ; and the scholar, from both — such are the effects of different associations : from the gene- ral laws of which it is not to be expected that the readers of fictitious history should be exempted : the manners of these, no doubt, are influenced by those of the imaginary society they keep, and with which they are delighted. It re- mains for me to seek out, if possible, how far this influence extends. Two causes combine to diminish the influence of fictitious history : first, the present advanced state of civilisation ; and, secondly, the sort of writing now denominated fictitious. With regard to the first, it is pretty certain that fiction, pro- perly so called, can only be conceived to operate powerfully lifi6s et les plus spirituelles du siecle de Louis qnatorze »e disputer a qui commenteroit et rafiineroit le mieux sur la delicatesse du coeur, et des sentiinens, a qui feroit sur cc chapitrr, les distinctions les plus subtiles. Menioires de TAcademie des Inscriptions, Tom. xx. 79^ upon an unenlightened, and unpolished people; and that of course, the most effectual remedy to appose to it, is cultiva- vation and refinement: in these the last century, has wit- nessed extraordinary advances, of which we need no greater proof, than the encreasing discredit into which superstitious- stories have fallen ; our mother^, and our aunts may remem-- ber when cows were elf-struck, and when the sudden ap- pearance of a witch or ghost was dreaded on every occasion, but such notions make no part of the present vulgar creed » they have been buried with the dead, and would never again, perhaps, have been summoned up to light, were it not for tlie Gothic propensity of some of our modern writers, to rake up all the antiquated stuff of the darkest ages, as if they thought it a pity it should sink into oblivion. ' A high state of civilisation is a preventive of the power of fiction, in another respect also. Commerce, and much intercourse with the world, will," by degrees, efface those strong and marked characters, by which, nations, at various periods are distinguished ; and the existence of which, is es- sentially necessary, in order that a particular cause may act with the greatest possible energy. Thus, the spirit of war, combined with that of gallantry, formed the distinguishing features of the middle ages ; whence, it is easy to be con- ceived, that at this period, the reading of romances would greatly inflame those passions, which we know to have been the fact; but, as an attempt to pourtray the character of the present times would be difficult indeed, so, it would be 80 equally difficult to conceive how any new effect could be wrought upon Europeans, by means of fiction, unless we might perhaps except the Spanish nation, which has been so recently converted by one species of fiction, from the ab- surdities introduced by another; taking also into account, the prejudice and ignorance which the policy of the Inquisi- sition has obliged them to retain. "With regard to the French, we know they. have been always remarkable for their polite- ness and gallantry ; we know also, that it was by the French, the romantic mode of fabling had been earliest and most cul- tivated ; that it never was lost from among them ; and that they continued superior to all other nations in that depar- ment of literature. Their constant reading of this kind of books is sufficient to account for that extraordinary attach- ment and devotedness to the fair sex, for which Frenchmen have been remarkable, beyond their neighbours, and which continued to the time of the revolution ; since that period, French manners form a striking contrast to what they for- merly were, and we have reason to suppose, that as the manners have been in some degree changed, so has their fondness for those compositions, by which they were che- rished, - The fiaiTie observation holds, with regard to individuals. Cultivation, improvement, and a desire for truth, will pro- portionably diminish the eftects of fictitious Avriting. When the mind has been previously enlarged and invigorated by feeing exercised with truth, and by habits of thinking and 81 judging, the illusions of fancy may amuse for a moment, they may even sometimes transport, but they can gain no ascendency. It is therefore for the young and inexperienced, for the ignorant and the idle, that we are interested in the present enquiry. Nor is it so much to the higher classes of SMiciety that we are to look for the ill effects of fictitious his- tory— as it cannot be supposed that much additional injury can be sustained by persons who read of follies, dissipation or vices, with which they are perpetually conversant. It is the middle and lower classes that suffer most by publications, through the medium of which, they are introduced to man- ners they would otherwise have remained strangers to. If it were not for the circulating libraries of the neighbouring towns, the daughters of farmers might remain contented and happy in the humble circle of domestic enjoyment, which Providence had allotted them ; but the comparison they are taught to make between their own homely occupations, and the brilliant glare of fashion's fascinating pursuits, frequently leads to the most lamentable consequences, which every day's experience too sadly proves. Hence— deluded by the seducer, who held out the hope of treading those paths which fancy had learned to delight in — the simple girl, after having forsaken her aged parents, and her home, finds every thing too true that she had anticipated in the scenes of dissipation, except the ideal happiness supposed to be inseparably connected with them. Another cause which diminishes the influence of fictitious histories in the present VOL. XII. ' M m day is, tliat tlic nnmher of them is really cojisiderabiy less now than formerly — for the term, " fictitious," caa scarcely, with projsriety of speech, be applied to novds : " To catcli the manners, living, as they rise," seems to be the principal aim of the novelist : and — though they may be pi'Oiductive (if I may use the expression) of fictitious consequences, by teaching the young to assume characters not their own — yet portraits of vice, or of virtue, merely, however highly co- loured, can hardly be deemed fictitious, and such must the characters drawn in novels be considered ; all of them — the faultless, or the " monstrum non una virtute redemptum" ex- cepted— having their archetypes in real life. In order then, to estimate aright the consequences arising from the uni- versal avidity with which the innumerable swarms of novels are read, that have already issued, and are daily issuing from all the presses of Europe, we should regard them, not in the light of fictions, which, by giving false views of thino-s, might unfit the inexperienced mind for the sober business of life, or hurry it into the vagaries of romantic enthusiasm; but of being too faiihful transcripts of all the tollies and vices of a luxurious and corrupted age; and the medium for con- veying to the unwary minds, the poison of infidelity, and of contempt for whatever is truly estimable in religion or morals. From tlie very extensive circulation which novels are known to have, some persons of great talents and virtue have been of opinion that they might be made of infinite use ; and some have, even themselves condescended to become novel writers; m but, as tUeir object was more to instruct than to please, or rather to make tlie latter entirely subservient to the fornier, their works are not read, or at most are only read by people of taste and information. Such is the fate of Johnson'? llas- selas, and of Guadentio di Lucca, a work ascribed to one of the most illustrious philosophers ; * nor will this appear sur- prising, when w? consider that the readers of novels are usually the most illiterate part of the community. It is not to he denied that such a form of writing might be made tlie vehicle of wholesome moral instruction, which to a certain jclass.of readers would not perhaps be unpalatable: but to suppose that any extensive benefit would follow from such a plan is to attribute to the generality of readers, a talent for selection and discrimination, that exclusively belongs to cultivated intellect. It is not enough, that a novel abounds in moral sentiments ; the whole story should be so constituted, as to convey an important lesson: but if every page have introduced uMnto the company of vicious characters ; if we have been in- duced, in our progress through the book, to smile at vice, or to sympathise vyith the feelings of the libertine— can the useful moral thrown into the last pfige, or into t\\e last line be able to obliterate the bad impressions of all that went be- fore ? unquestionably not. — In order, therefore, to make novels useful, care should be taken to mark vice and folly with abhorrence and contenipt, and to paint with all the clearness of which language is susceptible, the disgrace and * Bishop Berkeley. 84 infamy that should ever be represented as inseparable from immorahty and vice — so clearly, that the most careless reader could not avoid sefeino; the connection. If such a rule is ne- cessary, in order to make novels a medium of usefulness to the community, what must be the consequence, when that rule is always inverted ? — which, with very few exceptions, we know to be the fact. The truth is, that emolument is the chief object about which novel writers are concerned. If this result from their works, every wish is fully gratified, and every end which had been proposed, attained. I have, indeed, supposed it possible, that novels might be made productive of beneficial effects : but to multiply them, in the hope of such a result, I am fully of opinion, would })rove a Utopian scheme; for * when the mind is much ha- bituated to, or much conversant with fiction, however inno- cent or moral, it is unfitted for the reception of historic truth; in this exercise, the imagination alone is employed, whilst the mind or reasoning faculty remains perfectly in- active and useless. Though it is pretty obvious that most of the evils that ensue from the constant reading of fictitious history, apply to the female, rather than to the male sex, yet, if it can ap- * This reason will equally apply to the methods ^hich have been latterly adopted, in erder to c/waf the risijig generation into learninjr, which is to loe offeclcil, according to the modern plan, by means of fictitious histories, which have been multiplied to an amount, which must be alarming to thoie that are really interested for true learning and science. 85 pear, that from the same source, the lieart may be corruptet^r the principles undermined, or the imagination defiled, then they apply equally to both sexes. Women, however, seem 40 be especially interested in the present enquiry, because they are more generally devoted to novel reading, than men ; and because their habits of life, and education, instead of being calculated to correct the defects of a more flexible tem- perament, seem as if they were intended to encourage them. Hence, imagination, which, if properly regulated, would be a very great source of pleasure, becomes rather produc- tive of misery and misfortune; and, of all the means that were ever invented, in order to strengthen the imagination^ in opposition to the reasoning faculty, to weaken or destroy the moral as well as the intellectual sense, and to engender all the innumerable evils that rau&t follow of course, novels have been most successful. This leads me to endeavour to seek out some of the reasons which may be assigned in proof of tho foregoing assertion* To unfold all their consequences, would require, indeed^ " A master's hand, and prophet's fire !" For greater clearness, modern novels may be divided into the two classes of humourous, and sentimental. The former ge- nerally exiiibit human nature in its degraded state ; they at- tempt to paint the worst feelings of the human heart ; to in- troduce the, reader to the dregs of society,' and into every haunt of vice. By means of these, the young man — " cereus- &6 in vitium fiecti/' before he has yet hh the paternal inansionj is fully initiated into the manners and language of liostlcrgj rakes, bullies, gaming tables, &c. &c. — in short, he is made to " see with the eyes" of Fielding and Smollet, many tbinga which his own shallow observation would never perhaps have noted. The parting advice, and waraing voice of affec- tionate parents, cannot be supposed to produce any great effects upon one who has already learned, that vice is not, either in itself, or its consequences, what their prejudices have taught them to believe: on the contrary, he is cer/«/« that a man's being a spendthrift, a gamester, and a debauchee, does not prevent him from being well received in society, or frouj obtaining the beauteous and virtuous object of bis affections, and he is prepared to regard sedate manners, and cautious conduct, only as the mask which is to conceal the hypocrisy and villainy of a Blifil, Every candid person must acknowledge, that this is the view of things presented by the perusal of Tom Jones ; which, as it unquestionably holds the highest place amongst this species of composition, is not improperly noticed here. The biographer of Pielding, in his observations upon that author's principal work, in the ^e.\\ words which he uses to describe the character of the hero, happens to point out the moral of the book, as plainly, as if he had done so inten- tionally. " Tom Jones," says he, "as much a libertine as he is, engages all sensible hearts, by his candour, generosity, humanity, his gratitude to his benefactor, his tender compos- 87 sion, nnd readiijpss to relieve the distressed."* So then, ac- cording to this writer, true libertinism is a term which may comprehend in it the virtues " generosity, candour, hu- manity, gratitude, tender compassion," ^c. &c. or at least, not exclude them. This is new logic, but certainly not what Mr. liocke, or any ot" his disciples would countenance. It is, however, the logic of Ubtrtinism, and may serve to shew us the advances which the modern writers have made in the subject of Ethics. But to be serious ;^s it possible that on the least reflection, any one can think that the virtues ascribed to Tom Jones could belong to, or be at all com- patible with his character.'* I will not suppose that one " sen- sible heart" will reply to this question in the afiirmative, and therefore do not hesitate to declare positively, that they can-' not? but in doing so, I still adhere to the old-fashioned inter- pretation of words and things : for instance,-^! consider with Johnson, a libertine to be " a man who lives without restraint or law, who pays no regard to the precepts of religion;" I consider libertinism and irreligion to be so closely allied, as to regard them nearly as synonymous terms; and therefore, cannot comprehend the meaning of the ^'humanity," that is exercised in degrading and ruining that sex, of which man should be the protector and guardian ; or of the " genero- iity" that" robs of that which not enriches him, but makes btr poor indeed." All the other virtues, supposed not to be * S«e last edition of Fielding's works, yol. i. p. JQJ. .88 excluded from meaning of the term liheriinism, might in the same manner be shewn to be equally incompatible with it : but perhaps it is sufficient to ask in the words of the gospel, " do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles ? A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit; neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit." On the other hand, to introduce profligate characters, for the purpose of exposing them to shame and ridicule, is a dangerous experiment. As Swift's " directions to servants" are said to have spoiled more good servants than corrected bad ones, by teaching tricks, which otherwise would not have been thought of; so, the high-coloured pictures of vice and folly drawn in novels, leave on the inexperienced mind, such copies of their reality, as the good moral of the work is but ill calculated to efface. It is rather a curious circumstance, and worthy to be noted, that notwithstanding the manifest evil tendency of the novels of Fielding, he professes most solemnly, that " to recommend goodness, and innocence, has been his sin- cere desire/' and he " hopes that nothing will be found in the whole course of his work, prejudicial to the cause of virtue and religion, nothing inconsistent with the strictest rules of <3ecency, or which can offend the chastest eye on the pe- jrusal." In these his pious desires, as well as in the method lie adopted to put them into execution, he has been followed universal!}' by the multitude of novel writers who have suc- ceeded him, from Marmontel, to G. M. Lewis, author of 89 the Monk,* and who, although they have fallen infinitely short of him in genius and talents, have certainly much sur- passed him in the method of conveying sentiments of virtue and religion to inexperienced minds ! Before I take my leave of this class, I cannot help ex- pressing some regret, that the species of fictitious history, which, as it has been employed by Cervantes, appears to be the safest, or least injurious method of entertaining by fic- tion, has been almost entirely occupied by writers of the basest principles, and loosest morals. For in other hands we have sometimes seen that humour may possibly be accom- panied by decency and morality ; that relaxation, if neces- sary, may be aft'orded to the mind, without causing debi- lity, and amusement without depravity ; and that the fancy may be deliglvted, without any dangerous lesson being con-, veyed to the heart. In entering upon that part of the subject, which involves the consideration of sentimental novels, I am so impressed with the conviction of the numerous evils that result from them, that I am led to say, in the words of Tasso, to those^ who have as yet escaped from their dangerous influence, " Guarda, cbe inal fato, '' ^ • O giuvenal \ aghezza, noo ti ai^ni Ai n^aga^ino de k ciaocie, ah fuggi! , Fuggi quel' iucantato allpgiamento. Qui\i habitan le Maghe, che incantando Far traveder; e traudir ciascuna." ■ ; • ' * See particolatly in prodf of this, " Pursuits of Literet«re;" -Dial, iv, p. 8-40. VOL. XII. N 90 To place every thing that is important in a wrong point of - view ; to corrupt the taste, and undermine the morals, is the business of- these enchanters, in which, under pretence of doing the reverse, they have been, unhappily, most success- ful. At first sight indeed, it is not easy to discover, that false views of life and manners are presented, when the professed object is to paint them with accuracy ; that the taste can be corrupted by writers versed in polite literature, and who all aim at expressing their thoughts in language the most pa- thetic or sublime ; or that the morals can be undermined by not only cherishing the tender and sentimental affections, but working them up to a degree of the most exquisite sen- sibility.— Paradoxical as all this may appear to some, it i& nevertheless true, nor can any solitary instance which may be adduced to prove the contrary, weaken the evidence of countless multitudes. Even Richardson himself, who was more anxious to inculcate principles of morality than most of his imitators, might plead guilty to this indictment; for in Clarissa, and Pamela, he has not only placed his prin- cipal characters in situations the most improbable, and un- natural, but in doing so, has unfolded scenes, totally inconsis- tent with morality, or even with common decency ; and has given such a degree of importance to vice, by making it the whole aim and occupation of his male characters — the busi- ness in which ingenuity, talents, and money are all employed and consumed as can hardly fail to make an impression upon youthful fancies, unfavourable to virtue. In the love of 91 Pamela for the abandoned seducer, there is something greatly repugnant to delicacy, besides its being a precedent, which in some degree authorises a virtuous young woman to hold a parley with a seducer, an incident which has been greatly improved upon in the more modern novels. But after all those objections, an'd many more that might be urged, perhaps there is more danger to be comprehended from many writers, who have taken care to avoid all appear- ance of grossness, or indelicacy, but who, (in the words of an excellent writer) * " have made the least refined affec- tions of humanity lose their indelicate nature in the eyes. of many, when dignified by the epitliet o^ sentimental, and have made a softened appellation give a gracefulness to moral: deformity." There is not any more natural way of accounting for the greatly increased multiplication of those trials that are the disgrace of our daily newspapers, than the light manner in which the breach of the seventh commandment is treated in novels ; considered in this point of view, the Julies, and Del- phines of Frances, have greatly afforded to the moralist sub- jects for animadversion: and even one of our own country women has thought proper to make the hero of her tale, (who is the person for. whose feelings, and affections, the young, the tender, and perhaps the virtuous, are to be in- terested, and to sympathise with,) guilty of a crime, m. « * VJceiitMus Knox. 92 many countries subject to the punishrrfent of a cruel death, and which is, in all, attended with infamy. Since then, a novel is the only place, where the violator of the most sacred laws of God, and of his country, can boast of his deeds in levity of language and jocularity of spirit, and where his father, whilst he mildly blames him for what he would term indiscretions, can remind him df his " innate rectitude" and of his " splendid virtues;" I would earnestly Avish, that they, whose manners are yet uncontammated, would look with a jealous, and guarded eye, upon what are apparently so inviting — " Latet Anguis in herba." But it is not the levity, merely, with which these breaches of the moral law are treated, that should make novels be re- garded as tending to encrease the corruption of manners: — false ideas respecting all those things in which consist the true happiness and honour of a woman, are to be drawn from them. The man who is so fortunate as to enjoy the luxury of finding his home always peaceful and happy, will be best able to judge whether the qualities that make the greatest figure in the world, or excite the most admiration and. notice, are really the most valuable, or are what have chiefly contributed to make his situation enviable. He will un- doubtedly judge the contrary to be true; but it can hardly be expected, that any girl, who has been much addicted to novel reading, will cordially agree with him in this opinion : for her heroines are never suffered to appear without making conquests, or without receiving the perpetual incense of flat- tery : they are ever to be found in ball-rooms, and at mm- queradesy where they, of course, meet with the most excel- lent,, saperlatively wise^ and accomplished husbands, whom^ notwithstanding,, these discerning fair-ones do not unfre- quemtly select ft-ora a knot of illiterate rakes. Nor should we forget: the uncommon share of personal beauty, that sel- dom fails to accompany their other perfections, which, beside teaching, a young lady to set an immoderate value upon itj eauses her to form in her mind inseparable associations be- tween personal graces and moral aincl intellectiral endow- ments—assoeiations which are as likely to be injurious to happiness and good morals, as tbey are inconsistent with truth and experience. * Many other evik arising from fictitious history (considered in this point of view) might be enumerated, but as they have been already touched upon by so able and elegant a writer as Professor Stewart, I will content myself, for the most part, with referring to his chapters " on the influence of imagina- tion upon human character and happiness," -f- but shall be * Vbow very diflferent in this respect, the impression is, which authentic, and fictitious history is calculated to produce, may be agreeably illustrated by a reference to Lord Clarendon's History of his own Life, vol. i. and iii. where, in the character of Lord ■ Falkland, he has finely contrasted the disadvantages of his person with the excellencies - of his mind; and in that of Sir Charles Cavendish, he has afforded a lesson, adoiirably ealculated to counteract the prejudices iu favour of these false associatiens. t Philosophy of the human mind. 94. excused for adopting his words here, in order to shew that the mind which has been accustomed to high wrought scenes of distress, and which is made " trembhngly alive" to the representation of fictitious sorrows, will be incapable of af- fording that useful and active sympathy, which it is neces- sary to exert, in order to relieve the less shining miseries of real life'. " Exhibitions of fictitious distress tend to strengthen those passive impressions which counteract beneficence. The scenes into which the novelist introduces us, are, in general, perfectly unlike those which occur in the world. As his ob- ject is to please, he removes from his descriptions every cir- cumstance that is disgusting, and presents us with histories of elegant and dignified distress. It is not such scenes that human life exhibits. We have to act with the mean, the illi- terate, the vulgar, and the profligate. The perusal of ficti- tious history ^has a tendency to encrease that disgust which \ve naturally feel at the concomitants of distress, and to cul- tivate a false refinement of taste, inconsistent with our con- dition, as members of society ; — nay, it is possible for this refinement to be carried so far, as to withdraw a man from the duties of life, and even from the sight of those distresses which he might alleviate; and accordingly many are to be found, who, if the situations of romance were realised, would not fail to display the virtues of their favourite characters, whose sense of duty is not sufficiently strong to engage tlu?ni in the huluble and private scenes of human misery." 95 It may appear strange to some, that amongst all the ills which are supposed to result from novels, I have omitted the mention of romantic love, the subject with which they all be- gin, proceed, and en J. The truth is, I have not forgotten it, but I have been obliged to remember that it is the effect of fictitious history upon modern manners, I am desirous to eli- cit : upon which love, if he were to appear in his own shape, or under the more attractive form of his mother, would find that he had lost his power : and would be obliged to assume the semblance of old Plutus, or of the blind goddess, before, his arrows (though sharpened upon the most bloody whet- stone) could be able to produce a single scar. Although much more might be offered upon this subject, yet from what has been said, 1 believe it is pretty clear that novels hold no trifling rank among the various sources to- which the acknowledged corruption of modern manners might be ascribed. With respect to the consideration whether they affect the taste and literature of the times, it is obvious, that for the most part, an intoxicating spirit of levity, and an excessive love of ornament, have in modern compositions, oc- cupied the place of sound judgment and classical purity ; and that the desire after novelty usually prevails over every other consideration. Hence, the modern poet disclaims those rules of art, that have for so many ages given strength and stability to the production of genius ; and hence, even the historic page assumes a form assimilated to fiction, or actually partaking of it. To ascribe all this to the multiplication of fictitious history, would be going rather too far, as the true cause must be sought in the excessive refinement and luxury of the times. But if it be granted, that fictitious history, — a species of composition which has been occupied by writers of va» rious denominations often ignorant and often depraved ; a species of composition calculated to interest the imagina- tion, engage the sympathy, and stimulate the passions of youth, at that period of life, which generally decides the moral and literary character; if it be granted that it has contributed to the corruption of morals, then, the connec- tion is so close between them, that no farther argument can be required to prove that they equally affect taste and manners. I am well aware that it may be deemed illiberal to lay so heaA'y a charge against a species of writing which has em- ployed the pens of many persons of talents and taste, as well as of those that have no pretensions la either; and un- doubtedly it would be so, if the number of the former bore any reasonable proportion to that of the latter : but where a few names may be brought forward, who have expressed the inspirations of nature, in propriety of language, innumerable are they that have done outrage to truth and decorum, or else ^ have mingled with their talents,, qualities, which have only served to render them more dangerous. How small is the number of those that have been able or willing to descri- . minate the exact boundaries, beyond which (however trifling .97 the distance) wit degenerates into licentiousness ; reasori and propriety into extravagance. But enouji>'h has been said by me upon this subject. I would wish, however, before I take my leave of it entirely, to suggest what appears to be the most likely means of cor- recting these evils. It is, to give our youth, of both sexes, a virtuous and religious education ; to make truth the prime object of all these pursuits ; to direct their views to reali' ties instead of shadows ; to engage them in those studies which have a tendency to enlarge and elevate the mind, and strengthen and rectify the judgment as well as to rectify the taste; which accustoms the mind to habits of industry and labour, and gives in return a pleasure, far more exquisite than that which is the meed of idleness or indolence. In these times, pains have been taken by the learned, to remove all difficulties out of tb^ "'^y of the learner, and to prevent in future, the necessity on his pari, of any great ex- ertions for the attainment of knowledge : but whilst it is to be doubted, whether this mode of making learning easy will eventually encrease the number of good scholars, some bene- ficial consequences, may, it is hoped, follow from what en- tirely does away the necessity of any extraordinary means, in order to relax the mind after severe and intense applica- tion— the excuse which is offered by many, who indulge themselves in the h^e perusal of fictitious history. — Nugse seria ducent in mala. VOL. XII. O AN ESSAY ON THE INFLUENCE OF HABIT, CONSIDERED IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE LOVE OF NOVELTY.' Hgec placuit semel ; hsee decies repetita placebit. A HE influence of habit and the love of novelty are principles of so general, yet so opposite a nature, and intended to pro- mote such different purposes, that if they were incompatible, one half of the business of life would be left unaccom- plished. Could we suppose a being under the government of habit alone, his actions would be confined within the nar- row circle that comprises the necessities of his nature; and the preservation of his existence, by eating, drinking and sleeping, would be almost his only achievement. On the 100 contrary, a being, destitute of every moving principle but a love of novelty, would be active, energetic and enterprising, but as. useless and unprofitable as the other. He would at- tempt every thing, and accomplish nothing — for ever be labouring, but labouring in vain. Of all our. common and daily acts, how small is the number that could at all be per- formed without many attempts and long practice. What pains and exertion did it cost us to acquire the use of our hmbs and the power of locomotion, the faculty of speech, and the exercise of the simplest of our arts and attainments. Had ourflature been endowed with the other affections and governed by habit, yet destitute of the love of novelty, we should merely enjoy a barren and grovelling existence, unimproved by progressive change, unembellished by science, and perhaps unexalted by virtue. On the contrary, if this passion were added to the rest, and that our then busy curi- ous and aspiring spirit were deprived of the discipline of habit, our circumstances would be little .altered for the better; for -science would be still unattainable, and virtue consist of little more than a name — virtuous inclinations unproductive of virtuous, conduct. .-Wisely then have these two equal and opposite principles been interwoven with the firj^t rudiments of our nature. They unfold themselves with our earliest desires, they govern us with the force of original laws through life, and reluctantly ia death we are torn from that system of actions, affections, and pleasures endeared to us by the one ; while the other invites, us to a state of being in the last degree new, strange and inscrutable. This change, awful and mysterious as it is, differs but in degree from MaMve have all experienced, but the recollec- tion of which we are not permitted to retain. Perhaps the infant, satisfied with the mere sense of existence, would, if endued with the power of volition, be as unwilling to burst from the confinement and darkness of the womb, though to enjoy the delights of his destined residence, as the departing ^pirit'to enter upon that scene for which it is, perhaps, no less suitably provided by nature. Each may cling* with equal obstinacy to its chains and its dungeon ; ignorant of its dormant faculties, and incapable of conjecturing its fu- ture perceptions and enjoyments, submissive only to the in- fluence of habit and averse to the desire of unexperienced felicity. When we say that these principles are interwoven with the first rudiments of our nature, it is implied that like the other affections they must be gradually developed ; and it would be superfluous to remark that an action must be performed more than once before it becomes a habit; or that we must be acquainted with more objects than one before the love of novelty can operate. The propensity is not less an original law of our frame, because it must necessarily be dormant till roused by appropriate occasions. It wil| therefore be curious to trace the first movements of these principles in the mind. rd2 It is obvious that the infant acquires habits before it is affected by a desire of novelty. Its first act is a scream. Its collapsed lungs are suddenly inflated by the atmosphere of the new world it has entered ; the blood is forced into an- other system of vessels hitherto unoccupied, but now be- come necessary to its different state of existence. From warmth it plunges into an ocean of cold, and from darkness into an atmosphere of light, its amazement, if capable of such an affection, must be lost in the universal pain it en- dures. No wonder its -first act should be a cry of misery; or that on every recurrence of pain, it should repeat the ex- pression pain had first taught it. This is our earliest habit ; ■ixnd reason must in most of us have made some advance be- fore we can overcome the propensity of lamenting by outcries and tears, Avhatever anguish we suffer, whether corporeal or mental. Life is a mingled draught from the beginning ; and if the first habit of the infant flows from a source of pain, the second is derived from a more pleasurable origin. The for- jmer .owes >ts birth to the sense of feeling, the latter to that of smeH. It is agreed that the child is attracted to the breast by the fragrance of tlie milk. The organ of taste soon shares in the delight; and we can well conceive, though we cannot recollect, the first felicity we enjoyed, when two dormant .senses were at once awakened by the complicated percep- tion of so delicate an odour, and delicious a taste. Uii- jtaught and unpractised, the infant draws its nourishment 103 from the fountain of life; — soon and frequently it seeks a- re- petition of its enjoyment — its diminutive frame requires an- incessant supply, and it is not strange that so agreeable a habit should be speedily established. It is only interrupted by sleep, and continues till a different habit is induced by= the use of other food ; nor should we omit to observe, in this trivial circumstance, the superior strength of the influence of habit over the love of novelty. The child long, prefers its first and most natural diet to every other. Grosser food be- comes more s-uitable to his encreasing strength, and in time he would perhaps spontaneously reject the former. But it- is with reluctance he first enters on his novel diet ; and its-- novelty has long ceased, and the habit of resorting to it long: been confirmed before he is willing to relinquish altogether- the enjoyment of his earliest luxury. Perhaps the love of novelty first discovers itself in the desire of changing the position of the limbs. During its waking moments the infant is seldom still;. it stretches out its hands and feet in so many directions, and so early after birth) as to leave no doubt of its having acquired the prac- tice of exercising the muscles to the utmost of its powers even in the wombi Perhaps this affection is the great incen- tive to its subsequent corporeal exertions, and becomes a necessary counterpoise to the apprehensions that might other- wise restrain them. In vain would the mother expect that a desire to give her pleasure should animate the exertions of a being, as yet so destitute of sympathy. It is the delight 104 arising from new situations which carries it througli its pro- liressive improvements ; and incited by the love of novelty, it at first learns to creep — then to stand erect, unsteadily balancing its frame — next with assistance ventures to put itself ill -motion; until grown more independent, it after- ward confides its movements to its own tottering limbs, and at length attains the power of walking with firmness, and running with agility. But here other passions become his assistants,. and as he advances in life, the pride of emula- tion to equal his competitors aids his maturer exertions, and the more ^active and athletic exercises follow each other in quick succession. But from first to last, habit is the grand auxiliary, and perfects the work begun by its precursor. As the sense of smelling is the first to receive an agreeable impression, it is perhaps the first to require novelty and va- riety in its gratifications. The magazine of fragrant odours is however soon exhausted; and it is only in our early days that we delight to run from flower to flower. After we have become familiar with all the sweets of the garden, we are less anxious to seek a succession of agreeable scents, than to avoid those that are otfensive. Mahomet is a singular in- stance of preserving to the last a passion for perfumes. Two sensual enjoyments were required by his nature, and there- fore permitted by the religion he established. This delicate gratification was one — and as it was necessary to his happi- ness, perhaps in him it was accompanied, tlirough life, with 105 a love of variety — which differs but in a shade from the love' of novelty. The latter can, perhaps, be gratified but once by the same object; but when it can be no longer considered as altoge- ther new, it may still bear a comparison in point of novelty with other objects of a similar nature ; jt may gain or lose this quality, aS' we become more or less accustomed to it; and if it were possible that we should sojourn so long upon earth, as that nature could not offer, nor imagination suggest- to us an object with which we were not familiar, the love of novelty would then have degenerated into a love of variety. - The sense of Taste enjoys a much larger scope than that of Smell, and bestows on the principles we are considering, not only a wider range, but much greater strength, on account of its more intimate connexion with the appetites of hunger and thirst. As long as this sense is only acquainted with the flavour of milk, however diversified in its mode of preparation, it allows little room for the love of novelty and variety ; but sweet- meals in various forms, and fruits of various relish, are pre- sented to the inexperienced palate, and soon give birth to new desires. Little is it thought that in the prudent or improper gratification of this sense, begins the education of the child. To indulge him in these things without restriction, or to reward his good conduct by such paltry objects of am- bition, and establish in their favour a distinction to which- they are but little entitled beyond his ordinary food, is to vol. XII. p 106 make him in infancy, what he may continue to old age, an epicure and glutton. But more obvious absurdities are every day in use, and we see the foundation laid for habitual ine- briety, by vitiating the long-reluctant organ of taste with un- diluted wines; or, as practised among the inferior classes of Society, with still more powerful and deleterious potions. The alarming progress of this most vile and ruinous of habits, surprises the unreflecting and shocks the contempla- tive mind. But when we witness its depredations, over- whelming every barrier opposed to it by superiority of intel- lect, elegance of taste, pride of learning and elevation of genius, the most reflecting mind is most shocked and sur- prised. All prior expectations give way before the almost incredible, but too authentic, history of the unfortunate Der- mody. Born, it is true, in an humble condition, yet quali- fied by transcendant talents and uncommon acquirements to arrive at the highest, we should perhaps have beheld without wonderor envy his encreasing lustre, as a poet, philosopher, or statesman. In our own times we have seen more than one advanced to offices of dignity and emolument, by means of qualifications, such as this ill-fated young man possessed, in a much superior degree — great natural talents, extensive knowledge of languages, and a thirst for general information prompted and governed by a passion for the muses, to which it was subservient. But see the destructive effects of one pernicious habit. A worthless father infected his infant mind with the mania of intemperance. It signifies little whether 107 he adulterated his taste and corrupted his appetite by admi- nistering the poison ; or depraved his understanding by the force of example. For such is the power of sympathy, that the example of those we are taught by nature to respect, operates irresistibly upon us, and their habits insensibly become ours. While yet a schoolboy, intoxication had its charms foi him ; and though familiar and delighted with the classics, and enriched with a store of scholastic knowledge, these elegants enjoyments were not sufficient lo exclude this degrading pas^- sion : and the wit that was inspired by his genius, and invigo- rated by his learning, was lavished on the meanest associates, amidst the lowest debauchery. The habit was confirmed :■ strong in childhood, inveterate in youth, hopeless in manhood. Yet in every stage those numerous and illustrious patrons, whose protection his extraordinary genius had procured him, endeavoured by advice, exhortation, and threats, to rescue him from the perdition tovvard which he was hurrying. But in vain : vice was added to vice, depravity to depravity, out- rage to outrage ; until at length forsaken and abandoned by his disappointed admirers and indignant friends, by turns an importunate beggar and desponding recluse, now rioting in vile and extravagant excesses, now sunk in abject contempt and misery, at the early age of seven and twenty he died of a lingering disease, the victim of one ungovernable habit, that debased a noble and generous mind, a cultivated intel- lect and exalted genius, those strongest evidences of our im- mortal nature, to that grovelling level at which man ceases 1G8 to be honoured with the epithet of human, and ranks in the estimation of society with the Brute. Those senses which we have hitherto considered, are nearly perfect from the beginning; but the organ of sight requires long practice before it is fitted to perforin its office with effect. It is first attracted by the light, next by ghttering and bright-coloured objects, then by whatever is near it, and at last is competent to judge of distances and magnitudes. T\]e celebrated Berkeley in his " new Theory of Vision," which is commended by the wisest and ablest of our natural, moral and political enquirers, as " one of the finest examples of philosophical analysis that is to be found either in our own or in any other language, leaves no doubt in the mind that " the judgment we make of the distance of an object viewed with both eyes is the result of experience; and on this subject the following passages are deserving of particular at- tention. " The judgments we make of greatness, do, in like manner as those of distance, depend on the disposition of the eye; also on the figure, number and situation of objects, and other circumstances that have been observed to attend great or small tangible magnitudes.. Thus, for instance, the very same quantity of visible extension, which in the figure of a tower doth suggest the idea of great magnitude, shall in the figure of a man suggest the idea of much smaller mag- nitude. That this is owing to the experience we have bad of the usual bigness of a tower or a man, no one I suppose 109 need be told." (Section 5?.) " Of visible points we see at all times an equal number. It is every whit as great when our view is contracted and bounded by near objects, as when it is extended to larger and remoter. For it being impossible that one minimum visibile should obscure or keep out of sight more than one other, it is a plain consequence that when my view is on all sides bounded by the walls of my study, I see just as many visible points, as I could, in case that by the removal of the study walls and all other obstructions, I had a full prospect of the circumjacent fields, mountains, sea, and firmament : for so long as I am shut up within the walls, by their interposition every point of the external ob- jects is covered from my view : but each point ihat is seen, being able to cover or exclude from sight one only other corresponding point, it follows that while my sight is con- fined to those narrow walls, I see as many points or minima visibilia as I should, were those walls away, by looking on all the external objects, whose prospect is intercepted by them. Whenever therefore we are said to have a greater prospect at one time than another, this must be understood with relation, not to the proper and immediate, but the secondary and mediate objects of vision, which properly be- long to the touch." (Section 82.) Adam Smith, the elegant eulogist of Berkeley, elucidates his theory in his Essay on the External Senses; and his ex- quisite illustrations are well entitled to the applauses he be- stows on his predecessor. He has added many improve- ments of his own, to the merit of which he modesti}' dis- 110 claims any title ; but he gives us the following perspicuous views in one of his most distinguished illustrations. " It is because almost our whole attention is employed, not upon the visible and representing, but upon the tangible and represented objects, that in our imaginations we are apt to ascribe to the former, a degree of magnitude which does not belong to them, but which belongs altogether to the latter. If you shut one eye, and hold immediately before the other a small circle of plain glass of not more than half an inch in diameter, you may see through that circle, the most extensive prospect, lawns and woods, and arms of the sea, and distant mountains. You are apt to imagine that the landscape which is thus presented to you — that the vi- sible picture which you thus see — is immensely great and ex- tensive. The tangible objects which this picture represents undoubtedly are so. But the visible picture which repre- sents them can be no greater than the little visible circle, through which you see it. If while you are looking through this circle, you could conceive a fairy hand and a fairy pencil, to come between your eye and the glass, that pencil could delineate on that little glass the outline of all those ex- tensive lawns and woods, and arms of the sea, and distant mountains, in the full and exact dimensions with which they are really seen by the eye." (Page 222.) Adopting these views, we may conclude that previous to all EXPERIENCE, a new-born child can only perceive at first a circle of light of the dimensions of its pupil. It is per- haps the first object (if it is entitled to that name) which it Ill beholds. It appears to it most probably, not on the retina, Avhere the rays of light form its resemblance, and create a sensation ; but where the circle actually exists, the aperture of the ^ye. Afterward the walls and furniture and inmates of its apartment, or the scenery and animation of an exten- sive prospect, reduced to an almost imperceptible miniature, occupy the same narrow field of view : one object indistin- guishable, on account of its minuteness from another, but forming altogether an intermingled mass of brilliant colours. This variegated tissue is changed to one dull unvaried colour, when an object approaches so near as to occupy the field of view to the exclusion of other objects. Distance is as yet imperceptible to the eye, and inconceivable by the mind. The hand must be often extended and withdrawn, placed be- fore the eye and on different parts of the body, contem- plated in different positions and at different distances, before the infant ascertains that the hand which it beholds is that which a repetition of the sensations of feeling had previously taught it to regard as part of its frame. This is the first step in the complicated process by which it acquires the habit of judging of distances : for the hand is the first measure it uses, and it must be familiar with the instrument before it can employ it with effect. In time he discovers that the space where his hand moves with freedom is destitute of objects ; and thus ascertains that those which he beholds and cannot touch, lie beyond the ex- tent of his arm. At this period it is probable that the field 112 of vision has encreased to the dimensions of a circle about four or five inches in diameter, which enlarges to twenty or thirty when he attends to the space 'vhich both of his arms can describe or encompass, while all the objects in view ap- pear painted within its area much larger than at first, much smaller than afterward, and nearly within reach of the hand. The eye of man is-fitted by the Wisdom of Nature to behold commodiously at a single glance all objects that present themselves within a cone whose sides form an angle of about sixty degrees, and whose apex is the eye. This cone em- braces but one-sixth of the horizon ; yet so quick is the mo- tion of the eye, that we believe we see a hemisphere at once, which we only take in by successive glances. For the con- venience of beholding the greatest possible number of ob- jects, it is established, either necessarily, or arbitrarily, that the more remote an object is situated, the smaller it appears ; otherwise a multitude of those which under our present cir- cumstances we are capable of perceiving, would be con- cealed from us by the intervention of that single object which happened to be nearest. I'his is not the place to enquire by what means this law is carried into effect. It is sufficient to know that the nearer we suppose an object to be placed, the smaller we judge it to be; and a castle of a hundred feet in altitude at the horizon, will appear scarce an inch to the in- fant that believes it to exist almost within reach of its hand. Thus we can readily conceive that the more distant an object really is, the smaller it must ever appear; and the nearer we 113 judge it to be, without actually' knowing the truth, the smaller we must also suppose it. Of this diminutive size, and bearing a just proportion to each other, as in a painting accurately executed according to the rules of perspective, all objects within the field of vision must probably appear to a child at the period alluded to; no prominence observable; but the whole consisting of a flat plane diversified by shades and colours. Though it may be doubtful whether this pic- .ture does not very early assume the form of a concave hemis- phere ; similar in every respect, but in magnitude, to the area comprehended by more perfect vision, but so confined as to appear within tangible distance of the hand of the infant. The visual powers command an equal extent in all direc- tions ; and if, as a necessary consequence, the boundary of vision presents to the adult an immense sphere, it must in like manner present a sphere of reduced dimensions to the infant, whose powers of vision likewise extend in all direc- tions, but only, in his conception, to the distance of a few inches. Nearly at the distance which the infant has first learned to assign to objects, is in all probability established the barrier between distinct and indistinct vision : all things within it appearing larger than they actually are, and encreasing in size and indistinctness as they approach the eye; and all be- yond it diminishing in size the farther they recede from it, till they are also involved in obscurity and at length lost to sight. A pin not an inch long, if brought close to the pupil, VOL^XII. Q 114 appeftts to ettcrease in dimensions to six ; and if gradually removed from distance to distance, reduces its size till it to- tally vanishes, being seen in it? tru« dinaensions but once in its progress which takes place at the barrier m question. Beyond this boundary, tfee eye ©f the dnfant ha« not yet learned to penetrate. It mflst previously become so imti- mately acquainted with at least one particular object, that it will recognise it at a moderate distance ; or, to speak more consonantly with the sensations of the child, it ?must be able -fco recognise it for the same object, although at one time it ap- {)ears 'large, ated at another small. The first step in the ac- iq'Sisition of this knowledge is the discovery, tiiat the visible anfd tangible object is the same. One of the earliest occix- pations of the infant is -to press with its hand the bosoiaaof its mother. The prominency which is familiar to the touch, can'not long be concealed from the eye. The gradual bright- tiess and shading soon become signs of the figure of the ob- ject; and the sight, under the tuition of the feeling, learns to distinguish the round and the angular from the coloured flat- ness peculiar to its own powers of perception. In his pro- gress he insensibly becomes acquainted with the features of his mother — rejoices to behold them softened into smiles — and gives the first proof of his sympathy, that grand founda- tion of our moral attributes, by a respondent smile. At rest in his cradle he follows the countenance, now become so in- teresting to him, with an attentive eye. It lessens as it re- Cedes ; it enlarges as it advances ; and perhaps with the de- 115 fight of a philosopher at the discovery of a new truth, he for the first time ascertains in those different situations, the iden- tity of the object. But still he can have no notion of that distance which occasions the change. He must himself be borne from his mother, and again advanced toward her; he must be conscious of having been in motion-^and possibly that consciousness may not arise until his own powers of lo- comotion have first been exerted— he must have acquired some idea, however faint, of the space he has traversed, be- fore he can. possess the most imperfect notion of distance i and even that idea must have become habitual, long before he recognises it as the cause of the diminution of objects. But that recognition once made, and ripened by time into HABIT, we forget appearances, and attend ©nly to the real, ©bjcct and the real distance. A variety of objects, subjected to the same process, lend their assistance in strengthening and perpetuating th^ habit :: and with the exercise of the habit the power encreases of judging correctly of distances. If the infant has traversed no greater space than the length of hi§ chamber, he cannot entertain a conception that the universe is more extensive ; and whatever prospect its windows may command, the ma- nifold objects between his eye and the horizon will appear at' y the distance of fifteen or twenty feet from his ^ye^ if sueh be the limit's of his knowk^ge of space. In proportion as - -that knowledge advanees by means of exj^erience, his horizon recedes — his circuit of vision ie«iaTg<>8, a^d objects -eflere&sa 116 their dimensions — known objects become a standard to judge of unknown — and the human figure is perhaps the first and the most useful which he employs to thnt end. A man on the battlements of a distant tower, serves by comparison to measure at once its magnitude and its distance — a full grown oak, the elevation and extent of the hill on which it flourishes. For a long period, the remotest mountains in the prospect are regarded by the child as the boundary of the world. His field of vision then extends to the terrestrial horizon.- A solid vault of blue, studded with diminutive stars, appears to rest on the flat earth as on a foundation ; and many a year has he numbered before his encreasing knowledge countervails the habit of his perceptions, and lends his imagination wings to rise tlirough a yielding firmament, and discover through a vista extending millions of miles, innumerable suns which he had been taught to call stars, millions of miles in circum- ference, and multiplied millions asunder : while Reason and Fancy unite with Philosophy in peopling the invisible void with systems of habitable orbs, as infinite in number as the suns round which they revolve. Thus instructed by the most confined and local of the senses, the most unrestricted and expansive becomes per- •fect. And a circle scarcely one-tenth of an inch in diameter, . whose sphere of vision is at first not more extensive than that circle, in the progress of time acquires, by force of habit, the astonishing power of comprehending within its diminu- tive sphere the stupendous universe. 117 The first steps of this process, naturally as they follow eacli other, will never, if controverted, admit of demonstration ; for we can scarcely hope, that in contradiction to those law^s which have hitherto governed the infancy of man, his mind will ever be endued with the faculty of recollecting every im- pression it received from the first dawn of its existence ; and until there is an instance of such an event, we may conjec- ture, but we cannot know. Yet the concluding steps of the process are so far advanced beyond the regions of mere pro- bability, that their certainty in no small degree confirms the credibility of those that precede them, not only by their reci- procal harmony, but their united accordance with reason. Still it must be confessed that we have facts within our know- ledge, which seem to refute the doctrine altogether. In Che- selden's invaluable case, referred to by almost every writer on the subject of vision, the young man couched for cataract at first perceived objects of a much larger size than they really were; when according to the above principles, we would ra- ther expect them to appear much smaller, and reduced to a scale as diminutive as their picture on the retina. But we must recollect that the patient was not an infant^— that he was acquainted by the touch with the dimensions of objects — and that the idea of space had long been familiar to him. We must also recollect that like others affected with the same species of blindness, he could distinguish light from dark- ness, and even discern two or three colours. It is therefore probable, that immediately after birth, he perceived a dirn 118 circle of light of the diameter of his pupil ; and that as he enlarged his notion of space, the circle of light encreased its dimensions ; but without extending to the degree of magni- tude, during his blindness, which it attained after he acquired the use of his sight. It is therefore natural to suppose, that the first objects he perceived would appear to him at least as large as to others, if there was no other peculiarity in his sensations. But according to Cheselden he conceived that all the objects he saw were as close to his eye, as those which he touched, \vere to his hand. No wonder then that every object should appear larger to him than to others, when (subtending an equal superficies to both) he esteemed it to be in contact with his eye, and they perceived it at its proper distance. These considerations perhaps afford a sufficient explana- tion of the variance between the actual circumstances of this young man, and those we would previously be inclined to expect. He had a manifest advantage over the infant who is totally destitute of all idea of space. He therefore ac- ^\iired more speedily the art of seeing. And upon the whole it may be considered, that the peculiarities of his case yield a strong confirmation of the doctrine, they seem on a super« ficial view to subvert. This topic has perhaps detained us too long 5 but as it fonns JS<(><;iiiW«S and important a part of the history of our habits, it was necessary to render it at lea'st intelligible, and 1 confess I had iK)t the »rt of acconiplishing this in fewer words. 119 We have seem that no object would appear as it exists, and that therefore visioai would be comparatively useless to U5, if it were not for the habit of mentaHy converting visible into tangible objects. The organ of sight \yould be far ever im- perfect without this exercise of the mind. It was not requi- site to consider what assistance is contributed to this effecrt bj tlie love of novelt}^ ia investigating the mere improvement »f the organ of vision ; though doubtless it operates in n^ small degree in promoting that intellectual exercise, so jae- cessarj to its perfection. But it claims an important share of our attention, when we direct our enquiries to |be affec- tions of the mind, as moved and influenced by the objects of sight. We hav€ hitherto sketched a history of the combined in- fluence of ihabit and the love of novelty, as they affect us from their birth to their maturity, in relation to the objects of those senses we have already discussed ; but it would be tedious in every part of the subject to advert to minutiae that cannot have escaped the most heedless observer. The eager- ness with which infants relinquish one glittering object for an- other more novel, must have forced itself on every one's notice. Nor are those circumstances less obvious, which evince the full growth of this passion in the mind ; and we cannot look back without strong feelings of interest, to the first instance of our absolute submission to its powerful influence. There is no one that does not cherish the recollection of the solici- tude he felt, in expectation of the first change of scene he 120 enjoyed. With what ardour does the young rustic desire to visit the neighbouring town, of which he has heard such ex- aggerated tales ; and how much does the gratification of his curiosity add to its vigour. The distant capital invites him to a feast still more splendid ; and if his appetite is not palled by the banquet, this impulse may render it still more insatiable after novelty. On the other hand the child bred up in cities, and breathing their unwholesome atmosphere, feels as if he were imprisoned in an uncongenial element, and secluded from enjoyments for which he was constituted by nature. He longs to breathe in freedom the pure air of the country. His imagination carries him to every green and" luxuriant spot in the prospect, of which, through interposing roofs and towers, he can obtain a glimpse ; and he entertains the ambition of climbing the mountains which bound his hori- zon, from whose summit he fancies he shall behold a fathom- less abyss, or a dreary ocean, constituting the last verge of na- ture. The love of novelty thus finds a firmer footing in the mind. Indulgence strengthens this passion, as it strengthens every other. If it ripens into habit, it becomes necessary to the existence with which it is interwoven. Excursion after excursion, scene after scene, at once gratify the mindi, and stimulate it to fresh gratifications. And by this process, a basis is laid for an insatiable thirst of novelty, such as led Park over the terrible desarts, or through the more terrible population, of Africa; or instigated Columbus to the glory of 121 contending with the unknown tempests of the desolate At- lantic then deemed unnavigable. This affection, with Sensibility for its partner, delights to traverse those regions consecrated by the memory of illus- trious tiationSj which have long since perished from the earth ; or the deeds of magnanimous individuals, who by their example, as with an inheritance have enriched posterity for ever. With similar and equal interest we dwell upon the reliques of the days of our forefathers — their grand and gloomy castles, convenient only for defence, awaken all the sympathy our nature still retains for the boisterous and he- roic age of chivalry. Taste is generated by objects like these, and the sentiments they inspire. A Burke or an Alison leads us through the gardens and wildernesses of na- ture^— and whether we trace some inviting stream, through cultivated meadows and wooded dells, to the barren moun- tains that form its cradle ; or hang over its frightful cataracts from a rock seemingly consolidated with the foundations of the earth — whether we revel in the smiles or shrink aghast at the fbowns of nature — we every where confess the footsteps of God. The sources of beauty and sublimity are opened to us J and thenceforth an inexhaustible fountain of enjoy* nient flows beneath olir feet. Such a shai-e has the Lo\?e of Novelty in enhancing the value of the objects of sight. .Nor is this all — associated with Observation and Sagacity, it explores new fields of know-* ledge, and opens new springs of felicity, not less valuable VOL. XII. It 122 to the intellect, than those already mentioned, to the heart. "We walk with the ingenious and discerning Werner, and the profound and speculative liutton, amidst rocks of adaman- tine hardness, whose various strata resemble the gradual and successive deposit of the waters; and without a blind un- qualified and implicit adherence to either of these philoso- phers, we acknowledge but doubtingly that a force less than of fire could scarcely have produced the change. The dis- integration of these rocks seems to supply the sandy bed of the neighbouring torrent; and if we pursue its course to the sea, we learn that " the capacious bed of waters" owes its ■ formation to the same materials. It appears as if the lofty mountains and solid plains were carried b}' a slow but un- ceasing progress into the abyss of the ocean ; and we look round us, with inquisitive eyes, to discover if the dry land we inhabit has ever been subjected to the same astonishing revolution. We pursue the novelties that invite us; ahd - fancy that we are taught in every page of the volume of nature, that twice this earth was in the bosom of the waters, and as often heaved above them by the force of subter- ranean fires, which liquefied or baked it into the manifold forms that diversify its surface. We shrink from so incre- dible a creed, but rocks of enormous magnitude excite our .attention ; and the vertical strata of their masses, which seem to have been once horizontal, compel us to acknowledge that the power which heaved them upright must have been adequate to events the most tremendous ; and reluctantly we 12S admit the conviction, that wherever we tread, it is on the wrecks of former worlds. Thus we see how the profoundest enquiries become food for the appetite of novelty. It cannot be satiated, any more than the sense of vision, by terrestrial prospects. It expa- tiates at large in the immensity of the heavens. It weighs and measures the planets, their distance, and velocity ; and ascertains with Newton, the laws that speed, yet confine them in their orbits. It adds new powers to the eye by the telescope, and opens to us deeper and deeper profundities of space. We discover with Herschel, that the nebulous bright- ness of the milky-way consists of multitudes of stars thickly sown in stratum over stratum ; and which seem more closely to approach each other in proportion to their remoteness from us — that the stars of our firmament, however distant from each other, are but a part of the one congeries — that our sun is an individual among them, and that those in his vicinage naturally appear to our eyes the farthest asunder. Prodigious contem- plation ! — yet how trivial to that which succeeds. In various parts of the heavens, and still more distant than the most ' distant star of the galaxy, other nebulous spots appear. We look through the telescope, and stars become visible as nu- merous as those which heretofore constituted to us the uni- verse. At the same time a profounder space is unfolded, and other nebulae whose stars still remain undistino-uishable, are revealed to view. Two thousand five hundred, has Herschel numbered, of these Universes ; for Universes we must call 124 them in spite of, the solecism. Muman language is alike in- competent to express the Creation and the Creator. Sublime and ineffable as are the sentiments which arise from these amaaing contemplations, they but inflam^e the lust of knowledge. System after sysfem bursts with increasing grandeur on the indefatigable mind. We reason — we com- pare^-we generalise — we simplify. Science fixes her firm ' foot on the orb of the sun^ and sees, around her, circumvolv- ing planets, satellites, and comets. Their motion more rapid beyond comparison than the whirlwind is to the eye imper- ceptible at the distance even of the nighest. iiow then could we hope to discern the motion of the stars hitherto supposed to be fixed ? Yet Ilalley suspected and Herschel has discovered that they actually move, and almost ascer- tained even the direction of their course. * But thousands of yea¥S must elapse before such a general change can occur as to alter materially to our senses their relative positions. Some nebula infinitrlj? remote, apd whose motion must be less perceptible in proportion to its distance, may offer itself as an abject suffielently fixed for measuring the movement of i\\e nearer heavens. But what is the length of human life — the duration of nations — the existence of the earth itself, to accomplish such a task ? At those incalculable distances, it is possible that many millions of miles, nay many millions of diametets eveu of the solar system, may not occupy to our * See Hersclicl's Paj;ers on the Motion of the Sun, and Solar System in the Transac- tions of the Royal Society, for the years 1783 and 1805. , i2d e_ye a spuce equal to the hurulredtli part of an inch ; and though that mighty- longitude were traversed by the heavenly bodies with the velocity of light — to us, though observed for ages, or perhaps for ever, the amazing tale of their travels might still remain undivulged. But the acquisition of facts only prompts us to the acqui- sition of facts yet unknown. The love of novelty ripens into an appetite for knowledge ; and we hunger and thirst to riot without stint in the feast of reason, among new objects, new facts, new truths, in endless variety. And scarcely have we learned that the magnitude of our sun may surpass that of all the heavenly bodies united, which roll around him a* their centre, and that he and his attendant worlds are ad- vancing together through space, than our imagination trans- ports us into the centre of all nature : and there it frames a mighty orb, equal iu mass to the thousands of universes that| are attracted by its gravity, and rdll in majestic splendour around this heaven of heavens — " this throne itself of God." Magniticent as this scheme may appear, it must still fall short of the works of the Creator. What He has achieved^ i.t is not for nx;in ii\ the utmost stretcl]; of his imagination to conceive. In the several instances to which we have had occasion to recur, we. find that the love of novelty becomes gradually- exalted into a much nobler passion. Nor in any of them can we discover that this desire exists without a preconceived 1S6 object. The victim of lassitude and ennui maj' indeed pant after novelty for its own sake; but he is a singular instance. The infant does not throw away his rattle until some other attraction presents itself; the boy does not long for a glimpse of the metropolis until he has heard of its splendours. It is the same in manhood. Johnson did not seek the Hebrides until he had warmed his imagination with the view of primi- tive and uncultivated society which he expected to enjoy there. The fancy of Columbus dwelt only on a new track through the ocean, when he discovered a new world. And the galaxy and nebula were already in the eye of Hcrschel before he ascertained them to be clusters of stars^ and found a new universe in every assemblage. Every organ of sense rs long under the tuition of habit, and by its means attains no small degree of perfection, before the mind is affected by a desire of novelty with respect to the objects of that particular sense. Hearing, for example, must long be exercised, before it arrives at the power of distinguishing the variety of noises, that first excite its attention, and the multiplicity of sounds conveyed in the simplest air of music, or the narrowest com- pass of language. Pleasing sounds, by being new, are ren- dered more pleasing; but until the ear is habitually ac- quainted with some arrangement of sounds, it can scarcely be subservient to the love of novelty; because the imagina- tion cannot form a preconception of a simple sound to which the mind is a stranger; and we have seen that without some 127 preconception of the object, this affection does not arise- But when the ear becon)es familiar with different arrange- ments of sound, the imagination can readily conceive the formation of other arrangements, and naturally gives birth to a desire for new harmonies in music, new expressions of lan- guage, and at length pants after new efforts of eloquence, new flights of the muse, and all that science can perform by the power of diction. Vast as is the empire of the eye, the dominion of the ear is far more extensive; and though the former is more useful to man as an animal, the other is more necessary to him as a reasonable creature. It is the great inlet of his knowledge — the gate which opens to him the intellect of others, throws down the barriers which would confine his mind to the scanty produce of its own conceptions, and gives it a passage to the collective understanding of mankind. Without it, language could never have been invented — without language, general ideas could have no existence — and without general ideas, where Avould be that knowledge which stamps on maa his exalted character of a reasonable being? No wonder then that this refined and delicate organ should be slow in arriving at perfection. To distinguish accurately every vibration of air, from an infinite number of other vi- brations, whose impulse conveys to the auditory nerves all the involutions of sound employed in music or language, seems a power more than miraculous. It is according to the course of nature, and we pass it by without consideration — it ma}' be said, without notice — yet in the records of tliosft marvels which have contradicted that course, is there one more astonishing than this which floats with the stream? How exquisite must be the construction of the organ, how accurate its perceptions, how attentive the mind, how inces- sant the habit of observing and discriminating, to endue this wonderful faculty with all its perfection. And during the process, how ardent must be that love of novelty which pro- motes those exertions, how early its birth, how prodigious its growth, when it rushes unconscious from the sound to the sense, from the diction to the subject, from detail to reason- ing, and as it advances in its progress, becomes first a love of knowledge, and then a love of truth, the acme of its cha- racter. It is strange to reflect that the foundation from which has arisen the proudest superstructure of human attainments, may have been an idle fairy tale or absurd romance ! It is not the knowledge we receive by compulsion, in schools and colleges, that takes the fastest hold of the mind ; but that ■which we- acquire voluntarily, and pursue with avidity. In- fant curiosity awakened by a Persian or Arabian tale, the less marvellous stories of Monsieur Berquin and Madame Genlis, or the invaluable and more fascinating compositions of Miss Edgeworth, to whom society will perhaps be in- debted for the virtues of future generations, soon demands more solid nourishment. Fiction and fancy give place to truth and reason. The unrestricted intellect traverses \yith 129 rapfd strides the frequented regions of knowledge — makes excursions of its own in the unfrequented ; and leaves far behind the limited endeavours of the trammelled mind. A regular plan of education is no doubt indispensable ; but the boy greedy of intellectual pleasure will overleap its fences ; while the pedantry that would confine him within them, de- feats its own views. Require of him his allotted task ; but allow him beside, his choice of reading, whether solid of light, and he will derive advantage from both. Chain him to his galley, and he will be but a galley-slave — his exertions as languid, his progress as circumscribed, his disgust as inve- terate. It is in your power to choose the first book that is put into his hands — if it is suited to his age, and adequate to captivate his attention, you may leave him in a great measure to himself — advise him when he asks for advice ; but it is scarcely necessary to obtrude it when he does not solicit it. The amusing tale will be followed by the instruc- tive history — science will tread on the heels of science — ht will find his way from volume to volume with little need of a guide — all he wants is books and instruments — and these it is your business to supply as he demands them, if you would not impede him in his road to universal knowledge. The habit of study, and the passion of grasping at truths yet un- known to himself or to others, will be sutficient incentives to his progress, and supports of his toils. As a necessary companion and minister to the sense of hearing, and equally a medium of communication between VOL. XII. s 13b m reasonable beings, the faculty of speech was bestowed on man; and it deserves the highest cultivation of which it is susceptible. The power of deUvering the thouglits in easy unaffected perspicuous animated language, is in every con- dition of life a pleasing accomplishment ; but in the higher ranks and more public avocations of society, it is an indis- pensable requisite. In these free countries where popular discussions have such mighty sway, this popular talent is of the utmost moment; and its acquisition is the surest means of attaining the highest summit of political ambition. But it cannot be acquired without the aid of habit, early and unremitting. At the outset of life we imagine that nothing more is necessary to the expression of our thoughts, than to possess a valuable and abundant store. Accordingly we shut ourselves up in our studies — we devote ourselves to our books — we heap fact upon fact, and truth upon truth, and the indefatigable student at length becomes a magazine of science. Then triumphing in his acquisitions he enters into society ; and when the wished for opportunity occurs for the display of his learning, he finds to his astonishment that he wants the only means to give it utterance — words. He opens his ears and learns to his mortification, that the shal- lowest talker, who deals only in common-place, exceeds him in the art of conversation and the powers of amusing — that the stranger to books who owes all his information to acci-^ dental intercourse with the learned, can shine with more lustre than himself, even in the field of hterature; and too 131 late he acknowledges, that the labours of his life have been unavailing, since he cannot impart their result; and that science and philosophy are but useless appendages, without the habit of conversing, and the talent of expressing our thoughts. It is true that writing affords the unconversable student a ready instrument of developing his opinions, whose sphere of action and influence is much more extensive. But habit is as necessary to the perfection of this art as of the former. The practice of composing should be early encouraged among those to whom it can be useful ; and there are few persons above the inferior classes of society, to whom it may not be of the most eminent service. The multitude will derive suf- ficient advantage from the mere mechanical use of the pen ; and the lowest individual in the state should not be left in ignorance of the art. This would be a benefit more to be desired than expected, were it not that the simple but in- comparable inventions of Lancaster promise to disseminate the invaluable blessings of education among ever}' rank in societ}', before another generation passes away. But the more exalted skill of elegant composition should not be ne- glected, or left to chance among the superior classes. It were wise to afford to every boy an opportunity of discovering the extent of his capacity for this accomplishment ; and if the result be favourable, the ambition to excel, and the practice which generates excellence, will spontaneously follow. In our early years the splendid efforts of the muse are more snitj^d 132 to our taste, and more evident to our understandino; than the simpler beauties of prose — the young are prone to imitate what most they admire — and our infant genius, like the ge- nius of infant society, effuses itself in poetry. It is an art to which we are under much higher obligations than is com-, nionly supposed ; and a little reflection will convince us, that we owe to some ambitious poet of remote antiquity, the in- vention of alphabetical writing. Facts, opinions, and laws, he might have promulged, by means of hieroglyphics ; but he could not record his verses, till he had discovered the power of registering the harmonious and evanescent arrange- ment of sounds. Whether it is politic to encourage a poetical taste, is how- ever to be questioned. It seduces the unfortunate possessor from his proper business — the employment, from whose pro- fits he is to derive his sustenance.- — It diverts his industry into a channel that enriches his mind, but where worldly wealth seldom flows. It inspires him with that contempt for gold, which perhaps may console him under the privation, of which it is eminently the cause. It promotes a cultiva- tion of the understanding, a melioration of the disposition, a poignancy of feeling, an ardour of virtuous sentiment, and a romantic nobleness of heart — in vulgar times it accom- plishes him for the days of chivalry^ — and it will not be dif- ficult for common understandings to decide, how far that taste is to be coveted, which unfits a man for the present state of things, even though it may qualify him for a better. 133 la our investigation of tlie influence of habit and the !ove of novelty, as they operate in the improvement of the organs of sense, and affect the mind in its relation lo sensible ob- jects, we cannot overlook their alternate operation, and the quick advances toward perfection, which are the conse- quence of this arrangement. Every act and object is fresh and new to the infant; and it is satiated with novelty before the desire can arise. 1'he very performance of an act creates an inclination to repeat it; and the influence of habit is the first to affect us. It grows stronger with every repetition, and does not require any support from novelty, where there is little or no exercise of the will ; as for instance, in imbib- ing an awkwardness of manner; practising peculiar and un- meaning gesticulations, or, resorting to those preposterous, but innocent enjoyments, the most common of which is the use of that nauseous weed, . which is so providentially harm- less to the individual, and productive to the state. These habits require no charm of novelty to render them perma- nent; for in time they become^s independent of the will, as the return of hunger at the accustomed hour, the process of digestion, or the pulsation of the arteries. But where the will exercises a control, the habit grows stronger only so long as it preserves any character of novelty. When an object or action is for the first time presented, those which were familiar lose in some degree their attractions, and the mind devotes itself with ardour to the new. But when the delicate essence of novelty is totally dissipated, all the 134 ^ I'elish of attraction evaporates vvith it. We may however remark that habit is sooner deprived of its influence, and the intercurrence of novelt}-- longer required to engage our attention, when we are passive, than when Ave are active. Even the most exquisite singers and facetious of story-tellers are seldom sensible of the tedium of repeating the same t', songs, and recapitulating the same stories, so soon as the po- litest of their auditors ; whose amenity is sometimes subjected to no trifling test of endurance, if the air be not varied by some lively touches of Pathos, or the anecdote by some unex- pected effusion of humour: or in fine, unless some additional auditor is present ; when a new sense of sympathy with the in- terest he feels, may postpone for the time the impatience of \ lassitude. Old Homer's rule of the twice-told tale has never ' been reversed ; nor do the annals of song afford an excep- tion ; unless it is, perhaps, to be found in such ever-varying ' and fascinating modulations as are disclosed in the notes of " Lungi dal caro bene," and Viola's still more affecting ap- peal to the heart of Orsino, " She never told her love." * These have the privilege, if it is possessed by music, of feasting " the ravished ear" to excess, but never to satiety. The influence of habit is commonly exercised in matters of a general nature, while the love of novelty deals in par- ticulars. A taste for reading may become an indispensable habit : we may even with pleasure confine our studies to one * The former by Sarti, the ktter by Haydn. ^» 135 science, but can seldom restrict them to one book. The same work does not often invite to a second perusal; at least until the subject is partially forgotten, and therefore in some degree new. We may acquire an habitual necessity of fre- quenting the theatre ; but the same dramatic representation will afford but a meagre amusement, unless its attractions be revived by a change of performers, or some similar novelty. Yet in our most constant and permanent habits, the simplest variation suffices to render them agreeable. A person will pace the same streets or travel the same road, day after day and year after year, without the slightest disgust ; scarcely adverting to the objects which he has so often beheld, and finding perhaps all the novelty that enlivens his way, in his own meditations. Or even if " he whistles as he goes, for want of thought," the scenes he has traversed a thousand times, may every time display a thousand minute varieties that exclude the approach of chagrin and ennui. The same landscape is not the same, in sunshine, and in twilight — when the heavens are blue and serene, or enveloped in a curtain of clouds — in a calm when the aspen scarce moves, and in a breeze which sways with its breath the fields and the forests. Thus the perpetual recurrence of novelty is in some degree necessary to preserve the existence of such of the habits as have not renounced the control of the will ; even those which Lave been of the longest continuance. And from this curious circumstance we learn how closely these principles of action 136 are united, and the difficulty of separating the consideration of their effects. Can this operation of novelty be a law of our nature, in- terwoven with our frame ; or has the habit of thus being af- fected, arisen from the pleasure we derived from every ob- ject, when the world was new to us, and the consequent stimulation to similar fenjoyments ? Be this as it may, the dominion of habit is not superficial. Its sway can be traced in the depths of our constitution ; and its power over the functions of the frame would lead us to regard it as a primitive law of our nature. Labour of body' and exertion of mind, those great pro- moters of sleep, no longer produce their effects on a patient familiar with laudanum. The drops must be administered before re&;t can be hoped for. The epicure, accustomed to spicy condinients with his food, cannot digest it without them ; and the stimuli of the natural sepretions, cease to be stimuli, to intestines enervated by the use of cathartics. If these internal actions so little within the dominion of the will, are still subjected to the government of Habit, we need not be surprised that this law of our constitution should predominate in our voluntary actions. Every muscle in the frame performs its office with ease, or difficulty, according as it has been exercised ; and dexterity, grace and skill are the fruits of repeated practice. The smith toils throughout the day with a sledge, which a ploughman, as robust, could not wield for an hour. A skUful rider will " turn and wind a ,137 fiery pegasus" that a novice in horsemanship dares not ven- ture to mount. The seaman will chmb unconcernedly to a height, where landsmen cannot see him without terror; and confiding in the habitual strength of his hands, suspend him- self over the waves into which one less practised would drop in despair. - It is this effect of habit, in improving manual operations, that has rendered the division of labour of so much import- ance to a commercial country. But the wealth it creates, is not altogether a compensation for the expenditure of health, activity, and intellect, that are given in exchange. Low must be his bodily strength, and mean his understanding, who is destitute of all thought or employment, but cutting off" iuches^ of wire or sharpening them into points. In the northern parts of Ireland a different system exists — there is there a population not to be exceeded for intelligence in any part of the globe ; and this blessing is chiefly to be ascribed to the prevalence of exercising two different trades, the one an active, the other a sedentary occupation. The weaver, it is true, might be a much better weaver, if he confined liis at- tention to the shuttle, and relinquished the spade and the plough ; and the farmer excel as a farmer, if he never sat down to the loom. But the individual is stronger and healthier, more intelligent and happy ; and if the country has less wealth, it is more nobly enriched in the vigour, in- tellect and energy of a people who are competent and am- bitious to be her defenders. VOL. XII. T 138 - In the more learned and illustrious avocations of life, it iy only industry and talents that can bestow celebrity. But knowledge the most profound, and genius the most exalted, would be useless to the possessor on the most critical occa- sions, were it not for the power of habit. It is by constantly calling them into exercise, that they become as ready instru- ments in his hand, as a tool in the mechanic s. The expe- rienced physician has scarcely ascertained the symptoms, until the hidden seat of the disease discovers itself to his sagacity, and his judgment as instantly decides on the ap- propriate remedy. The legal practitioner as speedily deve- lopes the rights of contending parties, and evolves the in- tricate avenue to justice — with confidence and fluency he stigmatises the conduct of one individual, and justifies that of another — and with the same astuteness and presence of mind, eviscerates truth from an evasive witness ; or replies to the arguments, and retorts on the wit, of a dextrous adversary. The parliamentary orator is no less indebted to habit, for the skill with which he brands his opponents without breach of decorum ; — the pertinacity of hollow argument, with which he ppholds the cause of corruption ; or the lightening of eloquence, with whose flashes he confounds its abettors. What a variety of habits is necessary to form the com- mander of armies. To discern at a glance the strong and weak points of a country — to calculate the sum of its re- sources— to combine extensive and even I'emote operations — to move in all its involutions and dependencies the vast ma- 139 chine of battle, — to exercise invincible patience- -infallible foresight — prompt and unerring decision — vigilant and unre- mitting presence of mind — rapid and overwhelming activity, — to perceive the opportunity of attack — the means of re- treat— the moment of victory. To be careless of ease — in- sensible to danger — enamoured of heroism — wedded to glory. These are not virtues to be obtained by occasional or uncer- tain exertion : but like all other virtues, they cannot be con- fided in, until they are practised as if by instinct ; and inter- laced with the very fibres of the constitution, by the power of habit. Let us turn our eyes on the two arbiters of the world — with what gigantic strides have their minds advanced intheir tremendous science, from the bridge of Lodi to the field of Mojaysk ; from the modest dawning of Assye, to the noontide splendour of the Arapiles. * It is not among ministers or statesmen I would seek for an illustration of the advantages that flow from the power of habit. The routine of office — the wiles of diplomacy — and * The language of Metaplior is exhausted in following the achievements of Lord Wellington. The glories of Vittoria have since been added to his fame, " Like a new morning risen on mid-day." — Another interval has elapsed — the days of Roncevalles ! St. Jean De Luz ! Bayonne! Orthes! Toulouse! have followed each other in rapid succes- sion— we can but name them and be silent. — At the time of writing this essay there were two names ivlone of moment in tiie world — Napoleon and AVellington. What changes have a few short months produced — how many heroes have arisen to Europe— how many entitled to rank as her arbiters. Yet he who first inspired their triumphant exertions still maintains his proud pre-eminence ; while of his mighty competitor, we are reduced to exclaim, like Ossian, at the grave of the warrior, " With three strides all thy pos» sessions are compassed, Oh thou that wast so great before !" 140 tiie polished arts of protraction and deception may derive their most striking effect from long and studied exercise ; but a minister may possess all these virtues in perfection, yet fail of being esteemed a blessing to his country. His opinions are of more consequence than his operative skill ; and are more likely to affect the permanent interests of society. But the influence of habit on opinion has seldom a favourable tendency. Prejudices do not often lean to the side of reason, truth or justice — and the body of a Fakir is not more cramp- ed by his favourite posture, than is the mind by a weak and predominant tenet. It is a melancholy amusement to reflect on the prodigious absurdities in politics and religion, which in all ages of the world have been adopted by the mass of mankind, and, in some countries, with the full acquiescence of the select and the studious. Indeed the ignorant would perhaps always con- tent themselves with the suggestions of common sense ; but these are too often forgotten in the lucubrations of the learned. Excessive refinements of reasoning have introduced many a doctrine irreconcileable with common s^nse; and the igno- rant bow with deference to the tuition of the learned, if their mind happens to be unoccupied. But the opinions which they once imbibe from their teachers, they hold more tena- ciously, in proportion as they are absurd. They acquire a habit of regarding them as sacred ; and the habit grows older and stronger, and at length bids defiance to the united powers 141 of reason ami common sense. Why should we exclaim against the opinions of the vulgar — the grossest they enter- tain, were perhaps a few centuries back, engendered by the most learned and eminent of the day. But it is not the vulgar alone that are slaves of this habit. Men of high rank, and some education, submit with the multitude to the shackles of prejudice; and the more impor- tant the question and the deeper it concerns us, the less are we disposed to investigate its merits, or examine the opinions we harbour on the subject. It is true, a spirit of enquiry is universally spreading; and its progress is proportioned to the process it adopts. Human reason, after an excursion of thousands of years, has been brought back to common sense. This has been effected, in the science of the material world, by Bacon — and under the guidance of his precepts, by Reid, in the immaterial. Knowledge is encreasing in every class of society ; and^ flows from innumerable sources, fertilising every corner of every land. It has been truly remarked, that when sovereigns become philosophers, or philosophers sove- reigns, the people will then be happily governed. But if the people become philosophers, their governors must of ne- cessity become philosophers also. When the whole mass of society was buried in ignorance, a trivial superiority in know- ledge sufficed to direct or control it. But those times are passed away ; and as science encreases (and God seems to have provided that henceforth it shall for ever encrease) the governors must at least keep pace with the governed. The 142 mists of prejudice will spontaneously disperse before the ra- diance of knowledge — politics will become the science of creating and perpetuating the happiness of nations — Chris- tianity will every where reassume the pure robe of her Author, and unite all her children in the bonds of his charity. The powers of the intellect will augment with the habits of exer- tion ; and the supremacy of virtue extend with the practice of goodness. It may be a weak, but it is an innocent en- thusiasm, that anticipates that distant day, when man, hav- ing gradually ennobled his nature, and ripened the perfection of which he seems susceptible, shall triumph over every moral evil ; when enmity shall cease between factions and states ; and the empire of virtue, peace, and happiness, no longer be visionary. The generality of men are averse to the adoption of new tenets ; and perhaps this constitution of our nature may an- swer the wisest purposes. For it is better that we should be tenacious even of a weak or absurd notion than flippant in relinquishing just and long established opinions — the fruit of industrious examination, and conscientious reflection — through the simple gratification of the love of novelty. But when this affection is employed in the pursuit of knowledge; and mature investigation has discovered a truth subversive of a doctrine to which long habit has attached us ; it is then we should overcome this propensity of our nature ; nor suffer a disposition which was intended for the support of truth and virtue, to degenerate into an auxiliary of folly and false- hood. 143 But if the simple love of novelty has little place in the regulation of our opinions, much less does it sway us in the exercise of our moral capacity. Virtue is never adopted for the sake of any novel sensation which may attend it. Its strength, its continuance, its very existence, depends on habit. Novelty bestows no beauty on the attractions of goodness — the longer we are acquainted with them, the more we feel their power. The first act of virtue may in- deed be accompanied with emotions, never afterward expe- rienced. But her dominion is not complete, until her pre- cepts are obeyed spontaneously and without a struggle. — Tumultuous feelings make room for a complacency border- ing on deliglit, which encreases with each successive act of virtue, and if elevated to its highest degree would be per- haps supreme felicity. Vice, no less than virtue, is the child of habit. Within her domains, it is true, she may be intoxicated by the fasci- nations of novelty ; but the superior novelty of virtue has no talisman to dissolve the enchantments of habit. The first act of vice is preceded by apprehension, and attended by remorse — repeated acts may blunt these stings of consci- ence; but the mind at last consigns itself to a hopeless state of depravity and Avretchedness — a struggle may yet retrieve its liberty : but the same power, the power of habit, which renders virtue superior to the whispers of seduction, renders vice as insensible to the clamours of duty, and extinguishes every capacity in man, but such as fits him for irretrievable , misery. 144 Conscious of this indissoluble law of our constitution, how anxiously should we direct its operation to our final advan- . tage. Endued as we are with appetites and passions, which within a certain compass are necessary to the preservation of the individual, the propagation of the species, and the hap- piness of society, but when let loose and abandoned to the violence of their career, are as destructive in their fury, as they are beneficent under the restraints of conscience and reason — so endued — with what solicitude should we acquire the habit of confining, within their appointed limits, these dubious directors, which waft us round the circle of virtuous enjoyment, or hurry us into the regions of turpitude and misery, the operant causes of much natural good — the in- disputable authors of all moral evil. Our infancy is assailed by a host of rebellious passions, which Avill accompany us through life, if not early subdued, and constantly restrained, by force of habit. That sensibility to pain, which indicates itself by tears and cries, and is neces- sary to the preservation of so tender a creature, soon be- comes confirmed peevishness, petulance and rancour. That passion, which was intended in the progress of life to pro- mote our welfare by steadiness and perseverance in our pur- suits and labours, may in its very outset deviate into stub- bornness and obstinacy. That emulation, which might one day raise us above our fellows, may be transformed at its birth into a pitiful or malignant envy. That pride, which has been provided to dignify the lofty nature of man, may sink into silly vanity, or swell into overweening arrogance. And Mo that provident apprehension of insurmountable danger, which by rendering us circumspect, and prudent is necessary to the prest'i vation of our frail existence, and even to the success- ful exertions of heroic courage, may degenerate into pusil- lanimous cowardice and contemptible dastardy, and all the despicable crimes that follow in their train,— duplicity, false- hood, meanness and treachery. These are the vices of infancy, and they may debase and torture every successive stage of life. Those of youth are intemperance and incontinency. Forced away by the extra- vagance of his passions, strengthened perhaps by an un^ meaning ambition ^ the self-immolated victim sacrifices his health, his prosperity, his virtue^ and his happiness — at the board, or in the bed — of debauchery. He forgets the charm of the temperate and chearful meal, — and he has never known the refined and exquisite intercourse of virtue and love — that' fond hope, the first to be formed and the last re- signed, by the warm imagination, pure heart, and culti^ vated intellect. Habit rivets his fetters, — he grows old in a taverrr or a brothel — the inroads of vice are traced withia and without — he possesses the features and the feelings of a satyr — and having devoted his life to the vain pursuit of hap- piness, he remains to the last unacquainted with its nature and incapacitated for its enjoyment. But there is something more to be observed than the mere restraint of our passions. This probationary life abounds with temptations, and we ought not to create them for ourr- VOL. XII. u 146 - selves. We should prudentl}'' consider how we are consti- tuted by nature, and not submit ourselves to trials too strong for our virtue. Indifference or Apathy may walk over the burning ploughshares, which Sensibility and Ardour cannot approach with safety. That the earth shall be peopled, and its inhabitants happy, rather than the wealth should encrease and the pride be fostered, of families or individuals, is the manifest design of Providence, He has therefore planted in man and woman the strongest, and, in civilised life, the most delicate of passions. It is the fashion to ridicule it as absurd and romantic ; and the generality of marriages are contracted with a determined disregard of this necessary party. It is painful to reflect on the consequences daily oblruded upon US. Love avenges too often the slights he receives ; and the devotee of rank or fortune, finds too late, that nei- ther can supply the place of affection. A habit of propriety, or reverence for religion, may be safeguards in the iiour of trial — but without them, what becomes of the deluded tempter of her own virtue ; who in rebelling against the na- tural institutions of the Author of her being, yields volun- tarily to a life of struggles ; and sacrifices the finest feelings with which he has hallowed our nature, to anguish and des- pondence, or to shame and misery. It is true, congenial minds may not always meet, or if they meet, cannot always be united — but it is ever in our jxjwer to shun a discordant union ; and how much happier than a U7 state iike this and all its faazanJs, is the tranquil tenor of ao honorable celibacy. Ambition is said to foe the vice of manfcopd, and avarice of old age. They have perhaps attained their excess at tliose periods, but their seeds iiave beeij ;sown much earlier. The intrigues of the conrtk-r have probably tijeir origin in the manceuvres of the sciioolboy — the eoveto-usaegs of decrepi- tude, in the selfishiiess of cliildhootl — and all the evils of the gamblitag tabJe, in tiie triivial biit pernicious games of chance, to which children are Bometimes allowed to devote tliea>-, selves, in dereliction of iHore AnanJ J,, esnergetic, a«d generous s-ports. But if the gerans of vice take ^.-n early root in the heart, so do also those of virtUie. Nor tho8.e onJy which consis.t in self- control, and the government of the jpassionSj but the positive and more amiable virtues of veracity, generosity, courage, raa'gnanimity, that philanthropy to which all manlsind, that charity to which all creatures are dear. These two extensive principles of b.enevolence bavetheir source in the narrow circle of domestic affection. Even veracitj' is practised as a duty, long IjefoTC tlie mind can have a distinct conception of truth — courage developes itself in the infant — magnanimity in the schoolboy. It is ahnost three tliousand years since the days of Homer. In the course of that period, how many heroes have sprung from the iuspiratian of his verses. Every pa&- sage teem« with greatness ; and ont might be selected that seems the v«ry matrix of heroism. Fxoin the youthful pye, 148 how many tears have flowed over the tenderness and magna- nimity of Andromache and Hector. How many have wept for the glory of a fate Hke his, and lived to deserve it. A sense of piety is early implanted by the example of re- ligious parents. But it has not struck its roots deeply and immoveably in the mind, until we have experienced our con- tinual dependance on the Author of our being for its mo- mentary preservation — until perilous escapes assure us of his providential protection, — untildespairingof our usual. supply, we unexpectedly receive our daily bread ; and, though by natural means, acknowledge that we owe it, nevertheless, to his bounty, — until we are sensible that all the inhabitants of the earth are equally his pensioners, — 'until we regard with grateful wonder, the goodness that inspired, and the wisdom that contrived the marvellous, yet natural arrangements, by which he feeds us. Then, and not until then, when these views and feelings are interwoven in our minds by the unre- mitting and invincible force of habit, we may be satisfied that we have laid the true foundations of our happiness. But speculation is not sufficient to erectlhe edifice. Temp- tations solicit and must be subdued, disappointments harass and must be disregarded, afflictions overtake and must be endured. But these habits are not often acquired in the outset of life. We must long be familiar with temptation, disappointment and affliction, before we attain the habitual power of rising superior to them. It would be curious to 149 trace the common progress of the mind, among the inter- mingled virtues and vices of the still semi-barbarous state of civilised society. Golden dreams of prosperity tincture with an honourable ambition, the hopes of youth. Romantic visions of sympathetic affection and impassioned felicity brighten his distant prospects. His sanguine expectations waft him to an elysium where -Love lights - His constant lamp, and wares his purple wings. Reigns there and rerels — not in the bought smile Of Harlots loveless, joyless, unendeared Casual fruition ! These are the virtuous and honourable views of most per- sons in entering upon life; but the allurements of pleasure, and incentives of passion too often hurry them from the path they had deliberately chosen. But they soon find that in- temperance, extravagance, and debauchery, are at loncc crimes, and punishments ; that there are pleasures which can only be purchased at the expence of the happiness of others ; but that the generated Misery grapples, with redoubled strength, its selfish Author — that Vice and Folly are unfailing founders of the school of Adversity ; and that this Preceptor is in its turn the best promoter of Virtue ; under his disci- pline they learn to retrieve their former principles, they listen to the hints of Conscience, and the precepts of Reason, and are taught by them that present Enjoyment is too surely a pass* 150 port to Mjsery ; and that Seif-deiiial, Labour, and Pain, spin the due, Uiat unravels ttae wa^ to .genuine Happiness. Fortunate is th>e i«dividi*al who has passed through the orde«l of youth, and enters on the threshold of manhood, impressed with this conviction, and purified from the adhe- sion -of any habitual depravity. But doubly fortunate is he, who, resolute to withstand the strongest and keenest emo- tions of his nature, except within the bounds of legitimate gratification, finds early tlie halfowed opportunity, so ar- dently wished for by every mind that possesses a spark of sensibility or virtue. The present state of the world cannot admit of extending this happy allotment to all, yet the ex- cluded wretch finds consolation at last, even among the dregs of disappointment. His mind gathers strength from tlie pangs of defeated hope ; he compares his anguish, seated as it is in the imagination, with the substantial miseries of Others ; lie perceives that fortitude can subdue the former, but can otily endure tlie latter ; he eovets the repose of in- difference; he shrinks from the perturbations of suspense, antJ exen from the tumults of joy ; he sinks into the listless seat of resignation ; and if Philosophy places herself beside hnn, co'ld and dispassionate as are her attractions, he will not he without a mistress that can awaken him from his apathy, and indulge him in pleasures unmingled with regret or satiety. It is in these torpid enjoyments, this delicious tranquility that coBsis'ts perhaps the happiness of old age, the turmoils 151 of the world no longer possessing any interest, nor the enio-» tions of passion any power. The memory feels no pain in looking back even on afflictions — the imagination no plea- sure in the foretaste of any earthly delight. Peace, quiea-» cence and comfort take possession of the mrnd — and joy, rapture and extacy are for ever excluded, unless their sun- beams find admission through a vista that opens beyond the grave. • The moral progress of mankind differs little from that of an individual; and many of the difficulties occurring in the consideration of God's moral government, find an easy solu- tion in the nature he has bestowed on man, and the powers and privileges Avith which he has endowed him : ordaining as one of his original laws, that the constitution he has esta- blished for this peculiar being, shall not under any circum- stances, however cogent they might appear to a superficial inquirer, be infringed or violated, even by divine control, restraint or interference. The constitution of man comprehends those appetites and passions so necessary, in their allotted uses, to the happiness and very existence of the species, yet in their abuse so per- nicious and destructive. It also comprehends the faculties of conscience and reason — the one to check the wild career ' of passion, at the moment, by an instinctive communica- tion, that to proceed is criminal,- — the other, to look into fu- turity, to measure effects and discover consequences ; to- ad nionish us of the perils, sure though remote, of impru- 152 dence and guilt; and in fine, lo elevate the nature of man, by rendering him conversant with truth and virtue. And last of all, in the human constitution is revealed that most disputed of his faculties, yet the most absolute and inviolate in the eye of its Author — free-will. By this, man has the high prerogative of submitting, according to his inclinations, to the government of his appetites and passions, or of his conscience and reason. By this he becomes a moral and ac- countable creature, is capable of vice or virtue, and ob- noxious to punishment or reward. Let us close for a moment the volume of history, and con- sider what would be the probable conduct of creatures so constituted, from their creation to the consummation of all things. It is evident that the impulse of the passions would be at first omnipotent. Conscience in its infancy is rather a capacity than a power. We must witness oppression and sympathise with the injured, before this faculty is developed: we must meditate injustice, we must become in imagina- tion a spectator of our offence, * we must feel that specta- tor's sympathy for the offended, and then for the first time Conscience finds employment. Reason is later in its exer- cise; it must have witnessed sure and inevitable, though dis- tant consequences, it must have learned that present pain may end in future pleasure; and the happiness of a moment, in the misery of years. Then, and not until then, does • See Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments. 153 reason become a restraint upon the passions. It is there- fore no wonder, if man in his freedom should yield himself a slave to his appetites, and that his first step should be in vice. Unassisted by reason and conscience, may vi^e enquire with decorum what other barrier could be placed by the Deity for the protection of his innocence, without infringing on the established constitution of his nature. Perhaps we might rationally say, some positive command to abstain from an act in itself indifferent; but which, while obeyed, would defend the approach of all transgression intrinsically evil. Sucb a prohibition ought fully to counterpoise the force of the passions ; but if once disobeyed, a recoil must ensue proportioned to the restraint. Crime would naturall3' follow crime, example become infectious, and habits of wick- edness spread such corruption, that the business of life would be violence, murder, and lust, in all their most ferocious and detestable forms. In this state of things Conscience would find sufficient food for its growth ; and add to the anguish of vice without sap- ping its power. Nor would Reason want employment, in re- flecting on miseries, which multiply in proportion to crimes. But half of the argument would lie beyond its grasp, it could know nothing of the blessings that wait on the virtues. In defiance of reason and conscience, the passions in all their pollutions and horrors would therefore reign paramount. The nature of man could afford no resource; and the earth VOL. XII. V X must remain a mass of encreasing corruption, unless Provi- dence order the adequate remedy. A remedy were easily found, if the counsels of God per- mitted the violation of his prior establishments.- " Let reason subdue the passions" were as easily said as " Let there be light." But the law which ordained the freedom of will, would then fall a sacrifice, that basis ©f virtue aijd vice, of man's moral subjection, and God's moral government. It would be more suitable to the operations of Providence to dispense Avith a law less essential to the government of his rational creation, and to select from mankind a virtuous few, if yet such a remnant remained. Through these organs, de- nouncing his vengeance, working on their fears, and appeal- ing to their reason, men might be possibly drawn from their ains and restored to a sense of gratitude anci duty. But if all these eiForts should fail, and humankind sink brutalised in one abyss of depravity. — If amendment were hopeless, and example and habit should spread a contagion, daily en- creasing, and for ever incurable, it were mercy to all future generations of men to cut off the pestilence, even by the terrible remedy of destroying the infected. As individuals, they must naturally perish in a few years, bequeathing their inveterate distempers to their children : as a multitude or a race, their fate is more horrible ; but they do not transmk a perpetual inheritance, to beings created to be pure and happy, of abominable vice and hideous misery. 155 It is natural to suppose that the impression of these awful judgments on the surviving few, must at least deter them from the most enormous crimes of their vile progenitors ; but their jaundiced eye would scarcely discriminate between lesser offences and virtues : and the corruption of the extin- guished generation would still entail some portion of its poison on the succeeding. Want of temperance, of filial piety, of chastity would soon be apparent; and. more atrocious vices, in time might renew such inveterate an^ irremediable habits, as could only be destroyed with the communities they afflicted. Reason however would have ampler exercise,, and would not always yield the triumph to the passions. But reason itself would naturally stray from truth ; and, as yet, an unskilful guide, would lead mankind into a thousand per- nicious errors and absurdities. Reflecting on the mixture of good and evil, the human understanding perversely hunting after subtilties, would na- turally overlook the eftect of the passions, and ascribe the existence of vice and misery to an imaginary Principle oA' evil, contending for ever witb God the Principle of goodj «nave left no room for doubt or hesitation ; but by a miracxilous compulsion have rendered mankind believers, and thus have invaded their great privilege of free will : or have established such a universal system of miracles, as would forc« intuitive conviction on every individual, and thus have suppressed the exercise of his reason (the grand characteristic of the species) in matters best entitled to its mo'st strenuous exertion. It seems plea'sing to God to obser\'e the gradual develope- iTTe«4t, rapid growth ami gigantix; strides of this wonderful 159 faculty ; and while lie presents it with facts sufficient to awiaken its powers, or convey a hint, of the discoveries it may reach, lie appears most scrupulously to abstain from stifling its eiforts- by ^n overwhelming pressure of incont