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the impression from the object : for it is in faa there, and not in the brain, that we perceive fuch objects, or feel the seniation of pain or pleasure they excite. Hence it is, that in a profound reverie or trance, when the faculties and powers of reflellion are not exerted, nothing is perceived or felt.

This letter-writing philosopher proceeds to take me to talk about animation : about which he seems to know as litile as about organization.

" What he means (meaning me] to prove from the example of some insects, living and moving after the lots of their heads, I cannot pretend to say: the whole passage is so obscure and desultory, it has quite exhausted my patience.” .

Now he begins to be angry. But it is natural enough for a man to lose his temper, when he has lost his understanding. He does not comprehend what I mean by the example of insects living and moving after the lofs of their heads. Where is the difficulty, when he himself has here given us an instance, that a literary grub may live, move, and write a pamphlet, without a head?

“ At length," continues this headicfs philofopher," he [th:t is 11. reverts to the old marvellous story, that from the mere combination of elements, simply resisting and inconscious, may arise " the faculties of sensation, perception, reflexion, and csill, the test of all the others." “ It was not therefore without reason, adds he, that Hobbes and fome others have imputed an in perfect sense or perception to particles of un. organized matter." What say you to this again, Drior? Will you allow perception, where no vibratory motion can be afd? The mere citation of such bizarre conceits is an amplo retutucion of them."

This citation antwering the purpose of rotation, is like juxta-position answering that of organizacion --This writer bas, indeed, a happy knack of putting the quid pro qnn. For just now, he says, I'begin (as he ought to do) to blush.--It is not true, however, as he says, that it is for the first tiinc: for { have blushed for him more than once already. But why does he suppose me to blush? Why truly because I said,

" They (Hobbes and his associates) went too far, indeci, in calling it (the imperfect fense) a consciousness; as consciousness implies 1 {pecies of self-knowledge, that is obtainable only by a comparison bien tween the percipient body and the body perceived; which is not to io obtained by the faculty of simple perception, but only from reflexion, or the faculty of comparing different perceptions with each other, of which it is not pretended inanimaie corpuscles are capable. At the same time it does by no means follow, that a combination of such corpuscles may not forin a conscious and intelligent compound."

And what answer does our philofopher give to this ?-He cries Bravisimo! An unanswerable argument; which hc vouchsafes, however, to illustrate thus :

" For my part now, I own, I cannot see wherein Mr. Hobbes is reprehensible: for, where there is perception, there certainly is conlci

oufnets; ou, nefs; otherwise it becomes perception inperceived. But whatever he may ettablish with regard to the inconsciousness of his individual elements; he should not forget, that in collision or contact (and in the present system of universal gravitation it is very difficult for a body not to be in contact somewhere or other), according to his own philosophy, all bodies must be strictly conscious. . This affection, indeed, he maintains, is only attainable by a comparison between the percipient body and the body perceived; but he has just before determined; " that two inanimate or unorganized bodies, in collision, perceive the presence or force of each other.” If this mutual perception is not enough, on which to ground a fair comparison; why, such bodies · must be stupid indeed!”

And yet not half so stupid as this pretender to philosophy, if his stupidity be not affected, and his perversion of iny meaning wilful. But I fear, gentlemen, to tire your patience; and thall therefore cite but one passage more.

“ He (meaning me) is still resolved to push on his physical researches: he adds ; " The absurdity of supposing a simple unorganized being capable of thinking is flagrant; if it thinks, it must necessarily have previously acquired an idea, or object of thought. It cannot think about nothing, and ideas are to be acquired only by means of the organs of fenfe.” Never, I believe, was such flagrant nonsense uttered by a man, who hath the smallest pretension to the name of a philosopher! By what metaphysician was it ever asserted, that the soul of man may think, independently of all corporeal concurrence: In its present late of union, it hath organs sufficient for every species of Thought: viewed as a difiinct or insulated subilance, it is gifted with powess of acting, but their exertion is dependent of the body. Ip' this light the philosopher contemplates the human soul."

Might not I return the complement of flagrant nonsense here. He asks what metaphysician ever asserted the soul of man may think independent of the body. I will tell himn; hundreds, and in particular his favourite Genevan philosopher Mr. Eonnet; who says, the soul is a substance which thinks, though united to a substance which is unthinking. I am miftaken alio, if Voltaire does not somewhere say, that the ideas in the mind of an unborn infant should be clearer than ever afterwards, because its mental operations would be less interrupted by external lensations.

If the soul cannot think without the concurrence of the body, how can it be with any propriety called a thinking fubftance ? On the dissolution of the body, it must, also, in such case ‘ceafe to think.-By what metaphysician, who looks upon the foul to be of a nature essentially different from the body, is this asserted? Or rather let me ask of what consequence it is, whether any metaphysician ever espoused either notion? The motto of the philosopher Thould be, Nullius jurare in verbo Magiftri. , I am, Gentlemen, &c.”

Cha les

hiftory weably through the the volu getting anonymous believe, escape and the incidente di though

tion will, won a new hinghich they are

Charles and Charlotte. In Two Volumes. Price gs. Lane.

It is the general complaint of those, who profeffionally inspect the effufions of the Press, that our Novelists adhere to one dyll standard, and slavishly tread in the track of infipid imitation. With too much justice, indeed, is this charge brought against the multifarious herd of modern Romance-writers; insomuch that, from three or four Letters, or Chapters, we know, precisely, 'what will happen to the hero or heroine in the course, and at the conclusion, of the history: we anticipate too much to raise in us any hope of getting agreeably through the Performance.

The anonymous author of the volumes now under confideration will, we believe, escape all censure of this fort, as they turn totally on a new hinge, and the incidents are as interesting, as the language in which they are described, though in many places loose and careless, is animated and flowing.

A wife, a lover, and a husband, are, in this work, exhibited in striking and original situations, and the main hiftory is relieved by several pertinent episodes, all of which discover a knowledge of men and manners, and a lively power in the author of depicting them. The fable is this. Charles, a young man of a volatile genius, and excentric imagination, being, for some family reasons, separated from Cleora, his wife, and at the same time involved in a domestic quarrel with his mother, who is here figured under the signature of Mrs. P. is represented as having cohabited for some time with Charlotte. The history sets out at the time of Charlotte's elopement, in consequence of an accidental interview with Chasles's wife. This event produces, as might be expected, some tender and affc&ing scenes, most of which however are, we must forewarn our readers, written rather to the imagination than the understanding. In the progress of the story, the hero, it must be acknowledged, displays a roinantic enthufiasm, by wbich his character is uniformly marked throughont; and the distress and pathos of the narrative is much heightened by the introduction of two personages under the names of Dr. Melbank, and Mr. Reynolds; between whom, in point of generosity, there are some affe&ing feenes of emulation. A series of circumstances fucceed, which, though a little peculiar, are not unnatural: the catastrophe, however, though properly pathetic, is very unsatisfactory, and brings nothing to a point. With regard to the principal characters of this dramatic Romance, they are thrown into fituations that would juftly excite our pity, if their conduct were less morally ex

ceptionable ; ceptionable; the reader of sensibility and candour will yet hardly know which to compassionate moft, the unhappy Charles, the deserted Cleora, the separated Charlotte, or the disappointed Melbank. To say the truth, the author hath gone over 3 ground, not more novel, than critical; and, perhaps, for the fake of originality hath meddied with matters in many parts improper, and in most irreconcileable to that virtue, which depends on innocence.

Encomium is, nevertheless, due to the composition, not only in the pathetic but the humourous. Of the former of which we shall present our readers with a short specimen ; in the Letter which the hero of the story sends to his mother, who, though we are told in the life of Savage, of a fimilar character in his mother the countess of Macclesfield, we hope, for the honour of the sex and of human nature, is yet a creature of che imagination *.

« MADAM, Since the most fortunate circumstance that ever befel you, next to the marriage with my father, ('twere necessary to say that I mean his dea:h) I bave been fitting down many times, to write to you; fomerimes in the ardour or an honest relentinent, and sometimes, as a pleadjog neglected child: but I have remained fient, even yet, and left you uncontrouled to the luxury of your good success, and of my anx. ieries. But your conscience now seems quite brought over to your fide, and I can no longer suffer you to triumph, either in the beneht of my inheritance, or in the warm and wicked comforts of a wealthy widowhood -oh! what a robe of mourning has yours been, madain!) without trying upon you, the force of truth, and remonsirance:

without exerting one desperate experiment upon a heart, which habit and nature seem impregnably to have forified (as if it were the citadel of cruelty) against all the artillery of the parent, and ot the woinan!

" The artifice and complottings, by which my deftruction has been effected, are not unknown to me-How is it, Mrs. P. that you are able to reconcile to yourself, at the foreboding age of tixty-three, actions, of a colour so atrocious, that the penitence of your youth upwards were scarce fufficient to wipe away? by what casuiftry have you pacified every private monition; and how ikilful must have been that Tophiftry, by the magic of which, you are capable of fitting com. poled, at the head of a table, which you have liiken from your child? but why do I interrogate? 'tis a maxim in morality, that a bad woman has no limit to her crimes. You are gone too far to recede; and I have no hope that you will mend in the progreffion, but expect that you must gather guilt, as you go onward to the grave, till it thall be the pleasure of providence in mercy to me and mankınd) to confine you there.

: Nor but that the espoftulation of the injured fon seems to flow as lin* cerely from the heart; as do the moft pathetic lines of Savage's Baffard. * You accuse me to your acquaintance, of wiidness, and profufion! "Tis che wretched, puitul, pretence of guile, of private guilt, labour. ing for a public apology! To lay torne error to my charge, was neces. Lary to save you from the afaults of your sex; to palliate a conduct like yours, it was indispensable, ro alledge fomething against me; since, to have tormenied a child in such a manner, withour fome Shadow of occafion, would have argued a temper too monitrous to have been sanked among women ; and the very boys would, in mere vengeance, have ftoned the inhiman mother. But depend upon it, the fick pillow, will be to you a pillow of plagues: your bed, a bed of torture ; and every feather there, will prove a thorn to torment you! Is this the language of lunasy? is it the violence of phrenzy? No, madam : faithful to the injuries of its matter, this vindictive hand has hitherto confined itfelf to sentiments of the most frigid moderation. From this moment, I cut you away from the insulted fenfibilities of affection: when nature discards you, what claim can you have upon the heart of a fon? and yet, do not think, I mean to forger you so far as to leave you to yourself. Believe me, madam, the day of such voluptuouspels is paft; and although you have robbed me of every right wkich fhould at least have divided with you the comforts of the world. I will kenceforward take care, that you shall no more enjoy them, without die heaviest fix of indignant reprobation.

'You

“ Your argument with my poor father was always in the same style: " I should spend his fortune." With what parental piety have you provided againk this! But even granting it had been fo: had I not on my fide the claims of nature and of blood? and what were your claims, maulain? The claims of a gas, needy woman, who after having been long setting in vain, the marrimonial trap, caught in it, at last, a gentleman of property : and, by these ingenious measures, rofe from the indigence of your widowhood, to the dignity of a wife, and, by furviving the second husband enjoyed widowhood again with all its most favourable perquifites. Consider your shattered fortuncs, at the time of your matriculation into my father's family. Did you bring fixpence into that family, which you have thus iniquitouly pluodered? are you not fcorned by the very people, whom the maxiitis of fordid courtesy oblige to receive the hated guest into company? nay, have not many of these openly discovered their indignation has not your brother, the good Mr.

S often spoke warmly and disdaine fully against the cruelties, which, at once inark and stain the characut of filter and of chriftian: has not your usage to the unhappy writer of this letter, even in the soft moment of unoffending intancy, beca the remonftrance of the rich, and the proverb of the poor? did not your inhumanity“ grow with my growth, and strengthen with my *** strength,” cill I was chree times compelled to find relource from the unkindnels of a mother, in the wanderings of the world, and in geta ting a meal in whatever part of that world I could obtain it? is ther: & pang, a forrow, a disaster, or an agony, which, either your artifices or open malignancy, las not inflicted upon me? have you not bexi the topic and the ridicule of the very man-Mr. W nder, whom you ordered to exert the tyranny of the rod over me, ac an ag", when the birch ought to have been retorted on his own posteriors ?

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