A perfect absence of passion is certainly preternatural, if it may not be called impossible; but as our passions are more likely to be called into action by painful than by pleasurable sensations, it seems little doubtful, that the mind, on which they operate most feebly, will remain in the most tranquil state. This tranquillity, this absence of pain, (for joy, however poignant, is but a transient gleam, a coruscation, which passing, renders the obscurity which succeeds it more sensible,) is the single species of happiness of which mankind is allowed to partake. A man of great sensibility has his feelings hourly wounded by minute accidents, at which one of less lively sensations would smile. Such a one is transported with love, and, if that love be successful, his gratification is exquisite. He is suddenly moved by compassion,—how refined his feeling in offering relief to distress! He ardently desires fame,—how is he elated with the slightest praises! But how often is his warm affection requited with neglect, or its gratification found impossible? How often will his compassion be excited, without the means of affording relief? And how much more is mankind disposed to obloquy than to eulogy? But this is not all; the same mind which is strongly acted on by these passions will also have its peace disturbed by pride, ambition, anger, jealousy, and resentment. The subjects of all these tormenting emotions crowd on it too closely to allow its complacency to be permanent. The sunshine of the morning will inevitably, ere night, be succeeded by a tempest. Some slight omission of ceremonial will offend its pride, some _sordid repulse_ will check its ambition; it will flame with anger at the breaking of a jar, or pine with jealousy at the like frailty in a mistress. Something of the same kind has place with regard to taste. A man of delicate taste feels refined enjoyment from the contemplation of a beautiful landscape or a fine picture, or the perusal of an elegant poem; and is equally disgusted at the sight of any thing deformed, disproportioned, or unnatural in either. But, it may be said, he has the option of contemplating a disagreeable object, but not of feeling an unpleasing sensation. And is it indeed so easy, in being perpetually conversant among mankind, to avoid observing their works? or does not the man who reads unavoidably fall on absurdities which disgust him? Social man has been too long employed in counteracting nature, not to have moulded all to his dwarfish intellect; and the abortive efforts of imagination are numberless both in the arts and in letters. Then it will be said, human happiness is reduced to apathy; and the lively taste and ardent passions, which have established the superiority of Europeans, only serve to diminish their sum of felicity! This would be pushing the argument too far; but each will draw his own conclusions.