But I observe again, that as there is the analogy just pointed out between their causes, so there is an affinity between the emotions themselves of taste and correct moral feeling, and the transition from one to the other is obvious. This point requires illustration. That our emotions are associated in groups, is practically known to every body. Even the child does not ask his father for a sixpence when he is in an ill temper, because he knows the transition is not easy from ill temper to generosity. Deep grief cannot pass at once to sudden joy. It must be by a gradual transition, first to a tender melancholy, and then to cheerfulness, and then to joy. "The garment of sorrow," as Coleridge expresses it, "must be drawn off so gradually, and that to be put in its stead so gradually slipt on and feel so like the former, that the sufferer shall be sensible of the change only by the refreshment." It is by understanding well these affinities of the feelings that the orator can continue to control them as they pass over their widest range. The necessity of a suitable state of mind in order that the emotions of taste may arise, has already been noticed, and what I now observe is, that a state of correct moral feeling is more favorable to these emotions than any other. There is between them such an affinity that they readily associate with each other; while there is, between the emotions of taste and a vicious state of mind, no such affinity, but they are to a great extent incompatible. The external world often gives back to us but the image of our own thoughts, and hence may seem almost as variable as the dim forms of twilight to which the imagination gives its own shape. This tendency of the mind to cast its own hue over nature, or rather to receive different emotions from external objects, according to its own state, is well illustrated by Crabbe, in his tale called "The Lover's Journey." In this tale, Orlando, the lover, starts on a pleasant morning with the expectation of finding the object of his affections at a village, where she had agreed to meet him. The first part of his journey lay across a heath covered with furze. But hear him:-- "Men may say A heath is barren; nothing is so gay; Barren or bare to call this charming scene Argues a mind possessed by care or spleen." And thus he went on, admiring the wholesome wormwood and the vigorous brier, till he reached the village, and then disappointment came. The lady had gone to a village some miles further on, under circumstances that vexed him, and led him to doubt her affection. He doubted even whether he should proceed, but at length determined to see and upbraid her. Now hear him again, as he passes along by the side of a beautiful river:--