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CHAPTER III.

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY, NOVELTY, CONTRAST,

AND PRIVATION.

HE above chapter leads us on to consider the

TH

great principle of Change or Variety. This is one of the most comprehensive principles in nature, for its influence pervades the whole world of spirit, as well as that of matter, whether organized or unorganized. Without change, the air we breathe, and the waters which we drink, would soon become corrupt and noxious, engendering maladies destructive to animal life; and without the tempests which rouse the face of the deep, the ocean itself, now so conducive to health, would soon become a stagnant pool, spreading pestilence afar. Deprived of movement, our lakes and rivers would sleep in dismal swamps, and if any plants or animals should still survive, nothing but reeds and reptiles could spring from such pollution. If we ceased to move our limbs we should at last lose all power over them, and our frame would be a prey to disease; and did we not exercise our minds in various ways, our faculties would be impaired or lost. In a word, change is necessary to maintain the purity of the material universe, and health both of mind and body.

Men in general seem aware of the great importance of this principle, for they appeal to it on all occasions. Is your health out of order? you are recommended to

try change of air; are your spirits depressed? you are advised to try change of scene. In short, it is an universal panacea, when nothing more definite can be hit upon.

But the effects of change upon our sensibilities are here to be particularly noticed; and these will best be understood when we know the effects of uniformity. Uniformity is opposed to change in its nature and in its consequences. When the same objects have been presented to the senses, or the same ideas of any kind have been suggested for a long time without interruption, one or other of two effects seldom fails to ensue. Either we pay less and less attention to what is going on around us, till at last we become quite insensible on that score, and no more perceive what is present than if we were far away; or else we fall a victim to a painful feeling of a peculiar nature. This feeling is more allied to ennui than to any other of which we are conscious ; but the two are not identical. The one arises from vacuity, the other from constant repetition of the same thing; and though both be disagreeable, still the uneasiness is different. Should a traveller be obliged to pass a rainy day in a remote country inn, he may be devoured with ennui, and on hearing a strolling minstrel he will at first listen gladly to his strain; but if the same air be repeated again and again, he will fly from this second annoyance, though it be to meet the first. The fatigue of mind which results from repetition, may be compared to the fatigue of body which follows on the long continuance of the same muscular movements, and neither

the one nor the other is at all a proof of vacuity. On the contrary, bodily fatigue arises from too great exertion, and leaves the mind in a state very different from ennui; and mental fatigue is felt when we have been completely engaged by any subject, and have been so absorbed that we cannot expel it from our thoughts. It is the sameness alone that tires us, for if we can change the subject the mind becomes invigorated and ready for enjoyment, whereas, from an attack of ennui, the spirits recover but slowly. The remedy for the one is variety, for the other, occupation.

If we escape the feeling of fatigue arising from excessive sameness, it is only by becoming insensible to the objects which press upon us, and allowing our thoughts to wander to other and more interesting topics. In this state, the same words may be uttered, and the same vibrations fall upon the ear, the same colours may be present, and the same rays strike the eye, but they cease to make any impression, whether of pain or pleasure. So far as they are concerned the mind is without feeling, and no more cares for what is around than the dead who slumber in their sepulchres.

Such being the general effects of uniformity, it follows that a life of great monotony must have a strong tendency either to fatigue the mind, or else to blunt sensibilities of every sort. The first effect is unquestionably bad, and so, one would think, is the second, were it not that some persons are constantly at war with strong feeling. It is certain that deep sensibility exposes to pains more acute, as well as pleasures more lively, and therefore it may be main

tained that the one counterbalances the other. But this argument pushed to its legitimate conclusion would prove that it were as well not to feel at all, or better, if our pains be supposed to outweigh our pleasures, and consequently that life is an evil. If this conclusion be denied, where are we to fix the limits, and say, so far sensibility is good, but it must not go beyond ?

Were we even to allow that here, as in other things, there is a certain medium which cannot be passed with advantage, yet as no one can point out exactly where it lies, we would wish to know which is the better extreme. Ought we to endeavour to deaden or keep alive our sensibilities? simple statement of the case seems enough to settle the question, for would we quit the noble nature of man for that of brutes, or rather of stocks and stones?

The

Excess in any good is in general better than a deficiency, because more easily remedied; and we can better restrain any too strong propensity than instil it where wanting. There is more hope of the youth who shows some intemperate ardour, than of him who is eager for nothing; and even the orgies of liberty are more promising than the stillness of despotism. Too fiery a steed is more valued than one that is lazy. In like manner, too strong sensibilities are preferable to the opposite extreme, for we can cure the one more readily than the other. Take the case of Humanity and the feelings which enter into Conscience. Is it better to feel too deeply for our fellow-creatures or too little; to have a conscience over sensitive or dull? Had these feelings

never been deficient, the history of the world would not have been a history of crime. So long as they are lively, guilt cannot go far; but when the heart is hardened and the conscience seared, where shall we look for a check? If we turn to desire of reputation, this would not long survive the decay of the above feelings, for if we felt not self-condemned, we should care little for the disapprobation of others; and then even the Law would lose great part of its terrors. Freed from dread of shame, we might indeed fear bodily pain, and loss of life, of freedom, or of fortune, though it is evident that in these cases also we can be acted upon only through our feelings; and were we reckless of all things, we should be utterly ungovernable.

Though a temperament of acute sensibility suffers a greater feeling of pain as well as of pleasure, yet upon the whole, nothing appears less desirable than the joyless life of those who scarcely feel at all. Religion and philosophy can do much for the cure of all ills, and the ills themselves not unfrequently have some compensation. Even in deep grief, there is often a melancholy pleasure, a luxury peculiar to woe. Men frequently cling to their grief as they do to a beloved object, and avoid all scenes of amusement which might serve to drive it from their thoughts. Remorse is perhaps the only wound which has no balm. Who are they whose lives appear the least enviable? not such as have had sorrows deeply felt, but those who seem to have no interest in existence, and who have

1 See note B.