regard not merely to the nature of the object, but to the capacity of the agent, and to his fitness for apprehending or attaining it.  Pleasure is that which is so in itself:  good is that which approves itself as such on reflection, or the idea of which is a source of satisfaction.  All pleasure is not, therefore (morally speaking) equally a good; for all pleasure does not equally bear reflecting on.  There are some tastes that are sweet in the mouth and bitter in the belly; and there is a similar contradiction and anomaly in the mind and heart of man.  Again, what would become of the Posthaec meminisse juvabit of the poet, if a principle of fluctuation and reaction is not inherent in the very constitution of our nature, or if all moral truth is a mere literal truism?  We are not, then, so much to inquire what certain things are abstractedly or in themselves, as how they affect the mind, and to approve or condemn them accordingly.  The same object seen near strikes us more powerfully than at a distance:  things thrown into masses give a greater blow to the imagination than when scattered and divided into their component parts.  A number of mole-hills do not make a mountain, though a mountain is actually made up of atoms:  so moral truth must present itself under a certain aspect and from a certain point of view, in order to produce its full and proper effect upon the mind.  The laws of the affections are as necessary as those of optics.  A calculation of consequences is no more equivalent to a sentiment, than a seriatim enumeration of square yards or feet touches the fancy like the sight of the Alps or Andes!

To give an instance or two of what we mean.  Those who on pure cosmopolite principles, or on the ground of abstract humanity affect an extraordinary regard for the Turks and Tartars, have been accused of neglecting their duties to their friends and next-door neighbours.  Well, then, what is the state of the question here?  One human being is, no doubt, as much worth in himself, independently of the circumstances of time or place, as another; but he is not of so much value to us and our affections.  Could our imagination take wing (with our speculative faculties) to the other side of the globe or to the ends of the universe, could our eyes behold whatever our reason teaches us to be possible, could our hands reach as far as our thoughts or wishes, we might then busy ourselves to advantage with the Hottentots, or hold intimate converse with the inhabitants of the Moon; but being as we are, our feelings evaporate in so large a space—­we must draw the circle of our affections and duties somewhat closer—­the heart hovers and fixes nearer home.  It is true, the bands of private, or of local and natural affection are often, nay in general, too tightly strained, so as frequently to do harm instead of good:  but the present question is whether we can, with safety and effect, be wholly emancipated from them?  Whether we should shake