.
LIBRARY
INTELLECT, THE EMOTIONS,
THE MORAL NATURE.
INTELLECT,
THE EMOTIONS,
•ix.
KEY. WILLIAM LYALL
I'!:I:K cuu.r.iiK. HALIFAX. NOVA SCOTIA
EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO.
LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO. MDCCCLV.
BDINBI7ROH : T. CONSTABLE, PRINTFR TO HER MAJESTY
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION,
PAGE
1
I.
Mind and Matter, the two sub stances about which philosophy is conversant, . . .13
Importance of distinction between Matter and Mind, . . .14
Two classes of philosophers, ac cording to the predominance assigned in their systems to Matter or Mind, . . .14
Consciousness the only immediate object of cognition, . . .14
Consciousness the starting-point of philosophy, . . . .15
How the mind passes from a state of simple consciousness to the idea of self, . . . .16
Descartes' Enthymeme, . .16
The German " Ego," . . .16
The amount of Descartes' Enthy meme. Fichtc's formula, . .17
The idea of personal existence, the first, idea of the awakening mind, 18
II.
Origin of the Idea of Externality, . 19 Dr. Brown's account of this idea, . 21 If cm arks on Dr. Brown's account
of this idea, . . . .24 Error of Dr. Brown in denying any peculiar intuition in order to this
idea, 24
Special difficulty in regard to the mode of communication between Mind and Matter, . . 27
Vanity of attempting to account for this communication, or explain the mode of it, . . . . 28 The principle of common sense, . 29 Coincidence between Reid, Oswald, and Beattie, and the French phi losopher, Father Buffier, . . 29
III.
The Idea of Externality not that of
an external world, . . .30 Origin of the idea of matter, . 31
Muscular resistance as distinguish ed from tactual, . . .35
Dr. Brown the first to take notice of this distinction, . . .35
Matter, what, as first apprehended by the mind, . . . .35
Other properties of matter, . . 35
Idea of substance. Substance and quality distinguished, . . 35
The mind informed of its own ex istence, and its own qualities, pari passu with its informa tions respecting matter, . . 39
This indicates the laws of our being, 39
V.
The idea of Extension, . ' . 40
What gives us this idea, . . 40
The ideas of magnitude and figure, 41 How the infant mind is concerned in the attainment of its first or
primitive ideas, . . • . . 41
VI
CONTENTS.
Magnitude, figure, distance, not ob jects of sight, . . . . 42
Illustrations to show that these are acquired objects of vision, or con nected with vision only by a pro cess of association, . . .43
VI.
Primary Qualities of Matter, . 47
Dr. Brown's view as to the primary qualities, 47
The secondary qualities of matter, 48
Weight, or gravitation, a law ra ther than a property of matter. Weight but the action of gravi tation, . . . . .49
The centripetal and centrifugal forces the two grand and per vading agencies in the universe, 49
The secondary qualities of matter but modifications of the primary, according to Locke, . . .50
Difference in the child's process of attaining its ideas from this point forward, 50
VII.
Idea of Space, . . . .52
Locke's account of this idea, . 52
Reid's account of this idea, . . 52 What space is according to the
German metaphysicians, . . 54 What, according to Dr. Samuel
Clarke, 55
Three particulars noticed by Cousin
in connexion with this idea, . 57
Has space objectivity? . . 58
The idea of Time, . . .59 Locke's account of the idea, . . 59 Origin of the idea according to Dr.
Brown, 60
View of Cousin, . . . .61 Merit of Locke, according to Cou sin, in tracing the origin of this
idea, 63
Though the notion of time derived from succession, not itself suc cession, . . . . .64
Time absolute,
The idea of Eternity,
PAOH
64
64
Idea of Power, . . . .65 Origin of the idea, . . .65 Nature of the idea, . . .67 Efficiency denied to power, . . 68 Barrow, Hobbes, Butler, and Ber keley, quoted by Dugald Stewart as denying efficiency in power, 68 The doctrine of Malebranche, . 69 Atheism of Hume in denying effi ciency to power, . . .70 Leslie's approbation of Hume's doc trine, . . . . . 7U Opposition of the General Assem bly of the Church of Scotland to Leslie's appointment to the Chair of Mathematics in the Univer sity of Edinburgh, . . .70 Brown's defence of Leslie, . . 70 Hume and Brown's views respec tively, 70
Inadmissibility of these views, . 72 The views of others, though de nying efficiency to subordinate causes, still consistent with effi ciency in the Great First Cause, 7ii The language of Barrow, Hobbes, Butler, and Berkeley, consistent with the supposition of efficiency in power, although that efficiency might not be detected, . . 73 The denial of efficiency in second ary causes, intended to lead to the Great First Cause, . . 75 Language of Scripture in reference to God as the supreme and uni versally controlling power or cause, . .'.... . .75
Dr. Reid's view, (note,) . . 76 Sir William Hamilton's remarks
upon this view, (note,) . .76 Whewell quoted, (note,) . .76 Classification of the sciences accord ing to the simple ideas traced, with the ideas of motion and
number, 77
Metaphysics a "PrimaPhilosophia," 78
CONTENTS.
Vll
Whevvell regards the simple ideas as forms of the understanding, . 78
Dr. Chalmers's stricture upon Whewell, .... 79
Remarks upon the view which makes the simple ideas forms of the understanding, . . .79
VIII.
Peculiar character of the primary or fundamental ideas, . • 82
Progress of the mind from this stage different from all its previous progress, 83
The part which sensation, and the part which mind, have, respec tively, iu our primitive or fun damental ideas, . . .83
Sensation, . . . . -84
The necessity ot an intellectual principle to account for the phe nomena of mind, . . .85
Sensation still the first fact or law of mind to be observed, . . 87
The question, When does sensation cease, and a purely mental state commence ? . . .88
Important to mark this, . . 88
The tendency to forget mind amid the claims of matter, . . 88
Materialism the result of too great an engrossment in mere matter, 89
A materialistic tendency by no meaus to be treated as one not possible, 91
Mind not an organic result, . . 92 Importance attached to mind, when
spoken of as the soul in Scripture, 94 Doctrine of the ancient Epicureans, 94
Classification of philosophers ac cording to a sensational or ideal istic tendency, . . . .95
Descartes and Gassendi founders of separate schools of philosophy, 96
The French metaphysicians for the most part followers of Gassendi, 9(5
Locke claimed by this school, . 96
FK.QH
False grounds of this claim, . . 96 Gassendi and Condillac quoted, . 97 Injustice done to Locke ; his real
views, . .... 97 Views of Malebrauchc, . . 100
The Encyclopaedists, . . . 101 Materialism consequent upon sen sationalism, .... 101 Results of materialism, . . 101
X.
Intellection the antithesis of sensa tion, 102
Intellection the action of pure mind, 103 The mind generally represented as
possessed of certain faculties, . 103 The more philosophical view of mind, 104 The laws of mind, . . . 105 The principles of mind, . . 105 The voluntary actions of mind, . 106 Imagination, memory, association
of ideas, 106
The moral and emotional part of
our nature a source of ideas, . 106 The idiosyncrasies of mind, . .106 Classification of the mental pheno mena, 106
Memory a property of mind,"as dis tinct from the spontaneous action of mind, from the modifying laws of mind, and from the principles
of mind 107
Memory a property by which the
past is recalled, . . • 108 Memory, according to Dr. Brown, 109 In what Dr. Brown's view is defec tive, 109
Memory necessary to every dis crimination of an idea, . .111 This process of memory very rapid, 111 Memory gives identity to our dif ferent states of mind, or allows us to recognise their identity, . 112 This law allows us to recognise the sources of pain, and the causes of danger, and secures the preserva tion of the sentient being, . .112 Memory gathers the larger experi-
Vlll
CONTENTS,
unce necessary for the purposes
of intellectual existence, . .113
Proverbs owe their origin to the gathered experience which me mory treasures, . . .114
The scenes which memory por trays, 114
Peculiar characteristic of memory, 115
Memory will survive the grave, . 115
New law of memory in the future world, . . • . .115
The surveys of memory in the fu ture world, . . . .116
Imagination blends with the opera tion of memory, . . .116
Memory furnishes many of its ma terials to imagination, . .119
Different kinds of memory : the question answered, — whether a great memory and an enlarged or philosophic judgment are com patible? 119
Memory assisted by attention, and that by the interest taken in any given subject, .... 122
XII.
By the phenomenon of memory the consciousness of one moment prolonged into the next, . . 123 From this is obtained the feeling
of personal identity, . . • 123 Personal identity, . . .123
The precise question, . . .123 The identity of the body, . . 127 The identity of the soul, . .130
XIII.
Identity as a law of mind,
134
Resemblance as a law of mind, . 135 Classification proceeds upon this law. . . 136
The law of contrast,
139
1 low far there must be resemblances and contrasts in objects and quali ties as existing in the universe, 142
The beautiful effect of the law of
contrast 144
Analogy, 147
A species of resemblance, . . 147 The rationale of this law, . . 147 The power of detecting analogies the great scientific, and the great
poetic, faculty 149
Difference between scientific and
poetic analogies, . . . 149 Illustrations derived from analogy, 152 Difference between resemblance and analogy, . . . .155
The law of proportion, . . . 156 Considered under its different as pects, 156
The principles of the mind, . .168
Causality, 169
Generalization, .... 172 Deduction, ..... 191 On the respective natures of induc tion and deduction, . . . 205
XV.
Ideas obtained, . . . .214 Review of the process by which
these are obtained, . . .214 Classification of the sciences ac cording to the fundamental and modified ideas, . . . .218
XVI.
Association of ideas, . . .219 Dr. Brown's secondary laws of as sociation, ..... 225 Remarks upou Dr. Brown's sixth se condary law, that "the influence of the primary laws of suggestion is greatly modified by original constitutional differences," . 230
XVII.
Classifications of the intellectual phenomena considered, . . 238
The author's view of mind further explicated, .... 244
Controversy as to the nature of ideas, . . . 248
CONTENTS.
IX
XVIII.
The supposed faculties of mind re solved into the phenomena of sensation and intellection as ex plained in this work, . . 252
Conception, . Abstraction, . Judgment, . Seasoning, . Imagination,
J'AOK
. 252 . 261 . 266 . 269
. 270
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.
The emotional nature generally con sidered, 279
The first essential condition of emo tion, .....
291
293 294
295
Illustrated by the views of the
Quietists,
Cheerfulness, .... How cheerfulness is consistent with
the existence of evil, Cheerfulness distinguished from
gaiety, 299
Christian serenity, . . . 300 Cheerfulness distinguished from its
semblances, .... 305 Cheerfulness heightened by kind liness of nature, . . . 306 Opposite emotions to cheerfulness, 310
Melancholy, 313
Fretfulness, Moroseness, Peevish ness, 323
Joy, . . . . . .328
Difference between joy and cheer fulness, 328
The opposite emotion to joy, . 336 How each emotion has its counter part or opposite, . . . 336
Sorrow, 338
The emotions their own end : Final causes connected only with the counterpart emotions, . . 341 The emotions which are excited by events, and those which termin ate on objects, .... 346 Delight, ....... .348
Wonder, 357
Surprise and astonishment, . . 368
Admiration, 372
Wonder and admiration subservi ent to devotion, . . . 379
Wonder becomes worship when God is its object, . . .384
Veneration, Adoration, . . 384
Purposes subserved by the different aspects of wonder, . . . 384
The emotion of the beautiful and the sublime, . . . .388
The emotions which terminate on
being, 390
Love 391
Love in its modified aspects, . 400
Friendship, 412
Patriotism, 413
The antagonism of the emotions
considered, . . . .414 The antagonistic emotions to love, 420
Hatred 421
Anger, resentment, envy, revenge,
indignation, .... 424 Hatred more or less in each of these, 424 These characterized as the malevo lent affections, .... 428 Indignation and resentment distin guished, 428
Relation of anger to indignation
and resentment, . . . 436 Purposes subserved by anger, . 437 Classification of the emotions, . 444 Author's classification more speci fically stated, . . . .448
Sympathy, ... . . 449 Philanthropy, . . . .451 Sympathy with any emotion of an other, 457
Nice effect of the reciprocal influ ence of the emotions, . . 458 b
CONTENTS.
Our sympathies with the general emotions depend upon constitu tional differences, . . . 460
Sympathy with the aspects of na ture, 461
Generosity, or kindness, and grati tude, 462
Desire, ... . 464
Dr. Eeid's enumeration of the de sires, • 464
Stewart's enumeration, . . 464
Dr. Brown's enumeration, . . 464 Desire more properly considered as one of the states of our mental constitution, and any object the object of desire as it yields plea sure, or confers happiness or good, ..... 464 Transition from the emotional to the moral part of our nature, . 467
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL NATURE.
Peculiarity in the moral nature as distinguished from the phenome nal — the practical reason as dis tinguished from the speculative, 473
Facts of the moral nature ultimate, 479
The proper question in regard to the moral nature, or in a theory of morals, .... 482
The confusion that has arisen from the commingling of different ques tions, and treating them as one 483
Right and wrong, . . . 486
A relation appreciable by reason, 489
Yet no reason can be assigned for Tightness or wrongness : the re lation ultimate, . . . 490
The perception of the relation ac companied with an emotion, . 490
The relation not only the object of perception by a percipient agent, but of moral approbation by a moral agent, .... 490
The relation intrinsic, eternal, and not created or constituted, . 491
The law founded on this relation, though eternal and immutable in itself, still in a high sense the law of God, .... 493
Reasons for the promulgation of the law as a command, . . . 497
The law of right is one, . . 500
The law of right as respects the Decalogue, .... 503
The law of right in its different
applications, .... 504 Kant's view of the law of right or
of duty, 507
Error of Kant, .... 509 Distinction drawn by Kant be tween the moral law as a " law of holiness to the Supreme Being," and a " law of duty to every finite intelligent," . . 512 Incorrect idea in respect to duty as obedience to law the foundation of this distinction, . . . 512 Source of Kant's Error, . .514 Moral approbation and disapproba tion, 516
The moral faculty, or conscience, . 524 The power of this principle, . . 528 Its influence upon other states,
mental and emotional, . . 529 The relation of conscience to the other principles of our nature, and to action,- .... 530 The desires as principles of action, 532 The relation of emotion to desire, . 533 The emotions divided into primary
and secondary, .... 534 The philosophy of this question able, 534
The desires secondary to the emo tions, 535
The general sources of the desires, 536 Fear the nearest antagonistic state to desire, 536
CONTENTS.
XI
Courage ; its aspects, physical and
moral, 536
Hope, a modification of desire, . 537 Hope more peculiarly pertains to a world in which good and evil are
mixed, 541
Dr. Brown's view of desirableness as simply the relation between the object and the desire, . . 542 Indirect refutation of the selfish
system of morals, . . . 543 Unnecessary to dwell upon the par ticular desires, .... 547 Important to notice the aspect the desires now present in connexion with the character they must have exhibited in an unfallen
state 547
The relation of the desires to law, to conscience, and to moral obli gation, ..... 553 The primal state, .... 553 The passions designated noble, . 553 Emulation, ..... 553 Distinction between the desire of excellence and the desire of su periority, ..... 553 Harmony between strictly ethical views and the view of our nature and of duty, or obligation, pre sented in Scripture, . . . 554 Does the love of our neighbour ex ist in our nature as fallen ? . 556 The desire of esteem, wherein jus tifiable, 557
Distinct from the desire of fame or
praise, ..... 558 Shame a modification of this desire, 558 A sinful motive or state often very
near a moral or good one, . . 559 Hence the necessity of watchful ness, 559
The very thoughts and intents of the heart under the inspection of conscience, .... 559 The desires thus cognizable by con science, ..... 559 This leads to the consideration, — What part the will has in those
states or actions with which mo ral blame is connected, . . 559 All moral evil deserving of moral
blame, 560
Difficult}-, in the case of the desires, not whether, when evil, they de serve moral blame, but where the blame is due, .... 560 Peculiarity in the case of man's
moral nature, .... 560 Federal representation, . . 560 Inconceivable in the government of God, that where there was no guilt in any sense, any being could be involved in the evil to which guilt attaches, . . 561 Evil desire guilty. More directly culpable, if entertained or accom panied by an act of will, . .561 The relation of will to an act to be
considered, .... 561 The nature of the will, . . 561 The connexion of the will with our active principles, with action, and with the right and wrong of an
action, 564
The state of the desires, . . 566 The desires, considered as regards their objects, or the sources from which they spring, either moral, aesthetic, or physical — the last including the appetites, . . 572 The physical nature not so much the region of emotion as of feel ing, and that feeling not so much mental as bodily — the desires belonging to the body, therefore, appetites rather than desires, . 573 Bodily desires which are not ap petites, ..... 573 The moral desires, . . . 573 Benevolent and malevolent desires, 575 Virtuous and vicious desires, . 575 The aesthetic desires, . . . 576 The physical desires, . . . 577 The relation of the will to action, and the question of the freedom of the will, . . . .578 I The relation between judgment,
Xll
CONTENTS.
motive, and desire, causal, or that between cause and effect, . .579 Is it the same relation between
these and will ? . . .581 Activity of the will, . . . 582 The phenomenon of the activity of tJie will amid motive influence, seen in other departments besides that of the will — causal influence and yet independent action, . 588 Relation of the will to morality, . 597 To morality in the emotions, or internal states, as well as in the actions, 597
Dr. Chalmers's view on this sub ject, 606
How did the emotions become guilty? Or, the source of evil motive, and an evil will, . . 609
On the origin of evil, . . .610
Different opinions entertained on this subject, . . . .610
The Manichean doctrine, . .611
Evil regarded as a defect, not posi tive, 612
How far our minds can go in de termining the origin of evil, . 612
Practical conclusion, . . . 613
INTRODUCTION,
THE precise nature and objects of Metaphysical Science have been much misapprehended, and the science itself in conse quence has suffered even in the estimation of those whose favour it is most important to propitiate. Metaphysics with some is another name for whatever is shadowy, impalpable, obscure. It has been thought that nothing satisfactory can be determined, and no valuable results arrived at. Some have regarded the metaphysics of one age as chiefly useful in cor recting those of another. They ought to be studied, according to this view, that we may guard against the mistakes that philosophers have fallen into, or that we may be able to refute their errors. With others it is only as an exercise of intellect, and for the quickening of our faculties, that the science is useful. It is in this latter view that Lord Jeffrey regards the science as chiefly valuable. He would recommend it for no other purpose, and he sees no other good that can result from it. Carlyle has the following quarrel with all philosophy : — " The mere existence and necessity of a philosophy," says he, " is an evil. Man is sent hither not to question, but to work : ' the end of man/ it was long ago written, ' is an action, not a thought/ In the perfect state, all thought were but the picture and inspiring symbol of action ; philosophy, except as poetry and religion, had no being. And yet, how in this im perfect state," this writer adds, " can it be avoided, can it be dispensed with ? Man stands as in the centre of nature ; his
A
2 INTRODUCTION.
fraction of time encircled by eternity, his handbreadth of space encircled by infinitude : how shall he forbear asking himself, — what am I ; and whence ; and whither ? How, too, except in slight partial hints, in kind asseverations and assurances, such as a mother quiets her fretful inquisitive child with, shall he get answer to such inquiries ?" Goethe, in speaking of the work, — " Systeme de la Nature," which he and some friends had read with great disappointment, and whose barren and sceptical speculations he condemns, says, " If, after all, this book did us any mischief, it was this — that we took a hearty dislike to all philosophy, and especially metaphysics, and re mained in that dislike ; while, on the other hand, we threw ourselves into living knowledge, experience, action, and poetiz ing, with all the more liveliness and passion."
All these views proceed upon the mistake that the mind cannot be a proper subject of study ; for if it can, we see no harm in studying its laws and phenomena, as well as those of any other subject of investigation. Is mind alone of all sub jects the only one that will not submit to our investigation or scrutiny, or that will yield no return to our efforts to analyze or comprehend it ? It is obviously taken for granted that mind escapes our observation, or will not submit to our analysis. It is as if it were some impalpable essence that evaporated as soon as we endeavoured to apply to it our chemical tests, or brought to bear upon it our mental analysis. Has mind no laws by which it is regulated ? Does it exhibit no settled facts which may be made the subject of observation ? Have we no con sciousness by which the facts of mind may be marked and recorded ? Must error so unavoidably be fallen into in regard to the phenomena of mind, that every successive age must be employed only in correcting the errors of the preceding ? Is mind not a real existence as much as matter ; and are its laws and phenomena not as worthy of being ascertained as those of the external universe ? Must it only be as a mental discipline that we should study that internal substance, which, if it is invisible, is yet the principle by which we think, which indeed truly constitutes ourselves, and which subjects everything
INTRODUCTION. 6
else to its observation ? It is the thinking Being to which all thought is amenable, to which thought owes its own being or existence. Must we think about everything but ourselves ? We have somewhere seen it said by Carlyle in his own peculiar way — that he would rather think, than think about thinking. There is point here, and there is some degree of satire. There was a sardonic smile, no doubt, upon the countenance of the writer or speaker as he uttered these words. But in all gravity and seriousness, is it not interesting to think about mind, the processes through which it passes, from darkness to day, from its first dawn of intelligence to its maturest thought and dis covery ? But there is more than what is merely interesting. The laws of mind underlie all philosophy, and it is its forma tive processes that put its laws even upon matter. A few original ideas are the roots of all science. Whewell shews this, and he founds his classification of the sciences upon these few ideas. It is true that the sciences are independent of the knowledge of this : but it is important to see the relation that our ideas bear to the actual phenomena of the outer world ; and he is the most intelligent philosopher who can determine what part mind has, and what part matter, or the phenomenal world, in the observed laws and processes of nature. Car lyle has regarded metaphysics as a science of doubt rather than a science of positive knowledge ; and in one sense it is so. Doubt, not unbelief — ignorance, not scepticism. A science of doubt — a science of ignorance — might well seem a contradic tion. But the doubt is the doubt forced upon us by the neces sary limitation to our faculties — the ignorance is the ignorance necessitated by the limits set to our knowledge by the Creator. In another state of being these limits may be removed or greatly extended, and we may penetrate into the essence of things, we may discern the nature of Being — Being and not merely phenomena may be unfolded: ontology— not mere psychology — may be possible. Here it is different, and the limits to our knowledge it is important to ascertain. The surrounding ignorance, or enveloping mystery, that wraps the universe, it is as important to know, perhaps, as what may be
INTRODUCTION.
ascertained or known in the character of phenomena. With the latter we may be practical philosophers, and able to adapt phenomena to their uses, and there may be no limit to the successive development of the laws of matter, and to the appli cations of these laws ; but for the higher state of man, whether is it more important to know these laws and all their possible applications, or to know the ignorance which invests them, or the limits which bounds our knowledge of them ? Our know ledge of those limits first took the shape of scepticism ; it arose in that phantom form : philosophy was a shadow point ing to vacancy : everything was phenomenal : matter was denied : time and space were annihilated : power was but a sequence ; and in Germany, and with many even in our own country, this is still the form which philosophy assumes : it is a negation of all being, save perhaps our own being, and that of God. Or if among German philosophers anything redeems philosophy from this character, it is the prominence that is allowed to the phenomenal, making it almost as good as the actual, denying at one moment the actual, and restoring it the next, under terms which do not assert its existence, but still imply something more than mere appearances or phenomena. The right state of mind, and that for which true philosophy is valuable, is not scepticism as to the Actual, but suspended inquiry as to what the Actual is — diffidence and mystery : surely the most appropriate states of mind for the creature, — everywhere in the vestibule of that divine temple whose worship is mystery united with intelligence, where God sits enshrined in the inner sanctuary, or only withdrawn behind that veil which envelops all his works. Hence we find Carlyle himself writing : — " Much as we have said and mourned about the unproductive prevalence of metaphysics, it was not without some insight into the use which lies in them. Metaphysical speculation, if a necessary evil, is the forerunner of much good. The fever of scepticism must needs burn itself out, and burn out thereby the impurities that caused it ; then again will there be clearness, health. The principle of life which now struggles painfully, in the outer, thin, and barren domain of
INTRODUCTION. 5
the conscious or mechanical, may then withdraw into its inner sanctuaries, its abysses of mystery and miracle, withdraw deeper than ever into that domain of the unconscious, by nature infinite and inexhaustible ; and creatively work there." The unconscious here, with Carlyle, as distinguished from what we suppose must be called the conscious, is where the mind is beyond the region of mere questioning or inquiry, and creates, works unconsciously, and brings up thought from the deeps of its own nature. " From that mystic region," says Carlyle, " and from that alone, all wonders, all poesies, and religions, and social systems, have proceeded : the like wonders, and greater and higher, lie slumbering there ; and brooded over by the spirit of the waters, will evolve themselves, and rise like exhalations from the deep." Will the mind ever arrive at that state described by Carlyle ? Will it ever be entirely creative ? Is not this the prerogative of the self-existent and infinite mind alone ? Shall we ever cease to inquire into the phenomenal, or cease to wonder at the absolute ?* It is metaphysics at all events that carries us to the absolute, and it is undoubtedly a higher position for the mind to occupy than the investigation of the phenomenal simply. Carlyle withdraws his own depre ciatory estimate ; and there could not be a higher praise of metaphysics than what he has accorded to it. It is the grand purpose of metaphysics to bring us to the absolute, and to suspend our inquiries there. It investigates the phenomenal for the sake of the absolute, or to determine the phenomenal, and see what is beyond, or look into the " abysses of mystery and miracle." That is the high, purpose of metaphysics, and that is the service which she performs. There is not a more important and higher function of the mind than that of won der, and we never wonder at the phenomenal merely : it is what is beyond, what is in, the phenomenon — its nature, the law at work, or the power that created it, or that operates in it. — it is this that excites our wonder ; and whenever we pass
* We oppose the Absolute to the they are to be distinguished seems hard- Phenomenal, and we leave our readers 1 y to admit of a doubt, to determine the nature of each : that
6 INTKODUCTION.
from the phenomenal, or suspend our minds in wonder at the law present in it, we are in the domain of a higher philosophy than the mechanical or the simply physical. In the region of mystery and wonder we strive to reach the mind of God : we try to enter into the arcana of his nature — to see his secret counsels, or the very law of his intelligence ; and failing to do this, we adore, we reverence, we admire and praise. We stand outside, when we cannot enter the inner shrine.
But metaphysics has to do with the phenomenal as well as what is beyond it, or in it. It not only leads us to the unknown, to the actual, and suspends our minds in wonder before it, but it investigates what may be known : it interro gates mind as to its phenomena, and takes the information which mind yields to its own inquiries. Mind may be as much the subject of observation as matter, not the observation of the senses indeed, but of as sure and competent a power, or witness, as the senses. There is not a process that goes on in the mind but is known to the mind itself — intimates its existence, or reveals its nature. Its very existence is the mind's intelligence of it. It intimates itself by its own presence. We call this consciousness : the mind is conscious of its own states, or, as we may say, self-conscious. Then there is the power of memory by which a past state may be recalled, and may be present by a kind of second consciousness ; or the memory of the state is the exact counterpart of the state itself, and this also is the subject of consciousness, or, again, is the mind's intelligence of it. It is said now to be the subject of reflection ; or this repeated consciousness continues as long as we please, and we are thus said to reflect upon it. Or reflection is the turning of the thought of the mind upon its own states, whether present or repeated : there is not only the state intimating itself — self- revealing, if we may so speak — but there is the turning of the mind in upon the state : there is something like a mental observation ; and this may be as sure a source of information as the observation of the senses in regard to external pheno mena, or the outward world. The mind is self-cognizant. Its own arcana are open to its own inspection. It can minutely
INTRODUCTION. 7
observe its most intimate and secret workings : it can mark and record every thought, or feeling, or observation. It can see the exact state — what it is — what it amounts to. Now, is not the mind as worthy of observation as the external world ? Are not its phenomena as wonderful, and as legitimately a subject of speculation or investigation as those of matter ? The differ ence seems to be, that the phenomena of mind being so much a part of ourselves, and so much the subject of self-consciousness, it is taken for granted that we know them already, and know them sufficiently, while we can know nothing of matter unless we investigate it, and matter seems therefore more legitimately the object of our observation, the proper subject of study. Then, the laws of matter cannot be applied unless we investi gate them and know them ; but we apply the laws of mind whether we have investigated them or not. They operate spontaneously within in spite of ourselves, and all our know ledge of them hardly improves their own spontaneous action. But is knowledge to be valued by its practical utility ? Is knowledge not valuable on its own account ? — and shall we shut ourselves out from all knowledge unless it can render a practical return, or lead to some practical consequences ? Then, indeed, our physical philosophers, our economists, our statesmen, our observers of nature, are our only true philoso phers, and their science alone is valuable. And this is the estimate accordingly which the world is disposed to form. Macaulay draws a contrast between the practical philosophy of Bacon and its mighty results, and the philosophy of the specu lative minds of Greece, however vast their powers, and sublime and admirable in many respects their speculations. But even tried in this way, surely moral speculation, and disquisitions upon mind, will not yield in importance to that philosophy which promises to reduce matter to the power of man, and make us indeed Lords of creation. What although we were — although we could wield the thunder as we can direct its electric element — although the sea were as obedient to us as a child — although we could apply every law of nature to our use ? — there is in a single moral thought what is intrinsically
8 INTRODUCTION.
more valuable than all nature together, with all its laws and phenomena ; and the immense physical advantages resulting from the sciences may be purchased too dearly, if the science of our mental and moral constitution is neglected or uncul tivated. Man may be too mechanical : he may pursue his physical objects too exclusively : he may have these too exclu sively before him ; and some attention to the being within him — not within him, but actually himself — might be of use in impressing a higher character, in imparting a loftier tone to his nature, and making him not the mere man of the world, or of matter, but a spiritual being capable of holding converse with other spiritual beings, and moving through the world not as if he were to be a denizen of it for ever, but as having a destiny above it, and that will not be limited by its duration.
The mind surely deserves to be known, and its phenomena are worthy of being observed or studied. And indeed they are so, while this may not be very formally the case. We are all more or less observers of the phenomena within us : we all take note, more or less, of what passes in our mental frames or con stitutions. It is not necessary for the mind to be formally studied in order to our being metaphysicians. We are meta physicians in spite of ourselves : we are philosophers whether we know it or not. Shall we complete our accomplishments in this way, or shall we be contented with imperfect conclusions, with half-formed speculations ? Shall we be superficial in our knowledge, or shall we inquire deeper ? Shall we observe more closely our mental phenomena ? Shall we make our own mind the subject of study ? An enlightened curiosity would surely lead us to do so. An enlightened wisdom tells us that
" The proper study of mankind is man ;"
and man's spiritual nature is what truly, as we have said, con stitutes himself. A certain knowledge of this ramifies itself through all other knowledge, except such as is strictly physical. We are perpetually applying laws of our spiritual being, of our mental arid moral constitution, to subjects and questions that may be but of very subordinate moment. Their application in
INTRODUCTION. <)
literature is constant and direct. Does not history draw upon the knowledge of them in its delineations of character, and its statement of the principles of action and modes of life ? Bio graphy cannot do without this knowledge. To the orator it is essential — who would sway the minds of others, direct their counsels, or influence their persuasions. The politician, the statesman, by its views, must know better the laws that will be salutary and expedient, and the motives that may be ex pected to prevail in the government of men. The educationist can adapt more successfully his instructions and his discip line to the various characters and capacities under his care. Poetry takes much from this science. Many of its finest effu sions proceed upon the subtlest perception or analysis of our mental states, and owe all their power over us to this. Criti cism is the application of the mind's laws to the writings of this and of former ages. Every one is a critic who can read an author with appreciation. Do we not refer this or that beauty of an author to its correspondence with this or that law of our nature ? Do we not judge of this or that excellence by its fulfilling this or that other demand of our mental or spiritual constitution ? It is the principles of our nature that we bring to bear in all criticism, whether on works of literature or art. That Shakespeare was a metaphysician who can doubt ? He wrought in what Carlyle calls the domain of the unconscious, it is true ; but that he knew the laws of mind, that he was acquainted with the phenomena of our spiritual framework, is obvious from his marvellous productions. We know not how much of our spiritual being we are acquainted with till we come to apply its laws or employ its faculties. But what harm would there be in knowing this ? The great bugbear of Carlyle, the evil which he deprecates — the conscious state — is incident to our imperfect knowledge. With a more perfect knowledge there would be the knowledge of our mental and moral constitution, from all inquiries into which Carlyle seems to shrink. There is surely no harm in inquiry itself, and if we cannot arrive at our knowledge in any other way, inquiry is necessary. But the grand fault has been, that inquiry has
10 INTRODUCTION.
been too much conducted into mind as a subject, and not as it is being. Our inquiries have been too abstract ; mind has been viewed too much apart from the being possessed of it, or rather, as not the being himself. But mind is being. Its possessor is nothing else than mind, with a body in which that mind resides. The most essential part of our nature is un questionably the living soul within us — the spiritual substance of which we are possessed, or which is clothed in a material body, united to a material organization. The knowledge of mind is living knowledge. It is the knowledge of living being, not of an abstraction. It is in the concrete that mind ought to be viewed ; it is the mind of Man ; it is a living being that we have to study. It is mind which connects us with the spiritual world, and allies us to spiritual existences of a still higher nature than our own. It is true we speak of mind in the abstract, and in studying our own minds we are studying mind in general ; we believe in many of its properties — angelic mind, nay, the Divine Mind itself. But does that render it the less being? On the contrary, does it not shew its superi ority over all material being, and make it the more worthy of our study ? To trace its laws, to observe its phenomena, to mark its intuitions, to follow its processes, and to attend to its higher emotional and moral nature, is surely worthy of any, even the highest, faculties. No one is entitled to call this knowledge idle — to repudiate it, or to undervalue it as not " living knowledge." The two extremes in philosophizing — the highly ideal and the low sensational — are equally at fault. They both equally subject the mind to a kind of necessity of action, or of being acted upon, instead of viewing it as Being, having laws by which it is regulated indeed, but still possessed of a free activity, a personal existence, and an action within itself. Were mind viewed in the way we have indicated, its philosophy would not be regarded the vain, and subtle, and idle study that it is by many considered ; metaphysics would not have the shadowy character that it does possess with many. It would then be the study of the laws of spiritual being, and that spiritual being in the circumstances in which the mind of
INTRODUCTION. 11
man is found — linked to a material organization, and expatiat ing on a material arena, with laws and faculties adapted. And then the mental or intellectual strictly would not be separated from the other parts of our nature — the emotional and moral. They are all parts of the same spiritual substance. How should the knowledge of this not be living knowledge ? The knowledge of external nature, indeed, is more lively ; for whatever appeals to the senses affects us in a more lively man ner than what belongs to mind ; and in the action of life there is that without ourselves, which, awakening our interest, retains it with a vividness which the processes of mind can not lay claim to. It is a law of our nature, too, that by society we multiply ourselves, or diffuse our being ; we stamp our nature upon others and upon the universe ; we give out ourselves ; and the knowledge pertaining to external nature, to experience, and to action, therefore, may be distinguished as living knowledge ; and experience and action may seem pre ferable to speculation or philosophy ; but this does not by any means justify the contrast which Groethe has drawn between philosophy, especially metaphysics, and the living knowledge, experience, and action, to which he gave himself in recoil from the former. The knowledge of mind as a concrete, in all its phenomena or workings, must ever be living knowledge — most properly deserves the name, — while it is the material — or that of which it is the knowledge is the material — of the very life, experience, and action which are so preferred. It is the mind's qualities after all that go into the web of life. It is those very phenomena, the knowledge of which is despised, which make up experience and action. Did we not throw our minds out upon the world, what would life be ? — what would the external scene be ? — what would experience and action be ?
Man was created for action, but knowledge is not opposed to action ; and especially to know the springs of action may have some effect in enabling us to act aright. Religion is the grand succedaneum here — the succedaneum, now that the power of acting rightly has been lost ; and does not Religion in a peculiar way call us to the knowledge of ourselves ? Does
12 INTRODUCTION.
it not call us to exercises in which all our spiritual phenomena are involved, and in regard to which it is most important that these phenomena should he known — that we may be able to discern between a merely mental exercise and an emotional and spiritual or moral, to see where these meet, and what are their distinguishing characteristics ? The great subject of man's responsibility is connected with right views of our moral states, of the moral judgments, the emotions, and the Will. And what is our higher spiritual being concerned with but the emotions ? And the mutual action of all the parts of our spiritual framework is necessary to be taken into account in the exercises of the spiritual life, in even the simplest cases of spiritual experience.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF IXTELLK
MDCD and Matter are the two substances about which all philosophy is conversant. These two substances may be said to divide the universe. But what do we mean by a substance? It is a very large assertion, that these two substances divide the universe. What is meant by a substance ? A substance, as the notion is suggested to us, according to a process which will afterwards be traced, is that something, subject, or substratum, in which qualities inhere, or which exhibits those phenomena and laws which it is the business of philosophy to mark or discover. Substance, according to its etymological signification, is that which subsists under certain qualities, these qualities being the only proper object of observation. But it is impos sible to make the term more intelligible than it is to every mind ; and we can, with all safety, even at this stages, auppuee it to be clearly understood. We say. then, that matter and mind are the two substances which divide the universe. All tint exists, all that we observe, is either matter or mind, be longs as a quality to the one or the other. But what is the distinction, again, between these two substances ? What con stitutes or marks the boundary betwixt them ? But it is no mere boundary that separates them. They have no contermi nous limits. They are totally distinct in kind. How do we know this ? How do we arrive at this distinction ?
X w, it is of great importance just to mark that there is such a distinction. In our philosophical inquiries we set out with
14 INTELLECT.
«
this distinction : — Miiid exists ; matter exists. They are at least notions, if not realities, or distinct entities or existences ; and how these notions are to be accounted for, except as the notions of real and separate entities or existences, it is for the irapugner of the existence of either to explain. Accordingly, the idealistic philosopher accounts for the phenomena of mat ter by what are called the formative laws of the mind, and the materialistic for the phenomena of mind by mere organizations of matter. There is a class of philosophers who deny the exist ence of matter altogether, and hold that it is a mere potency or power of affecting the mind ; that there can be no such thing in reality ; or, at least, that all we can know assuredly to exist is the information or informations of consciousness. Others, im pressed more by what is external, what affects their senses, think they can account for all the phenomena of mind by cer tain material organizations. It is interesting to note, that all philosophers in the department of mind may be reduced under the one or other of these two classes, according as they have assigned to matter or mind the predominance in their system. This will be better understood hereafter. Meanwhile we call attention to this distinction as a fundamental one in philosophy, 1st, as marking out its two grand provinces, viz., matter and mind ; and 2c%, as furnishing the characteristic of two separate tendencies, according to which more or less of the phenomena which we ascribe to mind is assigned to matter, or matter is excluded, and all is assigned to mind — the only true system in philosophy, being that which allows a real existence to both provinces or departments, assigning to matter all that apper tains to it, and to mind all that appertains to it.
It cannot be denied that consciousness, or the subject of our consciousness, is that alone of which we can affirm directly the existence. What we are conscious of is that to us which, directly, or at once, we know to exist. We say directly, to our selves, our own consciousness is the ivhole of existence. How do I know that anything else exists, that there is anything without myself ? I have sensations, impressions, ideas : how do I know that these are anything more than sensations, impressions, ideas ?
INTELLECT. 15
How do I know that the world which I call external is really external, and is not a mere idea, or a bundle of impressions or ideas ? The first state of that existence which I call myself is one of simple consciousness. May not every other state as well be referable to consciousness only, and intimate no exist ence beyond itself? It will be apparent, therefore, that consciousness must be the starting-point of philosophy : we must go up to it as the head and source of all our know ledge ; for even those principles which are perceived by pure reason, and are first truths of the mind, are known only as they are the subjects of consciousness. Now, what is consciousness ? What is that first or earliest source of our knowledge ? It is so simple, perhaps, as to be incapable of definition. It is the mind sensible of its own acts or states, or states which we ascribe to a subject, mind — mental states, self-cognizant, intimating their own existence. If we mistake not, this is Dr. Brown's view of consciousness. " Sensation," he says, " is not the object of consciousness different from itself, but a particular sensation is the consciousness of the moment ; as a particular hope, or fear, or grief, or resentment, or simple remembrance, may be the actual consciousness of the next moment. In short," says Dr. Brown, "if the mind of man, and all the changes which take place in it from the first feel ing with which life commenced, to the last with which it closes, could be made visible to any other thinking being, a certain series of feelings alone, that is, a certain number of successive states of the mind, would be distinguishable in it, forming, in deed, a variety of sensations, and thoughts, and passions, as momentary states of the mind, but all of them existing indivi dually and successively to each other." In the passage from which our quotation is taken, Dr. Brown is exposing the error of Dr. Reid in making consciousness a separate faculty of the mind, although even Dr. Reid says of it, " It is an operation of the understanding of its own kind, and cannot be logically defined." Dr. Reid means, it is so simple that it cannot be analyzed ; for a logical definition consists in giving all the parts of a whole into which that whole may be analyzed or divided.
16 INTELLECT.
But why is consciousness so simple, but because it is just the state of the mind itself, at the moment of any sensation or. feeling or thought being present to it ? But if consciousness be thus the primary source of all knowledge — the first state in which that which we call ourselves exists, and if consciousness be this simple state of the mind, or a mere sensation or thought or feeling itself present to the mind, or intimating its own existence, how do we come to pass from this state of conscious ness to anything without ourselves, nay, to mind itself, as that of which consciousness is a state ? How do I know that I exist ? or how do I know that I, a person, exist ? Simple con sciousness is my first state : how do I come to have the idea of personal existence ? It is obvious it must be by consciousness awakening, or being necessarily accompanied by, the idea of personal existence. Perhaps no sooner am I in a state of con sciousness than the idea of personal existence is awakened. Let it be remarked, it is not the idea of mind as yet which is awakened, but the idea of existence, of my own existence, arid my existence as a person. That Jaw, whatever that I may be, enters the soul at its earliest stage — seems to be inseparable from, or is immediately consequent upon, the first dawning of consciousness. This is the earliest light let into that chamber which is yet to be filled with light, which is to become all light and all intelligence. The idea of personal existence, accord ingly, is the first truth in Descartes' philosophy, the first truth which he lays down ; it is the oracular announcement of the mind itself, " Cogito, ergo sum." It is singular, that after this famous enthymeme has been the object of almost universal assault, as involving a glaring fallacy in argument, as contain ing what is styled in Logic, a " petitio principii," it is yet the very position to which philosophy is recurring as her grand starting-point in her most rigid systems of inquiry. For what is the "ego" or the "me" of the German systems, but the " cogito, ergo sum" of Descartes ? The German philosopher says, "the me asserts itself;" that is just, " I am conscious of existence." It is, in other words, " the personal existence speaks out — declares itself." It is just the idea of personal existence
INTELLECT. 17
in the innermost recesses of the soul, and at its earliest dawn of consciousness. The idea of existence, of course, is a simpler- idea than that of personal existence, but we do not seem to obtain the one without the other. The idea of existence comes with that of personal existence. We say that this latter idea necessarily accompanies the first act of consciousness, or at least a very early stage of consciousness. It is that with which Descartes set out in his philosophy, and he traces it to the very source from which, in these remarks, we have obtained it. For his " cogito," I think, is just a state of consciousness, and went for nothing more with Descartes himself. This great philosopher has been charged, as we have already hinted, with a logical fallacy in his famous argument, with assuming the very existence which is proved. " I think, therefore I am:" — the " I" is already supposed in the " I think :" in other words, the "lam" or existence, is already supposed; and there is no need for proving it ; or a conclusion to prove it is not only superfluous, but is in truth no conclusion at all. Des cartes, however, obviously meant no more than that conscious ness infers existence. I know I exist because I am conscious. Although he has put the matter in a logical form he did not mean a logical argument, and he asserts this in reply to the objections taken to his so-called enthymeme. Cousin has shewn triumphantly that he did not mean an argument at all, and that he was sensible that the truth " I exist," was one independent of all argument. " Je pense, done j'existe," are his own words, as given by Cousin, " est en verite particuliere, qui s'iutroduit dans 1'esprit sans le secours d'une autre plus generate, et independamment de toute deduction logique. Ce n'est pas un prejuge, mais une verite naturelle, qui frappe d'abord et irresistiblement 1'intelligence."*
Descartes' " Enthymeme" is just the formula of Fichte : " The me asserts itself." From that formula Fichte, one of the
* " I think, therefore I exist, is a of all logical deduction. It is not a
particular truth which introduces itself judgment, but a natural truth, which
into the mind without the aid of any strikes the understanding at once and
more general truth, and independently irresistibly ."
B
1 8 INTELLECT.
subtlest of German minds, constructs his whole system of philosophy. His formula is nothing more or less than " I am conscious of existence," or, " I am conscious ;" and the idea of existence necessarily accompanies this state of simple conscious ness. The " me," in the peculiar phraseology of Germany, begins to feel itself, to awaken into a state of personal con sciousness. There is something interesting, it must be con fessed, in the way in which the Germans put the subject, and they have undoubtedly the merit of making a more rigid demand for consciousness as the grand stand-point, as they call it, or starting-point of all metaphysical inquiry. " The me" is just a more rigid way of denoting personality ; and " the me asserts itself," is certainly a novel, and therefore striking, way of expressing the first dawning of personal consciousness. In whatever way the truth is announced, it is interesting to contemplate this earliest stage of the mind's operations — the first glimmer of light, so to speak, in the caverns of an im mortal spirit's being and dateless existence — the feeblest twinkle of that ray that shoots across the soul's awakening, or yet noawakened powers. We cannot trace historically the progress or development of ideas — we can but infer from the nature of mind itself, or the knowledge that we now have of its laws and operations, what must have been that development, that pro gress. Self-consciousness, or the idea of personal existence, must have been the very earliest stage of development, the first idea, probably, that pierced the intellectual night, or awoke the intellectual morning.
II.
The mind thus awakened, the idea of its own personality, or of personal existence, once obtained, the mind would probably for a time be occupied with this idea : — it would not be imme diately let go, and every subsequent feeling or impression would be referred to this personality — this personal self. It would now be the centre of reference — whether in the case of external or internal impressions — impressions from without, or
INTELLECT. 19
impressions from within. All would be judged of from this point of reference — this stand-point of the German philosophy. Every feeling of internal consciousness would be referred to self, as belonging to self, to the " me." By and by, however, feelings of a peculiar kind would be experienced. The senses would not only convey sensations to this internal Being — but sensations so modified as at last to awaken the idea of some thing distinct from self, something that was not self- — and hence the idea of externality. The internal feelings were now such that the idea of something external is awakened. The mind receives the idea or impression of externality. It is im possible, perhaps, to trace minutely how this idea is awakened ; but that it is awakened at a very early stage of Being is un doubted. At least, of the idea of an external world, not all the efforts of philosophers could deprive us; although they might endeavour to rob us of an external world itself, and have accordingly attempted to reason us into the persuasion that there is no such thing. This was the gigantic, we should rather say Quixotic, effort of Berkeley and Hume ; and it is what most of the German philosophers of the present, and recent, times, although by a different process, not only essay, but, as it seems to themselves, triumphantly accomplish. They arrive at the conclusion, they think, by the most absolute demonstration. So did Berkeley, so did Hume, granting them their premises. But with so much of truth in their reasoning — starting with a right principle, they erred in not admitting what was equally a principle, and should have been recognised, — viz., that autho rity is due to all the depositions of consciousness ; and that though consciousness is strictly the court of appeal in all our questions, and mind is therefore ultimate in the judgment, or in the question, we are not warranted to reject any plain inti mation of consciousness ; while mind may undoubtedly testify of what is diverse from itself, as well as of what is itself, or of its own nature, if God has so connected the two as to act and react upon each other. Consciousness is a simple feeling, and its testimony to self, or to a being in which that consciousness resides, is no more direct than its testimony to what is not
20 INTELLECT.
self : the feeling in either case is but a feeling, and the ground of a conviction. The question as to the existence of an exter nal world depends altogether upon the constitution of that mind which, as being ultimate in the question, is thought to deny the existence of an external world, or at least to render it impossible that we can ever attain to the knowledge of its existence. The full discussion of this point, however, does not belong to this stage of our inquiry.
The idea of something external to self, then, has been awakened. The exact process of this we have not stated. That this idea should arise, however, very soon after the idea of self, it is natural to suppose. The very consciousness that would awaken the one idea, would negatively testify of the other. The feeling of self would testify of what was not self. The positive supposes the negative. If there were feelings or impressions which awakened the idea of self, every other would of course be referred to something else, and hence something external. It must have been by the simplest process possible that the idea of something different from self, something not self, something external, arose. Externality was next in order, or process of time, to personality. They were co-rela tives — that is, if there was anything distinct from, and exter nal to self. And the idea of an external world being one of our ideas or impressions, as much as that of self, or of our per sonal existence, it must have been something distinct from, and external to self, that awakened it. Everything pertaining to self would, by an unerring consciousness, be referred to it ; and whatever did not pertain to it would be excluded, or would by an unerring alchemy be rejected, and consequently referred to something else. Self being the centre of reference, everything that did not crystallize with it, or belong to it, would fall off.
We do not, of course, maintain that the infant mind would take notice of all this — would mark the process going on within it. No ; but the mind acquires its ideas although the process is not marked by which they are attained. The infant does not need to be a philosopher, or a metaphysician. But it goes through processes which even the profoundest metaphysician
INTELLECT. 21
and wisest philosopher may attend to with interest. The little prattler, not yet out of its mother's arms, which has not yet even learned to prattle, is going through those processes which it is the most difficult part of the metaphysician's work to ascertain or learn. The most difficult question in philosophy — that very one with which we are engaged — depends upon operations almost too early to trace. We would question the infant itself in vain. We would ask in vain how it has already marked a world external to itself — how it already sees that world, and knows it, if not in the fond mother whose existence is as yet almost one with its own — yet in the thousand objects which solicit its notice, and perhaps call forth its infant pas sions. So early is the idea of an external world — that idea disputed by philosophers — attained. There is a time when the infant seems to lie passive, taking in its lessons, receiving perhaps those very ideas which we do our utmost to trace ; but soon the notion of an external world seems to be gained : the little philosopher has first been strengthened in the idea of its own existence : it has come to be a believer in its own existence, for it has felt its own wants : it is not long till an external world, too, dawns upon it, and now it can look with understanding when before it only looked with mystery, and its gaze is not only with a half intelligent smile, but with intelligence beaming from every feature, expressive of anger or joy, gratification or disappointment, aversion or love. It is now a denizen of this world, for it has recognised it : it has been made free of it : it is now one of ourselves, and it is left to learn its other lessons as it best may, having learned this much, that there is a world upon which it has been ushered, and whose fights and conflicts it must, in common with its elder fellow-combatants, sustain.
Dr. Brown supposes the following to be the process by which the idea of an external world is arrived at : —
" The infant stretches out his arm for the first time, by that volition, without a known object, which is either a mere instinct, or very near akin to one : This motion is accompanied with a certain feeling, — he repeats the volition which moves
22 INTELLECT.
his arm fifty or one thousand times, and the same progress of feeling takes place during the muscular action. In this re peated progress he feels the truth of that intuitive proposition which, in the whole course of the life that awaits him, is to be the source of all his expectations, and the guide of all his actions, — the simple proposition, that what has been as an antecedent, will be followed by what has been as a consequent. At length he stretches out his arm again, and, instead of the accustomed progression, there arises, in the resistance of some object opposed to him, a feeling of a very different kind, which, if he persevere in his voluntary effort, increases gradually to severe pain, before he has half completed the usual progress. There is a difference, therefore, which we may, without any absurdity, suppose to astonish the little reasoner ; for the ex pectation of similar consequents, from similar antecedents, is observable even in his earliest actions, and is probably the result of an original law of mind, as universal as that which renders certain sensations of sight and sound the immediate result of certain affections of our eye or ear. To any being who is thus impressed with belief of similarities of sequence, a different consequent necessarily implies a difference of the antecedent. In the case at present supposed, however, the infant, who as yet knows nothing but himself, is conscious of no previous difference ; and the feeling of resistance seems to him, therefore, something unknown, which has its cause in something that is not himself.
" I am aware that the application, to an infant, of a process of reasoning expressed in terms of such grave and formal philosophic nomenclature, has some chance of appearing ridi culous. But the reasoning itself is very different from the terms employed to express it, and is truly as simple and natural as the terms, which our language obliges us to employ in expressing it, are abstract and artificial. The infant, how ever, in his belief of similarity of antecedents and consequents, and of the necessity, therefore, of a new antecedent, where the consequent is different, has the reasoning but not the terms. He does not form the proposition as universal and applicable
INTELLECT. 23
to cases that have not yet existed ; but he feels it in every particular case as it occurs. That he does truly reason, with at least as much subtlety as is involved in the process now sup posed, cannot be doubted by those who attend to the manifest results of his little inductions, in those acquisitions of know ledge which show themselves in the actions, and, I may say, almost in the very looks of the little reasoner, — at a period long before that to which his own remembrance is afterwards to extend, when, in the niaturer progress of his intellectual powers, the darkness of eternity will meet his eye alike, whether he attempt to gaze on the past or on the future ; and the wish to know the events with which he is afterwards to be occupied and interested, will not be more unavailing than the wish to retrace events that were the occupation and interest of the most important years of his existence."
" I have already explained," Dr. Brown continues, " the manner in which I suppose the infant to obtain the notion of something external and separate from himself, by the interrup tion of the usual train of antecedents and consequents, when the painful feeling of resistance has arisen, without any change of circumstances of which the mind is conscious in itself; and the process by which he acquires this notion is only another form of the very process which, during the whole course of his life, is involved in all his reasonings, and regulates, therefore, all his conclusions with respect to every physical truth. In the view which I take of the subject, accordingly, I do not conceive that it is by any peculiar intuition we are led to believe in the existence of things without. I consider this belief as the effect of that more general intuition by which we consider a new consequent, in any series of accustomed events, as the sign of a new antecedent, and of that equally general principle of asso ciation, by which feelings that have frequently co-existed, flow together, and constitute afterwards one complex whole. There is something which is not ourself, something which is repre sentative of length — something which excites the feeling of resistance to our effort ; and these elements combined are matter. But whether the notion arise in the mariner I have
'24 INTELLECT.
supposed, or differently, there can be no doubt that it has arisen long before the period to which our memory reaches ; and the belief of an external world, therefore, whether founded directly on an intuitive principle of belief, or, as I rather think, on associations as powerful as intuition in the period which alone we know, may be said to be an essential part of our mental constitution, at least as far back as that constitution can be made the subject of philosophic inquiry. Whatever it may have been originally, it is now as impossible for us to dis believe the reality of some external cause of our sensations, as it is impossible for us to disbelieve the existence of the sensa tions themselves. On this subject scepticism may be ingenious in vain ; and equally vain, I may say, would be the attempted confutation of scepticism, since it cannot affect the serious internal belief of the sceptic, which is the same before as after argument; — unshaken by the ingenuity of his own reasonings, or rather, as I have before remarked, tacitly assumed and affirmed in that very combat of argument which professes to deny it."
In this passage from Dr. Brown's Lectures, he accounts for the idea of an external world by, or traces it to, the feeling of resistance wlr'ch the child experiences in stretching out its hand and meeting some object which had not hitherto inter rupted the accustomed series of feelings accompanying such an act. The muscular feeling of resistance, then, is the precise occasion of the idea we are now speaking of, according to Dr. Brown. And it will be observed he ascribes it to no intuitive feeling, but just to the interruption of an accustomed train of sequence, or series of feelings, which interruption arresting the infant mind, and suggesting to it something that is not himself as the cause. Dr. Brown's explanation of the process — of the exact occasion of the idea — may be the true one ; but when he says there is no intuition here — that it is not by any peculiar intuition that we believe in this something without^ supposing all to have passed through the process as traced by Dr. Brown, we would ask how could the belief be arrived at, except by a law of the mind which partakes at least of the force of an intuition ? How could the mind pass from the one state to the other with
INTELLECT. 25
such certainty — with a confidence that not all the arguments of philosophy, or rather of philosophic scepticism, such as that of Berkeley and Hume, are able for an instant to shake ? There is more surely here than an ordinary process of mind, by which one idea may suggest another, or may be the occasion of another. Although the feeling of resistance is an interruption to a wonted train of feelings, or the new feeling is different from any that had hitherto been referable to self, and suggests something that is not self, still it is a feeling of self, or of our selves : it is the self-conscious Being just existing in a new state of consciousness ; and the question arises, how is this new state referred to something without as its cause ? When we have spoken of this new state as not referable to self, we meant in its origin, or cause — it is still a state of the one self-conscious Being : how does the self-conscious Being refer that state, no longer to any internal, but to an external source? What allows of the transition from self to what is not self? It is a feeling of a peculiar kind, certainly, which now awakens the idea of an external world ; but is not much of that peculiarity, if not all of it, owing to an intuitive law of the mind by which we come to pass from a mere sensation, or state of conscious ness, a sensation discriminated indeed, a state of consciousness altogether different from any other previous state, but still but a sensation or state of the self-conscious Being — to pass from that sensation or state to something external ? If there was not some intuitive process, some law of the mind immediate and irresistible, we do not see how the idea of externality could ever be obtained. The new feeling might puzzle the infant reasoner, or it might be set down just as a new feeling different from any that had hitherto been experienced, but it would never lead to something without or external. It is enough to say that the mind is so constituted as to pass from the one to the other ; but what is this but admitting an intuitive law ? As Descartes says of our personal existence, it is a truth which strikes the mind at once and irresistibly : so it may be said of the belief in an external world, or simply the idea of exter nality. Dr. Brown, therefore, seems to us, in his love of sim-
26 INTELLECT.
plicity, or desire to introduce no separate or independent law of the mind, and to account for its processes by a few simple laws, to have gone too far in rejecting all intuition in this process, and ascribing all to the mind taking notice of the interruption of one of Us accustomed sequences. Even when this way of explaining the process is allowed, as furnishing the occasion on which the belief of an external world, or the idea of exter nality, arises, there still remains the most important part of the process to be accounted for, viz., that by ivhich loe pass from an internal feeling to an external object as its cause. This must ever remain unaccountable, but on the ground of an original and intuitive law of the mind. We believe in our own consciousness, as intimating a personal existence, accord ing to the same kind of law. We might have had that con sciousness for ever, and never passed to the idea of personal existence without such a law or tendency of the mind — a tendency like all its original tendencies — wisely stamped upon it by the Creator. The will of God, and the constitution which God has stamped upon mind, and that in its relations to an external world, is the only way of accounting for the idea or belief in question. It is marvellous that this is not regarded as satisfactory in all such nice questions, where the difficulty of solution is felt and acknowledged, and that philosophers must go farther, and trace the very law itself in its very tvorJciny. " The most uninstructed peasant," says Dr. Reid, " has as dis tinct a conception, and as firm a belief, of the immediate object of his senses, as the greatest philosopher ; and with that belief he rests satisfied, giving himself no concern how he came by this conception and belief. But the philosopher is impatient to know how his conception of external objects, and his belief of their existence, is produced. This I am afraid," continues Dr. Reid, " is hid in impenetrable darkness. But where there is no knowledge there is the more room for conjecture, and of this philosophers have always been very liberal.''
The mode in which the mind communicates with the external world, or the external world becomes the object of perception
INTELLECT. 27
to the mind, has been the subject of various theories from the time of Plato downwards. A very minute account of these theories will be found in Dr. Keid's writings, and it would be superfluous to repeat them here. More or less respecting them, whether in the way of explanation or criticism, will be found also in Dugald Stewart's writings, especially his " Preliminary Dissertation." It is sufficient to say here, that all proceed upon the necessity of accounting for what should have been left unaccounted for from the beginning, viz., the mode in which the mind communicates with the external world, can have any conference, so to speak, with what is external. The difficulty was not so much how matter could act upon mind — a difficulty, too, and which was endeavoured to be got over by refining sensations into sensible species, which became the objects of perception, and these into phantasms, which were thought to be the objects of imagination and memory — and phantasms into intelligible species — the objects it was thought of science and reasoning : it was through such a process that matter was admitted into the valhalla of the mind : it must lose all its grossness before it could pass into the presence of Spirit : but this was not the chief difficulty. The chief diffi culty lay in explaining how what was without could communi cate with what was within — what was removed from the mind could communicate with the mind as if it was present. The mind sees, feels, hears objects, all at a distance, and knows them to be distant : how could this be? nay, the nearest object of sense is still removed from the mind, which is a spiritual Being, and resides, it is supposed, in the sensorium or brain. The question was, how could the mind perceive objects thus removed at a greater or less distance ? On the principle that nothing can act where it is not present — " sentire nihil qucat mens, nisi id agat, et adsit" — how was the communication be tween the outward and inner worlds to be explained ? Now, this was obviously attempting an explanation of what was in explicable, except by admitting the will of the Creator as a sufficient explanation. God has so willed it, and we can and need go no farther. Matter communicates with mind, and
'28 INTELLECT.
mind with matter by a law, or after a mode, of which we can give no account. There is no need to suppose sensible species, as refined sensations, capable, while sensations themselves are not, of passing to the mind through the nerves — an ingenious enough theory but wholly conjectural — nay, accounting for no thing; for if the sensations were so refined, if the mere species or representations of sensations were such that they could be present to the mind, it still remains to be accounted for how matter communicates with mind, while the passage up the nerves to the brain and thence to the mind, has nothing in physiology to support it, but is purely conjectural. The nerves are indeed the medium of sensation, by which the senses operate upon the mind ; but that is by a manner wholly inexplicable. The mind communicates in a way wholly unknown to us with the external world. So it is, and that is all that can be said. The vanity of attempting to strike through the boundaries placed to our knowledge was never more signally illustrated than in the theories that have been entertained on this very subject — than in the attempt to explain the mode of connexion between mind and matter — the theories of perception. Had the fact of that connexion, or communication, been admitted without attempting to explain it — had the idea of externality and the belief of an external world been rested in, and had the attempt to account for them gone no farther than to trace, as far as could be done, the occasion of the idea and belief, or circumstances in which they arose, we would have had a wiser and better philosophy much earlier, and many difficult theories would have been spared both the pains of the inventor, and the labour of those who were called to unravel them, while the absurd attempt of the highest intellects to accomplish not only what was beyond their faculties, but what their faculties had no call to accomplish, where they were expending their powers most futilely and in vain — powers, too, that have been in the very van of intellect — such a spectacle would not have been exhibited, bringing almost discredit upon philosophy itself through the very names which adorn it. Plato, and Aristotle, and Descartes, and Locke, and Hartley, and the French Ar-
INTELLECT. 29
nauld, and even the greatest of inductive philosophers, Newton, would not have been found among those theorists, whose theories or conjectures have been dissipated by a little common sense, or by the admission of that principle into philosophy, to which even philosophy must pay deference, that the ultimate laws or intuitive convictions of the mind must be regarded as ultimate, and the mind can inquire no farther. Strange that this prin ciple was not admitted sooner — that the original or intuitive laws or operations of the mind were not sooner recognised, and that it was reserved for a philosopher of the eighteenth century — Dr. Reid, with his coadjutors Oswald and Beattie — and in France, contemporaneously, but without, apparently, any con cert, Father Buffier — to set the question on its proper founda tion. " The coincidence between his train of thinking (the French philosopher's) and that into which our Scottish meta physicians soon after fell," says Dugald Stewart, " is so very remarkable, that it has been considered by many as amounting to a proof that the plan of their works was in some measure suggested by his ; but it is infinitely more probable, that the argument which runs in common through the speculations of all of them, was the natural result of the state of metaphysical science when they engaged in their philosophical inquiries."
III.
The idea of externality is not yet that of an external world. There is much that goes to make up the latter idea that is not in the former. We derive the former from an interruption to a wonted series of feelings which are referable to self, or to a state simply of self-consciousness — the new feeling being some thing altogether different from any which had either hitherto been referred to self, or could be referred to self as its origin : it is therefore attributed to something else. Whether it be, according to Dr. Brown, a feeling of resistance to mmcular action — or it be some feeling among the many which the
30 INTELLECT.
external world may awaken in the inner self-conscious Being, it at once leads the mind to an external object as its cause, — and this by an original law of the mind, which is infallible. We have already seen that if there was not such a law, the new feeling, however peculiar, would still be but a feeling of the mind itself, and would never lead to anything without as its cause. It must be by an intuitive process that the mind passes from a state of consciousness to the certain conviction of an external world — or just from an inner consciousness to an external cause. No mere difference of feeling would awaken or justify such a reference. It is by an intuitive law of the mind that that reference is made, as much as when we conclude that an effect must have a cause, or when we refer an object possessing certain properties, or exhibiting certain charac teristics, to a class to which it belongs. The law or consti tution of our minds leads to the reference or conclusion in both cases.
Externality, however, as we have said, is not an external world. The idea of externality, however, having been obtained, other ideas follow, which, combining with that of externality, make up the idea of an external world. All the senses of the child are open to impressions from without. The eye takes in the colours of the landscape — the ear the sounds which salute it — the smell the fragrance of the fields — the touch the texture, the hardness or softness, of bodies, while the taste is regaled by the sweets which are offered to its palate, or offended by the nauseous potion which affection administers for its benefit. Here are plenty of intimations, impressions, or sensations, all coming from an external world. But the child is philosophic in its procedure, or rather the mind does not operate but according to its own laws. Colours, sounds, taste, smell, might all affect the several senses, and not one idea, or the faintest intimation of matter would be created, or conveyed to the inner thinking being. It is perhaps impossible to determine whether the idea of externality might not be excited. According to Dr. Brown, it is resistance to muscular action which excites this idea — first awakens it: but this it may be impossible
INTELLECT. 31
positively to determine. There is certainly a greater arrest given to the mind by a feeling of resistance to muscular action, or by the interruption of a series of muscular feelings, than can be conceived in any other way ; but still it is no more than an interruption of a series of feelings — it is no more than a feel ing of resistance, — as a feeling of colour is one of colour, or sound is one of sound. There can be no doubt, however, that we owe the first idea of matter to the sense of touch, and that none of the other senses could ever have awakened it. With the sense of taste the sense of touch is combined, so that we must separate what is peculiar to the one from what is peculiar to the other. With the sense of sight, however, with that of smell, with that of hearing, we can have no difficulty : it is obvious that from none of these — nor from all of them com bined — could we obtain the idea of matter. With respect to the sense of seeing, for example, it can be demonstrated, and has been demonstrated, by writers upon this subject, that light or colour is the only proper object of that sense. The eye is really affected by nothing but light or colour. This is at first very startling, and can hardly be believed — in opposition to all the varied solicitations that now affect, or seem to affect, the eye from without, the varied qualities or objects of which it seems now to be the organ of perception. Yet startling as this may be at first, it has been demonstrably proved by Bishop Berkeley in his Theory of Vision, and has been a settled point in philosophy ever since. Magnitude, figure, distance — which seem to be objects of sight — to be seen — it has been conclusively shewn, are acquired by the sense of touch, and are now, apart from the operation of that sense, mere inferences of the mind in connexion with certain states of the visual organ. The theory is this : — magnitude, fgure, distance, are ascertained or acquired by the sense of touch — but consentaneous with the process by which these are acquired, there are certain sensations — certain effects of light or colour upon the eye — and certain sensations pertaining to the particular axis of vision — which, by a mind more active in its processes than the most learned or the most ignorant are aware of, are registered, remembered, so
32 INTELLECT.
that upon the occurrence of these sensations, these states of the organ of vision, the exact idea of magnitude, figure, distance, acquired by touch is recalled, until it comes to appear an idea of sight, or one of the direct informations of vision. All that the eye sees is light in its different prismatic colours. It may be obvious with a little reflection, even without the aid of demonstrative science, that this is so. The medium of vision are the rays of light falling upon the retina of the eye. Within that small compass, then, how could distance be measured ? upon that plain surface how could figures of every shape be traced, or represented ? how could magnitudes of every size, from the molecule to the mountain, be cast ? Distance is but a line drawn, or supposed to be drawn, from the eye to the object — from a point on the retina to a point at any distance from it : a point therefore is all that can be really seen. It will appear, then, that light or colour is the only proper object of vision. But could light or colour ever suggest the idea of matter ? That light is as material as the grossest substance, is true — but, striking upon the eye, would it ever awaken the idea of a material substance ? Could the sounds that float around and seem to be warbled by the air — the soul of music — harmonies that take the ear captive — notes that steal into the chambers of the soul, and awaken all its finest and tenderest emotions, — or those which startle and alarm, the blare of the trumpet, or the crash of thunder — could any of these convey a material image to the mind ? Are they not more akin to the spiritual than the material ? Read the Ode of Wordsworth on the power of Sound, and you will perceive this : —
" Tlnr functions are ethereal,"
says the poet :—
"As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, Organ of vision! And a spirit aerial Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind; Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought To enter than oracular cave ; Strict passage through which sighs arc brought, And whispers for the heart their slave ;
INTELLECT. 33
And shrieks, that revel in abuse
Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air,
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose
The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile
Into the ainbush of despair ;
Hosannahs pealing clown the long drawn aisle,
And requiems answered by the pulse that beats
Devoutly, in life's last retreats !"
II.
" The headlong streams and fountains Serve thee, invisible spirit ! with untired powers ; Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, They lull, perchance, ten thousand thousand flowers."
The fragrance that steals from the garden, or is wafted on every breeze that sweeps the bean-field, or shakes the hedgerow, seems as ethereal. It is not to either of them that we owe our idea of matter ; it is to a sense more gross, more material, if we may so speak — that of touch. It is to the sensations of hardness, solidity, we think, that we are to trace this idea. How the mind comes ultimately to have any of its ideas is a mystery which we do not pretend to penetrate, — an ultimate fact or law of the mind itself, which it is impossible to explain. In this sense, every operation or law of the mind is intuitive, original, ultimate, inexplicable. But we may trace the occasions of our ideas, although not the precise modiis of their production. And the occasion on which the idea of matter would seem to take place or arise in the mind, is the presence of certain sen sations of touch — such as hardness, solidity, or what Dr. Brown calls the muscular feeling of resistance. The idea of matter then rises in the mind, and this must be accompanied by the cognate, or co-relative idea of mind. It seems impossible that the one idea could arise without the other ; it is at that instant, probably, that the idea of each, and the distinction between both, takes place, or is perceived. It is then that the firmament is reared which, for ever divides the two — mind from matter. For the consciousness of self is- not necessarily that of mind. The ego, or self, is merely the ego ; it is nothing more till the two ideas, mind and matter, are discriminated. Then, indeed,
c
34 INTELLECT.
mind is seen to be the ego, or self; or self is seen to be mind, immaterial, spiritual ; and the not self, or that which is exter nal to self, is discerned to be matter, or is pronounced matter. Here, then, we have got the two ideas, matter and mind. It is true that the infant will, as yet, have a much more distinct idea of matter than of mind. Indeed, mind will, as yet, be only the kind of penumbra of matter — hardly an idea — not matter — yet attending it — till by and by it will no longer be the penumbra, but the light in which, matter itself is seen, and with which it is contrasted. How soon does the child come to have an idea of mind — of spirit ! How soon does spirit haunt it, and brood over it, " a presence that will not be put by ;" and it talks of shadows, and can conceive of the dead, in spiritual bodies, re visiting their former dwelling-places, or, better taught, can take in the doctrine of immortality, and think of the spirit of its departed parent that has gone to God who gave it, and of God himself the Great and Good Spirit, to whose spiritual dwelling- place it is itself taught to aspire. So early, then, are these two ideas obtained, and the distinction between them for ever and indelibly fixed. The child is neither a materialist nor an idealist. It neither ascribes all to mind nor all to matter. It has a perfect belief in both. The skies do not appeal to it in vain — nor the flowery fields — nor the thousand glad objects that crowd within the sphere of its daily vision — nor in vain do the sounds in earth and air salute it. But as little does its own consciousness — do its own internal feelings — its spiritual being — appeal to it in vain — wake within it those ideas of a spiritual substance as something distinct from, and nobler than matter, than even the world on which it gazes, or on which it treads, with a tiny foot indeed, but already of more account in the scale of Being than the world itself.
IV.
The first idea of matter would be that of something tangible — something that could be touched — external to self. A greater or lesser degree of hardness or tactual, not muscular, resistance
INTELLECT. 35
would be implied in the idea. We oppose tactual to muscular resistance, the latter being more violent, the former being the mere resistance which matter, in a more or less solid state, offers to the touch. Dr. Brown was the first, we believe, who took notice of muscular resistance as a distinct kind of sensation, different from mere tactual sensation. But there is a certain amount of resistance in every tactual sensation, even when it is a fluid body that is met or encountered. In physical philosophy, there is such a doctrine as the impenetrability of matter, that is, matter may be displaced but cannot be penetrated. Matter is composed of infinitely small particles — we can set no limits, by our understanding at least, to the divisibility of matter, to the minuteness of the particles of which it is composed. Each of these, then, may be displaced, but cannot be penetrated. When we pierce a solid body, we only set aside, or remove from their former place, its constituent particles, but each several particle is unpenetrated, and remains in all its integrity. Even in fluid bodies, then, there is resistance. Matter, then, as first appre hended by the mind, would be something that offered a resist ance, however faint, to the touch. By and by, hardness and softness would be distinguished, solidity and fluidity — and these several ideas would be acquired by the mind. Matter would be something that was hard or soft, solid or fluid. Hardness and softness, solidity and fluidity, would be properties of mat ter. And here the idea of substance would arise. It would be to the mind that in which those qualities of which the mind had obtained the idea, or an intimation however faint, inhered. The, mind obtains the idea of them as qualities ; but qualities imply a substratum. The substratum would be the substance, the qualities being no more than qualities : matter would be that ivhich possessed, or was the subject of, the qualities already named. In like manner, the qualities of mind would be referred to some substance or being in which they inhered, some spiritual substance or essence of which they were only the qualities. In this case the idea of the Being, although not apprehended as mind — for it is not so apprehended till it is distinguished from matter — the idea of this Being — the
36 INTELLECT.
self, the inner-self — would be first, and the idea of the quali ties would be after. But it would be at this time, probably, that the ideas of substance and quality would be obtained, discriminated ; and the mind and its qualities would be seen to be distinct — the mind the substance — the qualities the properties of that substance. So simultaneously, and yet in so orderly a manner, would the mind's ideas arise. We can but give a conjectural view of that order. It is im possible with positive certainty to determine the exact order, in point of time, of the mind's ideas. But it is probable that it was as we have traced it. It is well that no question of importance depends upon the precise order in which our ideas arose, or our knowledge of that order, — that no valuable or vital decision is risked by the nicer distinctions of meta physics. It is interesting, however, as well as useful, to trace, as far as possible, the development of mind — of that inner- thinking Being, which, in truth, constitutes the whole of ourselves. If we would analyze the merest particle of matter — if we would trace that organic structure in its growth and germination — if we would determine the laws and properties of bodies, shall we not observe the dawning and progress of the thinking principle — shall we not observe its first opening and subsequent expansion — a more curious object of observation, surely, than the pollen of a flower, or the shape of a crystal, or the laws of a chemical combination, or a mechanical force ? To determine the limits and the laws of mind^— its connexion with, but not its absorption in, or identification with matter — to mark their mutual dependence, but their total difference, the laws of each as affected and discerned by those of the other, matter at once awakening and giving scope to mind, but not constituting it — and further to notice the indestructible laws of belief, where uncertainty may be granted or allowed, but scepticism must be condemned, — all this must be at once interesting and important, and constitutes the proper object of metaphysics — the philosophy of mind. To determine the limits of mind and matter, and to mark their entire and essential difference, and yet, in our present state, their mutual dependence, is what is
INTELLECT. 37
necessary, the very desideratum, in the philosophy of the pre sent day, the surest safeguard against the scepticism which would confound mind with matter, or, as in German meta physics, resolve all into mind, nay, annihilate mind itself, and leave nothing but " the dream of a dream." We are forced to be metaphysicians whether we will or not ; not if we would not be sceptics, but if we would be able to meet the sceptic. False philosophy can be met only by that which is true or sound. The materialist can be successfully refuted only by him who has examined well the separate limits of mind and matter ; the idealist by him who has discriminated well the laws of mind, and is in no danger, therefore, of being carried away by an absolutism, which will allow no force, and no reality, to anything which is not mere consciousness. Mind, and the laivs of mind, are what must be held up in the face of that infidelity which would reduce man himself to a mere organism, somewhat superior to a sliell-fisli — or that which would take away all certainty from our beliefs, and allow nothing to those laws of our mental constitution which demand our submission, as much as our merest consciousness, authori tative as that consciousness in reality is. Are we not conscious of these laws? Are we conscious only of consciousness I If consciousness, at least, is to be trusted, does it not depone to these laws ? Nay, what is our consciousness, at any particular moment, but, as we have seen, the state of our mind at that particular moment ? — and what is our consciousness when it exists in the state of a sensation, and what is it when it exists in the state of an internal feeling ? There are two separate states of consciousness, pointing to two separate sources or quarters from which these states are derived, pointing to matter and mind. The one state of consciousness informs us of matter, the other informs us of mind. Are both not to be believed ? It is in vain that the materialist or idealist en deavours to escape, according to his own favourite tendency, from the beliefs of the mind — the beliefs of consciousness, or our conscious beliefs. Neither, it is apprehended, is a very firm believer in his own doctrine or theory. We question if
38 INTELLECT.
the author of the " Vestiges of Creation " is a believer in his own creed ; or if those who abet his doctrines, or the followers of a Combe or a Priestley, really, and seriously, and at all moments, can discard the belief in mind; while the meta physicians of Germany would require a certificate from their own school of philosophy, that they were not, after all, as orthodox believers in matter as others. It is of some use, then, to trace the laws and processes of mind — to have our belief firmly entrenched within these laws themselves, if we are not tamely to deliver up the citadel of truth at the first demand of the sceptic or the infidel. With respect to those laws and beliefs to which we owe, and must, in point of fact, render sub mission, we may quote the words of Dr. Chalmers : — " If con sciousness depone to a certain primary and original belief, what more have we to do than to give ourselves up to it, and follow its guidance over that outer domain or department of truth which belongs to it ? Or if consciousness depone to the exist ence and the workings of a certain faculty — call it reason or perception — what more have we to do than just to learn of that faculty, the informations which it gives ? — authoritative informa tions, they, of course, will be, and such as should carry the belief of the whole human race along with them, seeing that they are dictated by the resistless and fundamental laws of the human understanding." It is because consciousness depones to the belief, and to the faculty, that both are to be trusted ; and the beliefs of the mind, and the informations of its several faculties, are as much the objects of a strict and rigorous consciousness, as any object of consciousness, even the simplest feeling, can be. But this is a digression, although still important, to the present stage of our inquiries. In the development of its faculties, the mind does not form for itself either mind or matter, as the German metaphysicians would teach us, leaving to us neither mind nor matter, but certain formative laws of consciousness, taking away even the subject of these laws, as if there could be laws without a subject, or operations without a substance or being, of which they are the operations. The mind does not form to itself mind or matter, but becomes informed
INTELLECT. 39
o/mind aud matter, and the qualities and phenomena of both. As we have endeavoured to trace the progress of its ideas, it is first informed of its own existence — then of an external exist ence — then of the material qualities of that external existence — in connexion, again, with this, its own immateriality or spirituality, its existence as mind, and of substance, as that in which those material and immaterial qualities of which it is cognizant, or which are now apprehended by the mind, inhere. The mind is informed of all these in its own progressive de velopment. And it is interesting to notice that it is informed of its own existence, and of its own qualities, pari passu, or simultaneously, with its informations respecting matter. This indicates the laws of our Being. We are not purely spiritual substances : we exist along with a material frame, and in a material world, and God has connected the development of mind, and the knowledge both of its own existence and laws, with the knowledge of that material framework within which it is to expatiate, and with the laws of which it is for a time, at least, most intimately to have to do. There is this dual and contemporaneous process going on during all this earliest and most important period of the mind's progress. And of the two substances, mind and matter, it seems to be as certainly assured or informed of the one as of the other, and of neither more certainly than of the other — although mind is itself, and matter is what is external. There must be a more intimate feeling, indeed, of self, than of matter ; it is mind which is cognizant of matter, not matter of mind. Mind is the self-conscious Being ; matter is no part of itself, although so intimately associated. But we must first destroy the laws of mind, or rather destroy mind itself, before we can destroy the belief both of matter and mind, and the knowledge of the laws of both. Let us proceed, then, with the examination of the mind's pro gress in the ascertainment of the laws and the qualities, whether of mind or matter — its own subjective self, and objective matter.
40 INTELLECT.
V.
The next quality of matter that would develop itself would probably be that of extension. The feeling of tactual resist ance would be prolonged or continued over a surface ; and hence at once the idea of extension would arise, and the quality of extension be discerned or apprehended. The feeling of resistance would be multiplied in a continuous direction, and the idea of extension would be the result. We had first the feeling of resistance itself, producing the idea of hardness and softness, solidity and fluidity — the primary ideas, no doubt, of matter. Consequent, perhaps, upon these— the first intimations of qualities — or, contemporaneously, in the very ideas — we obtained the idea of substance, as that in which the qualities resided or inhered. This would, if not immediately, yet ulti mately, lead to the distinction between mind as a substance and the qualities of mind. Matter as a substance, and mind as a substance, would both now be apprehended, and that probably, or possibly, u.pon\the first knowledge of qualities, or suggestion of these as qualities of a substance. But the idea of extension would follow upon the possession of the idea of hard ness or softness, and in connexion with the continued feeling of resistance. This substance without would now be perceived, or learned, to be extended. It would be ascertained to be an extended substance. The idea of magnitude would follow — dimension — that which was contained within the limits given to the feeling of resistance. The term magnitude must be taken in the sense of dimension or size ; and greater or lesser magnitude would be a subsequent idea, and the result of a comparison. The idea of figure, again, would be awakened, and while the abstract idea of figure would be obtained, matter would be discerned to be something figured, as well as possess ing dimension, magnitude, extension, hardness, softness. The idea of matter would now be pretty complete — those qualities which are essential to it being now ascertained. Extension, figure, magnitude, hardness, softness, would now enter into the conception of matter. We know riot how quick the mind
INTELLECT. 41
would be in clearing up the chaos that, no doubt, would for a time possess it. We cannot attend to the infant's motions without seeing those processes going on which are to reduce this chaos to an admirable harmony. That glance of the eye — that other grasp of the hand — the application of its magic measuring wand — these are not mere random processes, or for pleasure only : they are all parts of the process by which the child is disintegrating or combining its ideas — forming out of the chaos that is before it that order under which every object, and every quality of every object, come at last to range them selves. Magnitude and figure are obviously but modifications of extension, but they are distinct ideas. Magnitude is the degree or quantity of extension. Figure is extension in different directions, and in each direction considered relatively to another. A cube, for example, is equal extension in all directions — an oblong, greater extension in one direction than in another — while a circle, perhaps, may be said to be extension continuous in no one direction, and every part of which is equidistant from a common point. Now, although the mathematical definition of these figures is not part of the information acquired at this early period, there can be no doubt that the figures themselves are appreciable, and are laid hold of by the infant mind. How soon will the ball be distinguished from the surface on which it rolls ! How are the solid dimensions of the cubes, and the flat surface of the cards, which are respectively to construct its airy mansions, ascertained ; while the table on which the man sion is to arise is pretty well known to be higher than itself, or the scaffolding by which it is reached. A long is soon distin guished from a short body, a high from a low, a narrow from a broad. Every variety of shape and figure is discerned and noticed, although it could not be mathematically described. The mind is delighted with one form and displeased with an other. This toy is commended by its shape, while that is thrown away. Solidity and fluidity have been already noticed as among the earliest ascertained qualities of matter. Smooth ness and roughness will be contemporaneous probably with extension ; for as the latter is got by continued resistance.
42 INTELLECT.
every extended surface will present greater or less irregularity in its resistance to the tactual feeling. The regularity or irre gularity will be the degree of roughness or smoothness of the extended surface. Contemporaneous with these acquired im pressions or ideas will be those sensations of the organ of vision with which they are ever after to be connected, and so con nected that some at least of the former will seem to be the informations of the sense to which the latter belong. Magni tude and figure, although acquired in the manner described, appear to be the informations of the eye, of sight. It is a pro cess of association, however, in every instance in which the eye seems to inform us either of the magnitude or figure of bodies. This is no doubt wonderful, and almost at first incredible, but it is already a philosophic truth. The sensations of the visual organ go so simultaneously with those of the tactual, and, by a subtle process of the mind, to which there is no example in after years, the two classes of sensations are so associated, that it is enough for the one class to exist, to recall the other, or to give us the other. But why, then, it may be asked, do not the sensations of touch recall those of sight ? Perhaps they would, were the circumstances of the two senses reversed, or by having been deprived of the sense of sight we had become suddenly dependent upon that of touch. Had Milton not in his blind ness all the colours as well as forms of Paradise in his eye, as it were — at least in his mind, when he wrote his description of the primeval garden ? Were we to depend upon touch as we depend upon vision — were it to be the guide of our every move ment as sight is, then every associated impression, no doubt, would be easily recalled. But we are to depend upon sight, and it is sight that treasures the impressions, or the mind in connexion with sight. Sight is always active — touch is often in abeyance ; the sensations of the former, therefore, will be ever recalling those of the latter — the sensations of the latter seldom those of the former. It must be obvious that solidity and fluidity must be inferences of the mind, and not direct objects of vision ; and yet, do we not appear to see an object as solid, and another as fluid ? In like manner with hardness
INTELLECT. 43
and softness, smoothness and roughness : these all appear to be direct objects of vision ; and yet it must be obvious that they are but inferences of the mind, in connexion with certain states or impressions of the eye. It is in the same manner that we come to measure distance by the ear as well as by the eye, and by both, as though it were a primary information of these senses. Let the customary state of the organ and of the me dium through which it acts be disturbed by some unusual cause, by a temporary imperfection of the organ, or by some unusual state of the atmosphere, and the inference of the mind will be wrong, or the mind will be altogether at a loss — and the sound, or the object of sight, will be thought to be nearer or more distant than it is, or no inference at all will be ventured upon. " A given degree of sound," says Abercrombie, " if we believe it to have been produced in the next room, we might conclude to proceed from the fall of some trifling body ; but if we sup posed it to be at the distance of several miles, we should imme diately conclude that it proceeded from a tremendous explosion." How is the inference of the mind upset when a straight object is seen through water ! The oar of the bargeman appears to be broken in two — and a beam placed upright is bent from the perpendicular.* Objects appear enlarged when seen through a fog, while, in particular states of the atmosphere, land seems much nearer than in other states, and vice versd.^ The ear of the Indian huntsman or trapper can discern and tell the dis tances of sounds when another would be altogether at a loss, or would not hear the slightest noise. The encampment of the enemy not far off is an inference from marks that would escape any other eye. Time itself is measured by the trail of the flying foe. It can be accurately told on what precise day they
* The rays of light, which are the t The mind judges from the dim- only proper object of vision, are refracted ness of objects in a fog that they are to the eye, so that the inference of the far off, while they have the magnitude mind is as in the case of really crooked of actual nearness. The inference, objects. The eye conveys the same intel- therefore, is, that the object is very ligence to the mind, or experiences the large, because it is supposed to be dis- same sensations, as when an actually bent tant . or crooked object is presented to the sight .
44 INTELLECT.
passed over this part of their route, and how many days they are before on their march, by a pressure in the grass which it might be supposed impossible to discern. A sailor accus tomed to the watch on the deck, hears sounds which no other would detect, and sees a sail on the horizon, when, to another eye, all is empty space. It is obvious, then, that there are acquired impressions both of the sense of hearing and seeing, and these are precisely the senses which are most exercised, and on which we most depend. A blind person learns infer ences in connexion with the sense of hearing to which another is an utter stranger ; so the deaf person from the sense of sight. Many blind persons can tell colours by the touch : so powerful is the law of association in connexion with the pro cesses of mind — a law which works with a force of which we shall yet have many remarkable examples.
We but seem to see that sky, then, so many fathoms over head : all that we see is its azure, and that is painted on the retina of the eye. One would suppose that the space between us and the sky was seen.* Those spaces through which we pass daily, the objects on which the eye rests — the street, the houses, the persons we meet, are not objects of sight, are not truly seen — we mean as such : the eye can take in at any time but a small surface, and that but a surface of colour — all the rest is but an inference, or are but inferences of the mind in connexion with certain visual sensations. The inferences are so rapidly made, however, that the objects appear to be real objects of vision. They are truly objects of another sense; or the sensations and impressions of that other sense have united with those of the eye to give us in connexion with the impressions of the latter the magnitude, figure, and relative distances of objects. It is as if we saw these, because they are intimately connected with certain visual sensations. They are all real, but they are not immediate objects of sight. Their
* Space is distance in all directions, retina: distance tlien cannot be seen; —
or that which allows of distance in all and multiply points upon the retina,
directions; but distance in any dircc- could that give us space, or the measure -
tion is but a line from a point on the ment of space ?
INTELLECT. 45
reality is not denied — it is only that they are not seen that is asserted. That figure, that magnitude, that distance, are as real as if they were seen, but it is truly by a mental process, by a previous process of association, and now by a rapid process of inference, that they are discerned.* How wonderful ! but what is not wonderful in that system of which we are a part ? It is the truest lesson of philosophy to learn when to wonder and vet not to doubt.
The art of the painter may illustrate this subject. How is it that he can represent on his canvas, figure, distance, and almost action ? It is by simple attention to the laws of per spective. We exclude from the consideration at present that genius which cannot only draw well, and give the proper light and shade, so as to deceive the eye, but can convey the senti ment as well as the truth of nature. By an accurate attention to the simple laws of perspective, an object can be so repre sented as to deceive the keenest observer. The story of Zeuxis and Parrhasius is well known. The birds came to pick the grapes of Zeuxis : Zeuxis would withdraw the curtain of Par rhasius. By the management of light and shade in dioramas the optical deception is complete. It would be impossible to say that the long drawn aisles of the cathedral are not before us. The colosseum in London represents the city as seen from the dome of St. Paul's, it were difficult not to say, as perfectly as if it were actually beheld. Streets, bridges, houses, churches, spires, omnibuses, drays, the crowds pouring along Fleet Street and the Strand, the Thames, the new Parliament Houses, Westminster Cathedral, the very towers of St. Paul's itself, which are supposed to be at your feet, and the interminable
* Certain amusing speculations might lieve you to be standing there ; I be-
follow from this view — or results — could lieve you to be of such a height, such
we actually mark the process as it goes a form ; I believe you to have come in
on, the inferences of the mind as they such a direction, to be going in such an-
arise along with the sensations of sight. other. All would be inference, belief.
In addressing a friend we could only Only of colour could it be positively or
say, I infer you to be so and so ; I be- properly said, I see that colour.
46 INTELLECT.
extent of buildings, both on the Middlesex and Surrey side of the river, all are so accurately given, with such effect of per spective, that the spectator might challenge any one, so far as the completeness of the illusion is concerned, to say that it is not London ; and yet it is but a sheet of canvas. The same impressions received by the eye as from the actual objects, the mind, apart from other data, could not say that the actual objects are not seen. By a proper shading the very roundness of the human figure may appear to start from the canvas — and the distances in landscape may be so accurately preserved, that for a time you experience all the delights derivable from actual scenery. The representation of the last judgment by Michael Angelo so affected a spectator, that he said — his blood chilled as if the reality were before him, and the very sound of the trumpet seemed to pierce his ear. There must be much more in all this than a mere attention to the laws of perspective. Mere imitation is the lowest part of the painter's art. There are not only forms to be accurately given, not only must the per spective be preserved, but the sentiment that lies over a landscape, and the life or expression that is in a countenance or a scene, must be communicated. Then, in addition to the illusion which correct perspective produces, you have all the animation and all the mind which mind itself throws around even the inanimate scene, and which must be in the living forms and actions which are transferred to the picture.
" Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show the immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled strength of shade and light, A new creation rises to my sight ; Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with life his blended colours glow." *
But the truthfulness of the mere laws of perspective, and the illusion which they are capable of exerting, show that what appears to be the informations of vision, or the direct objects of sight, are truly acquired perceptions.
* Addiaon. Letter from Italy to Lord Halifax,
INTELLECT. 47
VI.
We have thus, then, arrived at the essential properties of matter. These are extension, divisibility, solidity or fluidity, hardness or softness, and figure. Motion does not seem to be a property of matter : it is something communicated to it, not belonging to it. But the qualities enumerated enter into our very conception of matter. It is by these qualities that matter becomes known to us. The properties of fragrance, heat or cold, sweetness or bitterness, are not essential to matter — they do not enter into our idea of matter. We can conceive matter totally destitute of them, as indeed it often is. But matter without extension, or some degree of resistance to the touch, would be a contradiction. And there is more than our having given the name, Matter, to that which discovers itself to us by these properties, which, according to Dr. Brown, seems to be the amount of a quality or qualities being primary, or essen tial to matter: they are so, according to him, because we have called that matter which possesses these qualities. If we had given the name of matter to that which excited the sensation of colour, of fragrance, of heat or cold, of sound — these, according to Dr. Brown, would have been the primary qualities of matter. But these must first have been capable of intimat ing the existence of matter to us, which they are not. They do not seem to be capable of intimating even anything external to us. It is not to them that we have traced either the idea of externality, or that of matter as a substance without us. Besides, they are fluctuating, varying, qualities. They may be possessed, or they may not. They are possessed by some bodies — they are not by others. To give the name of matter, then, to them, would be but to assign another name to qualities, or rather to sensations, for they could not themselves intimate that they belonged to an external substance. Or if they could intimate this, there would be as many kinds of matter as there were qualities, for none of them were essential to all matter. But there must be some permanent or invariable qualities before we can employ a name significant of them all, or of
48 INTELLECT.
which they were significant. According to Dr. Brown himself, extension and resistance are the only two qualities which can invariably be predicated of matter ; for figure and magnitude are modifications of extension, — as solidity and fluidity, hard ness, softness, are of resistance. Both solidity and fluidity, both hardness and softness, are not essential to matter ; but either of them must be — that is, matter must be either solid or fluid, hard or soft. We cannot conceive the absence of both at one and the same time, but we can conceive the absence of one of them. The same with roughness and smoothness. But extension and some degree of resistance must always be possessed — must always be present, and therefore it is that Dr. Brown himself has reduced the primary qualities of matter to these two. They may be reduced still further, viz., to resist ance ; for extension is rather a property of space than of matter. Matter, even a monad, is resistance in space. What is essential to matter, what enters into our very idea of it, is called a primary quality. All the other qualities of matter are called secondary.
The non-essential, or secondary qualities of matter, are those which are not invariably possessed by it. We could not give an unvarying, or one, name to that which was itself vary ing and more than one. The two qualities which are always possessed by matter, never separate from it, and one ofivhich is that ivhich intimates its existence, these two qualities are extension and resistance. Under extension we include magni tude and figure ; under resistance, hardness, softness, solidity, fluidity, smoothness, roughness. And these are objects of the sense of touch. The qualities which are the objects of the other senses may be possessed or may not ; and hence they are called secondary. The colours of bodies, their fragrance, their sonorousness, or, again, their sapidity or insipidity — these vary with the object : some objects possess them, and more or fewer of them ; others may possess none of them, or some of them in so small a degree as hardly to be the object of sense. But every object is extended, and has the power or property of resistance. The material framework by which we are sur-
INTELLECT. 49
rounded, including this world and these globes, far into the boundless regions of space, but presents these two essential qualities — extension and resistance. Weight or gravitation is a law of matter, rather than a property. Weight is but the action of gravitation which pervades all matter — a law which preserves the universe in order, and but for which everything would rush into original chaos. No particle of matter would cohere to another : no planet would seek its centre, or rather a planet or globe could not exist. We would have Epicurus's dance of atoms, — and yet why that dance ? — why motion at all ? — and if stationary, by what law ? The truth is, it is impossible for our minds, at least, to conceive any other state of things than that which prevails ; and we are led inevitably to a presiding mind, the author, and upholder, of all the order and all the harmony that obtain in the universe.
The centripetal and centrifugal forces seem to be the two grand agencies by which the universe is maintained in position, or in its harmonious movements. The centripetal, or law of gravitation, is that which regulates the internal movements of every world ; and thus, as extension and resistance, with their varied modifications, form the only primary qualities of matter, so these two forces, with their modifications, may form the two pervading laivs of matter, by which its position and motion are secured, and order and action are maintained.
Weight, therefore, one of the apparent properties of matter, belongs rather to one of the two laws we have mentioned. By means of original principles so few does God accomplish His purposes. Matter launched into space, is an extended, and solid, or fluid, substance, and its motions are modifications of the centripetal and centrifugal laws ; these, at least, are the two great general laws which guide its motion, and keep every particle of matter in its place. A derangement of these laws would, perhaps, derange the properties of extension and resist ance ; at all events, the former. It is by the coherence of the particles of bodies that we have anything extended, and may not that coherence, and the laws of fluid bodies, by which, respectively, we have solidity and fluidity, be owing to the
D
50 INTELLECT.
same law of gravity which makes every particle seek its centre ?
Locke makes the secondary qualities of matter but modifica tions of the primary, and those other properties, as that of heat to melt wax, or fuse iron, which are generally regarded as powers rather than qualities of matter — he maintains to be as much qualities as the other. He spends many useless pages to shew that the secondary qualities of matter are but modifications of the primary. It would be altogether idle to follow him in such an attempt. Colour, taste, smell, and even heat and cold, according to him, are produced by the bulk, figure, and motion of the corpuscles of matter. Heat, to use his own words, is but " a certain sort and degree of motion in the minute par ticles of our nerves or animal spirits, caused by the corpuscles of some other body." In this, and the doctrine which Locke seemed to hold — that the primary qualities of matter could not be discerned by the mind but by the medium of impulse, so that, in the case of distant objects, there must be the interven tion of insensible particles, in order to perception — this great and original thinker seems to have fallen into the error of en deavouring to account for what was inexplicable, not satisfied, in this instance, at least, to confess ignorance, or to refer the matter to a mere original law of our constitution.* His suppo sition that the secondary may be but modifications of the primary qualities, is a mere gratuitous assumption. Here, as elsewhere, explanation is not necessary, and an ultimate law of our constitution is the whole of the matter, or is a sufficient explanation.
The ideas which we have endeavoured to trace may now be supposed to pour in upon the infant's mind in a continuous stream. It will no longer be restrained by the slow process of marking every feeling as it arises, attending to it, and forming its conclusions The process, as traced by Dr. Brown, by which
* It is by tin's doctrine that Locke diate perception. This, however, might seems to favour the representationalist fairly bo regarded as a casual view, theory of perception, as opposed to irnme- rather than a settled doctrine of Locke.
INTELLECT. 51
the feeling or idea of extension is obtained, illustrates the gradual and elaborate formation, if I may so speak, of many of the simplest ideas. We do not think that such an elaborate process, as that which Dr. Brown describes, is necessary in order to the idea in question. We do not see why the feeling of re sistance, prolonged over a continuous surface, is not enough to give us this idea. It is very evident, indeed, that the supposi tion which Dr. Brown makes of a cube being placed in the hand of an infant would not of itself give the idea of a square, or the simple idea of extension. It is probable, that in such a case the feeling would be very little different from what would be if even a lesser extent of the infant's hand were impressed — from, in fact, a simple tactual sensation. But the hand carried along a surface is different, and seems perfectly capable of suggesting the idea of extension. There is a continued feeling of resist ance, which, surely, is just the idea of extension, or all that is necessary to awaken it. We shall yet have occasion to refer to Dr. Brown's account of this matter when speaking of the idea of time. Meanwhile, we allude to his view, and to that which is simpler, but still involving a process of marking, or observa tion, on the part of the infant, for the purpose of directing attention to the difference between the child's progress before it has acquired its idea?, and when it is in the act of acquiring them, and when now it has got the rudiments, so to speak, of its education, has learnt the letters, and can form them into a connected and intelligible language. Hitherto, its processes have been truly like that of a subsequent period of life, when the letters have to be learnt in order to easy, rapid, and intelli gent reading. All the signs or marks of certain ideas have been acquired, and now these ideas flow in upon it without its knowing, or, in the least degree, remarking how they come. The eye can now take in and measure, read, distance, figure, magnitude ; the informations of all the senses are discriminated, and yet associated ; and there is no difficulty now of, even at the most rapid rate, telling all that is contained, and separately understanding every several hint, or information, in the whole volume that is spread out to the eye, the ear, and the other
52 INTELLECT.
senses. But we are anticipating, and there are a few other simple ideas that have not yet been accounted for, and which, when obtained, seem, along with those already traced, to form the grand elementary ideas of the mind ; we mean the ideas of space, time, power, motion and rest, and number.
VII.— SPACE.
The account which Locke gives of Space, or the idea of Space, is this : speaking of solidity he says, — " This is the idea which belongs to body, whereby we conceive it to fill space. The idea of which filling of space, is, that where we imagine any space taken up by a solid substance, we conceive it so to possess it, that it excludes all other solid substances." Locke thus traces our idea of space to solidity filling it ; the idea of a solid substance gives us the idea of space, as that in which it exists, or may be said to be. Dr. Reid's account of the idea is the following : — " We are next," says he, " to consider our notion of space. It may be observed, that although space may not be perceived by any of our senses, when all matter is re moved, yet, when we perceive any of the primary qualities, space presents itself as a necessary concomitant, for there can neither be extension nor motion, nor figure, nor division, nor cohesion of parts, without space. There are only two of our senses," Dr. Reid continues, "by which the notion of space enters into the mind, to wit, touch and sight. If we suppose a man to have neither of these senses, I do not see how he could ever have any conception of space. Supposing him to have both, until he sees or feels other objects, he can have no notion of space. It has neither colour nor figure to make it an object of sight ; it has no tangible quality to make it an object of touch. But other objects of sight and touch carry the notion of space along with them ; and not the notion only, but the belief of it ; for a body could not exist if there was no space to contain it. It could not move if there was no space. Its situation, its distance, and every relation it has to other bodies, suppose space.''
INTELLECT. 53
Such is the origin of the idea according to these several philosophers. Locke separates the idea of space from that of solidity, by supposing a body moving out of its place, and no other coming into it. Keid says, — " A body could not exist if there was no space to contain it. It could not move if there was no space ; its situation, its distance, and every relation it has to other bodies, suppose space." The two things which suggest the idea, therefore, are solidity, or body occupying space, and motion. Dr. Reid says, — " There are only two of our senses by which the notion of space enters into the mind, to wit, touch and sight." In this he rather defers to an opinion of Berkeley than adopts it. Berkeley held that there was a visible extension, and a visible space, as well as a tangible, being that extent of the visual organ that was affected by the outward object or space. But we might as well speak of an audible ex tension, and audible space ; for, no doubt, there is a certain extent of the organ of hearing affected by every impression which sound makes upon it, and, perhaps, in proportion to the distance of the sound, and magnitude of the body producing it, as when a rock tumbles from some great height, or a bell, like that of Lincoln Cathedral, emits its tones. But we do not speak of audible extension, or audible space. The idea, no doubt, enters the mind, through touch alone, and is got prior to the power acquired by the eye of discerning figure, magnitude, distance, motion. It arises, no doubt, with the very notion of solidity, and the perception of motion. Locke, probably, gives the true account of it when he says, — " If we can have the idea of one
«/ 7 */
body moved, whilst others are at rest, then the place it deserted gives us the idea of pure space,"
But when we have got the idea, what is the amount of it ? Perhaps, we may in vain put this question. We quote again the words of Dr. Reid : — " But, though the notion of space seems not to enter at first into the mind, until it is introduced by the proper objects of sense, yet, being once introduced, it remains in our conception and belief, though the objects which introduced it be removed. We see no absurdity in supposing a body to be annihilated ; but the space that contained it re-
54 INTELLECT.
mains ; and to suppose that annihilated seems to be absurd. It is so much allied to nothing or emptiness, that it seems incapable of annihilation or of creation.
" Space not only retains a firm hold of our belief, even when we suppose all the objects that introduced it to be annihilated, but it swells to immensity. We can set no limits to it, either of extent or of duration. Hence we call it immense, eternal, immovable, and indestructible. But it is only an immense, eternal, immovable, and indestructible void or emptiness. Perhaps, we may apply to it what the Peripatetics said of their first matter, that whatever it is, it is potentially only, not actually.
" When we consider parts of space that have measure and figure, there is nothing we understand better, nothing about which we reason so clearly, and to so great extent. Extension and figure are circumscribed parts of space, and are the object of geometry, a science in which human reason has the most ample field, and can go deeper, and with more certainty, than in any other. But when we attempt to comprehend the whole of space, and to trace it to its origin, we lose ourselves in the search."
Perhaps there is not one of our ideas that is so puzzling as that of space, unless it be that of power, and even it is more capable of being grasped than that of space. " An immense, eternal, immovable, and indestructible void or emptiness!" Is that an idea that we can take hold of ? or is it the idea of anything ? And yet, it is perhaps as good a description of the idea as we can have, while space itself may be susceptible of no better definition. Kant and the German metaphysicians deny its reality, and make it a mere form of our sensibility. This, however, is about as intelligible as space itself. It would be as easy to understand the one as the other. Nay, I have some idea of space, however puzzling the idea, but I have no idea of what a form of sensibility is, distinct from the sensi bility itself; and if space is to be resolved into a mere state of our own sensibility, then it is nothing. The mind will not give up its ideas in that way. An idea must have something
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for which it stands. It is true the mind may conceive of what never existed : it may have the idea of a centaur and a golden mountain. But these are mere combinations of ideas, and the ideas of which they are composed must have had their proto types in reality. It is not of such ideas that we speak, but those simple ideas that are forced upon us in spite of ourselves, which we cannot divest ourselves of, and which seem to retain possession of the mind only because there is that of which they are the ideas. We must be content with the idea at least, and believe there is so much as the idea goes for.
Dr. Samuel Clarke makes it an attribute, and contends that as an attribute must have a subject, and we cannot conceive the time when space did not exist, we have an argument for the existence of God.
But space as an attribute is as unintelligible as space as a form of thought. Neither of these seems to convey any mean ing. We believe we must be content with the idea we have, and be satisfied that that exists which answers to the idea of our minds. Is that to be resolved into a mere form of thought or sensibility through which the planets wheel their courses, in orbits of such inconceivable extent, and the most distant bounds of which are but giving up to the telescope, and to the calcu lations of the lonely astronomer, planets hitherto undiscovered, and traces of fields still more distant, studded with worlds the more interesting that they are so remote ? The bird on its free and noble wing would hardly thank the philosopher for his form of thought, or for an attribute to fly in. I suppose we shall take our pleasure, or perform our journeys, independ ently of the philosopher's notion of space. We shall not allow ourselves to be restrained by it in our efforts for the good of our species, or forget that the world only bounds the empire of evil.
We cannot help quoting the following characteristic passage from Dr. Chalmers : — " We cannot take leave of Mr. Cousin, without rendering the homage of our grateful admiration to one who, at this moment, holds the balance between the two philoso phies of Germany and Scotland. It is true that in his theology
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he is altogether wrong, though, judging from the general spirit and drift of his speculations, we should say of him, that he is not unhopeful. But what has earned for him our peculiar esteem is his having so nobly asserted the prerogatives of com mon sense against the sceptical philosophy of Kant. In parti cular, his manly, and withal most effectual defence of the reality of space and time, might well put to shame certain of our own savans, who, in compliance with this wretched jabber of the school at Konigsberg, now speak of both these elements as having no valid significancy in themselves, but as being mere products of idealism, or forms of human thought. In the immediate successors of Kant we can easily forgive this extra vagance, as Fichte, of whom we should not have expected, for one moment, that the ' common sense' philosophy would ever lead him to give up one iota of his transcendentalism. But although common sense was utterly powerless against it, yet upon one occasion it had nearly given way, when brought into serious conflict with a not uncommon sensibility ; for Fichte, as we were pleased to find, though a metaphysician, and in the most abstract form, so for proved himself to be a possessor of our own concrete humanity, as to fall in love. But circum stances forced him to quit for a season the lady of his affections ; and, when at the distance of 300 miles, German miles, too, he thus writes to her : — ' Again left to myself, to my solitude, to my own thoughts, my soul flies directly to your presence. How is this ? It is but three days since I have seen you, and I must often be absent from you for a longer period than that. Dis tance is but distance, and I am equally separated from you in Flaach or in Zurich. But how comes it that this absence has seemed to me longer than usual, that my heart longs more earnestly to be with you, that I imagine I have not seen you for a week ? Have I philosophized falsely of late about dis tance ? Oh, that our feelings must still contradict the firmest conclusions of our reason !' Mr. Morell deprecates what he calls the ignoble application of ridicule to philosophy; yet we should not be sorry if, with the possession of such rich materials for the exposure of that intellectual Quixotism into which so many
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minds in Germany and elsewhere are now running wild, some one having the talents of Butler or Cervantes were to arise, and banish this grotesque and outrageous folly from the face of the earth.
" Were it confined to Germany, we should have more tolera tion for it. But it is now making frequent inroad within our own borders ; and we are grieved to find that Mr. Whewell expresses himself as if carried by the prestige of the German philosophy and its outlandish nomenclature. We are not even sure if Sir John Herschell be altogether free from it. We -shall exceedingly regret if the manly English sense of these great masters in physical science shall prove to have been in the least vitiated by this admixture from abroad. In the face of their high authority, we shall persist in regarding the whole of the intermediate space between ourselves and the planet Uranus as an objective reality ; and when we read of this planet ' trembling along the line of their analysis/ we shall look still farther off, or still more objectively, to the space that is beyond it, nay, and shall infer, with all confidence, that there must be a force outside which is disturbing its movements. We are persuaded that common sense prevailed, and their metaphysics were for a time forgotten, when, in the glorious discovery of Le Verrier, they beheld the verification both of an objective space and an objective causality."*
Cousin notices these three particulars connected with the idea of space as distinguished from that of body. The idea of space comes to us as of something that is possessed of necessary existence: that of body comes to us as of that which may be, or may not be : the idea of space is that of something which has no limits, — that of body, of something that is limited on every side: the idea of space is wholly one of reason, that of body is accompanied with a sensible representation.
Space, then, is a necessary existence. We cannot conceive it not to be : and it is infinite, without any limits. It is not our senses that give us the idea of it : it springs up in connexion
* North British Review, No. XII., pp. 305-307.
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with the idea of body iu space, or motion through space. When Dr. Keid says that there are only two senses through which the idea can be introduced to the mind, sight and touch, he means merely that it is in connexion with the objects of these senses that the idea comes to us. He says, a body could not exist if there was no space to contain it : it could not move if there was no space. He calls it "an immense, that is, infinite, eternal, immov able, and indestructible void or emptiness." With Cousin space is objective or has objectivity , for he speaks of it as infinite. It would be absurd to speak of a form of thought as infinite. Chalmers also contends for its objectivity. " We shall persist" he says, " in regarding the whole of the intermediate space be- tiveen ourselves and the planet Uranus as an objective reality" The peculiarity regarding space is, that it is not a substance of any kind, and yet it cannot be called merely an attribute, as Dr. Clarke regards it, while it is an " objective reality." What can that be which is neither a substance nor an attribute, and yet has an objective existence ? But what is a substance ? Can we give any other description of it than as that which reveals qualities ? May it not, then, be as intelligible a desertion of space that it is that in which a substance exists ? Substance is that in which qualities exist — space is that in which sub stance exists. It is not a quality or attribute of substance, but it is that in which substance exists, but which itself again might exist without substance. Farther our ideas cannot go. There is one difficulty connected with it, that it is eternal, and infinite, and necessary, and has an existence. Are not these the very attributes and description of Deity ? and are we not thus making something distinct from God, co-eternal with him, and possessed like himself of infinite and necessary existence ? But although we make it an existence^ we do not make it Being ; and our idea of it is, that in which Being exists. We say, farther than this our ideas cannot go. We know it, at least, as that in which matter exists, and in which matter moves. Whether it be equally necessary for spiritual Beings to exist, and expatiate in, it is impossible for us to say. In one of the most metaphysical and profoundest of our poets, we find the
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expression, " placeless as spirit." We cannot, at all events, conceive it not existing ; and we believe it to be one of the attributes of God, that he fills space. It is a sublime thought to conceive space infinite, space not as being, but as that in which being exists, and God filling it with his presence, and yet so filling it as that he does not exist in parts, and is not divisible as space is. And it is a thought of Foster's, apart from astronomy altogether, and to which he ascends by one reach of his own great intellect, or which he arrived at by a subtlety peculiarly his own, that while we cannot speak of mat ter as infinite, yet in infinity there may be space to allow worlds for ever multiplying, so that go where we will there may be no limits to creation ; and it may be part of the occupation of blessed spirits hereafter to explore the universe, and to find no end to their discoveries arid their ever enlarging contemplations. We give this thought of Foster's merely from memory ; but we think we have accurately conveyed it. The thought sup poses a reconstruction of the universe after its final destruction, or as some have regarded the dissolution of the universe, plainly foretold in Scripture, to be no more than itself a purification or reconstruction, both this world and those worlds that people immensity may remain to afford that glorious field for actual observation which Foster has pointed at or suggested in one of his writings.
TIME.
Time must always have been as well as space. We do not believe in time, however, as objective, as having objectivity. It is a very different idea from that of space. Space is without us : time is neither within us nor without us. Shall we say that time is merely a form of thought ? And yet, what is time? Let it check the vanity of speculatists that they cannot define that of which they have yet so clear and distinct an idea.
Locke refers the origin of this notion to the succession of ideas in the mind, that succession marked by the mind, and
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with it growing up or arising the idea of time. Dr. Brown, again, thinks that it is in acquiring the idea of extension that we acquire the idea of time, and he supposes that the latter is necessary to the former. He supposes it is by the fingers of the child closing upon a circular body, as a ball, or some body of different dimensions, in the hand, that the idea is awakened. The fingers reach the different parts of the body in different times : this is marked by the child, and the idea of time grows up. This, according to Dr. Brown, is even before the idea of an external world, or indeed of externality at all. It is the in terruption merely of certain series of feelings at different points, giving different lengths, and the co-existence of the series awakening the notion of breadth ; and thus the ideas of time and extension are simultaneous. The idea of extension is thus, according to Dr. Brown, before that of a body that is extended. But is it not possible that in some, nay in many, out of the millions of cases, such a process as is supposed was never gone through ; and how did the ideas of time and extension arise in these cases ? It is necessary to Dr. Brown's theory that every infant has gone through this process. Now it is quite suppos- able that many an infant never had a ball placed in its hand, or any body of different dimensions. Or if Dr. Brown were to peril his theory upon the obstruction of other objects — its own limbs, for example, when it moved its hand, is the supposition at all probable that the idea of time in every instance came into the mind in this way ? This may have been one of the ways, but even as one of them, it seems a fanciful source for the idea, — rather a precarious hold for such an idea to depend upon. It seems far more likely that the idea arose from a series of feelings of whatever kind, or even, according to Locke, the procession of thoughts in the mind. The idea of the inner self, repeated in the mind, frequently borne in upon it, and thus duration or time accompanying every such idea or act of memory — for there is memory in every feeling of self-conscious ness, otherwise how could there be a reference of any, and particularly every new feeling to self ? — we say duration, or time, accompanying every act of memory, implied in self-
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consciousness, the idea of time would necessarily arise. We would trace, therefore, this idea to a series of feelings of what ever kind ; it is not necessary to condescend upon the particu lar series. Prolonged self -consciousness, or ever-recurring self- consciousness, seems enough to give us the idea.
I find that this is precisely the view of Cousin. We cannot refrain from quoting the passage in which he brings out his view, so exact is the coincidence between the views we have briefly explained, and those of Cousin, elaborated at greater length : —
" II en est de 1'origine de 1'idee du temps comme de 1'origine de 1'idee de 1'espace. Distinguez encore 1'ordre d'acquisition de nos idees et leur ordre logique. Dans 1'ordre logique des idees, 1'idee d'une succession quelconque d'evenements pre*- suppose cello du temps ; il ne pent y avoir de succession qu'a la condition d'une duree continue aux differents points de laquelle soient attache's les divers nombres de la succes sion. Otez la continuite du temps, vous otez la possibilite de la succession des evenements, comme etant otee la continuite de 1'espace est abolie la possibilite de la juxta-position et de la coexistence des corps. Mais, dans 1'ordre chronologique, c'est au contraire 1'idee d'une succession d'e'venements qui precede 1'idee du temps qui les renferme. Je ne veux pas dire, pour le temps comme pour 1'espace, que nous ayons une idee claire et achevee d'une succession, et qu'ensuite arrive dans 1'entende- meut 1'idee d'un temps qui renferme cette succession : je dis seulement qu'il faut bien que nous ayons d'abord la perception de quelques evenements, pour que nous concevions que ces evdnements sont dans un temps. Le temps est le lieu des evenements comme 1'espace est celui des corps: qui n'aurait 1'idee d'aucun evenement, n'aurait 1'idee d'aucun temps. Si done la condition logique de 1'idee de succession est dans 1'idee de temps, la condition chronologique de 1'idee du temps est dans 1'idee de succession.
" Nous voila conduits a ce resultat, que 1'idee de succession est 1'occasion, 1'antecedent chronologique de la conception necessaire du temps. Mais toute idee de succession est une
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acquisition tie 1'experience ; reste a savoir de quelle experience. Est-ce celle des sens ou celle des operations de Tame ? La premiere succession nous est-elle donnee dans le spectacle des evenements exterieurs, ou dans la conscience des evenements qui se passent en nous ?
" Prenez une succession d'e'venements exterieurs: pour que ces e'venements se succedent, il faut qu'il y ait un premier, un second, un troisienie evenernent, etc. Mais si, quand vous voyez le second evenement, vous ne vous souveniez pas du pre mier, il n'y aurait pas de second, il n'y aurait pas de succession pour vous ; vous vous arreteriez toujours a un premier qui n'aurait pas meme le caractere de premier, puisqu'il n'y aurait pas de second. L 'intervention de la memoire est done neces- saire pour concevoir une succession quelconque. Or, la me- moire n'a pour objet direct rien d'exterieur ; elle ne se rapporte point immediatement aux choses, mais a nous. Quand on dit : Nous nous souvenons d'une personne, nous nous souvenons d'un lieu, cela ne veut pas dire autre chose, sinon que nous nous sou venons d'avoir ete voyant tel lieu, voyant ou entendant telle per sonne. Nous n'avons meinoire que de nous-memes, car il n'y a memoire qu'a cette condition qu'il y ait eu conscience. Si done la conscience est la condition de la m&moire, comme la memoire est la condition de I' idee de succession, il s'ensuit que la premiere succession nous est donnee en nous-memes, dans la conscience, dans les objets et les ph&iomenes propres de la conscience, dans nos pensees, dans nos idges. Mais si la premiere succession qui nous est donnee est celle de nos idees, comme a toute succession est attachee necessairement la conception du temps, il s'ensuit encore que la premiere idee que nous ayons du temps est celle du temps dans lequel nous sommes ; et de meme que la pre miere succession est pour nous la succession de nos iclees, de meme la premiere duree est pour nous notre propre duree ; la succession des evenements exterieurs, et la duree dans laquelle s'accomplissent ces evenements, ne nous sont connues qu'apres. Je ne dis pas que la succession des evenements exterieurs ne soit qu'unc induction de la succession de nos idees ; je ne dis pas non plus que la duree cxterieure ne soit qu'une induction
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de notre duree personnelle ; mais je dis que nous ne pouvons avoir 1'idee ni d'une succession ni d'une duree exterieure qu'apres avoir eu la conscience et la memoire de quelques phenomenes interieurs, et par consequent la conception de notre duree propre. Ainsi, en resume, la premiere duree qui nous est donnee, c'est la notre, parceque la premiere succession qui nous est donne'e est la succession de nos idees."
" Le merite de Locke," says Cousin, " est d'avoir etabli que 1'idee du temps, de la duree, de 1'eternite nous est suggeree par 1'idee d'une succession quelconque d'evenements, et que cette succession n'est pas prise dans le monde exte'rieur, mais dans le monde de la conscience."
Locke says, — " There is another sort of distance, or length, the idea whereof we get, not from, the permanent parts of space, but from the fleeting and perpetually perishing parts of succession. This we call duration, the simple modes whereof are any different lengths of it whereof we have distinct ideas, as hours, days, years, &c., time and eternity.
The answer of a great man to one who asked what time was, — " Si non rogas intelligo," (which amounts to this : the more I set myself to think of it, the less I understand it,) might perhaps persuade one, that time which reveals all other things, is itself not to be discovered. " To understand time and eternity," Locke proceeds, " we ought with attention to con sider what idea it is we have of duration, and how we came by it. It is evident to any one who will but observe what passes in his own mind, that there is a train of ideas which constantly succeed one another in his understanding, as long as he is awake. Reflection on these appearances of several ideas, one after another in our ideas, is that which furnishes us with the idea of succession ; and the distance between any parts of that succession, or between the appearance of any two ideas in our mind, is that we call duration."
Such is Locke's account of the origin of this idea. Cousin fastens upon Locke a very unnecessary quarrel, as if the latter confounded the succession of ideas from which we get the idea
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of time, or duration, with time, or duration itself. We think no one can read the passage which Cousin quotes to justify this charge, without coming to the conclusion that Cousin has either sought a quarrel — if we may express ourselves in so homely phrase — or that he himself has misapprehended Locke's meaning. Locke says : — " That we have our notion of succes sion from this original, (the original as already given,) viz., from reflection on the train of ideas which we find to appear, one after another, in our own minds, seems plain to me, in that we have no perception of duration, but by considering the train of ideas that take their turns in our understandings." This is not to confound the succession of our ideas and time, but just to say that we have no conception of time but from this succession, as we have no perception of it but from this succession. Cousin perhaps confounded conception and per ception, and thought that Locke meant to say, that succession itself is our only idea or conception of time, as it is in the suc cession that we have the perception of time. Locke, however, according to Cousin, has the honour of tracing to their proper source the idea of time, duration, and, as a mode of that idea, the idea of eternity.
While the notion of time is derived from succession, it is not itself succession. Succession only measures time : time is itself absolute. Events in time in no way affect time : it remains absolute.
Time is therefore necessary, as space is. We are not able to conceive no time, or time not existing. And thus we are led to the idea of Eternity — for, as it is impossible to conceive time not to be, it must always be. The two Eternities meet in God ; for as He has existed in the one, it seems impossible to conceive the other has not somehow its existence also in Him. The name, " / am," " Jehovah," accordingly, is the peculiar title which he challenges for himself. Amid such mysteries are we situated. They touch — they press upon us on every side — we cannot escape them.
" Si non rogas intelligo," was a wise answer to what, except
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as an inquiry connected with the history and philosophy of our ideas, is an idle question. We cannot explain time, as we can not explain space. But we can understand it if we do not seek an explanation.
POWER.
Another of our simple elementary ideas is that of poiver. It appears, like those already considered by us, to be very early acquired. It would seem to be naturally suggested by the observation of change, whether within us or without. The succession in the mind's own ideas or states, or the succession in the many instances of it in the external world, might awaken the idea. Perhaps it is not necessary that the succession be one which has been frequently observed, and which is invari able in its operation ; it may be enough that there is succession. Just as the idea of time arises with the succession of ideas in the mind, it being, perhaps, impossible for the mind to mark its own ideas, referring them always to the same internal self, without acquiring the idea of time, so may the idea of power ; as it would be natural to refer to some source, or power of pro ducing them, the changes in the mind's states, whether of thought or of feeling. Some mysterious power of awakening or producing those thoughts or those feelings, which the mind had present to it, or even before they were referred to mind as such, would be felt, or conceived of, in the very thought or the very feeling present for the moment. It would, perhaps, be a very early question, — Whence these thoughts — whence these feel ings — what power has produced them ? It is an intuition of the mind, that every effect must have its cause. How soon would the feelings or states of the mind be recognised to be effects ? The idea seems to be implied, at least, in the reference of certain internal states to an external cause. How could there be such a reference without the idea of cause ? For what does the reference amount to ? Is it not this ? — There is something without me which produces this state or feeling. The development of our ideas is something like the opening of the
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leaves of a flower. The one is involved in the other, and hardly separable from it ; it is like a part of it ; it opens as the other opens. The idea of power would brood, perhaps, over the mind at its earliest dawning. It would be involved almost in its earliest consciousness. It would be felt to be & power that was stirring in that first consciousness. At all events, it would undoubtedly accompany the first act of reference by the mind to something without. It would thus be before the observation of external changes. The idea would not be very definite, certainly, but still it would be possessed as soon as the mind made a reference of one of its feelings to something without. Cousin seems to argue that the idea, or the principle of causality, must be pos sessed in order to the reference. So it must, but in this sense, that the idea, or the principle, may be developed contemporane ously with the reference, or in the reference. Something must obviously call the principles of the mind into play ; and the principle of causality — the principle that every effect must have a cause, which is just the idea of power, may be awakened by that which calls for the reference of a feeling or feelings to something without. The idea of poiver, or causality, is, that an effect must have a cause — that there is something to produce the effect ; some " je ne sais quoi," as Cousin phrases it, which produces the effect. That idea, then, in virtue of a law or principle of the mind — that principle or law itself, now for the first time called into play — that idea may be begotten in the very appeal to the inner consciousness by something without, and the answering reference of the inner consciousness to the external cause. The principle is called into play — the idea is begotten — and externality is marked — all at the same instant. Our ideas, we have said, expand like the leaves of a flower, one in the other. But the idea may be before this, and, in virtue of the principle or law to recognise power where there are effects, power may have been recognised in consciousness itself, or in virtue of consciousness — consciousness the effect of some power. If the idea was thus early, it must have been in a very unde veloped state. Some cause of its feelings may have been demanded by the infant, and that when it was yet but existing
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in a state of simple consciousness. It is very manifest, at all events, that the idea must have been developed, if not before, at least in the very appeal of the outward to the inward, when the outward and the inward were distinguished. " There is something without me loliich produces this feeling." The mind would be surprised into the knowledge of the external world, or rather of externality, and of power at the same time. The one might not take effect a moment sooner than the other. There would, perhaps, be no difference here between the logical and chronological order of the two ideas — they would be simultaneous ; or, the logical order would be, the principle of causality, and then the idea of externality ; but chronologically they would not be distinguished. The feeling excited by ex ternality would be the occasion of both.
But here, again, the origin of the idea is distinct from the idea itself. What is the idea ? What is implied in the idea of power ? What do we mean by causality ? What is implied in the principle that an effect must have a cause ? This is one of the most vexed questions in philosophy. It gave birth to Hume's famous Essay on Necessary Connexion, and Dr. Brown's Essay on Cause and Effect, or " Inquiry into the Kelation of Cause and Effect." Cousin calls the idea of power, or " 1'Idee de Cause," one of the most important belonging to the human mind, and that which plays the grandest part, both in human life, and in the works of philosophers. The opposition which the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland offered to Sir John Leslie's appointment to the mathematical chair in the University of Edinburgh, because of his views on this question, apparently espousing the doctrine of Hume, which seemed to lead to Atheism, was what gave occasion to Dr. Brown's " In quiry." Every philosopher, perhaps, has expressed his views on the subject; and it is not confined to philosophy, but theology reckons it of sufficient importance, to demand its notice at least ; while science, too, has its theories on the engrossing question.
If we consult our own consciousness, we have no difficulty in determining what power is, or causality. But it is singular
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enough, that strong as the testimony of consciousness is upon the subject, the tendency was early exhibited to deny the ex istence of anything more in the relation of cause and effect than a constant or invariable succession. It was contended that, in secondary causes, at all events, there is no efficiency, and that we in vain try to find out the efficient cause of any phenomenon ; that we merely arrive at a certain connexion between two events, the one invariably preceding, and the other invariably following. Dugald Stewart says, that the supposi tion of a real efficiency " has misled the greater part of philosophers, and has had a surprising influence upon the systems which they have formed in very different departments of science." It is interesting to remark, that in these very words of Dugald Stewart he recognises the very efficiency which he is at the same time repudiating or denying ; for he speaks of a doctrine or view entertained by philosophers having a surprising influence upon the systems which they have formed in very different departments of science. What is this influence but efficiency ? Barrow, and Hobbes, and Butler, and Berkeley, are all quoted by Dugald Stewart as denying efficiency in cause, and resolving it into an order or connexion established among the events in nature. It is in vain that we look for the efficient cause in any event ; we but see an order, or law, or connexion, which God may be supposed to have established, but which is in itself nothing more than a certain order, or law, or connexion. Barrow, for example, says, — " There can be no such connexion of an external efficient cause with its effect, (at least, none such can be understood by us,) through which, strictly speaking, the effect is necessarily supposed by the supposition of the efficient cause, or any determinate cause, by the supposition of the effect." Butler contends that we but see effects, that we know nothing of causes. Berkeley and others, again, contend, that attraction and repulsion, and suchlike supposed causes, are nothing more than certain rules or laws according to which Nature proceeds in a uniform course ; they are the order that we observe, and are themselves pheno mena to be accounted for. Almost every work on philosophy
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contains similar statements. They are always careful to re mark that what we call laws or causes are nothing but a cer tain order or arrangement which God has adopted, and the names we give them should be to us significant only of that order. Thus even for pious purposes the doctrine has been held and insisted on, that the efficiencies in nature are no real efficiencies, and that the will of God is all. Butler says that we but see effects, we do not see causes ; and he would lead us to the Great First and only cause, operating in and through all. This undoubtedly was the purpose of Barrow also ; and we know that Berkeley's whole system was intended to lead us away from material causes to mind and to God. It was the best bulwark he thought to erect against Atheism. This was the design also of Malebranche's doctrine : with him everything which appeared to be a cause was but an occasion on which Deity himself operated : and hence his doctrine is called the doctrine of " occasional causes." He went so far as to hold that our very ideas were seen in God, and that our very minds were present, as it were, in the divine, as body was in space. In our volitions it was God operating : much more, to quote his own words, " La nature ou la force de chaque chose n'est que la volonte de Dieu : toutes les causes naturelles ne sont point des veritables causes, mais seulement des causes occasionelles." This, according to him, was sufficient to overturn the miserable creed of the Atheist : — " Afin qu'on ne puisse plus douter de la faussete de cette miserable philosophic, il est necessaire de prouver qu'il n'y a qu'un vrai Dieu, parce qu'il n'y a qu'une vraie cause." We have these scriptural statements, " In Him we live, and move, anil have our being :" and, again, " Who is above all, through all, and in you all." Malebranche's doctrine is very much like a too literal interpretation of these state ments. We know that Malebranche was remarkable for his piety ; and it is possible he may have drawn his doctrine from some such extreme interpretation of a passage otherwise an nouncing a great truth. There can be no doubt, then, that piety had much to do with the view which denies efficacy to all natural agencies or causes. It was reserved for Hume syste-
70 INTELLECT.
matically to turn the doctrine against the existence even of a great First Cause, and to hint, if not broadly assert, that the connexion between the will of God and its effects was the same as that between any other apparent cause and its effects. Hume laboured as ingeniously in the cause of Atheism as others have done in the cause of Theism. His speculations were the most subtle and refined to weaken the foundations of all religion. Nothing could be more so ; and it only deserved a more worthy object to make his efforts worthy of him, and worthy of the refined and ingenious subtlety expended on them. Leslie, afterwards Sir John Leslie — a name famous in science — having in a note to one of his works expressed his approbation of Hume's speculation — which might be done with reference to all subordinate and secondary causes, without adopting his Atheistical application of the doctrine — was opposed, as we have already stated, in his views towards the mathematical professorship in the University of Edinburgh, by the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, the mem bers of which did not wish to see Atheism introduced into any of the departments in the University. The doctrine was dis puted at considerable length in the Assembly : some defending the doctrine both in itself and against all Atheistical results or applications of it ; others impugning the doctrine, and maintaining that the atheistical application was but the legi timate issue of the doctrine itself, was inevitable if the doc trine itself was a true one. It was in these circumstances, at once to defend Leslie and to uphold the doctrine, that Dr. Brown — then himself hardly known to philosophy — wrote first a smaller, and then his larger, treatise upon Cause and Effect. Leslie was appointed to the professorship, and Brown's Essay is now one of the standard works in philosophy, and is, perhaps, the ablest review of the doctrine it maintains, that exists. Such were the circumstances in which Dr. Brown's Essay on Cause and Effect was produced.
Dr. Brown boldly adopts the view, that even the will of God is an efficient in the same sense, and in that only, in which any other cause is an efficient, viz., an antecedent : he
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denied efficiency even to the Divine will, or contended that immediate antecedence was the sublimest efficiency that could be attributed to it. Hume says, " Are we not equally ignor ant of the manner or force by which a mind, even the supreme mind, operates either on itself or on body ? Whence, I beseech you, do we acquire any idea of it ? We have no sentiment or consciousness of this power in ourselves : we have no idea of the Supreme Being, but what we learn from reflection on our own faculties. Were our ignorance, there fore, a good reason for rejecting anything, we should be led into that principle of denying all energy in the Supreme Being, as much as in the grossest matter. We surely compre hend as little the operations of the one as of the other. Is it more difficult to conceive that motion may arise from impulse, than that it may arise from volition ? All we know is our profound ignorance in both cases." Dr. Brown says, " The power of God is not anything different from God, but is the Almighty himself willing whatever seems to him good, and creating or altering, by his very will to create or alter." He maintains it is only a sequence of events we contemplate in creation. He says, " We do not imagine anything existing intermediately, and binding, as it were, the will of the omni potent Creator to the things which are bursting upon our gaze. We conceive only the Divine will itself, as if made visible to our imagination, and all nature at the very moment rising around." " It is evident," he continues, " that in the case of the Divine agency, as well as in every other species of causa tion, the introduction of any circumstance of suppo:ed effi ciency, as furnishing a closer bond of connexion, would, in truth, furnish only a new antecedent to be itself connected."
Hume, then, denies all energy in the Supreme Being, as much as in the grossest matter ; at least, if our ignorance were a sufficient reason for denying anything. Dr. Brown, again, resolves creation into a mere sequence of events, and main tains, that to introduce any circumstance of supposed efficiency in the case of the Divine agency, as well as in every other specie's of causation, is but to furnish a new antecedent in a
72 INTELLECT.
train of sequence, whose connexion must itself be accounted for. Can such a doctrine be for a moment maintained ? Strip the Divine will of all energy ! Make the Divine will but a link, although the first, in a train of sequence ! How is it possible to embrace such a conclusion as this ? We thiuk Dr. Brown was rash in hazarding such a doctrine, which he pushes even more boldly than Hume. He threw himself without hesitation into the contest, and he cer tainly maintains it a I'outrance. There is no flinching for a moment on Dr. Brown's part. Hume says, " Were our ignorance a good reason for rejecting anything, we should be led into the principle of denying all energy in the Su preme Being, as much as in the grossest matter." Dr. Brown limits his conclusion by no such condition. With him, to ascribe efficiency to the Divine agency, in any instance of its operation, is to introduce a circumstance of connexion to be itself connected. Dr. Brown makes the chain of causes, from the humblest up to the Divine Being himself, but a train of sequence, each part of the train connected with the other only in the relation of antecedence and consequence — the Divine will itself being but the first antecedent. And yet, with Dr. Brown, this is to give a sublimer view of the Divine agency than is possessed when we introduce any circumstance of efficiency into that agency. " We conceive only the Divine will, as if made visible to our imagination, and all nature at the very moment rising around." The rapidity of the sequence is what, with Dr. Brown, gives sublimity to the event, or to our concep tion of it. But it became Dr. Brown to shew, that by ascrib ing energy to the Divine will, or introducing, as Dr. Brown expresses it, a circumstance of efficiency, we take from the irustantaneousness, or grand rapidity, of the connexion. It must be proved that by ascribing energy to the Divine will, or introducing a circumstance of efficiency, we are adding any thing to the Divine will itself. The will itself is the term in the sequence, but that will is energy. It does not surely alter the matter much to say, that in that will there is energy. The will is the efficient : does it uifect the matter much to say that
INTELLECT. 73
in the will there is efficiency ? The writers already quoted, with others that might be referred to, although they might be held as denying efficiency in all secondary causes, — although they held that even these were but phenomena to be accounted for, were themselves effects, and not causes : that the laws of the universe were but laws, and that the efficient eluded our detection in every instance, nor could we hope to discover it : they did not for the most part deny efficiency in God ; but rather it was to lead the more surely to God, as operating in all, that they announced such views ; while there is in their statements something very far from the views of Hume and Brown. Not to be able to detect the efficient is very different from saying that there is no efficient, and we doubt if any thing more was meant by these writers. Take even the lan guage of Barrow: — " There can be no such connexion of an external efficient cause with its effect, through which, strictly speaking, the effect is necessarily supposed by the supposition of the efficient cause, or any determinate cause by the supposi tion of the effect." This does not deny efficiency in the sup posed cause, but merely that the efficiency is such that we are able to predict the effect from the cause, or to determine, before experience, the cause from the effect. It is only, in other words, to assert our ignorance of efficiency, and of the pro totypes in the Divine mind, which arranged and appointed all the efficiencies in the universe. Man knows no more than experience teaches him, or those general principles, necessary for his conduct and guidance in life, inform him of, or enable him to anticipate. Before we could predict an effect from its cause, or tell a cause from its effect, prior to experience, we must have been partakers in the counsels of the Creator, when he adopted the present arrangement in nature. That is not asserting much, and far less is it asserting that there is no efficiency in the causes that we see continually operating around us. Bishop Butler's assertion must obviously be understood in the same sense. What are causes, are to us but effects, for they themselves have to be accounted for : we cannot see what is efficient in them, and it by no mean!? takes
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efficiency from them, that they have been produced, or called into operation, by other efficients. Undoubtedly, it was a wrong method of philosophizing, and must have led to injurious results, to make the principle of efficiency itself the object of investigation, instead of the circumstances in which that prin ciple operated. In the law of gravitation, for example, we may state the law upon a well-observed induction: we state the circumstances in which that law takes effect, viz., when we have two bodies, the one greater the other less, in which case the greater attracts the lesser, if not held by other affinities or attractions ; or in any combination or analysis, when we give the circumstances in which the combination or analysis takes place. This is all that we have to do : to attempt to catch the subtle law itself, or to detect the efficiency, would be to waste time, and either put us on a wrong track of experiment or observation, or occupy us in altogether fruitless efforts. This must accordingly be adverse to science, and till Bacon gave forth the great truth which revolutionized science : — " Homo, naturae minister et interpres, tantum facit et intelligit quantum de naturae ordine re vel mente observaverit ; nee amplius scit aut potest," scientific investigation was for the most part directed to the discovery of occult qualities — hidden powers — instead of observing the circumstances in which these powers operated, the only proper subject of investigation. Are we to deny powers, or efficiencies, however, in these circumstances, merely because we cannot detect them, and because we must limit our inquiries to the circumstances themselves in which they operate ? This was not what Bacon meant ; nor do we believe it is what Butler meant, or Barrow, in the respective state ments quoted by Dugald Stewart, in what Lord Brougham calls " a valuable and learned note." But whether the opinion could fairly be attributable to them or not, at all events they would never have proceeded the length of Hume and Brown, and denied energy or efficiency in the Divine Being. It is quite possible to allow, and to contend for, the absence of efficiency in the agencies in nature, and yet hold to its exist- once in God. This is quite possible, and it may be done for
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the purpose of exalting the efficiency of the Creator, or calling our attention to it, more devoutly marking its presence, even when we would be apt to suppose that a secondary or inferior agency was all that was at work. It is but a more pious degree, as it were, of the sentiment that would discover God in the powers which he has conferred in creation. To " look from nature up to nature's God," has long been a canonized sentiment, as the act itself was the delight and occupation of the poet who gave it birth. And to heighten the sentiment, or the devout feeling implied in it, it is not uncommon to notice the absence of all true efficiency in the phenomena around us, and to refer all to the direct presence and operation of God. Accordingly, Dugald Stewart overlooking, as he must have done, the Atheistical tendency of Hume's view — for what is the denial of all energy in the Divine will but Atheistical ? — what have we left in the place of God, if efficiency is denied, and mere antecedence is predicated ? — overlooking this ten dency, Dugald Stewart says, even of Hume's doctrine, that it " seems to be more favourable to theism, than even the common notions upon this subject (the subject of cause and effect) ; as it keeps the Deity always in view, not only as the first, but as the constantly operating efficient cause in nature, and as the great connecting principle among all the various phenomena which we observe." Scripture itself seems to point to this view in the words already quoted, — " In him we live, and move, and have our being," and in the innu merable passages which refer the operations of nature to him, recognise him in the minutest as well as the greatest events, whether in creation or providence. " He maketh his angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire :" the clouds are his chariots, and he walks on the wings of the wind : he makes darkness his secret place ; his pavilion round about him dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky. Nay, Job rises to the sublime anticipation of the very doctrine of these modern days, and of the law of gravitation itself: " He hangeth the earth upon nothing, and stretcheth out the north over the empty place." This seems to refer the retention of the earth in her
76* INTELLECT.
orbit directly to God himself, and there is almost an implied allusion to the law which modern astronomy has discovered as that which holds the planets in their spheres. But how far is all this from denying energy to God ; and who will cordially own such a doctrine as makes the Divine will but the first link in a chain of sequence ?*
NOTE. — Dr. Reid thus traces the idea: " It is very probable that the very con ception or idea of active power, and of efficient causes, is derived from our volun tary efforts in producing effects ; and that if we were not conscious of such exertion, we should have no conception at all of a cause, or of active power, and consequently no conviction of the necessity of a cause of every change which we observe in nature." In reference to this view, Sir William Hamilton in a note to this passage has this interesting statement : " If this were the case our notion of causality would be of an empirical derivation, and without the quality of universality and necessity. This doctrine is also at variance with the account given above, (in a previous part of Dr. Reid's Essays,) where it is viewed as an original and native principle." Sir William Hamilton adds : " It is true, how ever, that the consciousness of our own efficiency illuminates the dark notion of causality, founded, as I conceive, in our impotence to conceive the possibility of an absolute commencement, and raises it from the vague and negative into the precise and positive notion of power." The impossibility of conceiving of an absolute commencement is, in other words, the impossibility of conceiving of an effect without a cause, is just the principle of causality; and this principle, wo have seen, is awakened contemporaneously with the reference of certain of our internal feelings to externality, or an external cause, or even with the first state of consciousness itself; and we have thus Sir William Hamilton's authority for assigning the idea of power or causality to the source to which we have already referred it. We silso remarked, that the idea would as yet be very undefined or rudimentary ; and Sir William Hamilton says, " that the consciousness of our own efficiency illuminates the dark notion of causalitt/" acquired as he describes, " founded in our impotence to conceive of an absolute commencement," " and raises it from the vague and negative into the precise and positive notion of power." We believe this is the true account of the matter. Others, with Dr. Reid, have traced the idea to our consciousness of efficiency in ourselves. Sir William Hamilton properly objects to this view, that it is assigning an em pirical derivation to the idea, a derivation which would never give us, or allow, the universal and necessary truth or principle, that every effect must have a cause. Whewell says, " That this idea of cause is not derived from experience, we prove (as in former cases) by this consideration, that we can make assertions involving this idea, which are rigorously necessary and universal ; whereas knowledge derived from experience can only be true as far as experience goes, and can never contain in itself any evidence whatsoever of its necessity."
* See Note A.
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We might now speak of the primitive ideas of motion and number ; but it seems enough to mention them as among our primitive ideas. It were as vain to attempt any explanation of them, as we have seen it was to explain time, power, space. We must content ourselves with the ideas we have of them. We may now, however, refer to Whewell's classification of the sciences, as based upon or springing out of these several original or primitive ideas we have noticed, including those of motion and number. It is in proposing to treat of these ideas in his " Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences," that he enumerates the sciences severally connected with them.
" I shall," he says, " successively have to speak of the ideas which are the foundation of geometry and arithmetic, (and which also regulate all sciences depending upon these, as as tronomy and mechanics,) namely, the ideas of space, time, and number.
" Of the ideas on which the mechanical sciences (as me chanics, hydrostatics, physical astronomy) more peculiarly rest ; the ideas of force and matter, or rather the idea of cause which is the basis of these :
" Of the ideas which the secondary mechanical sciences (acoustics, optics, and thermotics) involve, namely, the ideas of externality of objects, and of the media by which we perceive their qualities :
" Of the ideas which are the basis of mechanico-chemical and chemical science, polarity, chemical affinity, and substance."
The remaining sciences which Whewell enumerates, crystal lography, mineralogy, botany, zoology, physiology, and paleeti- ology, depend upon derived, and not primitive ideas, which we have not yet traced.
It is interesting thus to see the roots of the sciences, or their basis, in the ideas of the mind. All science may be said to have to do with the properties of space, of number, of time, of matter, of substance, of externality, of cause — to consist in tracing the forces of bodies, their resemblance, their affinity, their power of assimilation, their age, their history — or historical causation, as Whewell calls it — their final cause or purpose.
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It is in this sense that metaphysics supplies a kind of " prima philosophia," of which Bacon gave the hint, although he became the legislator for science rather than the scientific investigator himself, either in the department of matter or mind.
Whewell seems, with Kant and the other German meta physicians, to regard the ideas we have traced as forms of the understanding, or ideas merely affixed to, or superinduced upon, the materials given to the mind by sensation. Of space, for example, he says, " Since there are such truths applicable to our experience, and arising from the nature of space, we may thus consider space as a form, which the mate rials given by experience necessarily assume in the mind, as an arrangement derived from the perceiving mind, and not from the sensations alone."
If Whewell meant merely that we are indebted to the mind as well as to the materials furnished by sensation, (as by the presence in space of a solid body,) for our idea of space, this would be an important truth ; but his meaning rather seems to be that space is nothing but an idea, nothing apart from the mind — a form superinduced by the mind upon matter existing in space. For, after a statement to which we would not object: " Thus this phrase, that space is a form belonging to our per ceptive power, may be employed to express that we cannot perceive objects as in space, without an operation of the mind as well as of the senses, without active as well as passive facul ties :" after this very intelligible and correct statement, he adds, " This phrase, however, is not necessary to the exposition of our doctrines. Whether we call the conception of space a condition of perception, a form of perception, or an idea, or by any other term, it is something originally inherent in the mind perceiving, and not in the objects perceived." Whewell thus plainly holds space to be in the mind perceiving and not in the objects perceived. It is an important truth to mark, that space and time, and suchlike ideas, owe their origin to the activity of the mind itself, and that any share that sensation has in any of them is but as an occasion, and not properly as a cause. This is an important truth, one which is being more distinguished
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at the present day, though we do not believe it to have been overlooked by those who are assailed as being too sensational in their philosophy ; we allude particularly to Locke. The mode in which Locke traces the ideas shews plainly that he understood the part which the mind itself has in originating the ideas. But because the mind is thus active in producing these ideas, have the ideas no counterpart for which they stand ? are they ideas merely ? is Whewell's representation the right one when he speaks of space being something originally in herent in the mind perceiving, and not in the objects perceived? Is this a correct representation ? We do not think so, and we see the justice of Dr. Chalmers's stricture upon Whewell, that he " expresses himself as if carried by the prestige of the Ger man philosophy, and its outlandish nomenclature." " We shall persist," says Dr. Chalmers, " in regarding the whole of the in termediate space between ourselves and the planet Uranus as an objective reality." Space, time, figure, cause, are not forms of thought merely, or forms of the perceptive power, but are realities, although it is the mind which gives us the idea of them. It is true, therefore, that our ideas are the very essence or the material of science itself; but then these ideas have something for which they stand, and are not solely ideas. It is of the very essence of the idea that there is something with out the mind of which it is but the idea. In obtaining the idea the mind obtains it as the idea of something which has a real existence, or as Dr. Chalmers calls it, an " objective reality." It seems the greatest absurdity to resolve all into forms of thought, or of the understanding, or belonging to the perceptive power. At this rate, what is there between us and the boundaries of the universe ? The car of the aeronaut is but a clumsy contrivance, when the whole of space is within our own ideas. What need for railways — the grand invention of modern times ? and how comes it that ships have been tra versing the ocean so long, that from the time of the Argonauts to that of Columbus, and till the present hour, the sea has been the highway for voyagers and adventurers of every kind, and many a noble triumph of nautical skill and personal enterprise
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and daring has been achieved ? There is indeed room for a Cervantes or a Butler, were such a genius to arise, in this field of metaphysical speculation ; or a new Martinus Scriblerus might exercise his wit to some purpose on the German forms of thought, as he has done so successfully on the subject of per sonal identity, and other scholastic niceties. The resurrection of Belzoni's mummy need not surprise us so much ; and what wonder if he " hobanobbed with Pharaoh," or
" Dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ?"
Indeed, the address to the mummy was composed with some such sportive familiarity with the idea of time, not, however, as if it was a mere idea, but a reality, disturbing the imagina tion, puzzling the thought :
" And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !)
In Thehes's streets, three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! *****
" Since first thy form was in this box extended,
We have above ground seen some strange mutations : The Roman Empire has begun and ended,
New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
" Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror Cambyses, March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thund'ring tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?"
There is room, therefore, we see, for strange and thick- coming fancies in connexion with this idea, or rather with time itself. The mind may sport itself with these, or rather be wilder itself with strange amazement. But to deny reality to space and time, or any other of our primitive ideas, is certainly a vagary of which not a little use could be made by a Butler
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or a Cervantes, if it was not rather a subject for the pungent satire of a Swift, or the playful fancy of a Fontenelle.
" When Bishop Berkeley said, 'There was no matter,'
And proved it — 'twas no matter what he said : They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head ; And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it."
The proper application of metaphysics is not to lead us into such vagaries which are the fit object of burlesque, but to shew the limits of truth and knowledge. If we are led for a season into the maze of doubt, or if not of doubt, of perplexity, it is to be the more satisfied when we have emerged again into the open light of sober reality, or when we possess the clew that unwinds the labyrinth. To know the limits of our own minds, to know the exact nature of our ideas, and to hold by the grand original principles of our mental and moral constitution, is safer, than if, ignorant of these, we relied upon the first impres sions of our minds, even although they may be generally found to be correct. Truth is best seen when it is distinguished from error — when it is defined, limited, and separated to the eye. I have all the firmer conviction of the reality of space, time, cau sality or power, matter and mind, that their reality has been called in question, and that I have set myself to inquire into the mode of reasoning by which their reality has been ques tioned, and thus know the true grounds of my belief. The pri mitive ideas or informations of my mental constitution, nothing can drive me from. I entrench myself within those beliefs or ideas which my own mind gives me, and no subtleties or diffi culties are of any avail to shake my convictions. It is to pri mitive ideas, first principles, that we have to appeal in all matters affecting our beliefs ; and it would be interesting to know the character and extent of our beliefs, or the precise nature of our primitive ideas and intuitive convictions, even though no sceptical question had ever been raised.
F
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VIII.
The mind is now supposed to have obtained its primary, or fundamental ideas ; those ideas which are uniform, universal, and irresistible in their authority ; which do not depend upon opinion, nor suffer modification from the varying characteristics or shades of mind, but belong to mind as such ; or which mind, placed in such a sphere as the present, cannot but possess. There is no mind destitute of them, let it be found in the most solitary position on the surface of the world, on the very con fines of civilisation and human existence. Had Crusoe, instead of a castaway on Juan Fernandez, been indigenous to the soil, he wrould doubtless have possessed these ideas. They are the spontaneous production of the mind existing in certain circum stances, possessing such and such laws, and operated upon as it is by objects from without. The external influence brought to bear upon it only excites its own internal activity, or spontaneity of action, whereby the ideas are got as a strictly mental pro duct, however the external influence may be necessary, and while we do not deny that the ideas have their counterpart, as distinct from the ideas, and of which they are but the ideas. Power, or causation, is not in the idea, or the idea itself, but something of which we obtain the idea, in virtue of the principle existing in the mind, which assures us that every effect must have a cause : in other words, such is the nature of the mind, that we no sooner see an effect than we recognise it as such, and refer it to a cause. It is not the observed instance of causation, however, which gives us the idea, but the mind itself, on the occasion of the observed instance. How unlike is the idea of space to the occasion of that idea, a body existing or moving in space ! — as unlike as possible, and yet it is thus the idea is acquired. Where is the similarity between the idea of time and the succession of ideas, or feelings, in the mind ? The mind's own activity or spontaneity is thus to be marked in all its original and primitive ideas. We have endeavoured to trace it in its spontaneous action from its earliest state of
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consciousness to the point at which we have arrived, when it is now in possession of all its original and primitive ideas. The progress from this stage onward must be a very different one from all before. Hitherto, the mind was truly as if in Plato's Cave, or like the chrysalis exploring its way, as it were, into being, but very different from the chrysalis, as not a mere organism, but an intellectual principle. And, hitherto, it is not to us now a subject of memory or observation ; we can but speak of its progress or processes at this period from what we come to know subsequently of its mode of operation and laws. By and by, the mind turns in upon itself, and reflects on its own operations. It can make itself the subject of a double consciousness as it were. It can become conscious of its act of self-cognizance or reflection. It can, in short, take notice of its own acts, and inquire into its own phenomena and laws. There is a great difference between the mind in the one, and the mind in the other of these two states ; and yet we can have no hesitation in asserting that the former is the more important stage of its history or progress. We confine our view, in this remark, of course, to the simple intellectual development. That can bear no comparison to its subsequent moral and spiritual develop ment. But all its most important ideas are acquired at the early period — unconscious period, we might call it, (if the mind could ever be said to be unconscious,) — of its history through which we have traced it. Now, however, it advances rapidly upon its acquired ideas. It proceeds upon these, upward or onward — combining, multiplying, modifying — every subsequent idea being a mode, as Locke phrases it, or a mixed mode of the former.
Let us remark, however, again, the part which sensation, and which the mind itself, have respectively in our original and fundamental ideas. The mind's earliest consciousness, as we see, would be one of sensation. How do we know this ? Not from any report which the mind itself brings from that early period, but from the obvious fact that the mind is dormant at that early stage, while we can perceive from the very nature of sensation, that it can at no time
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be dormant — except during what physiologists call a state of coma, or entire suspension of the physical as well as mental powers.
Sensation is that which connects the mind with the outward world — that which binds us to matter under the present law of our being. It is partly a mental, and partly a physical state or phenomenon : what part is mental, and what part is physical, it is impossible to determine. All that we can say and that seems to be ascertained, is, that by the different senses, and by a part of the nervous system, which seems reducible to none of the senses — that, for example, which gives the sensation of pain or of weariness — impressions from external objects are conveyed to the brain, while it, again, communicates with the mind, either as more immediately resident there, or as having more immediate communication with that organ. That there must be communication with the brain before there can be sensation, and that the nerves are the medium of communica tion, is seen from the fact, that if the nerve which communicates with any part of the body is cut, there is no sensation in the part to which the nerve no longer extends ; that when a limb is amputated, a sensation at the extremity of the remaining part of the limb is often referred to the part which has been amputated, as if the limb was yet entire — a sensation at " the extremity of the shortened fibres is referred to the member which in their perfect state they supplied ;" and that when the brain is in a comatose state, all sensation is suspended. When the nerves of any one of the senses are lost, the sense itself is lost. Besides, the substance of the brain and of the nerves is the same. The one would seem to be the great reser voir, the other the canals or ducts, and the analogy is the more complete that there are nerves communicating influence from the brain, vital and motive influence, as well as nerves com municating impressions to it. The physiology of the nervous system discloses to us an amazing instance of contrivance and skill, and may well extort the exclamation of the psalmist : — " I will praise thee ; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made : marvellous are thy works, and that my soul knoweth right
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well." But the ultimate fact is what we have to do with — the communication between the brain and the mind.
A popular writer on physiology thus beautifully refers to this communication ; while he shews the necessity of such a communication, the necessity of an intellectual principle, to account for phenomena which would otherwise remain unac counted for.
" Look at a wrecked vessel ! There is one man there ordering and directing all on board ; the only remaining boat is lowered ; he is careful to see it filled with the persons crowded about him ; it pushes off, and where is he ? He is there on the deck of that sinking ship ; the boat would not hold all, and he has refused a place in it, and remained to perish rather than sacrifice one life committed to his charge. He knows that death awaits him ; he has been urged to save himself, and yet he is there ! What is the impulse which prompts him thus to contravene the first great law of animated nature ?
" Sleep, again, is among our most imperious needs, for the want of it gradually destroys life. There lies a sick man in his bed, senseless, in the last stage of an infectious fever, and there is one watching beside him, looking pale and exhausted, but who sleeps not, stirs not, though her young life is wasting away with fatigue, and exposed to contagion, and she knows it, and has calculated that the same grave will receive both ! What nerve of all that fine machinery has impelled her to this course ?
" Look at the astronomer in his observatory ! The night is far advanced, and he is chilled and fatigued, yet he remains with his eye at the telescope — for what ? To carry on a series of observations, which, perhaps, in two generations more, may give as its result the knowledge of some great law of the ma terial universe ; but he will be in his grave long ere he can expect that it will be ascertained. He sits down to his calcu lations, and he forgets his meals, sees nothing, hears nothing, till his problem is solved ! No sense prompts him to this sacrifice of rest and comfort. But do we call those persons insane ? No ! we honour them as the excellent of the earth ;
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admire their lives, and wish that, when the occasion comes, we may have courage so to die.
" I know but of one solution of the difficulty," continues this writer ; " there must be some element in man which we have not yet taken account of ; some untiring, undying energy which eludes, indeed, the fingers and the microscope of the anatomist, but which exercises a despotic sway over the animal mechanism, and takes possession of it for its own use, to the point of ex hausting and finally destroying it. Nor is it any objection to this view, that there may be instances either of congenital idiocy or subsequent injury to the brain, where this power is less manifested ; for we are not to judge of the peculiar character istics of a species from the anomalous exceptions. The power which overmasters and despises sense, is yet obliged to convey its mandates through bodily organs ; take these from it, either wholly or in part, and it can no longer manifest its existence in the same way as when these organs were perfect. The paralytic man would move his arm or would express his wishes if his arm or his tongue would obey him ; and his frequent impatience at their incapacity sufficiently shews that the ruling will and the servant faculties are of a different and distinct nature ; nay, it has been observed that even the insane are at times conscious of, and lament a state of brain, which no longer enables the indvidual to act rationally. This could not occur were the. brain and nerves, as acted upon by external stimuli, the only spring of man's will, for then the altered structure would invariably produce a satisfied acquiescence in its results."
That element, that overmastering power, is mind. It ope rates, or as the writer we have quoted expresses it, conveys its mandates through bodily organs, but it is a principle which is altogether different from these ; and it has a domain of its own into which the senses do not intrude. The eye of the astrono mer takes in the sphere of the planetary heavens, but when he has made his observations, his calculations are a mental process in which he retires from the region of sense altogether. It is not an overmastering will merely that shews the superiority of that principle which takes the senses under its own control,
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and " exercises a despotic sway" over the body, so as to direct it to its own purposes, and even cast it away when some end is to be accomplished : it is the purely intellectual act also that we can discern to be altogether distinct from any combination of physical phenomena. The reigning and triumphant will is indeed nobler than even the intellect in its highest exercises, when that will is obeying the impulse of some lofty passion or emotion : it is sublime sometimes in its mastery when it is under the influence even of misdirected passion ; but in the operations of pure intellect especially, there is something which at once distinguishes it from all material or physical agencies or ope rations.
Sensation, however, still is the first fact or law of mind to be observed. It is the groundwork, so to speak, of mind — it is the awakener of mind, and furnishes many of those intimations or materials from which, as we have seen, our most important elementary ideas are obtained.
The mysterious connexion between mind and matter must for ever remain unexplained in our present state of being. That there are these two distinct spheres of operation, and subjects of phenomena, we cannot doubt, as we cannot doubt the infor mations of that consciousness of which we feel ourselves the subjects. Our consciousness informs us of two distinct classes of feelings or states, the one of which we at once refer to one source, the other to another. Even the Germans recognise our " sense perceptions," whatever afterwards they make of these. With respect to Kant, for example, Morell, in his History of Philosophy, says, " the capacity of our being affected by the objects of sense, just as is the case in Locke's philosophy, he never questioned, but considered it as a thing self-evident that the matter of our notions must be furnished from this source, inasmuch as our other and higher faculties are simply formal, or regulative, and therefore not adapted to supply the material for any conception whatever." " What is immediately true to us," again, says Morell, in giving an account of Fichte's system, " are our sensations and perceptions : it is our reason which supposes an external world in order to account for them." " All
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we are immediately conscious of, argues Fichte, are the states and processes of our own thinking self. Our sensations, per ceptions, judgments, impressions, ideas, or by whatever name they are designated, these form the material of all the know ledge which is immediately given to us." I need not say that in the British school of metaphysics sensation has its proper place assigned it among the phenomena of mind. The ques tion with us now is, When does sensation cease to be sensation, and at what point does a purely mental state commence ? It is of the utmost importance to mark the distinction between sensation and a purely mental state. However important the distinction between mind and body, although we live in a mixed state of being, and the world which is the sphere of our activities is a mass of matter, — although we are conversant every day with material objects and material interests, we ply material avocations, follow pursuits which terminate on matter, and employ it constantly in their prosecution, — although the universe of which our globe is a part presents material pheno mena for our contemplation and solution, and in these we are carried away into the loftiest speculations, and problems for which only the faculties of a Newton were adequate, we must never but remember that mind is also a part of our compound nature, that we are mental as well as corporeal beings, and that mind is by far the grandest part of our being. What is the state of incorporeal beings we cannot tell, but we are corporeal beings, — a fact, however, which does not in the least degree de tract from the importance of mind. The great tendency is to forget mind amid the claims of matter — to allow to the latter the importance which should be assigned to the former. This is done every day in the pursuits of life. Not only religion — not only the science of morals, but the science of mind itself — or just the fact that we are mental as well as corporeal beings, renders the too exclusive engrossment with material concerns and objects a great practical solecism, if it is nothing worse. The degree, too, to which the mechanical sciences are cultivated, to the utter forgetfulness of mental science, indicates the strong tendency to forget mind altogether, and to attend solely to what
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will develop and promote our physical state merely — what will carry forward man's physical wellbeing or happiness. We have heard a distinguished man of the present day ascribe to the same source most of the infidelity and even atheism that pre vails in the age in which we live. Materialism is the proper spawn of too great an engrossment in mere matter, whether it be in the too exclusive devotion to the business and pursuits of life, or too entire an attention to the physical and mechanical sciences. The tide is undoubtedly turning ; the spiritual part of man is receiving more attention ; mental and moral science is more cultivated ; more interest is awakened in all that con cerns man as a spiritual and as an intellectual being : subjects of a moral, political, and literary character claim a large share now of the public and popular regard. Literature appeals entirely to the mental part of our nature, we mean a legiti mate literature, not the offensive productions of a prurient and licentious press, which, in the shape of wild and impure fictions, are as greedily sought after as they are abundantly supplied. The political and social condition, too, is concerned with some thing more than physical or temporal comfort : out of the chaos of social evils seems to be arising a proper regard to man's spiritual and eternal wants, the psyche from the slough of the chrysalis. The political economist is beginning to see that the mind and the soul must be cared for, and the education not only for time but for eternity secured. Almost every social improvement has an eye to man's spiritual wants. The names of ages gone by that are most appealed to are the great refor mers of their times, or those who stood in the breach when civil and religious liberty were invaded. Cromwell has more honour done to him than a thousand kings. Luther is a nobler figure in history than the Imperial Charles. Napoleon's career is remembered chiefly in connexion with the brilliant qualities of mind that were exhibited in it, while its bad aim and selfish tendency are as freely condemned. What was generous and great, however, in the soul of Napoleon is the captivating spell which exercises such an influence over us, the lustre which al most throws into the shade, or blinds us to, his worse qualities.
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Literature is teeming with rich and choice productions, and a new epoch seems to be promised in the writings of a Baillie and a Yeiidys. These productions are the true and genuine fruit of an age of greater intellectual craving and loftier mark than almost any that preceded it ; and in them not only the intellectual but the spiritual takes a high place. We are not forgetting the age that has gone before — the profound phi losophy of Wordsworth, or the genuine soul of Campbell, or the prodigious mind, if we may so speak, of Byron, — a mind in rebellion against all law but that of its own great and spiritual demands, with which, however, it was continually clashing from its revolt against all that was consistent with these demands. Keats and Shelley were sensuous, but it was a spiritual sensuous- ness ; and Coleridge may almost be said to have been the great metaphysician of his age. But there is a greater intellectual and spiritual yearning in this age, and we take Baillie's Festus as its type. Mental philosophy must strike in with this hopeful cha racteristic. It must seek, if it can, to help it on, and to guide it. The productions of the pulpit must meet the tendency. The tone struck must not be lowered in the teachings from the sacred rostrum ; and it is interesting to think that the more spiritual the ministrations of the pulpit are, they will the more meet both the intellectual and the spiritual wants of the age. Spiritual truth will always be found in advance of intellectual, or it will embrace it. Literary beauties, too, will always be found at least not far off from genuine spirituality, as flowers grow spontaneously in paradise. Let us be assured of even the uncultivated mind uttering true spiritual truths, and we are certain it will compel the most cultivated to listen and draw forth the homage of the highest intellect. There was nothing which affected Byron more, as he himself assures us, than the knowledge as conveyed to him through a letter advising him of the circumstance, that a pious female made his conversion the subject of daily prayer. The beauty as well as the touch ing nature of the incident seems to have struck the poet. True spirituality is, in fact, the highest beauty, as " the Christian," a poet himself has said, " is the highest style of man/'
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The more that we make the spiritual part of our being the subject of our thoughts, that we trace its phenomena, that we familiarize ourselves with its arcana and laws, the more shall we see to admire and wonder at in our mental constitution, and the finer adaptation shall we discover between all the laws of mind and that economy in which we are placed, as well as that material arena on which we are situated. Is it not inter esting already to have seen the mode in which our fundamental ideas are developed — those ideas which are the under layer, as it were, or substratum, of all our mental furniture ? What a marvellous arrangement or provision is it, and how wonderful the product itself ! It is hardly possible to say, whether the way in which the ideas are acquired, or the ideas themselves, should be regarded as the more wonderful. And the more will our admiration gather as we look at mind farther. The sen sational tendency, too, or the tendency to materialize the mind will be the more guarded against or repudiated. A material istic tendency is by no means to be treated as one not possible, and far less probable : it is one to be guarded against, and by every means shunned. Able thinkers have yielded to it : it is too prevalent at the present day. What could have produced the " Vestiges of Creation," but a tendency so much to be avoided? and what could have rendered that work so popular, but the same tendency which it met in the public mind ? It is a plausible theory that mind is the result of an organization so fine as we find that of our constitution to be. The very intricacy and delicacy of the arrangement, and closely connected as it actually is with our mental phenomena, give a colouring to the theory. Why this expenditure of contrivance, this nicety of skill, this delicacy of provision and arrangement ? Those slender filaments of nerves were surely intended for some men tal result, or a result such as we perceive mind to be. It is a worthy result of such a contrivance. As the fine machine pro duces a filament of thread so delicate that it is hardly perceiv able by the eye, so may mind be cast off from such an organic combination at once so intricate and so simple. The theory saves the necessity of supposing anything different from that
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matter of which we are composed. It is the easiest way to settle the question about mind. We then get rid of the ap parent inconsistency of placing a spiritual substance in a mate rial, and it is so like the process by which other results are wrought out : it is like the product of a machine — like the fine essence distilled from the grossest matter — like the blossom of a flower, or its spirit fragrance — or like the marvellous results of chemical combination : all these appear something like ana logies ; and why then may not mind be resolved into a result of organic arrangement ? So the materialists might argue. What is the answer to this mode of reasoning ? An appeal to our own consciousness. We have in ourselves the answer. Mind cannot be an organic result. True, sensation is partly material, and the difficulty of deciding where the material part of the process or phenomenon stops, and the mental part be gins, may be urged in favour of materialism ; but sensation is not all the phenomena of mind, and while we confess a diffi culty, we still mark the total difference between a material and a mental product.
Mind, we repeat, cannot be an organic result Kespiration is an organic result : the circulation of the blood is an organic result : the motion of our bodies is partly the result of muscu lar contractility, organic combination and action, and of mental volition : — is mind at all like any of these ? Is it not different from them, " to to coalo ?" Our inquiry is, When does sensation cease to be material, and become mental ? We have already stated that this cannot be determined by us — that we are left in utter ignorance here — that the matter is one not even within the sphere or scope of our investigation. But we can mark when sensation ceases to be sensation and becomes intellec tion ; in other words, when we have nothing of matter in our mental states, but all is purely intellectual : we should have said our states of consciousness, for to speak of mental states, is already taking mind for granted. It is not too much, surely, to say, that we can mark a mental state as distinct from one of sensation. Is it too much to affirm that we mark a total
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disparity between a sensation and an idea — that we can at once discern the difference ? Does not the simplest idea testify to its purely mental or spiritual origin ? Is not our very first idea — that of self— separate from even the consciousness which begets it ? Then comes the idea of not-self, or externality ; then that of matter ; then that of mind — the latter involved or wrapt up in the former ; then that of substance ; then we acquire those of space, time, power : these again take varied modifications, they become the subjects of science : by them we solve problems which solve the motions of the planets, which give to us their distances, establish the grand pervading law of the universe, and are adding discovery to discovery, so that the very depths of space, and the very secrets of crea tion are revealed, or are revealing themselves to us. An organic result is one and the same in all circumstances ; it varies not : but here is a principle which sees no limit to its wide and extending progress or advance — which is not itself a mere law, but which is conversant about law, which is in telligent of it, which reveals it, and can even unfold its own processes or laws — is cognizant of itself: this surely is no organic result.
Then if we go into the region of imagination, if we mark the subtle processes of that faculty, if we observe its potent sway — how it etherealizes or spiritualizes matter itself, clothes it in its own beauty, invests it in its own fair hues, scatters around its thousand spells, gives animation and meaning to eveiy object by which we are surrounded, and to every sound that comes to us, to the lightest whispers of the breeze, and to the stillest rustling of the summer or the autumn foliage; which hears a voice in the gurgling brook, that comes from depths yet unfathomed by the mind itself, and listens in con verse with the ocean as it murmurs unceasingly, and, with Wordsworth, hears the sound of another ocean " rolling ever more," when " our souls have sight of that immortal sea which brought us hither :" who will say that all this is the result of mere organization ? Who would be a materialist who has ever felt the visitations of that spirit which comes to us when
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nature is still, which woos us in the moods and aspects of creation, who has felt —
" A presence that disturbs him with the joy of elevated thoughts,"
who has cultivated and cherished that presence, and is indeed hardly ever unattended by it, so that it meets him in every pathway where the influences of nature are around him ?
But mind is seen in the moral part of our constitution, in its spiritual longings, and in its desire after immortality. What have these to do with matter ? They spurn it, they trample upon it, they escape from it, they anticipate an existence when matter itself may be annihilated. There is in the voice of con science — in the eternal distinctions of good and evil, in the practical admiration of the right and hatred of the wrong: what effectually silences, and must ever silence materialism ; while the question of immortality, the " to be or not to be" of the poet, or his moody but meditative soliloquist, surmounts and triumphs over the very ghastliness of the grave.
It is a vast importance which is attached to mind when it is spoken of as " the soul" in Scripture. How emphatic these words of Jesus : " What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose liis soul ; or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" What a price is weighed with it, when Christ himself gave his life a ransom for it ! Scripture takes the spirit of man out of the category of mere mind, and gives it a place with the angels and with God himself. Singu lar that even the Greeks and Latins seem to have recognised the distinction in their different names for the immaterial principle — <f>pr)V, vovs, tftyio? — mens, animus. We need not remark that Ovfw^ and animus are the vital principle, the sub stance of the spirit in which the faculties reside, and that <f>pr)i>, vovs, and mens, rather point to the faculties, and seem to indi cate the understanding, reason, and feelings or dispositions and will of the OvfAos and animus. The Epicureans were that ancient sect who held the materiality of the soul, although they still held that the soul was a distinct principle, composed of much finer particles than the body in which it resided. They
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were the materialists of ancient times. It is in Scripture chiefly that the dignity of the soul is recognised. The scheme of redemption undoubtedly gives it a value which nothing else could assign it in our estimation.
IX.
Philosophers have been classified according as they leaned to a sensational or an idealistic tendency. Materialists are the extreme sensationalists : the Transcendentalists are the extreme Idealists. Gassendi, who was the opponent of Descartes, was the first in modern times who traced all our knowledge, and consequently all our ideas, to the senses, the objects of the understanding even with him being sensible images. This was reviving the Aristotelian doctrine of intelligible species, with less of refinement in the images or species present to the mind. Gassendi's admiration of the physical doctrines of Epicurus, according to Dugald Stewart, " predisposed him to give an easier reception than he might otherwise have done to his opinions in metaphysics and in ethics." His opposition to Descartes seems to have had something to do, likewise, with his extreme opinions.
Descartes' first great truth, " cogito, ergo sum," which, as Cousin has most conclusively demonstrated, was nothing more than a recognition of the primary consciousness of the mind, is the true starting-point of all philosophy. Descartes, there fore, so far recognised the independence and immateriality of the mind, as to make his thinking the very ground of his belief in his own existence. His famous doctrine of innate ideas, too, however erroneous, was yet a recognition of another source of some of our ideas than the senses. Descartes' words in reference to the mind, or himself as a thinking being or substance, are very remarkable : " Non sum corn- pages ilia membrorum qua3 corpus humanum appellatur ! non sum tenuis aliquis aer istis membris infusus ; non ventus, non ignis, non vapor, non habitus — Quid igitur sum ? res cogitans ;
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quid est hoc ? nempe dubitans, intelligent, affirmans, negans, volens, nolens."
Descartes and Gassendi became the founders of separate schools of philosophy, and the modern distinction between sensationalists and idealists ivas formerly that between Gas- sendists and Cartesians. Most of the French metaphysicians have followed Grassendi, and Locke has been claimed by them as favouring the same views. This could only be from the circumstance of sensation being with him one of the sources of our ideas, and from the loose mode in which he expresses him self; though his making "reflection" the other source of our ideas, and a fair interpretation of his language on the subject of sensation and our simple ideas, should protect him against any allegation or charge of sympathy with the school of Gras sendi or Condillac. Locke meant sensation to be one of the sources of our ideas in no other sense than as the occasion on which they were originated. He traces our simple ideas to sensation, but it is to be remarked that they are recognised as ideas, so that they are traceable to sensation no farther than as the occasion of their arising. It is common enough to speak of our getting certain ideas through the senses, when nothing more is meant than that but for the part which the senses per form in our complex constitution, we would have no such ideas ; the ideas, however, belong to the mind, however the senses present the material for them, or the occasion of them. The idea takes place in the mind upon the presence of certain sen sations — but how takes place ? — in virtue obviously of a law of mind itself, or as a matter solely of mind. Did Locke recog nise this part which the mind has in the origination of our ideas ? There can be no doubt he did ; and it is this which separates him from the school of Gassendi and Condillac. This is precisely the point of divergence between the sensation alists and idealists, between those who refer the whole phenomena of mind to sensation, and those who recognise an independent and intrinsic power in mind, but for ivhich even the part which sensation has in our ideas would be to no purpose, and we would never get beyond sensation itself. It may well seem
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extraordinary that any pretending to take a philosophic view of the mind at all, should make sensation the alone source of our ideas, and resolve every faculty, law, or idea of the mind, into but a new phase of sensation. This did Gassendi ; this subse quently did Condillac. The former said, — " All our knowledge appears plainly to derive its origin from the senses ; and although you deny the maxim, (Gassendi was writing to his opponent Descartes,) ' Quicquid est in intellectu preesse debere in sensu ;' yet this maxim appears, nevertheless, to be true, since our knowledge is all ultimately obtained by an influx or incursion from things external, which knowledge afterwards undergoes various modifications by means of analogy, compo sition, division, amplification, extenuation, and other similar processes, which it is unnecessary to enumerate." Condillac's mode of stating the same truth or doctrine was, — " Our ideas are nothing more than transformed sensations." The view seems to have been, that hardness (to take this for an example) was a sensation, and that solidity, as distinguished from hard ness, was but the same sensation a little modified : resistance, again, was the same sensation somewhat modified ; so with matter and substance ; these were not ideas, or they were ideas only in the sense of being transformed sensations. But it is plain, that while hardness or resistance may be a sensation, we have the ideas of hardness and resistance as distinguished from the sensations, while solidity is an idea, and not, in any sense, a sensation.* Substance, too, is an idea, and not a sensation, as is matter, a species of substance. Is externality a sensation ? It is a peculiar sensation which gives us the idea, but the idea is something apart from the sensation. Space is not a sensation but an idea, and it is suggested by something altogether dis tinct from, and unlike space itself, (viz., a body occupying or moving in space.) If time is a transformed sensation, it is so as the result of a succession of sensations in the mind ; now, of which of the sensations is it the transformation when it is the result of them all ? It was as countenancing such a theory that Locke was claimed by Condillac and his followers ; and it is
* See Note B. G
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as leaning to such a theory that he has been censured by a recent writer on the history of philosophy, while it has been too much the fashion, without a just and candid interpretation of his whole system, and from a minute criticism of certain por tions, and separate unguarded statements, of his famous Essay, to denounce him as inconsistent with himself, and holding views altogether empirical, and at variance with any intuitive or independent power of the mind. Locke wrote at a time when it was not possible that those guarded modes of state ment, now so necessary, could be deemed requisite. It is a legitimate and a valuable result of philosophical inquiry, to be more precise and accurate in the terms employed, and in the modes of statement. Successive theories impose this precision upon philosophical writers, and the mistakes fallen into, and errors either to be avoided or condemned, make it the more requisite. Locke, besides, seems to have written as he would have spoken, without much care as to his phraseology or the arrangement either of his subjects or his ideas. He employed terms in a loose manner without looking to the effect of them, and although one statement often thus appeared to stand in contradiction to another, or to be at variance with another. In maintaining the theory, for example, that all our ideas come either from sensation or reflection, the former being the source of our simple, and the latter of our complex ideas, he never intended to deny the activity of the mind by which such ideas as those of space, time, power, and even substance and solidity, are acquired ; this activity was taken for granted, and meta physical writing, if we may be allowed to say so, had not arrived c.t that stage ivhen such activity was needing to be pointed out, or to be particularized. Locke's account of the idea of space is, perhaps, the best that has ever been given, while we have seen that he is equally correct as regards that of time, so much so, that Cousin accords to him the merit of having been the first to refer this idea to the succession in our internal states, — " le monde de la conscience." If he is not so accurate in tracing the occasion of the idea of power, or caus ality, still he refers it to the principle of causality in the mind
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itself ; the principle " that like changes will always be made by like agents in like ways :" " concluding," he says, " from what it has so often observed to have been, that this will be again, the mind comes by the idea of power." It makes little against Locke that the principle is said by him to be derived from what has been frequently observed in the past ; it is a principle still, and one that warrants a universal conclusion in reference to the future, and therefore suggests the idea of power. The ac tivity of the mind is surely as much here, as when the principle starts into conspicuousness at once, and as we saw, either upon the first state of self-consciousness, or the presence of a sensation, disturbing, or at variance with, previous sensations, or feel ings, hitherto experienced, and referable to self. It matters not when the principle is awakened, or what awakens it ; it is some thing of the mind alone, pertains to the mind's own activity or spontaneity. But Locke recognises a distinct source of ideas besides sensation, viz., reflection, and this was entirely a mental act. " If it be demanded," says Locke, " when a man begins to have any ideas ? I think the true answer is, when he first has any sensations. For since there appear not to be any ideas in the mind before the senses have conveyed any in, I conceive that ideas in the understanding are coeval with sensation, which is such an impression or motion made in some part of the body, as produces some perception in the understanding. It is about these impressions made on our senses by outward objects, that the mind seems first to employ itself in such opera tions as we call perception, remembering, consideration, reason ing, &c.
" In time, the mind comes to reflect upon its own operations, about the ideas got by sensation, and thereby stores itself with a new set of ideas, which I call ideas of reflection. These are the impressions that are made on our senses by outward objects that are extrinsical to the mind ; and its own operations, pro ceeding from powers intrinsical and proper to itself, which, when reflected on by itself, becoming also objects of its contem plation, are, as I have said, the original of all knowledge. Thus the first capacity of human intellect is, that the mind is
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fitted to receive the impressions made on it, either through the senses, by outward objects, or by its own operations when it reflects on them. . . . All those sublime thoughts which tower above the clouds, and reach as high as heaven itself, take their rise and footing here : in all that good extent wherein the mind wanders, in those remote speculations it may seem to be elevated with, it stirs not one jot beyond those ideas which sense or reflection have offered for its contemplation." Here Locke speaks of powers intrinsical and proper to the mind it self; ivhile even with respect to those ideas which are got by the senses, or are " conveyed in" as Locke expresses himself, by the senses, he calls them ideas of the understanding. " I conceive," he says, " that ideas in the understanding are coeval with sen sation ;" therefore, sensation was not the cause of them, pro perly speaking, but the occasion of them : they belong to the understanding, although they arise coeval with certain sensa tions. Locke also speaks of " a power which the mind is able to exert within itself, without the aid of any extrinsic object or any foreign suggestion." Sensation and reflection is Locke's antithesis, and in the two terms of it we have the two sources of all our ideas. But mind is in operation as soon as we get an idea. An idea is exclusively a mental product : there is no longer anything of sensation in it. Gassendi and Condillac, on the contrary, insist upon every idea being but a modified or a transformed sensation. Locke had nothing in common with such a philosophy. Condillac and his followers had no right to claim him. They have all the merit of the sensational philosophy. It peculiarly belongs to the French school of metaphysics from the time of Condillac ; although Gassendi was the first who propounded the theory. Malebranche, who flourished between the time of Gassendi and that of Condillac, held the doctrine, that our ideas are immediately suggested by the Divine Being, as he is the only true cause of everything that either exists or happens. God is the immediate inspirer of every thought, as he is the immediate cause of every event ; nay, according to Malebranche, our minds themselves exist in God as matter in space. It was his piety that led him to adopt
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this theory. His object, like that of Berkeley, was to uproot infidelity by one bold effort, and make God all in all. We can admire the piety of the design, while we wonder at the teme rity of the doctrine. It was certainly carrying the citadel of the enemy by a coup de main, but it was at the risk of phi losophy and everything else : common sense perished in the line of approach or mode of assault. Condillac wrote a con siderable time after Malebranche, as the latter flourished about twenty years after the time of Gassendi. Condillac was fol lowed by the Encyclopaedists, and what he began with, making sensation the only faculty of the mind, and every idea but a transformed sensation, his followers carried all the length of an undisguised and unmitigated materialism. Mind was denied, and everything was referred to a system in which the nerves played the only part. " Les nerfs" said Cabanis, " voila tout I'homme" Physiology became the grand study, and phi losophers were found expending the greatest efforts of mind to prove there was no mind, and that all was but the action and result of a system of nerves. Much valuable information, no doubt, was thus acquired in the department for which France has always been pre-eminent, viz., physiological science. But this was at the expense of far more valuable truth, and un doubtedly the materialism of that period contributed to the general state of mind which issued in the excesses of the Kevo- lution. What were Mirabeau's dying words in the presence of that very Cabanis who had taught that the nerves were all of that wondrous combination in which to every true thinker the mind is by far the grandest part ? " I shall die to-day," said Mirabeau on his deathbed to Cabanis ; " all that can be now done is to envelop one's-self in perfumes, to crown one's self with flowers, to surround one's-self with music, that one may sink quietly into everlasting sleep." Thiers, in his History of the French Revolution, calls these calm and dignified obser vations. Cabanis recanted doctrines which he saw in the commentaries of such deathbeds, and the massacres of the guil lotine. The revolutionists exulted in the thought that death was an eternal sleep, and if he had contributed to such a state of
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sentiment, he hastened to repair his error, and to assert the everlasting distinctions of virtue springing out of the inde structible principles of mind.
X.
Intellection is the word we would be inclined to adopt as expressive of the action of mind as mind, and in antithesis to sensation, which is partly a corporeal and partly a mental function or state. On the presence of certain sensations, we have seen a mental act takes place, and our ideas of externality, of matter, substance, mind, space, time, power, are obtained. These are purely the products of a mental operation, while this is by no means to say that they have not their counterparts for which they stand, or of which they are the ideas. So wonder ful is the connexion between the external and internal worlds. The objects of our ideas, or their prototypes, are without us — but these ideas are purely mental, or given to us by mind. But for this power of fashioning its ideas, the external world would appeal to us in vain ; and figure, distance, magnitude, everything about which science is conversant, and with which taste and morals have to do, would be a nonentity, at least to us : other faculties, other minds, might apprehend them, but to us they would have no existence. It is a marvellous con nexion which exists between the world without and the world within. While all about which the mind is conversant is a kind of creation, even as if it had no independent existence, and the Germans were right in making everything phenomenal and subjective., we believe and cannot question that there is that without which is more than phenomenal, and is objective. God has created a material universe ; he has endowed it with certain qualities, or it possesses those properties which are essential to matter: he has placed mind in this material frame work or universe, as he himself is a Spirit or Mind of infinite perfection, — that created mind must learn those qualities or properties of the universe in which it exists, and it does so in a manner which is characteristic of itself, by an act or acts purely mental, so that the ideas are its own, while at the same
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time they have their counterpart without. This independent action of the mind may be denoted generally Intellection, or the action of pure mind. We think it is of importance to employ a term by which this action of the mind may be designated, both as opposed to sensation as the first law or state of the mind, and to any view that would stop short of recognising the operation of mind purely or simply, even in the formation of our most rudimentary ideas. We know that in the account of the origin of our ideas, in any intellectual system, except in those sensational ones in which our ideas are regarded but as transformed sensations, mind is recognised ; but it is not enough marked that mind bears the whole part, and that sensation but acts as a prompter, or as the occasion of the mind's operations, — is the suggestive stimulant, if we may so speak, not itself approaching to the remotest resemblance to an idea. The grand point to be noticed is the distinction between a sensation and an idea — the one partly a corporeal, the other strictly a mental product. We vindicate the separate integrity of mind, its distinct nature, and its independent action. Having ob tained its simple ideas, which are the rudiments of its other ideas, saving those which belong to taste and to moral duty — what happens after that ? but that the mind regards its simple ideas under different modifications, thus forming its complex ideas, or its ideas variously related.
It is usual to represent the mind as possessed of certain faculties, to account for its ideas, and its varied phenomena. The operations or states of the mind are represented under the description of different powers, and thus we have — Sensation, Memory, Judgment, Perception, Conception, Abstraction, Gene ralization — what Locke calls Composition — Imagination. Dis cernment, and Comparison, are also names in the vocabulary of the faculties, and seem to be employed by Locke for the more generic term Judgment. Judgment is the faculty which, pre siding over even our remembered sensations, discriminates, or forms them into ideas. A name is nothing, if we really under stand what we express by it. But would we call that process or operation by which our simple or elementary ideas are
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obtained by the name of judgment ? Is it not better to refer all to mind simply, acting spontaneously and independently, but in a manner altogether inexplicable, and not to be ac counted for by any name or names ? In like manner, shall we say our complex ideas are obtained by a faculty which we term judgment, or comparison, or composition ? For all prac tical purposes there is no harm in speaking of the faculties of the mind, and of the mind operating according to certain faculties, in the way of discernment, comparison, composition, or, more generically, judgment. But more philosophically and simply the view properly is, that the mind, first by its own spontaneity and activity, and then according to certain laws, obtains its simple ideas, such as self, externality, matter, sub stance, with their various properties — space, time, power : then these ideas are modified, and we have the idea of universal space, Eternity, causality under all its phases : we can limit or extend our idea of space ad libitum, — consider it as cir cumscribed by lines, and thereby derive the properties of figures, and construct the science of geometry — divide time into periods, or consider it according to the observed motions of the heavenly bodies — regard the laws of motion and of force, and so obtain the mechanical sciences : and all this is just mind, one and indivisible in all its operations, regarding its ideas under those aspects in which they may present themselves to it, or may be capable of being considered — it is, in short, intel lection operating in various ways, or intellection affected vari ously by limiting circumstances, supposed or actual. Three lines, for example, meeting each other, is an arbitrary circum stance presented to the mind, or supposed by it ; and thus out of space so circumscribed, we obtain the idea of a triangle, or a figure possessing three angles : that idea again variously modified gives us the idea of an isosceles, an equilateral, or a scalene triangle. But the arbitrary or modifying circumstance, or the line drawn according to a particular figure, may give us the idea, and all the properties, of the circle, or square, or parallelogram ; and our ideas of space and of figure may be as various as the directions in which lines can be drawn, or the
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magnitudes by which space may be measured. The properties of these figures determine at once the distance, orbit, and speed of the stars and planets, and may add, as they have added, a Kepler's laws, and a Newton's theory of gravitation, to the discoveries and the known facts of science. Again, by the idea of causality we obtain the idea of God, or at least of a First Cause. The mind perceives — (we use the word perceive to express a mental act by which certain ideas may arise in the mind) — the mind perceives, that a cause of the creation of the universe must be supposed, to account for the exist ence of the universe : the universe is the effect, God is the cause. It is but the operation of that very early developed principle of the mind, developed as early as the first state of consciousness, or at least the first discovery or intimation to us of an external world, or of externality — the principle that an effect must have a cause. But the effect is one implying or exhibiting intelligence : the cause must therefore have been an intelligent one. But, again, the effect is very stupendous ; nay, it was creation ; but for such a stupendous effect nothing less than omnipotence was adequate ; while creation is the effect of a Creator ; and a Creator must himself be uncreated ; and an uncreated being must have always existed ; and what have we here but the natural perfections of God ? See how simple, how unobserved, so to speak, how unwitting, how silent but irresistible, the process is ! There is no laboured effort of judgment : the process is obviously but a farther extension of that by which our simplest ideas arise. The mind, however, is guided or influenced by certain laws and principles: it acts under these laws or by these principles : its faculties are rather mind itself acting under or according to these laws or principles.
For example, there is the law of identity, the law of diver sity, the law of resemblance, the law of contrast, the law of analogy, the law of proportion.
Then there are the principles — Causality, to which we have traced the idea or belief of Externality ; Generalization, or the principle by which our generalized ideas are formed ; Deduction, the principle on which all reasoning properly speaking depends.
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Then we have the voluntary actions of the mind, such as attention, to which again may be referred what is called the power of abstraction, which is nothing more than the mind applied steadfastly to one of many subjects or ideas or quali ties, and attending to it apart. Imagination is just the laws of mind above enumerated, with a state peculiar to itself, and which may be called the ideal or imaginative state. Memory is a property of mind by which the past is recalled or repro duced : it is neither a law nor a principle. There is, lastly, the circumstance or property of association in our ideas.
The moral and emotional part of our nature does not come under our present review, although this may be men tioned as a separate source of ideas ; for we could have no idea of emotion unless we were capable of emotion, and we could have no idea of duty — of right and wrong — but for the law of right and wrong, or unless we were capable of perceiving this distinction ; while it is the aspects of emotion and of principle which go to the formation of character, and all the variety of disposition. Actions, too, may be variously contem plated, as characterized by such and such emotions, or exhibit ing such and such moral principles, or violations of principle. It may be seen what a wide range of ideas is thus opened up, or given to the mind.
We may specify here, too, the idiosyncrasies of the mind — a term for which we are indebted to phrenology — by which is meant some predominating bias or faculty, mental or moral, according to which one mind is distinguished from another.
We thus consider the mind possessed of a spontaneous activity and inherent poioer, by which our simple ideas are framed, products of the mind solely, and not indebted to sensation farther than as the prompter or stimulant of mind : that activity still in operation gives us the modifications of our simple ideas, in which extended operation we see the laws above enumerated, and those principles of the mind — causality, generalization, deduction. We have the voluntary actions of mind, attention, abstraction. We have the state of Imagina tion, and the properties of memory and association.
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XI.
Memory, though mentioned so late among the phenomena which mind presents, comes first under our consideration. We mentioned it so late because it does not belong to any of the more general phenomena to which may be referred many of the mental characteristics. We have called it a property of mind, for it is altogether distinct from the spontaneous action of the mind by which we obtain our primitive ideas, the modify ing laws of the mind, the principles of the mind, and even its voluntary actions ; for although volition may exert an influence upon memory, so that we may set ourselves to recall any past event, this is not so much a voluntary act of memory, as me mory influenced by an act of volition. All the voluntary acts of mind, indeed, are just mind under the influence of volition.
MEMORY.
Memory is undoubtedly something unique, or distinct from any other phenomenon of the mind. Nor do we call it a faculty, as we have refrained from designating any of the phenomena of mind facilities, inasmuch as the only thing pertaining to mind to which we can properly apply the name power, is the will, the seat of moral power ; and hence it is, that what are strictly to be regarded only as phenomena of mind take the aspect of faculties, because they may be under the influence of volition. A volition may be so present and operative as to give to what is nothing more than a succession of ideas in the mind the aspect of a faculty. Even what are called our judgments, are but ideas variously combined or related, but when loe set ourselves to compare our ideas, or invite their presence in their relations and connexions, we are said to exert an act of judg ment. In the same way when we set ourselves to recall a past idea or event, we are said to exert an act of memory. But what truly takes place in each of these instances ? In each instance we have but ideas arising in the mind according to certain laws, or according to a certain characteristic or property of the mind, under the influence of volition, or an act of will.
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Will is a real act ; in it is recognised the source or spring of action. We have spoken of the spontaneous activity of the mind, that is, the action of mind as mind, and prior to the possibility of a volition. But even this spontaneous activity is to be distinguished from the succession of ideas according to certain laws ; because having obtained an idea, that rather is the cause of another idea, than the more inner action, if we may so speak, of mind itself. It cannot be doubted that ideas suggest ideas, or that upon the presence of one idea another idea arises ; now, that is different from the internal activity by which our first and primitive ideas are obtained. It is the latter that we call spontaneous activity ; the former is the mind operating according to certain laws. One idea is the cause of another idea ; in the case of our simple ideas, mind is the cause of them. Now, memory is distinct from a mere succession of ideas, and is a property of mind by which the past is recalled, and not merely an idea suggested by an idea. Dr. Brown adopts a nomenclature for the phenomena of the mind to avoid ascribing to the mind powers or faculties, and he resolves the phenomena of the mind into states, which he calls the states of simple and relative suggestion. He recognises mental laws according to which these states arise ; but he makes the same distinction that we have thought it necessary to make between the mind as possessed of powers, and the mind as exhibiting properties or laws of operation. The latter, we think the more correct aspect in which to regard the mind. Suggestion is the grand law in Dr. Brown's system ; we have called it generally intellection, or just the operation of mind. Relative suggestion with Dr. Brown is when ideas spring up or arise in the mind not in their simple form, but in certain relations, and these relations are accounted for by the primary and secondary laws of suggestion. Dr. Brown, therefore, accounts for all the phenomena of mind strictly, by the phenomenon or law of sug gestion, but that phenomenon or law regulated by other pheno mena or laws, which are called the laws of association or suggestion. Now, instead of having a law or phenomenon regulated by other laws or phenomena, we would describe the
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former by the term intellection, and make the laws which regulate it the laws of intellection ; in other words, ive would consider the mind simply under the regulation of certain laws. Thinking, or ideas, may be said to be the distinguishing char acteristic or effect of mind ; but ideas do not arise in the mind but under the operation of certain laws, or thinking goes on according to certain laws. Now, we have distinguished me mory from ideas, or from thinking, and it is to be distinguished from the laws of thinking, or the laws by which our ideas are regulated. We make it a property of mind. We have already said that the will is the only proper power of the mind ; with it alone can we properly connect the idea of poiuer. What then is memory ? We say it is that property or characteristic of mind by which the past is recalled. Dr. Brown resolves it into a simple suggestion, or conception, with a relative feeling or idea of time ; or that suggestion or conception recognised as belonging to the past. But in that very recognition lies the peculiarity of memory which Dr. Brown makes no account of at all. We say the peculiarity of memory lies in the recogni tion of the past ; or rather this recognition is the recalling process, and it gives no account of memory to say that it is simple suggestion with a relative feeling of time. What is so peculiar to memory is its recalling the past, and that is not explained by simple suggestion; for that may take place without any reference to the past, an idea being suggested by another idea in the present, according to the law of simple suggestion; and the feeling or relative idea of time does not explain the phenomenon. The question is, why this idea of time ? why this feeling of past time ? why not of future time ? why of time at all ? This brings us to the precise characteristic, or distinction, of memory. It recalls the past, or in virtue of this property of mind the past is recalled. We call it a property of mind ; it is not a faculty ; it is not a law. The past is present, and yet it is not present, it is recalled ; that is a property of mind. Strange, singular law or property ! — the past present ! recalled ! The past revived to the mind ! How shall we ex plain this law, or rather, as we have called it, property ? A
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past idea, or a past event, revived in the mind : can we go any farther than this in our explanation ? We think Dr. Brown's view not only exceedingly defective, but altogether absurd ; for in the attempt to simplify, it misses the grand characteristic or peculiarity of the phenomenon. Dr. Brown — and we shall be forgiven for so freely criticising so great an authority — would seem to have been misled by what would appear to be a process of memory, but in reality is no more than simple suggestion, or a conception, together with a relative idea of time, when a past event, as narrated in history, or transmitted by any other means, is conceived of by the mind. Here, truly, we have conception with a relative feeling or idea of time. But is this memory ? Are we remembering when we think of the events of past ages ? We remember only what has been within the sphere of our own experience. It is our own past we recall when we remember. Dr. Brown's idea of memory has regard to the past of events which happened in other times, but not within our own observation or experience. History gives a narration of these events, but we are not remembering when we read history — when the events which it records are passing before the mind. The History of Europe by Alison is history to us ; it would have been memory to Napoleon had he lived to peruse it. We remember only what has happened in our own time, and within our own experience ; and in reference to events that have happened in our own time, though not within our own experience, we rather remember when they happened, than remember the events themselves. Memory, then, is our own past reproduced. It is the events of our own experience — or our own past ideas or feelings — recalled. In all other cases in reference to the past, it is just a conception that we have, with the knowledge that it is the conception of a past event. In the case of memory, it is our minds which give us the event, or feeling, or idea. In the other case, it is to others we are in debted for the event, or feeling, or idea, and our minds have nothing to do with the process further than conceiving of these. In the one case it is the past recalled ; in the other it is the past conceived of.
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But it is memory when the last moment is recalled — when the last idea is recalled. The past is ever being reproduced. It is owing to this that we have any ideas whatever. Did the sensation which gives us any of our most elementary ideas flit away, as if it had never been, the instant that it was expe rienced, we would have no such ideas, and though the sensation might be prolonged, still it would be prolonged in vain, for only the sensation of the present moment would be known. It is by our sensations, or ideas, being retained in the mind, as it were, even when they are truly past, that that operation of the mind takes place by which an idea is produced, or new ideas arise. How marvellous the process of the mind ! Memory is necessaiy to every discrimination of an idea, and to every pro cess of discrimination which is implied in reasoning. The past flows into the present, and makes part of our present thoughts and our present processes, like the recurrent stream forming part of the tide with which it mingles. And this double pro cess is ever going on. To account for a complex idea, Dr. Brown has recourse to what he terms the doctrine of virtual equivalence. The mind is one and indivisible ; there cannot, Dr. Brown says, be two thoughts or ideas in it at the same time : the complex idea, therefore, is not two ideas — it is equivalent to tivo. This is an approach to an explanation of a very difficult subject : we know not if it is a satisfactory explanation, an explanation, viz., of the virtual presence of two ideas in the mind at the same time. We may take it as the best that can be given. In every complex idea that pheno menon is presented. But what shall we say of a past idea and a present, and a process by which a new idea results ? And yet, this is what must take place in order to every new idea. The point to be attended to is the necessity of memory in the formation of our ideas. Memory brings up the thread from the past which is to mix with the present moment, or the idea of the present moment: it is the warp and the woof of the mind. It is the two seen together in the mind that gives us a new product. And how rapid may be this process ! Who can catch the electricity of the mind ? who can observe the swift
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shuttle ? who can mark the blending thoughts ? Memory is as really in operation in the recalling of the past moment, as in the recalling of the past year, or the past twenty years. And this is by far the most important act of memory — if we may call that an act which is only a law or a property of mind — for but for this, mind would be at a stand, or would be but a series of fleeting sensations : it would never get beyond sen sation, and the sensation of the present moment.
It is sensation prolonged or repeated that allows of that mental act by which an idea arises. But for a sensation to be prolonged it must be recognised or identified with the sensation of the past moment, or with the sensation of several moments past. It seems improbable that the flitting sensation of a moment should give rise to an idea, or should awaken a mental act. The mind would hardly be roused into activity by a single sensation, passing away as it arose. But without memory this would be the phenomenon presented. Every sensation would be singular. Memory gives identity to our sensations, or allows the mind to recognise their identity : a mental act or state is the result, and we have traced the progress from the first mental act or state onwards till the whole of our primitive ideas are obtained. Memory is that wonderful property of mind by which one state of mind is recognised to be the same with a past state of mind, so that the past and the present become one, and we have a continuity of feeling owing to which we live not only in the present moment, but through a succession of time. Why is it that even the feeling of pain is continuous ? All that we can be really said to feel is the sensation of the present moment ; but in pleasure or pain the feeling is prolonged : the past is multiplied into the present, and we have a resultant quantity, the aggregate of a series of feelings. What an important end this must subserve in the constitution of our nature must be at once apparent. No two continuous feelings would be felt to be such, but for this law of our constitution. We would have no continued identity : we would live in moments. The treasured experience of the past would not be. Nothing would be distinguished, not
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even our sensations. Coleridge's lines in reference to the infant,
" Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of wo, Tutor'd by pain each source of pain to know,"
would have no application. The first law of our being — self- preservatiori — would have no existence : for how could we seek our own preservation when our own identity was not even recognised ? Or how could we know the sources of pain when we knew only the pain of the present instant ? Memory is necessary to any knowledge. It is the cement of our feelings, the thread of their continuity, the amber in which they lie, the reflex act by which what is past is yet present. This allows a recognition to take place ; it allows a mental act : and wherever a mental act has been exerted there is know ledge. Mind is essentially formative: it gives unity, con sistency, character, to our feelings. The conscious being becomes self-conscious : the sentient being becomes intelligent : the depository of sensations, the possessor and dispenser of knowledge. Such a law or arrangement it is that secures the very preservation of the sentient, conscious, intelligent agent. Pain becomes not only a sensation, but a recognised sensation, a discriminated sensation, an idea ; and we can trace it to its source : and by a law or principle of the mind which is to come under our attention, we can predict it in connexion with any circumstances, or course of events, or known causes.
But memory gathers the larger and higher experience neces sary for the purposes and for the very possibility of intellectual existence and intellectual progress ; that experience which is the basis and pabulum of knowledge ; the very material which knowledge makes use of, and which goes to constitute other knowledge ; the experience, above all, which is our light in duty, the guide of conduct, our beacon in life, and solemn monitor with reference to our approaching end. It treasures up the experience of others, and adds our own : all the wisdom to which ages have contributed, and which is accumulating with every successive period. Sages have thought for us ; the
u
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wise of every age are our instructors ; all nations levy wisdom for our peculiar benefit. It is true, that memory extends only to our own past consciousness ; but this does not hinder but that the consciousness of others may be treasured for our good. All proverbs owe their origin to this source : they are the gathered wisdom of ages and of peoples. How many observa tions go to constitute a single apophthegm or wise saying ! The observation has been repeated thousands of times by thousands of individuals : it is some sign of the sky, some index of the weather, some principle of conduct, some circumstance of character, some mark of providence ; and now it has reached that point when it takes shape : it crystallizes itself in some mind : it gathers into consistency, and becomes a proverb for ever. Some happy utterance under some happy inspiration may give it form. How many such utterances are never caught up ! But others have fallen on more likely ears, or they were such as could not die. All nations and all languages have their proverbs ; their wise sayings are enriched with these pearls of sage observation or experience.
What scenes does not memory faithfully portray, and does it not hold within its magic chambers or mysterious recesses ! The wizard power can evoke them in a moment, and infancy, youth, manhood, pass before the eye. The past is a picture in which scenery and events live. Who has forgot the sports of his childhood, the spot on which he gamboled, and his first essays at mimic life ? Who cannot recall the playmates of earlier years, and the long, long sunny days, with their many incidents, and their protracted pleasures ? I can recollect when a day was like a century, and an afternoon was like half an age, and the sunbeam fell with something of a solemn influence, and I seemed to know not when the hours would come to a close. Far, far on into the evening our pleasures were protracted, and the earth did not seem to bear a curse, and yet there were whispers of death and rumours of decay, and the heart was often surcharged with a heavy feeling. I remember the long walks, and the more adventurous excursions, and the rambles ' through the fields, with scenery that spoke to the heart, and
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that shall never be effaced, forming, while it enchanted, the imagination. I can recollect a range of hills resting again. st the western horizon, whose outline, varied and picturesque —
" Scotland's northern battlement of hills" —
is as vivid to me at this moment as if I was looking upon them. That line of hills was always the most pleasing fea ture in the landscape. The road which had these in view was always the most inviting, and the most frequented. It seems to he a characteristic of memory to fix upon some spot above all others which lives indelibly upon its tablets, and becomes the scene of almost every imaginary picture which we draw, or which is afterwards portrayed to the imagination. This feature or characteristic of memory seems worth noticing. All the tender or exciting scenes of which I have ever read are mostly connected with one such spot. There was a churchyard, too, in my native town, where the scene of Christ's resurrection, and of the two disciples visit ing the sepulchre, with the apparition of the angels, seems always to be re-enacted, often as I read of these events. Christ and Mary seem to stand before me on that very spot. The sleeping guards and the earthquake, and the rising Jesus — the interior of the sepulchre and the watching angels — and the napkin and linen clothes lying, — are all invariably associated with that place.
Our memories will undoubtedly survive the grave. How important to have their tablets inscribed only with characters that will form a part of the happiness of heaven to peruse ! Perhaps we think too little of this world, not only as a state of preparation for the next, but as the place where we are to lay up undying records for the future. From the sanctified soul all that would mar the happiness of heaven will be ex punged ; but how much will that soul have of duties performed, of labours endured, and sufferings borne in the service of Christ to remember ? It would appear that a new law of memory will be developed in the future world : all that would give pain to the redeemed will be forgotten, or will not disturb : all that
11G INTELLECT.
would afford pleasure to the lost will be swallowed up in the overwhelming wo. To the redeemed the history of time will present a subject of marvellous contemplation, and will unfold those secrets of Providence and Grace which are so perplexing, while yet they are enveloped in darkness and mystery. All God's ways will meet there and be reconciled. The dark and unknown in their own history will look clear and bright in such a survey. God will be vindicated, and everything will be seen to have fallen out to his glory, and for the best and highest interests of his government. They will be parts of a universal plan, which even eternity will not be able fully to disclose, or utterly to exhaust of interest. The interest will rather gather with the contemplation, and the Divine mind, an immeasurable infinitude, an unfathomable deep, will ever be discovering itself in new and unthought of aspects, develop ing new and before unheard of and unimagined treasures of wisdom and knowledge.
Into such fields of survey will the fields of personal recollec tion — of every individual's own history — hereafter stretch. Our memories will be part of the survey — the most important part to us — but small indeed compared with the whole. And our histories will be the stand-point, so to speak, to us in the con templation : our lines of observation will begin there, and circle round the infinitude. What a faculty is that, which, beginning with the recollection of a child's consciousness, will afterwards be connected with an exercise so vast and so exalting !
Imagination often blends with the operation of memory; and it is owing to this, in part, that the exercise of memory is so pleasing, when that exercise is concerned with scenes and events in our past lives. Imagination throws its own light upon everything which comes in any degree within its sphere. It softens the past, it heightens the future. It is the torch of hope ; it is the mellow star which trembles on the horizon of memory. Shall we say it is imagination, or is it a law of me mory itself, according to which only the pleasing is recalled, and the disagreeable or indifferent is allowed for the time to sink away ? No doubt, if the very scene could be recalled
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which affords so much pleasure in retrospect, we would find many deductions from its happiness. But these were connected with the moment then being. Some engrossing care, or some painful incident, or some unwelcome feeling, neutralized, per haps, or greatly abated the pleasure of the scene or the hour. But the scene is now recalled apart from these, and we expe rience something of the happiness that would have been felt had there been no such circumstances to detract from it. The scene, without any alloy to mix in its happiness, is realized to the memory — shall we say to the fancy ? The imagination, undoubtedly, takes up the matter, and manages it after its own fashion, or at least helps it with its own hues. Hence, " The Pleasures of Memory," as well as " The Pleasures of Hope," are the subject of poetic description. There is room with respect to both for the exercise of imagination. The very exercise of imagination in itself is pleasing. The ideal state is itself a source of delight or pleasure, and this is an ultimate fact which is unaccountable. Whatever, therefore, is attribut able to imagination in the recalling of the past, must give delight — must be essentially pleasurable. But we would be unwilling to attribute more to imagination than is clue. When the pleasures of a past scene, or of past scenes, can be recalled without all that detracted from it, or them, in the reality, surely the effect must be a pleasurable one. Imagination is not need ing to add its charms or lend its colours. Memory does the work itself, using its power of election, and resting only upon the green spots in the past, like palm-groves
" islanded amid the waste."
The mind, in its desire for pleasure, makes the selection with the same instinct that a bee will settle upon flowers that give honey, and no others. It willingly forgets, or does not call up in its picture, the features of the scene, or circumstances that would produce pain. If I want to recall the sports of my boy hood, I do not recall with them the quarrels and enmities which might chance to break in and disturb for an hour or day the pleasures of the play-ground, and convert it into something like a listed field. If I want to recall the smile and all that is
1 18 INTELLECT.
pleasing in the recollection of a parent, I forget bis frown, and think only of that which gave pleasure in past days, and is capable of yielding the same pleasure though but in retrospect. All the vexations, all the envies, all the disparaging circum stances that blended in the enjoyments of the festive scene are forgotten, and the festive scene itself, with its delusive lights, and its brilliant company, and its deceitful flatteries, are revived. Time, too, has undoubtedly a mellowing influence, a softening effect, like distance in the landscape, or age on a building.
" As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower Awes us less deeply in its morning hour, Than when the shades of time serenely fall On every broken arch and ivied wall ; •
The tender images we love to trace Steal from each year a melancholy grace."
Campbell's opening lines to " The Pleasures of Hope " might almost with equal propriety apply to the effect of the past as to that of the future, omitting the circumstance of the bow of promise in the clouds : —
" At summer eve when heaven's aerial bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue."
The sunbright summit of the mountain mingling with the sky, is a picture or image of hope, but the cliffs " of shadowy tint," and the enchantment produced by distance, are as appro priate to memory as to the influence of hope. Nay, in Hope's pictures memory bears a part ; for,
"Every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion glows divinely there."
And the bard of memory, addressing memory, says: —
" From Thee gay Hope her .airy colouring draws."
Hope is a sort of generalization from the past, either our own past or that of others. It will hardly venture upon pictures
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which the past does not warrant. The past and the future are something like the horizon from which you are retiring, which cannot be divided from, or stretches round and forms, the very horizon on which you are advancing.
If imagination exerts an influence upon memory, memory furnishes many of its materials to imagination. The scenes which it retains in mind are the very pictures which fancy weaves into her sketches, or embodies in her conceptions. The creation of the poet still works upon materials got from ex perience. Hence the Muses are the daughters of Memory. The most original conception that was ever formed derived its materials from what the poet had observed in the world with out, or the world within. There is an original or creative faculty which detects analogies which would not otherwise be perceived, and sees a lurking truth or thought in a principle or a fact which would have escaped all other notice ; and it is thus that philosophy and science are indebted to memory, or the truths, or facts, which memory treasures up and records. The scientific or philosophic faculty, and also the simply inventive, is very analogous to the creative faculty in poetry. The former operates by hidden analogies, seen in principles of truth, or laws of nature, as the latter by the mysterious resemblances whether in external objects, or between these and facts or phenomena of mind. Memory is the grand faculty necessary to all these.
This leads us to say something of the different kinds of memory, and to take notice of the question which has some times been put, Whether a great memory and an enlarged or philosophic judgment are compatible ?
We speak of a quick (or as Dugald Stewart calls it, a sus ceptible) memory, a retentive memory, and a ready memory. Dugald Stewart's remarks upon this subject are characterized by a niceness of observation, and justness of view, altogether worthy of him. We might be content to direct to this part of Dugald Stewart's work on the " Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind," but we may venture upon a single remark or two in addition to what he has said.
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Memory, to be complete, or to perform its functions com pletely, should easily acquire, securely retain, and readily recall.
There is the imprinting of its objects upon the memory, or the storing of them up, or just committing them to the memory, or leaving them under the power of memory. If it be asked, how is this done ? we can only answer, by the power of memory. This is a power or property of mind of which we can give no account, as is ultimately the case with all its powers or pheno mena. So it is — is the utmost that can be said. Now, this power of at first receiving its objects, is influenced by various circumstances, which, however, we shall not notice till we have spoken of the other kinds of memory, or features distinguishing it, retentiveness and readiness.
For memory to be retentive, is to be tenacious of what it has once received. In the case of a retentive memory, what has been attained is not easily let go, is, on the contrary, long retained. What is committed to the mind is long preserved, perhaps indelibly fixed on the mind's tablets. A day, months, years, do not wear it away. Only the infirmities of old age, or the encroachments and paralysis of disease, may obliterate or enfeeble the impression.
A ready memory, again, is when the objects of memory are easily recalled, readily arise, and at the bidding or demand of mind itself.
Now, it will be apparent, that the laws which regulate this faculty, or this property or characteristic of mind, under one of its aspects, will have much influence with it as respects the rest. The philosophic or scientific mind, for example, which has regard to principles, will much more easily treasure the facts and principles of science, or principles of any kind, than the mind that has little regard to principles, and can see only objects existing separately or in their isolated state ; such a mind does not generalize, does not detect, and can hardly appreciate, principles, and therefore, it might labour in vain to remember a science, or to commit its truths to the memory. But such a mind will, perhaps, be more rapid in the acquisition of separate or isolated facts which have no philosophic bond or
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principle of connexion. Surprising instances of memory are exhibited by minds of this stamp, which make the philosopher sometimes feel astonished, and almost hide his diminished head. He has no chance with such a mind in the news of the day, or the topics of current discourse, the facts of history, and the minute particulars which form the gossip of literature, and the talk of the sciences ; so that, even in his own field, with re ference to those particulars, the philosopher may be beat by the mind of far more common or ordinary character. But, again, these particulars being bound together by no common principle or tie, while they may be easily acquired, may be as easily for gotten ; and accordingly it is the philosophic memory that is the most retentive. There are, however, instances of great reteutiveness even in the case of memories whose objects lie isolated, without any common bond. The philosophic memory, again, is generally not a ready one. It has regard to principles, and it always takes more time to recall and arrange a principle than to state a fact. The philosophic mind, therefore, the more valuable of the two, will often appear at a disadvantage with the mind which deals with facts merely, and not with principles ; for while the philosophic is seeking for the one, the unphilosophic, or less philosophic, mind, is delivering itself of the other with all readiness and promptitude. It is this often which constitutes the difference in the readiness and facility of extemporaneous speaking. Dr. Chalmers was not good at extemporaneous address. He was often seen fetching at his thoughts, because they lay imbedded in principle ; but when the principle was once got hold of, his words came readily enough, while they were instinct with meaning, and pregnant with im portant and suggestive thought. Burke was not a fluent speaker, because his speeches were big with philosophic prin ciple, and, accordingly, are the speeches which alone, of those of all the brilliant galaxy of the period in which he shone, are read for the principles of government they contain, and high truths they announce. They are the only lights in the firmament, while the oratory of others has blazed and expired.
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A remarkable instance of a susceptible or quick memory is related of Person the celebrated Greek scholar, who is said to have been able to commit a whole newspaper to memory driv ing through the streets of Oxford. Sir Walter Scott, ag iin, almost never forgot what he had once read, and he was a walk ing library of ballad lore and legendary story. Instances have been known of the whole Bible having been committed to memory. How prodigious and how ready must be the memory of the lawyer, to quote precedent after precedent, and date after date, and to refer the jury or the judge to the very volume, and the very line of the page, where each is to be found !
The question whether a great memory and an enlarged or philosophic judgment are compatible, is already answered ; for the cases in which they do not seem to be compatible are only those in which the remote analogies of philosophy occasion some hesitancy or greater slowness in recalling the appropriate objects of the philosophic memory, while the objects of the memory which seems to be greatest, merely from its being most ready, are the less valuable ones of unassociated or dis jointed facts, which may have been retained, not from any capacity in the memory itself, but merely from the habit of mind to deal with such facts, and the keen relish felt in them, or perhaps selfish ends connected with them. The lover of news, the keen dealer in social or literary gossip, are not in debted to any superiority of memory for the amazing extent of information, such as it is, which they possess, and command over it which they at all times seem to have, as to the peculiar habit and predilections of mind by which such persons are characterized.
Susceptibility of memory is greatly assisted by attention, and that by the interest felt in any given subject. Where no in terest is felt in the matter to be committed to memory, the process of acquisition will be a very slow one for the most part, and very likely the matter will as quickly disappear as it was slowly acquired. Much, almost all, depends upon the in terest which the subject-matter excites. The true secret of memory, therefore, is to have the interest of the mind engaged.
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That being the case, the memory will literally achieve won ders.
XII.
By the phenomenon of memory the consciousness of one moment is prolonged into the next. From this arises the feel ing of our individual, or as it is generally termed, personal identity. The consciousness of the one moment is recognised as the consciousness of the same being with that of the next : the feeling of identity comes in connexion with that pheno menon, and may be inseparable from it. It is an intuition of the mind. The first reference to a conscious self is nothing else than this feeling or belief of identity.
PERSONAL IDENTITY.
Much that is useless or trifling has been written and spoken upon this subject. To raise a question as to our identity, call it personal, individual, or, as Dr. Brown terms it, mental identity, seems very absurd: to point to the circumstance of self-conscious ness, or the feeling of personal identity, through all the stages of our mental and personal history, is very different. It matters little whether we call it personal or mental identity; surely it is unnecessary to enter into any elaborate proof, as Dr. Brown and others have done, to evince that identity, and to maintain its consistency with great and constant changes in the states of the individual self-conscious being. Dr. Brown especially has been elaborate upon this subject without much reason, as we humbly think ; for an identity of some kind, whether as the result of a material organization, or an identity of the thinking substance — the real self — the soul — cannot be disputed, and it were idle to argue with any that would dispute it. There may be some shadow of a reason for calling in question the existence of an external world, since consciousness is what we have to appeal to in the matter of all our primitive beliefs, even our belief in the existence of an external world. But to deny identity to self, whether to our 'organic or our thinking self, is to put an end to discussion by making it useless to discuss. What is it to any
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one how any question is settled, if he is not, or if he does not know that he is the same person, the same conscious being that he was twenty years ago, or even an hour ago ? Could any seriously call this in question ? Is this a point to be seriously brought in question ? The feeling of identity, through all the stages and changes through which an individual passes, from infancy to manhood and old age, and in all the states vn which that wonderful principle, the soul of man, can exist, is one worthy of being noticed and attended to ; and the some what curious question to which the visible changes in the body, which forms a part of our personal selves, give rise, is also worthy of notice, and begets some strange inquiries; but who would argue with the person who disputed either his own or another's essential identity, because of any changes and varie ties of state, whether in the mind or in the body to which the mind is linked by a personality which we are led to understand will not be lost or destroyed by death itself, but revived or reconstituted at the resurrection ? Dr. Brown, in transferring the question from one of personal identity to one of mental identity — and yet the credit can hardly be accorded to him of having been the first to put the question in this form — un doubtedly gains something in the way of strengthening that point which alone it is of any material consequence to guard or maintain, viz., our spiritual identity : if that is preserved, then it is of little importance whether in any other respects we are the same or not ; for it is our souls or our minds that make ourselves: but there is obviously something more connected with the question ; and it is not what these bodies are to us, but what the personality constituted by the union of soul and body ; and the question seems to be, how this personality remains amid the changes, even the visible changes that befall the body ? This is the only question that seems possible to be raised. The changes through which the mind passes may be great, are great. The process of ideas through the mind in a single day implies great changes. What a difference between a state of grief and a state of joy — a state of despondency and a state of hope — a dull unimaginative state, and when the
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mind is alive to all the solicitations of fancy, and the excur sions of the imagination !
Who would suppose that the soul of that infant is to wield the destinies of empires, or is to unravel the mysteries of the universe, or is to deal with the highest themes of human thought, and awaken the admiration of the world by its dis coveries, or by the splendour of its genius ? How different the power of mind at one period and at another ! Was Milton at school the same with Milton when he wrote the Paradise Lost ? Was Newton when a sickly boy the same as Newton when he wrote the Principia, and determined the law of gravitation ? Who could predict a Cromwell in the brewer's son, or a Napo leon in the youth at Corsica ? That mind, that can now take in all the complicated affairs of states and empires, maintain a correspondence almost too voluminous for a single lifetime, in the case of others, to peruse, lead in a hundred battles, em brace the minutest arrangements of the equipment and marches of armies, and of the etiquette of courts, wield the highest intellects, and the most powerful wills, by the ascendency and the energy of his own, and legislate with even greater ability than he could command or rule, could not once distinguish the right hand from the left. Is that the hero of Marengo, and the ascendant spirit of Tilsit, looking down upon the dashing wave from the rock of Elba, or the sea-beach of St. Helena ? Born in the same year, the conqueror of Napoleon was a child in the cradle at the same time. Over that fatal wreck of all that was once beautiful and lovely in character, the mind is suspended in amazement as well as in grief, and a mother thinks of the days when she fondly hoped to see the fruit of her anxieties and toils in the maturing of those virtues which she laboured to develop and to foster. " Is not this Saul of Tarsus ? is not this he that destroyed them which called on this name in Jerusalem, and came hither for that intent, that he might bring them bound unto the chief priests ?" The greatest change that can happen to the human spirit is that implied in conversion. We see a Rochester, the most frivolous as well as the most profligate of the Court of Charles the
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Second, the companion of a Villiers and of Charles himself, dying in the faith of Jesus. We see a Gardiner, at one time the elegant and accomplished debauchee, the most respected for his gallantry, heightened by his piety, in the troop to which he belonged, and indeed in the whole army. We see a Newton transformed into a minister of that gospel which he had made the subject of profane ridicule, and the preacher of those precepts which, as he himself informs us, he had trampled on with the most daring recklessness. These are instances of a change that may well excite our wonder, and, if anywhere, bid us ask, if these are indeed the same persons in the two stages or periods of their history ? The Scriptural account of conver sion is, " Old things are passed away ; all things are become new." But even here there is no room for question or dubiety. There is conversion, but the individual is the same ; and this is the glory of the work. The only question as to personal identity, then, must have regard to the united personality of soul and body : is that every way the same, though we see such changes — the infant — the youth — the man — and will that per sonality exist in the judgment? When the body and the mind together have undergone such changes, where can be the person ality of the individual ? Is the man, the youth, or the infant, the person, the individual ? In what will the personality consist in the future world, when infancy, youth, manhood, age, will be alike unknown ? At which of all the stages of his life will the individual hereafter exist, or will they be all met in one ? These questions, more curious than profitable, still do beget some wonder, and not an altogether idle curiosity. As to the iden tity of the body in the future world, we know that this pre sented a difficulty in the way of the reception of the doctrine of the resurrection. " How are the dead raised up ? and with what body do they come ?" It is a well-known fact in refer ence to the body, that it is undergoing a perpetual change, and that every seven years the particles of which it was com posed are renewed : if, then, there is a resurrection of the dead, with what body do they come ? What will become of per- sonalitv in such a case ? Which of the bodies will be raised
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up ? The Apostle anticipated such an objection, and he makes personality, so far as the body is concerned, to consist in the identity of the body, not of its particles. It shall undergo such a change as to be a spiritual, whereas it was once a natural body; an incorruptible, whereas it was once a corruptible body; a glorious body, whereas it was once a body of humiliation — raTreivaxrecas. " We must all (ive, in our personality) appear before the judgment-seat of Christ." " Behold, I shew you a mystery ; we shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed (the personality preserved in the change) in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump ; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this cor ruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory."
It is in such a connexion, and in such a view of it alone, that the question of identity possesses any importance. The identity of the soul cannot be doubted for a moment, or occa sion any difficulty. It passes through changes; but are changes of state inconsistent with identity, whether of substance or consciousness ? Memory, like a glance, will hereafter unite every moment in one, and every change that has been under gone, whether for the better or the worse, will concentrate in the final state of the soul. " He that is unrighteous, let him be unrighteous still ; he that is holy, let him be holy still."
A few more remarks will close this subject.
The identity of the soul is owing to its immateriality, while, again, its immateriality may be inferred from the feeling of identity. It is only what can undergo a change of parts that can be said to change in its entireness or totality. Even mat ter suffers no change but as respects the particles of which it is composed ; as respects these particles, could we arrive at the minutest of them, there is no change ; they remain in their identity. The only change that takes place in bodies is in the arrangement of their parts, and in the substitution of certain
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particles for others which have passed away. A constant change of this kind is taking place in nature. The waters of the ocean, which may be said to be the great aqueous body of our globe, are exhaled in vapour, and form those clouds which float in the air, and constitute so interesting a part, or feature, of the scene which the eye takes in — as it looks from heaven to earth, and from earth to heaven — combining in admirable har mony, but yet in pleasing contrast, with the terrestrial land scape — a something not of earth, but yet belonging to it — " cloudland," or battlemented cities built in the sky, the domes and the dwelling-places of celestials. These clouds descend in showers again to the earth, and by its rivers and lakes find their way to the ocean from which they rose. The seed rises into the plant or the tree, but these again are resolved into the very soil or compost from which they took their nourishment. The very rocks decompose ; the mountains wear down into the valleys ; everything is undergoing a transformation of some sort, and these bodies of ours are not exempt from the general law. But in all this change there is an integrity and identity as respects the particles of matter, which, we believe, are neither one less nor more since the beginning of creation. And amid all this change we see a unity pervading the varied structures of the earth which makes them one even when the change is proceeding before our eyes. Clouds have their shape and their identity, and by a law, which even the vapours obey, they are, and can be, only clouds. Even in their change they are one, till they drop in blessed showers upon the earth. That flower, that tree, that rock, that mountain, retain their identity till they are decomposed, and their particles unite in some other combination. The flower exhales its particles in some measure in the breath of its fragrance, but it is ever drawing fresh sup plies from its root, and by its leaves, which are its lungs : so, but more slowly with the tree. But is there not a unity, an identity, all the while, during their brief or their longer ex istence ? With all its abrasures yon mountain stands the same to the eye as when first we gazed on it, and it will be the same in form and aspect, perhaps, when it will be looked upon for
INTELLECT. 12U
the last time before it is enveloped in the final fires. There is a law of unity even in respect to it, in the order of its layers, and composition of its strata. So with our bodies ; their identity is preserved amid all their change ; it is the same body, although the particles of which it is composed are not the same. It is not the particles of any structure that give it its unity and integrity, but the law of the structure, whatever that may be. Our bodies are one because of this law, and our individual bodies are one because of the individual law of their being or existence. " In the world," says Coleridge, " we see everywhere evidences of a unity which the component parts are so far from explaining, that they necessarily presuppose it as the cause and condition of their existing as those parts ; or even of their existing at all." This is a very important obser vation. It is this law or unity which constitutes personality in every case ; and this law or unity is traceable to the Divine mind. Hence the Apostle says in arguing the point of identity with the objector to the resurrection, " How are the dead raised up, and with what body do they come ? Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die : and that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body which shall be, but bare grain, it may chance of wheat or of some other grain : but God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his own body." The particles of the body may change, but the personality remains the same. The body as it will be raised up at the last day, will be the same in all essential re spects as before death. Why does not only one class of bodies differ from another, but one body differ from another ? The law which accounts for this is the law of personality, and con stitutes the personality in every particular case. That will remain. We shall not be different beings in the resurrection from what we were here. The soul will be united to its own body ; the complete personality of the same soul in the same body will be reconstituted, and will exist for ever. So much is this doctrine of identity recognised in Scripture, that the bodies of departed believers are in some sense recognised as living. For in arguing with the Sadducees in regard to a case
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proposed by them, our Lord said : — " As touching the resurrec tion of the dead, have ye not read that which was spoken unto you by God, saying : I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob ? God is not the God of the dead, but of the living." " All live unto God," as Luke has it. May not this mean, — they are in the sight of God as if alive ? " Together with my dead body," says Christ, " shall they arise." The period that will elapse between the resurrection of Christ and their resurrection is as nothing — is not taken account of by God or by Christ. At all events, the bodies of His saints are precious in His sight, and their identity is not lost even in the corruption of the grave. Christ hath redeemed them with His blood, with the souls to which they were united. " Awake and sing, ye that dwell in the dust ; for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead." " I will redeem them from death : I will ransom them from the power of the grave. 0 Death, I will be thy plague ! 0 Grave, I will be thy destruction !"
But the identity of the soul is of another kind from that of the body, or from our personal identity. In the case of the soul, it is identity of substance, and as we have remarked, this follows from its immateriality ; while again, its immateriality follows to the mind as a necessary consequence from its identity. The soul is immaterial, and must therefore be annihilated before it can undergo any change of substance ; change to it would be annihilation. It cannot be decomposed ; it cannot be resolved into elements ; before it can change it must cease to be. That it passes through changes of states we have seen, but its substance and essential inherent properties are ever the same. We feel our identity ; it is a matter of consciousness. In re spect to the body, we see it, even from youth to manhood, passing through all the stages or periods of age. With the soul it is felt ; it is a matter of intimate internal consciousness. If the mind is sane, we know ourselves to be the same that we were in the earliest period of our lives to which memory can extend. I have seen an insane person who fancied herself Marie Antoinette of France, and there was some transaction on
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her mind with England, which, at all events, is not recorded in history, but respecting which she was very eloquent, though very incoherent, and obviously very indignant. Conscious ness here was shaken from its throne ; its link of connexion with her real past was broken, and a fancied past existed to her poor wandering intellect. But in the very incoherence of that mind we saw only the mind insensible of its own identity, and by some mysterious derangement fancying an identity which did not belong to it. But when the mind is sane, its entire consciousness remains, and it feels itself to be the same through all successive years from its earliest period of recollection until now. Does not this prove the soul's immateriality ? Could ever changing matter possess such a continuous consciousness, could we suppose it possessed of consciousness at all ? It is an often quoted saying of Wordsworth's,
" The boy is the father of the man,"
and it possesses a high moral as well as an important psycholo gical meaning ; but it has a pyschological meaning, and implies the identity of the spiritual being within us through all the successive stages of that being, till it has reached its fullest development ; nor shall it then cease to be the same, or to be conscious of its identity. The consciousness will go with it into the future world, with all the recollections that form that consciousness — the materials either of its misery or its happi ness. It is this identity which will form, as it forms now, the ground of all our judgments respecting ourselves, and of God's judgment respecting us, and his procedure in regard to us. The grand final judgment of the quick and the dead will pro ceed upon every individual's identity, and his consciousness of that identity. The soul will live over again in that moment all its past history, the old traces which memory had forgotten starting into vivid brightness, and either flashing terror, or awakening emotions long since perished, and all the more pleas ing or delightful that they will be parts and elements in the very sentence that is to proceed from the throne of the Judge, and the happiness that will begin, to know no termination.
1 32 INTELLECT.
XIII.
We have considered that property of mind by which the past is recalled and retained, in order to those great purposes which the Creator has designed to serve in our mental history and development. It is owing to this characteristic of mind, as we have seen, that any progress is made even from the most elementary state of sensation to one of intellection. Memory is hardly intellection itself ; but without it there would not be intellection. It is intellection when the mind throws out its own ideas over the external world ; obtains ideas from the external world ; these ideas being entirely the result of mind, but still the ideas of what is actually without us, or is not a part of ourselves. There is a universe without us with which we have to become acquainted : mind is placed in that universe, and it must form its own knowledge, gather for itself the ideas, which are not the copies, but the mental counterpart, of what is without, the information which mind furnishes to itself of the facts of the external universe. The process of this we have already endeavoured historically to trace. But what is the process of intellection by which these ideas are formed ? When the mind determines for itself, for example, an external world,, or arrives at the idea of externality — what is this mental process? It has been called an intuitive Judgment. How little does a name help us to the understanding of a reality ! What is a Judgment ? It is a state of the mind on the pre sence of certain other states. What is this but a mental result ? All that can be said about it is, that it is a result arrived at by mind, or one state of mind that arises in conse quence of another state of mind, or other states of mind. It seems to explain a vast deal when we call it a judgment, as if we knew what judgment was. A body exists in space : space is infinite and eternal : space cannot be annihilated. These are called judgments of the mind. I exist ; there is a universe without me : I am one of millions of beings like myself; there is a material world on which I live : I am surrounded by a creation, animate and inanimate ; I see life in its thousand
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forms : I discern the properties of matter, I trace its laws : I see reason as distinguished from wwreason, (if I may coin a phrase) : my simple ideas are combined ; space becomes magni tude, capacity : they are modified ; space becomes figure : time gives me the notion of eternity ; these are further modi fied : the properties of figure and number evolve : dimension and time are measured : the position and duration of the planets are fixed and calculated : their periodic motions, their orbits, their attractive and repelling influences: the size, structure, and habits of the various tribes, vegetable and mineral, that people our earth, their formation and growth and decay ; these are marked : chemical affinities, combinations, and repulsions, are discovered, till there is nothing almost beyond our know ledge, or our capacity of knowledge. All this is said to be by a process of judgment ; it is at least by a process of intellection. But why do we call it intellection ? Because if we ask our selves, what judgment is ? we can give no answer but that it is a process of mind, or, in every single instance of it, an act of mind by ivliicli an idea arises or results in the mind from the presence of another idea, or other ideas. When my mind is in the state of observing or noticing a body existing or moving in space, and it obtains the idea of space, what clearer notion does it give me of this process to call it a judgment, than just to call it simply an act or state of mind, or intellection ? All that we can say about it is, that it is an act or a state of mind. We cannot arrive at any more distinct notion of the process or act. In like manner, when in a mathematical problem I construct a circle or triangle according to certain requirements, or, in a mathematical theorem, I prove that any two angles of a triangle are together less than two right angles ; or that the square on the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the squares described upon the sides; in any mathematical problem or theorem whatever : as respects the successive acts of the mind by which the result is arrived at, the problem accomplished, or the theorem proved : what clearer discovery does it give me of these acts to call them judgments, than to call them simply acts or states of mind ? This being true, and
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that other idea being verified, another arises or follows as a consequence, and again another ; but what is there here but successive states of mind, or one truth evolving out of another ? When I compare, or am said to compare, two objects together of different dimensions, and I pronounce, as I am said to do, regarding their respective magnitudes, this is said to be a judg ment of the mind ; but is it not just the mind existing in a state of felt or perceived diversity between the two objects, — in this instance the diversity of size or magnitude ? Were the objects equal, the mind would exist in the state of felt identity, the identity of magnitude. The judgments of the mind, then, we contend, are just ideas or states of the mind arising accord ing to certain laws. There is not a faculty we call judgment ; but the mind exists in certain states inevitably according to the laws essential to mind, or conferred upon it by the Creator. There is the law, as we have already stated, of identity or diversity, in all the kinds of identity and diversity existing among objects — the law of resemblance — the law of contrast — the law of analogy — the law of proportion : that is, in each case, the law according to which the mind perceives or exists in a state of felt identity or diversity, resemblance, contrast, analogy, proportion. These relations have been established, or must exist in the universe ; and the mind, of its own nature, or in virtue of the constitution which God has impressed upon it, is fitted to perceive them. Our own identity, for example, our minds are constituted to recognise intuitively and at once. When this law of the mind is disturbed, identity in objects is lost ; or it may be only personal identity that is confounded, while other objects are seen in their true character. What confusion is introduced into the mind when this one law is deranged, when the mind is no longer capable of seeing objects in their real character, but everything appears in some aspect or character not its own ! This is perhaps the grand or per vading phasis of mental aberration : the law of identity is lost, or the mind is no longer capable of identifying self or any other object. A thousand wild fancies in consequence flit through the brain. Place, time, self, and every surrounding
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object, are confused, and supposed to be other than they are. The person who is the subject of this derangement or aberra tion exists in a world of his own. He is a prince — he is a commissioned prophet of God — he has some high mission to fulfil : all around him are his subjects ; he is clothed in regal attire ; he has a crown on his head ; he wields a sceptre ; or he is required to announce some great truth, and all must listen. We mean nothing more by the law of identity and diversity, than that the mind is fitted to perceive these where they exist. Say it is by a judgment of mind : we say it is by mind. Mind discerns these. And so with resemblance and contrast, so with analogy, so with proportion. The relations of time and place may be resolved into identity and diversity. Events and objects are either the same in point of time and place, or they are not the same: they are more nearly the same, or they are more remotely different.
It is by the law of identity that our sensations and ideas are recognised as the same at the different times of their being present to the mind. The law reigns among our internal states as well as among external objects. It is thus that our internal states become discriminated — their identity is recognised, and their diversity from other states is marked. Diversity, there fore, is the co-relate of identity, and the two form the ground work of all the other laws, and consequently of all the other ideas acquired by these laws. Identity and diversity give re semblance.
RESEMBLANCE.
Identity, not individual identity, but the identity of classes, shades away till there is opposition or contrast. Objects exist in classes ; these classes have nearer resemblances to other classes, remoter resemblances to others, and still more remote again to others. The mind perceives these resemblances, cannot be brought in contact with them without perceiving them. It does not constitute them. There are resemblances which its own ingenuity may constitute, as when we perceive a resem blance between wit and an essence, or between the succession
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of wit and laughter, and the flash of the lightning and the report of the thunder, in respect to which resemblance, Charles Lamb says, that the succession can never but once take place. The resemblance between an April day and beauty smiling through tears, is entirely fanciful. But there are actual resem blances, and it is upon these that the process of classification depends. This is no arbitrary process. It depends upon the real resemblances in objects. That resemblance amounts in some instances to an absolute identity in all particulars, except that of individuality, the identity of the individual. When this is the case, the individuals are in all respects the same, except their individuality ; they are the same as regards the essentials of the class — the essence of the species. There are still diversities, and perhaps, strictly speaking, we can never arrive at a species infima^ although in classification there is what is termed the " species infima," or lowest species, inas much as to go any further, any lower in the classification, would be useless and troublesome. It is a fine law of creation, and indicates admirable and beneficent design, that the objects in creation exist in classes, or that there are such resemblances as to allow of classification. Were every object diverse from another, where would be the fine purposes served by the great aggregates or the vast multitudes of the same species that we find existing ? We might conceive, indeed, the same purpose served by different objects, agreeing in the purpose which they served, but diverse in every other respect ; but in such a case, though the useful object could be accomplished, how could this be known ? Instead of a class being discern ible by the numerous particulars in which the class is united as a class, we would have to repeat the discovery of the useful property or quality in every new individual or case. It is plain that the first end of creation would be frustrated. Certain purposes were to be subserved, but not a purpose could be sub served where such a diversity reigned. We must suppose in such a case, that our very sensations would be different among themselves, since nothing existed as a class ; not even matter could be distinguished as such, for what is matter but the
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aggregate of certain qualities ? Everything is included under the name of matter which possesses these qualities. The very first classification of the mind, by which mind and matter are respectively recognised, depends upon certain resembling feel ings of consciousness, identical so far as the class of feelings is concerned, though not numerically so, and therefore resembling rather than identical. The mind proceeds in detecting those resemblances that prevail, and reducing both substances and qualities under classes. We set out with remarking, that the two generic substances which divided the universe were matter and mind, that these were the two grand genera under which everything else may be included. Everything is either material or spiritual. But the same law of mind which gives us this classification, gives us other subordinate classifications. Other resemblances are detected, so that our ideas have a progress, and the universe is reduced to order in our minds, or it ex hibits to the mind the order which really prevails. Hence things exist to the mind not merely as material and spiritual, but as animate and inanimate, rational and irrational ; and all the orders, genera, species, of the universe are settled or ob tained. Now, this process of mind partly takes place in the way simply of an arrangement under one head of those objects or qualities which are seen to resemble, and partly according to an original and intuitive principle of the mind, which is called the principle of generalization. Wherever objects are seen to possess properties in common, they are classified at once under one head ; but generalization is a different process, and depends upon an original law or principle of the mind. It will come to be considered hereafter. Meanwhile, we remark, that it is that principle, that conviction of the mind, irresistible and unerring, according to which, from certain resembling circum stances, we proceed to a generalization of the objects in which these circumstances appear, or to the conclusion that these objects belong to one class, and are alike in all the particulars which characterize that class. This is a law of mind, and supersedes the necessity of observing the whole particulars of a class before we venture to classify. Classification would be
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a very slow, and withal a very uncertain process, did we wait in all instances till we had gathered or observed all the parti culars in which certain objects might resemble each other before we reduced them to a common class. We have a shorter way of proceeding, and at the same time more certain ; for whatever might be the accuracy and competency of our observations, or enumeration of resembling circumstances, we could never be sure that our observation or enumeration was complete, and that in no particular we had been mistaken. But by a certain law of mind, intuitive and irresistible in its operation, a certain conviction and confidence which never fails, a very few parti culars in many cases serve for a generalization ; in some cases a single instance, or particular of agreement, is sufficient ; and in no case need the enumeration be perfect. A single circum stance of agreement, for example, in regard to the teeth of certain animals, gives us the graminivorous and carnivorous races. To ascertain that circumstance is to ascertain the race or class. The chemist, in arranging his pharmacopeia, does not need to analyze every substance, or examine it in every parti cular before he can assign it to its class ; a single circumstance may be enough to tell him that this or that new substance is an earth or an alkali — a poisonous or a wholesome substance. Just, then, as objects exist in classes, and the work of arriving at the knowledge of the individuals in these classes is greatly facilitated, so by the law of classification the work of classifica tion is greatly promoted.
But all objects do not resemble each other. Among many the law of contrast, instead of the law of resemblance, obtains ; they are contrasted rather than similar. The mind again is fitted to perceive this dissimilarity. It looks very much like a law, that the mind is fitted to perceive resemblance where it exists — contrast where it exists — to be affected by the ap pearance of analogy, and again of proportion. There is a judgment in each of these instances, but why is the judg ment different ? — why the peculiar judgment ? Let it be ob served, we do not attribute faculties to the mind. In all its operations the mind is one and indivisible ; it is mind alone
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that is acting or operating as mind acts or operates. We can more easily conceive powers in matter than we can in mind. In any one instance of the mind's phenomena, it is simply mind that we perceive or can think of ; mind itself is the only power in operation ; and its phenomena are according to cer tain laws, characteristics, or properties of mind. With matter it is different. We can conceive power or powers lodged in it, even although we seem to be thus adding something spiritual to what is material. As we have said before, the only power that seems to be in mind, as distinct from it, is volition, or the power of will ; and yet this is still the mind j ust willing, exert ing an act of will. This, we say, is more like a power than any others of the mental phenomena. At all events, we can see that in any of the phenomena of mind, it is the mind itself which is acting, or exhibiting the phenomena. For the mind to exert an act of judgment, is for the mind to exist in a state of felt or perceived relation, or to exist in that state by which, or according to which, it perceives identity, resemblance, con trast, analogy, proportion ; — these being, for the most part, again, the states in which objects exist in their relations among themselves, or to one another. Contrast, opposition, is one of those states.
CONTRAST.
We have already hazarded the opinion that contrast is no thing more than identity or resemblance shaded away till it has become opposition. For instance, lowness may be regarded as height diminished to a certain standard ; and, accordingly, what is low in one position, or point of comparison, may be high in another. The same with all our ideas, except it be our ideas of right and wrong. There is no absolute standard, and there fore contrast is just a different degree of the same thing or quality. Ugliness, or deformity even, is but a deviation greater or less from the law of beauty ; and it is a common enough maxim, that there is but a step between the sublime and the ridiculous. There is but a step, and yet there is all the interval of two opposites, — so similar are they, and yet so contrasted.
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The sublime may sink by a less rapid gradation into the ridi culous, but a single circumstance may plunge it from its peril ous height at once into the laughable or contemptible. The sublime contests of the angels, in the Sixth Book of Paradise Lost, become somewhat ludicrous, from the admixture of ma terial ideas : Satan, for example, writhing under the stroke of the archangel's sword, —
. . . . " Then Satan first knew pain, And writhed him to and fro convolved, so sore The griding sword, with discontinuous wound, Pass'd through him :"
while we are told that Moloch,
" Cloven to the waist, with shatter' d arms And uncouth pain, fled bellowing."
Venus, in dudgeon, — as represented by Homer, — that a mortal had wounded her, is a similar instance, though perhaps here Homer intended the ludicrous rather than the sublime. Diomede's address to her is certainly in admirable keeping, and the pouting and plaining of the beautiful goddess are not less so. Jupiter seems rather to have enjoyed Venus's wound, even while he tenders to her the kindly advice to leave warlike affairs to Mars and Minerva.
The introduction, again, into the wars of the angels, of a material artillery, which is material, and yet not material, — we mean the idea is material, but the enginery is so managed, or described, as to tell upon spiritual beings, and produce the most disastrous effects — this is undoubtedly ludicrous, and we are forced to laugh when Satan thus addresses his compeers : —
" 0 friends, why come not on these victors proud? Erewhile they fierce were coming ; and when we, 'To entertain them fair with open front And breast, (what could we more ?) propounded terms Of composition, straight they changed their minds, Flew oif, and into strange vagaries fell, As they would dance."
Milton is not long of recovering himself or his poem from any ludicrous associations which his description might awaken. He had too much art to fall into the absolutely ludicrous, but
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it must be allowed that the sublime and the ridiculous are very close neighbours. The same proximity is seen in the description of Satan's flight through chaos, but there it is more admissible. The poet might indulge some play of the fancy at the expense of Satan, bound on such a journey, and in such a place as chaos. There was no harm in supposing him used rather roughly, or meeting some grotesque and not very cour teous circumstances amid the war of the elements, for he had no proper business there ; and the poet no doubt felt the worst that could happen was too good for such a messenger of mis chief. We have another illustration of the same approach of opposite or contrasted qualities, in the hideous figures carved on some of our most beautiful styles of architecture : and, still more strikingly, in the often laughable and grotesque repre sentations on the most solemn buildings of the most solemn age of architecture. The finest cathedrals which time has spared to the present day, give us such strange combinations. Some law must have guided to such results. Is the grada tion from the sublime to the ridiculous so rapid a one in the mind, that the mind easily passes from the one to the other, and even finds a relief in so doing ? All the interval be tween is overleaped, and the more easily, that littleness is but greatness diminished. The ludicrous may sometimes be the sublime made a mock of. Take away the grotesque figures from the places they occupy, and they would excite compa ratively no ludicrous ideas. Moloch bellowing would be no ludicrous, but an absurd, conception, except in the place where it occurs ; and to have described Satan in pain, " writhing convolved," when on his throne in Pandemonium, would have given you no ludicrous idea, but one inconsistent and out of place. There must be some laio of connexion before the ludi crous and the sublime together can be effected. You must slide from the one to the other. The mind must pass in natural gradation. Why is Don Quixote ludicrous ? Because the inno cent foolery of the solemn knight is connected in your mind with a great idea, viz., that of chivalry, but which had its gradations down even to the absurd, — absurd when it was
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serious, — ludicrous when it was given in fiction. Don Quixote excites your mirth, because he never excites your pity. There is a gradation from the sublime to the ludicrous — there is none from the sublime to the sad or the pitiful.
Enough for the analysis of the idea of contrast, which we have said may be regarded as identity or resemblance shaded away into opposition, or the opposite of resemblance. Now, the mind is susceptible of ideas of contrast, sees or perceives the opposition. Great, little ; sublime, ludicrous ; high, low ; beautiful, ugly ; diligent, slothful. Of course the contrasted quality is contrasted. Good and bad, virtuous and vicious, are not contrasted : they are disparate ; they are unlike quantities. The contrast of good would be the absence of good, if good properly can have any contrast. Evil is an antagonist, not a contrasted principle. It does not merely stand in contrast, it actually opposes, and seeks the extirpation of the other, nay, has already supplanted the other where it exists. Contrast allows of comparison ; there is some of the quality of the greater or of the superior in the lesser or the inferior, though it has become negative. Lowness has still something of the quality that is in highness ; littleness has still something of the quality that is in greatness, that is, they are not disparate, or distinct, and incapable of comparison. There is no contrast between sublimity and poverty, the two things are totally unlike and separate. There is a contrast between happiness and misery, but none between riches and misery. It seems essential to contrast, therefore, that the qualities or things contrasted be capable of a gradation from the one to the other.
It would, perhaps, be presumptuous to speculate how far there must be resemblances and contrasts in objects and qualities as they exist in the universe. What state of things would that be in which no one object resembled another, nothing was similar or homogeneous, but everything diverse or heterogene ous ! not even the particles of matter the same, so as to con stitute matter ; no homogeneity among spirit, but a wild chaos of substances and qualities a thousand-fold more chaotic than
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that chaos out of which the present order of the universe sprang ? Can the mind even conceive of such a state of being or existence ? It seems impossible to realize it even in thought. Even in chaos the materials of the universe, at least, were the same. But in the state supposed not even these would be the same. In order, therefore, to a universe, a cosmos, we may suppose, there must be this law of resemblance. Every object must have its like. Perhaps, there is not an object, not a thing in existence, but has its counterpart or likeness. To each monad of matter there are a thousand monads of matter, nay, millions on millions multiplied indefinitely. Hence worlds — hence systems — hence aggregates of systems, to which no limit may be assigned. The world of spiritual being may be as illimitable. The numbers that dwell in the presence of God, and that perhaps people other worlds as well as this one, may be riot only what no man could number, but may be incalculable. But how much farther than homogeneity of substance does the law of resemblance extend !* This law constitutes the unity of systems, binds them together. But descending from systems to our own planet, how beautiful the order that prevails, owing to this law ! All is beautiful harmony. We lift our eyes to heaven, and we see one vast firmament. We cast them upon the earth, and we see one solid globe diversified by various outline, and covered with various herbage, but one earth. We see its orders of minerals, all in strata, reducible to classes ; its herbs, trees, flowers, all having their genera ; its animate tribes likewise exhibiting their marked resemblances, and belonging to classes. We find innumerable laws obtaining among the different orders and classes of being, or sub stances, in our world. These have their resemblances or their identity, and from the hum of an insect's wing, or the rustle of the ripening grain, to the roar of the lion or the crash of the thunder, from the mighty avalanche to the float ing vapour, we have a unity of law which can be expressed by one term, and under which can be reduced all the varieties
* Resemblance, let it be remembered, is identity of substance, or quality, with numerical, or individual, diversity.
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of its operation, mighty as the void or interval between the ex tremes may be. Mind itself, as such, has its laws. It is thus that mind is intelligible to mind, and that we can calculate upon its operation as certainly as we can upon the recurrence of night and day.
The law of resemblance, as we have seen, gives us the law of contrast, or allows the law of contrast. And this also is a beautiful arrangement in creation. It secures not only variety but pleasing variety. Variety itself may be said to be pleasing, but what would not be lost to the mind, if the variety was so little as never to strike with the effect of contrast ! We can conceive the shadings from perfect resemblance so small as never to affect us by way of contrast. What pleasure would not thus be lost, even if utility would not be sacrificed ? It seems as if the Creator had delighted in contrasts ; no contrasts, how ever, it may be to him. Creation ascends from the animalcule which the microscope can hardly discover, to the colossal crea tures which roam through the desert, or that people the jungle. Again, we have the little flower, like a starlet upon the grassy field, hardly visible to the eye, and the oak, or the pine, lifting their branches aloft, and spreading a shade of some hundred feet in circumference. We have the mountain rising from the plain, and forming one of the most striking and interesting, or impressive, contrasts in nature. How does the majesty of the hills strike the mind, both as contrasted with our own little ness, and when one looks up to them from the level beneath ! The Alps must tower like a world itself above the gaze. There could not be a more impressive lesson than to stand in one of the Alpine valleys at the foot of these tremendous mountains. They must catch up the mind, and overwhelm it at the same moment, by their august impressiveness. Every other height can be as nothing in their presence. They will rise, and rise till the mind becomes giddy with gazing, and their summit is lost in the clouds, or hides itself in dazzling snow. Well might the poet hymn the Creator in those valleys from which Mont Blanc or Jura rises. It must be like the steps to heaven. Both Coleridge and Shelley have poured
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forth their hymn from the vale of Chamouni — the one to God, the other to the spirit at least of nature. The impression upon Coleridge's mind was one of deep and awful prostration, yet of solemn and lofty devotion : —
" Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause- On thy bald awful head, 0 Sovran Blanc ! The Arve and Arvciron at thy base Have ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines How silently ! Around thee and above, Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from Eternity!"
Coleridge closes the hymn thus, —
" Thou, again, stupendous mountain ! thou, That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base, Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly secmcst, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before me. — Rise, 0 ever rise ; Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth ! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hiernrch ! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth with her thousand voices praises God."
The effect on Shelley's mind was more metaphysical, yet wondrously poetical. True, however, to his atheistical creed, he never rises to the idea of God. He can only say, —
" Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, Remote, serene, and inaccessible : And this, the naked countenance of earth On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains, Teach the adverting mind."
. . . . " The secret strength of things, Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! And what wert thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, If to the human mind's imagining, Silence and solitude were vacancy?" K
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Christopher North muses in his own peculiar way among his own Scottish hills or mountains : — " What an assemblage of thunder-riven cliffs ! This is what may be well called Nature on a grand scale. And then how simple ! We begin to feel ourselves — in spite of all we can do to support our dignity by our pride — a mighty small and insignificant personage. We are about six feet high, and everybody about us about four thousand. Yes, that is the four thousand feet club ! We had no idea that in any situation we could be such dwindled dwarfs, such perfect pigmies. Our tent is about as big as a fir-cone, and Christopher North an insect 1"
Some of the most salutary and devoutest sentiments are derived from the feeling of contrast. Man recognises himself to be nothing in the presence of the vast objects of creation, or rather of Him who created them. Thus the Psalmist was struck when he contemplated the heavens, the work of God's hands, the moon and the stars which he had ordained : — " What is man, that thou art mindful of him ? and the son of man, that thou visitest him ?" It is thus that all the proper senti ments arising from the contemplation of God, in contrast with our own littleness and imperfection, impress us, and should impress us deeply ; and hence the advantage of meditating both upon God and upon His works. Their immensity, His immensity, fills us with awe, and should inspire us with devout adoration. Sometimes of an evening, when we look into the sky, the overpowering idea bursts upon the mind, — How great must be that Being who formed these heavens !
" Worlds on worlds, amazing pomp !"
— who presides over those planets, guides them in their mazy courses, is above all, in all, and through all ; is in ourselves, and, while he is the nearest object or being to us, is at the same time the farthest off, in the remotest regions of space, an Omnipresence, a Spirit, who can be nowhere absent, and whose energy is ever operating ; who looks down to us from the sky, and who besets our very path !
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ANALOGY.
Analogy is the next law of the mind which we have enume rated, and is a species of resemblance. It is not a resemblance between objects or circumstances in themselves, but in the relation which these objects or circumstances bear to some thing else. The mind is subtle enough to detect resemblances in the most shadowy influences or effects, while the objects or circumstances in which these are perceived, or with which they are connected, may be the most dissimilar. A ship, for ex ample, may be compared, as it bears a resemblance, in its dif ferent effects or purposes, to a house, and to a land-carriage. It is the mariner's home on the waters ; it is the merchant's vehicle of transit between the most distant parts of the world. There is no direct resemblance between life and a river, but the analogy is very striking when they are both regarded in their source, their progress, and their issue. There is no direct resemblance between an acorn and an infant Republic or State, but the analogy holds when we compare the smallness of both, and their subsequent growth and greatness. The kingdoms of nature and providence differ in many respects from the king dom of grace, but, as regards the ruler and the subjects, they are the same ; and we may expect the principles which pervade the one to be those which will distinguish the others ; in other words, we may expect to find the same principles of procedure running through them all ; and such, accordingly, is the foun dation of Butler's famous argument on the analogy of religion to the constitution and course of nature. Natural and moral laws have often a surprising resemblance in respect to their tendencies or their operation, while they must be most dissi milar in themselves. There is one law which seems to pervade both the natural and moral worlds, viz., the slowness of growth in connexion with permanency or endurance of result. The trees which are longest of attaining their maturity, are longest in vigour, and are generally the strongest and most majestic. The flower soon reaches its bloom, but as soon decays. The insect seems to start into full life at once, but its existence is
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but for a day, and where there may be some progress in its growth, its life appears to be longer in proportion. In the case of man, his life, had it not been cut short by sin, would have borne some proportion to the period of his infancy, and, as it is, it does bear some proportion still. It would appear to be so also with mental and moral powers and habitudes. The quickest of development are not uncommonly the soonest ex hausted, and very precocious genius too often but flourishes and fades ; at all events, such genius never perhaps exhibits the same strength and maturity as that which grows with years, and keeps pace with advancing life and advancing expe rience. Greatness seems to be the result of slow accretions, like the rings of the oak, exhibiting a texture and a promise of durability which do not belong to the lush-stalks of a spring and summer's growth. There is analogy here, but not simi larity, or direct resemblance. The mind is like the body in its growth and progress, both need discipline, training, and what food is to the one, knowledge is to the other. The eye takes in the expanse of wood and field ; it looks from heaven to earth, and from earth to heaven, and the uni verse unveils at its glance. Analogous is the mind in its rapid movements through the universe of truth — as rapid as penetrating.
It is on this law that many of the discoveries in science depend. One principle may have its analogous principle, and may suggest it to the mind conversant with science. The simple motive power of steam, in a particular instance, sug gested its application to the impelling of machinery, and led to the invention of the steam-engine. The most remarkable dis covery of modern times, the electric telegraph, is but the appli cation of a power which had already transmitted itself along the string of Franklin's kite, and made known to him the electricity of the sky. Instead of the laborious structures of Rome, the aqueducts, which are traceable to as early a period as that of Tarquinius Priscus, and whose remains are still seen spanning the plain of the Romana Campagna, the observance of the simple law by which water invariably seeks its level,
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suggested a mode of introducing that element into cities from almost any distance with comparative ease. Hardly a limit can be assigned to the applications and discoveries founded upon the law of analogy. They may go on multiplying and extending till hardly anything is left unsubjected to the con venience of man.
The power of perceiving analogies may be said to be the great scientific, as it is the great poetic faculty. We should rather say, the mind in which the law of analogy is the most prominent, or that according to which suggestion most readily takes place, or thought most readily arises, is the philosophic and the poetic mind. The analogies which rule in the poetic mind, however, are very different from those which have their sway over the scientific or philosophic. In the one case, it is the analogies of mechanical laws, or the identity in a material law, seen under different aspects or applications ; in the other, it is the analogy descried in a law of nature under varied circum stances, or with varied modifications, and simply descried, — an object merely of interesting and poetic, not of scientific obser vation. The same analogy may be both scientific and imagi native. In Darwin's " Botanic Garden," the fine analogies connected with such a subject are at once scientific and poetic, — scientific when marked for the purposes of science, poetic when observed merely under the poetic feeling, and as objects of beauty. The analogy, or identity of law, between the falling of an apple and the motions of the heavenly bodies, was scien tific, and led to the grandest scientific generalization that ever took place ; but it is also highly poetic, and may be the subject merely of imaginative contemplation. But poetry deals with analogies, for the most part, which have no scientific truth or application. There is no scientific truth or reality in the analogy drawn by Shakespeare in the often-quoted passage, —
. . . . " She never tolil her love, But let concealment, like a worm in the butl, Feed on her damask cheek."
But who does not recognise the beauty of the analogy not-
1 50 INTELLECT.
withstanding ? In the lines which follow we have resemblance without analogy, —
.... " She pined in thought ; And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief."
This must be resemblance simply, unless we consider the resemblance to consist in the effects produced by the two objects, the pining beauty, and the figure of patience, on the mind of a spectator, or a person contemplating them, or the mind to which the analogy is presented. There is fine poetic power in the comparison. Patience sitting on a monument, is at once alive, and is only a dead statue. It is as alive in the mind of the poet as it would be in the mind of the sculptor, whose conception the poet was realizing in his.
Resemblance gives us direct comparison : Analogy, the com parison of effects or relations. When we have said that the power of perceiving or detecting analogies is the great scientific and poetic faculty, of course we do not exclude the simple law of resemblance, for analogy includes resemblance, and resemblance is poetic as well as analogy. Many of the figures of poetry, and eloquence, are borrowed from resemblance simply. But the re semblances of analogy are even more general than direct resem blances, inasmuch as the relations of objects must be more numerous than the objects themselves, while they must be also more striking and more beautiful. A resemblance of relation must be more hidden, more recondite, than any direct resem blance, not so obvious at first ; but a resemblance, when once per ceived, always pleases more the less likely it is to strike the mind, and which comes upon the mind, therefore, with some surprise. Shakespeare, and all our better poets, abound in analogical comparisons. The conceits of our older writers' often owe their beauty to the subtle analogies couched in them. Herbert has a fine analogy on the Sabbath, though somewhat of a conceit : —
" Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden therefor those
\]rhn 11-11 nt fieri'* for their icoinxl."
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The poets of the sixteenth century are especially remarkable for such comparisons.
The description of Satan among his compeers, also frequently referred to by philosophic critics, owes its force to the law of analogy : —
. . . . " He, above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent, Stood like a tower : his form had not yet lost All her original brightness, nor appeared Less than archangel ruined, and the excess Of glory obscured : as when the sun new risen Looks through the horizontal misty air Shorn of hi* beams; or from behind the moon, In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so yet shone Above them att the archangel."
Here the mind is left to the dim effects of the sun in the circumstances described, and of the archangel in his ruin, while the pre-eminence of both is one grand point in the comparison. The poet was not ignorant that a glory might belong to a form, even a spiritual form, which it needed not any elements with which we are acquainted to produce : —
.... " His form had not yet lost AH her original brightness, nor appeared Less than archangel ruined, and the excess Of glory obscured."
It is from the law of analogy that Ossian for the most part derives his comparisons.
" Bring me the harp, 0 maid ! that I may touch it when the light of my soul shall arise." When his soul refuses the impulse of song, he says, — " It is a stream that has failed." But, again, the song rises like the sun in his soul. He feels the joys of other times. So strong is the law of analogy in Ossian, that he asks the moon, " Whither dost thou retire from thy course when the darkness of thy countenance grows ? Hast thou thy hall like Ossian ?" It seemed to Ossian that she must have. " Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief ?" Ossian speaks of the sound of days that are no more, and the memory
152 INTELLECT.
of former times came like the evening sun over his soul. " Did not Ossian hear a voice ? or is it the sound of days that are no more ? Often does the memory of former times come like the evening sun on my soul."
So subtle are the analogies that the mind detects. It is a pleasing exercise of mind, and the most shadowy analogy has the most delightful influence, taking the mind sometimes alto gether by surprise, or leaving on it the most vague and unde- finable impression. How shadowy is the analogy, and yet how true, in these words ! —
" The dreamy ttmgglei of Ike stars v;ith light."
The world is full of such analogies, and the mind is, perhaps, never but under their influence more or less. They come down from the sky ; they sleep or they rustle in the woods ; they are in "the light of setting suns;" they lie on the fields; they chase in the shadows of the clouds over the mountains ; they sigh in the breeze, or murmur with the tides of ocean. It is thus that nature has a voice and preaches to us, or spreads its not obscure lessons before us in almost every object that meets our gaze. By the same law philosophy is ever adding to its discoveries, and rendering the path of man through this world smoother and happier, or his condition in it one of greater con venience and comfort, as well as opening ever-varying sources of intellectual enjoyment. No fear of any limits to poetry, as some are wont to predict, because of the advancement of science, and the literal truth that is now poured over every object ; for analogies will be ever new, and hidden resemblances will be detected by minds as long as there are minds ; and what limits can we set to the empire which science is still erecting for itself ?
The law of analogy affords, and is frequently employed for the purpose of illustrating and enforcing, moral truths. The natural and moral worlds, as we have already remarked, seem to l)e pervaded by principles very much the same. They have the same Author, and it would seern as if He had stamped the same mind upon both ; or as if those perfections by which He is characterized could not fail to leave a oneness of impress on all
INTELLECT. 153
to which these perfections gave birth. Is there not something in the loftiness of the vaulted heaven like the feeling of lofti ness in the human soul ? Do not the heavens symbolize greatness, vastness of idea, expansiveness of thought and of feeling ? Does not humility find its symbol in the lowly shrub or in the still lowlier flower ? Do not some flowers court the shade and seek the hiding-places of creation ? Some, again, pine in the shade, and flaunt garishly in the day. Does not purity find its emblem in the lily, and faithfulness in the sun flower ? The rose is said never to be without its thorn, while moralists have not failed to remark that certain flowers do not give out their fragrance till they are crushed. The parasitical plant robs the tree round which it clings of its strength, and the stronger falls by the weaker. The oak breaks while the willow bends in the storm. The luxuriance of weeds, where the hand of cultivation has not been, or where no care has been exerted to repress them, is not an unapt representation of the mind which has been left uncultivated, or where no watch has been kept upon its motions. The question occurs here, Why, both in the natural and the moral worlds, do the baser plants grow where the nobler are not cultivated ? or do weeds spring when no effort is made to keep them down ? Do we not find a moral truth in the attractions of the spheres — in the ebb and flow of the tides — in the course of rivers — in the stability of the mountains — in the evanescence of the clouds — and in the illusions with which the flitting shadows mock the eye ? Southey has drawn a fine moral from the Holly-tree, which the poet observed had its leaves strong and pointed where it was more open to injury, but growing smoother and softer towards the top of the shrub ; and which is well known to retain its freshness or verdure throughout the whole year. The poet says, —
" I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize : And in this wisdom of the Holly- tree
(,'an emblems see
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after time.
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" Thus though abroad I might appear
Harsh and austere, To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.
" And should my youth, — as youth is apt, I know, —
Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.
" And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green, The Holly leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they ; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree ? —
" So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng, So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly-tree."
" The righteous," says the Psalmist, " shall flourish like the palm-tree ; he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those that be planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall bring forth fruit in old age ; they shall be fat and flourishing."
Does not our Lord gather many of his finest lessons from the analogies which nature presents ? " Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin ; and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." " Behold the fowls of the air, for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns ; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them : are ye not much better than they ?" By how many analogies does not Christ represent the kingdom of heaven ? and some distinct principle of that kingdom was illustrated in all of them. There was more than mere resemblance — there was analogy — when Christ said, " I
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am the vine, ye are the branches, and my Father is the husband man. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away, and every branch that beareth fruit he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit." How finely does Jeremy Taylor say, in the spirit of this analogy, " For so have I known a luxuriant vine swell into irregular twigs and bold excrescences, and spend itself in leaves and little rings, and afford but tri fling clusters to the winepress, and a faint return to his heart which longed to be refreshed with a full vintage ; but when the Lord of the vine had caused the dressers to cut the wilder plant, and made it bleed, it grew temperate in its vain expense of useless leaves, and knotted into fair and juicy branches, and made accounts of that loss of blood by the return of fruit." The difficulties of the new birth are set at rest at once by the ana logy which our Lord employs : " The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth ; so is every one that is born of the Spirit." The doctrine of the resurrection has its analogy in the seed cast into the ground, and its rising in a new body : " Thou sowest not that body that shall be, but bare grain, it may chance of wheat or of some other grain ; but God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him."
The change from the chrysalis to the winged inhabitant of the air gives an analogy from which we may anticipate the resurrection, and the change that will take place on the body, now chained to earth, but anon an inhabitant of a higher and more spiritual region.
From this review of resemblance and analogy, it will be seen that they both may be resolved into identity in some of our primitive ideas, or their relations, with individual diversity. Take any example of resemblance or analogy, and that identity will be found, with diversity in the individual object or instance in which it appears. And the difference between resemblance and analogy is, that resemblance is identity in the qualities of objects, with individual diversity — while analogy is identity in the relations of qualities, laws, or principles, with diversity in the instance or case in which that identity is
150 INTELLECT.
observed. Such identity and diversity may be traced by the observant mind in all the varied objects, or manifestations of law and of principle in the universe.
PROPORTION.
Proportion is the next of those general laws under which objects are contemplated, and according to which the mind is fitted to contemplate them.
Objects may be regarded in their identity, their diversity, in their resemblances, or under contrast, in the analogies that pervade them, and again under the proportions which mark or distinguish them.
Proportion is a certain relation between objects or qualities, or between parts of a whole : it may exist among mathematical lines and figures, and also among simple numbers. It is either the proportion of magnitude, or degree, or number, or of disposition or arrangement of parts, with reference to one another, or to a whole. A body is either greater or less in magnitude than another — a quality greater or less in degree — and either may stand in a certain relation of disposition or adaptation as parts of a whole ; or, again, any number of bodies or qualities may be considered in their relation to any other number. But bodies may be contemplated in the lines of their superficies ; and number may be contemplated ab stractly from body. We have thus the proportion of magni- mtude, the proportion of degree, the proportion of number, the proportion of arrangement or disposition of parts ; and magnitude and number may be represented by lines, or by abstract numbers or symbols.
The proportion of magnitude, of degree, of number, may be divided into these three — equality, greater, less.
Equality is when any object, or any quality of an object, or any number of objects or qualities, is the same in point of magnitude, degree, number, with any other object, or any other quality, or any other number of objects or qualities. The objects, or qualities, or numbers, are then said to be equal : there is no disparity of greater or less. I can take my measure,
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or I make my calculations, and I find an equality. This is a species of identity ; as greater or less, again, is a species of diversity : it is identity in point of magnitude, or quality, or number, or it is diversity in respect of these. The magnitude is the same, the quality is the same, the number is the same ; or the magnitude is different, the quality is different, and the number is different. The proportion of equality is uniform : that of greater or less may be infinitely varied.
Between equal objects there can be only one relation of equality ; between unequal objects there may be every variety of inequality, every diversity of proportion. There is no limit to numbers, from the unit upwards : there is no limit, at least to our conception of magnitude : it can be bounded only by the extent of space. Extent is a species of magnitude, and we may properly enough speak of the magnitude of space, although magnitude is generally connected with the idea of body. Height and depth, length and breadth, however, in other words, extent in all directions, may conveniently be regarded under the generic term magnitude, although the ideas are separable from one another, and from that of magnitude, strictly speaking ; magnitude, viz., in the sense of bulk. Quan tity refers to number ; for when the term " quantity" is used with reference, or application, to magnitude, it implies the idea of number in the contents of body: quality is measured in degree, or the measure is expressed by degree. We may speak, however, of degrees of magnitude ; and the earth is divided into degrees. We have the degrees* of latitude and longitude. The degrees of quality may be included under magnitude ; so generic is the idea magnitude, being extent of any kind. Still, magnitude is fairly appropriable to bulk, and we speak of the extent of space — be it height, depth, length, or breadth — and the degree of any quality, rather than the magnitude of space, or the magnitude of a quality. There are modes of measure ment applicable to bulk, space, and quality. The air even is ponderable, and heat is reducible to a scale. Mental qualities
* This indeed is a conventional use of the term ; but the degree in this case is certainly a term of measurement.
158 INTELLECT.
we do not measure, but we estimate them. In the same way we form our gauge of moral qualities, and even spiritual quali ties. The Apostolic injunction is not to think more highly of ourselves than we ought to think, but to think soberly, according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith ; and he says of himself, — " We dare not make our selves of the number, or compare ourselves with some that commend themselves : but they, measuring themselves by them selves, and comparing themselves among themselves, are not wise. But we will not boast of things without our measure, but according to the measure of the rule which God hath distributed to us, a measure to reach even unto you." There is a proportion thus, even in the qualities of the mind, and even in those spiritual qualities which God dealeth out to every man as it seemeth him good. There is an important principle in the moral and spiritual government of God, and one which has its analogy even in the natural world, which is announced in these words of Christ, ever memorable, ever im portant : " To him that hath shall be given, while from him that hatli not shall be taken away even that which he seemeth to have." God's dispensation of grace is in some proportion to our improvement of what has already been imparted ; and the right improvement even of what is before grace seems to have the promise of grace added to it : " Ye shall know, if ye follow on to know the Lord : His going forth is prepared like the morning." And the whole tenor of Scripture seems to hold out this view, though God is still perfectly sovereign in the bestowal of his grace, and he is found even of them that ask not after him. We see the same connexion and the same law in the natural world. By the blessing of God in some places production is almost spontaneous ; but the promise is to the husbandman who sows plentifully, and who waiteth for the precious fruits of the earth. And, accordingly, the Apostle announces the principle in the spiritual kingdom by language borrowed from the natural kingdom : " He that soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly : he that soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully." There is, no doubt, a nice adjustment ob-
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served by God in all his dealings, and in eveiy department of his procedure or administration. It was a subtle observation of this kind that led Malthus to his celebrated theory of popu lation. That theory is indeed disputed : we notice it here merely as an instance of a proportion observed, or supposed to have been assigned by the Creator, between the increase of population in a country or district, and the means of subsist ence. If the theory be correct, there seems to be a rate at which population will always outstrip the supply of provision, so that from time to time the former will be trenching upon the limits of the latter, when certain balances or checks come into play, so as to keep the proportion somewhat equable.* God has undoubtedly established nice proportions in all His works. In the arranging of the elements — in the disposition of earth and water — in the mountains and valleys — in the herbs, plants, and all vegetable productions — flowers, shrubs, trees — in the growths of the various climes — in the climes them selves — in the laws of evaporation and congelation — in affinity and repulsion — polarity — in the centripetal and centrifugal laws — in the adaptations to the wants or nature of the various tribes and substances that people or that compose the earth — in the law of growth and decay — in the overhanging firmament — in the balancings of the clouds, in reference to which God asks Job, " Dost thou know the balancings of the clouds, the wondrous works of him which is perfect in knowledge?" — in all these what proportions do we not mark, what skilful dis position and adaptation ! Take the human body, or any or ganic structure — what proportion ! Take a tree — a plant — the minutest flower — what proportions — we say not what adapta tions ! A modern writer upon painting and architecture makes the proper distinction between symmetry and proportion, but symmetry may be included under the more generic term pro portion. In the disposition of parts, however, with reference to one another, and to a whole, symmetry has regard to the
* This proportion has been regarded by peculiar adaptation or provision he has Suiuner as subserving the progress and constructed his argument for the Being advancement of society — and upon the of a God. — See "Records of Creation.''
1 GO INTELLECT.
balance preserved between these parts, in number, position, magnitude — as the two legs of an animal — the two wings of a fowl — the two fins of a fish. The two wings of a house are an instance of symmetry. A single pillar to a door, or gate-way, would be unsymmetrical. The branches all on one side of a tree would be unsymmetrical ; and it was the arrangement in the leaves, petals, branches of trees and flowers, that led us to take notice of this admirable proportion observed in nature. Mark even the smallest leaflet, or indentation of a leaf, and it has a corresponding leaflet or indentation. There seems to be a symmetry in the very veins of a leaf. Look at the trefoil, the third leaf seems to grow from between the other two, and the symmetry is between these two. We have no doubt that the minute, and especially the scientific observer of nature, could bring surprising instances of the law of proportion. There seems to be a flux and reflux — an ebb and flow — a giving and taking throughout all nature. Emerson has a curious specula tion in one of his essays on what he calls " Compensation," which we give in his own words : — " Polarity, or action and reaction, we meet with in every part of nature ; in darkness and light ; in heat and cold ; in the ebb and flow of waters ; in male and female ; in the inspiration and expiration of plants and animals ; in the systole and diastole of the heart ; in the undulation of fluids and of sound; in the centrifugal and centripetal gravity; in electricity, galvanism, and chemical affinity. Superinduce galvanism at one end of a needle, the opposite magnetism takes place at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty here you must condense there. An inevitable dual- ism bisects nature, so that each thing is a half, and suggests another thing to make it whole ; as spirit, matter ; man, woman; subjective, objective; in, out; upper, under; motion, rest ; yea, nay." This is certainly carrying symmetry, or com pensation, pretty far. But we have already noticed such a balancing or proportion in the objects and laws of nature. Emerson carries the speculation still farther. He traces the law, as we have already done, in the Divine providence, but according to his own peculiar creed or philosophy he states
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it thus: " The same dualism underlies the nature and condi tion of man. Every excess causes a defect ; every defect an excess. Every sweet hath its sour ; every evil its good. Every faculty which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. It is to answer for its moderation with its life." There seems to be a recognition on the part of Emerson of Malthus's doctrine in the quotation from Solomon's proverbs, where therefore it would seem the doctrine was faintly inti mated : " If riches increase, they are increased that use them." I would not say that Malthus's doctrine is here, but undoubt edly there is some faint shadowing of it.
The proportions of numbers is an almost boundless subject, and certainly a marvellous one, and so of lines and figures. When will the calculator have exhausted the one ; when will the mathematician have traced all the others ?
The proportion of disposition, or arrangement of parts, whether to each other or to a whole, opens up a fertile and interesting subject of contemplation. This is different from symmetry. Symmetry is produced by a balance or uniformity ; there may be the proportion we are now speaking of where there is not uniformity but diversity. There is symmetry in the branches of a tree, and the petals of a flower ; there is pro portion between the branches and the trunk, between the petals and the stem. There is symmetry in the fluting of a column, or the parts of a capital ; there is proportion between the base and the entablature, and between the shaft and both. The range of columns on each side of the Temple of Theseus, was symmetry ; the relation of these to the building was proportion. The proportions of Gothic architecture are very different from those of Grecian, but they are equally proportions ; the one more grand and imposing, the other more chaste and classic. The proportions of Egyptian architecture, and the same is the case wyith the Hindoo, are massive, those of Grecian, elegant, those of Gothic, lofty and elevating. The temples of Thebes and Luxor would overawe, and produce a sombre and gloomy, rather than solemn effect: those of Athens, and Ionia, and Corinth, a chastened and refined ; while the minsters and
. L
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cathedrals of the Middle Ages elevate and subdue by turns, and secure that degree of solemnity which is in accordance with devotion. The. structures of ancient Nineveh, which are now being excavated from those ruins which a Nahum and a Zephaniah foretold, seem to have been of gigantic proportions. We have gome idea of them from the pictures of a Martin, purely imaginative as his sketches must have been. The caves of Elephanta, in the East, also astonish by their proportions — temples cut out of the solid rock. The impressions produced by St. Peter's in Borne seem to be very amazing ; perhaps it stands alone among buildings. The proportions are so vast, and yet so admirable, that it is not till you stand under the Dome for some time, and repeatedly repair to it, that all its proportions are taken in ; and the effect upon Beckford, as he himself relates, after repeated visits, was like that of the fir mament, so vast, yet so simply sublime. The tremendous dimensions of the Dome are estimated, and can be estimated, only by the apparently diminutive size of objects which are yet known to be themselves vast.
" But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
Standest alone with nothing like to thee —
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true,
Since Zion's desolation : when that He
Forsook His former city, what could he,
Of earthly structures, in His honour piled
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty,
Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. " Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ;
And why ? it is not lessen'd, hut thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. " Thou movest, but increasing with the advance,
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,
Deceived by its gigantic elegance ;
Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize,
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All musical in its immensities ; Rich marble — richer painting — shrines where flame The lamps of gold, and haughty dome which vies In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the clouds must claim.
" Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole ; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart."
We have not the eye of a painter or a sculptor, else we might dwell at much length on the symmetry and proportion observ able in the forms and aspects of creation. Who is not struck with the proportions of many of those animals which God has destined for the service and convenience of man ? — the horse, whose limbs seem moulded to the expression of strength, beauty, and swiftness, whose hoofs seem shod with fire as they scour the plain ; which " saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha ! and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shoutings." A flock of deer sweeping the lawn, or reposing among the trees of some ancient park, with their tapering limbs, and branching horns, and soft eye, seems the perfect image of beauty and gracefulness, and that quiet loveliness, which looks out from the eye, and has a deeper seat far than mere outward shape or form. But nowhere do we see the combination of symmetry and proportion so complete, and its triumphs so great, as in the human form. Accordingly, it is on it that the painter and the sculptor have lavished their powers and put forth their strength, drawing, it would appear, from a conception nobler than the reality ; an ideal taken from what the reality seems only to indicate, or to point to. Italian artists, like the ancients, seem to have aimed at this ideal beauty. Proportion to its minutest shade of perfection was their intent study, and still they dismissed from their canvas or their marble, what would disturb the minutest expression of
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ease, grace, majesty, beauty, strength, power. And we have an illustration in this into what almost imperceptible lines and degrees proportion may evanish, if we may so speak, or of what imperceptible degrees it may consist. The proper conception of proportion must involve infinitely minute particulars or shadowings of thought : the last conception, how minute ! Nature has not been so particular ; but as in the moral world Butler has referred to the tendencies of principles though we may not see their full development ; so with regard to ideal form and beauty, their principles may be seen in abstract con ception though never in a living concrete. And this is what is meant when we speak of an ideal form, or an ideal beauty.* We see to what the principles of form, of beauty, point or lead ; we can follow the indication, and imagine the reality.
..." Turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — A father's love and mortal's agony, With an immortal's patience blending : vain The struggle ; vain against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.
" Or view the Lord of the unerring how,
The god of life, and poesy, and light —
The sun in human limbs array 'd, and brow
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ;
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity.
* "We call attention," says Cousin, me the occasion for conceiving the ideal,
" to two words which continually recnr but the ideal is something entirely dif-
in this discussion, — they are, on the ferent from experience or nature; so that,
one hand, nature or experience; on the if we apply it to natural, or even to arti-
other, ideal. Experience is individual ficial figures, they cannot fill up the con-
or collective; but the collective is re- ditionof the ideal conception, and we are
solved into the individual; the ideal is op- obliged to imagine them exact. The
posed to the individual, and to collective- word ideal corresponds to an absolute
ness: it appears as an original conception and independent idea, and not to a col-
of tho mind. Nature or experience gives lectivo one." — See Cousin on Beauty.
INTELLECT. 165
" But in his delicate form — a dieam of love,
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast
Long'd for a deathless lover from above,
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd
The mind with in its most unearthly mood,
When each conception was a heavenly guest —
A ray of immortality — and stood, Starlike around, until they gather'd to a God!"
It is not proportion of individual form so much, that we observe in general nature, as harmony of effect. There are proportions, however, also of colouring on the landscape, ininglings of light and shade ; and slope and level must blend to make a perfect picture. A dead level makes a very unin teresting landscape, whether on canvas or in nature itself. A Kembrandt may be admirably painted, but a Dutch flat does not make an interesting picture, except for its antique towers and spires, which fill the foreground or rise in the distance. A calm expanse of sea is not a picture, it is a thought ; and to make a picture it must have its vessels and its sea-ports, and the sky must be stretched in harmony above. Mont Blanc of itself is not a picture, though it may be hymned in beautiful and sublime poetry, or the God who
" Sank its sunless pillars deep in earth."
It is wonderful the effect of the varied forms, and combinations of form and colour in a landscape. How admirable, how graceful all !
The law of proportion operates in our thoughts, and secures harmony, grace, and what is called keeping, in style. The serious in composition will not intrude itself upon the gay, or the gay upon the serious, and wit, humour, and the play of fancy, will be limited to their proper place, or will be indulged in their proper proportion. The keeping of style is just the observance of each style in its own place, and in suitable adap tation to the subject in hand. In some minds there is a predominance of some one faculty, or of some faculties, over others. It is all reasoning, or it is all imagination ; or there is a fine balance of powers. " Fit words in fit places" is the
166 INTELLECT.
definition given by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, of good style. Is not this just proportion ? It is undoubtedly an aspect of it. A balance of all the passions was the definition, given by one of the ancient philosophers, of virtue. There is truth in the definition — for virtue will secure the balance or regulation of all the passions ; but virtue is something else, and is not merely what it secures. Politeness has been called a proper regard to the smaller decencies or proprieties of life. Eccen tricity is when any part of the conduct is out of proportion with the rest. The grotesque and ludicrous in appearance or conduct arises in part at least from a want of harmony — the violence done to harmony — in the conduct or appearance. A cyclops would be a somewhat grotesque-looking being ; equally odd in a mental and moral point of view are those of whom some crotchet has taken such possession, that it seems never absent from their minds, and appears to be the one thing there. Don Quixote outstrips all competitors in this depart ment.* Hudibras, perhaps, is his sole rival. It was to mock the only real thing of the age that Butler's Hudibras was written, viz., Puritanism — Puritanism and the love of freedom being at that time well-nigh commensurable terms. Even what is good may be cast into ridicule by being represented in an exag gerated form. The spiritual element is what the world never could, and never can, understand or estimate ; and accordingly while Hampden and Sydney have long obtained their laurels, as heroes and patriots, Puritanism is but emerging at this day from the cloud of detraction in which it was enveloped. Let but the element of religion be mixed up in any question, how ever vital and important otherwise to the interests of mankind, and every hard name is dealt out, and false construction put upon the otherwise noblest actions and motives. A high and
* Hence Foster's allusion to the that class of which Don Quixote is the
honoured knight ; when speaking of time immemorial commander-in-chief."
those who from their enthusiasm in any If this can he said of a right enthu-
eause — even a right enthusiasm in a siasm, what shall be said of an enthu-
right cause — are thought " to occupy siasm altogether misdirected, and out
a duhious frontier space betwixt the of proportion ? rational and the insane, are assigned to
INTELLECT. 1G7
honourable enthusiasm, where religion is concerned, gets but little praise from the world : it is regarded with suspicion, and frowned upon by those who do not know what is the pre cise occasion of their anger or their hatred. It is no dispro portion to exalt a noble cause ; and religion, and religious freedom, are the noblest of all causes. Everything else will be in suitable subordination, and will form the very harmony which seemed to be broken — the harmony consists in that subordination. The hero, the patriot, the religious reformer, stand in beautiful harmony with themselves ; and their heroism, their patriotism, and their religion, constitute the character to which succeeding ages do reverence.
We have thus considered those laws which obtain recipro cally in the external and internal worlds, the worlds of matter and mind, which the mind at once is fitted to perceive, and which operate in the mind as laws of its own nature — identity, diversity, resemblance, contrast, analogy, proportion. There is not only the relation of identity, or of an object to itself at one time, or at different times, — the relation of diversity between objects, — the relation of resemblance, contrast, analogy, propor tion, — but there is the law according to which these relations exist respectively, — a law which must be referred in each case to the Divine creative mind. From the types or archetypes in the Divine mind, these relations have their existence in out ward reality ; and our minds, moulded in the image of the Divine, are fitted to perceive them. Perhaps mind cannot but perceive them, at all events as it is now constituted. Mind would have to undergo a total revolution not to perceive these relations ; and hence we speak of the laws of identity, resem blance, &c., as belonging to the mind itself. Derangement, as we have seen, in reference to some of these laws, is just when these laws, or when outward objects, according to these laws, are not seen or recognised ; and all accordingly is vacuity or confusion in the mind. Who shall restore that order from which everything has been hurled or cast down ? Who shall give the mind to operate according to these laws again ? Who
168 INTELLECT.
shall touch the spring, and all will be well again — all again order, serenity, harmony, beauty ? — the mind will be brought out of its interlunar cave — no longer wander in eclipse — but revolve in light. God alone holds that spring in his own hand — can give the touch, can communicate the energy.
We have now to consider the principles of the mind, — the principle of causation, or the principle according to which we trace causes — the principle of generalization, or that according to which the generalizing process is conducted — the principle of deduction, or that according to which all reasoning takes place : we shall consider the laws of association ; and having thus the modified as well as original sources or occasions of our ideas, we shall then consider what are called the facul ties of the mind in relation to them, — reason and reasoning, conception, abstraction, imagination, — while the influence of volition upon the mind, or its voluntary acts, will also come under our notice.
XIV.
The three grand principles of mind are causality, generaliza tion, and deduction, — generalization, however, as we shall see, being partly dependent upon causality, and deduction being, in every proper or real instance of it, a new generalization. It is a principle of mind that every effect must have a cause ; that what belongs to one or more observed instances, or cases, will belong to a class ; and the reverse of this, that what be longs to a class must belong to every individual of that clas^-. These are properly principles of the mind, — the mind purely. The word principle, " principium" means a first truth. In aesthetics, we speak of the principles of beauty and sublimity ; in morals, of the principles of justice or virtue generally.
We employ the term rather in a conventional sense, to denote not only a first truth, but a practical result to which that truth leads, as when, from the truth, that every effect must have a cause, we proceed to the tracing of causes ; or from the truth, that like causes will produce like effects, we generalize pheno mena or laws ; and from the truth, the " dictum" of Aristotle,
INTELLECT. 169
that what belongs to a class will belong to every individual of that class, we proceed to the drawing of conclusions from general premises.
CAUSALITY.
There is that in the mind icTiich assures us that every effect must have a cause. This principle exists in the mind even prior to its development. As soon, accordingly, as an effect is presented to our observation, we refer it to a cause. According to a principle of the mind we inevitably do so. This is some what different from our concluding in reference to the existence of our own consciousness, of our personal selves, of the external world. Our own consciousness is immediately accompanied with the belief in the existence of that of which we are con scious, or of the consciousness itself; our idea of self, with the belief in the existence of self ; and the idea of the external world, with the belief in the existence of an external world. But the reference of an effect to a cause, — a cause which may not be present, or may not be visible, and may not even be traceable, — this is something different ; and it is here ive re cognise a principle in operation. In the other instances, con sciousness, self, the external world, are the direct objects of cognition. The cause is the object of cognition only through a principle, and the particular cause may not yet be discovered. We know there must have been a cause, from the principle, that every effect must have a cause, but the cause may as yet have eluded our search or detection. The principle is enough for us. Consciousness, self, an external world, or externality, must themselves be the objects of cognition, or they are not the objects of cognition at all. Cause, in any particular in stance, is the object of cognition, even while the precise cause may not yet be discovered.
The principle of causality is, that every effect must have a cause. This exists in the mind prior to the discovery of causes. The principle that there must be an external world, does not exist in the mind prior to the information of our senses and our mind together, that there is an external world ; or rather
170 INTELLECT.
there is no such principle. There is no such principle as that I must exist, or that an external world must exist, but there is such a principle as that an effect must have a cause. We can affirm of a cause merely from the existence or observation of an effect. Nor is this a first truth precisely in the same sense that the truths of aesthetics or of morals are first truths. We could conceive the mind not recognising effects to be effects, but merely events or facts ; but we could not conceive mind not distinguishing between right and wrong, or beauty and deformity. The distinction between right and wrong, beauty and deformity, is offered to the mind in the very fact, or the judgment of right and wrong accompanies the contemplation of the very action ; and the aesthetic judgment, the contempla tion of the very object which is beautiful, or the reverse ; but the perception of a cause in an effect depends upon a principle implanted directly in the mind.
How important a principle is this ! How much depends upon it ! We have seen it is concerned in the very idea of externality itself. Every effect must have a cause : externality is the cause of this feeling at a particular moment : there is an external world.* What a powerful stimulus to investigation and inquiry ! Philosophy has been said to be " rerum cognos- cere causas." We set out on the track of philosophy as soon as we institute an inquiry into a cause. All discovery is connected with this. Even in the science or philosophy of mind we are tracing the cause or source or origin of our ideas — our feelings — our actions. In physical sciences we trace the causes that have operated, or that operate, to this or that effect. We say, what an important principle is this ! It carries us through the universe ; it lifts our mind to the observation of those stars ; it makes the world on which we tread a scene of interest and inquiry ; it makes every object by which we are surrounded a subject of delighted contemplation, or eager curiosity; it makes nature the minister of our wants, and the magazine of our pleasures or enjoyments. Newton was pondering the principle
* There is something more than this world, but this principle is in the refer- principle in the reference to an external ence.
INTELLECT. 171
when the falling apple revealed to him the secret, as it may well be called, of the universe. Franklin had it in his eye when he sent his messenger up to the clouds, and received from it the information that he wanted. Davy toiled in his labora tory till chemical discovery grew under his observing glance, as a Liebig and a Faraday are doing at the present day. Os cillations are observed in a planet ; astronomers know there must be a cause ; an Adams and a Le Verrier set themselves to calculate the distance of the disturbing force, and they almost simultaneously — certainly without knowing the fact that either was at work — tell the place of a new planet, and when the telescope is pointed to the spot it is discovered. Certain ap pearances in the human frame set the physiologist upon the inquiry, and the circulation of the blood is discovered ; the means of mitigating disease and pain is found, and the healing art becomes a science ! The statist, the political economist, investigate the causes of phenomena in the social and political condition ; and inquiry is made into every means by which the social and political wellbeing may be promoted. The world is astir with questions of social reform and economical improve ment. No principle is more active in the mind than the one under our consideration. It is developed in the child still lisping his words, or dependent upon signs to make known his meaning. The child is an astronomer after a sort, and he has his theory of the stars. One, in his pious moments, sup posed them to be openings through which the glory of heaven was seen. Campbell had his theory of the rainbow :
" Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven."
How eager are the queries of a child ! How marvellous often ! With what simple and beautiful curiosity does it inquire the use of this and the cause of that. And Newton thought himself but a child on the margin of the great ocean of truth, gathering a few pebbles there. It is only at the pre sent day that certain sciences have grown into importance, and
172 INTELLECT.
are unfolding their wonders before the eager investigators in the track of inquiry that has been opened up. The age of the world has been discovered to be thousands of years more than was dreamed of in a former philosophy. And all this by the instigation of the one principle of causality — the curiosity to which it prompts, and the certainty with which it foretells or anticipates.
Dependent somewhat upon this principle, and nearly akin to it, is that of generalization.
GENERALIZATION.
The principle of causality is, that every effect must have a cause : it seems to follow from this, that every effect must have its own cause. There may be more causes than one for the same effect, but each is the cause of that effect ; and were it not so, it would not be a cause at all. The same cause, then, will be always attended by the same effect. This is the prin ciple of generalization, and leads to the generalizing act of the mind. It is true that generalization takes place where we are not observing causes at all, but co-existing or similar pheno mena ; but we connect these phenomena with some cause, and we generalize upon the certainty that causes are uniform in their operation. We observe in certain objects, or in certain phenomena, a certain feature or characteristic : we observe that feature or characteristic wherever we see those objects or phe nomena : we generalize the circumstance, and say, that it will always be so, and in every individual of the class of objects or phenomena ; and we may thus get a class of objects or pheno mena, that is to say, we are able confidently to arrange in a class the objects or phenomena so characterized. We do not wait till we have observed every instance in any such case ; we generalize the fact after less or more observed instances, as the case may be. Were we suspending our minds till every in stance was observed, it is obvious we would have no general facts or laws or classes, for when would the universal induction or observation be made ? And it is in this that we see the
INTELLECT. 173
peculiarity in the law or principle of generalization. It may be said, that it is no distinct principle, since it proceeds upon the principle, that like causes will produce or be followed by like effects. But the point is, why do we suppose a cause in operation in every case the same ? how does the mind step to this conclusion or persuasion ? When I see the sun set, and after an interval of a certain number of hours, and no more, rise again — why am I led to believe that there is a uniform cause at work which secures the periodical return of the sun to our horizon ? This is the principle of generalization. It pro ceeds upon the principle of causality ; but there is a distinct principle, too, viz., that which from a single observation, or a number o/observations of a phenomenon, infers the operation of a uniform cause, and anticipates, therefore, the uniform effect. Newton generalized the law of gravitation from the observa tion of the falling of an apple. It struck him that there was the uniform operation of a law here, as in the similar motions of all bodies — each seeking a centre, or attracted by the greater body. How wide was that range through which the law he had hit upon by a fortunate suggestion — rather by a sagacious and most original association of analogy — something of a ci-eative poiver of which we have but little conception — through which that law had operation ! This was a generali zation the widest perhaps that was ever made. What must have been Newton's state of mind when he happened upon such a generalization ? Surely if ever it was permitted to mortal to entertain a thought of pride, he might have enter tained it at this moment. Or was the thought far too lofty for pride ? Was he here brought face to face with a great secret of nature, and when he beheld that example of what Cowper has styled " contrivance intricate expressed with ease," did he feel in the presence of the great Contriver, and worship the power and wisdom of which so beautiful an expression had dawned upon his mind ? It is more probable, especially with such a mind as his. Franklin felt as if he could at that moment gladly die, when he verified the generalization of the phenomena of the clouds into the one principle with which he
174 INTELLECT.
had been so familiar in his study — electricity. What pleasure must burst upon the philosopher's mind at every such generali zation ! It is like new land conquered — a new world dis covered — the Pacific flashing upon the adventurous Spaniard and his band ! It is truly " standing on the top of some mountain thought," and taking a look not only into that new region of truth, but those regions which will successively open up, expanding immeasurably into the distance of scien tific discovery.
Generalization proceeds upon the principle that like causes will, in all similar circumstances, be attended by like effects. This, we have said, is somewhat involved in the principle that every effect must have a cause, for it is of the essence of a cause to produce its own effect. The further process of the mind, then, in generalization, is to apprehend the existence of some cause in the phenomenon or fact under observation ; and the uniform operation of that cause, and the consequent uniform effect, in other words, the uniformity of the phenomenon or fact under observation, is an immediate state of the mind. The peculiarity of generalization, as we have already said, is that by which we pronounce the operation of a cause in the parti cular case, a cause connected with the special phenomenon. The sun's rising in the morning, for example : we do not merely apprehend a cause connected with the phenomenon of the sun's rising ; that would be causality simply ; but we apprehend one connected with his rising at the particular time, and this gives us the general truth or expectation that it will always rise at that time. The mind apprehends a cause connected not only with his rising, but with his rising then, and this is already the general truth. In the same way, the mind connects a cause with a body falling to the earth, and that is already a general truth. The body might be impelled to the earth by a force for which we can account, but it falls to the earth by some law for which we cannot account, and we generalize it into the law of gravitation. There is not merely, therefore, the operation of the principle of causality, by which we recognise a cause, but the operation of that in such
INTELLECT. 175
a manner, or in connexion with such other principle of the mind, as allows the mind always to anticipate the same cause with the same result. No visible force was applied to the apple as it fell from the tree ; why then did it fall ? The sun appear ing on our horizon at a particular time, and that not once, but again and again, allows of the general conclusion respecting his rising. And it will be observed that his appearing repeatedly at the same time, serves to establish the phenomenon of his ap pearing at that time ; and having got that phenomenon, the general conclusion is at once obtained. The one observation of an apple falling gives us the fact of its falling, but the one observation of the sun's rising or appearing on the horizon at a particular time, does not give us the fact of his rising at that time, but the one fact of his having risen at that time ; but two or .three observations of his rising give us the fact we speak of, and we generalize that for all time. The precise fact or phenomenon ascertained, we generalize it ; but in some cases it requires more observations than in others to get the precise fact or phenomenon. It is found, accordingly, that in some cases we generalize more quickly than in others. In chemistry the precise phenomenon can be arrived at much more accurately than in other sciences, and the generalization takes place very rapidly. Get the precise phenomenon, and the generalization is immediate, since a cause is at once seen to be in operation. To see that cause, is already to generalize. It is not the cause of an isolated fact, it is the cause of a general fact. The gene ralization is in the perception of the cause. The cause that we have perceived, or that we perceive, insures to us the same effect in all similar circumstances. Every cause will insure its effect in all similar circumstances; but this is a cause that will be uniform in operation — is not an accidental, isolated one. The mind apprehends a cause that will operate in all time to come. This we take to be the peculiarity of generalization.
Induction and generalization, as the terms are used, are the same, but more properly induction is the observation or collec tion of facts or instances upon which generalization proceeds. This observation of instances is, properly speaking, induction,
17<) INTELLECT.
and rightly viewed, generalization is quite distinct from induc tion. Induction, strictly speaking, is the mere observation or gathering of particulars, or data — the generalization consequent upon this is the only philosophic process. Induction, however, is generally spoken of as including both processes — the gather ing of the instances and the generalization consequent.
Induction is the grand instrument of Bacon — the " novum organon." It is the grand instrument of all empirical science — of all the sciences that depend upon observation and expe rience. It was because before his time philosophy had been conducted upon the false method of hypothesis and theory, apart from observation and experiment, that Bacon, by his novum organon, effected such a revolution in the philosophic world, and may be said to have laid the foundation for all future discovery. To ascertain facts was Bacon's great method — the generalization would follow upon these. Previous to his time philosophers generalized before they had the facts, and what they generalized, therefore, was merely matter of conjec ture ; their generalizations were theories, and theories proceed ing upon mere hypotheses. There was, therefore, no proper philosophy previous to his time, except a few scattered obser vations which had anticipated the dawn of the inductive system. Among the ancients the vainest conjectures were formed regard ing the system of the universe, and every opinion seems to out strip another in absurdity. Bacon demanded that we should not proceed a single step in science without ascertained pheno mena. These were carefully to be collected ; and Bacon lays down rules, which he calls " instantire," which were necessary to all accurate observation, or induction. These rules, or " instantias," form the legislation of all inductive philosophy. Others, no doubt, are added as observation proceeds ; but by far the most important rules are contained in Bacon's enumera tion, and they can never grow obsolete while science exists. Bacon is still regarded, and must ever be regarded, as the great legislator of science. Get but a sufficient number of cases in point, arid let these be ascertained with sufficient accuracy, with all the accuracy which the " instantiaj" will secure, and there
INTELLECT. 177
is no fear afterwards ; the mind will do the rest of the work. The generalizing process will be quick enough after that, and will be as certain as a law of mind can make it. Theory built upon conjecture was but an airy fabric, and had no foundation. It was like the deception painted on the atmosphere, which beguiles the traveller in the desert, and vanishes as he arrives at that point in the distance where it seemed to rest. Not even like that — often not so pleasing or so flattering, but liker a figment of the brain, absurd as the fancy which gave it form and being. Nothing was too crude — nothing too grotesque — nothing too ridiculous to be a theory of philosophy. Bacon saw, that if we were to generalize, we must generalize upon rightly ascertained and well established facts or data. Fancy was as distinct from science as an illusion in the air from that of which it gave the promise or formed the representation. What an advance, accordingly, has science made since Bacon gave the law! Discovery seemed to wait till he said, This is the track on which alone it can be pursued ; on this road you may advance to conquest, but upon no other. Science will not un fold her laws unless you interrogate them. " Homo minister natures est et interpres." You must become a little child if you would learn ; you must submit to be taught by nature herself. You must listen to her oracular responses. You must record those instances in which you, as it were, hear her voice. You must submit to the crucible those cases which seem to be her phenomena. All must be patiently observed, and the re sponse will come — the law will develop itself — the phenomenon will not deceive. There is a point at which mind and nature meet. It is a revelation as soon as that point is attained.
Such is the law or principle of generalization. How admi rably is it adapted for the purposes of man's existence ! We cannot conceive of knowledge without it. If we never could arrive at a general truth, what truth could we arrive at ? and if we could not arrive at it in this way, when, by any process of observation, however extensive, would we arrive at it ? Nature, or the author of nature, has managed matters differ ently for us. By the principle we have been considering we
M
178 INTELLECT.
get general views from particular observations. The mind takes possession at once of a truth from a very few instances, it may be, of its exemplification. And it is possessed with more certainty, perhaps, than if we had gone through the whole range of experiment and observation, were that possible. For in the one case we have an unerring intuitive law of mind to depend upon ; in the other, we could not be certain that in such a multiplicity of observations we had not in any one in stance been mistaken. The observing power may have grown dim or weary in the vast exercise to which it was subjected. But here a few observations which have not fatigued, which have been accurately and certainly made, open up the whole vista through which we would otherwise have had to travel, and could never have travelled. Nay, at the end of our obser vations, could we reach an end, we would be as far from our point as ever ; for what certainty could we have that new cir cumstances might not arise, might not intervene, and so render useless every observation we had made ? But by this principle we know that no new circumstances can modify the case or law in point. Though we had made a universal induction of every fact that can be known, what information would this give us with regard to the future ? it would only tell us of the present or the past. The future would still be an uncertainty. But this principle is prophetic ; it not only ranges over all co-exist ing phenomena of the same kind, but it tells us that the future will be as to-day. It predicts the future with the same cer tainty that it tells us of the present. We confidently look forward to the same phenomena, the same results, as we have already observed or ascertained.
What purposes of life does not this principle subserve ? Without it life would have been too short for those inductions which would otherwise have been necessary to give us a well- ascertained fact, or principle, or law ; and, as we have seen, no induction, however extensive, would have given us this, for still we would have been able to affirm only with reference to the past, and would have had no certainty with reference to the future. Generalization takes the future into its own hand.
INTELLECT.
and affirms with perfect certainty with regard to any particular fact or principle, which has been the object of observation, in all time coming. Newton's generalization had not reference merely to the past instances of gravitation, to these as belonging to one class of phenomena, but that class of phenomena involved, or had respect to, a phenomenon which he could predict in all time to come in the same circumstances. Our most familiar actions in life may be said to depend upon a generalization. In the commonest implements we use, and in the commonest use of them, some generalization is implied. There is a nice observa tion often where we think there is nothing more than familiar and almost intuitive knowledge. We almost think that water, as a matter of course, must run down a declivity, and, in adapt ing our arrangements accordingly with regard to this law, we do not imagine that we are acting upon an important gene ralization ; so, in the placing of any body in a particular posi tion, we think not that we have reference to the law of gravita tion in so simple an act. Who thinks of the law of gravitation in recovering himself from a shock which he has received, or in those nice movements by which the balance is preserved in walking upon a narrow bridge, when perhaps a false step would plunge us into the abyss below ? The mechanic is not thinking of those laws which a nice observation has made familiar to him, not as laws, but as circumstances to be obeyed in his trade, or to be followed in the use of his instruments. The sooty blacksmith never heard of the law of percussion, but if he did not observe it when employing his hammer, it would shiver his arm, brawny as it is. He has made a generalization, though it has not taken the specific form of a law. Many a practical observation never derived anything from science. Shrewd inductions have been made when nothing more was supposed to be done than to follow a wise experience. The man of superior sagacity in his trade, or avocation of life, what ever that may be, turns circumstances to account which are truly the particulars of an induction, and which, in being thus acted upon or improved, constitute a generalization, it may be of great value, often, as it turns out, even of scientific value.
180 INTELLECT.
Generalization is a principle of the mind, — that is, the mind proceeds to generalize in certain circumstances in spite of itself. We are no sooner brought into such and such circumstances than we generalize. It is on this principle that all our general conclusions are founded, — maxims of conduct, as well as rules of trade, or laws of art. We form principles of conduct, as observed in their effects, without reference to the abstract prin ciples from which they may more properly spring, or with which they may more properly be connected. We may look at actions from the separate points of view of their abstract prin ciples of right or wrong, or their effects on the world. Maxims are formed, for the most part, upon observations taken from the latter point of view. Maxims are generalized observations. The minor virtues, and the principles which guide us in the business and pursuits of life, are seldom taken up to the higher source of abstract principle, but are drawn from observations and experience. The common proverbs, which are character istic of a place or a nation, or belong to the species, are founded upon experience. What gives us the proverbs concerning the weather ? Generalizations of a familiar and everyday kind and use.
Classification often proceeds upon generalization, though in many cases it would seem that we classify merely as we observe instances or particulars of agreement. It would not seem to need any exercise of the generalizing principle to classify all mineral substances under one head, all animals under another, and vegetables under another ; but the term generalization has been extended even to this act of classification. We are dis posed to think that the peculiarity of generalization consists in detecting some law or cause at work in certain cases or in stances of observed similarity, and confidently counting upon that law in all such cases, and in all future time. For example, certain minerals are observed to occur in certain strata, in a certain relation to other strata ; that they will always be found in such strata is a generalization, and depends upon the prin ciple which we call by that name. Now, this is something different from merely classifying a mineral, as coal, or lime-
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stone, or ironstone, having determined the properties of these minerals ; that all animals of a certain structure, and with certain provisions for the purpose of seizing their prey, are carnivorous, is a generalization different from the classification of animals under the name of the genus or species to which they belong, as quadrupeds, bipeds, fishes, birds, &c. The one generalization depends merely upon a perceived resemblance — the other upon the principle of generalization, already consi dered. In the latter there is a perceived resemblance, and when treating of the law of the mind by which we perceive resem blance, we regarded it as that on which generalization pro ceeded ; but we then remarked that there was something more than a perceived resemblance, there was the principle which we have endeavoured to explain, and which we have said seems to consist in the detection of a cause at work, and the certain prediction that such a cause will always be found at work, when it will be attended by its necessary effect or effects. Classification, therefore, is distinct from generalization ; but it may depend upon a generalization. When it proceeds merely upon a perceived resemblance, there is properly no generali zation. Still, even this has been called generalization, as it consists in the application of general terms to objects or beings or qualities which have something in common, or a circum stance of resemblance. General terms are given to qualities or substances resembling in certain particulars, and are only applied to the circumstances in which they resemble, or to the qualities or substances or objects, in so far as they resemble in these circumstances. The resemblance may be connected with nothing further, or it may be connected with that principle or law of which we have repeatedly spoken, and which leads to a comprehension under a class which does not depend upon a mere resemblance. The resemblance leads the mind to some cause, and that cause, uniform in its operation, insures to the observing mind the certainty of the same effect in the most universal induction that could be made. We can predict of every animal that it will be carnivorous, if it possesses claws or talons : we connect some cause with the property, and predict
182 INTELLECT.
in the case of every such animal, that it will be carnivorous. So with many of our general terms, they depend upon a gene ralization, strictly speaking. Certain strata of the earth have uniformly been observed in certain relations or positions : the generalizing process or law of the mind, or principle, gives us a cause, or supposes some cause in operation, and we affirm with the utmost confidence that these strata will always be found so situated ; or we call these strata by a certain name because they are so found. Certain temperaments of body are found in connexion with certain conditions of health and developments of disposition : they are connected with some fixed cause, and we have the classification accordingly of the lymphatic, the nervous, and the sanguineous temperaments, and their corresponding indications in health or disposition. Classification simply, that is, whether it proceeds upon merely felt or perceived resemblances — or depends upon the generaliz ing principle — employs and demands general terms. The mind is led by an inevitable law and necessity to classify, and general terms are its implement or means by which this is done. Even were we not inventing or employing general terms, the classifi cation might exist in our own minds, but it would not be available for the purposes which man has in view. Of what use would it be to classify for ourselves, and to have no language by which the classification should be designated ? The great purposes of classification, and of general terms by which we indicate the classification, is to serve the practical ends of life. A still wider purpose of utility opens up to us in this aspect or application of the principle of generalization. What would language be if we had no general terms ? How limited, or how cumbrous ! Had every individual a distinct name, when should our vocabulary be completed, and how could we master our vocabulary ? Proper names are so called because they are the names of individuals ; and it is necessary to have these ; because the law of identity is riot lost in the law of similarity, and we have need often to recognise individuals in their iden tity, or individuality. Hence John, Thomas, London, Paris. But proper names, or nouns, are very fc\v in comparison with
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general or common ones, and because we have more to do with classes than individuals. The range of our individual interests or relations is limited; that which connects us with the universe of being is unbounded. More absorbing interests far are those connected with the limited range ; except again, when, as Cole ridge expresses it, " we feel ourselves parts and proportions of a universal whole," when we step beyond the limited interests of this petty sphere, and realize our spiritual and immortal in terests and destinies : this is indeed " the noon-tide majesty of our being." But in this, again, terms themselves are lost, and spiritual being and existence perhaps comprehend all. How limited may be the language of spiritual beings ; for great and absorbing feelings and thoughts may be all that they will ever need to express. How large will be the generalizations ! how simple the feelings ! Love to God and to each other, and the admiration of one predominating beauty or glory may sum up the whole of the latter. All moral principles we know are reducible to love. May there not be an equally comprehensive generalization in respect to other truths as well ? — in respect to the laws of being, and the conditions underlying all relations ?
A question was keenly agitated during the scholastic ages as to the precise object of general terms, — whether it was some thing real as distinct from the individual objects among which a resemblance was discerned, or whether it was the term or name that constituted the general feature of agreement or resemblance, and not that feature of agreement or resemblance that gave rise to the term. Kealism and Nominalism were the distinctive titles of the separate systems, and the abettors of either were called Realists or Nominalists. Realism was the first system held, and Nominalism was a revolt from it.
The Realists maintained — and it was heresy to dispute the point — it was an innovation classed with the more strictly theological heresies of which the Church of the Middle Ages was so observant, as the same Church, true to its ancient and hereditary character, at the present day, still is — the Realists maintained that everything which was called by a general term, every genus or species, had a real existence, qua genus or
184 INTELLECT.
species, existed apart from the individual objects among which the resemblance which occasioned the general term was found. It was not merely a resemblance or circumstance of agreement that was detected. There were universal forms, universal sub stances, universal qualities — where they were was no doubt more difficult to determine — but that they really existed was not to be disputed, on the pain of the fagot or the dungeon. It was not strange that such a doctrine should find some opponents even at the risk of martyrdom. Not that the doc trine was so vital as to call for martyrdom, perhaps, except with those who, like Galileo, would maintain that a false doc trine was false, at all hazards. Free inquiry is not to be repressed, and the stamp of Galileo's foot upon the earth, with the utterance " still it moves," was the challenge to the whole conclave of bishops and cardinals to do their worst. Roscilinus, himself a theologian, impugned the doctrine. " He disputed the universal a parte rei." He had the boldness to attack this favourite and most nondescript entity or existence. He held that there was no such entity or existence. He doubtless had never seen " a universal a parte rei." It had never crossed his path. No such shadowy being had ever come within his view, or challenged his inspection. He saw only objects or qualities —not the universals, of which these were but individual examples. Existing nowhere in heaven or earth that he could perceive or imagine, were those universal forms, genera, species ; and his observation, doubtless, extended as far as that of his opponents. He had undoubtedly the advantage of his opponents ; for he could challenge them to shew him " a universal a parte rei," which he had never seen for himself, and appeal to their own consciousness if they themselves had ever been so fortunate. The famous Abelard — whose passion for Eloise lives still in Pope's exquisite lines — was the pupil and abettor of Rosciliuus. The question grew ; and now might be seen armies determining the nice question at the point of the sword. There was something real in the mode of determining the question, at all events, and a stroke of the sword would remind the Nominalists that names were not everything ; but
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that a keen edge, or a sabre-stroke, though not exactly " a universal a parte rei," was something more than a name.
Any extreme in opinion very often leads to its opposite. Whether by a subtle association of contrast, or from the im pression that the truth must be the reverse of the theory or doctrine from which at any time we are obliged to dissent, the mind starts at once to a theory the most opposite, without for a moment suspecting that the truth may lie in neither extreme, nay, that both extremes may be equally at fault. The doctrine of the Realists had been held by Pythagoras, and by Plato, and indications of it are seen in the writings of Aristotle. It arose, no doubt, out of the necessity to account for general ideas as the objects of thought, to explain how it came that the mind could think about what had no individual existence or proto type without itself. The mind, according to the common theory, could think about, or be conversant with, nothing but its own ideas. What then was the object of thought in the matter of general terms'/ What was it that the mind had an idea of when general terms were employed, when a river, a tree, a mountain, for example, was spoken of ? If a particular river, or tree, or mountain, was named, then the object of thought was that river, or tree, or mountain. But let no particular river, or tree, or mountain, be spoken of, and let the name or appellative be generic, and what is the object of the mind's thoughts, what does the idea of the mind in the particular case represent ? It does not represent any actual object or existence external to the mind and perceivable by sense. Has it no existence without the mind ? Has it no prototype ? The doctrine was, that it had a prototype, that it had an existence independent of the mind. In the case of every genus, or class, it was thought that what belonged to every individual of the class in common formed the essence of the class, and though not an object of sense, was yet independent of the mind, and as independent as the objects of sense are of the act of perception. Adopted by the schoolmen, the too slavish followers of Aristotle, and not only his followers, but the pervcrters of his doctrines, it became heresy, as we have seen, to dispute the real existence
186 INTELLECT.
of general ideas, or those ideas indicated by general terms : we mean by their real existence, the existence of that which con stituted, or was thought to constitute, in every case, the essence of the individuals of a class as individuals of that class. That essence was called in the peculiar language of the schools, " a universal a parte rei." The Nominalists contended that there was no such essence apart from the individuals, and that in the matter of general terms the object of our thought was still the individual; only, we had given a name to all individuals agree ing in possessing the same property or characteristic. A general term was a mere term, not even denoting a circumstance of agreement, but a term which, applicable to an individual, might be extended to every individual which had the same properties or characteristics which that term was originally invented to express. The term tree, for example, did not express any cir cumstances of agreement in a class of individual objects, but was the name given to an individual, and was in time extended to all objects concurring in the same properties. The same with river, mountain, quadruped, and any other general term. This opinion was maintained with great acuteness and ability on the part of its supporters, but was met with the keenest opposition from the Realists, enlisting even all the rancour of religious animosity both in favour and against it. It has gained supporters even in modern times, while the doctrine of the Realists has sunk into merited oblivion, or rather is regarded with astonishment or ridicule, as it is viewed with one or another sentiment of the mind, as we contemplate it seriously, or regard it in a somewhat sportive vein. The " universal a parte rei" has disappeared with the equal absurdities of a former age, or former ages. Plato, and Aristotle, and the schoolmen, have no followers in this tenet of their philosophy ; nor do the thunders of the Church now help to maintain it. Armies are no longer enlisted on its side, nor do princes and potentates contend in its favour. Nominalism, however, has obtained its adherents at the present day, and among these we find the brightest names in philosophy, such as Berkeley and Stewart. It would be an endless task to follow out or discuss all the
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opinions of philosophers on every subject that came before us. On some subjects it is necessary to be more minute ; on others it is sufficient to notice what opinions have been maintained, and form our own independent judgment. Stewart's opinion seems to be connected with certain views on the theory of language, and also with peculiar views respecting the process of reasoning. Nominalism, indeed, must depend upon that particular theory which Stewart entertained on the origin of appellatives or common nouns. Either it is true that we first give a name to an individual, and that is extended to all individuals agreeing in the same properties with the individual so named, or Nomi nalism is untrue, is not the correct theory on this subject. Now, is it so that every general term was at first a proper name, or the name of an individual ? No doubt, many general terms were thus formed ; but even with respect to these, when they became general terms, they were employed to express either what we call a general idea, or an idea or feeling of agreement. But what shall be said of those terms which we could never have had but for this feeling of agreement ? We do not like the expression, feeling of agreement. Neither, strictly speaking, can we say perception of agreement, for perception more pro perly applies to external, objects. We think the proper view of the matter is, that the mind is fitted to recognise (or perceive in this sense) the agreement or resemblances among objects or qualities, and when such agreement or resemblances is recog nised or perceived, the mind exists in that state of recognised or perceived resemblance. Dr. Brown calls it a feeling of resemblance. We confess we have always demurred to this expression, for the term feeling seems to belong to another part of the mind altogether, to another department of the mental phenomena. We do not believe, however, that when Locke and Reid spake of a general idea, or an idea of resemblance, or of the similarity existing among objects, that they regarded that idea as distinct from the mind having it. We might thus, well enough, allow of the phrase general idea, or idea of resemblance, if understood in the sense of the mind existing in the state of recognised or perceived resemblance. If understood in this
188 INTELLECT.
sense, the doctrine of the Conceptualists is not open to the objection which Dr. Brown brings against it. The doctrine of the Conceptualists, as opposed to both the Realists, and more immediately the Nominalists, is, that general terms are the re sult of general ideas, these general ideas being founded upon resemblance among objects or qualities. We would not have general terms but for these ideas. Certain substances agree in possessing certain properties, and we call them minerals ; others in possessing certain other properties, and we call them vege tables ; and again, others in possessing the property of life, and we call them animals ; all in possessing certain still more generic properties, and we call them substances. Could these terms ever have been invented without the general idea attach able to all substances, to all animals, to all vegetables, to all minerals ? Now, this general idea is the object of the mind when we employ a general term. And hence the name Conceptu alists. With them there was no real thing independent of the mind, and apart from the resembling objects or qualities ; but the resemblances among the objects or qualities gave us the general idea — the idea of substance — the idea of life — the idea of vegetation — the idea of mineral existence, and the term was invented to express each several idea. Again, with them the process was not, naming individuals, and then applying the name given to all individuals exhibiting the same characteristic properties, which is the theory of the Nominalists, with whom, accordingly, strictly speaking, the object of a general term was an individual, and the term alone was general, or it became general by its appropriation ; but the agreement or resemblance was perceived before the general term was invented, and the object of the term ivas the circumstance or feature of agreement or resemblance. This may not have been invariably the case, but objects are for the most part seen in groups, and they would not be named singly ; a name would be employed as applicable to objects thus seen, and observed to resemble, and reference undoubtedly would be had to the agreement or resemblance. Dr. Brown takes exception to the phrase, general idea, arid holds that we have no such idea, that there can be no such idea; but
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we have a feeling of resemblance ; there is a felt relation, the relation of resemblance, and we call all objects by the same name or term among which that relation exists. We agree with Dr. Brown, only with the qualification, that we do not believe anything more was meant in the phrase, " general idea," and that our persuasion is, the Conceptualists meant nothing more.*
In the matter of general terms, then, there have been those who held that they stood for something real, and independent of the mind, and separate from the individuals, as such, in which a resemblance existed ; there have been those who held that the general term is but a term extended from individuals to a class of resembling individuals ; and those again, who held that the term was expressive of a circumstance of felt, recognised, or perceived resemblance, or agreement, between a number of individuals, which were classified accordingly. The last is un doubtedly the correct view.
It is from such a process of mind that we get genera, species, sub-species, and species infirna, or lowest species. Objects may resemble each other in certain respects, and we class them as a genus, as the genus animal ; but among those so resembling, there may be great diversities in other respects, but another circumstance of resemblance may be discerned, and with re spect to the genus animal they are the species quadruped ; but again, among quadrupeds there are diversities, and with respect to these diversities, it is the genus, and not the species, quadru ped ; but having observed every particular of resemblance that can be detected, and finding at last no diversity beneath a certain class, this is not a genus but a species, and the species infima, or lowest species, — for every species comprehending a class under it is a genus with respect to that class : ascending, again, we come to a class which has none above it, and this,
* Dr. Brown surely does not simplify ral idea, or an idea of agreement ? For
the matter when he calls it, not an idea, the general idea is not understood to be
but a "feeling of agreement." Either anything more than an idea of agree-
this feeling is something or it is nothing. ment, or resemblance, in certain parti-
If it is something, then is it anything culars or characteristics, more simple or intelligible than a gene-
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accordingly, is not a species, but a genus, and the summum genus, as it is called. The genus animal, for example, is a species in relation to being in general, and being is the sum- mum genus, there being none higher.
The generalizing process is one of great moment with respect to the other processes of mind. It proceeds, as we have seen, upon a perceived resemblance, and where there is nothing more than the perceived resemblance, it is properly only classification ; but it may depend upon the generalizing principle, that prin ciple by which we not only classify objects according to observed resemblances, but these resemblances are made the basis of a classification according to another resemblance, not, it may be, directly perceived. For instance, we say that certain animals are predatory, or live upon prey, from an observation of parti culars altogether apart from the actual seizing of their prey ; and this latter observation may never have been made by the naturalist, who nevertheless proceeds as confidently in his classification as if he had seen the animal making the spring, or tearing the vitals of its victim. It was by such a process that Cuvier made those wonderful classifications which asto nished the scientific world, and gave a new method for ascer taining the age of the earth. This, combining with the rigid observations of geology, laid the foundation of a new science, viz., palzetiology as applied to the earth. From the bones of certain animals Cuvier was able to tell their habits and their structure ; and the conclusion was, that no such animals could exist under the present economy of the earth, and that they must belong to a period anterior to the world's present exist ence. Geology may almost be said to have grown out of this observation. What an important generalization, then, was here, and how important the classification to which it led ! But generalization is the great purveyor, if we may so speak, to the faculty or process of reasoning. It provides the materials of that process, and to the analysis of the process, as involved in the principle of deduction, we now direct ourselves.
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DEDUCTION.
We have ranked Deduction among the principles of the mind. The principle of causality is that by which we say that every effect must have a cause, and we proceed to the tracing of causes ; the principle of generalization is that by which — from the conviction, the intuitive conviction, that in any case of an observed phenomenon some cause must be at work, and that that cause must be uniform — we proceed to classify or generalize into a law or fact : the principle of deduction is that accord ing to which, from what is true of a class, we say that the same must be true of every individual of that class, and we obtain our reasonings — our deductive conclusions. Now, is this a principle ? Does it deserve to rank as a principle of the mind ? Is it not like a truism, to say that what is true of a class must be true of every individual of that class ? In reference to this, it must be observed, that there are two kinds of classes ; or individuals may be reduced under a class in two ways, either by classification simply, or by generalization. We have made the distinction between mere classification and generalization. By the former we merely apply a common term to all objects exhibiting the same properties, or to all phenomena of the same kind ; as when we arrange under the term tree all objects exhibiting the root, stem, branches, and leaves of a tree ; and classify the different kinds of trees, as oak, elm, beech, lime, according to their observed character istics ; or call by the term electricity, or galvanism, or polarity, the phenomena which we observe to exhibit the distinctive characteristics of these phenomena.* But it is different when we generalize in the proper meaning of that term. In a true generalization we venture upon a kind of prediction, or we infer one class of facts from another class of facts ; in some cases it is truly a prediction : we affirm something as true for all time which we have merely once, it may be, or a few times, observed in the past. Now, with respect to the former kind of classifica-
* The laws of electricity, galvanism, been arrived at by a strict generaliza polarity, however, must have originally tion.
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tion, where no generalization properly speaking is implied, where we have nothing more than a class of resembling objects or phe nomena, — to assert of a class, is already to assert of every indi vidual of the class, and to affirm of the individual of a class what is true of the class to which it belongs, is nothing more than to repeat of the individual what had virtually been affirmed of it as one of a class. But in respect to every individual of a generalized truth — eveiy particular exemplification of it — it is to a principle of the mind that we owe our conclusion. We do not merely repeat a truth respecting an individual which we have already affirmed when we announced the general truth under which it comes, but we infer the individual from the general truth. Every individual instance of a generalized truth is not like one of a class of truths, but the individual truth depends upon the generalized truth. The generalized truth gives you the particular truth — the particular truth could never have been had without the general truth. But how is this the case when we get the general truth from a particular observation of it, or from the observation of it in a particular instance ? But do we really get the general truth from the observation of it in a particular instance ? No, we do not ; we get it from the generalizing principle. Even the particular exemplification of the truth is not a truth to us till we have made the generalization. Even the very truth of the particular instance is involved in the generalization : it may have been an accident ; it may not have been an exemplification of a general truth, but the generalizing principle enables us to per ceive a general truth or law, of which the particular instance under observation is an exemplification ; and then it is no ac cident, it is the exemplification of a principle or law of which there will be other instances besides this, but of which this is one. Now, with respect to every future, every particular, in stance or exemplification of a general truth or law, it is obvious that the truth of that particular instance or exemplification depends upon the general truth or law which we have arrived at by the generalizing principle. We could not affirm its truth otherwise. We could not affirm of a man that he is mortal.
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that he will certainly die, unless we had generalized the truth that man is mortal. We affirm the truth that a man is mortal, because we have already generalized the truth that man is mortal : the general truth gives us the particular. The gene ralization is, as it were, repeated — is, in fact, repeated in every instance in which we affirm the truth of that generalization in individual or particular cases ; or, if not repeated, it is in virtue of that generalization alone that we can affirm the proposition or truth, particularly, or in any one instance, which we have been able to affirm generally. We do not take a particular out of a general, or an individual out of a class, but we affirm a particular because of a general ; we affirm a truth respecting an individual because we could affirm it respecting a class. How do I know that any body will gravitate towards the earth ? Is it not obviously in virtue of the generalized principle or law of gravitation ? A generalized truth is not a parcel of truths, but it is a general truth, in consequence of which we affirm it in particular applications. Truth is not a thing which can be divided or parcelled out ; it is simple, it is one ; and truth fol lows from truth. The general truth is, that all bodies gravi tate to the earth ; the particular application of it is, this body will gravitate to the earth. Now, is the latter contained in the former ? Does it not rather follow from it, or does it not depend upon it ? I know that this body will gravitate to the earth, be cause I know that the lesser body gravitates towards the greater. It is already true that this body will gravitate to the earth, even before the general principle of gravitation has been arrived at : but it is not true to me but in virtue of the general truth or law. The general truth or law does not contain it ; it allows it ; it enables me to assert it with confidence. There is a way, indeed, of asserting a general truth that makes any particular instance or application of it appear but the bringing out one of a class. For instance, when I say that " all men are mortal," and add, " John is mortal," I affirm of John what is already affirmed of him, in saying that " all men are mortal." But when I say that " man is mortal," or that " mortality is a law of humanity," and then add, that " John is mortal," I affirm that " John is
N
194 INTELLECT.
mortal," because I can affirm that " man is mortal," or that " humanity is subject to mortality ;" and the latter mode of stating the general truth is the correct one. John, in the latter instance, is not one of a class of mortals, but he possesses that nature of which we have generalized the truth, that it is sub ject to mortality. How do we count with certainty upon indi vidual instances of conduct, and the results flowing from these ? In other words, how do we arrive at moral certainty, but be cause of generalized principles of conduct ? Not because this or that act is one of a number, but because of the nature of the act itself. We have a general principle in reference to this kind of action, or line of action, and, in virtue of that principle, we assert, regarding any one instance of that line of action, that it will be attended by certain consequences. How do we believe in honesty, and yield it our unhesitating confidence ? Is it not because of a generalized principle in regard to it ? Does any one case of honesty command our confidence, because it is one of a class ? Is it the plurality that gives us the singu lar ? Or is it not the principle that allows its application ? And if it is the latter, as undoubtedly it is, then there is a deduction from a general truth or principle to a case in point — from a general to a particular. Such we take to be deduction. We maintain there is a difference between bringing an indivi dual out of a class, possessing the characteristics of that class, and inferring or affirming a particular truth from a general principle. In the one case it is merely a process of numbering or identifying — in the other, it is inference or deduction. The two states of mind are very different. Having determined the nature of a flower, a shrub, a tree, we say this is a flower — this is a shrub — this is a tree. That is not reasoning, properly speaking. It is reasoning, when we infer, not merely identify, or take out of a number. To say this is a quadruped, because it belongs to the class of quadrupeds, — that would not be reason ing ; it is merely enumeration or identification. The differ ence between classification and generalization is one of great importance to our subject. It is a distinction which has not been enough noticed or attended to. It is undoubtedly owing
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to this that such confused and. incorrect notions prevail in reference to deduction, and to the syllogism as purporting to be the true process of reasoning. It is thought, that because a class is a number of individuals, deduction cannot be a real process of the mind, or that it is nothing more or less than recognising the truth, already asserted of a class, in one of the individuals of that class. It is denied that this is any addi tional process of the mind ; nor is it, if this be a true represen tation of deduction — in other words, if deduction be confined to drawing inferences in respect to individuals of a class, as individuals of a class merely. It is this which lies at the foundation of Mill's objection to the syllogism, or to deduc tive reasoning. Mill is the most recent opponent of the syllogism as a process of reasoning, and he is unquestionably the ablest exponent of the views on that side of the question. He takes an original view, indeed, of the subject. But Locke, and Campbell, and Stewart, and Brown, object to it on essen tially the same ground, viz., that the truth of the particular is already contained in the general, and is not needing to be educed by a process of reasoning, or by the application of a minor premiss — in other words, by deduction. Now, if reasoning were confined to what were truly individuals of a class, the objection would be good, at least as against the claims of the syllogism or deduction to be considered a process of reasoning, or anything more than a mode of evincing or exhibiting truth. But we have already seen that deduction properly applies to particulars of a generalized truth, when it is truly a process of reasoning or inference. Let us recur to our example : — " All men are mortal." — " John is mortal." The objection is, that the latter of these propositions is con tained in the former, and that the syllogism is useless ; for it proves what had already been asserted in the general premiss. The syllogism involves a petitio principii, for it assumes in the general premiss the truth supposed to be brought out or educed in the conclusion. Deduction, then, is no real process of rea soning. What reasoning at all is, then, it seems difficult to say. Mill consistently confines reasoning to the inference im-
19G INTELLECT.
plied in generalization. His representation of the matter is this : — " The proposition that the Duke of Wellington is mortal, is evidently an inference." He allows it to be so ; and his inquiry is, Whence is it obtained ? " Do we," he says, " in reality conclude it from the proposition, All men are mortal ?" The other objectors to the syllogism would say, It is not con cluded from it, — it is contained in it. Mill says it is contained in it, if the syllogism be " considered as an argument to prove the conclusion." But he allows it to be an inference ; " it is got as a conclusion from something else." And to the question, " Do we in reality conclude it from the proposition, All men are mortal ?" he answers No. " The error is/' he says, " that of overlooking the distinction between the two parts of the process of philosophizing, — the inferring part and the register ing part, — and ascribing to the latter the function of the former. The mistake is that of referring a man to his own notes for the origin of his knowledge. If a man is asked a question, and is unable to answer it, he may refresh his memory by turning to a memorandum which he carries about with him ; but if he were asked how the fact came to his knowledge, he would scarcely answer, because it was set down in his note-book, unless the book was written, like the Koran, with a quill from the wing of the angel Gabriel.
" Assuming that the proposition, The Duke of Wellington is mortal, is immediately an inference from the proposition, All men are mortal, whence do we derive our knowledge of that general truth ? No supernatural aid being supposed, the an swer must be, By observation. Now all which man can observe are individual cases. From these, general truths must be drawn, and into these they may be again resolved, for a general truth is but an aggregate of particular truths, — a comprehensive expression, by which an indefinite number of individual facts are affirmed or denied at once. But a general proposition is not merely a compendious form for recording and preserving on the memory a number of particular facts, all of which have been observed. Generalization is not a process of mere naming, — it is also a process of inference. From instances which we
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have observed, we feel warranted in concluding, that what we found true in those instances holds in all similar ones, past, present, and future, however numerous they may be. We then, by that valuable contrivance of language which enables us to speak of many as if they were one, record all that we have observed, together with all that we infer from our observations, in one concise expression ; and have thus only one proposition instead of an endless number, to remember or to communicate. The results of many observations and inferences, and instruc tions for making innumerable inferences in unforeseen cases, are compressed into one short sentence.
" When, therefore, we conclude from the death of John and Thomas, and every other person we ever heard of in whose case the experiment had been fairly tried, that the Duke of Wellington is mortal like the rest, we may indeed pass through the generalization, all men are mortal, as an inter mediate stage ; but it is not in the latter half of the process, the descent from all men to the Duke of Wellington, that the inference presides. The inference is finished when we have asserted that all men are mortal. What remains afterwards is merely deciphering our own notes."
The use of the general proposition, then, according to Mill, is merely as a memorandum, and the conclusion has virtually been arrived at in the generalization already made. That the Duke of Wellington is mortal, has already been concluded, when we concluded from a number of observed instances that all men are mortal. " The inference is finished when we have asserted that all men are mortal." Now, the point at which we would be at issue with Mill is, in making the generalization, or general truth arrived at by the process or principle of generaliza tion, a mere memorandum ; and that " what remains afterwards is merely deciphering our own notes." This does not seem to be a true account of the matter. The generalization is, as it were, repeated in every instance of a particular conclusion, and the conclusion hangs upon that generalization. This, we would say, is the peculiarity in every instance of a particular pro position, wr of a general proposition applied to a particular
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case : there is truly a new generalization in order to that case, or before we can assert the proposition in that case. There is nothing like the reference to a memorandum. Let us transfer the case to ourselves. How do we know that we are mortal, and count with certainty upon our death at some time or other ? Does not the generalization take place anew in our minds ? — and is there not an application of the generalization to ourselves ? Mortality is inseparable from the possession of humanity : it is inseparable from me : why ? because I am possessed of that humanity. Is this a reference to a memor andum ? Is this deciphering one's notes ? Why do we use the word therefore in such a case ? All men are mortal : therefore I am mortal. There is manifestly a process of mind distinct from generalization : what is that process ? We call it deduction, or generalization in order to a par ticular. According to Mill, there can be no inference wliat- ever ; for all inference is, and must be, deductive. Even in generalization, so far as the inferring part of the process is concerned, it is deduction. We can never reason from a par ticular to a particular. " Not only," says Mill, " may we reason from particulars to particulars, without passing through generals, but we perpetually do so reason. All our earliest in ferences," he says, " are of this nature. From the first dawn of intelligence we draw inferences, but years elapse before we learn the use of general language. The child who, having burnt his fingers, avoids to thrust them again into the fire, has reasoned or inferred, though he has never thought of the general maxim, fire burns. He knows from memory that he has been burnt, and on this evidence believes, when he sees a candle, that if he puts his finger into the flame he will be burnt again. He believes this in every case which happens to arise; but without looking, in each instance, beyond the present case. He is not generalizing ; he is inferring a particular from par ticulars." Those who have already traced the progress of the mind's ideas, and who have seen at how early a stage generali zation must commence, or how soon the mind must be influ enced by general and intuitive principles, will not accept the
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above account of the process in the case supposed. If the child does not generalize at the earliest stage, how does it come to have its primitive ideas ? Is not the notion of ex ternality a general idea ? The notion is — whatever produces this feeling must be external. Do we not owe that to the general principle, that every effect must have a cause ? All our primitive ideas are in the same way general ideas, and are obtained from the same principle of causality, accompanied with a distinct intuition of the mind. It is from that very principle, secretly working, that the child, in the case supposed, obtains the inference. The principle of causality immediately comes into play. The thought of a cause immediately starts into the mind, and there is generalization here. The idea of cause is general. It is not merely, this fire is the cause of my pain, but there is a cause of my pain in the fire ; nay, there is causation in the fire — a more abstract and general proposition still — and the child accordingly avoids the flame in all time to come. But for this generalizing process, however undeveloped, and however rapid, the child would thrust his finger again and again into the flame. But, at all events, it will be allowed that when generalization does take place, it is not inference from a particular to a particular, or from par ticulars to a particular. There is the generalizing principle in every instance of generalization. We connect the pheno menon with a cause, and we confidently anticipate the same phenomenon in all similar circumstances. There could be no generalization but in virtue of such a principle of the mind. That principle is intuitive. Its most important operations are in childhood : but no generalization takes place without it. Even in generalization, therefore, we reason from a general principle. The reasoning part of the process is essentially deductive. The minor premiss is the instance or instances under our observation.
No mistake, it seems to us, could be greater than to say that we reason from particulars, whether in inductive or in strictly de ductive reasoning, either when we generalize, or when we reason
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to particulars from our generalization. There was an entire overlooking in such statements as Mill has made on this subject of what really takes place in the mind when we reason. It may safely be asserted, that there is a general principle or truth in the mind in every case in which the mind reasons, and which forms the basis of its reasoning. It may not be very clearly marked, or distinctly developed, and far less may it be promi nently or formally expressed, but it is the basis of the reasoning notwithstanding. The mind performs many processes when all the parts of the process are not very distinctly marked, and the transitions and stages of the process may be too subtle to detect. The operations of the mind are not all marked as they occur, or as they are performed. If it were necessary to the reality of a mental act or operation that it have been the object of attention, the actual number of our mental operations would be limited indeed. The great majority of them escape any prominent notice.
We quote again from Mill. — " I believe," he says, " that in point of fact, when drawing inferences from our personal ex perience, and. not from maxims handed down to us by books or tradition, we much oftener conclude from particulars to parti culars, directly, than through the intermediate agency of any general proposition. We are constantly reasoning from our selves to other people, and from one person to another, without giving ourselves the trouble to erect our observations into gene ral maxims of human or external nature. When we conclude that some person will, on some given occasion, feel or act so and so, we sometimes judge from an enlarged consideration of the manner in which men in general, or men of some particular character, are accustomed to feel and act ; but much oftener from having known the feelings and conduct of the same man in some previous instance, or from considering how we should feel or act ourselves." There is surely an unpardonable mistaking here of the mental processes, a most unaccountable inattention to the real operations of the mind, in the cases sup posed. Even when we reason from ourselves to other people, or from one person to another, although we do not formally
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erect our observations into general maxims, it is surely a total contradiction of the mental processes to say, that in making ourselves or others the ground of our reasoning, we have not a general principle in view, and that the instances put are not made to take the place, or perform the part, of general maxims. In such cases we are arguing from example, and example has always the effect of a general premiss or proposition. A prin ciple is supposed in the example. Did we ourselves act without a cause, or were the circumstances in our own case arbitrary ? was there no principle involved, or cause in operation ? and if there was, do we not put forward ourselves, or do we not instance our own case, as really embodying some principle, or exemplifying some law of individual conduct, or, it may be, of providential arrangements, which may have all the effect of general maxims ? So, in citing the cases of others. This is too obvious to need illustration, or that we should need to dwell upon it. It is only wonderful that any writer, and especially such a writer as Mill, should have fallen into such a mistake, or should not have perceived the error or oversight. But he persists in it, and with much beauty of language and illustra tion, refuting himself all the while, both in the instances sup posed, and in his manner of putting them. " It is not only the village matron," he says, " who, when called to a consulta tion upon the case of a neighbour's child, pronounces on the evil and its remedy, simply on the recollection and authority of what she accounts the similar case of her Lucy." Does not the village matron suppose some general causes in the case of her Lucy, which she thinks will embrace the case of her neighbour's child, as, on the one hand, explaining or accounting for the evil, and on the other, helping to a remedy ? " We all," Mill continues, " where we have no definite maxims to steer by, guide ourselves in the same way ; and if we have an extensive experience, and retain its impressions strongly, we may acquire in this manner a very considerable power of accurate judgment, which we may be utterly incapable of justifying or communi cating to others. Among the higher order of practical intel lects, there have been many of whom it was remarked how
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admirably they suited their means to their ends, without being able to give sufficient reasons for what they did, and applied, or seemed to apply, recondite principles, which they were wholly unable to state." This is exactly what we maintain. The principles, and these, possibly, very recondite, may be reasoned from, or form the ground of judgment even when the individual so reasoning, or so applying these principles, may be wholly unable to state them. Mill explains the matter differ ently. He says, " This is a natural consequence of having a mind stored with appropriate particulars, and having been long accustomed to reason at once from these to fresh particulars, without practising the habit of stating to ourselves or to others the corresponding general propositions." But although the habit of stating these general propositions may not have been practised, is it not possible for them to be in the mind notwith standing, although there may be no ability to state them, or although they may not have been very distinctly discriminated ? " An old warrior," again says Mill, " on a rapid glance at the outlines of the ground, is able at once to give the necessary orders for a skilful arrangement of his troops, though, if he has received little theoretical instruction, and has seldom been called upon to answer to other people for his conduct, he may never have had in his mind a single general theorem respecting the relation between ground and array. But his experience of encampments, under circumstances more or less similar, has left a number of vivid, unexpressed, ungeneralized (?) analogies in his mind, the most appropriate of which, instantly suggesting itself, determines him to a judicious arrangement," We ask if it is possible for such a person to adopt a line of tactics, or determine upon a movement, without some general principles of action, although they may not be the systematized principles of military schools ? Principles there must be on which he proceeds. Let the extremest supposition be made ; let it be supposed that he but adopts a line of procedure which he had seen succeed on some previous occasion ; that he has no scien tific principles to guide him, and not even principles at all on which he can explain the success of his movement : this is
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possible, though a warrior, taught in the school of experience, even while he has never studied in any other school, could hardly be so destitute of all principles ; but let it be supposed that he acts merely from the examples themselves of past suc cesses or good fortune, still, are not these very examples his principles ? — do they not stand him in stead of principles ? — does he not know, at least, that they could not have commanded success in the past, if they were not connected with principles, or with reasons of some kind or another ? What do we mean when we speak of grounds of conduct, reasons of conduct ? A single example warranting us, nay, impelling us, to act in such or such a way, is itself a generalization. We say to ourselves : every such instance of procedure will be attended with like success. The very example is the ground of a generalization, or is a generalization. Where is the reasoning from particulars here ? No : we never do so reason. Reasoning from a parti cular would be an anomaly ; it would not be in accordance with our mental constitution. We invariably proceed upon principles or general propositions. This is the grand characteristic of reason. Call it what you please. Let deduction be no principle of the mind ; let inference never occur but in generalization ; a general truth or principle is always the ground of any and every conclusion of the mind. The mind always goes up to some general principle. This is the case in generalization itself. Whately states the major premiss, or the general principles, in the case of induction or generalization, thus: " What belongs to the individual or individuals we have ex amined, belongs to the whole class under which they come." Better, perhaps, " there are classes under which individuals come." In other words, like causes will produce like effects, and there is a cause in this particular instance : that is the principle of generalization in every instance of it.
It appears, then, that we must have a general principle in all reasoning. It may be a principle merely, not formed into words, though capable of being expressed in words ; or it may be a general proposition conveying a general truth or state ment. We then from the general statement assert the parti-
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cular, respecting which we wish to conclude. This may not he inference ; but if it is not inference, there is no inference what ever. In generalization, it may be stated thus : Like causes will produce like effects : or a cause will be followed by its effect : there is a cause here : it will be attended by its effect ; it is now then a generalized truth, or phenomenon, or law. Like causes will produce like effects : A cause must be in ope ration in this instance, in which mercury falls in the Torricel lian tube ; the law of the barometer is already generalized. That is truly the process of the mind in generalization. In so far, therefore, as it is a process of reasoning, it is inference in no other sense than any other instance of reasoning is ; but in so far as it is an observation of nature, or of a phenomenon of nature, there is a new law or phenomenon arrived at. Do we deduce, or rather infer, our conclusion from the single instance, or few instances of observation? Is it really these that give us our conclusion, or is it the deductive process already traced ? If it is the latter, our conclusion is obtained in the same way as any other, even although a new law is thus added to the already ascertained laws of nature. So far as the argument then is concerned, it is deductive inference, and no other ; so far as it is an observation of physical phenomena, the inference applied to that observation, like an algebraic sign or formula applied to a quantity which may be put in its place, we get for our conclusion the physical phenomenon.
It is necessary then to remember, that all inference is de ductive, and that, if deduction is no real process, there is no real inference whatever, and reasoning is a name and nothing more ; or it is going up from particulars to generals, and to still higher generals, till we come to the principles of the mind itself, in which, like the plant in the seed, all reasoning, all truth is folded. This may be the true account of the matter. Truth may lie in principles of the mind like the flower in the pod, or in that unity of which Coleridge speaks, which is before the seed itself, and is the law of creation, or the will of the Creator.
The grand point to be attended to is the necessity of a gene-
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ral truth before we can arrive at a particular. Truth exists in principles, as things exist in classes. Nothing is isolated, and all truth has its archetypes in the Divine mind, as necessarily must all being. The principles of the mind are the germs from which all truth, intellectual, aesthetic, moral, religious, evolve, except such religious truth as must have its revelation ab cxt.ra. From these principles truth, ever enlarging, may expand to the mind. The circle may have no bounds, or circle may extend beyond circle indefinitely — ever new consequences may develop themselves — new applications of all the subjects of thought — and eternity may not see the limit, as undoubtedly it will not, to the developments of truth ; — one principle or general truth giving out another — one particular truth combining with another — a new principle evolving from this — and so on infinitely.*
With some remarks upon induction and deduction, their respective natures and merits, we shall close this subject.
There is a very pregnant saying of the famous Harvey, quoted by Whewell in his " Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences," which comprehends in a brief sentence the respective provinces and precise characteristics of induction and deduction. Harvey says, — " Universals are chiefly known to us, for science is begot by reasoning, from universals to particulars ; yet that very comprehension of universals in the understanding, springs from the perception of singidars in our sense." Whewell quotes these words from Harvey, to show that the doctrine held by Harvey, " of science springing from experience, with a direction from ideas," was exactly that which Whewell himself " had repeatedly urged as the true view of the subject." Whewell is at great pains to bring out, and insists much upon that part of induction, which consists not in the collection of facts merely, " singulars in the sense," but their colligation by the concep tions of our own minds — that is, the generalizations by which the facts are explained, and are bound together, as it were,
* As truth may thus expand or de- ultimately to one truth or principle in velop indefinitely, is it hazardous to the Divine mind ? conjecture that all truth may be traced
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under some law or general phenomenon. " In each inference made by induction," says Whewell, " there is introduced some general conception, which is given not by the phenomena, but by the mind. The conclusion is not contained in the premises, but includes them by the introduction of a new generality. In order to obtain our inference, we travel beyond the cases which we have before us. We consider them as mere exemplifications of some ideal case, in which the relations are complete and in telligible." This is a true representation of the process of induc tion ; and it is to be remarked, then, according to this view, that the inference is got by the introduction of some general con ception, which is given not by the phenomena, but by the mind. This is something very different, then, from the view that the inference is immediately drawn from the observed particulars, and which would represent this to be the only kind of inference which we can have, or which the mind ever makes. " The conclusion," Whewell says, " is not contained in the premises, (viz., the particulars in the observed case,) but includes them by the introduction of a new generality." We think Whewell would have been more correct had he said that, what are gene rally regarded as the premises in the induction, viz., the ob served particulars, are the minor premiss merely, while the major premiss is the generalizing principle in the mind from which it is we obtain the new generality. " In .order to obtain our inference," says Whewell, " we travel beyond the cases which we have before us. We consider them as mere exempli fications of some ideal case, in which the relations are complete and intelligible." The observed particulars do not give us the inference. We consider them as mere exemplifications of some ideal case. In other words, if we may venture to put an inter pretation on Whewell's language, agreeable to the doctrine which we have already represented on the subject of induction or generalization : — We suppose a cause, and we consider the cases before us as exemplifications of the operation of that cause ; we try to find out that cause, and, having found it, the induction is complete. The discovery, or the finding out of that cause, is the invention which Whewell speaks of as an
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essential part of induction, and what is commonly overlooked by those who treat of induction. " I now speak," says Whewell, " principally of the act of invention, which is requisite in every inductive inference." — " Although in every inductive inference," he says again, " an act of invention is requisite, the act soon slips out of notice ;" and, having explained how it does so, he says, — " Thus we see why it is that this step of which we now speak, the invention of a new conception in every in ductive inference, is so generally overlooked that it has hardly been noticed by preceding philosophers." The following quo tation from Whewell will explain still farther his view, and it will be seen to be in accordance with that which we have presented, while it will still farther bring out or explicate the real process of induction. After the words first quoted from this distinguished philosopher, he proceeds to say, — " We take a standard, and measure the facts by it ; and this standard is constructed by us, not offered by nature. We assert, for example, that a body left to itself will move on with unaltered velocity, not because our senses ever disclosed to us a body doing this, but because (taking this as our ideal case) we find that all actual cases are intelligible and explicable by means of the conception of forces causing change and motion, and ex erted by surrounding bodies. In like manner, we see bodies striking each other, and thus moving and stopping, accelerating and retarding each other ; but in all this we do not perceive, by our senses, that abstract quantity, momentum, which is always lost by one body as it is gained by another. This momentum is a creation of the mind brought in among the facts, in order to convert their apparent confusion into order, — their seeming chance into certainty, their perplexing variety into simplicity. This the conception of momentum gained and lost does ; and, in like manner, in any other case in which a truth is established by induction, some conception is introduced, some idea is applied as the means of binding together the facts, and thus producing the truth." In these examples given by Whewell, or any other example that may be adduced, the conception of forces, the conception of momentum, or any other conception,
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as the case may be, is just the supposed cause of which we have all along spoken, to which the mind is led, on the presence of the observed cases, and which having been discovered, or in vented, as Whewell expresses it, is the induction or generaliza tion in the particular case. The subject is still further illustrated by Whewell. " Hence," he says, " in every inference by induc tion, there is some conception superinduced upon the facts ; and we may henceforth conceive this to be the peculiar import of the term induction. I am not to be understood as asserting that the term was originally or anciently employed with this notion of its meaning, for the peculiar feature just pointed out in induction, has generally been overlooked. This appears by the accounts generally given of induction. " Induction," says Aristotle, " is when by means of one extreme term we infer the other extreme term to be true of the middle term." The case which Whewell takes to illustrate his meaning, as to what really takes place in induction, and to shew the imperfection of Aristotle's view, is the elliptical motion of the planets round the sun. It was Kepler who determined this motion of the planets. The case then stands thus, — Certain phenomena are observed in certain of the planets, or in connexion with their motions. How shall we account for these ? There is some cause for them. Kepler sets himself to account for them — to discover the cause. After long and laborious attempts, Kepler at last hit upon elliptical motion as the cause ; that cause accounted for the peculiarities in the motion of these planets. But what was true of these planets was true of all the planets, and the elliptical motion of the planets round the sun was the induction or generalization. Now, what have we here ? We have the particulars respecting certain of the planets. These planets are Mercury, Venus, Mars. Some cause must be found to account for the peculiar phenomena which they exhibit. That cause is found in their elliptical motion round the sun. But the cause that determines the phenomena in the case of these planets, determines the same phenomena in the case of the other planets ; the mind at once refers the law which is true of these to all the planets ; the inference is generalized ;
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the invented conception becomes a law. Now, according to Aristotle, — by means of one extreme term, Mercury, Venus, Mars, we infer the other extreme term, elliptical motion, to be true of the middle term, planets. As Mercury, Venus, Mars, describe elliptical orbits round the sun, and as by the inductive or generalizing principle in the mind, that all planets are repre sented by one or more of the class, and will, therefore, be found to be characterized by the phenomena or laws by which any of them are characterized, we get the inductive conclusion that all planets move in ellipses round the sun.
Mercury, Venus, Mars = all the planets :
Elliptical motion is the motion of Mercury, Venus, Mars :
Elliptical motion is the motion of all the planets.
Now, Whewell remarks upon this, that "Aristotle turns his attention entirely to the evidence of the inference," or to the argument after the inference has been obtained, "and overlooks a step which is of far more importance to our know ledge, namely, the invention of the second extreme term. The particular luminaries, Mercury, Venus, Mars, are one logical extreme ;* the general designation, planets, is the middle term ; but having these before us, how do we come to think of descrip tion of ellipses, which is the other extreme of the syllogism ? When we have once invented the second extreme term, we may, or may not, be satisfied with the evidence of the syllogism ; we may, or may not, be convinced, that, so far as this property goes, the extremes are co-extensive with the middle term ; but the statement of the syllogism is the important step in science. We know how long Kepler laboured, how hard he fought, how many devices he tried, before he hit upon this term, the ellipti cal motion. He rejected many other second extreme terms, for example, various combinations of epicyclical constructions, because they did not represent with sufficient accuracy the special facts of observation. When he had established his premiss that ' Mars does describe an ellipse round the sun,' he
* That cannot be in the inductive quent to the induction, and evincing the syllogism, but in the syllogism subse- truth obtained.
0
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does not hesitate to guess, at least, that in this respect he might convert the other premiss, and assert that ' All planets do what Mars does.' But the main business was, the inventing and verifying the proposition respecting the ellipse. The in vention of the conception was the great step in the discovery; the verification of the proposition was the great step in the proof of the discovery."
The invention of this extreme term, then, according to Whewell, is the grand matter in induction. What is this but the discovery of that cause which we suppose, or rather believe, to be present in every case of an observed phenomenon ? But why do we seek for this cause ? Why are we put upon such an invention ? Obviously to account for the phenomena ob served. There is the principle of causality — we suppose a cause — we seek for it, — and upon the principle, that like causes will produce like effects, we suppose the same cause in the case of the whole class of objects to which the observed instances belong, and generalize the law, or obtain the induction. Whe well does not seem to take notice of the principle that leads to the invention of the conception, or the ideal case — that demands it. It is just the principle of causality. But what we are concerned with just now is, that the mind is put upon this invention, and that it is not the particulars in any observed phenomenon that form the real ground of our induction, or the premiss to our inductive inference ; it is the principle involved in every generalization, and which is obviously supposed in Whewell's account of the process of induction. Induction is something more, then, than an inference from particulars ; it involves the invention of some conception, according to Whe well, adequate to account for the special facts of observation ; it is the discovery of a cause. There are cases, indeed, in which the induction does not proceed any further than the generaliz ing of a fact or phenomenon, without either a new conception, or the invention or discovery of any new law ; and Whewell, again, does not seem to speak of such cases. But numerous are the cases in which the induction proceeds all this length, and consists in this very invention or discovery, and the gene-
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ralizing into a universal the law or principle so invented or dis covered. In the former case, we merely obtain the general fact or phenomenon on the ground of some supposed law without inquiring, it may be, into that law. The inductions and classifications in natural science, in botany, geology, zoology, and such like, seem to be of this kind. In astronomy and chemistry, the inductions are of the other kind ; the causes are sought for, and not the mere phenomena.
From this account of Induction it will be seen that it is the great instrument of science. It will be seen, too, that there is still scope for hypothesis or theory, in what Whewell calls invention — or the conception superinduced upon the facts of our observation — in the attempt to assign some cause in the case in point, when the induction is one which consists in the discovery of some cause of an observed phenomenon. But still, this hypothesis or theory must be verified by experiment, or established by actual calculation. Till then, it is only hypothesis or theory, and there is as yet no proper induction, no actual discovery. Many parts of science are yet in this stage — waiting for an invention, or for the establishment of some hypothesis.
The grand purpose of Induction is discovery, to extend our acquaintance with the phenomena and the laws of the universe. It is to it that we owe the present boundaries of scientific knowledge. By it science is extending more and more the limits of her empire. Could Bacon see the present extent of science he would but see the verification of that system of philosophizing which he gave to the world. Induction was the novwn organum, or new instrument of inquiry, which he did not invent, but of which he shewed the use. He put it into men's hands. He made it known. He brought it out of the repository in which it had so long remained hid ; nay, in the concealment of which it had never so much as been sus pected to exist. It was in the mind before — it was one of its principles ; but who had so much as formed even an idea of its virtues — of its vast potency ? Unconsciously, indeed, it may have been in some measure the instrument of inquiry ;*
* See Whewell. — " Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences," vol. ii. p. 328.
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but it was not itself defined to the mind, far less recognised in its true character and importance. Bacon's almost pro phetic mind was intended by providence, no doubt, for the revolutions it was to effect. The whole aspect of science was to be changed ; and in a few centuries from his time the world was to make more advance than in all the ages of the world's history preceding: we behold its effects in that inverted pyramid of inductive discovery, or vast chart of scientific know ledge, which the philosopher can now draw out, or represent, to himself, and which has been partially done by Whewell — in reference to the sciences, Astronomy and Optics — in his work on the Inductive Sciences.
Deduction is generally supposed to be the antithesis of In duction. And in one point of view it is. It is so, if we have regard only to " the particulars in the sense," and connect our inductive conclusion with them ; and if we take into ^account that it is always a new truth that we arrive at in induction, while by deduction it may be a hitherto undeveloped truth, but not a strictly new truth that we obtain. But a stricter analysis will shew to us that so far as the truly mental part of the process in induction is concerned, it is really a case of deduction, and the two are distinguished by the circumstances in which the deduction takes place. In ordinary deduction we have already a general truth or principle to proceed upon, and from which we draw our particular or less general conclusion, and that general truth need not be a principle of the mind, or an intuitive truth. But in induction — in what is truly the deductive part of the process — the general truth from which we reason is a principle of the mind, an intuitive truth. In ordinary deduction, or what is usually styled deduction, the process is direct ; we immediately deduce our conclusion from the general truth or principle. In induction the process is indirect, and besides the mental deductive process there is the application of its result to the given circumstances. The ob served particulars are the exciting circumstances in which the mental process takes place, but it is truly the mental process which gives us the result, and then that result is applied to
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the particulars, and to all similar particulars, to the case in point, and to all similar cases. There is a mental process super induced upon the facts of observation — a conception — and to that conception we are led by the deduction that silently takes place in our minds. There is a cause here. Every cause will be attended by its effect in all similar circumstances. What is that cause ? We invent a cause, or we discover it. The deductive process then is : Every cause will be attended by a uniform effect, will operate in all similar circumstances in the same way : such and such is the cause here : we may expect it in all circumstances the same as those now under observation, and attended by the same effects. This is the deduction ; the invented cause or phenomenon will be found in all similar circumstances, or will distinguish all similar cases.
Induction and deduction, then, are not so opposed as at first sight they may appear. In every inductive process there is de duction, and the difference between this and ordinary deduction is in the circumstances in which the deduction takes place, and the result which it gives. But the peculiarity of that result, again, is not owing to anything peculiar in the deduction, but to the peculiarity of one of the terms, it being really what Whewell calls a creation of the mind. But the invention of this term, this mental creation, is not a part of the inductive principle, though so essential to the inductive process. This mental act, creation, or invention, as it really is, is truly won derful in itself. It is in such acts, as it is in the kindred acts of imaginative creation, that the true power of original minds is seen. To " give to airy nothing a local habitation and a name" is very much allied to the act of the philosopher's we have been considering. " How little of Newton's train of thought," says Whewell, " was contained in, or directly suggested by, the fall of the apple ! If the apple fall, said the discoverer, why should not the moon, the planets, the satellites fall ?" " How are we," says Whewell, " in these cases, (the cases of invented ideas,) to discover such ideas, and to judge which will be efficacious in leading to a scientific combination of our experimental data ? To this question we must, in the first place, answer, that the
214 INTELLECT.
first and great instrument by which facts, so observed with a view to the formation of exact knowledge, are combined into so important and permanent truths, is that peculiar sagacity which belongs to the genius of a discoverer ; and which, while it supplies those distinct and appropriate conceptions which lead to its success, cannot be limited by rules, or expressed in definitions."
In deduction a similar characteristic of mind is seen in what is called the invention of middle terms, or in the supplying new terms of comparison by which new relations are brought out. This is often akin to the scientific invention of which we have been speaking. Fertility and originality of mind are seen here. It consists in a predication or a statement from which some new relation, doctrine, or view is brought out. The originality of a thought always consists in the middle term, or major premiss, of some deductive process, which is the middle term, or major premiss, of that process, although nothing more than itself is stated, and the deduction is not formally made.
XV.
We have now got ideas. States of mind which we call thought have been traced or accounted for, those primitive ideas which are of such grand and primary importance to all our subsequent knowledge ; and these variously modified and combined according to the laws we have endeavoured to ex plain, and the principles we have endeavoured to explicate or unfold. All our ideas, we believe, are traceable to the sources we have now pretty thoroughly examined. A little considera tion will shew that our primitive ideas are the staple of all our ideas — that our other ideas are but modifications or combina tions of these. This is not to say that our other ideas are not essentially new ideas, distinct and individual, and possessing their own individual value. We believe chemists speak of the basis of a substance, while the substance itself may be very different from the mere elements which enter into its combina tion. There is a kind of mental or spiritual chemistry, or process of combination and analysis by which, from the sub-
INTELLECT. 215
stratum of our primitive ideas, all our other ideas are obtained. Personality, externality, matter, mind — with their separate pro perties — space, time, power, number, motion : of these few elements all our purely intellectual ideas are composed. Into how many combinations may not these elements be thrown by the laws and principles of whicli we have given the account ? Under what various modifications may they not present them selves ? We have seen that Whewell gives a classification of all the sciences according to our elementary ideas. And if the physical sciences can be classified according to these, every one who is conversant with thought at all must be aware how much of it is concerned with the properties of mind and the features of character. These form the Avide field for the moralist and the theologian. What are the discussions of the student and the statesman concerned with but human interests and human character ? What constitutes history but the narrative of what was once the present ? WThat forms the groundwork of the artist, or the poet's creation ? It need not surprise us that our elementary ideas are so few, or that out of them we can have such an unlimited variety and multiplicity. It may serve to illustrate this subject, if we think of the endless combinations which the letters of the alphabet may assume. Of how many words is any one language composed, arid yet what limit can we set to the order in which these may be arranged ? Men have been speaking and writing every day and every hour of the day, and wherever there have been human beings who can maintain an intercourse by language — in how many instances have the same words, in the same order, been repeated ? What a variety in the human countenance out of a few features — in the human voice from the same organ — in human disposition, with the same essential elements ! It seems to be the triumph of Divine power and wisdom to serve the greatest variety of ends with the fewest means. A few laws make up the system of the uni verse ; but how endless their modifications ! So is it with mind and its ideas. The elementary ideas can easily be numbered, but who can number their variety ? Thoughts that have the universe for their scope — that scale the throne of Deity — that
216 INTELLECT.
wander through eternity — that take in the multiplicity of created objects — man and his wide variety of interests — that are un ceasing in their change and fluctuation, these are made up of but a few elements. The laws of identity, similarity, contrast, analogy, proportion, and the principles of generalization and deduction, effect all the changes of which our simple ideas are susceptible, or add those new ones which are only new as they are seen under new relations, in new compounds, and in con nexion with new phenomena. A new phenomenon was dis covered in the discovery by Kepler of the elliptical motion of the planets round the sun, but what new idea was there in this ? or the elliptical motion of the planets was a new idea, but it was new only in its connexion, and as a combination of the ideas of motion and the figure of the ellipse. The atomic theory of Dalton was a new idea in chemistry,, and one. we believe, which has introduced a new era in chemical science, but again new only in its application, and as a theory of science; for the ideas of which the theory was composed must of course have been previously possessed. The idea of atoms was not new, it is involved in our primitive idea of the divisibility of matter ; but the idea of ultimate atoms, and their chemical affinities and repulsions, was new, and has been admitted into science.* Bishop Butler added a new idea to moral science, or rather to that department of theological science which has to do with the evidences of Kevealed Keligion, when he brought out the analogy of Revealed Religion to the constitution and course of nature ; but it was new only in the new relation de veloped, it was not new in the fundamental ideas of which the new idea was composed. Every original writer on any subject adds new ideas to the stock already acquired, but no new fun damental idea, none which may not be resolved into our funda-
* The question of ultimate atoms was that the atoms be smaller than the small- discussed even among the ancients, and est observable particles. The question is not yet settled. Dalton's theory pro- as to whether atoms are ultimate is the ceeds, or was stated by Dalton himself most curious and puzzling perhaps in as proceeding, upon the supposition of metaphysics, and no one shews more atoms being ultimate. But Whewell strikingly the limits of our faculties, eht-ws that it is fiiongh for the theory
INTELLECT. 217
mental ideas — new in their combinations but not in their elements. Every new creation of the poet, and the artist, brings out, it may be, with lavish profusion, or embodies in nice pre cision, new analogies, new resemblances, new and beautiful proportions ; but any really new elementary ideas, none. Of what infinite combinations is not music composed ? how new the combinations in every several melody ; but the very plea sure of music consists in the detection of ideas which we have possessed formerly in other combinations, and which surprise us in the new, produce a pleasing recognition, while they excite a strange and delicious sensation or feeling of novelty. Music itself furnishes an illustration what variety may be produced by a few elementary sounds. The range of the musical scale is limited enough, but the range of musical creations is un bounded. We are aware that much of music is sensational — that it is the fine harmonies that affect the sense, and not the ideas that strike the mind, or impress the heart: but what would music be without the latter, without the vistas of thought and feeling that are opened up — that vanish into the infinite — that delight while they detain, but please most when they lead us beyond this lower sphere, and leave us on the very margin of the infinite and the eternal. Perhaps the finest state of our minds — of our intellectual states we mean — is when we hardly know the value and limits of our own thought — made up of elements so simple, but stretching into distances which we cannot measure — into which we can but gaze. The idea of the Divine Being is one which we cannot fully take in — awakened by so many objects or exciting causes around us — a modification merely of our ideas of Being, Spirit, and the attributes of Spirit: but how vast! — how incomprehensible! — how immeasurable ! Existence, but self-existence — spirit, independent of matter, — power, but omnipotent power, — wis dom, but infinite wisdom, — duration, but eternal duration, — presence in space, but omnipresence !
Of such elements are our ideas composed — of such combina tions or modifications are they susceptible — into such infinite distances may they stretch.
218 INTELLECT,
We shall add ben those puts of Wh e well's classification of the sciences founded upon ideas, which we omitted before, as not having obtained oar modified ideas, the ideas modified by the laws of mini and the principles of generalization and deduction.
We give the Hmnifintinn now entire, and in WhewelTs own words, and it will be easy to recognise those sciences that an dependent upon our primitive idea?, and those which take their rise from the ideas modified by the laws of mind.
** I shall have to speak," airs Whewell, " of the ideas which an fne foundation of geuuieiiy and arithmetic, (and which also regulate all ecJenoBs depending upon these, as astronomy and mechanics,) namely, the ideas of space, time, and number. Of the ideas which. the seoMidaiy mechanical jncJenoni (arwnntics, op- ties, and tnermotics) involve, namely, the ideas of the externality of objects, and of the media by which we perceive their qualities,
" Of the ideas which, an the basis of inffffhaninfr-difmiral, and chemical science ; polariij, c^f«nc«| affinity, and substance ; and the idea of symmetry, a necessary part of the philosophy of crystallography.
"Of the ideas on which the dassificatory sciences proceed, (mineralogy, botany, and zoology,) namely, the ideas of resem blance, and of its gradations, and of natural affinity.
u Finally, of those ideas on which the physiological sciences are founded, the ideas of separate vital powcts, such as assimi lation and irritability, and the idea of final cause.
" We have, besides these, the palaetiological sciences, which proceed mainly on the conception of historical causation."
Obviously, then, the sciences which depend upon our modi fied ideas as their basis, are crystallography, of which, in this classification, the idea of symmetry is the basis, and the classifi- catory sciences, of which the beak, according to Whewell. are the ideas of in iwmnleimr and its gradations. In all the rest we recognise our primitive ideas ; for even vitality is a species of power, and historical causation is but time and causation com bined. Vitality, however, is power in combination, and so likewise is historical causation ; it is causation or power in combination with time, and the destinies or changes of being.
INTELLECT. 219
or existence ; so that physiology and [>ala?tiology may be said to depend in a certain way upon our modified, and not simply our primitive, idea*.
XVI.
We have now to attend to those laws of association in our ideas which are of such importance to the formation of the very modifications and combinations of ideas which we have noticed, and, indeed, to all the processes of mind.
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.
The laws of association, by which our thoug/U* are linked together I'M traitis, or one thought is immediately followed by another, or capable of awakening or suggesting another, have been reduced by Hume to the three, — Resemblance, Contiguity, and Causation ; and by Dr. Brown, to Resemblance, Contrast, and Contiguity in time and place. Dr. Brown shews that classifications of the very same kind had been made even before the time of Hume. The first attempt at such a classification seems to have been by Aristotle himself, that very acute and accurate observer of many of the mind's processes and laws. Dr. Brown's objection to causation being a separate law or principle of association, on the supposition that causation is nothing more than antecedence and consequence in events, is perfectly valid. The events in such a case are merely con secutive. But we can see no good ground for that theory of causation ; and the original principle of causality, as it is of such iui|>ortance in the formation of our original ideas, should not be excluded from the laws of subsequent suggestion or association. Does not an effect immediately awaken the idea of its cause ? Does not a cause immediately awaken the idea of its efivct ? and is this merely on the principle of proximity or contiguity ? As a principle or law of connexion we have seen that causality, or causation, is the very principle of gene ralization, or circumstance in our minds which leads to gene ralization. Causality is something far more important ami influential than contiguity in tune and place.
220 INTELLECT.
Perhaps, we need no other principles or laws of connexion among our ideas, than those by which our ideas originally are produced, or arise in the mind, and are afterwards modified and combined. Causality is the grand principle in the formation of our original or primitive ideas ; and it, with resemblance, analogy, contrast, time and place, which include, of course, contiguity in time and place : these are just the laws mentioned by Hume and Brown. It may certainly be contended that contiguity in time and place is something different from the simple ideas of time and place ; but then is it not a modifica tion of these ideas, or may it not, as we hinted when considering this law of our ideas, be a phase of the idea of identity, an event or a place being more or less nearly the same, or contem poraneous with another event or place ? Contiguity seems a shade of identity, as there are shades of resemblance, until, as we have seen, we come to contrast itself. At all events, con tiguity in time and place is but a relation of these ideas. It contributes, however, to precision, to speak of contiguity or proximity in time and place, and to admit contiguity among the laws of association.
The aspects of our ideas, then, in their original state, and under the different modifications, become the laws according to which they arise in connexion. The ideas, as they are obtained, seem also to be retained: the same laws which gave us our ideas become the bond of their connexion. The law of resemblance, for example, or the susceptibility of the mind to perceive resemblance, not only gives us ideas of re semblance, but is a bond by which resembling ideas are con nected in the mind. We not only perceive resemblances, but the presence of one idea has its resembling idea instantaneously associated with it. I perceive a remarkable resemblance be tween two landscapes or pieces of scenery ; the law of resem blance enables me to perceive this — there is such a resemblance, and the mind is fitted to perceive it — but the same law insures upon the presence of the one object, or its idea, the idea of its resembling object. When I chance to come upon a landscape bearing a close resemblance to one I have seen before, in the
INTELLECT. 221
order of nature I am first capable of perceiving, or being struck with the resemblance ; but again, the presence of the one immediately reccalls, or has associated with it, the idea of the other. The mind exists in a state of perceived resem blance, but there is a susceptibility of the mind, besides, in virtue of which the presence of the one piece of scenery, or its idea, is followed by, or accompanied with, the thought of the other. The one is said to recall or suggest the other ; but obviously if the mind could not exist in the state of a perceived resemblance, there would be no such recalling, no such asso ciation or suggestion. The capability of the mind existing in a state of felt resemblance, as Dr. Brown calls it, is first sup posed, and then the suggestion, or just the connexion, takes place — the connexion is the suggestion. The same with all the other laws of association ; they were the aspects under which our ideas were originally acquired, or laws by which they were modified, but they come to act as connecting links among our thoughts — identical objects or qualities being thus associated in the mind, or capable of being associated : so with resembling objects, so with contrasted objects, so with all existing or per ceivable analogies — so with proportion, so with cause and effect, so with contiguity in place and time, or objects, or events, con tiguous or proximate, in place or time.
The oak or the elm suggests, or has immediately associated with it, the oak or the elm which shadowed our father's cottage. The temperature which regaled and imparted health to the sickly frame under one clime of the earth, recalls the invigora ting breezes and delightful sun of a clime the same, though in a separate and far distant region. On the other hand, the sunny clime of the south recalls, by the force of contrast, the cold and ungenial skies of the north. The mind of the tra veller is continually occupied in marking the identity or dis similarity among the objects or circumstances that meet his eye, or come within his experience. This act of the mind is not merely a pleasing one, but leads to observations which are the most important to science, and which contribute to the knowledge of laws and manners, to social improvement, and
222 INTELLECT.
the infusion of a better principle and spirit into the theory anil practice of legislation. It is the associating principle which is at work in those connexions which lead to such results. Com parisons could not be drawn did not this principle furnish the material. Resembling or contrasted objects, or institutions, are not always present together, so as to admit of the comparison, but this law supplies the place of their actual presence by making them present to the mind. The man of science recalls the observations he has made in other quarters, and they assist him in those he is now making ; or the disparity between phenomena gives him the varying or opposite character of these very phenomena, which it is important to mark. A flower may bring home and all its reminiscences to mind, the garden-plot where a similar flower grew, the circumstances in which we last saw it, the feelings or sentiments with which it was associated, or which it awakened. Halleck of New York indites some verses to the memory of Burns on viewing the remains of a rose brought from Alloway Kirk, the scene of one of Burns' most striking compositions. This was the suggestion of place, or, as it has been called, contiguity. It is rather the suggestion of place simply, for the rose was brought from the spot itself, and it recalls scenes which are not immediately contiguous, but which have their place, their ideal place, their celebration in the page of the bard, or are connected with his name : —
" Wild rose of Alloway, my thanks !
Thou mind'st me of that autumn noon, When first we met upon ' the banks And braes of bonnie Boon.'"
After some connecting links of thought the writer says, —
" I've stood beside the cottage bed,
Where the bard-peasant first drew breath, A straw-thatch'd roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath.
" And I have stood beside the pile,
His monument — that tells to heaven The homage of earth's proudest islo To that bard-peasant given."
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The pilgrims who are attracted by Burns' fame, —
" Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, Or trod the piled leaves of the west, My own green forest land.
" All ask the cottage of his birth,
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, And gather feelings not of earth, His fields and streams among.
" They linger by the Boon's low trees,
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries, The Poet's tomb is there !"
How powerful were the associations of place in Byron's mind when wandering amid the ruins of Borne and Athens ! And here, again, it was not contiguity of place, but place simply. The ruins were the connecting link with ages long gone, events and actors that had long passed away, but not without impress ing their memories on all future ages. The same link of connexion was in the mind of Gibbon, when, among the ruins of the Coliseum, he resolved to write the history of the decline and fall of that Empire, whose magnificent monuments he was contemplating. In these instances we have the associations of place mingling with those of time, place suggesting time, and time awakening innumerable trains of thought or reflection. We have seen how analogy operates on our trains of thought ; and it is the law of proportion that is present in the processes of mathematical reasoning, and arithmetical calculation, as well as in the refined perceptions and embodiments of the artist. Give to the architect certain proportions of a building, and these will immediately suggest to his mind, or be associated with, their fitting proportions. State to the mathematician certain properties of figures, and the implied or accompanying properties have their immediate place in the mind. It is said of Sir Isaac Newton, that he could see the steps in a demon stration as if by intuition. A correct eye can point out at once the faults or excellencies of a piece of sculpture, or a painting, sub mitted to it. A redundancy, or a defect, in colour, a false propor-
224 INTELLECT.
tion, or a wrong disposition of light and shade, is immediately singled out, and becomes the subject of animadversion, while the perfection of these in the great masters is the subject of unceasing panegyric. These links of connexion are endless. By means of them the mind is confined neither to time nor place, but realizes all time and all place. Links of association connect the mind with the invisible world, and with the throne of the Eternal. By contrast we rise to the conception of Deity, and again we revert from Him to the most insignificant of those creatures which He has made. His ways may often resemble ours, and we may draw an argument from ours to them ; but there is an infinite contrast still between God and us, between His ways and our ways, His thoughts and our thoughts. Sounds have their resemblances and contrasts, and the power of association in words is illustrated in the connexions and multiplied ramifications of language. It is thus that etymology can draw the conterminous boundaries, and trace the common origin, of all languages. The memory in recalling words formerly learnt is greatly assisted by the power of association. Khyming is an exemplification of the same law ; it is the association of resemblance which is the law of rhyming. And nothing almost affords greater pleasure than the well-managed rhymes of a beautiful poem. The fine cadences, and the constant recurrence of the same sound, are sometimes inexpressibly pleasing, and are capable of producing the most soothing or the most thrill ing effect. It is now like the stately march of armies, now like the organ's swell, anon like the trumpet's peal, or again, like the long liquid lapse of murmuring streams. Alliteration has its origin in the same law, and, judiciously employed, may con tribute both to energy and to beauty in composition. A pun is a suggestion of resemblance, and, as not containing a remote or hidden analogy, but a very obvious resemblance, is not regarded as a very high style of wit.
The associations of analogy, we have seen, are those in which the greatest originality may be displayed, and are always the most striking, because the most unexpected to the mind.
Associations may be varied by habit as well as by original
INTELLECT. 225
constitution of mind ; and this leads us to enumerate, and to dwell for a little upon Dr. Brown's secondary laws of association or suggestion.
So far as we are aware, Dr. Brown was the first to take notice of the secondary laws of association, at least to reduce them under any classification or arrangement. In Dugald Stewart we find some remarks very much the same with those which Dr. Brown makes on this subject; and in Campbell's Philosophy of Khetoric, some of the circumstances specified as operating upon the passions, are just those which Dr. Brown has enumerated as influencing the primary laws of association. Dr. Brown, however, has undoubtedly the merit of concentrat ing the remarks which lie scattered in other authors, as well as adding those which are strictly his own ; and his classification may well take its place beside every statement of the laws of association already given, and which, with relation to these secondary or subordinate laws, Dr. Brown has called the primary laws of association.
We give the modifying or secondary laws in Dr. Brown's own words : —
" The first circumstance which presents itself, as modifying the influence of the primary laws, in inducing one associate conception rather than another, is the length of time during which the original feelings from which they flowed, continued, when they co-existed, or succeeded each other.
" In the second place, the parts of a train appear to be more closely or firmly associated, as the original feelings have been more lively.
" In the third place, the parts of any train are more readily suggested, in proportion as they have been more frequently renewed.
" In the fourth place, the feelings are connected more strongly, in proportion as they are more or less recent.
" In the fifth place, our successive feelings are associated more closely, as each has co-existed less with other feelings.
" In the sixth place, the influence of the primary laws of suggestion is greatly modified by original constitutional differ-
1-
226 INTELLECT.
ences, whether these are to be referred to the mind itself, or to varieties of bodily temperament."
One of the circumstances which Dr. Campbell mentions as influencing the passions, is the importance of the action which is the subject-matter of address or appeal. " The third circum stance," says Campbell, " the appearance of which always tends, by fixing attention more closely, to add brightness and strength to the ideas — was importance. The importance in moral subjects is analogous to the quantity of matter in phy sical subjects, as on quantity the moment of moving bodies in a great measure depends."
The importance of any associated circumstance, or thought, in like manner, gives intensity or strength to the association. This is either not noticed by Dr. Brown, or it is included in the second subordinate law affecting our associations — viz., the liveliness of the original feelings. " We remember," says he, " brilliant objects more than those which are faint and obscure. We remember for our whole lifetime, the occasions of great joy or sorrow ; we forget the occasions of innumerable slight pleasures, or pains, which occur to us every hour."
Some such event has often affected the destinies of in dividuals, and been the very spring of their career in life. Those who are acquainted with the biographies of distinguished men must be aware of this fact, and their memories may fur nish them with instances. A great event must be more powerful in its associations than an indifferent one, or one of more trifling importance.
Proximity of time and connexion of place are other two circumstances which Dr. Campbell specifies as influencing the passions.
" As to proximity of time," says he, " every one knows that any melancholy incident is the more affecting that it is recent. Hence it is become common with story-tellers, that they may make a deeper impression on the hearers, to introduce remarks like these — that the tale which they relate is not old, that it happened but lately, or in their own time, or that they are yet living who had a part in it, or were witnesses of it."
INTELLECT. 227
Virgil introduces JEneas when commencing the narrative of the events through which he had passed, and especially those connected with the taking and final ruin of Troy, —
" Trojanas ut opes et lamentabilc regnum Eruerint Danai,"
saying, —
" quaeque ipsc miserrima vidi, Et quorum pars magna fui."
This is Dr. Brown's fourth circumstance of subordinate association : " In the fourth place, the feelings are connected more strongly, in proportion as they are more or less recent."
It is touchingly introduced in the recital by the disciple going to Emmaus, of the events connected with Christ's death, when interrogated respecting them by Christ himself: " And besides all this, to-day is the third day since these things were done" So recently had the events transpired ; no wonder that he and the other disciple were communing about these events.
Time wears off impressions. When the circumstance is recent, nothing almost can dislodge it from the mind. It is the one absorbing thought. It may be a joyful one — then it spreads gladness through the air, and makes nature itself jocund : the heart calls upon every object and every being to sympathize with its joy. If a sad one, everything is clothed in gloom, and the air itself seems to have a burden in it. The disciples, when they had seen the Lord after His resurrection, were as transported with joy, as before this they had been overwhelmed with sorrow. The tidings which told of another and another victory over the armies of France, when freedom was thought to be in the scale, when Napoleon was known to be the enemy of the nations, and Britain stood in " the Ther mopylae of the world," were hailed with universal enthusiasm, and formed the one subject of thought and discussion among all ranks and classes from the one end of Britain to the other. How different are the associations connected with these events now! — how differently are they thought of! Events, like objects, of the greatest magnitude, when seen in the distance,
228 INTELLECT.
possess a very indistinct outline, and seldom come within the sphere of the vision: let them be recent and they fill the horizon.
Connexion of place has the same effect. This is not only a circumstance of original suggestion or association, but it modi fies any association already existing. " Local connexion," says Dr. Campbell, " hath a more powerful effect than proximity of time." " Connexion of place," says he, " not only includes vicinage, but every other local relation, such as being in a province under the same government with us, in a state that is in alliance with us, in a country well known to us, and the like. Of the influence of this connexion in operating on our passions, we have daily proofs. With how much indifference, at least with how slight and transient emotion, do we read in newspapers the accounts of the most deplorable accidents in countries distant and unknown ? How much, on the contrary, are we alarmed and agitated on being informed that any such accident hath happened in our neighbourhood, and that even though we be totally unacquainted with the persons concerned ?"
It is singular that Dr. Brown overlooked this secondary law of association. It is obviously different from the original sug gesting circumstance. It not only affords the association, but it vivifies it — keeps it alive — gives it strength — makes it much more lively and powerful. The scene where any memorable occurrence took place, where any signal achievement was accom plished, intensifies the association, while it also begets it. It is amazing the interest that is attachable to the spot where any illustrious person lived or was born. Not only are associations connected with that person's life and works or achievements awakened, they are far more lively than if any circumstance awakened these associations at a distance. Halleck's associa tions with Burns were extremely interesting, and were more lively by the circumstance of locality that was in the very flower which he had probably plucked on the banks of the Doon, beside " Alloway's auld haunted Kirk ;" and the remin iscences stretching across a wide intervening ocean gave ten derness, no doubt, to the associations awakened ; but to be on
INTELLECT. 229
the spot itself — to see the very scenes which Burns has rendered memorable, a charm does seem to lie over these scenes, even while you may intensely wish that the career of a genius so remarkable had been otherwise ! Locality, in such a case, has a wonderful influence. Residing at one time in that neigh bourhood, we frequently passed by the very kirk, and the poet's birthplace, and we can say — so it seemed to us — the whole land, exceedingly beautiful itself, was lighted up with the poet's memory. Doon was the Doon which Burns had made famous ; its " low trees" — exactly descriptive — low but not stunted — umbrageous, aud adorning " banks and braes," which " pressed to be in the poet's song," grow in the very light which he threw around them. We must not let our admiration of genius, however, carry us away. We must remember that it was not given to be employed on the themes which too often engross it ; and perhaps that very admiration of its efforts on themes even of an earthly interest, is itself of the earth earthly. About the same period, it was our lot to sojourn in the town which gave birth to James Montgomerie. We visited the cot tage in which he was born : we cannot tell how vivid were our impressions when we looked upon the humble apartment in which he first drew breath ! What is there in such connexion of place ? Why are our associations so vivid when standing on such spots, and looking upon such scenes ? Can we tell ? We can only give the fact, or point to the phenomenon itself. We cannot be censured for quoting the famous passage of Johnson on his visit to lona, and the sentiments which he felt when "treading that illustrious island." We have ourselves visited that island, and the memory of St. Columba hangs over it like a spell. It has a different setting from other islands in the ocean. " We were now treading," says the sage, " that illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledo nian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible, if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever
230 INTELLECT.
makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me, and from my friends, be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct us, indifferent and unmoved, over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. The man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona."
The other two circumstances which Dr. Campbell mentions us influencing the passions, viz., " relation to the persons con cerned in any action or actions," and " interest in the conse quences," may be extended to the subject of association. Relation to the place, scene, action, or person, awakening or producing the original association, and interest in the conse quences of such event or action, must make the association to us a great deal more vivid and powerful than to any others. We need only direct attention to this. Dr. Brown has not noticed either of these circumstances. It may be questioned, therefore, if Dr. Brown's classification, valuable so far as it goes, is complete. Indeed, the modifying circumstances of association, perhaps, can hardly be enumerated. There is truth in what Dugald Stewart says, — " There is no possible relation among the objects of our knowledge which may not serve to connect them together in the mind ; and therefore, although one enumeration may be more comprehensive than another, a perfectly complete enumeration is scarcely to be expected."
We must make an observation or two upon the last of Dr. Brown's secondary laws. " In the sixth place, the influence of the primary laws of suggestion is greatly modified by original constitutional differences, whether these are to be referred to the mind itself, or to varieties of bodily temperament."
This modifying circumstance, or law, is one which undoubt edly exercises a most important influence upon our associations and habits of thought. That there are constitutional differences both of mind arid body — differences both in mental and bodily temperament — cannot be doubted. This is a subject greatly
INTELLECT. 231
dwelt upon by phrenologists, and it is perhaps in taking notice of this circumstance, as well as in the general adaptation of his system to the facts of phrenology, that Dr. Brown's system is pronounced by his biographer, Dr. Welsh, himself a phrenolo gist, the one whose positions or doctrines accord most with the discoveries or advances of phrenology. The subject is one con nected with the most difficult questions in morals, and even in theology. How far does man's peculiar idiosyncrasy, or consti tutional temperament, whether of mind or body, influence or affect his character and actions, and in what way is his respon sibility concerned in this question ? We think the direct and imperative answer to this inquiry is, that in no case can respon sibility be so affected by any constitutional peculiarities as to take it away, while these peculiarities are themselves circum stances in man's probationary state, or just his moral position in this world, to be carefully attended to, and for which, as for the whole of his moral condition, the grand remedy is applica ble. But it is rather the intellectual, or purely mental, idiosyn crasy or bias, which is referred to, and which we have now to take into account, although that is very intimately connected with the other part of our nature. Phrenology, in accordance with the mental idiosyncrasy, temperament, or bias, adopts a nomenclature which always connects the faculty with the idiosyncrasy, and it speaks of the faculty being large when it is so along with the idiosyncrasy. Hence we have causality, ideality, comparison, &c., the predominating direction of the mind being indicated by the names of the faculty or faculties. This predominating direction cannot be said to have been overlooked in mental philosophy, but undoubtedly phrenology has called attention to it much more prominently than was ever done before, although still it does not seem to belong peculiarly to that system, but may be taken into account in any right view of the mental operations or phenomena. It is an interesting view, however, to take in connexion with mind, viz., the constitutional differences which characterize it, and these in connexion often with bodily temperament, or at least tem perament, which is partly bodily and partly mental. Here,
232 INTELLECT.
again, phrenology is distinguished from any other view of mind that was previously taken, in connecting bodily tempera ment with mental characteristics. The physiology of this sub ject, we believe, is established beyond a doubt. We would confine our attention, however, here, to the simply mental bias, the constitutional differences in mind, or in one mind as distinguished from another. This forms a most interesting subject of examination or reflection. It falls more properly to be considered at a subsequent stage of our progress, but we advert to it now as one of the secondary laws of association, and as exercising a very extensive influence on the whole current and tenor of our thoughts and pursuits.
We have but to look at the bent and direction in the minds of those around us, the nature of their pursuits, the cast of their conversation, the habit of their thought, to discover im portant original differences in their mental constitution. It is true that circumstances, for the most part, give the direction to the pursuits of men, and to the path which they follow in life, but even in these pursuits, in that very path which they have chosen, or in which they have, it may be, been fortuitously directed, we may still discern those original differences of con stitution. Even in the pursuits of trade and commerce, we find those who are not contented to absorb themselves entirely in their claims, but who have a mind to look to matters of more permanent interest, and to whom knowledge, and the pursuit of knowledge, in its extensive and varied range, affords the highest pleasure. The mental idiosyncrasy is not destroyed even in the routine and demands of business. It breaks through even the necessities of a still more unpropitious situa tion, and we find the mechanic and the humble tradesman indulging predilections of mind which are independent of his position and his calling. " The pursuit of knowledge under difficulties" is not so uncommon a spectacle as it was once, or the difficulties are now not so unsurmountable. It is by no means now a rare spectacle to see the humble mechanic well acquainted with science, or conversant with literature. The relish for these will break through every obstacle, and the
INTELLECT. 233
facilities for indulging it are very great ; but it is among those who have better opportunities for indulging such tastes, and whose business more directly it is to prosecute such objects, that we find the best illustrations of our present subject. Among all classes there are different degrees of native refine ment and mental capacity, which will exhibit very different directions of thought and modes of association ; but look at the different tracts which minds which professedly give themselves to study pursue. Science is the chosen field of some, philosophy of others, learning of others ; while, with others, the profound topics of theology are those which engage their lofty but de vout speculations or inquiries. Some minds again take the direction of history in preference to every other pursuit or study. They love to dwell upon the past ; and the more re mote the events, they possess the greater fascination. Some are antiquarian in their tendency. The remains of antiquity possess an indescribable charm to their minds. The excava tions of a Belzoni or a Layard, and the researches of a Sir William Gell on the site of Troy, and among the relics of Pompeii, would almost tempt them to become travellers, — as it was the same bent of mind, as well as to serve the interests of science, that directed these enterprising and patient investi gators in the tract of inquiry which they pursued.* Minds naturally have a bias one way or another, and, for the most part, they will be found following it. And the associations are all according to that bias, and the topics which consequently
* In Lord Byron's Diary there oc- veracity. It is true I read ' Homer
curs this characteristic passage : — " In Travestied,' because Hobhouse and
reading, I have just chanced upon an others bored me with their learned lo-
expression of Tom Campbell's. Speak- calities, and I love quizzing. But I
ing of Collins, he says, that ' No reader still venerated the grand original as the
cares any more about the characteristic truth of history (in the material facts)
manners of his eclogues than about the and of place. Otherwise, it would have
authenticity of the tale of Troy.' 'Tis given me no delight. Who will per-
false — we do care about ' the authen- suade me, when I reclined upon a
ticity of the tale of Troy.' I have stood mighty tomb, that it did not contain a
upon that plain daily, for more than a hero ? Its very magnitude proved this,
month, in 1810, and if anything dimi- Men do not labour over the ignoble and
nished my pleasure, it was that the petty dead; and why should not the
blackguard Bryant had impugned its dead be Homer's dead ?"
234 INTELLECT.
engage the attention. A philosophic mind views everything under a philosophic aspect. The principles which belong to a subject ever turn up in their minds. They see it through that medium. What is called a practical mind leaves the principles, and deals with the subject in the concrete, and as it tells upon or is seen in practice. The thoughts of the scientific again are ever running upon external phenomena, and tracing external laws. The astronomer is ever among the stars ; the geologist has his haunts among the caverns of creation, and lives in epochs ; the botanist will not let the flower grow in its beauty, but must question its structure, and ascertain its family and descent ; the physiologist pursues life to its retreat, and is ever marking its marvellous indications and laws. With the literary man, the productions of those who have written works which have arrested the mind of con temporaneous and succeeding ages, are the interesting sources from which he draws all his pleasure, and with them are all his associations. It is easy to know a classic mind from the bent of its associations. Its thoughts are among the remains of ancient Greece and Rome. A scholar will always go up to a classic fountain for the authorities on which he depends, or which he delights to quote. When this is done judiciously and sparingly, nothing has a finer grace, while the ancient authors have often a power of expression, and an exquisiteness of con ception, not always met with among modern writers. There was something in the languages of Greece and Rome which was greatly favourable to condensation of meaning, and beauty of thought and expression ; or at all events, we can, in such a form as a quotation from an ancient author and a classic language presents, state with advantage a sentiment which would be commonplace or comparatively feeble if conveyed in any modern language, or the language especially which we ourselves employ. Classic quotations were far more common in a past age than now. Jeremy Taylor, and Howe, and the divines of the same age, are full of them : all the distinguished writers of that period make them the great vehicle of their own sentiments. Addison and Johnson could not write without a
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quotation from a Greek or Latin author. This was undoubtedly carried to excess. There is not even the same use now as there was then for the practice. A more sparing quotation from classic antiquity is therefore proper ; but when such quotation is ap propriately made it has the best effect. Milton was classic : Shakespeare was not. Shakespeare derived his classic allusions at second hand, and they have, accordingly, all the appearance of this : they are not true coin ; they merely bear the image and superscription of the coin. Milton's allusions were from the mint ; they were struck off in his own mind. How is the bent of his classic associations seen in all his works ! In the Para dise Regained — in the temptation of our Lord — Satan, without destroying propriety, is made to employ some of the finest classic allusions, in expressions of choicest and most classic beauty. It is in Satan's address that the expression occurs, — " Athens the eye of Greece," and again, " the attic bird," as applied to Plato : —
" See there the olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the attic bird Trills her thick warbled notes the summer long."
It is there, also, that we have those lines : —
" Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratic, Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece "
Milton's classical association is still more strikingly seen, if possible, in the Ode on the Nativity. The profusion of classic allusion there is wonderful, and the effect is admirable. How bold, and yet how beautiful, and within the bounds of the most sacred propriety, the employment of the following allusion in reference to the coming of Christ, taking the heathen myth and applying it to its only legitimate object : —
" The shepherds on the lawn, Or e'er the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row : Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below ; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep."
23G INTELLECT.
Again, in reference to the change produced on the world by the appearance of Christ, what could be more classic, and what more effective !
" The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving : Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos, leaving ; No nightly trance or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
" The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament : From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale,
The parting genius is with sighing sent, With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
" In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth,
The Lares and Lemures moan with midnight plaint : In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound
Affrights the flamens at their service quaint, And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat."
Dr. Brown traces to this secondary law of association the peculiarity in the suggestions of original and inventive minds, as distinguished from those which do not derive their suggestions from the same source, viz., analogy. We have already considered this peculiarity in the suggestions of some minds. We recur to it merely to remark, in connexion with the peculiar idiosyncrasies of different minds, that the philosophic mind may often be seen in conjunction with the poetic, and that in every philosophic poet the suggestions of analogy will be found greatly to predo minate. We would distinguish Wordsworth as a philosophic poet, in the special sense of the phrase, above even Milton or Shakespeare. Wordsworth is ever bringing out fine and hidden analogies, which only a mind like his could detect ; ever brood ing on the nicer connexions observable in the natural world, or
INTELLECT. Z.W
between the world of matter and that of spirit. All his associ ations took this direction. There was philosophy in all his fancies. He made everything philosophize, or give out philo sophy. Shakespeare found " books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything." With Wordsworth it was B& philosophy, and that quiet kind which "broods on its own heart," penetrates even stones, and hears a voice deeper far than its own in the murmur of the passing stream. Shake speare could not have stayed to mark the lessons which Words worth draws from stones, and brooks, and trees. How trippingly does Shakespeare make the allusion, or utter the statement, we have referred to ! With Wordsworth it was very different. It was a felt and powerful sentiment with him : —
" Wings have we, — and as far as we can go We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, Blank ocean, and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies tJte low."
There is an influential associating principle which should not be passed over in connexion with this subject; we mean spi rituality of mind, or that state of mind produced by the recep tion of the gospel, and the regenerating grace of God. This gives a peculiar direction to all the thoughts. Where there is true spirituality it will exert a more powerful influence than any other associating principle whatever. It will take all the rest into its own direction. It will be above and around all — form the element of all. Science will not be contemplated but in connexion with the more astonishing display which God has made of His perfections in the scheme of Redemption. The plurality of worlds will be viewed as the theatre of God's moral attributes, and in its connexion with the superior honour con ferred upon this earth as the scene of redemption. The song of the angels will be re-echoed : " The whole earth is full of His glory." Nature will not be contemplated apart from, not merely God in nature, but Christ, or faith in Him ; and the life of faith will find everything capable of reminding of Him, or yielding some lesson connected with the spiritual life which is hid with Christ in God. It was thus that Cowper fed the
238 INTELLECT.
spiritual flame at the lamp of nature itself, and he found ana logies of the spiritual life wherever he turned. How fine the spiritual analogy brought out in these lines :
" The Spirit breathes upon the word,
And brings the truth to sight ; Precepts and promises afford A sanctifying light.
" A glory gilds the sacred page,
Majestic like the sun; It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.
" The hand that made it still supplies
The gracious light and, heat ;
His truths upon the nations rise —
THEY IIISE, BUT NEVER SET."
This is a circumstance of association which all should seek or cultivate. There is in the associations of a spiritual mind something inexpressibly pleasing, something that is far above every other possession or attainment. To breathe a spiritual air, how much more delightful and desirable than to feel the breath of Araby ! The other pursuits of life too much inter rupt the cultivation of a truly spiritual habit or state of mind. Other engagements may be necessary, but this should not be interfered with by any of them, however important or proper in their place. Alas, when the breath of the Spirit is not sought while every other attainment or possession is assiduously cultivated or pursued !
XVII.
CLASSIFICATIONS OF THE INTELLECTUAL PHENOMENA.
The phenomena we have examined seem in themselves to account for what are generally regarded, and what are com monly spoken of, as the faculties of the mind. It might appear an altogether unwarrantable position to maintain that the mind does not possess powers or faculties — that we are in correct when we speak of the faculty of judgment, or the faculty of imagination ; that these are not really faculties, but may be
INTELLECT. 239
explained in some other way than regarding them as such. Perception, conception, abstraction, memory, imagination, at tention, have all been enumerated as faculties of the mind ; and it would require some sufficient reason for regarding them in any other light, or for calling them in question as faculties, and resolving them into something else. Dr. Brown seems to have been the first to take another view of the mind, and to account for, or explain, its phenomena in a different way. He was led to his peculiar view by the doctrine which he enter tained on the subject of causation. His doctrine on this sub ject, the doctrine of many previous philosophers, viz., that causation is nothing but sequence in events, led him to con sider the mental phenomena in the same light, as sequences, or states of succession, all power being denied to mind as well as to matter. The first link in the chain of mental sequence is the first impress upon the mind from the external world : from that moment there is a succession begun which never ceases. We have endeavoured to trace the same connexion, or succession, from the earliest consciousness downwards ; but it is not from any such view of causation, as if it were mere sequence in events, that we have been led to take this view of the mental phenomena. We think it is an imperfect account of causation, to resolve it into mere sequence, that there is in it what is not explained, or accounted for, by any such view. But the unity and simplicity of mind seems to require that we regard it, not as possessing so many powers or faculties, but rather as existing in so many states. We regard it as having susceptibilities rather than facilities, or such a constitution impressed upon it, that it exists in those states, or exhibits those phenomena, which we have endeavoured to trace or ex plain, from the first consciousness to the most abstract concep tion, and most complicated train of thought. The only power belonging to mind is ivill, the power of volition ; all apart from that is mind simply, existing in those states, or presenting those phenomena, which are characteristic of mind when brought into certain circumstances. We have accounted for the rise of our ideas, our simple uncompounded ideas : — we have considered
240 INTELLECT.
those laws and principles by which they are modified : — we have seen them existing in trains, or in certain orders of connexion, and we have examined the circumstances of connexion by which one train takes place rather than another, or one associated idea arises rather than another. Dr. Brown considers the mind under the division, the external affections of the mind, and the internal affections ; the latter he divides into the intel lectual states and the emotions. The intellectual states, again, he considers under the phenomena of simple and relative suggestion. The external affections of the mind, of course, include all the phenomena of sensation, and lead to the con sideration of the ideas arising from this source. The idea of externality, we have seen, is traced by Dr. Brown to the feel ing of resistance, and that not merely tactual but muscular resistance. We think that the part which the mind has in the acquiring of its original ideas is not enough recognised by Dr. Brown ; and hence he is ranked rather in the sensational school by Morell, or as partly sensational in his tendency. We have seen it is of great importance to mark the mind's spontaneity even in the acquisition of its primitive ideas, and to consider sensation as the occasion merely of these ideas, and not in any proper sense the cause. The purely intellectual states con sidered under the phenomena of simple and relative suggestion, was a novel view of the mind, and was undoubtedly a step in advance. There is sufficient evidence in the writings of previ ous philosophers, that the unity and simplicity of the mind was not disregarded by them, and that they did not contemplate the faculties of the mind, of which they gave an enumeration, as distinct from the mind itself ; but their view was, from Locke downwards, that the mind was capable of conceiving, appre hending, abstracting, judging, remembering, imagining. It contributed, however, undoubtedly, to simplicity, to present the mental phenomena as they really were, and to make it plain that the mind did not possess faculties distinct from it self, which is so apt to be supposed when these faculties are spoken of, or did not so much possess faculties as exist in states according to certain laws of its constitution, or principles, or
INTELLECT. 241
modes of action characteristic of mind. Dr. Brown was bold enough to make this innovation — to present this new view of mind ; or he had the originality to seize upon this new view and give it to the world. Locke, we cannot help thinking, notwithstanding all the objections found against him, took the right view of mind, when he endeavoured to trace its ideas, and when he considered these as simple, modes of ideas, and mixed modes, and as existing in the relations of identity, diver sity, degree, number, magnitude, proportion, position, cause and effect, and so on. If he had not enumerated the faculties of discernment, comparison, composition, abstraction, but re garded certain laws, according to which the modes, mixed modes, and relations of ideas, were obtained, his view would have been very much the same as Brown's, or even more simple ; for the introduction of a principle or law of suggestion, however convenient the name to intimate the rise of our ideas according to certain circumstances of connexion, is apt to give the idea of what Dr. Brown wished to discard — something distinct from the mind, though operating as a power within it. This is the objection we would take to Dr. Brown's system, that suggestion seems something extraneous to the mind : it is something active : it is the very thing which Dr. Brown wished to get quit of in mental philosophy — a power ; whereas the mind rather exists in certain states according to certain laws of its constitution. When it exists in the state of what Dr. Brown calls a suggestion — or when suggestion takes place — this is no more than an idea arising upon the presence of another idea, according to a law by which one idea is not in strict language suggested by another, but arises upon the pre sence of that other. The term Association, for which Dr. Brown substituted Suggestion — as expressing the tendency in our ideas to arise in a train, ivithout supposing any previous association, but by immediate suggestion — we would still prefer ; for association is the real phenomenon, and not suggestion ; and there is no need whatever to suppose any previous associa tion in fact : the association is in the law or property according to which the association actually takes place. The beauty and
Q
242 INTELLECT.
originality of Dr. Brown's view, however, cannot but be ac knowledged by those acquainted with the systems of philosophy. He has been regarded as too much of a sensationalist, from the dependence in his system of our ideas originally upon sensa tion, and their following from this in a sequence or chain of phenomena. We have already remarked that he does not sufficiently recognise, or prominently enough keep in view, the spontaneity of the mind in the acquisition of its original ideas, and the very subordinate part, after all, however necessary, which sensation plays in the obtaining of these ideas. This, however, seems to have been taken for granted, or rather never to have been doubted, in his system. Nor was it till the German mode of philosophizing came into vogue — the rigid and scientific mind of Germany being satisfied with no other mode, and with nothing short of the absolute, if that were attainable — it is only since this that attention has been called to the peculiar part which mind plays in the formation of its primitive ideas — what is called the formative process of mind. In this point of view the German philosophy has done eminent service. Its rigid method, of setting out from consciousness, and tracing our ideas onward, has undoubtedly given to philo sophy a character which it did not formerly possess, and brought prominently into view that purely intellectual part, that truly formative part, which the mind has in the produc tion of its most elementary notions or ideas. We advert not here to its too rigid and idealistic character. That has already in some measure been done. We express our admiration, in the meantime, of the scientific " stand-point" in its inquiries, and the importance assigned to mind, although this was carried to the absurd extreme of making mind everything, and forma tive even to the extent of creating the external world, and its phenomena, for itself. It is of immense consequence, however, to recognise the predominance of mind ; and it is peculiarly interesting to see how it operates in connexion with the inti mations from the external world, in other words, in connexion with matter — a connexion of which it would seem not to be independent. What shall we call that faculty by which the
INTELLECT. 243
mind thus obtains its primitive ideas ? Will what is called the faculty of judgment account for the process ? It will, if we mean by judgment a spontaneous act of the mind itself. How does the mind determine this to be external to itself, and that not, when in both cases it is existing merely in states of con sciousness ? How does it refer the one consciousness to self, the other to externality, as its source or occasion ? An act of judgment merely will not explain this. A mere comparison would never give the result. The mind ventures upon a deci sion of its own — acts spontaneously, independently, and in virtue of that constitution which the Creator has conferred upon it, or which may be essential to mind. That this feeling has an external, and this an internal source, is a very different kind of decision from that by which two is pronounced to have the same relation to four that eight has to sixteen ; or any judgment of the mind, when two ideas are seen in comparison. It is when our primitive ideas are obtained that judgment comes in : it is among our ideas that certain relations are observed, whether of identity, similarity, difference, contrast, analogy, proportion. Before this, or in the acquisition of our primitive ideas, it is mind, a spontaneous act of mind, not a judgment, not the result of a comparison, or a perceived relation. It is an arbitrary decision, but a decision still accord ing to the constitution of mind, or according to mind. After wards, our ideas are seen in relation, or modified by those laws which we have endeavoured to trace.
Dr. Reid's division of the mind is into the Intellectual and Active powers ; and more minutely he enumerates — 1st, The powers we have by means of our external senses ; 2dly, Memory ; 3dly, Conception ; 4thly, The power of resolving and analyzing complex objects, and compounding those that are more simple ; 5thly, Judging ; Gthly, Reasoning ; Tthly, Taste ; Sthly, Moral perception ; and, lastly, Consciousness.
Dugald Stewart's classification of the mental powers is the following: — 1st, Consciousness ; 2d, Perception ; 3d, Attention ; 4th, Conception ; 5th, Abstraction ; 6th, Association of ideas ; 7th, Memory; 8th, Imagination ; 9th, Judgment or Reasoning.
244 INTELLECT.
Dr. Young, of Belfast College, iti bis published lectures, has given a classification, which be acknowledges to have adopted from Professor Mylne of Glasgow, and which reduced the faculties to the three — Sensation, Memory, and Judgment.
This last classification undoubtedly has the merit of simpli city — as great a simplicity as was compatible with the view of the mind's possessing faculties. Dr. Young offers some criti cism upon Dr. Brown's innovation, and while he concedes for the most part the correctness of the analysis on which it pro ceeds, objects to the new nomenclature thus introduced into philosophy, — no very weighty objection, surely, if that new nomenclature was connected with a simpler view, and a pro- founder analysis of the mental phenomena. We are inclined to innovate still further ; and we divide the strictly mental part of our constitution into the two phenomenal departments, Sensation and Intellection.
To sensation we allow nothing more than the power of ori ginating our ideas, and that by being only the occasion on which they arise. We pretend not to say how they can be the occasion of our ideas, as we pretend not to determine the nature of any mental phenomenon whatever, beyond stating the phe nomenon as it appears to the cognitive mind. The peculiarity in regard to sensation, and the subsequent mental act, is, that the former is dissimilar in its very nature from the latter ; and what is peculiarly to be noticed, is the transition from a sen sational state merely, to a strictly mental state ; or, as it may be termed, a state of intellection. Intellection is when mind comes into play as mind purely — sensation implying a bodily feeling, as well as a mental state, and that mental state being itself a feeling, and not any purely mental state. It is of im portance to oppose the mental, or intellectual, to the sensa tional, and at the very earliest stage to mark or notice what is purely mental in our states or processes. We may thus obtain all the advantage of the most rigid system of an absolute meta physics, while we do not run into the extravagance of denying a sensational department, and that as having its exciting cause, or its archetypes without. Not that we ascribe to sensation
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itself the information respecting its exciting cause, or those ideas of the external world tvhich we derive from a strictly mental process, operating upon occasion of our sensations. But when we have got intellection, when we have marked off this territory from the bordering land of sensation, a very wide survey lies before us, and we have our division of mind to begin anew. Dr. Brown, after the general division of the ex ternal affections and internal affections of the mind, has his analysis of the latter still to make, and these internal affections he has resolved into the laws of simple and relative suggestion. Now, what do we make of intellection ? We consider it just mind operating according to its distinctive nature, and laws impressed upon it by the Creator, or essential to mind as such. This takes in a part of the mental operations for which Dr. Brown's division does not account, viz., all that is prior to simple suggestion — the action of mind upon our first sensa tions, and by which our primitive ideas are acquired. The external affections of the mind do indeed lead to the considera tion of the origin or rise of our primitive ideas ; but the term, " the external affections of the mind," does not include this, or give the least hint or intimation of it ; and accordingly Dr. Brown discusses this matter without having a name for it, or having it ranked or recognised in his classification. He thus makes too little recognition of mind in this early stage of its operations, and allows too much to the external affection. The sensations, or series of sensations, give us the ideas : mind is little accounted of in the matter. But there is mind at work as soon as a sensation is experienced, and all our most impor tant, because all our elementary ideas, are got at this early stage. The independent action of mind at this stage is perhaps the most wonderful part of the mind's operations. The wonder in this case is, that the mind is acting without suggestion, or any law whatever. It is not by suggestion, or any law, except its own spontaneity, that it is prompted to determine this to be self, and that to be externality. It is not by suggestion that we get the idea of matter, of extension, of space, of time : It is not suggestion that gives us the idea of causality, or
246 INTELLECT.
cause and effect. If we attend to all our original ideas, we shall find that we are indebted for them to mind simply, oper ating we had almost said arbitrarily, and yet according to the nature of mind.
Let us look at the subsequent acts or processes of intel lection.
The simple ideas acquired, they now pass through various modifications. The simple idea of externality, for example, becomes the idea of an external world. How many ideas enter into our idea of an external world ? Just all the ideas that go to make up the idea of a world, in addition to that of exter nality. Now, it may be said to be by a process of combination or composition that the complex ideas of world, and external world, are obtained ; and, accordingly, we have the faculty of composition according to Locke, and, according to Keid, the power of analyzing complex objects, and compounding those that are more simple. Eternity, according to Locke, would be a mode of time, as magnitude, form, would be of space or ex tension. Now, what is the idea of eternity ? Is it not just identity in the idea, time prolonged indefinitely ? the same idea conceived indefinitely, or without any limits being con ceived of — without the idea of limits ? Is not the idea of mag nitude just that of extension, and proportion in extension ? Is not the idea of figure or form that of extension in different directions — diversity, therefore, in extension, with, again, pro portion ? In any complex idea, again, such as that of world, external world, we have but our elementary ideas variously modified, and then viewed in an aggregate ; and an aggregate, or any complexity, is just considering under the idea of unity what separately would be a number or multitude. A mixed mode with Locke is when various modes of ideas — in other words, ideas modified — are combined or considered in one con crete, or one idea. For instance, the idea of God is a mixed mode. It is the combination of several modified ideas, — sub stance, spiritual substance: time, eternity: power, omnipotence: identity, immutability: space, omnipresence. These are com bined. They are viewed in the aggregate, or in one concrete,
INTELLECT. 247
in unity — one Being. We might go over all our ideas in the same way, and we would but find our elementary ideas vari ously modified, or variously combining, according to the laws and principles of the mind. Take the idea of numbers and their proportions. Here we have but identity, diversity, and proportion — in other words, unity, or a unit — a number of units, giving plurality, and proportion in the number of units, or in the plurality, arid unity in plurality. Four and one are five — that is, four units, and another unit, make five — so do three and two, or three units and two units, and these respec tively give the same result ; or four and one, and three and two, are respectively five. Hence the necessary truths of num bers are just proportion in diversity — unity, therefore, with diversity and proportion. The same with lines, superficies, and with solid figures. The figure of an object is identity, diver sity, proportion, resemblance. Is there any need for separate faculties for all this ? Indeed faculties are not supposable in the one simple, indivisible substance, mind ; but there is no need for them. Our simple ideas take various modifications. They are seen under various aspects ; they enter into various combinations, or are considered in unity, while they might be considered separately, in the concrete, or united with being, while they might be considered in the abstract, or as qualities simply. Our ideas present themselves in the mind under the modifications which the laws of mind, already considered by us, impress upon them, or produce ; and all that we mean by laws is, that the mind operates in such and such a way, or is capable of perceiving or contemplating objects or ideas under such and such aspects or modifications. The law does not give the modification, nor the modification the law, but the modifi cation exists externally to the mind ; after identity — similarity, difference, contrast, analogy, proportion ; and the mind is capa ble of perceiving them, of recognising them. It is mind, one and indivisible in all. It is beautiful to contemplate mind as an indivisible, spiritual substance, and every operation as that mind itself acting — not even its ideas separate from the mind — these ideas being: but mind itself. Who is not lost in the
248 INTELLECT.
admiration of this simplicity, in the marvel presented in the contemplation of a spiritual substance thus changing, but simple and undivided in all its changes ? Have we not an approach here to an explanation of the immutability of God ; for all truth being known to Him, every idea present to His mind, in one wide and comprehensive intelligence, how can He change ? The identity and diversity in all objects which He has created, their resemblances, contrasts, the fine analogies, the proportions, every relation, as every existence, every sub stance, being, quality, the whole range and universe of truth, and possible truth, are present to His omniscient and all-com prehensive mind. It must exist, then, ever the same — Him self, the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness or shadow of turning.
Much controversy has existed as to the nature of our ideas. Are they but modifications of the mind, or are they in the mind ? The general doctrine or view has been that they are in the mind, — not mere modifications of the mind — representative entities, not cognitive modifications, as Sir William Hamilton makes the distinction. This seems to have been the Platonic theory of ideas ; and it was Plato's doctrine, that the archetypes of everything existed in the Divine mind before they had ex ternal embodiment, before they were created. This was also the view which Aristotle took ; his intelligible species being refined sensible species, or the species thrown off by external bodies, refined so as to become the object of intellection, or matter for the understanding or cognitive faculty. This view of our ideas was attributed to Descartes and Locke ; and the latter has especially been charged with being the originator, at least in England, of what is called the representationalist theory of ideas, which laid the foundation, or prepared the way, for Hume and Berkeley's sceptical theories about an external world. We are persuaded that neither Descartes nor Locke held the representationalist theory, although their language may some times seem to give countenance to it. Locke often expressed himself unguardedly ; but immediately upon such expressions, we find passages which demonstrate what his real meaning
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was ; and we could desire nothing more to the purpose, or more clearly and every way admirably expressed. This does not diminish the merit claimed for Dr. Reid, of overthrowing the scepticism of Berkeley and Hume ; for that scepticism was founded upon the representationalist theory of our ideas, whether that theory was entertained by Locke or not. The Platonic and Peripatetic theories, pretty similar in effect at least, and the views of the schoolmen, were the real representationalist theories. It was contended by Berkeley and Hume, that if the external world is perceived through the medium of ideas, these are all that we can be certain of, or that we can know certainly to exist, — everything being in idea, and necessarily so, before the mind can perceive or take cognizance of it. We need go no farther than our ideas for the explanation of what we call matter, or a material framework without us, — in other words, the external world. Sir William Hamilton contends that " the Platonic theory of ideas has nothing to do with a doctrine of sensitive perception ;" and that " its introduction into the question is only pregnant with confusion." But what is his own account of that theory ? He says, " The Platonists, and some of the older Peripatetics, held that the soul virtually contained within itself representative forms, which were only excited by the external reality." This is surely the represen tationalist theory — the representation indeed not coming from without, but still the representation of what is without. The forms of Plato corresponded, according to Sir William Hamil ton, with the " species sensiles expressce" of the schoolmen, although not derived from without, but " having a latent and real existence in the soul, and, by the impassive energy of the mind itself, elicited into consciousness, on occasion of the im pression made on the external organ." Were these forms, so elicited, different from the mind formative, or the formative laws of the mind ? The idea conveyed at least by the termino logy, is that of something apart from the mind, — ideas in the mind. The representationalist theory, then, was fairly charge able only upon the ancients and the schoolmen, and both Locke and Descartes are unfairly implicated in it.
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Whatever may have been the origin of the term idea, there can be little doubt now as to its meaning in general accepta tion. It is now employed generally for that state of mind in which something is mentally present, be it an object of sense, or some abstraction of the mind itself. It has the most generic signification therefore. In its strict etymological signification, it may mean the representation of something, and hence pro perly it could be employed fur objects of sight alone, or the re presentation of these in the mind. It is not, however, so limited now in its application. Idea now is purely a mental thing, and has as abstract a signification as notion or concept, which terms Sir William Hamilton would substitute in the place of Idea, discarding Idea altogether from the terminology of philosophy. Its figurative sense is sunk, and it now signifies generally the thoughts of the mind, which are just the states of the mind at any moment, or successive moments, when it is the mental part, properly speaking, and not the sensational or emotional part of our being, which is had in view. It would be a poor result of philosophy if it were to narrow our terms, so that each would be like a dried specimen of a herbarium, and our meaning was to be fixed by the precise term we used, as well as by the general tenor of our discourse. All life would be taken from language in this way, and a philosophic pedantry would deface all our simplest efforts at communicating thought, and mar often the finest, and perhaps the most impassioned expression of emotion itself. There can be no danger now of confounding "idea" with a representation or picture of its object in the mind. The time when it would create confusion in language, we think, is past. The forms of Plato, the intelli gible species of Aristotle, have vanished with the theories which gave them birth.
We would take ideas, then, for the thoughts of the mind, whatever these are — those mental states which may be called generally thoughts, ideas, conceptions, notions, apprehensions — although there may be a propriety in using one of these terms in preference to another in certain connexions ; the connexion for the most part will suggest the term to be used. Dugald
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Stewart has the following note to his remarks upon what he calls the faculty of conception. " In common discourse," he says, " we often use the phrase of thinking upon an object, to express what I here call the conception of it : — In the follow ing passage," he continues, " Shakespeare uses the former of these phrases, and the words imagination and apprehension as synonymous with each other : —
. . . . ' Who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast ?
Or wallow naked in December's snow,
By thinking on fantastic Summer's heat ?
0 no ! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.' "
It is in the unfettered use of language, though it may not be scientifically precise, that the vividness and freedom of style, and force of expression, often consist. Substitute " conception of the frosty Caucasus," for " thinking on the frosty Caucasus," in the above passage, and how tame the expression compara tively ! Still, when exactness and precision are aimed at, when no disturbing element must be admitted into our thought, or mode of conveying it, when accuracy is at the very moment the object in view, it would be wrong to employ a term about which there could possibly be a mistake, and we properly seek to con vey our meaning in the most unencumbered language. Con ception may often be a better word than idea, notion better than conception, and concept better than all. There are times too when thought is a far better word than idea, although still they might be used as synonymous. Thought expresses more than idea, it goes deeper into the mind ; and when we speak of a fine thought, it is something loftier or profounder than a fine idea. We have used the term idea hitherto, as it is that which is generally employed when speaking of our primitive or elementary ideas, and we do not see that it would be any great improvement, or contribute to greater accuracy, to use the term notions instead. Descartes, according to Sir William Hamilton, was the first who assigned to the term its general meaning, or
252 INTELLECT.
employed it for our thoughts in general. It is the term usually employed by Locke, and, in his use of it, it is by no means exclusively appropriated to an image or picture in the mind — it is employed for the most abstract of the mind's thoughts or conceptions. We use it in the same wide sense.
Our ideas, and their various modifications, then — and these capable of following, or inevitably following, each other in a certain order of connexion — give us the whole of the mental phenomena: the laws or principles by which the ideas are at first obtained, and are afterwards modified, and follow in trains, being supposed. We can thus account for all the faculties.
XVIII.
THE SUPPOSED FACULTIES OF MIND KESOLVED INTO THE PHENOMENA ALREADY CONSIDERED.
Memory we have already taken out of the category of facul ties, and made a property or characteristic of mind. By it, the past in which we ourselves existed is recalled or reproduced. This is more than a conception. Dugald Stewart thus dis tinguishes conception and memory. " Conception," he says, " is often confounded with other powers. When a painter makes a picture of a friend, who is absent or dead, he is commonly said to paint from memory, and the expression is sufficiently correct for common conversation. But in an analysis of the mind, there is ground for a distinction. The power of conception enables him to make the features of his friend an object of thought, so as to copy the resemblance ; the power of memory recognises these features as a former object of percep tion. Every act of memory," Dugald Stewart adds, " includes an idea of the past ; conception implies no idea of time what ever." It is the supposition of faculties which has occasioned those minute distinctions which have been drawn between one faculty and another, or in order to keep the province of one faculty separate from that of another. Discard the notion of faculties, and what have we but ideas passing through the mind, or the mind existing in states, called ideas, according to certain
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laws or characteristics of mind ? Memory and conception are thus not distinguished but in the nature of the ideas present to the mind. In the one case, we have ideas of a past time, of a past scene, of a past object, in which we ourselves lived, or had a part, or which we observed, or were eye-witnesses of. In the other, we have merely ideas of a scene or object in the mind. That is to say, the mind exists in the one instance in the state of a recognised past ; in the other, in the state of a thought, conception, or idea. Dugald Stewart limits conception to absent objects of perception, or to sensations formerly felt. " By conception," he says, "I mean that power of the mind which enables it to form a notion of an absent object of perception ; or of a sensation which it has formerly felt." " I do not contend," he adds, " that this is exclusively the proper meaning of the word, but I think that the faculty I have now defined, deserves to be distinguished by an appropriate name." The distinction between memory and conception, then, according to Dugald Stewart, is the mere circumstance of time in the one, which the other wants. " Every act of memory includes an idea of the past ; conception implies no idea of time whatever." Dugald Stewart gives a beautiful example of what he means by concep tion, quoting again from Shakespeare. " Shakespeare," he says, " calls this power ' the mind's eye.'"
Hamlet says, on the appearance of the ghost of his father : —
" My father ! Methinks I see my father."
Horatio asks, " Where, my Lord ?" And Hamlet replies : " In my mind's eye, Horatio." Stewart, then, limits concep tion to an absent object of perception, or to a past sensation, without the idea of its being past, or without the idea of the time when it was formerly felt ; for then it would be memory. Now, in order to meet the case of an idea or notion of a past perception or sensation, without the notion of time, Dugald Stewart invents a faculty, and calls it conception, or the already recognised faculty of conception lie appropriates to this. By others the faculty is regarded as the same with simple appre hension, and is that faculty of which a simple thought, notion, or idea, without any judgment, or any other adjunct whatever,
2.34 INTELLECT.
is the object. But what thought of the mind does not imply a judgment or discrimination ? In systems of Logic, a distinc tion is drawn between simple apprehension and judgment. But in every simple apprehension there is properly a judgment, in the sense of an idea limited or discriminated. To make conception and simple apprehension, then, synonymous — as a mere thought without a judgment, is to forget what actually takes place in the case of every thought. We can have no thought without a judgment — a limitation or discrimination. Some judgments may be more complex than others, but we cannot have the simplest idea without a judgment ; it is im plied in the very circumstance of its being an idea, that it is discriminated. It is only in the states of simple consciousness that we have no judgment. In the case of our primitive ideas, judgment is more spontaneous than with our other ideas, and hence they are called intuitive judgments ; but there is judg ment wherever there is an idea, in the sense that there is judg ment even where there is direct comparison ; there is discrimi nation. In an intuitive judgment the discrimination is ventured upon intuitively, or at once, without material for it. In another judgment the materials exist. That is all the difference. What is a conception, then, different from a judgment, and what is a j udgment but an idea limited, discriminated, defined ? Dugald Stewart's view of conception, confining it to the notion of a past sensation or an absent object of perception, does not help us to a distinct faculty, for what have we here but an idea ? Is there anything so peculiar about the idea of a past sensation, a pain, for example, we have formerly felt, or of an absent object of perception, to require it to have a name appro priated to it ? I have the idea of an absent friend : Is that not an idea, but a conception, because it is the idea of an absent friend ? Conception may be a more appropriate term for the particular state of the mind at the time when such an idea is present to it, or when it exists in the state of conceiving, or thinking, of an absent friend ; but it is obvious, it is but a state of mind after all, and taking the term idea in its generic sense, it is but the particular kind of idea that constitutes the differ-
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encc between this state of mind and any other in which an idea is present to it. It is the peculiar kind of idea that makes the difference. I think of the scene of my childhood ; it is at this moment present to my mind ; it is in my " mind's eye." What is this as distinguished from the idea of the law of gravity ? Both are ideas, the only distinction is in the nature of the ideas. We have already accounted for the differences of our ideas by their originating circumstances, or their modifying laws. The idea of the scene of my childhood is not one idea ; it is the idea of place, that place separated from me by distance, and distinguished by all the circumstances of scenery and asso ciations and remembrances belonging to the place, and which give it a tender and lively interest to the mind. Still, in all this, we have nothing more than ideas more or less simple, and combining or uniting in one aggregate, or whole, or unity. When a painter endeavours to call up the features of his absent friend, when he succeeds, and when he has those features be fore him, so that he can, by his peculiar art, transfer them to canvas, is not the distinction between this and any thought only in the object thought about ? The one thought is called a conception, the other an idea, it may be ; but is there any peculiar faculty in the one case which we have not in the other ? It may be doubted if it is not memory after all that is at work here. We think of the friend or scene as either is at this moment existing, but how can we distinguish this from the remembrance of the friend or scene when we last saw them ? Is it not memory that is doing the work after all ? At all events, the presence of any absent object of perception does not involve any peculiar faculty. We have nothing but certain ideas after all present to the mind. They may be ideas of an object of perception : Dugald Stewart himself calls it " a notion of an absent object of perception." If it is a notion, it is an idea; and may not that arise to the mind from some link of connexion which we may be able to observe or not ? The term is useful, however, in this application, as marking out, or having regard to, the peculiar kind of idea or ideas present to the mind, and the term should be used in such an applica-
256 INTELLECT.
tion in preference to idea. The state of mind is very little different from that of imagination, as we shall see when we come to consider that faculty. The element that goes to con stitute imagination may be at work in the conception of absent objects of perception, as it may also in the memory of past ob jects of perception. And hence the vividness often of our conceptions and memories, and the peculiar charm that may be around them. The difference in the vividness and clearness of the conception of different minds may be owing to imagina tion or the want of it, the power as it is called of realizing a scene, of picturing our thoughts. Some minds have greater power of conception on this very account, they are pictorial ; they can call up a scene or an object much more vividly than other minds. Imagination may help even the vividness of our most abstract conceptions ; it may not contribute to their distinctness, but it gives them a vividness which they would not otherwise possess. A more analytic or abstract mind may give the thought more distinctly, better defined, more accurately: but the other realizes the idea he has more, and could convey it more vividly to others. He sees it in a picture ; imagination lends its figures even to abstractions ; and the subtlest thought may be obtained by the help of imagination, and conveyed to others through the same medium. It is this very circumstance, the power of a vivid imagination, having almost all the effect of a reality, that Dugald Stewart has mistaken for a momen tary belief in the reality of our conceptions. Were we to see one of Shakespeare's dramas enacted on the stage, with the costume and other circumstances adapted to the characters represented, and the period and action of the drama, and enacted with lifelike reality, we might almost be cheated into the belief that it was a real scene that was taking place before our eyes, and that the dramatis personal were the characters which they only personated. Macbeth might seem to us for the moment overwhelmed by the murder of Duncan and the vision of Banquo, or Lear actually driven to madness by the ingratitude of his daughters : faithful acting has produced an illusion so complete as to be followed by the most serious effects
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on the mind of the spectators. The dramatic action of Whit- field in the pulpit has had the same effect, realizing the scene or the circumstances he was pourtraying, or the impression of which he was wishing to convey, so completely, that the hearer was for the moment carried away, and felt in the very circum stances, or transported to the very scene, described. A sailor, we are told, on one occasion, when Whitfield was describing a storm, and every word and action of the orator gave increased vividness to the picture, hardly doubting that he and those around him were in the utmost peril, and apparently feeling that not a moment was to be lost, exclaimed aloud, " To the long-boat ! to the long-boat !" The way in which, covering his eyes, and weeping with emotion, Whitfield uttered the words, " the wrath to come ! the wrath to come ! " was the means of converting one who afterwards himself became a distinguished preacher. And Whitfield could repeat the same action again and again with the same success. Even the cold infidel seemed to see the angel arrested in his ascent to heaven, as Whitfield apostrophized him in the conclusion of his dis course, and called upon him to stop that he might take the tidings of another soul converted to the heavenly courts : it was Hume that acknowledged, that often as he had heard this stroke of Whitfield's eloquence, it had never failed to produce the same effect upon his mind. " Spinello," says D'Israeli in his " Liter ary Character," "having painted the fall of the rebellious angels, had so strongly imagined the illusion, and more parti cularly the terrible features of Lucifer, that he was himself struck with such horror as to have been long afflicted with the presence of the demon to which his genius had given birth." All are familiar with the anecdote regarding Luther in his cell at Wurtemburg. So lively was his impression of demoniac influence, and so vivid at a particular time his idea of the great tempter of souls, that he thought he saw him, and, in the spirit peculiar to the reformer, hurled his ink-bottle at him, bidding him avaunt, and begone from his presence. Superstitious people, no doubt, believe in the existence of those spirits to which every variety of name has been given, and which have
R
258 INTELLECT.
been assigned to every place, and to every element, and to almost every occasion, while children taught in the absurd lore of ghosts and hobgoblins, and fairies, and genii, will not trust themselves in certain situations, lest they should enjoy a vision of these interesting personages. What shall we say of these cases ? Must we infer from such instances that conception is in every case attended by a momentary belief in the reality or existence of its object, or its presence while it is an object of conception, which belief would be permanent were it not cor rected by the informations of our senses, and the admonitions from the objects around ? Such is Dugald Stewart's doctrine on this subject. He asserts that the painter actually believes in the presence of his friend, while, for the time, he recalls his features. " The belief, indeed," he says, " is only momentary, for it is extremely difficult, in our waking hours, to keep up a steady and undivided attention to any object we conceive or imagine, and as soon as the conception or imagination is over, the belief which attended it is at an end." So far as the con ception is concerned, the belief is perfect ; it is only corrected by the circumstances around us to which our senses are alive. We believe few will subscribe to this doctrine. Granting that in those vivid conceptions where imagination does so much to strengthen the conception, there is belief; this is far from ad mitting that conception itself, as such, or in all instances, is accompanied with a belief in the reality of the object of our conception, or conceptions. But may not those instances of lively conception themselves be explained without resorting to the theory that there is actual belief, even in these instances, in the scene or object concerned ? There was only a realization of the scene, of the object — a vivid imagination, not a belief. In Luther's case there seems to have been some physical affection, and consequently, optical illusion, acting in connexion with a heated fancy. In the case of superstitious people, again, and of children, it is an actual belief ; for they are taught to believe in the existence of spirits and their visits to this lower world, and of those legendary beings whose names are so familiar in pages of romance and fabulous story ; and when
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any shadowy or strange shape meets their eye, and they cannot correct their impression by other objects of sight, it is not a conception that is believed in, it is the notion or idea they have received as true, and which they never thought to question. A vivid impression of a scene is not belief in it. The exclama tion of the seaman under Whitfield's oratory may have been only the effect of excitement ; and we know how ready sea faring men are to obey the impulse of every varying feeling. It is difficult to determine, however, how far the illusion may go without reaching actual belief. In reading an ordinary story, we know well that all is fiction, and yet, owing to the vividness of the description, and the truth to nature, what is called the verisimilitude of the narrative, we have the pleasure almost of being among the scenes described. We realize the sentiments and feelings of the parties, as if they were our own, or as if we were in their circumstances. That it is not belief is evident, for we have an interest even in the most harrowing circumstances, the belief of which must destroy all pleasure, and produce, not interest, but actual suffering. Authors have wept at passages of their own writing. Alfieri noted in the margin of one of his dramas, " written while shedding a flood of tears." Burns was seen by his wife, in the field, indulging an incon- trollable fit of laughter, and when he came into the house, he repeated to her " Tarn o' Shanter." D'lsraeli has recorded an interesting circumstance connected with Mrs. Siddons, which we give in his own words : — ;c The great actress of our age, during representation, always had the door of her dressing- room open, that she might listen to, and, if possible, watch the whole performance with the same attention as was experienced by the spectators. By this means she possessed herself of all the illusion of the scene ; and when she herself entered upon the stage, her dreaming thoughts then brightened into a vision, where the perceptions of the soul were as firm and clear as if she were really the Constance or the Katherine whom she only represented." The same author says, — " Actors of genius have accustomed themselves to walk on the stage for an hour before the curtain was drawn, that they might fill their minds with all
260 INTELLECT.
the phantoms of the drama, and so suspend communion with the external world." The ancient Rhapsodists seem to have derived their name from the effect which their own compositions had upon them. The Italian improvvisatori, at the present day, appear to realize all that is said of lyrical bards and minstrels of former times. We would give one other quotation from D'Israeli, for he has a chapter devoted to a kindred subject to that on which we are now treating. "Amidst the monuments of great and departed nations," says he, " our imagination is touched by the grandeur of local impressions, and the vivid associations, or suggestions of the manners, the arts, and the individuals, of a great people. The classical author of Anacharsis, when in Italy, would often stop as if overcome by his recollections. Amid camps, temples, circuses, hippodromes, and public and private edifices, he, as it were, held an interior converse with the names of those who seemed hovering about the capital of the old world, as if he had been a citizen of ancient Rome travelling in the modern. So men of genius have roved amid the awful ruins till the ideal presence has fondly built up the city anew, and have become Romans in the Rome of two thousand years past."
We have in all these instances the power of a vivid concep tion, or rather imagination ; for it is imagination which pro duces all these effects. Mere ideas or conceptions present to the mind would not give us them. Imagination must vivify them, or they must be accompanied in the mind with that mysterious element which, accompanying any of our concep tions, constitute them the conceptions of imagination, and give to them a brightness and a charm which are indefinable and indescribable. This power, or the element accompanying it, makes the most ideal scene real, renders the past present, and brings the absent and the dead within " the mind's eye." Our conceptions unbrightened by this element are dull enough : they are mere conceptions. With this element playing about them, they are clothed in sunlight ; and an effect, which words cannot describe, possesses and fills the whole soul. But vivid ness itself, apart from any other effect of imagination, is an
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important one in reference to our conceptions, and that whether as respects ourselves, or in order to our vividly conveying them to others. We find at one time that we can much more vividly and impressively communicate our thoughts than at others, and the difference is in the liveliness of our conceptions. Vividly to conceive is vividly to express. It is wonderful the difference between the expression of a thought at one time and at another. And it will be found that when we conceive or think most strongly, our thoughts will take a figurative turn or expression. This is seen in the more impassioned parts of Shakespeare's dialogue. The power of conceiving strongly may be cultivated by the habit of thinking, by conversation, and familiarity with those authors who are the best examples of thinking themselves, and who most vividly convey their thoughts in writing. The cultivation of the imaginative faculty for this purpose is of some importance. If the reason alone is cul tivated, it is most likely that vivacity of expression will be sacrificed, and jejuneness both of thinking and expression will be the result. All the finer poets should be studied : we should invite the visitations of that spirit ourselves by which nature becomes a scene of greater delight, and we see life in every thing around us. Inanimate objects will then speak to us, and the mind will not be a storehouse of facts, or a machine for giving out arguments as formal as they may be scientific or correct ; but a living principle, inviting truth from every quar ter, inhaling it, taking in the inspirations of nature, and what is above nature — a soul feeling as well as thinking, and when thinking the most abstractly, loving truth all the more that it has points of contact with the simplest as well as the sublimest lessons.
Abstraction, Judgment, Reasoning, and Imagination, form the next subject of examination or analysis, as reputed faculties of the mind.
ABSTRACTION.
Abstraction is generally regarded as that power which the mind possesses of attending to one or more objects or qualities
262 INTELLECT.
of objects, to the exclusion of all others. When an object is presented to our contemplation, were we not capable of confin ing our attention to itself, or one of its distinguishing charac teristics — considering the object in detail — it is plain that none of its qualities could become known to us. For every object is made up of a number of qualities, and monads alone can be said to be simple. For any object, then, to be the object of our knowledge, it must be known in respect of its several qualities. But for these qualities to be severally known, again, they must be separately considered. When an object is pre sented to us in the aggregate, we have at first, we must have, but a very confused conception of it, or rather no conception of it at all ; for as we have traced our ideas, they unfold very gradually, or are formed by the mind in somewhat of a regular order or succession. The faculty of abstraction, then, if it is a faculty, begins with our earliest exercise of mind. We can acquire but one idea at a time. Our ideas may become com plex, and there may be in them what Dr. Brown calls virtual equivalence, which is the nearest that we can come to the explanation of complexity in a simple, undivided, and indivisi ble substance ; but it is obvious it is but one idea that the mind can obtain at a time. Our knowledge of the qualities of matter and of mind is acquired in this way ; and it is in the same way that the distinguishing characteristics of bodies come to be known ; for the knowledge of the qualities of matter as such, can be regarded as only extended, when we add to that, the knowledge of the powers or properties which are lodged in bodies. Many of the properties of bodies are but the primary and secondary qualities which belong to matter as such : but there are properties which arise out of the powers with which different bodies are endowed ; and these can be ascertained, or become the object of knowledge, just as we acquire the know ledge of the simple qualities of matter. In like manner our minds, or mind itself, can be the object only of successive observation, or successive consciousness. Both matter and mind, therefore, develop their qualities, and their several phenomena, in detail. We acquaint ourselves with them,
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as they unfold themselves to our observation. Now, liter ally, this is the whole of abstraction. Instead of having a power of considering objects or qualities separately, or apart, we cannot, if we would, do otherwise. We have not the power of doing anything else. Singular, to assign a faculty to a mere mode of procedure in the mind, and what is rather the absence of a faculty, or the inability to comprehend things in the aggre gate, or except in detail. That is not a power, surely, which is merely the order in which our knowledge is acquired. There are two ways in which knowledge may be prosecuted, or rather obtained. It may be obtained involuntarily, or voluntarily — that is, it may thrust itself upon us, or we may set ourselves to seek it, or prosecute it. We either make it the direct matter of our pursuit, for we must have knowledge of some kind, and the lowest observations that can be made must still be ranked as observations ; or qualities and objects develop themselves to us without any care or attention on our part. But in either way, it is only one subject at a time that can engage our minds. We would in vain seek to embrace more than one matter of observation, were we ever so willing. This is the very order, then, in which all knowledge is obtained, and all knowledge is prosecuted. It is said we have the faculty of selecting subjects of observation, of making some quality or attribute the subject of our attention, while we exclude every other. Strange faculty that, which is rather the faculty of not being able to do any thing else. To call that a faculty, which is the want of one ! The faculty of abstraction is the faculty of not considering, or making the object of attention, more things than one at the same time. Is this a faculty, or is it not rather the absence of one ? We know not what higher intelligences can do, — what is the process of their inquiries, or the way in which they obtain their knowledge, — but our own faculties are obviously limited to the acquisition of one subject of knowledge at a time. We proceed by successive steps in our knowledge ; we cannot take any more comprehensive glance than a single observation im plies ; we have not the universal intuition of Omniscience, nt>r the wide survey which, it may be, superior intelligences are
264 INTELLECT.
capable of. Our knowledge grows upon us, or we increase it by voluntary, but in all cases single, observations. We confine ourselves, just because we can do nothing else, to a single sub ject of inquiry, or to one object of observation. Some one quality or attribute of a substance or body, or it may be of mind, engages our attention. Now, it is what is voluntary in this process that gives it the aspect of a separate faculty, or indeed of a faculty at all. The act of a volition, the result of -a desire, and the consequent mental effort or occupation of our thoughts, that is abstraction. We wish to consider a certain subject, or to investigate or examine a certain quality or attri bute of an object, — the doing this is called abstraction ; and this process — for it is not a faculty — is made a faculty of the mind, and is extended to a process much simpler, the involun tary process by which all our simple ideas are acquired, and much of our succeeding knowledge is obtained. It is said to be by the process of abstraction that our knowledge of qualities at all is obtained. It is said that we abstract the quality of hardness from that of softness, or that we abstract this quality from all other qualities, and call it hardness. But has not the quality of hardness just forced itself upon our attention before any abstraction, and irrespective of any voluntary effort of ours ? Dr. Brown, with that extreme subtilty and acuteness which distinguished him, has the following observations in connexion with this subject: — " In abstraction, the mind is supposed to single out a particular part of some one of its complex notions for particular consideration. But what is the state of the mind immediately preceding this intentional separation — its state at the moment in which the supposed faculty is conceived to be called into exercise ? Does it not involve necessarily the very abstraction which it is supposed to produce ? And must we not, therefore, in admitting such a power of voluntary separa tion, admit an infinite series of preceding abstractions, to ac count for a single act of abstraction ? If we know what we single out, we have already performed all the separation which is necessary ; if we do not know what we are singling out, and do not even know that we are singling out anything, the sepa-
INTELLECT. 265
rate part of the complex whole may, indeed, rise to our con ception ; but it cannot arise by the operation of any voluntary faculty. That such conceptions do indeed arise, as states of the mind, there can be no question. In every sentence which we read, in every affirmation which we make, in almost every portion of our silent train of thought, some decomposition of more complex perceptions or notions has taken place. The exact recurrence of any complex whole, at any two moments, is perhaps what never takes place. After we look at a scene before us so long as to have made every part familiar, if we close our eyes to think of it, in the very moment of bringing our eyelids together, some change of this kind has taken place. The complex whole, which we saw the instant before, when conceived by us in this instant succession, is no longer, in every circumstance, the same complex whole. Some part, or rather many parts, are lost altogether."
" Abstraction," Dr. Brown continues, " as far as abstraction consists in the rise of conceptions in the mind, which are parts of former mental affections more complex than these, does un questionably occur ; and since it occurs, it must occur accord ing to laws which are truly laws of the mind, and must indicate some mental power, or powers, in consequence of which the conceptions termed abstract arise. Is it necessary, however, to have recourse to any peculiar faculty, or are they not rather modifications of those susceptibilities of the mind which have been already considered by us ?"
The point to which Dr. Brown brings the question, is just that at which by an independent tract of thought we have arrived. The separate conceptions of the mind in any case constitute the whole of the supposed faculty of abstraction. There is a voluntary effort of the mind, however, by which we make some subject or some quality the exclusive object of our regard or attention. We voluntarily abstract our minds, as it is said, from every other subject, from every other quality, or we consider those which are the object of our attention apart. On the one hand, we abstract our minds, or on the other, we abstract the qualities for separate consideration. The proper
26G INTELLECT.
view undoubtedly is, that we abstract our minds from all other subjects or objects of attention. But what is this abstraction of our minds ? What is this voluntary effort ? It is just the operation of a certain volition, the result of a desire to possess ourselves of a certain subject of knowledge, and what already is to some extent the matter of our knowledge, becomes matter of further consideration or regard, and new conceptions arise concerning it in the same involuntary way, that the part which has previously given itself to us did. All that is peculiar in the process, is the act of volition by which something, in part known, is made the object of contemplation, or exclusive atten tion ; and thus attention is a part of the process : but what is attention ? It also is regarded as a peculiar faculty ; but it is no more than that desire or volition we have spoken of blend ing with, or influencing our trains of conception : it is that desire or volition controlling our minds, so that we have exclu sive regard to one subject of thought, we are said to attend to that one subject. Our conceptions, here, however, are as in voluntary as in the most involuntary suggestions. Our con ceptions are independent of us. It is only an indirect influence that our volitions have upon our conceptions. They truly arise involuntarily. This has been shewn by Dr. Brown in the most satisfactory way ; and Stewart adverts to the same circumstance or feature of our associations. All that the will can do, is to direct the mind continuously to what has once spontaneously arisen ; or it may lead us to dismiss it from our minds, suspend our thoughts of it ; although this very volition often makes it all the more tenacious. In the former case it is attention, and it seems to be this which constitutes the peculiarity of abstrac tion, or which leads to the invention or supposition of such a faculty.
JUDGMENT.
Judgment is another of the supposed faculties of the mind ; and it is the only one of the faculties as classified that, along with memory, we would be disposed to admit as a distinct mental process or power. But there is no need to suppose a
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distinct faculty even here ; or rather it is not a philosophic view of the mind to ascribe to it faculties, and we prefer to contemplate the mind as mind, characterized by certain laws and principles which are intuitive to it, or which are the sources and modifying causes of all our ideas. The laws of mind, or the aspects under which qualities and objects are seen or contemplated, present certain relations to the mind, and a judgment is nothing more or less than a quality or object seen under these relations. A resemblance, a contrast, an analogy, a proportion : qualities or objects are seen under one or other of these aspects. Or identity is what is perceived, and what is predicated. This is the whole of judgment. It may be said, — well, but this is a faculty. Is it not rather our ideas exist ing merely under certain relations ? It is not judgment that forms these relations ; these relations exist independently of us, and our minds perceive them, or our minds are formed to exist in states of relation. What is judgment, the supposed faculty of the mind, exercised about, but the identity, resemblance, analogy, contrast, or proportion, existing among objects or qualities ? What are our judgments, but perceived or felt re lations, or more simply, ideas of relation ? When we speak of the faculty of judgment, it is as if that faculty sat in formal deliberation upon two simple ideas, and pronounced a verdict respecting them, the proportion, for example, and precise pro portion, between them. It is implied in the faculty, if it is viewed as a faculty, that it institutes a formal comparison, and having made the necessary examination or scrutiny, pronounces accordingly. We accordingly speak of the judgment which the mind forms — of the mind judging; we say, this is my judg ment — this is the judgment which I form. An opinion is a judgment, and we speak of forming an opinion. But in all these cases we have nothing but ideas seen under certain relations.
A judgment may be said to be a mental perception, just as we have external perceptions, or perceptions of objects without. A real relation is a mental object. Dr. Keid confines the term perception to the perception of objects without, and it was he
268 INTELLECT.
who vindicated for perception an immediate and intuitive effect, in opposition to the representational theory of perception, and in refutation of the scepticism of Berkeley and Hume. Sir William Hamilton sees no reason for such a limitation. We are forced often to employ the word when it has application to merely a mental object, a truth, a relation of any kind. We may correctly say, I perceive a truth, or I perceive a relation. A judgment, then, is just a perceived relation — what Dr. Brown calls a " felt relation," a phrase of more doubtful propriety. And yet we somehow fall very naturally into the phrase, a felt relation, a feeling of relation. This is rather difficult to account for, since a relation is not properly an object of feeling. Feel ing belongs either to the sensational or to the emotional part of our nature. But a perceived relation is essentially mental, or belongs to the mind proper, not to the emotions. But with out discussing so nice a point, we say that a judgment is a perceived or a felt relation, and there is therefore no need of a peculiar faculty which we may call judgment. We have still just the mind existing in a certain state, a state of relation. All our judgments are but the evolution of certain relations, and these are given to us by the intuitions and laws of mind which we have considered. It seems to us that this is the view demanded by a strict and accurate philosophy. For all prac tical purposes, of course, we may speak of our judgments, and of the faculty of judgment. We may speak of the faculty of conception — of the faculty of abstraction. We cannot be draw ing nice metaphysical distinctions, in common language, and for ordinary or practical purposes. But it is well that we know what we are saying — what we are speaking about after all — that we have taken the gauge or survey of the mind. We are enabled thus even when we speak in popular language, to avoid those errors which ignorance of the real phenomena of the mind frequently induces. We can take a more precise and correct view of many a question or subject, or see at once what, perhaps, may, without such a knowledge of the mind, involve or occasion long and tedious, and, it may be, vague discussion. A clear view of mind will settle many a dispute, about which
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otherwise there might be much desultory debate, or will settle it much more speedily than when a haze hung about it, which proceeded entirely from our ignorance of mind and its real phenomena. It is not, therefore, to introduce metaphysics into our ordinary speech, or the management of ordinary discourse, that we pursue the analysis of mind to the utmost extent that we may regard it capable of. But we do so, because, in the first place, it is demanded of us that we pursue every subject to its legitimate issue or limits, or present it in its exact point of view or bearing ; and, in the second place, for the highest of all practical purposes to which any subject can be turned, viz., the right elucidation, or the accurate discrimination, of truth.
Let us look at this view of judgment as it bears upon the subject of reasoning, or the supposed faculty of reasoning.
Reasoning, as distinguished from judgment, is a series of judgments : we compare one judgment with another, and de duce or evolve a third. We assert some general proposition — we include a particular under it, and get the truth of the par ticular, therefore, in the general. We assert, all spiritual sub stances are immortal : we include under that assertion the immortality of the human soul, or find the immortality of the human soul involved in the immortality of spiritual substances. We get the truth of the particular from the truth of the gene ral. We predicate something of a general term ; we then predicate the general term of the particular, or include the particular under the general, and we thus are warranted to assert of the particular what we had asserted of the general. This is the common form of reasoning, and it is that form to which every other may be reduced. Now, taking this as the common form of reasoning, as it undoubtedly is, it will be seen that we have here but extended relations, relation involved in relation. It is obvious that what is true of general terms must be true of the particulars included under them ; and it is only necessary, therefore, to assert or establish the relation of the general and the particular, to obtain the same relation regard ing the particular that we had already obtained in the case of the general. That in reasoning we deduce a particular from a
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general, we have already endeavoured to shew. And we have shewn that a new generalization takes place in order to this. But this is nothing more than the deducing of relations — the perception of dependent relations. Reasoning is nothing more than this. A process of reasoning, again, or rather a train of reasoning, is just an extended series of such reason ings.
IMAGINATION.
The only faculty, or supposed faculty, that remains to be considered, or that falls under our analysis, is Imagination. We have included it in our classification of the mental pheno mena ; but we said then that it was distinguished from the other phenomena, only as implying the rest, while it was attended by a state peculiar to itself, and which, for want of a better name, we call the ideal, or imaginative state. The grand peculiarity of imagination is that state. For, what have we in imagination but ideas ? and there is no source of our ideas but those which we have considered. These ideas, how ever, are seen under, or accompanied by, a state, which gives to them all their peculiarity ; so that we have not merely ideas, but ideas of the imagination. In Milton's description of the moon, for example, —
" Riding near her highest noon, Like one who had been led astray, Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
we have just the ideas of place, of time, and the relation of analogy, or an idea seen under the law of analogy. But are these ideas — is this analogy — all of this fine conception ? Surely not. There is a fine essence here not yet accounted for by the mere circumstance of ideas, and any relation whatever. That would never account for, would never constitute, the imagination implied in the conception. Shelley thus addresses the moon : —
" Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering cornpanionless ? "
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What is the fine essence that gives to this thought all its beauty ? The moon is seen rising in the heavens, pale with its own silvery light, and among the stars, with which it seems to have no companionship. This is formed into the conception of " weariness with climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, companionless." Who does not recognise the beauty of this conception ? Shall we repudiate it as absurd ? Then we are either insensible to the fineness of imaginative conception, or we are resolved to regard everything as absurd which is not literal truth or reality ; and with us imagination is not a legi timate state, or faculty, of the mind. But it is a state, or faculty of the mind, whether we repudiate it or not, or whether we possess it or not. The moon is not the simple planet which attends upon our orb, or which wanders round our earth. It is endued with life : it is invested with consciousness and feel ing. It climbs the heaven : it is conceived to do so reluctantly : it feels its loneliness ; and that too among the stars which have a different birth : there is no congeniality, no companionship, between the moon and the stars: it gazes on the earth, all solitary in the wide and pathless sky ! Who would deny this fine conception ? Has it no truthfulness, no reality, no beauty ? The mind, at least, in its activity of imagination, forms the conception. In spite of itself, these ideas are awakened. Pollok, again, describes the moon gazing on the earth
. ..." as if she saw some wonder walking there."
Whence the effect of these ideas ? whence their power ? Why does the sea seem to speak with a multitudinous voice ? Why does the wind complain ? why does it moan or rave ? — at one time " teasing itself with a wayward melancholy," at another, as if the voices of the dead
" Rose on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
This is an idea very common in Ossian ; and Byron in his boyhood caught the spirit of Ossian : —
" Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?
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Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale."
" From the rock on the hill," says Ossian, " from the top of the windy steep, speak ye ghosts of the dead ! speak, I will not be afraid ! " " When night comes on the hill, when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of friends." " Lay by that beam of heaven, son of the windy Cromla. What cave is thy lonely house ? What green-headed hill the place of thy repose ? Shall we not hear thee in the storm ? in the noise of the mountain stream ? when the feeble sons of the wind come forth, and, scarcely seen, pass over the desert ?" The thunder speaks with the voice of God : the floods roar : the forests clap their hands : the fields rejoice. With Milton, when the strains of music are heard, —
. . . . " Even Silence
Was took, ere she was ware, and wished she might Deny her nature, and he never more, Still to he so displaced."
When Comus hears the same strains, he says, —
" How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of Silence, through the empty vaulted night, At every fall, soothing the raven down Of darkness."
The lady in Comus, in one state of feeling, speaks of evening as " gray-hooded Eve," and likens it to a
" Sad votaress in Palmer's weeds."
In Shakespeare, it is " tragic, melancholy night ;" and Macbeth, intent upon his murderous deeds, says, —
. . . . " Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day."
Whence the power of these conceptions ? or what gives them to us ? Is it the analogy that is couched in them ? But every imaginative conception does not convey or embody an analogy. And even where it is analogy — as this unquestionably is the
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principal source or vehicle of imaginative conception — that is the explanation of the beauty of any thought, the question is, why analogy should be such a source of beauty, or produce such effects ? What is there in analogy to do this, and only in some analogies, and not in all ? Many analogies are scien tific, and have no imaginative character. It is not the analogy that will explain the imagination, neither is it imagination that gives a character to the analogy, but a certain state which we call the imaginative state, and which seems to be inexpli cable, allows of certain analogies being imaginative, while others are not. It is impossible to explain this state, or analyze it : it seems to be an ultimate phenomenon of the mind, and re fuses all analysis and explanation. Under this state the naind is imaginative, even when it cannot express or body its ideas. The ideas are virtually in the mind ; but are they always those of analogy or even resemblance ? Certain of our ideas seem to be poetic, or to have a poetic effect of themselves, irrespective of any analogy or foreign element. They are poetic, and we can say no more about it. The finest of our poetic states, cer tainly, are those in which we are put on seeking an analogy ; but the question recurs, why is this poetic ? why is this ima ginative ? what is there in the seeking an analogy, or in the actual feeling or perception of an analogy, that produces the poetic effect, or that may be described as the imaginative state ?* This cannot be explained ; and it is here that we see the peculiarity of imagination. It will not give up its proper nature to all our demands or questionings. To try to ascertain the subtle element, were like trying to catch the element that runs along the electric wires, and communicates mysteriously
* A recent writer on imagination very have no regard to analogies, while it happily characterizes it as " the seeking does not, after all, resolve the mystery, of a new concrete." We believe this is or shew why this seeking a new concrete an accurate description of imagination is imaginative, or is the source of ima- in many instances, and perhaps in its ginative pleasure. This peculiar mystery highest operations. But this makes no is not even referred to by that writer, account of those cases in which we are The question still is, Why is the " seek- truly in the imaginative state, though ing a new concrete" imaginative, what we are not seeking a new concrete, and is imagination ?
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with half the world ; to fix the influences that paint the flowers, or that form the colours of the morning or the sunset skies, that silver the shell in its caves, or make the sea obedient to all the moods and changes of the heavens. Certain of our ideas are poetic, imaginative ; why, it is impossible to say. This far can be determined regarding them, what Alison has brought out in regard to the ideas or conceptions which result in, or give, the feeling of beauty, that they are ideas or conceptions of emotion, — as antiquity, melancholy, pity, tenderness, purity, fragility, power, majesty, and suchlike. And it is this which makes the beautiful and sublime so hardly separable from the imaginative — or from imagination. In many circumstances it is impossible to say whether we are in the state, of feeling the beautiful, or experiencing the imaginative, in other words, in a state of imagination. It is difficult to say whether it is the beautiful that constitutes the imaginative, or imagination that creates the beautiful. The beautiful and the sublime are un questionably attendants on the imaginative, if they do not constitute it. Ideas of emotion are the element of both. The beautiful and the sublime will always be found connected with ideas of emotion. So will the imaginative ; the resultant state in both cases is the phenomenon that refuses to be explained.
Did our limits permit, we might dwell upon the different aspects of imagination, its modes of operation, its effects. It would be especially interesting to look at it in its more creative character, in the poet ; in the lyric, or the drama, or the more majestic epic ; and wit and humour would be seen to be aspects of this faculty or phenomenon, the former of a creative fancy, the latter of a more creative imagination. These are subjects, however, which would require, as they have obtained, treatises for themselves.
It is in the imaginative state that the mind is so active in perceiving analogies, " seeking new concretes," animating and personifying nature, and obtaining those figures of speech which have their element, or find their material, in resem blances and analogy. It is to this source that we owe much of
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what may be called the beautiful but erring mythology of the Greeks and Romans : —
. . . . " Sunbeams upon distant hills, Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, Might with small help of fancy he transformed Into fleet oreads sporting visibly."
The ghosts and fairies, the gnomes and other imaginary beings of a rade state of society, owe their origin to the acti vity of this principle, united with the suggestions of a super stitious fear. In certain circumstances the imagination is ready enough, in the most cultivated age, to body forth these imaginary creatures, and to entertain a certain dread which it requires some effort of reason to counteract. It is in those very places where the imagination has most scope to operate, or most suggestives to its action, that we find the superstitions prevailing which are connected with the existence and the ex ploits of the beings of imagination.
Our limits, however, will not permit us to dwell upon these topics.
Imagination, as it is partly an emotional, as well as an in tellectual state, furnishes an appropriate point of transition from an intellectual course to that on which we are now to enter — the Emotions, or states of emotion.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.
THE spiritual constitution of man is composed of more than a merely intellectual provision or apparatus ; the intellectual is but a part of his compound being, and not the most important part. Marvellous is the combination of that spiritual nature which resides within us, or rather which constitutes ourselves. The spiritual and immaterial soul is composed of qualities and endowments as opposite, almost, or as diverse, as matter and mind, having no affinity save that of being both spiritual, or belonging to one spiritual substance, yet capable of acting and reacting on each other in a surprising manner ; in which total distinctness or diversity, and yet mutual reaction, consists much that is so wonderful in our spiritual constitution. The intel lectual part of our nature is a surpassing mystery — those pro cesses by which the mind becomes all light, opens to ideas of itself and the outer world or universe, puts upon all that is external or internal its own forms, while these forms have their counterpart without, or in the inner self, constructs science, and makes its own processes the subject of its investigation — but marvellous as this is, there are mysteries of our nature far greater than these, and the intellectual part may be said to be the least wonderful of our compound being.
We have considered the purely intellectual part of our nature, linked as that is with what is sensational, what ties us to matter, and connects us with that world on which, for a time, we are to expatiate, and where those destinies that are
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to reach into eternity have their commencement : we have traced the awakening and development of the Intellect, the manner in which its ideas are acquired, those processes which are commonly referred to faculties, but which we have chosen to consider as mind simply, acting according to certain laws, or developing these laws ; and we now arrive at a distinct department of our spiritual being : we pass out of the intellectual into the emotional ; and there lies even beyond that territory, another still more wonder ful and of higher account, and still beyond that, a sphere which links us with the loftiest created intelligences, and even with Deity himself. And thus while the sensational connects us with the lowest parts of being, or of creation, there is what connects us with God, and makes us fit companions of angels. It is not to be supposed, however, that while these departments are so distinct, they have no connexion with each other, that they do not interlace, as it were, or enter into beautiful and admirable combination. What is so admirable in our spiritual being or constitution, is the mutual dependence of the different parts, or the mutual action between these parts, the influence which the one has upon the other — the sensational upon the intellectual — the intellectual again upon the sensational- giving its forms to it, the intellectual upon the emotional, the moral, and the spiritual, and these again upon the intellectual, and upon one another. But as distinct as the boundary is be tween the sensational and the intellectual, it is scarcely more so than that between the intellectual and the emotional part of our being, while there is an entirely distinct element again in the moral, and still an additional element in the spiritual, though this and the moral element are very nearly allied, if they are not altogether one. That the moral is also emotional, there can be no question, and we know how much of this latter element enters into our spiritual nature ; but there is a depart ment purely emotional, in which there is nothing that is either moral, or in the sense described spiritual. The faculty or phe nomenon of imagination, is perhaps the connecting link be tween the intellectual and the emotional ; at least we saw that a great part of that phenomenon of mind consisted in the
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emotion distinguishing the ideas of imagination, or those ideas which in virtue of that very emotion are called ideas of the imagination. It is the emotional element in them which gives them all their peculiarity, so that they are totally and strikingly diverse from all other ideas. We cannot determine why the emotion accompanies the idea — why that peculiar idea should be so characterized — whether it is the idea that awakens the emotion, or the emotion is the grand element, and the idea would be nothing without the emotion, while the connexion is entirely an arbitrary one, and has been appointed by the Author of our constitution : we say we cannot determine this ; but we should not at least wish to regard the connexion as arbitrary ; and there is much in the conceptions of imagination that would seem to claim for themselves an intrinsic virtue — the power to beget the emotion. There is something far more wonderful in u conception of the imagination than we can perhaps ever ex plain or comprehend ; in that single combination of Virgil, for example, in describing the place of shades, —
. . . . " loca nocte tacentia late,"
who can tell why the idea here suggested to the mind is so peculiar — is associated with so peculiar an emotion ? What is in that one word, " tacentia," suggestive of all that is solemn, sublime, almost oppressive to the mind. — calling up those dim localities, those shades lying silent far and wide under night ? What is there in anything that is pictorial or graphic ? What is there in scenery itself, to awaken those feelings or emotions which are peculiarly those of imagination, and which are so pleasing and interesting ? But the point now to be attended to is, that ideas of imagination are connected with emotion ; and thus the transition is easy, from the consideration of this faculty or phenomenon, into the strictly emotional part of our nature.
Man, besides being capable of intellectual effort, — besides being an intellectual being, possessed of reason, understand ing, intelligence, with the peculiar faculty to which we have now adverted, is also endowed \vith an emotional nature or
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capacity. He is capable of feeling, as well as of thinking. The spiritual substance within him is capable not only of the quick motions of intellect, but of the exciting sensations of emotion ; and these two parts of his nature are very different. The emotional is more allied to the sensational than to the intellectual, though still so different from either. We can speak of the sensations of emotion just as we speak of the bodily sensations. There is a region of feeling in the mind, or the same spiritual substance which thinks can feel, which ex hibits the phenomena of intellection, exhibits the phenomena of emotion. It is the same spiritual substance in all, but now it thinks, and now it feels, — now it is an intellectual, and now it proves itself an emotional nature ; and it may be both at once, while sensational impressions of pain or pleasure may be racking or transporting it. And here we take no account of the strictly moral or spiritual departments of our being, still higher and more important departments than either the sensational or intellectual, or purely emotional. Of all is man composed, but we have now to do with the strictly emotional. We view man as capable of emotion, — mental feeling as it may be termed.
Were we to conceive man a purely intellectual being, unsus ceptible of emotion, he would present a very different object of contemplation from what he now does. Pure intellect, uncon nected with feeling, would be a very curious object of con templation. Sometimes it has been nearly realized in actual specimens of our race : while in some the intellectual far predominates over the emotional, and in others again the emotional over the intellectual. But a purely intellectual being has never been seen. The " Stoic of the woods — the man without a tear," — " impassive, fearing but the shame of fear," was yet capable of the strongest emotions — was roused to in dignation — was fired with revenge — was touched with tender ness — was moved to sympathy — though he could conceal all under an appearance of indifference, or restrain all within the bounds of comparative equanimity. Wordsworth, in one of his peculiar productions, speaks of an " intellectual all in all," but there never was such a being. Circumstances, habits, pursuits,
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may give a prominence to one part of our nature over another — may develop the intellect at the expense of the feelings. There is a danger of the intellectual acquirements displacing the due cultivation of the heart, of the feelings. The scholar who becomes a pedant, the mathematician who sees little or nothing but the relations of figures, the metaphysician who turns even the phenomena of his own thinking and spiritual self into a mere field of speculation, may exhibit little of the amiable or the lofty in feeling, and may shrink up into a mere thing of intellect, and intellect perhaps in its most mechanical operations or driest processes ; but even in such examples the key of the emotions has only to be touched, and deep feeling, or thrilling emotion, will awaken like the tones of an instru ment, though somewhat out of tune. It is by his emotions that the intellectual being becomes the being of action, and of dignified, and amiable, and lively feeling, that we find him. Otherwise, he would be incapable 'of forming into society ; or, at all events, that were a strange congregation, a singular moving crowd, which the world would present, when intellect was all, and feeling was entirely absent, — no loves, no hatreds, no sympathy, no wonder, no fear, but the cold ray of mind enlightening, guiding, directing, actuating. Man is not so con stituted. He is not all intellect merely ; his mind is not the cold region of intellectual light merely, the region of polar rays, where no emotions kindle, and the illuminating shaft shoots not from a heavenly zenith, but from a cold horizon, round which it circulates eternally. Such is not man. His mind warms under the sun that enlightens, kindles with emotion, and bursts into all the fruitfulness of moral and spiritual vegeta tion. There is an atmosphere in the mind as well as a light — a region of emotion — and it is the interpenetration of the two that produces all those varied and beautiful phenomena which we find distinguishing the mental, as the combination of the same two agencies produces such admirable phenomena in the natural world.
But we have not yet Jbund what that peculiar state of the mind which we call an emotion is. We have said that the
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mind exhibits this phasis as well as the intellectual, and that the purely emotional is a department or characteristic of the mind by itself. It is the kind of atmosphere of the mind ; it is its vital breath ; its emotions are truly its life. Destroy its emotions, and the merely intellectual would go out like light in an exhausted receiver. It is the emotions that form that glorious cloud-land, and all those brilliant effects, which intel lect and emotion together produce, or which, iu the repose of mind, when its more brilliant shafts may not be playing, lie in soft loveliness, and fill up the scene with a tranquil and attrac tive beauty. Or all may be storm and tempest, enveloping the light of mind, or broken only by feeble or fitful gleams, leaving the scene more dark than before, and only revealing the night that is in the sky.
An emotion, like all the states of the mind, when we come to define them, is insusceptible of definition, except in language which would need itself to be defined. It may be called a mental feeling, as sensation is a bodily one ; and this is the nearest, perhaps, that we can come to anything like an accurate idea, or rather to anything like an accurate description, of the peculiar phenomenon which we call by the name Emotion, for all have a clear enough idea of the phenomenon who have once experienced it ; — and who has not been actuated by emotion of one kind or another, and almost every hour or moment of his being ? We can safely appeal to every one, then, for a correct enough idea of emotion, although, it may be, incapable of definition. It is feeling ; it is not an idea ; it is not an act of intellect, or exercise of intelligence ; it is not memory ; it is not imagination, although emotion accompanies every act of imagination, and is essential to it. It is a state of feeling, and we call it mental feeling, as distinguished from sensation, which is partly bodily, and partly mental. An emotion is not a sen sation, although it is more nearly allied to that than to what is purely mental or intellectual ; while, again, it does not belong to that lower department of mind to which sensation is refer able, and ranks higher than even the exercises of intelligence or intellect. Emotion is a higher state than pure intellect ;
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not this or that emotion, but the region or susceptibility of emotion. We have said it is the atmosphere or life of the soul. When I meet a person, what is it to me that he possesses this or that idea, that he is occupied with this or that mental process ? it is feeling or emotion that I wish, and ideas are only worthy as they are the sources of emotion. It is his emotions that make any one person interesting to another. These are life, and life-giving, and ideas are important only as they minister to these.
When we speak of pure emotion, either we mean those emotions which have nothing moral or spiritual, as an element, in them, or we mean the emotions, as such, apart from the objects or causes of them, as love, fear, wonder, or admiration, which may have for their objects or excitements, moral beings, or moral causes, and therefore a moral element in them, or may spring from causes or occasions which have nothing moral in them, or connected with them. The emotion is the state or feeling of the mind apart from its source ; but the same emo tion may have a moral aspect or not, according as the element of duty, or right or wrong, mingles in it, or calls for it. It is our duty to fear God ; it is neither our duty, nor not our duty, to fear what is simply terrible. The love of our neighbour is our duty ; we may love or not, without either moral praise or blame in either case, what is simply amiable or lovely. The moral element comes from the region of duty, and may mingle with our emotions, but the emotions themselves are distinguish able from that element, and are capable of separate considera tion. This distinction will be of importance when we come to consider the moral element, or the subject of duty. The region of emotion is distinctly apart, and although we may speak of the moral emotions, or the moral feelings, it will be found, we apprehend, that what is moral in them, does not appertain to the emotion, but is altogether apart. There is the emotion, however, of moral approbation or disapprobation, distinct from every other ; but even that is not in itself moral, but accom panies every act of approval or disapproval, and what is moral, is the possession of the emotion, not the emotion itself. Every
28G THE EMOTIONS.
other emotion is simply an emotion, and its character, if it have a moral character, is determined by something else than the emotion itself.
An emotion, in its strictest meaning, is a movement of the mind, consequent upon some moving cause. But what kind of movement — or why do we call this phenomenon a movement of the mind, while we denominate an act of intellect an act, and of the will an act of the will ? Obviously, because there is some analogy between motion of the body, or of any material substance, and this phenomenon of the mind, as there is an analogy between an act of the body and the acts of the will or the intellect. We think it is a defective analysis of the mental phenomena which would regard them as the mind acting, or as acts of the mind. The will, properly, is the only active power of the mind, and even that will be found so far to be determined by motives. But the analogy between the external motions of our own, or of other bodies, and the emotions of the mind, may be thus traced. By an act of will, or an impulse from some foreign body, our limbs, or our whole bodies, are put in motion ; and in the same way, by an act of will, or the impulse of other bodies, bodies foreign and external to ourselves are put in motion. There is impulse and motion. Now, in the pheno mena of emotion there is something like impulse, and an emotion of the mind is the consequence. An emotion is thus, more properly, any feeling of the mind suddenly inspired or produced ; it is the feeling either in its first and sudden excite ment, or the same feeling considered in relation to that first or sudden impulse or excitement. We call it a feeling, or, per haps, an affection of the mind, when it is not considered with relation to this impulse or excitement, but regarded in its con tinuous existence or exercise. Thus love or admiration when awakened by any object, is an emotion ; when continuous, it is an affection. We speak, however, of the emotions, without including in the use of the term, thus generically employed, any idea of suddenness, or want of continuousness in their exercise. As originally employed — regarded in its origin — the term undoubtedly has respect to this circumstance of sudden or
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temporary exercise. But it is now extended to the feelings in general, and is employed without any such specific reference. It may have a tendency to suggest, and refer the mind to the rise of emotion, and may very appropriately be employed when this specific reference is had regard to, but it is by no means confined to any such usage or sense. The emotions are just the feelings. The term emotion, however, is to be distinguished from the term passion ; and the emotions, we think, are not the same as the desires. Passion does not express a different idea from emotion, but only a stronger one, or is employed for the intenser degree of the same feeling. Passion is but a stronger emotion. Emotion is generic : Passion is specific. The pas sions are not the emotions, but the emotions include the passions. The desires are, we think, distinct states of mind. They may be accompanied with emotions, but they are not the emotions. Desire is an essentially peculiar state of mind, and the different desires are the same feeling only directed to, or set upon, different objects ; whereas every emotion is distinct from every other. We think desire, with its opposite, regret, are distinct states of mind, and should be considered as separate from the emotions. It does not seem to us proper to speak of the emo tion of desire, the emotion of regret. They are undoubtedly accompanied with feelings. We cannot desire an object with out a feeling of some kind towards that object, and in the same way with regret ; but is desire a feeling ? is regret a feeling ? They are so peculiar feelings that they stand out from all the rest, and are by themselves alone.
Dr. Brown, in his love of simplicity and classification, has divided the emotions into immediate, retrospective, and pro spective ; and the only prospective emotions are the desires, for hope and expectation he makes but forms of desire, vary ing according to the degree of probability of the object of our desires being attained. We shall have an opportunity of con sidering this latter opinion when we come to speak of these states of the mind. Meanwhile, we refer to the classification of the emotions by Dr. Brown, as confounding the desires, and regret, or the regrets, if we may so speak, with the emotions.
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The emotions are love, joy, pity, anger, and such like ; are not the desires very distinct in their nature from such states ? It is curious, while Dr. Brown can include so many emotions, all varying more or less from each other, under the immediate and retrospective emotions, he can include only the desires under the prospective. Would we call the desire of continued existence — the desire of pleasure — the desire of society — emo tions ? The desire of power, or ambition, is more like an emotion — so the desire of glory, which may be characterized as ambition as well as the desire of power. We think it will be found that every emotion, properly speaking, has an immediate object, and it is only regret and desire that look to the past or the future. Anger and gratitude have immediate objects ; and curiosity and ambition, so far as they are desires, are not emo tions. They are accompanied with emotion or feeling, but as desires, they are something more than a feeling or emotion ; they are desires. Joy or gratitude is a simple feeling : desire is accompanied with feeling. The desire in any particular case is desire, and the feeling accompanying it is the feeling pecu liar to that desire. Hence it is, that in the desire for wealth, or the desire for power, there is room for all the varied feelings which do accompany these desires — the same desire being ac companied with as varied feelings as there are objects which can be set before the mind in the acquisition of wealth or power. The emotions of anger, gratitude, however, are one. Perhaps the distinction we draw between the emotions and desires will be better seen when we consider the different instances of these separate states of the mind, as we are disposed to regard them.
The mind would seem to be never without feeling or emo tion, just as it is perhaps never at any time but occupied with some thought, or with thinking. Thinking has been regarded as the very essence of mind ; in other words, mind exists, it has been supposed, only as it thinks, and cannot exist without thinking — an opinion which seems to have been the origin of Descartes' doctrine of innate ideas, which Locke controverts at some length. Locke regards thinking as the action of the soul
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rather than Us essence, and maintains there are moments of unconsciousness, as in sleep, when the mind exists without thinking. He says, however, " I grant that the soul in a waking man is never without thought." This seems a little inconsistent with what he had said but a paragraph before : " I confess myself to have one of those dull souls, that doth not perceive itself always to contemplate ideas, nor can con ceive it any more necessary for the soul always to think than for the body always to move ; the perception of ideas being, as I conceive, to the soul, what motion is to the body, not its essence, but one of its operations ; and, therefore, though thinking be supposed ever so much the proper action of the soul, yet it is not necessary to suppose that it should be always thinking, always in action. That perhaps is the privilege of the infinite Author and Preserver of things, who never slumbers nor sleeps ; but is not competent to any finite being, at least not to the soul of man." In the same way, Locke would ques tion the soul being always the seat of feeling. But without pushing this question to its issues, it may be safely maintained, that the mind is seldom, if ever, without thought or feeling of some kind, and that at those moments perhaps when it seems to be so, it is only a state of inertness and quiescence rather than one of entire absence or negation of feeling or thought. We are conscious of such moments when the mind seems to go to sleep, or to stop like the motion of a watch when its chain is unwound, or when something obstructs its mechanism : it would be difficult at such a time to say what thought possesses us, or if we are the subjects of any one feeling. Thinking and feeling, however, are the two states of mind in which, if it exists in a state of consciousness at all, it must exist. These are the two characteristics of mind, constituting it mind, or at least distinguishing it from mere inert and sensuous matter. Feeling is equally a characteristic of mind as thought or thinking. That spiritual substance within us is ever the scene of busy thought or of active feeling. The two are charac teristics of the same substance. The one operation or pheno menon interferes not with the other. The busiest processes of
T
290 THE EMOTIONS.
thought may be going on when the mind is all tumult, all emotion; nay, the one may be the actual minister to the other. The train of thoughts or conceptions that arise in the mind may also hurry it along on the tide of the most lively emotion ; and, as under the spell of the orator, or under the entrancing witchery of song, almost transport it beyond the bounds of endurance, or " lap it in elysium." Emotion again, we know, is the great prompter and enkindler of thought. Such two separate states or conditions of being are worthy of the great contriver and author of our nature ; and they are the conditions of His own infinite mind ; if, without irreverence, we may carry up our ideas from the finite to the infinite, and regard both as exhibiting the same essential properties of spiritual existence. This cannot be irreverence, when Scripture itself informs us that man was made in the image of God : " And God said, Let us make man in our image." How won derful that the Uncreated should place one in his own image upon earth ! The Uncreated, the Everlasting, having beings made like unto himself, and consulting to make them : " Let us make man in our image !" The resemblance, or rather the very identity of nature, consisted in the possession of a cognitive or intellectual, and a sensible or emotional nature or capacity. This is the most general definition perhaps that could be given : the emotional including the moral and the spiritual, as well as the purely emotional. The point to mark is, that man is not merely intellectual, he is endowed with a capacity of the most varied feelings or emotions. In taking a review of the mind, therefore, that spiritual nature created in the likeness of God, it would be unpardonable to overlook any part of it, and even what might be apt to be regarded as the least important of those emotional states in which from time to time the soul exists, nay, in which, some one of them, it may be said at all times to exist. Some one emotion or other, it may be said, is occupying or filling the mind every moment of its conscious existence. When we say emotion, we mean feeling ; for although the term emotion possesses a generic signification, and has been appropriated to all the feelings, it
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seerns too strong a term as applicable to many which are of a calm and quiet character, suggesting no impulse, and almost apparently inherent, as of the very essence and being of mind, and not merely capable of being awakened or excited.
The first essential condition of emotion would seem to be one of calm and placid enjoyment. That might be taken as the first essential state of emotion. The balance of all the emotions would seem to require or necessitate a calm and settled state. Anything else would be the predominance of some one emotion, existing in a higher degree of excitement or strength. In the case of an infinite being, the condition sup posed may be compared to the full ocean over which no storms sweep, and in which no internal agitation obtains. We must connect man in his conditions with his first origin : it is a state of derangement in which he is now found. Philosophy has contented itself with an incomplete view, when that view is limited to the present state of man, and is not carried up to one of prior superiority and perfection. The details of man's primeval condition, and his fall, could never have been guessed at by reason, but even reason may teach us that man did not come from his Maker as he now exists. We may suppose, then, that the balance of all the feelings in man was similar to that in the Divine Being himself — only, their centre would be God ; just as God would be the centre to himself; and every feeling would move in harmony with that primary and supreme law of regard to our Maker. It is difficult to form an idea of such a state. Man is not as he once was. It is from a very different point of view that we now contemplate his whole mental and spiritual constitution. We see not that constitu tion in its perfect state. We see it deranged, or broken into fragments — or an element in it which introduces an entirely new set of phenomena. The question is, whether we are to re gard man as he now is, or as he must have been — from the present point of view, or from that from which he might once have been contemplated. Are we to look at the ruins, or are we to put these ruins together — are we to look at the broken vase, or are we to endeavour to piece it ? It may seem that
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we have nothing to do with his former state, as it may be con tended we become acquainted with that state from a foreign source — not from our own consciousness — and the informations of our own consciousness, it may seem, are all that we have to do with, or should have regard to. But it is enough to con template man's present state, to see that he is not what he once was, and that the phenomena he must at one time have pre sented, must have been very different from those which he now exhibits. We are not indebted to revelation alone for this. Revelation gives us the circumstances of the Fall : — a state of prior perfection would seem to have been guessed at by the ancients, who had not revelation to guide their inquiries, and to put them in possession of the truth. The phenomena of man's present emotional nature therefore cannot be regarded without attention to the moral derangement which prevails, and which must affect more or less all the emotions and feel ings. Enough may be seen in them, however, to tell us what they once were, to speak even of their own primeval character. An entire set of emotions testify to the sin which has affected our moral constitution. We cannot look at these without see ing that an element has crept into the soul which once had no lodgment there, and made man the empire of evil, as he was once the scene only of what was fair and lovely and of good report. Whenever we enter the emotional department of our nature, this element must be taken into account. We cannot otherwise properly deal with the phenomena that are presented. It is not with this department, as it was with that of mind simply. There we had the phenomena simply, without any disturbing element to take into view. Now we have this element continually to have regard to. Writers upon this department of our mental phenomena, have for the most part had no regard to this element. The inconsistencies and eccen tricities of our nature have been abundantly noticed — these have been dwelt upon by a peculiar class of writers — and they have been a subject for the humourist in his sketches, as well as the moralist in his graver productions. But the key to all, or the source of all, has been little adverted to. Man's emo-
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tional and moral nature have been descanted on as if all was as it should have been, as it only could be ; and the best com pensating circumstances have been introduced to account for any eccentricity, and to justify it in consistency with the wisdom and purpose of the Creator. It is a different view that is forced upon us. We cannot regard those attempts at explanation, those apologies and vindications, which are intended to save the wisdom, and illustrate even the goodness of God, in what is unmitigated evil, or connected with evil as a condition of our present moral nature — we cannot regard these but as an entire overlooking of the real state of the case, and even the actual phenomena. These remarks will be justified, we are persuaded, as we proceed with the consideration of those sub jects which are now to engage us — and first with the emotions simply.
We have said, then, that the first essential condition of feel ing would seem to be one of calm and placid enjoyment, — the balance of all the feelings. Any predominance of one feeling over another is an interruption to this state, and must proceed from some new unexpected cause. In a state of perfection, this would be the harmony of all the feelings, with God as their centre. The sect of Quietists, as they were called, which arose in France, and of which Fenelon was a distinguished member, and whose tenets Upham of America seems to have embraced — at least he is obviously the partial expounder of them — held that it was possible to arrive, even in our present imper fect state, through the principles of the Gospel, and by the sanctifying power of faith, at a condition of entire acquiescence in the will of God, so that the soul should be distinguished by no one emotion particularly, but be possessed of an unruffled peace, which not even the afflictions or sufferings of the present scene could break or disturb. Upon such a state we might conceive a superior joy arising, or different emotions at different times taking the predominance. Madame Guyon was a dis tinguished disciple of this sect, and we find her thus writing regarding her imprisonment in the Castle of Vincennes, where she was confined at the instigation of her active enemies, and
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for the maintenance of her peculiar principles, — principles which drew down against her, as well as the famous Fenelon, all the eloquence arid power of Bossuet. We find her thus writing: — " I passed my time in great peace, content to spend the remainder of my life there, if such should be the will of God. I employed part of my time in writing religious songs. I and my maid, La Gautiere, who was with me in prison, com mitted them to heart as fast as I made them. Together we sang praises to thee, Oh our God ! It sometimes seemed to me as if I were a little bird whom the Lord had placed in a cage, and that I had nothing to do now but to sing. The joy of my heart gave a brightness to the objects around me. The stones of my prison looked in my eyes like rubies. I esteemed them more than all the gaudy brilliancies of a vain world. My heart was full of that joy which thou givest to them that love thee in the midst of their greatest crosses." A calm enjoyment, con nected with a complete absorption in the Divine will, was the predominating state of the Quietists, and hence their name. But we find a culminating joy rising above this state, as in the extract we have given ; and we introduce the mention of this sect, and of the peculiar and distinguishing point in their experience, as illustrative of what we mean by the first and essential condition of the emotions, or of feeling, in a rightly constituted soul, — that is, a soul in which the element of evil does not obtain. A quiet repose, a calm enjoyment, an equi poise of all the feelings, an absorption in the Divine will, and a harmony of all the affections, — this seems the first necessary condition of feeling. Now, in our present imperfect state, the nearest approach to this is that serenity of mind, that sunshine of soul, as it has been called, in which no peculiar feeling pre dominates, and, little or nothing disturbing the happiness which the mind, from any or from no sources, seems to be capable of receiving — the mind seems all peace, contentment, and happi ness. Cheerfulness is the name generally given to such a state. It is the equipoise of the feelings — it is the first condition of feeling — everything else is an interruption or a disturbance. An increase of happiness is joy, and any sorrow is a foreign element
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coming from a quarter which is not to be supposed, and which has obtained existence through the introduction of evil by some way into the world. Moral evil, with all the ills attending it, is the cause of this interruption of the mind's serenity, content ment, cheerfulness ; but in a state where moral evil obtains, what is this cheerfulness, this serenity, this sunshine of mind ? What does it amount to ? How is it to be accounted for ? What is its source ? What is its true nature ? Moral evil exists ; and what is that serenity then which we find actually distinguishing certain minds, and which nothing seems almost capable of interrupting or discomposing for a single moment ? Or if the mind is not so constantly serene, it may be habitually so, and cheerfulness is a state which all or most may exhibit on occasions. Why is it one of the emotions still, in spite of existing and admitted evil ?
The emotion or feeling which we call cheerfulness, obviously exists in spite of the evil which obtains in the world. It is plain, that if moral evil were dealt with as it might be expected to be — if it were to be arraigned and condemned, it would be a very different state of things that would be presented, than we see actually prevailing. A mere glance at the moral state of the world is sufficient to shew us that evil is not punished as it deserves — that it is not continually met by the moral admi nistrator of the universe — and that either " the Judge of all the earth " will not do right, or that He has adopted a certain plan with this portion of His dominions, to recover it from its revolt, and to save it from destruction. Enough of evil, evil in the sense of suffering, exists to shew that moral evil will not be permitted without punishment, and in comparison with what undoubtedly was the normal and original state of man, or the designed condition of the world, moral evil is punished at the hand of the Great Legislator and Kuler every day. But that it is yet spared — that it is not suffering condign punish ment — that the Lawgiver and Sovereign has not come forth from His retreat, armed with the thunders of His justice, is obvious at a glance. While this is so, there is room for the exercise of much that was primeval, much that does not bear
2% THE EMOTIONS.
the stamp of moral evil, of sin. We cannot say that anything in human conduct is without sin, without moral evil. But many of the affections and actions are virtuous, if not holy, that is, they are cherished, or done from a preference, so far, at least, of what is good. There is not unmitigated evil ; con science is not altogether extinguished ; moral preferences are not altogether destroyed ; and a virtuous life may be exhibited without any desire at all for the honour of that Being who gave us those laws, which, originally inscribed upon the heart, are not wholly effaced. There may be so far a preference for what is good, what is morally right and holy. The Fall, we might say the fall even of the rebellious angels, has not so wholly obliterated moral distinctions that the good is not seen, and preferred, at least, as a matter of abstract judgment. We can, at least, pronounce regarding this world that it is so. The good is chosen ; the evil is shunned. There is a root of moral depravity in every heart, which exhibits itself in some form or another, some mode of manifestation or another. On such a subject it is almost impossible accurately to limit our positions, and define our terms. It cannot be questioned, however, that while the root of evil is in every soul, the element of all sin, there are still moral preferences, there is a capacity for appre ciating and loving, to a certain extent, the morally right — the morally excellent ; and this is the secret of any happiness that is still in the world. God has not given up this world ; we know from revelation that it is under a scheme which admits of a mixed state of good and evil, and under which it has not suffered that blight which would wither every growth, whether of virtue or happiness. God's curse has not produced all its effects, because it has not been executed, or permitted, in all its extent. Virtue is still permitted to live, and although there may be little regard to God in all that is even virtuous and praise worthy, there cannot be virtue or moral preference without some degree of happiness. It is in the reign of the evil passions that misery consists. All moral evil is essentially connected with misery ; there cannot be even an approach to good with out an approach to happiness. Hence, there may be cheerful-
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ness even in a world like this. It has been truly said by a merely moral writer, that " pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our amusement ;" and in saying this, he is referring to the sentiment of moral writers in every age. He adds, in his own words : — " If the soul be happily disposed, everything becomes a subject of entertainment, and distress will want a name." The lightest moral writers, therefore, even when disporting, as it were, with such subjects, do not fail to regard that element which we have noticed, the presence or absence of which is the very explanation of what is otherwise so difficult of explanation in our moral condition. " If the soul be happily disposed ;" but how is it to be happily disposed ? " Pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered to our amuse ment ;" so it is, but why ? Moral writers have not pursued their own principles far enough. It is valuable, however, to have the testimony of even moral writers to views and princi ples, which, followed out, are consistent and explicable only on the scheme of revelation, or find their issue only in the harmony of its entire doctrines. Pleasure is indeed in us ; if not in us, it cannot be found without us. The world does not contain it, if the mind has it not in itself. The world may be the scene on which our virtuous affections expatiate; it may give the opportunity for their development ; we may find in the various objects presented to us, and in the circumstances in which we are placed, causes and occasions of the development and exer cise of our virtuous dispositions, and those feelings which it is happiness in itself to possess ; but as these dispositions and feelings are in the mind, so it is essentially the mind itself which is the real seat or source of happiness. Every virtuous feeling has happiness more or less connected with it. It may be far from being what it ought to be. Virtue is very different from that state of the soul which is the result of. the regenerat ing, new-creating, influences of God's Spirit. But even virtue cannot be truly practised without a return of happiness, or without happiness in the very exercise of it. Virtue is hap piness. The preference of good to any extent is happiness, which nothing can destroy ; it is only to the extent that there
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is not this preference that unhappiness has place. The virtuous dispositions may have still existence in the mind. This is very far from that piety to God without which even virtue is of little account. Virtue without piety ! a proper sentiment towards our fellow-beings, but not a proper sentiment towards God ! Is not this a great anomaly ? does it not argue something at fault even at the heart of our virtue ? It is the mainspring wrong, and while that is the case, there is no security for virtue itself. We know not how far the derangement may spread when the spring is snapped — when the central wheel is wrong — when derangement exists in the moral mechanism. That God is not loved, regarded, obeyed, argues a moral degeneracy which may spread or diffuse itself we know not how far. But still a certain moral state does exist ; certain moral dispositions are felt ; certain moral preferences are entertained ; and these must always be accompanied with, or productive of, happiness, and just to the degree that the dispositions or preferences are possessed or cherished.
Cheerfulness, then, is that degree of happiness that results from the proper exercise and regulation of the moral disposi tions, the moral preferences. Let these be duly regulated, duly exercised, and the mind cannot fail to be the seat of cheerfulness. It is when no feeling is allowed to predominate, when no passion is allowed to get the mastery — even a good and virtuous passion or feeling — for even that may be unduly exercised, or disproportioned to its object — it is in the harmony, as we have said, of all the passions or feelings that cheerfulness has place. When a joy predominates — when even a worthy emotion rises superior in the soul — when a higher state legiti mately exists, it is not cheerfulness, it is the joy, or the peculiar emotion that for the time has place or being. Cheerfulness is the reign of all the dispositions, their proper and proportionate reign, their harmonious existence and action. Accordingly, he is characterized most by cheerfulness who is characterized most by the harmonious action of all the virtues, of all the moral dispositions or emotions. In whomsoever these exist in harmonv, cheerfulness will be found to exist — this state or
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feeling will be found predominating, or rather prevailing. If the mind possesses a uniform preference of the true, the amiable, the good — if it is true, amiable, good — if it is ever ready to exercise a virtuous disposition when there is an appeal to it, and feels little tendency to exercise the opposite — we have a mind in which cheerfulness will have almost its undis turbed seat. It is in such minds that we find this beautiful and enviable state, this daylight of the mind, as Addison calls it. Disturb such a mind's cheerfulness you cannot, or you can hardly do it. There is a gaiety of disposition which is not cheerfulness — and much of which is the result of physical constitution — a certain lightness of physical temperament, yielding easily to the impulse of favourable circumstances without. This may exist, and may be as easily damped as it is readily excited. But true cheerfulness is chiefly a moral state ; and hence we find that external circumstances for the most part do not impair it, or at least it breaks through the most disadvantageous, and exhibits itself, perhaps, in the most afflictive of these. You will find this state of the mind like sunshine in the midst of darkness — daylight in the sky, even when that sky is overcast with clouds. It is because there is no reproach, no cause why the mind itself should be discom posed, because the clouds themselves are not of the mind, and come from a foreign quarter, that this feeling can yet exist. There may thus be
" Cheerfulness of soul, From trepidation and repining free,"
in circumstances the most unfavourable to its existence — a " central peace," as Wordsworth expresses it, " residing at the heart of agitation." Wordsworth speaks of the "man of cheer ful yesterdays, and confident to-morrows ;" who can speak of confident to-morrows, although it is possible for to-morrow to be cheerful in spite of the adversity that may break upon it ? Adversity may come like a storm, enveloping all the heavens, and swallowing up every ray and beam of light : for a time all is darkness, not a speck is seen through the clouds, but the clouds clear away, and the conquering sunshine prevails.
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Addison says, " cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady, perpetual serenity." The daylight may be overcast, but it for the most part returns. The triumph, however, of cheerfulness in affliction is chiefly accorded to those who have their peace from a higher quarter than anything belonging to this world, or than the exercise of the moral virtues, and it is not so much cheerfulness as peace. Alas ! mere cheerfulness, however good, and having so sure a basis or spring, is apt to be overcome or destroyed by the afflictions of life. It cannot stand before them, it cannot exist in the midst of them, the affliction entirely conquers. It is here that Christian serenity contrasts with mere cheerfulness ; and it is here we see the introduction of an element which does not belong to the mind itself, consistent with it, but having its source higher. Christian serenity is very different from mere cheerfulness. It has a different source, a more stable basis, a more permanent action ; nor is it liable to the same interrup tion as the other. And yet it may be said to bear the same relation to the rest of the graces or states of the renewed soul that cheerfulness does to the merely moral virtues. It is the resultant of all the rest, or exists in the harmony of all the rest. Directly, or immediately, it is the effect of faith in Christ and trust in God : it is the effect of a humble affiance in the Divine Being, which could not be exercised but in connexion with the reconciling faith of the Gospel, that faith in the Kedeemer which restores the sinner to the Divine favour ; but except in harmony with the other graces or exercises of the renewed character it does not exist. If the Christian's charity, for ex ample, is disturbed, if be is living in an atmosphere of enmity, or allowing the irascible feelings to get the predominance, this feeling or state will be scared from the soul, or will not exist. The calm of a renewed soul is the result of all the spiritual virtues or graces in nearly equal exercise. The sea does not repose when the elements are disturbed ; but let these rest, let the balance of these be preserved, and the sea, down to its pro- foundest depths, is unruffled, feels not a single movement of its waters. And as when the storm may be loudest, and the sur-
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face of the deep may be greatly agitated, there are depths which the storm does not reach ; so in the soul of the Christian there is a serenity too deeply seated to be disturbed, which all the storms of life cannot break. Faith in the Divine Providence, and in the reconciling power of Christ's death — of His work — puts the soul on a basis which nothing can shake, gives it a security which nothing can disturb. Mere cheerfulness, of course, that serenity of mind resulting from the harmonious action of the moral virtues, is very different from this. It is not, however, to be despised. And, apart from the regen erating grace of the Gospel, it is one of the qualities or characteristics of mind which must be considered ; and it is in the unrenewed what the other is in the renewed soul. It has room for exercise even in the latter. The moral virtues, al though they are exalted into something higher, and are the exercise of nobler principles, or are exhibited in connexion with still loftier examples of conduct, are not neutralized or put out of being, and all the pleasure which they ever gave will be still felt. The pleasure accompanying any right action must always accompany it — they will never be found dissociated ; and there will be an under play, as it were, of all the moral virtues, even when the main current of the soul is spiritual. Honesty, temperance, benevolence, kindness — all the social virtues — yield the same pleasure that they ever did. We do not mean that the Christian will be satisfied with them as any ground of merit before God, or that in this sense they will yield any happiness ; but happiness is inseparable from any amount of moral excellence, from the very exercise of any moral virtue. It is in the excellence or virtue itself. When all the moral virtues are attended to, then happiness must be the result, cheerfulness will be the result. This daylight of the mind will have place. The Christian is the subject of ex periences to which the merely virtuous man is a stranger ; and he detects sin in actions which the other would entirely approve. The pleasure resulting from a virtuous course of action, there fore, may co-exist with experiences which almost prevent that pleasure from being felt ; and the sin discernible in them to a
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spiritual eye, which not only would escape, but must escape, all others, disturbs when otherwise there would, for the most part, be unmixed pleasure. Still, right action cannot but have its reward even with the Christian. The strict performance of every duty brings its reward. Let any duty or obligation be interfered with, and the cheerfulness of the mind is disturbed, and that even apart from the relation of the particular duty, or obligation, to God, or to the responsibility we owe to him. Moral action, as well as spiritual, is the proper action of the soul, and for it to be disturbed is to occasion misery ; — just as to interrupt the free action of the body would be the occasion of discomfort and suffering. The healthy action of the mind, on the other hand, must always be pleasurable, the source of enjoyment, and in the Christian as well as any other. The Christian's cheerfulness, however, mounts into a higher, a purer air. It becomes a more settled calm, a more serene enjoyment. A quieter region still is that in which he breathes, and cheerfulness is peace — yea, a peace which passeth all understanding. On ordinary topics of converse in ordinary actions, the Christian's cheerfulness comes out. At other times we see the peace which the Gospel alone can impart, and which the Christian maintains or can exhibit in the most adverse circumstances. But we must attend to the emotion we are speaking of as a state of mind that belongs even to the merely morally good, and which may be legitimate even with them ; and, looking at it in this point of view, we have characterized it as the result of the exercise, and the harmonious exercise, of the virtuous dispositions, of all the emotions. It is not meant that all the virtues, or all the emotions, are at any one moment in harmonious and combined action. What is intended is, that there is the predominance of no virtue, or passion, or emotion, so as to make that the ruling one either for the time, or permanently, in the mind ; in which case the mind would be characterized by that one virtue, or passion, or emotion, — the virtue being accompanied with a livelier feeling than would be due to it were it existing not in that prominence, but in a just balance with the other virtues. When any one emotion, or
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virtue, accompanied with its appropriate emotion, predominates, the balance of the mind is disturbed, and it is no longer cheer fulness that is felt, but that emotion. Cheerfulness, we repeat, is the harmony of all the emotions. No one emotion prevails over the rest, and every emotion that is proper is felt, or may be felt. There has only to be the call for it, and it will be experienced. The mind, insusceptible of any emotion that is proper, cannot be the seat of true cheerfulness. Envy, or some sinister passion, may reign. It is not necessary, we say, that all the emotions be in actual operation ; it is only necessary that there be room for their operation. Any frustration, any insusceptibility with respect to any one emotion, the equili brium of the soul is disturbed. In the equilibrium of the atmosphere, all the elements seem to be at rest, and yet they are all in harmonious action. When a balance is in equili brium, neither of the sides seems to be in action ; and yet it is because both are in action equally that the equilibrium is pro duced, or there is a rest on the point of equilibrium. So is it with the emotions. None may be said to be in action, and yet all may be said to be in action, or are capable of action, and only await the call for them at the proper time, or in their proper place. Such may be regarded as the most perfect state of the emotions, and, accordingly, a cheerful, serene state of mind has ever been regarded both as the most lovely to con template, and the most delightful to be experienced, and to come in contact with. Mirth or gaiety has never been so much valued, or held in such estimation. It is the cheerful, not the gay countenance, that doth good like a medicine, and because it is the index of the cheerful mind. Gaiety has its own exhi larating effect, but you are disposed to ask how long it will last. Not so with cheerfulness ; you can count upon its continuance. It is not a transient, but a permanent state. Mirth or gaiety flashes, cheerfulness shines. We have our spirits unexpectedly raised by mirth ; we have them permanently sustained by cheerfulness. The exhilaration of the one is delightful for the time, but it soon spends itself, and the depression may be as great as the exhilaration was lively. It is questionable how far
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that exhilaration should be carried. Mirth or gaiety may be allowed beyond all bounds of propriety. Prudence has to say, Hitherto, and no farther. No one would blame a proper hila rity of spirits, and there are excitements to it which we need not repress. It is an innocent tendency or propensity which has only to be restrained within bounds, or yield to solicitations or considerations which are as proper as the cause which has excited our mirth. So indulged or allowed, it is perfectly pro per, but reins must not be given to it ; and it is the part of sober judgment to say when the quickened and joyous feelings should stop. But to cheerfulness of mind, there can be no required boundaries, but those which the demand for other and opposite emotions nature may sometimes make. To be cheerful when we should be sorrowful, is no proper exercise of cheerful ness, but an indication rather of insensibility. The mind may be stupid and insensible even to the proper calls of sorrow. The King, in Hamlet, asks Laertes whether his father was dear to him, or if he (Laertes) was but
" the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart."
To weep when we should rejoice, and to rejoice when we should weep, must be equally inconsistent — rather the latter is the more inconsistent, at least the more unseemly of the two. Cheerfulness will not obtrude itself when sorrow is in the ascendant: it may mitigate its violence, and hang upon its livery its own lighter favours, or edge it with a less sombre hue ; it may lighten up even sorrow, and make it less afflictive or appalling ; but it knows the demands of sorrow, it respects these demands, and for a time it gives way to sadness.
We have spoken of cheerfulness in its perfect state. When does it ever exist in perfection ? We have considered it as it must be abstractly regarded ; but the abstract perfection of a quality is seldom that quality itself as seen, or as in actual exercise. There may be degrees of the quality, and we may see these degrees, where we may not see itself in perfection. Cheerfulness may be a predominating state of the mind, though it may be frequently interrupted : a degree of cheerful-
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ness may be exhibited, though uniform cheerfulness may not be possible. And, accordingly, we do speak of a cheerful person, though he may have his moments of sorrow. Cheer fulness is the habitual frame of his mind. Cheerfulness, not melancholy, is the distinguishing cast of his character. It is not to be denied that there are semblances of cheerfulness ; and a kind of constitutional insensibility to serious impressions may produce all the appearance of cheerfulness, which is not it in reality. Absence of emotion may be mistaken for the harmony of the emotions. There is
" The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead,"
which is very different from the beautiful serenity of a mind in healthy action, and a heart in repose with itself and with every thing around. It is the latter which we characterize as cheer fulness. It is not to be forgotten either, that there is a happy disposition of all the elements of the mind by nature, which is not precisely the harmony of the emotions, and which we see existing often along with a state the opposite of virtue. There is a happy combination of the particles of our nature, so to speak, which in some produces all the effects of cheerfulness, or disposes to what has the appearance of a cheerful state. Shakespeare's Falstaff is the perfect embodiment of such a character, even where there is the opposite of all that is praise worthy and respectable, and the presence even of the mean as well as the selfish and sensual indulgences. We see such characters, not in such perfect type, every day. Happy com bination, but most miserably directed or applied ! There can be no doubt that the physical has often much to do in the production of what seems, what is taken for, a cheerful charac ter. But, on the other hand, we see cheerfulness often united with the most disadvantageous physical state and temperament, and even with the utmost physical suffering. Cheerfulness triumphs over all. The soul triumphs over the body — mind surmounts its physical enthralment, and the triumph is all the more signal that it appears as if it were impossible there could be cheerfulness in such cases, united to such a frame, or sur mounting such a condition. And yet many are the instances
u
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of this. Poverty is no barrier to cheerfulness. Content may sup ply the place of riches. The cottage is more often the abode of cheerfulness than the palace, and yet we cannot forget that the latter may possess something infinitely more precious than the affluence of its wealth, or the splendours of its adornments.
" Honour and shame from no condition rise :"
Cheerfulness is confined to no station.
" Non ebur, neque aureum Mea renidet in domo lacunar :
Non trabes Hymettiae Premunt columnas ultima recisas
Africa : neque Attali Ignotus hseres regiam occupavi ;
Nee Laconicas milii Trahunt honestae purpuras clientae.
At fides, et ingeni Benigna vena est ; pauperemque dives
Me petit."
To cheerfulness of disposition, or that state of the mind which we call by this name, consisting in the equipoise of the emotions, there may be added a warmer element, an openness and kindliness of nature, which, uniting with the other, gives to the character an inexpressibly pleasing and interesting effect and aspect. There is not only the cheerfulness of day, there is the warmth of sunshine. There is not only the pleasing harmony of colours, there is the warm glow of sunlight resting upon all. There may be cheerfulness without kindness, or that kindness so predominating, as to mark the character, and to overflow in streams of goodness. The kindness of the heart has scope for exercise in the harmony of the emotions which prevails, and no predominating passion or feeling prevents its exercise. Such a person scatters sunshine, as well as brings daylight, wherever he comes. His heart is a fountain of kindliest emo tions. It is such a character which Coleridge has sought to pourtray in his somewhat strained and eccentric composition, " The Rime of the Ancient Mariner/' The precise point of character is seized when he represents the mariner blessing even the slimy things which crawled upon the sea: —
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" A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware."
For all the consequences attending this, the machinery of the poem itself must be consulted. But the precise state of mind here — the precise character to which we refer — is happily touched. For killing a poor albatross, sailing in the happy sky, the mariner had been doomed to a severe penance ; the spontaneous love that sprang up in his heart towards the slimy things crawling on the becalmed sea, under a tropical clime, is the means of his deliverance — the curse that rested on him is removed ; and he concludes his rhyme with this moral : —
" He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us — He made and loveth all."
Most of Wordsworth's poetry is imbued with the same spirit ; and it is the high moral of his poetry to inculcate it. To let the heart expand in kindliest affection — to breathe only kindly emotion — to sympathize with the moods of nature — to love all God's creatures : this is that poet's philosophy — this dictates, and animates his poetry. It is the very utterance in his sonnet composed on Westminster Bridge, in his Hart-Leap-Well, and in his lines composed on revisiting the banks of the Wye. The following lines may illustrate the spirit, the pervading one in Wordsworth's writing :
Speaking of the objects in the landscape that were revived to him, he says : —
" These beauteous forms, Through a long absence have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : — feelings too Of unremembcred pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts
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Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on, —
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood,
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul :
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things."
The state of mind to which we refer, may not be so idealized as this comes to : it may take a less philosophic turn : it may be just the kindly nature of the warm-hearted, the generous, as well as the cheerful, man; but the combination when this warmth of disposition is added to cheerfulness, when the two go together, is very attractive, and implying, as we have seen cheerfulness does, the harmony of the virtues, in the harmony of the emotions, the merely natural character is in a state of as great perfection as nature may be ever destined to reach. Such characters are not, we hope, rare : may not the character be cultivated ? In our imperfect state too many disturbing causes interfere with, or prevent, its development. Even it, however, is not a picture on which we should dwell with too much com placency. How much is wanting to make up the character of the Christian ! And even destitute as he may be of that per fection of natural qualities, exhibiting little of that cheerful ness and that kindliness of nature and disposition which enter into the composition of the other character, the Christian is still the higher and more valuable character of the two. There are depths of feeling in the Christian which the other knows nothing of: there are heights, regards to God, to which he is a stranger. All that nature can exhibit, in its most perfect state, is still connected with much sin ; and one true penitent regard, a sincere, though a feeble, faith in the Saviour, is worth the best feelings of nature a thousand times told. The love which
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the Christian bears to his fellows, is a very different one from that which the most loving of natural dispositions cherishes. It embraces eternity in its regards, and what a feeling must that be which in the breast of one man has all eternity in cluded ! The desire of a Christian for the spiritual good of others is as real as it is profound and influential. It does not limit itself to the temporal good of its object. That it will promote too. The charity of the Christian is after all the only lasting principle we can count upon for even the temporal relief and amelioration of the world. How many forms of usefulness does it not only take, but seek ! It goes about everywhere doing good. It spares not its means: it withholds not its labour : it seeks its object, and its opportunity. " The cause which I knew not I searched out," was the expression of Job regarding himself ; it is the characteristic of every Christian. The world would not be much the better of all the kindness which mere natural disposition would dictate. There must be a stronger feeling than natural kindness. Natural kindness would never have made a Howard. It was Christian charity that impelled him on his career of philanthropy. Charity dic tates that prayer which, unheard and unseen by mortal, escapes the boundaries of this world, and enters the ear of Him who, in answer to prayer, sends blessings upon the thankful and the unthankful — upon the evil and the good. The Christian has recourse to prayer when every other means fails, and along with every other means of doing good. What a desire may ascend with that prayer to the throne of the Eternal, and the Christian has power with Him to prevail ! It may be unwarrantable, or at least inexpedient, at all times to speak of the answer to prayer ; but that the Christian's prayers are answered, and that these are laden with many blessings, will not be questioned by any who believe the Bible. With all the imperfections, then, that attach to the character of the Christian, are not his good wishes, after all, the only effectual ones ? Let not the Chris tian, however, think he is warranted to indulge in any un- amiable moroseness because he has such wishes, and these may take the prevailing form of prayer, or be seen in active useful-
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ness. Cheerfulness becomes the Christian, and he is the one most able to repress any unamiableness of character, or disposi tion, in virtue of those principles by which he is actuated, and those dispositions which have been implanted in him. It should be the study and endeavour of every one to attain to that cheer fulness which is surely within the reach of all, if virtue is within the reach of all ; and who should be always happy, or should "rejoice evermore," if not the Christian ? It is he alone who can rejoice even in tribulation. His peace goes with him even there. It fills him with a calm — not "the slumber of the dead," — but the calm of a heart whose trust is stayed upon God. He has reason to rejoice always. And yet there is need for heaviness through manifold temptations. The Christian's joy is far from being uniform, and he may not be able to exhibit that cheerfulness which even the merely natural disposition may frequently exemplify. Other things equal, however, the Christian has most reason to be cheerful. He is called upon to cherish this disposition, even as one of his duties. The natural fretfulness — the tendency to discontent — the disposition, it may be, to sadness — the irascibility of nature which may be native to him — he is to restrain and overcome. This disposition all may cultivate. It may be attained just in the due regulation of the passions or emotions. All sin, all vice, is an enemy to it. It can not survive along with moral evil. It is in the very preference and practice of what is right that it lives. It is as inseparable from moral good as any effect from its cause, as light from the beams which diffuse it round our path. We proceed to con sider the qualities which are opposed to it — the feelings or emo tions which may be regarded as the opposite of cheerfulness.
It will be easily seen that in a world where moral evil exists, very opposite feelings from those of cheerfulness will fre quently prevail. The opposite of cheerfulness will be the very effect of moral evil. And this, after all, is the predominating state of the world. Evil so prevails as to mar the happiness which would be otherwise so perfect. Unhappiness, misery, is the direct fruit of evil, of sin. Let the world be in its primeval
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state, and all paradise would smile, and God would again walk with man in the garden. Moral evil must bring its punish ment, and we see that punishment in the many forms of misery or unhappiness that exist. With the altered state of man God has adopted an altered procedure, while sin itself creates con fusion, disorder, suffering. The reign of the evil passions is the reign of suffering. It is marvellous that order can exist in this world at all. It is because there is so much of good as well as evil. This, as we have seen, can obtain only in such a state, where all is not unmitigated evil, and the Moral Legislator of the universe defers His anger, and has adopted a remedial scheme for the recovery of His lawless subjects. Still, moral evil does bear its bitter fruit. Misery, vexation, disappoint ment, wo, in a thousand forms, exist. The heart mourns over innumerable causes of grief and disappointment. Its own evil passions entail misery. The purest, the most perfect, confess evils which they have not escaped, and which they see in their best actions. In no case does the heart pronounce a verdict of acquittal, of absolutely guiltless. See the most cheerful person at times, the individual who has the most right to be cheerful, and you will see a cloud upon his brow, and he, too, will acknowledge that he is not always happy. Go through the world, and an absolutely happy person will not be found. In the fine image of Hall, the roll in Ezekiel's vision has been put into every hand, and it is inscribed within and without, with mourning, lamentation, and wo. Where one does not suffer in liimself, he suffers in the sufferings of others, in his relations or connexions in life. No one is so by himself that he is not affected by what takes place around him, or by some interest which he feels in others. Sorrow is thus often induced by causes foreign and external. We are bound up in the happiness, in the very conduct, of others. We cannot escape the ties that encircle us. Sorrow may come from the very quarter where we expected most happiness. Disappointments, crosses, are thickly strewn, encompass our path, make our very homes the scene of weeping. The loss of goods, the death of friends, the failure of cherished schemes, the ingratitude, or
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worse, of those, from whom we looked for an increase of happi ness in the affection which they owed to us, and by the dutiful conduct which they were bound to render, and a thousand other ways in which evil may come, these all, or one or other of these, may sadden our spirits, and make all our prospect melancholy. The cloud may be temporary, or it may be longer continued ; and if one cloud pass away, another may succeed more gloomy, and involving all the sky in still thicker darkness. There are the cares and vexations, and there are the more serious ills of life. If we have not the one, we may have the other, and the former, as well as the latter, may throw a cloud over the spirits — may interfere with that cheerfulness and equanimity which otherwise would prevail. How much even of the good man's clays are harassed and saddened by the disappointments of business, and the cares that come to him from the world ? To maintain cheerfulness is almost impossible, and it is the appear ance of it that he assumes rather than the reality that he possesses. He does not give way, perhaps, to melancholy, or to the sallies of fretfulness and passion, but he is too often tempted to do so. His spirits, oppressed with anxiety, and vexed with disappointment, cannot bear up, and difficulties which he can not meet, altogether overcome. The sallies of passion, or the gloom of melancholy, may get the better of him. How much need at such a time for the stay which the Christian has even in such circumstances, although even the Christian may be often tempted to the indulgence of such wrong dispositions, or to yield to such wrong influences. The Christian, however, has a compensation in all his trials, and he can have his hope in heaven when every earthly hope has failed.
Fretfulness, moroseness, melancholy, or just that sadness which calamity cannot fail to engender, are the opposite states to cheerfulness. Either of these may be induced by the causes to which we have adverted. Fretfulness and moroseness imply an ill-regulated mind ; for however the causes which oppress may be such as to do so, a proper regulation of the temper, or the dispositions, Would secure against such unamiable states. We may exercise a command upon ourselves in most circum-
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stances, and to yield to the sallies of temper, or to court mo- roseness of disposition, is altogether improper and indefensible. We may not be happy, but we need not be unamiable. We may not be cheerful, but it is in our power not to be morose. We may preserve an equanimity when our circumstances might tempt to irritation or impatience. Melancholy is a mood of mind distinct from moroseness or fretfulness. It does not exhibit the unamiable qualities of either. It is generally the result of a course of circumstances, or of some single calamity, which may have borne more or less severely upon the mind, and from which there is, or appears, no escape, or to which there seems no alleviation. It is the effect, for the most part, of disap pointment — it is the creature of disappointment, or disappoint ment is an element in it — has been one of the many, it may be, and concurring circumstances which have induced it. We see this when a merchant's schemes have failed, and he is left a ruined and a beggared man. We see it when the man who has aimed at station and influence in society finds his efforts useless, and every ambitious hope laid in the dust. The well calculated schemes for wealth frustrated or destroyed — the ruin of a state of affluence itself — the wreck of such splendid enter prises — the dissipation of all that was so promising, or so flat tering, and not a relic of a once prosperous and flourishing condition saved, such ruin falling on one devoted head, or strewing its thousand fragments at the feet, too often involves the victim of such disaster in incurable melancholy. When the man, ambitious of power, sees a rival promoted, and finds that his chase for station and preeminence has been unsuccess ful, he yields to that only relief for wounded minds, and rushes into the arms, or courts the embrace of melancholy. Disap pointed affection invites this somewhat pleasing influence, or its first paroxysms of sorrow yield to this softer and less dis tracting feeling. Melancholy is less distressing than the feeling experienced immediately upon the occurrence of any calamity, or when that calamity is recent. It is not till after a time that melancholy supervenes. We call the immediate emotion, rather grief, deep sorrow, a feeling bordering upon distraction,
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or perhaps distraction itself. We say of a person under recent calamity that his grief is excessive, that he is distracted with grief, or that there seem to be no bounds to his sorrow. Were such excessive emotion to continue, both mind and body would give way under it, and probably death alone would relieve the sufferer. We know from the most solemn of all examples of suffering, that there is such a thing as being sorrowful unto death. But it is a wise provision of our nature that all violent emotions soon spend themselves, and the mind subsides into a state of temperate grief or calm enjoyment. The bow does not always continue bent ; it would break if it did : it must relax, and the elastic wood seeks its natural state. By a violent shock an oscillating body may be carried far beyond its point of oscillation, but it will inevitably find its equilibrium or point of rest. Let the storm be ever so violent, afterwards there comes a calm. Not more surely does nature obey these laws, or do these laws operate in the physical world, than does the mind exhibit a similar law, or obey a similar tendency ; it, too, finds its point of rest; it, too, relaxes from the strong bent either of excessive joy or of violent grief. But in finding this point of rest, or equilibrium, in relaxing into its natural state, or ordinary pitch of feeling, there is a point at which both its joy and its grief partake neither of rest nor of excessive emotion. The joy is no longer the strong impulsive feeling which almost transported the individual beyond himself, nor the grief such as distracted the mind, and almost tore it asunder. It becomes a pleasing joy, which expends itself in no half-frantic gesticulation, but radiates in delighted expres sion from the countenance ; it subsides into a calm grief, which we denominate melancholy. Dr. Brown is wrong, we think, in making the subsidence of feeling in the former case cheerful ness. He is right when he makes it in the latter melancholy. There is a difference in the two cases : Moderate joy is glad ness, but gladness does not seem to us to be a proper synonyme for cheerfulness. " Cheerfulness," says Dr. Brown, " which at every moment may be considered only as a modification of joy, is a sort of perpetual gladness. It is that state," he continues,
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" which, in every one, even in those of the most gloomy dispo sition, remains for some time after any event of unexpected happiness, though the event itself may not be present to their conception at the time ; and which, in many of gayer tempera ment, seems to be almost a constant frame of mind." Cheer fulness does not at all depend upon " any event of unexpected happiness." It is an independent feeling, and might exist although there never had been any happiness beyond the feel ing of cheerfulness itself. Cheerfulness does not depend upon outward circumstances. It is its grand prerogative that it may exist in the most depressing circumstances. It has existed in a prison, and the prisoner has been happier than the party at whose despotic will he has been confined, and has been known to leave his cell even with regret. But if cheerfulness was the mere subsidence of a state of gladness, it would not be within the walls of a prison that we should look for it. It would have no existence but upon the prior existence of a sudden or supe rior happiness. Dr. Brown is right, however, we conceive, when he says, — " The state of melancholy, when it is not con stitutional and permanent, but temporary, is a state which intervenes between the absolute affliction of any great calamity and that peace to which, by the benevolent arrangement of Heaven, even melancholy itself ultimately leads." Melancholy does not in every case lead to this peace ; and, accordingly, Dr. Brown limits his observation to that melancholy which is of a temporary kind, which is not constitutional or permanent. But even when it is permanent, it is always something less, considerably less, than the original affliction which passes into it. The first paroxysm of grief is something far more strong than the melancholy into which it may subside. The one is a relief from the other ; it is happiness in comparison with the other. Violent grief could not be endured long; a gentler sorrow, or melancholy, takes its place, and fills the mind, which otherwise must still have been the seat of dominant sorrow. It is a benevolent provision which secures such a change, and allows the most passionate grief to become weak as that of a child, or something in which there is even a degree of pleasure ;
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for there is a pleasure even in grief, when it is not of that violent sort that fills and distracts the mind. Benevolent in all His arrangements, God has so provided that sorrow should not continue either so long, or of such violence as to paralyze the spirit, and make this world, as it would otherwise be, a scene of almost unmitigated wo. The grief which is laid aside after a few days or months, would, but for this wise and benevolent provision, still continue to distract ; and we would have the accumulated grief of a lifetime, it may be, weigh ing down the spirit, which seems hardly capable of sustaining one of them. Melancholy may continue, while violent sorrow cannot. It is the kind of equilibrium of the sadder emotions, seeking their point of rest, as cheerfulness may be the kind of equilibrium of the pleasurable emotions, or the subsidence of some joy which had been for a time in the ascendant. The mind may exist notwithstanding melancholy ; and melan choly, therefore, may reign without the destruction of the very seat of its dominancy. Some never escape from its influence ; they carry it with them to their grave. It marks their countenance, it imprints their step, it expresses itself on their whole demeanour. In its more distressing aspect or form, it is the subject of a sketch by one who had himself realized all that he so strikingly pourtrays. In its lighter moods, it is touched by Milton with a no less graphic power, though too much fancy, perhaps, is thrown into the picture.
" Divinest melancholy" is perhaps made too attractive, as it undoubtedly is invested with too ideal a character. Perhaps Milton had reference to that kind of melancholy of which Dr. Brown speaks when he says : — " How universally a certain degree of disposition to melancholy is supposed to be connected with genius, at least with poetic genius, is manifest from every description which has been given by those who have formed imaginary pictures of the rise and progress of this high character of thought. The melancholy, indeed," Dr. Brown continues, " is not inconsistent with occasional emotions of an opposite kind ; on the contrary, it is always supposed to be coupled with a dis position to mirth, on occasions in which others see perhaps as
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little cause of merriment as they before saw of melancholy ; but the general character to which the mind most readily returns, is that of sadness — a sadness, however, of that gentle and benevolent kind of which I before spoke." Dr. Brown quotes a very apposite passage from Beattie's " Minstrel," to illustrate his view. The author of that exquisite poem makes his subject — the minstrel — the progress of whose genius, and, accordingly, of genius in the abstract, it is the object of the poem to trace, characterized by all that pensiveness or tendency to melancholy which Dr. Brown says is supposed to be con nected with poetic genius. The poet thus describes the young minstrel : —
" And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy ;
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye.
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy :
Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy ;
And now his look was most demurely sad,
And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why.
The neighbours stared and sighed, yet bless'd the lad : Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. " But why should I his childish feats display ?
Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled ;
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps, — but to the forest sped,
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head ;
Or, where the maze of some bewildered stream
To deep^untrodden groves his footsteps led,
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. " In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene.
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight :
Nor less, than when on ocean wave serene,
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling shene.
Ev'n sad vicissitude amused his soul :
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control."
This state of mind, so finely brought out by the poet, may more properly be regarded as pensiveness, or a disposition to sadness, connected as that may be with all the finer emotions
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of the soul. " The fountain of tears," it has been said, " is nearer the heart than that of smiles." There is enough in this world to beget a feeling of pensiveness, if not something more, in every reflecting mind. The poetic cast of melancholy is not far from the philosophic, which Dr. Brown also notices : both have the same source, though the one may be tinged with the hues of imagination, while the other may be more absolute and literal. " There is a melancholy of a gentler species," says Dr. Brown, after describing the darker moods of it, " which, as it arises in a great measure from a view of the sufferings of man, disposes to a warmer love of man, the sufferer, and which is almost as essential to the finer emotions of virtue, as it is to the nicer sensibilities of poetic genius." Now, we have said that disappointment seems to mingle more or less in every instance of melancholy. We had reference in our remark to the more serious instances of the emotion. If the aspects of the feeling to which Dr. Brown refers are to be regarded as truly melancholy, and not rather as mere sadness, or pensiveness, awakened by the contemplation of the sufferings of man — by that serious eye which a more penetrating thought casts upon the world — if it is truly melancholy, we think a feeling of disappointment must be an element in it ; disap pointment not so much with regard to personal objects, as with respect to those general expectations and views which aspiring genius, and a benevolent philanthropy, are supposed to cherish. The mind no sooner opens to the bright anticipations winch it is prone at the outset in life to form, than it finds them all dissipated or dashed by an adverse world. There is an anti cipation of disappointment when the very anticipations of good are struggling for realization. The forecast of evil comes before itself. The world casts its shadow upon the bright and advancing steps of youth. " Shades of the prison-house," as Wordsworth has it,
" begin to close Upon the growing boy."
Need we wonder at the effect which that state of things which the world presents is fitted to produce, and does produce,
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upon a reflective mind, when it yields itself to reflection ? The poetic and the philosophic mind both are imbued with that reflective nature or tendency which is never without matter for its meditations, and which hears "the still sad music of humanity," when other ears are deaf. There is a kind of philosophy which prevails, which is to let the world take its course ; let humanity suffer ; let evil exist ; we need concern ourselves as little about it as possible. Such a philosophy will not commend itself to any true and generous nature. A philo sophy all tears may be as mistaken a one, as a philosophy all smiles ; but, undoubtedly, the former had more ground for it than the latter. " Democritus," says Sir Thomas Browne, " that thought to laugh the times into goodness, seems to me as deeply hypochondriac as Heraclitus that bewailed them." There is greater room in the world, undoubtedly, for the school of a Heraclitus than for that of a Democritus. The frivolous and the vain may laugh away the evils of life, but the true- hearted and the deep-thinking will often see occasion for the tear of pity or of sadness, in the very circumstances that may provoke the laughter of others. Even, therefore, where there may be no great call for the feeling of personal disappointment, though a person's own path were all brightness and all pro sperity, is there nothing in the state of the world, generally, to engender this feeling, to awaken that sadness in which disap pointment or regret mingles as an element ? Do we not suffer in the sufferings of others ? Do we not weep with those that weep ? Can we avoid making the case of the disappointed our own ? Is there no treachery, no deceit, no baseness, to be met with in the world ? Do we not often behold a littleness of motive and of action which inspires aversion, if it does not awaken disgust ? To be affected with the misery that prevails in the world, we may be assured, is always the accompaniment of a noble nature. The Howards of our species are the noblest specimens of the race, and a fine temperament, whether linked with a philosophic or a poetic genius, may have all the sensi bilities without the strong and impulsive will of a Howard. In proof that disappointment is an element in melancholy — and
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we refer to such an evidence with all reverence — we may hazard the remark that it could not be said of the Saviour that He was ever melancholy, although He was often sad. In one sense, He was often disappointed with the ways of the world, and with the conduct of His own friends, but not so much disap pointed as grieved at heart. He knew what He had to expect when He entered upon His work. He had entertained no enthusiastic dreams of what was to be, or of what ought to be ; He cherished no illusory hopes, no vain imaginations, the indulgence of which, even although connected with the most generous and virtuous aspirations, is, when disappointment is met with, the very element out of which melancholy — that more gentle kind of it which is connected with genius — weaves its own sombre tissue. Every one has heard of the melancholy of the poet Cowper. It had substantial disappointments to create it, but it is interesting to find him referring to these very disap pointments as the cause and explanation of that state of mind of which he was so long, and so painfully, the victim. We find him in a poetical epistle to a friend thus affectingly alluding to his circumstances : —
" See me, ere yet my destined course half done, Cast forth a wanderer on a world unknown ! See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my Lrow, And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, All that delights the happy, palls with me !"
We find from Cowper's own letters that his principal works were written under a necessity to keep off melancholy. That there was much that was constitutional in the melancholy of Cowper, there can be no doubt. But the frequent allusions in his letters to his unfitness for life, and the failure of all the hopes of his friends regarding him, if not his own hopes, dis cover to us the true cause, what, perhaps, was at the heart, of that feeling which so constantly attended him. The extreme deli cacy and refinement of physical and mental constitution which incapacitated him for taking his place as a reading or merely
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recording clerk in the House of Lords, and afterwards from becoming a law-lecturer in the Temple, and the consequent failure of every hope that had been entertained of him : it was this that gave a tinge to his whole life ; and had not religion come in to relieve that horizon which was otherwise so dark, that very religion to which, by many, all his melancholy is traced, he had been, probably, a hopeless maniac all his days. He was frequently deserted, indeed, by the consolations of religion, but such consolation as he had was from this source, and the tone and tenor of his writings for the twelve long years during which he informs us he scarcely had a ray of comfort, shew how he was more supported than he was even aware by the secret, and solid, if not very lively satisfaction and peace, which never wholly desert the soul that has once admitted them. Cowper's whole case is exceedingly instructive on the subject of which we are treating, and in nothing is it more instructive than as to the source from which relief is to come, in any such instance of melancholy, or despondency, arising, whether from constitutional temperament, or from an unfitness for the rude struggle and contest of life, and the failure of every most cherished scheme or expectation. The following lines were written during the long period of despondency to which we have adverted, and aptly describe his state, both as regards his melancholy, and the mode in which relief came to him : —
" I was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long since ; with man}- an arrow deep infixed My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by One who had himself Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. "With gentle force soliciting the darts, He drew them forth and heal'd, and bade me live. Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene ; With few associates and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may, With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come.
322 THE EMOTIONS.
1 sue that all are wandererfi, gone astray, Each in his own delusions ; they are lost In ehace of fancied happiness, still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues ; And still they dream that they shall still succeed, And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, And add two-thirds of the remaining half, And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams."
Melancholy, then, we take to be one of the feelings opposed to cheerfulness ; it is either the subsidence of a violent sorrow, or begotten by a train of circumstances whose effect is not ex cessive sorrow, but the feeling we call melancholy ; and disap pointment, we conceive, is, in every instance, an element in the emotion. It may be unnecessary to refine so much as this — to distinguish the emotion or feeling of melancholy from that of pensiveness or sadness ; but we think an element can be clearly distinguished in the former which is not in the latter. Pensiveness is hardly a synonyme to sadness ; it approaches nearer to melancholy than sadness does. Pensiveness is almost entirely a constitutional thing ; it is partly begotten, however, by the disappointment which our hopes or expectations from the world are inevitably doomed to suffer. It is not so strong as melancholy : let the disappointments take either a personal turn, or let them deepen and darken in their character, as our experience in life opens up new subject for melancholy thought, and melancholy, not pensiveness merely, will be the result. Foster's was a melancholy cast of mind essentially from this source ; and it was deep in proportion to the profound views he took, not of life merely, but of all moral questions. The dark shade cast from the latter deepened his feeling with re spect to the former, and made all the expectations he might be prone to cherish in regard to the world more melancholy in their effect in proportion as he beheld them signally baffled, and so unlikely to be ever realized. Kousseau's melancholy arose very much from the same source ; but his reflections upon life were not so just, as they wanted the element of reli-
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gion, or were not taken from the side of religion. They were connected with no views of God, and held in check by no fear of God's sovereignty. It is not one circumstance merely which produces melancholy, although this may do it, but often a train of circumstances, — as it is not one melancholy reflection on life, but a course of reflection, that produces it in the meditative mind. Virtue will not always prevent the intrusion of melancholy, although it will greatly help to do so. There may be a cheerful melancholy, if we may so speak, or along with much cause for melancholy, there may be at the same time abundant cause for cheerfulness. The more virtuous we keep the mind, the more cheerful it will be even under the disasters of life. There can be no doubt there are great constitutional differences, and what would involve one in melancholy would hardly affect another. There is a ten dency in some to look always at the darker side of things ; others, as Goldsmith expresses it, can put themselves on that side of the world in which everything appears in a pleasing light. To the latter there is no melancholy ; sorrow may be felt, but to melancholy such persons are utter strangers. And this is from no want of feeling ; the sympathies of such persons may be most tender, but, from a singular law of their constitu tion, nothing ever wears a gloomy aspect to them. We can give no account of this law any more than others in the mental and moral world, except that it is perhaps intended by the wise Creator, even in this our fallen state, that there should be blended many of the elements of a happy social condition, while there is enough to remind us that our state is a fallen one, and that perfect happiness is to be sought for in a future world to which our hopes are taught to aspire by the Gospel alone.
From the view we have taken of melancholy, it will be seen that it is not properly the opposite of cheerfulness. The pro per opposite of this latter emotion is fretfulness or moroseness. Wherever these exist, there can of course be no harmony of the emotions ; and they can be owing only to the disturbance of that harmony. We have said there may be a cheerful melan-
324 THE EMOTIONS.
choly : we should have rather said a serene melancholy ; but we cannot speak of a serene fretfulness — a serene raoroseness. Wherever these are, there is disorder in the feelings : there is a total disturbance. Melancholy may be like a cloud passing over a serene sky ; in moroseness, all is murky as well as dark, and there is a sullenness in the whole aspect of nature ; in fret- fulness, we have broken and jagged clouds ever and anon passing over the heavens, and the wind speaks in fitful gusts. Peevishness, again, is the same as fretfulness, but along with the clouds and the winds we have cold and drizzling showers, producing discomfort as well as gloom. There is a strong ten dency in some minds to indulge in such dispositions. Fretful- ness is the least culpable, and the least unpleasant of the three; it may result from real causes, and it is transient in its opera tion : moroseness, too, may have its more settled cause ; but for peevishness there is no excuse, unless, which is often the case, it is the result, in part, of physical derangement, or a habit of body that disposes to it by constant suffering or un easiness. Often, however, it is the result of natural tempera ment, an infirmity of disposition always leading the unhappy possessor of it to find fault when there is no cause for it, nay, when there is cause for the very reverse. To such a disposition nothing comes right, or if anything comes right, it is sure to be put wrong. It will look up and complain in your face even when you are doing all in your power to please, and when you may be wearing your most benignant smiles. Shakespeare has hit off this unfortunate temper, or turn of mind, with his usual happy power and truthfulness : —
" Why should a man whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? Sleep when he wakes ? and creep into the jaundice By being peevish ?"
Moroseness has generally some good grounds for it. A man would hardly be morose if he could help it. It begins with some good reason, for the most part — but it may be cherished too long, and hugged too closely. Moroseness is silent : fret-
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fulness speaks out: peevishness pules out, if we may so ex press ourselves — its language is a whimper — and no matter into what ears it is poured ; the more affectionate, perhaps, the more suitable for its purpose. A repining, murmuring, disposition may be neither the peevish, nor the fretful, and yet it may partake of both ; and the morose, too, often breaks out into murmuring or complaint: at other times it is entirely silent, and you might in vain try to entice it into smiles. Goldsmith in one of his comedies has sketched the "good- natured man," — and in the same comedy the disposition of mind to which we have just adverted, is very happily touched. Croaker, when he had no other subject to write upon, drew up an account of the increase and progress of earthquakes. His salutation to a friend was : " A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of them. How is this — you look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend?" Croaker thought it was all one what weather they had in a country going to ruin like his own, " taxes rising, and trade falling, money flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it." The " good- natured man" is the very opposite of Croaker. He is never in a bad humour : he could not be put into one ; nothing seems to be able to fret or irritate him, although he felt there was something in his friend Croaker's conversation that quite depressed him. To humour Croaker's habit of mind, he falls into the same vein, or way of moralizing ; but when Croaker leaves him, he says, " I shall scarce recover my spirits for three days." Such fret ful, sullen, and peevish dispositions are to be studiously guarded against ; while what is called good nature, if carried to excess, may lead to the greatest extravagances. Sir William Honeywood could detect in the good nature of his nephew, a disposition arising rather from the fear of offending the im portunate, than a desire of making the deserving happy. This disposition may be linked with the utmost recklessness of ex penditure, and folly in the manner of extending favours. It is plainly something very different from cheerfulness, which sup poses no excess of emotion, and is not itself necessarily kind ness. Every emotion should be under control, and perhaps
326 THE EMOTIONS.
cheerfulness should be sought above every other state of mere enjoyment ; for the happiness connected with it is connected with a right moral state, and due exercise of all the virtuous emotions. " Live happy," says Sir Thomas Browne in his Christian Morals, " in the elysium of a virtuously composed mind, and let intellectual contents exceed the delights wherein mere pleasurists place their paradise. Bear not too slack reins upon pleasure, nor let complexion or contagion betray thee unto the exorbitancy of delight." The dispositions to fretful- ness, moroseness, and peevishness, are the causes of as much unhappiness to the person who indulges them, as to those on whom the unpleasant humour is expended, or who happen to be the subjects of its caprice. But the effects do not stop with their possessor. " There is a sullen gloom," says Dr. Brown, in a characteristic passage, " which disposes to unkindness, and every bad passion ; a fretftilness in all the daily and hourly in tercourse of familiar life, which, if it weary at last the assidui ties of friendship, sees only the neglect which it has forced, and not the perversity of humour which gave occasion to it, and soon learns to hate, therefore, what it considers as ingratitude and injustice : or which, if friendship be still assiduous as before, sees in those very assiduities a proof, not of the strength of that affection which has forgotten the acrimony to soothe the supposed uneasiness which gave it rise, but a proof that there has been no offensive acrimony to be forgotten, and per sists therefore in every peevish caprice till the domestic tyranny become habitual." The indulgence of such humours is very apt to be allowed in that very scene which of all others should be distinguished for the cheerful and amiable affections. The dispositions we would not exhibit abroad, we are apt to suffer ourselves in at home, because we do not feel those restraints upon us which society imposes ; and while the bad humour may not go very far, it may yet serve often to interrupt that flow of happiness which a greater restraint upon ourselves or command over our tempers would secure.
Old age is very apt to be querulous or fretful, and the cir cumstances of this period of life are its ample excuse. If the
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temper cannot be commanded at that season, what wonder when every feeling is a pain, and every thought almost is a regret for something that has for ever passed away ? If there are friends still to wait upon and soothe it, the inability to meet that very friendship with an adequate return, or with acts and assiduities of equal kindness, is felt as itself a trial, and almost galls the spirit that may be as sensible of the good offices tendered, as if it could repay these with double affection. Naturally unamiable dispositions are all the more unlovely when seen in old age, as there is nothing to compensate their effect ; but when what is unamiable has its cause in old age itself, it becomes almost endeared to us for the sake of that very old age, and we delight in the opportunity of bearing with its irritability, and soothing the temper which we know so well would never in other days have exhibited itself. It is a demand upon our very affection ; it is often exhibited for no other purpose. Old age knows its right, and it will assert it, and we are the more willing and ready to allow it. There may be something even flattering to our own affection in the calls made upon it ; and if there is pleasure in the exercise of virtuous dispositions — if there is happiness in the very indul gence of amiable qualities, old age gives us the best oppor tunity of exhibiting both, so that a pardonable pride — if ever pride can be pardonable — a satisfaction at least in having affection to exhibit, and having that affection fully trusted in or appreciated: these, as well as the direct pleasure arising from the exercise of virtuous and amiable emotions, may legi timately be allowed or supposed to accompany the affectionate attentions we pay to the aged. What indulgence should not be shewn to those who have finished their span of existence, and wrhose horizon, now in this world, is all in the past ? Their future is already in the unseen and eternal state. They have arrived at that brink over which it is almost giddiness to look. Who shall blame them if they feel giddy in the contemplation ? What need at such a moment for the hope of immortality ! — and that, indeed, filling the mind, and occupying the spirit, may well diffuse a calm over the soul, and impart to it a
328 THE EMOTIONS.
dignity, which will allow no room, or take away all disposition, to fretfulness, while it raises it above every earth-born feeling or passion. Old age so characterized is a sublime spectacle. Why should it not be oftener exhibited ? Why should not the faith of the gospel then shed its parting rays, more beautiful as fears clear away like clouds from the sinking sun, and show ing a larger radiance, as refracted almost from the unseen world itself ?
Joy is the next emotion which demands attention. Taking along with us the principle with which we set out, that moral evil exists, that it is a fact to be considered in all our emotional or moral states, the question is, How can joy consist with the admitted fact of moral evil ? and we find the same solution of the question as in the instance of cheerfulness. We then found, or took notice of the circumstance, that although moral evil exists, it is not unmixed evil, or that the world is a scene in which good as well as evil obtains — that the Moral Legis lator of the universe has not punished evil to the extent that an unmingled administration of justice might require, and might lead us to expect — that he has adopted a remedial scheme with respect to this world, which still allows the development and exercise of much that is amiable and praise worthy in character ; while happiness or pleasure attends, and must attend, the exercise of every virtuous disposition. That happiness is cheerfulness, or allows cheerfulness ; and if nothing occur to mar it, and no emotion predominate over another, cheerfulness is the result, and forms the equable emotion or state of the mind. Happiness being thus possible, there may be joy as well as cheerfulness in the world. The mind was constituted at first susceptible of joy as well as cheerfulness. Cheerfulness is the first happiness of the mind, unelevated, undepressed. Joy is a livelier or superior degree of happiness. Certain occurrences or circumstances are calculated to awaken joy. The happiness that was before felt is augmented, or the mind is raised at once from a state of depression to one of joy.
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If we receive an accession to the means of comfort and of happiness, we experience joy — we are not merely happy, we feel joyful. If our happiness consists in doing good, and an en larged sphere of usefulness presents itself which was not expected, we feel joy. If some new truth develops itself in our inquiries — if some question is solved — if some very dif ficult point in science is determined, on which we had in vain expended our faculties — above all, if it yields to our own investigations and energies, we feel joy. The unlooked-for meeting with a friend, the sight of one's native land after a period of absence, an act of generosity or kindness from, a supposed enemy, some unexpected blessing received, or appre hended danger warded off, — all these awaken joy, and make the mind perhaps exult in happiness. Joy will express itself often in exclamations of delight. Delight seeks utterance, and laughter, and even tears, testify to the joy that is felt.
Joy is for the most part, but it is not always, sudden. It sometimes springs up in the mind, and we know not whence its source. The mind is open to solicitations of pleasure, and we know not whence they address us. As there is a sympathy between trie mind and the frame in which it resides, it some times is the result of a quickened sense of mere bodily pleasure, as when all the pulses beat in healthy tune, or an external joy in the very atmosphere appeals to the senses, and through them to the mind. There is a beautiful sympathy between the mind and external nature. The mind is adapted to feel the appeals made by external nature — nature is rendered capable of these appeals to the susceptibilities and sentiments of the mind. Joy springs up that instant in the bosom. Akenside, the poet of philosophy, speaks of
. . . . " The lively joy when aught unknown Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power To brisker measures."
The exhilaration of exercise is akin to joy, and is undoubtedly a promoter of it. The walks among the scenes of nature, the stringing the frame to vigorous exertion, and the views that expand to the eye when we gain some mountain summit which
330 THE EMOTIONS.
our energies have been tasked in reaching ; the distant expanse which the niind as well as the eye can take in, the healthful play of every vital feeling, and the power of such a scene as invites the gaze, to solicit the mind away from its cares and its sorrows, all ministers to a joy or delight which is felt in no other circumstances, and which makes the mind as well as the very body healthy. Nature has not given us vital powers and capacities of pleasure without a purpose, and she has not allow ed such scenes to linger on this world without the intention that we should bring our minds into frequent communion with them. The lines of Beattie are surely a pardonable enthu siasm, and may be employed to stimulate to that love of external nature, of which many exhibit such a lamentable deficiency.
" 0 how canst tliou renounce the boundless store Of charms which nature to her votary yields : The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields ; All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even ; All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the drcffld magnificence of Heaven, 0 ! how canst tliou renounce, and hope to be forgiven '?"
To these pleasures the Christian adds another ; speaking of the Christian, the " Freeman whom the truth makes free," the Christian poet says, —
" He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His arc the mountains, and the valleys his, And all the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who with filial confidence inspired Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say, ' My Father made them all.' Arc they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
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Wlio.se heart with praise, ami whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plunn'd, and built, and still upholds a world So rloth'd with beauty for rebellious man ?"
Joy may have its source in moral causes. We may rejoice in an event which will give happiness to thousands, and pro mote the virtue of a community. Our own prosperity, or that of others, connected with the exercise of right principle, ex perienced in the very carrying out of that principle, may be a legitimate source of joy. We triumph in the success of virtue. Individual prosperity may often be connected with the maintenance of principle ; and to see the virtuous re warded, or to have virtue rewarded in one's own case, is a real source of joy, whether to the observer, or to the indi vidual himself. The spectacle of moral principle, steadily maintained through a uniform course of action, maintained on its own account, and in spite of temptation, or amid the many opportunities of relaxing it, is an interesting one, and awakens joy in every breast that can truly sympathize with it. Do we see the righteous exalted, and the unscrupulous baffled in their attempts to build their fortunes upon the ruin of others ? — We rejoice. The defeat of all sinister, as well as the success of all good and honourable principle, makes every heart glad whose sympathies are still on the side of the right. National prosperity, when based upon principle, is an occasion of joy. We sympathize in the schemes of the benevolent for national amelioration, and the patriotic for political emancipa tion or national grandeur. The triumph of any public cause over prejudice and interested opposition ; the success of any great question which has long hung in the balance, whose ulti mate success, however, you could confidently predict in the sure triumph, in the long run, of every good and righteous measure, quickens the pulses of joy in every heart. Has a nation a just quarrel with its enemies — is war, however to be deplored, inevitable — are thousands slain in the struggle — do we see the contest maintained on the most deadly fields ;— but
332 THE EMOTIONS.
has justice triumphed — has liberty gained a just victory — have the enemies of freedom and of right been overthrown — and have inestimable blessings been secured to generations ? — We rejoice ; a national triumph is decreed ; public rejoicings are proclaimed ; and we feel, as lovers of the right, as patriots, a joy which even the disasters and miseries of warfare cannot wholly prevent. Nor is it different if the scene of action is more limited ; if the interests are less public ; if, instead of a nation, it is a com munity that is benefited ; if some signal blessing has accrued to a mere vicinity : — it may not involve such mighty interests, it may not embattle nations, but it may be some real public good, notwithstanding — the triumph of some measure of economic or social wellbeing :• — we make the cause our own — our individual feelings are enlisted — joy is the pervading feeling, and our own joy is augmented by sympathy with the joy of every one around us. We take an interest in the struggle for freedom when a nation is throwing off its fetters, and awakening to the rights of the species, entitled to self-government, and having a deep stake in those measures of social regulation, which are to be imposed, it may be, upon generations. The promise that was in the first dawn of the French Revolution, sent a thrill of joy through those nations which themselves possessed a rational amount of liberty, and was hailed as the precursor even to them of a better day. That joy was destined to be fatally overcast, and to be quenched in blood ; but the dawn of promise was not the less bright, or hailed with the less satis faction. There is a promise even now of a brighter era ; and the social condition of the nations seems to be receiving a mighty impulse in the quickened intelligence of the people — in the diffusion of enlightened principles of thinking and of action — in the interest exhibited in the questions of a right political economy — in the more extensive recognition of a just philosophy, and of scriptural truth, — and who does not sympa thize with such a prospect ? Tyranny — despotic sway — arbi trary institutions, which have so long oppressed the nations, and bound them as under a frozen spell, must give way, and be tossed by the swelling deep of popular fury, till those mighty
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icebergs have melted into their elements, or broken into frag ments. The apostle of freedom seems to be on his mission to the nations, and the star of Kossuth may be the harbinger of a brighter day.*
There is this difference between joy and the emotion we have already considered, viz., cheerfulness; that the former may often be a false and improper feeling, the latter never. This very circumstance justifies, we think, the view we have taken of cheerfulness. Cheerfulness will not exist but in a well-regu lated mind, and it is not the result of any one event, or any single occasion.. It is a general state of the feelings: joy is a specific emotion, springing from a specific cause, and we are capable of feeling joy from altogether wrong causes. We may rejoice in evil. ' There is a malicious joy, sinful joy, or joy springing from malicious motives, sinful sources. There may be joy in the result of a scheme of villany, as much as of one of justice and philanthropy. There is a malignant joy in evil for itself. The tyrant exults in his schemes of oppression — he experiences joy when his projects of tyranny take effect ; and what sends a thrill of horror through millions, it may be, of his subjects, is an occasion only of joy to him. Whatever may be the favourite passion, if it is gratified, joy is at least the immediate consequence. The heart is thus to be regarded as truly evil. Were it not so, it would have pleasure only in what is good. No better proof could be furnished of the heart's depravity than that it finds pleasure in evil. To be able to rejoice in what should give pain to every rightly constituted being, is the most satisfactory evidence that we could have of a wrong, of a morally depraved state. We would expect from a rightly constituted moral being joy only in good. It would be impossible for such a being to love evil. Evil would have no place even in his conceptions. The doctrine that man is unfallen — that his nature is not vitiated — that the evil that exists may be accounted for by example, and the influence of
* This was written about the time of Kossuth's arrival in Britain, or his advent in America. Subsequent events are but illustrating the grand views which he then enunciated.
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circumstances, besides involving the inconsistency that that example, that these circumstances are themselves without a cause, must imply that evil could exist in the desire, or be an object of gratified contemplation, without the heart being depraved, which were an impossibility. All malignant emo tions must have an evil source from which they spring, an evil heart in which they reside. Malicious joy, therefore, is a melancholy proof, as it is itself a melancholy instance, of human depravity. The heart is too prone to rejoice in the misfortunes, perhaps even in the misery, of others. We take pleasure in their grievances, in their sufferings it may be. " There is a malicious tendency," says Kant, " in the human heart which verifies the maxim, ' that in the misfortunes of our best friends there is a something not altogether unpleasant to us.' " This disposition may be restrained, but its tendency is seen.
Joy may thus be perverted, and be derived from the most opposite sources. True legitimate joy, however, ought to spring only from a proper source, either innocent or positively virtuous. It was originally one of the moral feelings, or connected with a right moral state. Joy in evil is one of the lamentable effects of the Fall. From a capability of rejoicing in evil to a certain extent, no mind is free ; and it is only the faith of the Gospel, and the charity consequent upon it, that will expel the last remnant of malignant feeling from the heart.
Joy, when legitimate and virtuous, we need not remark, is one of the pleasurable emotions — the most pleasurable of them — but it is itself capable of degrees. The highest joy is exul tation, rapture. Spiritual joy is the highest, as it is the holiest species of the emotion. Joy arising from any moral cause must be nearest to it ; and intellectual joy must be assigned the next rank, and is one of a pure and high description. The author of Festus says, —
It is fine
To stand upon some lofty mountain thought, And fed the spirit stretch into a view."
That pleasure is experienced by the student, or the man of letters, when some truly valuable thought or truth is perceived
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or apprehended by the mind. The pleasure of the moment is like that of reaching some eminence, from which the eye stretches into the illimitable distance, and rests upon plain and valley beneath, crowded with objects that interest as they fill the gaze.
The joy that springs from a moral source must be of a more elevating, or a purer kind still than that which is merely intel lectual. It fills the heart with a more satisfying, a fuller emotion : it may not be so exquisite as some instances of mental or intellectual pleasure, but it is more satisfying ; not so transitory, and full as it is abiding. The moral must always transcend the intellectual : it is of a nature indeed that the in tellectual makes no approach to.
Joy is not a feeling which we can at any time command. The circumstances which beget it are not within our own power. It depends very much, like cheerfulness, upon the general state of the mind. A melancholy must be less susceptible of it than a cheerful state. All the tones of the harp must be more easily brought out when there is nothing that jars. Still, joy will visit the loneliest or the most desolate heart : cheerfulness, re quiring more permanent causes, may not be looked for, but the impulses of joy cannot be resisted, and they come in spite of ourselves. Some melancholy may be so deep, that even joy speaks to it in vain, or no circumstances can rouse it. The heart is chained in a dungeon either of its own making, or from which it cannot emerge at its own will. Spiritual serenity or joy is the only light that can penetrate such a gloom — as nothing but the emancipation of the Jews from their captivity could make them take their harps from the willows, and it was the Lord's song which they then sung. When God breaks the fetters of the soul, there is a new song given to it, and it walks forth in the light and joy of Divine liberty. Spiritual joy can at no time be said to be unattainable, as the causes of it are permanent, and the want of it must be entirely on our own part. Other joy is fluctuating, because the objects of it are evanescent, the causes uncertain. Events are not always tran spiring which produce it. Not even the moral sources of joy
336 THE EMOTIONS.
nre continuous or lasting. But the spring of spiritual joy is ever full ; and the blame must be with ourselves if we have it not always, in all circumstances.
The corresponding opposite emotion to joy is sorrow. It is, perhaps, worthy of remark, how each emotion should have its counterpart or opposite ; for cheerfulness we should have melan choly ; for joy, sorrow ; as to meekness, we find opposed anger ; to hope, fear. It would seem as if the mind was capable of existing in opposite states, and that between these opposites there was every manner of degree, constituting the whole emo tional phenomena of the mind. But the interesting circum stance is, that the mind is capable of such opposite emotions, while yet it is only the one class of emotions that is consistent with an originally perfect or sinless state, a state in which moral evil did not exist. This sinless state is the only one re concilable with the condition of a good and perfect Creator. How did it come, then, that when the conditions of creation altered, when evil crept in, when this new state took effect, a corresponding and opposite emotion to every several emotion originally possessed, now had place in the soul, or, as occasion offered, developed itself? This antagonism of emotion is worthy of notice. If it was in the original provision or consti tution of our nature, it shews that such a new state as arose on the introduction of evil, was contemplated by God, and that He endowed us with an emotional capacity accordingly ; or, are we to suppose such an antagonism inevitable, and does each emotion pass into its opposite by a law of its own, or in virtue of its own nature ? We can hardly avoid adopting the latter of these conclusions. It seems as if the shadow of evil ever attended upon good, except in the case of that all-perfect Being who can suffer no change in His nature or attributes. With Him is no variableness or shadow of turning. Good and evil, happiness and misery, are not antagonisms of His nature. He is absolutely good, and absolutely happy. To suppose a change were to suppose Him not God. But with the creature it would seem as if change were a condition of his being, and that it
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must be by an extrinsic and foreign power, if all change is kept away from him, if he suffer no change. It is by prevenient grace, it is supposed, that the angels which have never sinned have been kept in their first estate. The peccability of the creature, and the chance, or rather the likelihood, that he would have fallen at some time or other in the duration of an immortal existence, have been made the foundation of an argument in vindication of God, in reference to the introduction of evil into the world, or into the universe. The creature, it has been con tended, unless upheld, unless prevented by prevenient grace, must have fallen at some time or other. There would appear to be in the constitution of the creature, then, an adaptation to this very state of things, to this liability to err. The angels sinned, and were expelled from heaven. Our first parents sinned, and were driven from paradise. No sooner had these events happened, than the other side, as it were, of the emo tional nature, of each emotion, was displayed ; and for joy there was sorrow ; for cheerfulness, or, as it must have been then, serenity, peace, there was disturbance, tumult, disquietude, shall we say melancholy ? Milton, not inaccurately, perhaps, repre sents Satan, in his Address to the Sun, as if struck with a feeling of melancholy, or possessed with infinite regret at his change, saying, —
" 0 had His powerful destiny ordained Me some inferior angel, I had stood Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised Amhition !"
Again : —
" Me miserable ! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; And in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide ; To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 0, then at last relent : is there no place Left for repentance, none for pardon left?"
The great poet, then, supposes Satan touched with something like mdanclwly, at least, with regret, in recalling his former
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estate. More strikingly is this done when looking upon his compeers : —
" Millions of spirits for his fault amerced Of heaven, and from eternal splendours flung For his revolt,"
Milton says of him : —
" Thrice he assayed, and thrice in spite of scorn, Tears such as angels weep burst forth ; at last Words interwove with sighs found out their way."
The devils in hell " believe and tremble :" do they look with no regret to those seats from which they have been cast ? Do they never think of their former happiness, and contrast with it their present misery ? Do the radiant glories of heaven never flash upon their gaze — are these never present to their me mories, amid the horrors of that place to which they are now consigned ? There can be no doubt that in the case of our first parents, at least, regret, melancholy, soon followed upon their transgression. Keinorse, no doubt, at first, but soon, when that was softened by repentance, melancholy at their loss, at their immense loss, would find a place. Sorrow would fill all the chambers of the soul : how deep ! how overwhelming ! We say it would be an adaptation to his nature, to the nature of the creature, that he should be capable of sorrow upon his fall, when, from a sinless and happy condition, he was plunged into one of sin and wretchedness. Not only was this an adaptation of his nature, it was part of his nature as a creature. Good and evil are not more counterparts, or opposites, than joy and sorrow ; joy must attend upon the one, sorrow upon the other. Was the creature capable of evil, fallible ? — he was capable of sorrow. Sorrow, while yet he was unfallen, was like the dark side of the planet which no one sees till it is relieved against the light of another which it eclipses. Joy was the first state ; sorrow is that which comes over it, which eclipses it, which seems to come out of it. Just the opposite of what produces joy is the occasion of sorrow. Let such and such an event happen, and joy is the immediate result ; let the opposite event happen, and sorrow is the result. And so many kinds of joy as
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we enumerated, we might enumerate as many kinds of sorrow. Does any turn of good fortune produce joy ? — the reverse pro duces sorrow. Do we rejoice when our efforts for good are prospered ? — we are sorry when they are baulked. Do we rejoice at any new discovery of truth — at any successful experi ment in science — at the solution of any difficult question or problem — when some interesting view dawns upon the intellect, or fine fancy, or imagination, flashes with pleasing delight upon the mind ? Do we rejoice in moral good — in the triumph of virtue — in the defeat of wickedness — in the success of any righteous cause — at the predestined issue of every struggle for right — at the anticipation of freedom for the nations — at the prospect of the millennium of this world's happiness ? The opposite, or what seems to delay the fulfilment or attainment of these, produces sorrow ; and does not the mind languish, pine, at least, in joylessness, when cut off from all the resources of intellectual gratification, or no thought visits it sufficient to awaken anything more than ordinary emotion ?
There may be malignant sorrow, as there is malignant joy. The day which declared the abolition of the slave-trade in England was a joyful one to the benevolent heart of Wilber- force ; to many, who had no sympathy with the slave, and who derived profit from the traffic, it produced unmingled sor row. It spoke to them of gains lost, — of opportunities of traffic cut off, — of the horrid delight which misdirected passion, or passion set upon the most unlawful objects, affords to him who is so unfortunate as to become its victim, or simply delight in evil, as no longer possible, or attainable. To the tyrant's heart, the most annoying and unwelcome of all tidings is that which conveys to him the intelligence of the happiness of his subjects in spite of all his tyranny — perhaps the escape of some victim of his oppression from bondage, or from the execution of his merciless and murderous mandate.
There is an occasion of sorrow so peculiar as to be worthy of forming a distinct subject of observation, — we mean the death of friends. This event is so peculiar as to claim sorrow almost exclusively as its own emotion. So peculiarly is it the emotion
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of such an event, or appropriate to such an event, that the emotion in this instance has its appropriate garb, and has had in simpler ages, and among simpler people, its appropriate ex pression. The sable weeds of these Western countries, and the white vestments of the East, are assumed whenever death has broken the circle of friends, and called a family or circle of relatives to mourning. No event is so striking in all its cir cumstances as death. It carries away from before our eyes the object of our affection and love — it extinguishes a life that was as precious to us as our own — shrouds in oblivion a being, an existence, that has no equivalent to us — and makes us desolate in a world that was so late blight with happiness. In a state where the feelings are less sophisticated, and less under the control of sober reason, a peculiar cry is raised for the dead. In Eastern countries there are hired mourners and minstrels, whose duty it is to " take up a wailing/' or make appropriate lament for the dead. We express, in every way we can, our sense of the bereavement with which death has visited us : we decorate the places of the dead — we raise the monument — we mitigate the horrors of the grave by the flowers with which we strew or plant it, and by the emblems of immortality we cause to grow. Death was undoubtedly the crowning evil which sin introduced into the world. Scripture seems so to recognise it : " By one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin, and so death has passed upon all men, because that all have sinned." Death is the grim tyrant that shakes his sceptre over every individual of our race, and that will claim all for his dominion or his prey. We must bow our heads in death, and the tribute of sorrow we have paid to others may be rendered to us.
We have spoken of melancholy as distinct from sorrow. The reason has already been given in the antagonism that we have noticed as existing in the emotions, so that the considera tion of one emotion naturally leads us to the consideration of its opposite. Melancholy was contrasted with cheerfulness as a less violent sorrow, and sorrow accordingly is opposed to joy as its more appropriate counterpart.
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If we look at the final causes of our emotions, we find none for those which suppose a previous perfect state. They were their own end. Every end was subserved in that state by things as they were, and of each by itself. It were vain to ask for the final end of any of the virtuous emotions, or of the emotions growing out of these. Each was its own end ; but the glory of God was the end of all, or God's glory in the hap piness of the creature. Man was created in the image of God, and just as the attributes of God subserve no end, can subserve no end, but must be considered as absolute in their nature ; so was it with the attributes with which God endowed man. They, too, were an end to themselves, but God's glory shone in all, as his own perfections were reflected or illustrated. There was nothing beyond that perfection. It could not be a means ; it shone absolutely, and in the lustre of those glorious qualities, even in the fair form in which God had placed these, His image was displayed. It might be said that the proper end of love, or gratitude, was, that God might be loved, and all sinless beings, and that the sentiment of gratitude might rise in return to God for His benefits. Undoubtedly that was the very nature of the sentiment or feeling, — was it the end ? Were they not proper in themselves ? And was not God glori fied in the very feelings or emotions ? It was to subserve an end, however, that man was rendered capable of the other emotions — the counterpart or antagonist emotions — for they could never be an end — just as evil could never be an end. Evil was permitted in the universe of God for some purpose, and those counterpart emotions were necessary to, or inevitable in a state of evil, or where evil existed. A final cause can be seen in those counterpart emotions. In a perfect state no end is needing to be accomplished ; all is accomplished, except in the case of the physical part, which was to subserve the spiri tual in man. The intellectual, too, might be regarded as sub servient or ministerial to the spiritual: not when considered as created in the immediate image of God : viewed thus, it was an end itself ; its only end could be God's glory. But as infe-
342 THE EMOTIONS.
rior, and actually ministerial to the spiritual or moral part of man, the intellectual did and does subserve an end, but its proper end was not that it might subserve that end, but it too was a part of the Divine image. It is now that we see the subordination of means to purposes in the region of man's na ture. Before, to reflect God's perfections was the only end. God created the whole of man's spiritual nature for this purpose. It was in God's entire image that man was created, and as a perfect image of God one part was not to subserve another, but all was the expression of God's nature. Now, when man is no longer the reflection of God's nature, when that is no longer accom plished, and other objects are to be accomplished, adaptation and subserviency come into view. Matter is subservient to spirit — must always be — and there are adaptations in matter; for matter, although bearing the impress of God's perfections, was not the image of God — was not an end. The state of the soul now admits of adaptations, and subserviency of one part to another — of final causes, because the original design of God has been disturbed, and man no longer reflects his image. A variety of purposes has now to be served. Variety, instead of unity — that unity being the image of God, and God's glory in that image — has now place. That variety requires provision for it, adaptation to it. New final causes came into play besides God's glory. That was no longer the end of man's being. He sought out ends for himself — " he sought out many inven tions ;" and God having still His ends to accomplish, adapted means accordingly, and made man's nature still subserve the great end of His glory, in order to which, however, he had to subordinate or arrange lesser ends, and adapt to these adequate means. The great end of our original emotions was God ; in all other respects they were their own end. They served no subordinate purpose, each terminated in itself; each was for itself. Love did not exist for joy — no, nor for obedience ; the emotion of gratitude did not exist in order to its exercise, but for itself; it was proper ; it was a necessary emotion springing out of the circumstances of obligation to the goodness of the Creator. Love to the creature might be supposed to exist
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not so much for itself as for a final purpose — for the reciprocal exercise of the sentiment, and so for the happiness of the crea ture himself ; and in the case of the emotions of beauty, of sublimity— of admiration of the works of God — the happiness of the creature might be supposed to be their end. But even with respect to these, may we not maintain them to have been an end themselves ? Do we not see a worthiness in themselves to be an end ? Were they not worthy for their own sake ? What kind of constitution, or order of things, would that be in which there was no reciprocal love among the beings capable of such emotions, endowed with an emotional capacity ? Such beings must have been as good as inanimate, insensible to any feeling of mutual regard. The condition of the world must then have been altered ; it would not have been social but iso lated existence. Or rather, it would not have been intellectual or spiritual, but merely material existence ; or it would have been intellectual apart from the emotional. Grant an emo tional nature, and we cannot conceive of such a nature without the reciprocal affections, or their opposite. No more can the emotion of beauty or sublimity be regarded as a means to an end. These emotions have some real object or quality on which they terminate. They are themselves final. It is something real that inspires them. They have their proper object. That object indeed is not in the creature, except as put there by the Creator, or as a reflection of what is in the Creator ; but it is in the Creator; and would it be possible to contemplate the qualities which inspire these emotions without having the emotions ? What is their final end then ? Are they not their own end ? They all heighten indeed the love of God, and de votion to his glory ; but do they exist for this ? do they not exist for themselves ? Our original emotions, therefore, may be taken as final ; they were to subserve no other purpose. With regard to the sentiment of the beautiful, for example, it were a degradation to it, as well as inconsistent with what reason teaches us, to make it a means and not an end itself. In treating of the Beautiful, Cousin says, in words so apposite to our purpose, " The last theory we shall examine is that
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which confounds the beautiful with religion and morals, and consequently, the sentiment of the beautiful with religious and moral sentiments ; according to this theory the end of art is to make us better men, and to lift up our hearts to heaven. That this may be one of the results of art I do not question, since beauty, like goodness, is one of the forms of the infinite ; and to raise us to the ideal, is to raise us to the infinite, or to God. But I affirm the form of beauty to be distinct from the form of goodness; and if art produces moral perfectness, it does not endeavour after it, nor does it set that perfectness before it as its end. The beautiful in nature and in art has no relation more ultimate than itself. Thus, at a concert, on hearing a lofty and beautiful symphony, is the sentiment I experience a moral or religious one ? I seize the ideal, which is concealed beneath the number and variety of sounds that strike my ear : it is this ideal that I call beautiful : but in this aspect it is neither virtue nor piety. We do not say, that the pure and disinterested sentiment of the beautiful cannot be a noble ally of the moral and religious feelings, and that it cannot awaken them ; but it must not be confounded with them. The beautiful excites an internal sentiment, one distinct and special and self-dependent. Art is no more the servant of re ligion and of morals, than of the agreeable and of the useful ; it is not an instrument, itself is its right end : do not suppose I degrade it when I say it ought not to be the servant of re ligion, I exalt it, on the contrary, to the heights of religion and morals." This is the true view of all our original emotions — the emotions of our original constitution : they do not sub serve each other, they are for themselves. To contribute to each other, or aid each other, is a different thing from being created or designed for this purpose. That this may be a result of the several emotions, we need not question ; but it cannot be regarded as their end, their final cause. It is in the coun terpart emotions that now we may trace final causes. As originally constituted, all was perfect, all was complete. But God is now educing good out of evil, and He is making the very emotions consequent upon a state of sin, subservient to
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the most useful, and even beneficent purposes. It is now that God's directing and overruling power comes in, and disposes what would otherwise be unmitigated evil to a good design. There could be no good, one would suppose, in the pain created by the disturbance or want of harmony in the emotions. That disturbance, or want of harmony, is fretfulness, impatience, melancholy. But the pain of these emotions leads us to avoid the causes of them — puts us on our guard against interrupting the harmony of those feelings, in the very harmony of which is happiness. It might not seem that sorrow would subserve any good purpose. But God has made us susceptible of this emo tion, no doubt, for the wisest ends. Let it be remembered that this is now a state in which evil exists. Consequent upon the introduction of evil, the counterpart emotions took effect, or came into being : they had no place before in the soul ; but then they immediately sprang up, and each like the alter idem — or the counterpart of what had previously existed — a dark side, as it were, of the other emotions. Had evil been allowed to take its full effect, no good could have existed, could have survived. Evil would have been predominant, universal ; evil alone would have wrought, and it would have continually been receiving its punishment. As it is, the counterpart emotions are themselves partly punitive, partly the inevitable result of the existence of evil. Evil is the cause of these emotions : all may be traced to this source.
" Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree,"
is the invocation of our great epic poet :
..." whose mortal taste, Brought death into our world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing heavenly muse."
But for evil, there had been no such emotions as those of which we are now speaking. But God who can bring good out of evil, can make even these emotions subservient to good.
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This had not been possible, however, but in connexion with such a scheme as that, in connexion with which we have already seen much happiness is consistent even in this state. The conducting of that scheme supposes the reduction of evil to good : it implies the bringing good out of evil. This could be done only by a Divine and a Beneficent power. How God operates in all His ways, may be for ever beyond our compre hension ; but it is to this ultimate fact we are led; and the when or where of His operations may be discernible, though the modus we cannot understand.
We are led to make these remarks at our present stage, the better to understand our whole subject, and that we may not be dealing with our emotions as mere matters of speculation, but that we may see they have a practical character and bear ing. It is of advantage, too, at this stage, to bring out the distinction clearly existing between our original emotions, and those which were consequent upon a change upon our original state — the state as we came from the hands of our Creator. That distinction it is of importance to attend to, while it is an interesting one, as shewing what were the emotions of a primi tive condition — a state when evil had no existence, or existed only in the shadow of creature peccability.
We may now defer the farther consideration of the final cause of any of our emotions, till we have taken a review of them all. We shall then obtain a more systematic, or a more complete view of the ends God had to serve in these secondary or counterpart emotions.
The emotion of cheerfulness, or rather the general state of mind we denominate cheerfulness, throws its light upon all objects, and upon all events or circumstances. The other emotions we have spoken of are connected more with events than with objects : they have their cause in these events, are produced by them. The emotions of which we are now to speak are connected more with objects than with events, ter minate upon objects. We live in events, and we are connected with objects. Our habitation, our place of residence, our
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country, the familiar objects of our home, the dumb creatures that are subservient to our use, or minister to our amusement, the family circle, our friends, our neighbours, our acquaint ances, our several pursuits or avocations, our amusements, recreations, or pleasures, — all form the objects on which cer tain emotions terminate, or about which they are exercised. The events and circumstances that transpire daily, or that are ever arising, produce joy or sorrow, or excite fretfulness and impatience, or are lit up with the calm sunshine of cheerful ness, or again are steeped in the sombre shades of melancholy. The daily history of every individual is made up of these events, these circumstances, and they awaken such and such emo tions in the breast ; and thus the tissue of life consists of those events without, and these emotions within. We are ever in the midst of such circumstances : we are ever encountering or experiencing such events — sad or joyous, fretting, vexatious, disappointing, or constituting the ordinary routine of life, which takes, however, the tinge of a temperament more or less disposed naturally, either to cheerfulness or to melancholy. But the objects by which we are surrounded, as well as the cir cumstances in which we are placed, beget their appropriate emotions, and cannot exist without drawing forth these. They are as necessarily the objects of these emotions, as they are the objects of perception, or knowledge. The mind not only clothes everything with its own intellectual forms, but invests every thing with peculiar feelings of its own, or finds itself drawn out towards every object with appropriate emotions and affec tions. Thus the forms and perceptions of mind, and the emo tions appropriate to the circumstances in which we are situated, and the events which happen us, or objects with which we are conversant, constitute our world, and are occupying or engag ing us every moment of our waking existence.
With respect to the objects which exercise our emotions, some beget a pleasing delight, or awaken aversion ; others inspire and detain our admiration, or are indifferent ; some call forth all the emotions of love and friendship, or excite our hatred and hostility.
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Delight is that feeling we have in an object when that object is especially pleasing ; but the pleasure or delight — for the terms are nearly synonymous — which we have in any object, may be various as the objects which appeal to this emotion. To take delight or find pleasure in an object are about synonymous expressions. Every object that can minister to our enjoyment, that can give us happiness, that affords us pleasure, produces delight. We have delight in circumstances also, in events. It is quite appropriate to say, such an occur rence gives us pleasure or delight ; and in this case delight is a moderate kind of joy. Joy is a stronger emotion than delight: it is more sudden, too, and evanescent. Delight remains when joy has passed with the first few moments, it may be hours, of any happy occurrence or event.* Joy sub sides into pleasure or delight, just as sorrow upon any disastrous occurrence may subside into melancholy. Joy long continued would be unfavourable to the mind, and does not appear to be consistent with the conditions of our being in this world — this world as it is now constituted. It will be perfectly consistent, we know, in the world to come. In God's presence there is " fulness of joy" It has accordingly been provided that joy should subside into delight — a feeling more consistent with our present state. The same event which at first awakened the most rapturous joy comes to be regarded more calmly, or the emotion itself has its point of subsidence, arid takes the more tranquil and milder character of delight. The fervours of noon become the soberer lights of a sedate and tranquil eve. Joy is the sky, wide, expansive, and bright with the mid-day sun — delight is the same sky where the sun's beams are tem pered ; only so tempered, however, that the very veil which hides them is lighted with their radiance. Time throws its veil over the event which produces unmixed joy, constitutes that refracting power which diverts the rays from their direct and perpendicular course. The event is not contemplated single
* Delight, rather than cheerfulness — what Dr. Brown calls gladness — is the subsidence of joy.
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and alone, it is not alone in the zenith. Intervening media come between, and it is seen through these, or gives its light, yields its influence, with these interposing.
But delight terminates on objects, besides being awakened by circumstances, or excited by events. We find delight in objects strictly, in pursuits, in avocations, in the business or pleasures of life. Some objects are indifferent, excite neither pleasure nor pain, produce neither delight nor uneasiness or aversion. We regard them with indifference. We are con versant, or in contact, with them continually, and they awaken no lively feeling or emotion. But even these objects are capable of becoming sources of delight, as they serve our purposes, and are associated with our familiar feelings. We grow into a delight with the room in which are conducted our daily studies, or which is the scene of our familiar emotions. It gives us pleasure to enter it, and we do not find the same happiness anywhere else. Every familiar object of furniture appeals to the sentiment, or awakens the emotion. Our delight rests upon even those inanimate objects which make our room what it is, and make it almost all the world to us. Such is the power of familiarity, and the association with our feelings of every day and every hour — of every fresh appeal which such objects in their unpretending and silent ministrations make to - our hearts. It is thus that a thousand objects may become sources of delight to us, all associated in some way or other with our kindliest feelings, or exciting our gratitude. What a pleasure does one's library communicate ! It may be small, but it may be select — the very companions one would like for his solitude, the very instructors one would choose for his studious hours. The pleasures which study affords, the delights of literature or science, or whatever may be the subject that occupies or engages our interest, constitute, no doubt, the greater part of the delight we derive from the volumes com posing our library ; but there is a pleasure apart from this, in the volumes themselves, in their very look, in their very pre sence beside us, somewhat like the pleasure we derive from the presence and companionship of those we esteem and love,
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though not a word may pass between us. It is obvious that the pleasure derived from the contents of our books, from the instructions they convey, and the ideas they inspire, is trans ferred to themselves, just as we become attached to a friend from the qualities he possesses.
The pleasure we are capable of taking in inanimate objects, which are with us in our happier, or our more melancholy moods, is seen in the delight we derive from the walks to which we are more accustomed, and which we frequent with all the passion almost with which we seek the society that is most congenial to us, and that we find we can most truly sympathize with. The familiar objects in these walks almost speak to us, and they are truly not strangers to us, but friends. In the same way, our native home claims our attachment to a degree that no other place on earth does, and the cottage and every object that marks the spot where we first drew breath are yet associated with a pleasure which no other scene or object ever yielded, or will perhaps ever be able to yield. This law of our constitution is an exceedingly wise one ; for what happiness does it not secure to us from the most familiar objects ? We do not need to go far for our happiness. We have it in the objects around us — in our native place — in our native scenery — in the very room, or workshop, where we ply our avocations, or where we prosecute our literary pursuits, or find our domestic plea sures — in the walks we frequent, or more pleasing or customary scenes that speak to our hearts — in the very implements of our trade, and above all, in those treasures of knowledge which have made us wiser and better, or from which we draw still the inspirations of wisdom, and the suggestions and impulses to good. We could conceive this law operating even in an inno cent state, making happiness more happy, as it were, enhancing objects and places more to the heart, even in paradise, and throwing around objects a more familiar loveliness and en dearment.
According to this law, it is not necessary that the objects be of a high or exciting kind. Often the more homely, they are the more capable of yielding this delight, of being the sources
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of this happiness, because more accordant with the permanent feelings of our nature.
We need not remark that we derive delight from friendship, that this forms a source of peculiar delight or pleasure. In the esteem and affection of others we find the highest and the purest enjoyment. We speak not of friendship itself just now, we speak of the delight or pleasure which it yields.
It may be thought that here, as in the case of which we have just spoken, we find the subordination of emotion to an end. The principle we have at a previous stage laid down, perhaps, cannot be borne out in every instance or particular, as, undoubtedly, we can conceive the subserviency of such a law as we have spoken of, the law, viz., that we are formed to derive delight from the most familiar objects — objects which, but for this law, might not be conceived capable of yielding pleasure : we may conceive the operation of such a law even in paradise, and its subserviency to the happiness of its inhabitant. In the same way, there might be peculiar attachments, friendships, in a state of inno cence, even when all were beloved ; but it will be observed, such instances are the subserviency of a law of our emotions, not of the emotions themselves. The emotions may yield such pleasure, may be exercised in such a way, but still they may be their own end. It is a law to derive delight from objects — it would be a law, even in paradise, to form peculiar friend ships, but still the emotions themselves were their own end ; or, if in these minor departments, as it were, of the emotions, these exercises of them in such peculiar ways, designed by God for the greater happiness of the creature, we see a subserviency and adaptation to an end, still the principle, in the main, will be found a true one, and we may remark this subserviency as the more peculiar in a state, where, undoubtedly, the emotions for the most part existed- for themselves, and where the grand and predominant end was the glory of God. It still remains true, that if man was constituted in the image of God, he was constituted absolutely in that image, and even happiness could not be an end ; for happiness is rather the necessary result of being created in the image of God, of the very na-
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ture and constitution implied in it. Happiness may have been the motive of God in Creation, though not in the crea tion after His own image — the creation with such and such emotions.
We have spoken of intellectual joy ; delight in this respect is more permanent, as pleasure in all cases may be more per manent than joy. Joy, as it is a high, is a transient emotion. It passes quickly away. Intellectual joy is produced by some thing more than usual in the exhibition of mind, or the ex pression of thought. It is a quickened and higher state of the pulse when some loftier or more pleasing or more valuable thought, or discovery, or truth, dawns or flashes upon the mind, or when a thought receives some peculiarly happy expression. The feeling of delight is more calm, is more permanent ; it is synonymous with pleasure, and we know what intellectual pleasures are as distinct from those tumultuous tides of emo tion, if we may so speak, consequent upon some peculiar mental or intellectual gratification. There is a higher intellectual state than even joy, when the soul is rapt, as it were, in the heaven of thought — as when the views and discoveries of Revelation itself take the mind captive, and hold it for a while in suspense and amazement. Joy is not the expression for such a state: wonder, amazement, is perhaps the feeling. " Great thoughts are still as stars."
Intellectual delight springs from a lower source than what yields such high and transporting pleasure, a pleasure which is at last absorbed in wonder, and finds its most appropriate utter ance in silence. It is on this very account, undoubtedly, that the higher kinds of poetry — the loftier species of composition, attract fewer readers, and produce less permanent pleasure, than what is more on a level with ordinary thought, and pro ductive of more ordinary though yet pleasing emotion. The poetry that touches the more permanent springs of feeling — that pourtrays the homelier emotions — that goes into the heart of domestic life, and conveys to every one's mind thoughts and pictures which he can recognise, and which he feels to be true to nature, is the most relished, and is always the most gene-
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rally and most frequently perused. Milton's Paradise Lost is not so often read as Gray's Elegy ; and Shakespeare is a uni versal favourite, because he is as true to all the feelings of our nature as the most homely of our poets. Burns seems to have rightly conceived, and happily expressed, the elements of popu lar poetry, when he makes the muse, Coila, address him in these words, recognising the true elements of poetry, while he is gracefully denying them of himself: —
" Thou canst not learn, nor can I shew, - To paint with Thomson's landscape glow, Or wake the bosom melting throe
With Shenstone's art, Or pour with Gray the moving flow
Warm on the heart."
The muse continues,
" Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; Tho' large the forest's monarch throws
His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows
Adown the glade.
" Theu, never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine : And, trust me, not Potosi's mine,
Nor kings' regard,
Can give a bliss o'er-matching thine — A rustic Bard."
Intellectual pleasure, or the delight we find in intellectual pursuits, is, then, of a more permanent character than the joy springing from the same source.
Spiritual joy and spiritual delight are more nearly akin ; but the same distinction may be observed here. Delighting in God and joying in God can hardly be distinguished, for the one so naturally passes into the other, the former into the latter. But even here, delight in God is when the emotion is less strong ; and here, too, it may be a more permanent feeling than the other. Our emotion may not reach so high as joy, but it may be delight. The excellencies of God may call forth the feeling,
z
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and that God as reconciled to us in Christ ; but the rapture felt from the sense of God as our God, and as the portion of the soul, all the higher states of the same experience — for the experience is essentially the same, even when it may differ in degree — may not be possessed, and may be far less frequently realized. There is delighting in the law of God ; there is de lighting in the service of God : in both cases the feeling is less than joy, but it is of a more permanent nature.
The feeling or emotion of delight is, on the one hand, often hardly distinguishable from joy, and, on the other, has fre quently a very close affinity to an emotion which has yet to be considered — that of love. In the former aspect of it, it is distinguishable from joy as not so strong a feeling, as less sudden, and as capable of greater permanence ; while, again, joy is a feeling which is occasioned by circumstances or events — does not terminate on objects, whereas delight may be produced both by circumstances and objects, may have respect to either in its origin. A certain event, or certain circumstances, may produce joy, may excite this strong emotion, but the circum stances or event may be such as only to awaken delight : the feeling may be nothing more. If I were to meet a friend whom I had not seen for many years, and who was yet very dear to me, I am sure that joy would be the feeling ; were I to meet him only after a brief separation, delight perhaps would be the utmost of the emotion that I would experience. De light is experienced in the ordinary intercourse of friendship. Joy would be experienced were a friend whom we had unfor tunately alienated or offended to become reconciled. The ex pression of delight would be but a poor one, were such a meet ing as we have supposed to take place, or such a reconciliation effected. On the other hand, for friends to be always joyful on their meeting would be absurd, though the expression of delight on the countenance when, and how often soever, that meeting may take place, is the very bond of the friendship almost — or is the external index to us that the heart whose friendship we reciprocate, is worthy of our regard, and is making that cor dial response to it which is almost the utmost that we wish.
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We would uot say that we have joy in the noddy of a friend, but we may have delight. We may say we have delight in a friend — we could not say we have joy. Delight can he pro duced by an event, but it may also rest on an object : joy is occasioned only by an event or events — it never, properly speaking, terminates on an object. It is the meeting with our friend which is the occasion of our joy, our delight in him as a friend is different: — all the affection, all the esteem, we feel for himself, enhance the joy of the meeting, but it is the meet ing which produces the joy. Regarded in this view, then, the opposite of delight will be, not sorrow, but a modification of it, for which we have hardly a word : displeasure, or dissatisfac tion, perhaps, most nearly expresses the feeling. When the very opposite occurs of what would give delight to us, we feel dis satisfaction ; and yet that does not express the feeling, and it perhaps can hardly be so well expressed as just by calling it the opposite of delight. A certain event produces sorrow : we can be at no loss for the word at any time to express this feel ing. The emotion is clear and defined, and it has its appro priate name. But when the feeling is merely the opposite of delight, it does not amount to sorrow, we can only say we had no delight, we had no pleasure in such an object, in such cir cumstances. Where delight partakes of the nature of love — attachment — its opposite is aversion. Instead of having de light in an object, we have an aversion to it ; instead of pro ducing our attachment, it excites almost our hatred. I take delight in my books ; I feel them to be a perpetual source of enjoyment ; they instruct, and it is pleasing to be instructed. It is delightful to be laying up stores of information, to be adding another and another to our already accumulated trea sures. It is delightful to be getting new views, to be ex ploring new fields of inquiry, to have the mind quickened, to have presented to it fresh, original, and beautiful principles, above all, principles of conduct, or principles which lead to loftier and more satisfying views of God and duty — when creation is enhanced, or its system unfolded. But some change comes over the mind, some circumstance interferes with the
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pleasure we have from these sources ; instead of delight or pleasure in what was so fruitful of the feeling, we experience repulsion, aversion. The mind is under a disturbing influence, and all delight is gone. The same with the friend whom we have alienated, or who has alienated us from him — all delight in each other, or in each other's society, is gone. We meet as if we had never met — heart no longer responds to heart : the cordial salutation is forgotten, and it is as if " a dreary sea now flowed between."
These remarks may be extended to spiritual delight. We need not make the application. We may but indicate the peculiar phase of feeling, when, instead of delight in God and His law, we experience the opposite. The mind is insensible, dead. It is worse — there is almost hatred ; there is undoubt edly for the time, enmity. There is actually hostility in the affections. It is not here, however, as with human friendship. Grace overcomes anew. The feeling never amounts, in the case of the believer, to absolute hatred. There may be hos tility, aversion, in the feelings, without hatred. Indisposition towards an object is not hatred : the former may exist where yet the latter has no place. When the feeling amounts to actual hatred, it is the opposite of love, and cannot distinguish those who have had the principle of love implanted by the Divine Spirit, and who, — while they may waver in their affec tion, and may even feel the old enmity revived to the extent of aversion or hostility — just as friends may be alienated partially without experiencing a total separation, — can never again har bour or feel actual hatred to God. Misunderstanding may arise between friends : a misconception may produce some thing like the effects of enmity, and when the misconception is cleared away, friendship and confidence are restored — the feel ings flow in their usual channel ; so, the soul reconciled to God may misunderstand, and therefore mistrust, Him, and enmity is the sad consequence — a consequence which is removed as soon as the misunderstanding or mistake is rectified.
Many causes may interrupt the pleasure felt in the Word of God. The mind is not always so spiritual as to feel a desire
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for the truth, or to have pleasure in its revelations, but, like the touching of a key in music, or more instantaneous — and we know not whence comes the change — all the pleasure that was ever felt, is as vivid, as true as before.
Wonder is perhaps the next emotion that demands consider ation. The emotions we have hitherto spoken of are those which constitute essentially the happiness or unhappiness of the mental being, apart, in the main, from moral considera tions, and as connected chiefly with a state of the mind simply, or with external circumstances. All our emotions are affected by the moral feelings, and cheerfulness, we have seen, depends upon the proper regulation of these, and the harmony of all the emotions ; but as yet the moral element has not been directly taken into account — the moral feelings, strictly so called, have not been considered. Cheerfulness itself is not directly moral, though very much dependent upon a moral state ; while, as we have seen, there is a constitutional cheerful ness which is not so much dependent upon the moral state as upon a certain habit or temperament of body and mind. We are, at all events, capable of joy or sorrow, delight or its oppo site, apart altogether from moral grounds, and solely connected with external events or circumstances. The emotions we have considered, then, we say, are directly the emotions of happiness or otherwise, — cheerfulness, melancholy, fretfulness, peevishness, joy, sorrow, delight, and the opposite of delight, for which we have no term nearer than dissatisfaction or displeasure.
Wonder is another kind of emotion, and is not directly con cerned in our happiness. It is not in itself happiness as cheer fulness is, as joy is, as delight is. There can be no doubt it is an original emotion of our constitution ; it is not one of those emotions that came into being, or took effect, consequent upon, the Fall. It belonged to our first, or primitive, condition. We can give no account of a simple emotion otherwise than by a reference to the circumstances in which it is produced or experienced, and by an appeal to every one's own conscious ness. Our own consciousness is the best interpreter or ex-
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plainer of all our original feelings or states. We have the explanation, or account of them, if we do not seek an explana tion ; and yet it is necessary often to attempt to define or explain even our original and simplest feelings, though we should be able to do no more than mark the circumstances in which they arise.
Wonder, then, is that emotion which is awakened on the contemplation of something great, or by what is extraordinary, and out of the usual course of experience or observation. When we have said this, we have perhaps said all that can be spoken upon the subject, but this is not defining the emotion, but merely stating the circumstances in which it arises. For the rest, we must just consult our own consciousness, or our recollection of what was our feeling in the circumstances in which the emotion was experienced. What does our recollec tion tell us of that feeling ? What does our consciousness say to the emotion we then experienced ? The feeling in such and such circumstances may be revived by the singular and most important law of memory. No one can be at a loss as to the nature of wonder who consults his own consciousness — for who has not experienced the emotion a thousand and a thousand times in his life, and is not affected by it almost every time he opens his eyes upon creation ? There is nothing around us or within us but is capable of exciting the feeling. Simple ob servation of the objects or phenomena in creation would per haps be all that would characterize the processes of mind, as phenomenon after phenomenon, or truth after truth, evolved to it in its progress from an initial consciousness to its furthest point of attainment in science and inquiry. We could conceive this. We could conceive no sentiment of wonder awakened at any single stage of observation — every phenomenon evolving to the mind as a simple phenomenon, event, or occurrence. Or, which we do find to be the actual state of the case, the emotion of wonder may be excited and experienced at a very early stage of observation, and may accompany many succes sive observations in the interesting progress. Now, it is worthy of inquiry, whether wonder may not have been the first feeling
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which the mind ever possessed. The extraordinary may seeni indeed to depend upon the ordinary being previously esta blished or determined to the mind by a process of observation. But would not the first feeling — the very earliest consciousness — startle the feeling of ivonder from its recesses ? We call that extraordinary which is now different from, or beyond, our usual experience. And it may seem at first sight that this is what actually or properly excites our wonder. The standard of the wonderful is now the usual or the ordinary ; and, accord ingly, in our definition, we have said that wonder is the emotion which is produced by what is great, or what is extra ordinary. But does the feeling, after all, depend upon a standard of what may be pronounced customary or ordinary ? Is it not common enough to say, What is not wonderful ? and may not the sentiment of wonder depend upon no standard, but be an independent feeling, capable of being excited by whatever we observe ? For what is the common fact brought under our observation, or rather presented to our reason, by any and every single observation ? Is it not creation ? and that is the highest wonder. Every phenomenon, every law, is a wonder, whether we consider it independently acting, or directly dependent upon the Creator. Is it from the ordinary, then, that we judge of the wonderful ? or may not the won derful be absolutely so — what, in other words, is capable of exciting the emotion of wonder irrespective of any standard ? The explanation of the matter seems to be, that wonder was the common emotion, till from the stated and regular progress of events or phenomena we ceased to wonder ; and then that only obtained the name, or was supposed to be wonderful, which was beyond the ordinary or usual experience. An event, or circumstance, or phenomenon, is not wonderful surely, merely because it is beyond the usual course of experience. In such a case the emotion would not be an absolute one. The event, or phenomenon, may be wonderful in itself, astonishing in itself. Is it the comparison with the ordinary that makes it wonderful ? That this is a sense of the term we do not doubt, and that the sentiment is capable of being excited by the very imusualncss ,
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or unexpectedness, of the phenomenon or event, we can as little question ; and, accordingly, we have said that the won derful is what is extraordinary, as well as what is great. We contend that there is something absolute in the wonderful, and in the appropriate emotion ; and very frequently when we use the term extraordinary, we are not judging by a standard, we are not referring to a standard at all — we are expressing our absolute sense or judgment of the wonderful. We ap peal again, accordingly, to the common enough phrase, What is not wonderful ? — and what is more than the phrase, the actual sentiment accompanying it. We do feel that there is nothing almost on which we turn our eye, no phenomenon of matter or mind on which we fix our observa tion, that does not deserve the appellation of wonderful. Are not the stars as ordinary objects of observation as any other ; and can they ever cease to be wonderful ? Is not the flower wonderful when we make it the object of our contemplation ? Creation is wonderful, and that is the fact observed in all phenomena. It may be said, that creation excites our wonder because it is out of the range of our experience : we see no instance of it ; we see everything as it exists, not as it is created. Allowing this to be true, yet when our reason brings to us creation as a necessary fact, or condition of being, is it wonderful because it is something of which we have no experience, which we never witness ? Is it the singularity of it that makes it wonderful ? This were absurd to maintain. It is wonderful in itself, and must ever be wonderful.
The wonderful, in the first place, is something absolute, nay, the alone wonderful is, and must necessarily be so. It is a secondary sense of the term when we apply it to what is merely extraordinary, according to the etymological meaning of that word. Everything is wonderful to a creature mind, because it implies creation. Are we to make our own ex perience the judge in every case of what is wonderful, or the standard by which we judge of it ? We might still ask, whence the emotion. It may be said, we have been made capable of the emotion in such unusual circumstances, or with reference to
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such unusual events or phenomena. Then, it is an arbitrary arrangement, and the emotion is not absolute. We are apt to say that the stars are wonderful — those shining worlds that come and look out upon us from night to night from their own far distant orbits or places in the heavens — because they are altogether different from the objects with which we are daily conversant — from the stone beneath our feet, or the flower that beautifies our garden. But we turn to the stone, or to the flower, and we find as much that is wonderful in these humble objects, — they are just as wonderful when we direct our attention to them as the stars themselves. Whence their being — whence their laws — what their purpose or their end ? The truth is. the sentiment of wonder attends us everywhere, if we only allow ourselves to reflect. We are never without it. Every phenomenon excites it. We wonder at every law that we see in operation. Only the petty events of human life, everything that is of man himself, is not wonderful, and it is only when we see God in anything that we do wonder. It is His law, His power, His wisdom, His operation, for that is uncreated, that begets our wonder. Whatever leads to Him is wonderful ; and everything leads to Him, if we only follow the course of our thoughts, and there we are lost in wonder ; we contemplate infinity, eternal, creative, might or energy.
The unusual, then, is not the source of the wonderful, though the emotion is undoubtedly felt at the presence or experience of the unusual. WThat is extraordinary in this sense excites our wonder. We pause at the occurrence of anything extra ordinary. Some singular phenomenon has been observed — some meteor in the sky, or some phenomenon upon the earth, which has never been seen before ; it cannot be accounted for by any ordinary laws or appearances. Surprise or astonishment is first felt, and then wonder. Dr. Brown makes a very accu rate distinction between these two feelings, or, as he regards them, two aspects of the same feeling or emotion, in saying that the former is experienced upon the occurrence of the phenomenon ; the latter when we allow our minds to dwell upon it, and endeavour to trace its causes, or to account for its
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occurrence. We think such is a correct analysis with respect to the different aspects of the emotion, if it is one emotion, and a precise distinction between the two states, as distinguished from one another, if the emotions are different. We wonder whenever we begin to explain or to account for the pheno menon ; it was surprise before. But wliy is the latter wonder, and the former only surprise ? Dr. Brown makes the difference to consist in the length of time during which the emotion con tinues, in the one instance, and the exercise of our inquiring faculties connected with the emotion in that particular instance ; while in the other case, the emotion is momentary, and there is no such exercise of our faculties combined with it. a When the emotion arises simply," Dr. Brown says, " it may be termed, and is more commonly termed, surprise ; when the surprise thus excited by the unexpected occurrence, leads us to dwell upon the object which excited it, and to consider in our mind what the circumstances may have been which have led to the appear ance of the object, the surprise is more commonly termed wonder, which, as we may dwell on the object long, and consider the possibilities of many circumstances that may have led to the unexpected introduction of it, is, of course, more lasting than the interesting surprise, which was only its first stage. Still, however," he continues, "though the terms, in this sense, be not strictly synonymous, but expressive of states more or less complex, the wonder differs from the surprise only by the new elements which are added to this primary emotion, and not by any original diversity of the emotion itself." Now, we think, the two emotions are entirely distinct. Surprise is, indeed, first felt upon the occurrence of a new phenomenon, and then wonder ; and it is a true account of the latter to say, that it is when we begin to seek a cause for the phenomenon, that we may be said to wonder. But surely it is not tltc seeking q/'the cause that constitutes the wonder, or that as combined ivith the first feeling — surprise. If the two feelings were the same, no mental process could make them different. And yet we feel them to be different. The emotion of wonder is when we connect the phenomenon with its cause, and see a new
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instance of divine power, a new law or mode of the divine operation. Surprise is not this, it is the feeling on the inter ruption of wonted phenomena, and of our experience of these. Wonder is when we seek after a cause, and are led to the original cause of every phenomenon, marking but a new phase of His operations, who " worketh in all" Surprise or astonishment is the feeling when our wonted experience is interrupted, and even it may be said to be a momentary reference to the eternal and unchanging Being that is operating in all phenomena — a new appeal from Him to our mind, a new message, or messenger to us from His dwelling-place. Wonder is when we ponder the message, when we attend to the appeal, and when we are led to the Being who makes the one, or who sends the other. We mark Him in the event. It is mere surprise if it does not go this length. Wonder is essentially an emotion leading to God, to the Infinite. We can wonder at nothing which does not lead to the Infinite, which does not display the attributes of an Infinite Being, or infer these attributes by a process more or less recognised. The process is not always recognised, but it is gone through notwithstanding. We see God, or our minds are suspended before an invisible presence. The veil is not lifted, but God is behind it. He is behind every phenomenon — in all, over all, through all
It is not denied that there are some objects, or phenomena, more wonderful than others. If this were not the case, there would be no degrees of the emotion. Everything would be wonderful, and alike wonderful. The fact of creation, in itself considered, must be as wonderful in any one case as in another ; and, accordingly, when we confine our minds to that, we find the least particle of matter as wonderful as the mightiest planet The operation of any of the laws of creation, if we contemplate it, is capable of suspending the mind in wonder : but some may be more amazing than others, for at once their simplicity, and the extent to which we perceive their action — their simpli city, and the stupendousness of their effects — and may, there fore, fill the mind with greater wonder, more awe. Such, for example, is the law of gravitation, as compared, perhaps, with
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the law of adhesion, the law which unites the particles of matter. The law of crystallization, again, is perhaps more interesting than that of simple combination — the law of growth more than that of crystallization — animal life more than vege table — spiritual being again more than animal or material. But the question is not about the degree in which our wonder may be excited, but as to the emotion itself. What is the nature of it ? — and we do find our wonder excited, not by the unusual or uncommon, but by the wonderful. The emotion is an absolute one, and has its own object. An object or pheno menon is wonderful, not because it is uncommon, but abso lutely. Are we to say, then, that creation is the fact we admire in every instance of our wonder ? We think we are warranted in saying so — that is, in respect to all phenomena which be long to creation, and not to the department of Providence. In the case of phenomena which are traceable to any signal changes in the laws of creation themselves, or in the operations of Providence, it is the Divine power that we have for the object of contemplation, and that calls forth our admiration. The kingdom of grace, too, has its wonderful facts and laws ; but in nature — in the kingdom of nature, as distinguished from the kingdoms of providence and of grace — what we contem plate, any time that our wonder is called forth, is not the ob ject, or phenomenon, or law itself, but creation in that object, or phenomenon, or law. This may seem a very extraordinary assertion, and it may be asked, with something of the very emotion under consideration, if we cannot admire, wonder at the flower, or contemplate the star, or let our astonishment survey the heavens, or travel over the vast deep, without marking creation at the moment in any of these objects ? But let us attend to the state of our minds at those times when these separate objects may be before our eye, and drawing forth our admiring or our more awful regards: is it not the creative power or skill in all, that suspends our astonishment or excites our wonder ? Do we not look beyond those lines of delicate beauty — that admirable arrangement of parts — that exquisite symmetry — that marvellous adaptation —
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that perfection of form and of colour — to the creative power — to the infinite mind — visible in all these — present to the rea son — almost seen by the eye ? And when the stars spangle the firmament — when the glorious canopy is hung with these orbs of fire, each sparkling in its own place, and letting down its drops of beautiful light upon our world in the very affectionateness of loveliness ; or when it is not their beauty but their stupendousness that we contemplate — their incon ceivable distances — their vast magnitudes — their mighty revo lutions — their amazing speed — their countless numbers, — does even the professed atheist stop short of God ? — is God not acknowledged in the very wonder which he experiences, and which he cannot help expressing ? — while the devout believer in God, and worshipper of His perfections, feels that it is not the orbs he is admiring, or their revolutions, or distances, or velocity, or beauty, or numbers, but God in all, or the perfec tions which planted those planets in the heavens, and bade them shine. Does the sea not speak of God — of His controlling power — of His present and almighty agency ? Those rolling waters — circling round every coast, encompassing the earth, ever heaving, never still, bearing the same voice in their restless agitations, as they break on the shore, or when the waves meet no object but themselves, and sink as they rise in their own unfathomable depths — speak of God. If they call forth our wonder, our wonder is at the power that is visible in them, at the God who created them, and who orders their every motion. When spread out like a crystal pavement, or when lashed into tempest, God is equally there ; and the connexion of such a mighty effect with the more wonderful cause — the behests that that sea must obey — the power that originally appointed it its bounds, and that keeps it in its channel — that gave it such a law as it follows in its least movements — and the knowledge that it is taking its commands from God in its stormiest moods, — these are the objects of our wonder as we gaze on the calm or on the agitated deep. It is truly when we do not allow our selves to reflect, that we cease to wonder. The emotion would have but a limited sphere for action, if it was called forth only
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by what was uncommon, or out of the usual course of experi ence. We cannot lift our eyes to the heavens without the sentiment of wonder — we cannot look upon the earth without wondering at its varied aspect, and seeing a thousand objects that awaken the sentiment, in the structure of every plant, in the beauty, majesty, or serviceableness, of every tree, shrub, flower, in the different orders of the animal as well as vege table world, in the mineral kingdom, in its marvellous strata, in its history, its records of prior states, dating into eras too remote to calculate, almost to conceive, in man the lord of creation, in the gradation from the lowest to the highest of animated beings, till reason crowns the apex, and shews a superiority in this last link in the ascending chain which marks the immense distance at which the moral and intelligent wit nesses of God's power stands from all His other creatures, — in the harmony of all, the adaptations reigning through all, and the ends accruing from all, or subserved by each. We do not say we are always attended by wonder, but we might be ; and instead of its being the unusual that is the cause of the wonder ful, it is the usual that prevents the wonderful from operating, or producing all its effect upon us. It would be foolish, indeed, to pass through the world with idle astonishment at every object that met our gaze ; but why ? Is it because the phenomena we meet with are not as deserving of our wonder as ever ? Have they ceased to be wonderful because they have ceased to be new ? or does the law of wonder only come into operation when a phenomenon is contemplated or observed for the first time ? Certainly not — but because the wonderful only loses its effect upon us ; it seems to be intended that it should be so, for were the sentiment of wonder uniformly appealing to us, or felt on all occasions, and in connexion with the commonest observation, we would hardly be fit for ordinaiy action — our attention would be drawn off from the most necessary engagements or occupa tions, and, in the uniform excitement of the mind, we would be incapacitated for taking part in any of the affairs of life. The phenomena are as wonderful as ever ; the same qualities that excited our wonder are there, and we have only to pause
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upon them anew, to feel the same sentiment as fresh, as powerful as before. It is not the newness of the observation that produces the emotion, but the frequency of it may blunt the emotion, or render us so far insusceptible of it, or insen sible to it. We are not, however, literally insusceptible of it, or insusceptible of it in itself. Let us but escape the influence of custom, or frequent observation, by fixing our attention upon the phenomenon, or by contemplating the object, and our wonder will spring up anew, and perhaps as vividly as ever. No doubt, freshness, or novelty, has its effect, and it may be difficult to recall, or to feel again all the vividness of a first impression, of a new emotion ; but this is the case chiefly with objects or phenomena that are not so much wonderful as start ling, which are out of the ordinary course, and which therefore, in the first perception or observation of them, excite surprise because of their unexpectedness or novelty. Surprise, no doubt, heightens wonder, but it is distinct from it, and the truly won derful never loses the power of appealing to this sentiment. The same poet that wrote, —
" There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. Tt is not now as it hath been of yore, —
Tuni wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more,"
could also exclaim, —
" And, 0 ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have relinquished one delight, To live beneath your more habitual sway."
There was not the original freshness, it may be, in Words worth's later contemplation of nature — the same novelty. He had not the same passion in his admiration, the same intense excitement or delight — but his emotion from nature was even more deep. He lived under her more habitual sivay, and, while surprise had no share in his emotion, wonder mingled
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even more powerfully in it than ever. " The innocent bright ness of a new-born day" was " lovely yet." All that awakened the deepest sentiments of the heart was present still in every object that excited his love and admiration. The flower could give him thoughts too deep for tears. This points, indeed, to the theory, that as years grow, which " bring the philosophic mind," we find external objects but the index of thoughts which connect themselves with these objects, and are accord ingly suggested by them whenever we behold them. But is there nothing to excite wonder in the observation of " the innocent brightness of a new-born day ?" Is there nothing to wonder at in the contemplation of the flower that gives thoughts " that do often lie too deep for tears ?" Wordsworth would not have said so. That emotion was as vivid, as powerful as ever. All the qualities to produce it were present ; and sur prise, or the freshness of first observation, could be distinguished to his mind from the profounder feeling which any phenomenon, attentively observed or surveyed, is capable of producing. Any thing truly wonderful rather grows upon the mind than loses its effect ; and when we contemplate creation in any object, we have that which can never cease to inspire our wonder, let the object otherwise be ever so insignificant, or ever so common. Let us observe but any law in nature, and that is sufficient at any time to detain our wonder, to suspend our amazement. Other suggestions, and other sentiments, may mingle in this emotion, but this emotion is vividly felt. Wordsworth had thoughts connected with the flower that connected themselves with the Creator of the flower, and he recognised the same Being upholding the meanest flower that upheld himself ; and he saw the same law of decadence in the one as in the other. Can the Alpine mountains ever lose their power of producing wonder ? or the Heavens, either by night or by day, cease to be wonderful ? or the ocean in its grandeur ? or the solemn woods ? or the one vast earth ?
We thus distinguish between wonder and surprise, and also astonishment. The first is a permanent feeling, capable of being excited at any time, and is excited by what is absolute,
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what is wonderful. The others are excited by what is unusual, unexpected, and, it may be, at the same time, impressive, or partaking of the quality of the wonderful. Surprise may be felt where there is nothing of the quality of the wonderful, if only the object is strange, unlocked for, unexpected. If the event is very unusual, very unexpected, and in itself in some measure wonderful, astonishment is the effect. We may be surprised by a certain course of conduct, if we were not looking for it, or could not have expected it : we are astonished if in the circumstances it is also wonderful. In the case of the wonderful we always go into the law that is in operation, or we recognise the Great Being that is present, though not seen to the bodily eye. Some principle of action, unexpected, and in the circumstances wonderful, will produce our astonishment. We express our astonishment : we do not say merely that we are surprised — we are astonished. Amazement is a greater degree of astonishment : in both there is always something of the wonderful, and united with that there is the circumstance of unexpectedness, uncommonness — the circumstance of being out of the usual course of experience, or beyond our present power or rules of calculation. In surprise, astonishment, amazement, then, the circumstance of unexpectedness is an important element : it is almost all that has place in surprise, for when wonder mingles in the feeling it becomes astonish ment, and when it mingles in a still greater degree, it is amazement. Dr. Adam Smith's view of the distinctive natures of wonder and surprise is so far correct, we think, as respects surprise ; and the view we have presented of wonder may be detected in his explanation of this emotion. Dr. Brown finds fault with Dr. Smith in the view he gives of surprise, and justifies his own theory in opposition to that of Dr. Smith. " We wonder," says Dr. Smith, " at all extraordinary and uncommon objects, at all the rarer phenomena of nature, at meteors, comets, eclipses, at singular plants and animals, and at everything, in short, with which we have before been either little or not at all acquainted ; and we still wonder, though forewarned of what we are to see."
2 A
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" We are surprised at those things which we have seen often, but which we least of all expected to meet with in the place where we find them ; we are surprised at the sudden appearance of a friend, whom we have seen a thousand times, but whom we did not imagine we were to see then."
For Dr. Brown's commentary upon these views we refer to his Lectures. He makes the surprise to differ from the wonder, in the examples given by Dr. Smith, not in virtue of the circumstance to which Dr. Smith refers the difference, viz., the strangeness in the one instance, and the mere unexpectedness in the other. According to Dr. Smith, the proper object of wonder had never come under our observation before, or but rarely ; the object of surprise may have been often seen before, but not in the same circumstances, or not in the place where we meet with it : it is this mere unexpectedness that produces surprise, according to Dr. Smith. Dr. Brown makes the dis tinction to consist in, that, in the one case, we can easily find an explanation of the presence or occurrence of the object or phenomenon, at the time or in the circumstances — in the other, this is not so easily ascertainable, and our minds are therefore suspended in the state of wonder, and the interest and curiosity to find the law of the phenomenon, or the account of the particular appearance, is a main element, according to him, in the emotion. Now, we have before objected to an intellectual state being itself a part of an emotion. This undoubtedly Dr. Brown makes the interest felt to ascertain the law or explanation of any phenomenon or appearance, as blending with the continued emotion of sur prise : this, according to Dr. Brown, is the utmost of the emotion of wonder. But the emotion is not in the desire to find the law, but it is at the law : — it is not in the surprise awakened by the phenomenon, modified by the interest felt in its cause, but it is at the phenomenon ; and this seems to be recognised in Dr. Smith's words : — " We wonder at all extra ordinary and uncommon objects, at all the rarer phenomena of nature, at meteors, comets, eclipses, at singular plants and animals, and at everything, in short, with which we have
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before been either little or not at all acquainted ; and we still wonder, though forewarned of what we are to see." It is not their rareness that excites our wonder — that may excite our astonishment — it is the phenomena themselves, wonderful in themselves. Dr. Smith confounds wonder and astonishment ; but he seems to recognise the proper occasion and explanation of wonder when he says : — " We still wonder though fore warned of what we are to see." Why do we still wonder though thus forewarned ? evidently because the phenomenon itself is wonderful: it is not its rareness that makes it so. Surprise, however, seems to have its occasion in unexpected ness, and is owing to that circumstance alone ; or if there is wonder, it is wonder at the laiv of the unexpectedness : the unexpectedness may be wonderful, unaccountable. If the object or phenomenon itself is also wonderful, astonishment, or even amazement, may be the appropriate emotion. In the following words of Dr. Smith, we have the description of aston ishment rather than of wonder ; and it is given with all the felicitousness of that delightful writer. We are still indebted for the quotation to Dr. Brown. "The imagination and memory exert themselves to no purpose, and in vain look around all their classes of ideas, in order to find one under which it may be arranged. They fluctuate to no purpose from thought to thought ; and we remain still uncertain and un determined where to place it, or what to think of it. It is this fluctuation and vain recollection, together with the emotion or the movement of the spirits that they excite, which constitutes the sentiment properly called wonder, and which occasions that staring, and sometimes that rolling of the eyes, that suspension of the breath, and that swelling of the heart, which we may all observe both in ourselves and others, when wondering at some new object, and which are the natural symptoms of uncertain and undetermined thought. What sort of thing can that be ? What is that like ? are the questions which, upon such an occasion, we are all naturally disposed to ask. If we can re collect many such objects which exactly resemble this new appearance, and which present themselves to the imagination
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naturally, and, as it were, of their own accord, our wonder is entirely at an end. If we recollect but a few, and which re quires, too, some trouble to be able to call up, our wonder is indeed diminished, but not quite destroyed. If we can recol lect none, but are quite at a loss, it is the greatest possible." Dr. Brown justifies, from this description, his own theory of wonder : he calls it " in its chief circumstances, a very faithful picture of the phenomena of wonder." It appears to us, how ever, to be a picture rather of astonishment than of wonder ; for wonder undoubtedly is not confined to what is new, and it is not accompanied by those signs which usually express them selves on occasions of surprise and astonishment, but is for the most part a quiet and still, as it is often a profound emotion ; or its expression is not restless, but generally fixed — not dis jointed questions, but speechless silence, or calm and grave exclamation.
Admiration is somewhat different from either surprise, aston ishment, or wonder. There is, however, wonder in admiration. The very derivation of the word seems to point to this. We must be cautious, indeed, in always admitting the derivation of a word as indicating its proper sense ; for words might be em ployed without much philosophic discrimination, and where there was only the supposed quality or attribute which the word was intended to denote. Unquestionably, there is in admiration what is not in wonder ; and if there is anything of the same emotion or feeling as in wonder, it is much stronger in wonder than in admiration. Excellence is the proper object of admiration — excellence of some kind ; and it is the nature of it, or law implied in it, that is the proper object of wonder. We admire the excellence ; the law or nature of it may excite our wonder. Admiration is a sort of mental approbation accompanied with an emotion, modified by the kind of excel lence which we approve. We admire physical, intellectual, and moral excellence. Each of these may be the object of admiration : what is under it, what produces that excellence, the hidden law, not the obvious result, excites our wonder, or is what properly makes wonder a part of our admiration.
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When I contemplate a beautiful or a sublime scene in nature, I admire it, — I cannot help my admiration ; wonder mingles with that feeling, — wonder at the laws in operation, and that conspire in producing the feeling, or in making the scene such as awakens my admiration. The admiration and the wonder may be distinguished ; the excellence, either in the beauty or the sublimity of the scene — that is, the beauty or sublimity itself — is what begets my admiration. The obvious result, the secured effect, the appeal to the sentiment of beauty or subli mity within me, is what excites my admiration. To feel the sentiment of beauty or sublimity is, in this instance, to admire. I admire a fine picture or statue ; to have the just sense of all the laws of art — or my appreciation of nature, with the love and the aspiration for the ideal — gratified ; this, again, is my ad miration in this instance. If it is moral excellence that is con templated, my admiration is just the sentiment of approbation, which the moral excellence awakens, with the peculiar emo tion that accompanies, or is involved in, the sentiment. There is not only the approbation of what is right, but there is the appreciation of what is excellent ; the action, or the virtue, not only obtains my favourable or approving judgment, it secures my admiring regard. Every species of excellence com mands admiration ; and the admiration is just the approbation which that particular kind of excellence is fitted to awaken, with the corresponding emotion or feeling. In many cases the emotion will be little or nothing beyond the simple approbation — or it will, at all events, be much less in some instances than in others. We may admire a piece of mechanism, or some useful invention ; we admire it either for the admirable con trivance which it exhibits, or for the useful purpose which it subserves ; it is obvious that the emotion is far less here than where it is beauty or virtue which is the object of contempla tion. Still, there is as unequivocally admiration, as in the other instances. The peculiar feeling of excellence, or the appreci ation of excellence, whether it be beauty, or utility, or morality, ascending even to uncreated excellence, is admiration. It may be, contended, that there is a sentiment or feeling beyond this,
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superadded to it, more than approbation, even with its accom panying emotion ; but what it is more it will be difficult to say. This, indeed, is no argument that there is nothing more ; for of none of our simple emotions can we give any account but such as consists in pointing to its object, or referring to the occasion of it, and our consciousness may tell us that there is something more than the peculiar sentiment which any particular kind of excellence excites ; there is the sentiment of approval and admiration besides. Perhaps the wonder we have spoken of, wonder at the law of the peculiar excellence, blending with the other emotion, may give the difference. Our wonder at the law of the excellence blending with our approbation, may be what constitutes admiration. I look upon a fine landscape ; the sentiment of beauty is awakened, but along with this there blends some deeper feeling which goes into the cause of the beautiful, not to ascertain it, but wondering at it ; this is, per haps, what we denominate admiration. In the case of virtue, we are struck with the example of the peculiar virtue — at the power of principle — the strength of self-denial — the omnipo- tency of affection — the might of high-souled patriotism or generosity. The peculiar excellence produces its appropriate emotion — each kind of excellence its own emotion — each virtue, even, a distinct emotion — high-toned integrity — self-denying generosity — heroic patriotism ; and this, accordingly, rather bears out our view, for we shall find our admiration as varied as the object we admire, but the one feeling common to all, viz., the wonder that mingles in each instance, which, being in itself a uniform emotion, gives that kind of uniformity to the sentiment so varying in other respects, and hence, in all the instances, the one name, Admiration. As varied as is excel lence, physical, intellectual, moral, so varied is admiration as inspired by it. I admire in each case, but the feeling takes its tone or character from the kind of excellence. The feeling is stamped with the impress of the object which awakens it. The object claims the feeling for the time being ; it makes it its own, and impresses its own character upon it. If I look up to the noble cupola of St. Peter's at Rome, my admiration for the
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time is stamped by that object ; but my eye rests upon the minor proportions of the building — though still grand and imposing, my admiration immediately takes a different mould, for it has a different object of contemplation. I am attracted by the works of art that occupy the interior ; the paintings of Michael Angelo, in the Sistine Chapel, compel my gaze ; new aspects of admiration develop themselves ; and when from these creations of genius, I turn to the genius that produced them, — when I think of Angelo — the architect at once and painter of St. Peter's — the transcendent powers which he displayed — the creator of that temple which emulates the heavens, to which it rises in august majesty and sublimity, — " this the clouds must claim:" — do I not find my admiration still farther modified, though still admiration ? and what shall I say, therefore, of an emotion so varied, and yet so uniform, but that it is the appre ciation of separate excellence, with one element common to every instance of the emotion, a certain wonder that blends with the appreciation, so that, while the appreciation is dis tinctive, the admiration is uniform or the same ?
The very discussions regarding beauty, or intended to give us the philosophy of the beautiful, shew that what inspires our admiration is a law, something beyond the external form or appearance. The mind is not satisfied with the outward, with the mere figure, outline, surface, colour. It penetrates beyond these ; it seeks an explanation in what the outward form or sur face but indicates or expresses. There is the absolutely beauti ful at last, but that consists in some spiritual quality indicated to the mind, and having its original form or type in God, the source of all life, and mental and moral excellence, and beauty ; and whenever we attain to these, whether as seen in the creature, or as traceable to the Creator, originally conferred by Him, and depending upon Him for their con tinuance, we have something admirable, we have at once what inspires our admiration, and produces the sentiment of the beautiful. The following passage from Cousin is to the purpose : — " The inward alone is beautiful ; there is no beauty except that which is invisible, and if beauty were not dis-
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covered to the eye, or at least suggested, sketched, as it were, by visible forms, it would not exist for man. It makes itself known by sensible traits, whose entire beauty is merely the reflection of spiritual beauty. It is, then, only by expression, that nature is beautiful, and it is the variety of intellectual and moral characteristics, reflected by matter, that determines the different kinds of beauty. The figure of man is of a grave and severe beauty, because it announces dignity and power ; the figure of woman is of a delicate beauty, because it reflects kindness, tenderness, and grace. In each sex the beauty will be different, only according as the expression differs. To the examples taken from human nature, may be added those which animality, the nature between man and the mineral, supplies. It might be shewn, that the face of an animal is beautiful in proportion to its expressiveness; thus the lion is the most beautiful of animals, because its figure declares it to be king and master, because all its movements suggest strength and bold ness. If we descend from nature purely physical, to inorganic and inanimate, even there we still find the expression of intelli gence. Metaphysics teaches us that all which exists is alive ; that the soul of nature shines through the thickest conceal ment. Physical observation brings us to a similar conclusion : Those bodies called inorganic, are subject to laws, and where there is law there is intelligence. Chemical analysis does not conduct to a nature cold and lifeless, but to a nature full of vitality, — to internal laws as worthy of admiration as those external ones discovered by natural philosophy. But without being philosophers, we may contemplate nature in ingenuous ignorance, and give ourselves up to the impressions it excites. We have said, that both in men and in animals, the figure is beautiful by expression, — by the shining forth of inward moral beauty. Now, in the presence of the grand scenes of nature, at the foot of the Alps or the summit of Etna, at daybreak or nightfall, are you not filled with a sense of these awful spec tacles, and do you not experience a sort of moral reaction ? Does not the light of the sun, too, manifest intelligence ? Do not the planets preserve among themselves an intelligent har-
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mony ? Do all these wonderful objects appear simply for the purpose of being visible ; or does an intelligence direct the courses of the stars, and make them all concur in one great end ? I affirm that the face of nature is expressive, like the face of man. If the form of a woman appears beautiful, be cause it is the expression of gentleness and kindness, is it not an expression of beneficence and of grandeur which constitutes the beauty of the sunlight ?" Cousin continues : — " All is symbolic in nature. Form is not form only — it is the form of something — it unfolds something inward. Beauty, then, is expression — art is the seeking after expression. We have re solved the question about the unity of beauty. The beautiful is one — it is moral or intellectual beauty — that is, spiritual beauty, which, displaying itself by visible forms, constitutes physical beauty and spiritual beauty. It is truth itself — it is being — it is the eternal, the infinite."
Is it not evident, then, that admiration is the appreciation of the excellent, mingled with something of wonder, for all excellence brings us into the presence of the infinite ? It is the faint shadowing of Him " who is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working." It is in itself wonderful, but still as the reflex of a higher and an infinite Being. — " Lo ! these are part of thy ways, but the thunder of thy power who can understand ?"
Admiration may be excited by excellence of every kind ; and it is never to be forgotten, that there is always some thing beyond what is admired, till we reach the infinite. It is like a part of infinite space: the infinitude stretches from that point inimitably. We are always on the borders of the infinite. It surrounds us — it invests us — it contains us. Is anything true and excellent ? It is an emanation of Him who is infinitely so. It was derived from Him — it points to Him — it leads imperceptibly to Him. " Give me a truth," says Cousin, " and I engage to find another more sublime and vast. Give me a good action, and I will find a better one." It is the same with all excellence. Hence it is, that the creature is nothing, that God is everything ; that the creature is what it
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is, only in virtue of God, or of what God has made it. To Him everything is originally referable, and to Him everything must bring its own tribute of praise, or yield even its own glory. The habit of recognising God in everything is taught from a higher source than even philosophy ; but philosophy, in its truest state, is coincident with religion. Were man not fallen, philosophy would be but a part of his unfallen nature, and there would be no distinction between philosophy and devotion. To see God in everything, and to have the inind moving in harmony with His mind, is the highest point that even religion can attain. Christianity proposes nothing else to itself than this. Christianity is a reconstruction of the original constitution of man : it is this in the only way in which, so far as we know, it could be done. With a regeneration there must be an atonement, but with an atonement there must be a regeneration ; and to the one the other is subservient, while again the one is the ultimatum, or main object, and end, of the other. In this scheme God's perfections shine out with a lustre which they do not exhibit in any other of His works. Here is a mystery. Here is an object of admiration. God is actively present here: He has come down to us in the likeness of sinful flesh : He has impersonated Himself in our nature ; and all those attributes which, shining in the works of His hands, bring us into such near contact with Himself, and constitute the beautiful, the sublime, the true, the excellent, and awaken so powerfully our admiration — have transcendent exercise in the scheme by which man is again brought into favour and union with God. Sin, indeed, moves over the scene : justice, wrath, vengeance, pour out their vials ; but retiring far in the distance we see a reclaimed universe, beauties for which we have no name, glories unspeakable — heaven and the ransomed throng — God and Christ — the visible glory of the former and the human nature of the latter, amid the lustres of that transcendent state, the centre of all — and circling round, the hosts of angels and the redeemed. No evil shall again mar God's universe ; holiness will lend its lustre to everything, and take off the rebuke that was upon creation. Fair forms, and
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expression of beauty and of excellence, will move on that arena, or be seen in those new heavens and new earth. To the remotest precincts of the renovated universe, all will be loveliness, all. admirable, the expression of perfect attributes — not the shadowing of these merely where sin has cast its veil over every object, and permits but an adumbration of what may be, of what must be, in a perfect state. The types and symbols of excellence will not be needed in the presence of the great Author or source of all, or will be continued in a purer form, and as but a further expression of what they represent. But the great antitype, the original, will be contemplated Him self: His beauties and glories will shine forth in a manner of which we can form no conception ; and the highest, even infinite, excellence will be realized to the soul without any interposing medium.
Wonder and admiration, it will be seen, may subserve the high est purposes of devotion. There is adoration almost in wonder.
" I have seen," says Wordsworth, in a characteristic passage, —
"I have seen
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell ;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy : for rnurrnurings from within
Were heard, sonorous cadences ! whereby,
To his belief, the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of faith ; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things ;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation. Here you stand,
Adore, and worship, when you know it not;
Pious leyond tJie intention of your thought;
Devout above the meaning of your will."
That piety, it must be allowed, is of a veiy equivocal kind which hardly knows its own aspirations. And when we traced wonder
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to the invisible, and the infinite, we by no means meant that that infinite was recognised as God. It might be, or it might not. With some, it is the spirit of nature merely. It has no per sonal being assigned to it. God is not recognised. Unques tionably God and His perfections are the proper sequel or conclusion of the mind, and to Him the minutest and most insignificant object in creation might lead, if we were just to our own thoughts. But there is much between the intimations of God and God himself, and the interval may be allowed to be occupied with anything or nothing where the desire is not to realize God, but rather to forget Him, or exclude Him from .His own universe. Agencies, spirits, or one undefinable spirit, which has yet no personality, are allowed to intervene, or rather are made the all of God — are rested or believed in, as if they were the grand power and presence to which creation, through all its parts, and in its minutest objects, testifies, if we would receive her attestations.
The recognition and adoration of a Divine power, as mani fested in the universe, seems to be essential in the case of every mind formed to trace the connexion of causes and their effects, and to feel the sentiment of wonder on the presence of any ob served instance of causation. It is impossible to observe the phenomena of nature without being impressed with the exist ence of a being whose agency is traceable only in its operations. The mind does not rest satisfied with the mere phenomena which it observes ; it looks beyond these to the spiritual power or presence which is at work, and which it cannot fail to mark. An undefined conviction of some agency — something beyond the material form or object, may be all that is realized or ob tained, may be the utmost to which the mind goes ; but an agency or power of some kind is felt to be an inevitable con viction or conclusion, which the mind rather welcomes than seeks to shun, and which is acknowledged in the manifold impersonations of the varied agencies and operations in the natural world, or just in the name given to them all, and which seems satisfactorily to account for all — the spirit of nature. If this spirit of nature is not God, what can it be ? Into what
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shall it be resolved as distinct from nature ? What idea shall we form of it ? How shall we think of it ? In what manner regard it ? It is better than absolute materialism, indeed, or atheism, or pantheism, though it is a form of pantheism. It is just to the poetic laws, if not to the rigorous decisions of reason or philosophy, or still more properly, theology. Pantheism is a monstrous creed, — that everything we see is God. The doctrine is, either that God is matter, and its laics ; — for allow mind, and we may as well go to God at once — and then it is identical with materialism and atheism ; — or it is that matter is God, and then it involves the monstrous or absurd position, that matter may be spiritual, may be at once matter, and yet not matter ; for what is implied in the supposition of a God ? — is it not something distinct from matter, and a supposition brought in to account for it, and for its varied modes of mani festation ? The spirit of nature is a more refined idea than this. If not questioned too rigidly, if not too closely taken to task, it may hold a place in a mind that is not too rigorous in sifting its conclusions, and that cannot satisfy itself with a cold materialism. Nay, it allows scope for a poetic or an ideal fancy in the very mystery of something which it is not sought to explain, and which seems to brood over, or be present in, all the operations of nature. The spirit of nature ! a poetic ab straction — which gives a beauty to external phenomena — which hovers innocently over every material object and material phe nomenon — which allows us to be on familiar, yet respectful terms with it — to worship it poetically, yet not religiously, nay, which permits those who feel themselves to be endowed with spirit, intelligence, lofty imagination, to have the advantage over that which they profess to adore, to be themselves a sort of gods, and dispensers of divinity ! Shelley no doubt took the spirit of nature into his kind patronage, when he allowed it an existence, and when he celebrated it, whether as " the spirit of beauty," or " the spirit of power." To recognise these — to greet the unseen spirit which is in the gentle breath of the zephyr, in the secret operations of silent and invisible laws, in the flower, in the grass, in the hovering atmosphere, with the
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mountain in its majesty, and the valley in its retiring loveli ness, in the soft outline and aerial effects of the landscape, on the sea in its calm or in its might — to see or recognise all this is harmless, if we do not make that spirit oar divinity, if we do not stop with it as God, if we are not content with a mere poetical conception, and if in that spirit we behold but the varied manifestations of a Being in whom dwells all beauty and power, and who has created that beauty which we admire, and invested phenomena with that power which overawes and compels the homage.
" The awful shadow of some unseen Power, Floats though unseen among us, visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower."
What is this power ? Could Shelley go no farther in the re cognition of God — was he satisfied when he saw only something- more than vacancy in the silence or solitude of nature ?
It is this irresistible impression of something beyond the ex ternal phenomena which we behold, which has peopled the world with deities, after the mind had lost the knowledge of the true God. Everything became a god to the imagination, untutored, and incapable of grasping the truth of a unity in all the varied manifestations of nature : — the woods, the hills, the streams, the air, the earth, the fire, the sun, the moon, the stars — each had its god, or became a god to the imagination, seeing a mys tery in all which it could not explain, but on the supposition of some indwelling and presiding spirit. The very faculties of the mind were explained or accounted for on the suppo sition of a Divinity which had each under its charge or control. Poetry, music, reason, or wisdom, — all were deified. What was this but the misdirected tendency of the mind to behold God in everything, which could not make this discernment without running into the error of creating a god for every object and every agency ? The tendency is an inevitable one, and proper; for " the invisible things of God from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead ;"— but it obeyed a false
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impulse when it made to itself a multitude of deities, each with its several department. Reason was not followed, its dictates were not obeyed or listened to, and the suggestions of imagina tion were received, or the separate agency, invested with the mysterious powers which imagination connected with it, was reverently recognised and adored.
..." The imaginative faculty was Lord Of observations natural."
But the suggestions of the mind, prompted by or associated with the feeling of wonder, may be better directed, and guided by higher wisdom. We believe that many, unaided by Revela tion, have arrived at the doctrine of the Divine unity, and be lieved in one God. Socrates did so, although in conformity with the opinions of his countrymen he seemed to admit of subordi nate deities, and said that they ought to be worshipped. We might conceive many, while they did not boldly hazard their opinions, arriving at the same conclusions in their own secret reasonings. We cannot help believing that many whose opi nions were never made known were secret worshippers of one God, or sceptics at least as to the multitude of divinities which were admitted into the Pantheon. It was one of the Athenians that said satirically that " Athens was hospitable to the gods." In Athens there was an altar " to the unknown God." That this inscription was intended for the true God, is the opinion of many of the ablest writers, Cudworth and Warburton among the number. Cudworth, in his Intellectual System, expends much learning to shew that the doctrine of the Divine unity was common among the ancients, even among the people. It would have been strange had this doctrine not been known or guessed at ; for it seems as if the state of mind, when rever ently recognising a Divine and pervading spirit of the universe, must have been altogether opposed to the supposition, or to the thought of a multiplicity of gods. But however this may have been, that the reverence felt in the presence of any recognised manifestation of Deity — the admiration at His mar vellous operations — is the devotion, or a great part of the wor ship, we pay to God, cannot be doubted. When the mind
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passes from His works to God himself, reverence, veneration, not admiration merely, is the sentiment. Wonder is lost in reverence, becomes worship. Awful veneration seizes the mind. We are in the presence of the Creator, not of His works merely. We realize an uncreated Being, whose works we con template — these works so marvellous, so stupendous, so strik ing in their exhibitions of wisdom and power. We adore : Adoration is the sentiment we offer to this Being. A complete prostration of our faculties, of our hearts before Him, is felt to be called for — nothing less can we render. Mysterious, unseen, uncreated, eternal, having no limits to any of His attributes, by which any of His attributes can be bounded, incomprehen sible therefore to us, except in so far as the nature, though not the infinitude of His perfections, may be scanned or conceived of! We know the former, because we ourselves have been created in the possession of the same attributes, though limited, very limited in extent — capable however of endless progress. Man is the priest of God, because he can know God. It is the priest's function to adore, to offer worship. All should be priests to God. Sin has interrupted the priestly functions — the worship is not offered. Christ makes us again priests unto God.
Besides subserving the purposes of devotion, to what gratifi cation does not this emotion minister in the constitution of our nature ! But was it implanted in our nature for this purpose? or was it not absolute ? Was it not an essential part of our emotional being ? Does it not belong to our position as crea tures in the universe ? Could a creature, created with an emotional capacity, contemplate either its own creation, or that of any other being or object, without this sentiment ? Could it be possible to be brought into contact with this great fact or idea, without being filled with wonder ? There is in it, and must be in it, to the creature, what can never cease to call forth this emotion. Creation ! how wonderful ! Grant an intelligent and emotional nature, and wonder could not but be experienced. We might indeed have been created like the stone, or any of the lower creatures, insensible, incapable of emotion, and in capable even of thought, but we would not then have been
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what we are, rational and moral beings. We say so far as we were made intelligent, and capable of emotion, there was what was absolute in our nature, what could not but be, what be longed to our nature, what was not intended merely to sub serve an end, what was final, except that His own glory was what God proposed to Himself in all creation. We do not say that any part of our constitution does not subserve this or that end, but that the final end was God's glory, while there was what was absolute, and not merely provisional in our nature. Our faculties have all an absolute character, created in the image of God, and their grand design was, besides being an end in themselves, that God's glory might be reflected in them. That they accomplish subordinate purposes, is somewhat differ ent from these being the purposes for which they were created.
The emotion of wonder does then minister to the gratifica tion of the creature in a high degree. It is accompanied with high delight. It produces a refined, in some instances a very lofty pleasure. No gratification is purer than that which is felt in the presence, or in the contemplation, of some great phenomenon — some very interesting manifestation of the Di vine power, or wisdom, or goodness — some stupendous or beau tiful law of creation — some mark or evidence of God Himself — in the possession of some interesting truth, some fine conception, some happy or admirable expression of such conception in language or art — greatness or excellence anyhow seen, contem plated, or appreciated.
All the aspects of this emotion subserve a wise or fine pur pose. We speak of an agreeable surprise ; and this might be felt even in an unfallen state. The possibility of surprise is inseparable from imperfect knowledge. Only to omniscience can nothing come unexpected, or be unforeseen. In the case of the highest unfallen intelligence, many things may awaken its surprise, — come upon it with all the strength of novelty. Astonishment, too, will often arrest or fix the attention of these higher spirits that dwell in the presence of God. It is not to be supposed that they will not have new truths to con template ; that they will not be meeting with new and instruc-
2 B
386 THE EMOTIONS.
tive and wonderful manifestations of the Divine perfections. An event will be to them as news. From this or that other portion of the universe, no doubt, tidings will circulate as intel ligence from a far country among ourselves. It will produce surprise — it will beget wonder — it will fill them with astonish ment. So would it be in our own unfallen condition — so is it now — and the emotion subserves the most important pur poses. In the first place, a fresh circulation of interest is kept up in our minds, which would otherwise become stagnant for want of novelty — a dull monotony — whereas now all is constant and pleasing variety of excitement or feeling. Every one knows the effect of monotony on the spirits, and how we long after variety, whether in the occurrences of the day, or in the scenery around us. Variety operates by surprise — it awakens fresh interest — it produces a new current of feeling — and where this is not experienced, the mind suffers. Languor, satiety, weariness, often the utmost depression, is the consequence. Ennui is where nothing new appeals to the mind, and gives it a new direction, or a new object. The old wearies, palls upon the spirits, and sameness absolutely oppresses. It is to escape from this effect that amusement is invented, pursuits of varied kinds are engaged in, enterprises of hardship or danger are undertaken, the most imminent perils even are encountered. War itself is often made a game of pleasure. Many of the expeditions, which are the subjects of history, have been con ceived and prosecuted, perhaps, to escape ennui, or just from the pleasure of excitement. This necessity for variety, then, the law by which we are gratified by change, — the power of surprise, — has its bad as well as its good effects. It must have operation in some way. The pleasure of the sentiment or feel ing must be in some way gratified, though it should be in evil, and in occasioning even the misery of our fellow-creatures ; but its design undoubtedly was for good, and it is evil prin ciple that gives this peculiar law of our constitution an evil direction.
Another purpose of this emotion is thus happily described by Dr. Brown : — " The importance of our susceptibility of this
THE EMOTIONS. 387
emotion of surprise of things unexpected, as a part of our mental constitution, is very obvious. It is in new circumstances that it is most necessary for us to be on our guard, because, from their novelty, we cannot be aware of the effects that attend them, and require, therefore, more than usual precau tion where foresight is impossible ; but if new circumstances had not produced feelings peculiarly vivid, little regard might have been paid to them, and the evil, therefore, might have been suffered before alarm was felt. Against this danger nature has most providentially guarded us. We cannot feel surprise without a more than ordinary interest in the objects which may have excited this emotion, and a consequent ten dency to pause till their properties have become in some degree known to us. Our astonishment may thus be considered as a voice from that Almighty goodness which constantly protects us, that, in circumstances in which attention might be perilous, whispers, or almost cries to us, Beware !"
" 0 for that warning voice," Milton exclaims in reference to the Temptation, when he approaches this part of his great Epic : —
"0 for that warning voice, which he, who saw The Apocalypse, heard cry in heaven aloud, Then when the Dragon, put to second rout, Came furious down to he revenged on men ; ' Woe to the inhabitants on earth !' that now, While time was, our first parents had been warned The coming of their secret foe, and 'scaped, Haply so 'scaped, his mortal snare."
Astonishment neither delights nor warns; it confounds. The novelty and the wonder together produce the most violent emotion, which may have its pleasure, but the pleasure is lost in the astonishment ; when it becomes pleasing, it is in the wonder after the astonishment. How wise this arrangement — how directly is wisdom seen here ! that while surprise is often produced, and is attended by the happiest effects, ministering to pleasure, inciting to activity, and exerting that control over our actions by which we are prevented from precipitation, and often preserved from danger, astonishment is seldom produced,
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or, at least, far more seldom finds its object. This emotion would be inconsistent with happiness, and would make the world come to a stand, if there was not a provision in the very frequency of it against itself; that is, the frequency of the occasion would make it no longer the occasion of such an emotion. The repetition of the cause would make it no longer capable of producing the effect. So nice are the arrangements of Divine wisdom. The commonness of anything wonderful does not prevent our wonder, but the commonness of anything astonishing would make it no longer astonishing.
The analysis of wonder, or the particular aspect of it, admi ration, seems to give us the precise emotion in the case where the beautiful or sublime is contemplated, whether in nature or art. That emotion seems to be nothing else than admiration, but admiration stamped with the impress of its particular ob ject. We have already said that admiration always takes the particular impress of the object admired. It is admiration not the less whatever may be the object : approbation of a certain excellence, with wonder at the law of that excellence. The emotion of the beautiful and the sublime, accordingly, is appro bation of the excellence implied in these, with wonder at the law of that excellence. There is appreciation of the beautiful or the sublime, with Avonder at the law concerned in either. The appreciation is not without the wonder : the two constitute the emotion in the particular case. The particular excellence gives a character to the appreciation ; it is the appreciation of that excellence and not another. The character of the appre ciation must be determined by the character of the excellence. The appreciation of the beautiful or the sublime is thus a pecu liar and distinctive state of mind ; and there is a peculiar and distinctive emotion ; this is inseparable from admiration, or admiration follows upon or is inseparable from it ; and ad miration is appreciation of the particular excellence, with won der at its law. We have here, then, a particular appreciation with its appropriate emotion, and wonder : these seem to be the constituent elements in the emotion of the beautiful and the
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sublime. The nature of the beautiful and the sublime them selves is a different question, and one which has occasioned much diversity of opinion and view. It is impossible, with our present limits, to enter upon such a subject. Our concern is with the emotion : if we have arrived at that, with its distinc tive elements, the consideration of the object which excites it — the law of the beautiful and the sublime, or of each distinc tively — belongs more properly to another department of philo sophy, viz., aesthetic philosophy, just as the consideration of the object of the moral emotion belongs to the philosophy of the moral nature.
We may but indicate, however, our view of the object of the emotion of the beautiful and the sublime respectively.
The beautiful, and the same remark will apply to the sub lime as well, is undoubtedly one, something ultimate and in itself simple. Two questions may be raised respecting it : is it in the mind, or is it in the object ? — and although simple, one, is it so in itself, or is it a resultant — the resultant of cer tain other emotional conceptions and states, or of certain powers or adaptations in objects to excite these emotional conceptions or states ? If we maintain that it is the resultant of certain powers and adaptations in objects to awaken certain emotional conceptions and states, we seem to answer both questions. We shew that while it is a mental state, that mental state is the result of certain powers or adaptations in outward objects, or other states of mind, mental products — whatever, in short, is objective to the mental state in which we have the beautiful — certain powers and adaptations in these to produce the mental state ; and we thus hold it to be nothing in itself, as one and simple, but the resultant of certain powers and adaptations to awaken certain emotional conceptions or states. And this seems to reconcile the conflicting views in regard to the beautiful ; for while some maintain that it is solely in the mind, this may be allowed, but not irrespective of the power in the object to awaken the mental state ; and while others maintain that it is one and simple, something in itself, and ultimate, this also may be allowed, but simple and ultimate as the resultant of
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certain powers and adaptations to awaken certain emotions, or conceptions of emotion. This we hold to be Alison's theory, and we hold it to be that of Cousin also, although he does not seem to be aware of it, and he is regarded as the great opponent of the association theory. The association theory, as it is called, pre-eminently the theory of Alison, is not inconsistent with the beautiful being in the mind; but also in the object; and also being absolute, something in itself, one, simple, but as the resultant of certain powers and adaptations to awaken certain mental states, these mental states resulting in the mental state in which we have the beautiful. Alison's theory has been either greatly misrepre sented or misunderstood ; and the advocates of the absolute theory are ever and anon, in spite of themselves, admitting all that the association theorist would advance. Nothing could be finer than the way in which Cousin traces the beautiful to expression, to some conception of emotion, to the moral, to truth, to the Eternal, to the Infinite. It is certain ideas, having their prototypes in the Divine mind, but expressed in objects, or in other ideas, or awakened by other ideas, that constitute the beautiful. This, of course, is opposed to the sensational theory ; but it is precisely Dr. Brown's theory — that the beautiful is the power of the object to awaken the emotion — it is Alison's theory that the beautiful is the resultant of certain adaptations to awaken conceptions, which Alison calls conceptions of emo tion, or conceptions of which certain emotions are the result, and the result of which again is the one and simple feeling of the beautiful : it is Cousin's theory, who regards the beautiful as one and absolute, but who traces it up ultimately to the moral, to the Eternal, to the Infinite. The difference between the Beautiful and the Sublime is only in the character of the ideas awakened.
We have considered those emotions which connect us with events and with objects generally, which do not allow us to be uninterested spectators of what is occurring around us, or to survey unmoved the scenery of earth and heaven, or find no plea sure in the objects which meet our view every day, and gather
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around them our familiar loves or hatreds, awaken delight or produce disquietude, or it may be unhappiness, — which, on the contrary, are alive to every event, and are awakened by almost every object — which pervade life as waters the channel of the stream, and invest everything with a kind of atmosphere, coloured by the emotion which prevails — which fill the heart with serenity, stir it with joy, excite it to wonder, exalt it to admiration, prompt it to devotion, or make it the victim of the disquieting emotions, from sadness or melancholy to the profoundest sorrow, or leave it the prey of weariness and ennui. But there are more powerful emotions than any of these — emotions which take a stronger hold of the heart, move it more deeply, are still more influential as springs of action, and more directly concerned in the production of happiness or misery. We refer to the emotions of love, of sympathy, of benevolence, of gratitude, and to the emotions which accompany our desires, which are distinguishable from our desires, and may be called the emotions of the desires.
It was not intended only that we should be partners in, or mixed up with, the events of life, and be capable of feeling emotion in connexion with every object that met the eye, and that solicited the regard ; we were to be more intimately associ ated with our fellows, to have, in every way, a greater interest in them, and in their fortunes, and to be capable, therefore, of stronger emotions as respects themselves, and what concerned them. Love, accordingly, is an emotion which has more directly for its object our fellows of the same species, after that great Being who gave to ourselves being, and whom it is our first duty at once supremely to love, and reverently to adore. Love is by far the most important principle or emotion of the soul. It excels every other in value as in kind. Its object, if we may so express ourselves, is more directly its object, than is the object of any other emotion the object of that emotion. Cheer fulness has not properly an object at all. An event produces joy, an object awakens our delight ; but the object of love is the object o/our love. We love the object. Pleasure or de light in an object: joy at an event: is very different from the
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love of an. object, or from that object's being the direct object of love. Not only is the emotion in this instance produced by a cause, or, at least, awakened by an object, it terminates on that cause; it has it for its object. Even admiration does not so directly terminate on its object as love. We admire some thing about the object ; we love the object. The emotion, like every other simple emotion, is incapable of analysis. We may state certain circumstances regarding it ; but the simple emo tion itself cannot be described. Every one's own feeling of the emotion is its only interpreter or describer. The last retreat of any emotion, it is impossible to reach ; there is something in the emotion at last — the very essence of the emotion — that baffles all attempt at description or analysis. The emotion remains yet to be described. Nothing more has been done by all the efforts to bring out the emotion itself from its retreat or concealment, than if no attempt of the kind had been made. What do I explain when I say, that there is in love, or connected with it, a " vivid delight in the contemplation of its object ?" or further, " a desire for the good of that object ?" Do these two elements make up the emotion ? The whole peculiarity of the emotion consists in the kind of delight which is felt, or there is something beyond this delight, while desire for the good of the object is an effect of the emotion, not a part of it. The kind of delight felt in the contemplation of the object, or iti the object, is the very mystery. Delight and love as resting on an object are not far separate, but love is rather the delight in this instance, than delight the love, — that is, the emotion is rather love than delight. Delight begotten by an object is a certain pleasure, varying according to the object ; but when we speak of delight in an object, we rather mean love for that object than the delight which it produces or affords. We know that inanimate objects even may awaken our love, a kind of attachment, and this may be distinguished from the delight or pleasure which they give us ; the one is delight in the object, the other is delight pro duced by the object. The former, then, is just love ; and to say that love is delight in an object, or in the contemplation of that object, is to describe the emotion by itself. There can be no
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doubt that love both delights in its object, and seeks the good of that object ; but is this the emotion ? We are not attribut ing this account of the emotion, so far as it goes, to Dr. Brown, as if he himself regarded it as fully descriptive. He says, " the analysis of love, as a complex feeling, presents to us always, at least, two elements ; a vivid delight in the contemplation of the object, and a desire of good to that object." Where we think Dr. Brown is wrong, is in making the feeling a complex one, and these, two of its elements. The former of these, if not just the love which is sought to be analyzed, is rather a circumstance distinguishing it than a part of it ; the latter is rather an effect or consequence of the emotion than an element in it. Dr. Brown seems to have been sensible that his analysis was not complete when he says, " the analysis of love, as a complex feel ing, presents to us always, at least, two elements ;" he seems to have felt there was something more which remained yet to be described, and, in truth, the very emotion had yet to be defined. The delight of love is not love. Love varies according to the object on which it is fixed. Now there can be no doubt, that in the general there must be some apprehended excellence in any object which awakens our love, or which is the object of our love. But in the case both of parental and filial love, it often happens that the object of the affection is destitute of those excellencies which call forth the emotion in other cases. A parent, or a child, is often loved in spite of the absence of these excellencies, and notwithstanding of faults and blemishes, and even vices, which in other cases would altogether repel the emotion. Is parental and filial love, then, to be made such exception of, that it is not to come under the general description of love ? Is it delight in apprehended excellence that consti tutes a part of love ? or is it delight in the object irrespective of such a cause, and whatever may be the cause of it ? If the latter, then this, we believe, will be found just to be the very emotion which it is brought to explain, or of which it is said to be only a part. Dr. Brown says, " to love, it is essential there should be some quality in the object which is capable of giving pleasure, since love, which is the consequence of this, is itself a
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pleasurable emotion. There is a feeling of beauty, external, moral, or intellectual, which affords the primary delight of loving, and continues to mingle with, the kind desire which it has produced." Now, the circumstance that parental and filial love does not depend upon such a cause, might shew that the feeling of love was something distinct from the delight arising out of such excellence. Unless filial and parental love is alto gether so different from the other aspects of the general emotion that it has to be separately described or accounted for, it is obvious that love may be something distinct from the delight spoken of, and is not depending upon it for its origin. The love and the delight, at all events, are easily separable, and the former is something by itself. But it is quite manifest, without any argument, that the delight inspired by excellence, real or apprehended — by beauty, external, moral, or intellectual — is distinct from love. This is perfectly manifest ; the former is, no doubt, sometimes the cause of the latter, but it can only be its cause, and we find the latter existing without any such cause. A mother sometimes loves a child all the more for the very defects which, to others, would be a barrier to love. Love sur vives physical, intellectual, and even moral changes in its object, and will often cling to its object the more fondly in all these. We insist upon this no more than to shew that love is a distinct feeling from that delight which Dr. Brown refers to, and which is produced by some excellence apprehended in the object that awakens our love. The two feelings are quite distinct: the one is not the other : the one may produce, but not necessarily, the other. How does it happen that the same excellence con templated by different persons is followed by love in one and not in another ? There is the same delight in the excellence itself, but there is love in the one instance and not in the other. Do we not see friendships formed, whatever may be the acci dental causes which lead to them, between parties, who may present the very same excellencies to others that they do mu tually between themselves; but no friendship is begotten in others, while between themselves it may be indissoluble ? No matter how the different result is accounted for. such examples
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shew that the friendship ultimately is a different thing from the delight in, or appreciation of, the excellence which may have awakened it. All are sensible of the power of certain attractions of character to awaken our esteem and affection ; but this is not friendship. Or, is it the excellencies that we love ? then the delight in them is the love of them. But there is more than the love of the excellencies, there is the love of the individual. This is that mysterious but admirable affec tion which binds heart to heart, and makes life what it is in those beautiful relations which subsist in families, among indi viduals, and between the members of communities and social bodies. Love has its reign in all of these departments, in any of these relations ; and there is a more oecumenical or extended aspect of the affection, in the love which links us to our race, and which is felt, where there are none of those causes which may interfere with it, towards all who bear the same nature with 'ourselves. Bad as man is, and with such causes for distrust and alienation, there is that which draws us to our fellows, and makes us in the first outgoing of the heart, till something cools or checks our ardour, give our unhesitating affection to all who bear the name of man. It is a lovely aspect of the emotion. Its beauty was recognised in the plaudits which followed the utterance of that famous sentiment in the Koman theatre : " Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto." There is a brotherhood of the race, a family tie, which unites all mankind together: the consanguinity is recognised in spite of the larger family of which the race consists. It is still one family. The evil passions of men, the weakness and imperfec tions of our nature, and certain instincts or tendencies implanted by the Creator, produce divisions and distinctions, and occasion animosities, which would not otherwise exist. The family and national relation are founded upon the wisest instincts, and secure the greatest benefits. To the former especially, may be traced some of the finest affections, and it may well be said to be the very safeguard and cement of society. Accidents of situation and of language produce communities and nations : this, too, tends to the consolidation and prosperity of society : it
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is favourable to government, for even nations have to be broken up into separate municipalities, each of which can alone conven iently regulate its own affairs. Certain affections are created which strengthen the bond that binds families and indivi duals ; and the orderly and more efficient working of the whole social machine is the general and beneficial effect. But these very benefits are at the expense of others, and are not secured without their evil consequences. The national distinction at least is not without its bad effects. We question if the national distinction was originally contemplated in the constitution of our race. The family one, we believe, was. It is connected with an original tendency or bias which seems to have been implanted for the very purpose of securing this distinction, as well as because in itself it is the occasion or source of such exquisite happiness. Even in an innocent state, we have already remarked, there might be peculiar attachments, and heart might seek heart as now, to be knit together in closer bonds than those which were common to the race. The law of the race required this, while it was an admirable provision for securing those sentiments which could have scope under no other arrangement, the tenderest that can have exercise, and which, in their very exclusiveness, seem to secure the wider and more social sympathies with which they would appear to be at war, or at least somewhat incompatible. And here, perhaps, we have the explanation of that very instinct in which we see the finest exemplification, in a modified form, of the particular emotion we are considering, so peculiar an exemplification of it as almost to have appropriated the name of the emotion exclusively to itself. It was for this very arrangement, this special union, this peculiar friendship, this tenderer attachment, that the sentiment we are adverting to, the special aspect of the emotion we are considering, was implanted in the heart. This finds its gratification in the family relation, in the union of husband and wife, in the personal love which binds such parties, and where an exchange seems literally to be made of affection and of interest. The one loves the other, and self is merged in the attachment which each awakens. This might
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have been compatible with the larger or more universal love which it was intended each should feel for another of the same race. But had man continued innocent, it is questionable if any other divisions would have had place. The scriptural narrative of what occurred on the plain of Shinar seems to favour this idea. National distinction was not known till then, and it was in an imperfect and fallen state that God found it to be necessary to break up the race into nations, and scatter them by the interposition of a miracle over the earth. This was best in the new condition that had arisen. The vast confederacy of a united race would have perhaps been too powerful for evil. We have this but indicated in the cause of the dispersion. Unquestionably the division into nations broke the power of evil, made man more helpless, and threw him upon sympathies more limited in their range, and on that very account more tender in their nature. The race would have been a giant that would have defied God ; and the fable of the Titans undoubtedly has its meaning. A universal com munity seems to be possible only on one condition, that of un- fallen innocence or restored innocence ; — otherwise the power of evil, not the power of good, would be enlarged. The fraterniza tion of the nations, without the gospel, is a vain dream. It is when the kingdoms of this world have become the kingdoms of God and of His Son that the true vision of the world's mil lennium will be realized. This does not prevent the cultivation of amicable sentiment and the diffusion of amicable principle. It does not prevent nations from doing all they can for the better modelling of their own institutions, and especially secur ing their own greater enlightenment and improvement, so as to secure and deserve all the benefits of a well-established freedom. A right freedom will come in no other way, and grasping at the name merely, where there is not the reality, is taught by recent events to be worse than the severest despotism that ever wreathed its chains round a people. Still, national distinctions seem to have been but the least of several evils : the evils of universal anarchy because of universal union, and of greater power for mischief in the greater combination of
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mischievous strength. The union of our race, however, by that bond which ought never to have been broken, is un doubtedly what is abstractly proper, and what in the sanguine hopes of an enlightened philanthropy we are allowed to antici pate. The love of the race will be restored, and it exists in some degree in every renewed heart. The gospel is the true regenerator of our species ; for it is its object to implant anew that principle of universal love, which is consistent only with a state of unfallen innocence, or one of innocence restored. When the source of enmity is removed, enmity itself will be removed. National distinctions will not exist, or will exist but as the separate municipalities under one government at the present day, united under one empire, and that the empire of Christ. That love, the absence of which is the occasion of all enmity, will have exercise, having been reimplanted by the gospel. Evil will have been taken out of the way ; the regenerating power of the Divine Spirit will have changed the nature in which now are the seeds of all enmity, and a sympathy, divine, and incapable of infraction, will have been restored. We now see the breaking up of that sympathy, or the absence of it, where Christianity has not taken effect, and nothing therefore but the most imperfect sympathies with the race existing. National distinctions operate in the widest extent, and in the utmost strength : how the nation will be exalted — how its interests at the expense of others will be promoted — how particular, even evil, institutions will be main tained — how other nations will be regulated, so as to be kept from doing harm and working mischief — non-interference ex cept for purposes of despotism, — these are the objects which nations generally set before themselves ; and the world seems far yet from that consummation which the love of the race, the love of our fellow as such, the love of man to man, will ultimately secure. That consummation will yet be attained. The Gospel will assuredly accomplish it. The unbroken love of the species will be felt. Nations and communities will exist under the reign of Christ alone, cemented by one uniting affection, dwelling in harmony, having the same interests — the
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interest of one the interest of all — governed by the law of Messiah the Prince, order and justice and every good secured in the reign of universal love. This aspect of the emotion is particularly interesting : how important to contemplate it ! — to seek its dominancy, its universal diffusion ! It will be secured only in the triumphs of the gospel. Wherever the love of the gospel is implanted, there the love of the race is secured ; an oecumenical feeling is engendered ; all mankind are regarded, not with an altogether undistinguishing, but still with a true and genuine affection ; — and the world, not our country, the race, not our family, man, not the individual, become the objects of our wide sympathies. Let individual instances of such love be multiplied, and the world will be regenerated, present a new aspect, be what every philanthropist professes to seek, but which no schemes of amelioration, or political wis dom, will secure apart from the gospel. The proscribed gospel is the panacea for every evil which man in his perversity would remove in every other way but the right one. Selfish ness, indeed, regulates in most of those schemes which are brought forward with all the array of political pomp, and national muster, for the social wellbeing, in communities, or more largely in the world. Tyrannies exist ostensibly for government; but it is for the honour of a house, or the aggrandizement of an individual. Civilisation ! it is royal greatness. Freedom ! it is mercantile prosperity ; it is the interest of a class ; it is the defence of an institution ; it is the thirst of gold. Disturb not this law, for it will interfere with such an interest — although that interest may be main tained at the expense of human blood, or by the property in human flesh. Enact this law, for it will secure such another interest — one which may interfere with the rights of thousands, and be the curse of generations. Has not legislation par taken too much of this character ? The imperfection of human nature, the limits to human wisdom, the difficulties presented to all legislation, are the apology of many a bad law ; but human selfishness must first be expelled, and true philanthropy, true love to the species, implanted, before we shall see that
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uniform regard to the rights and the interests of the race, which, in the one object which the gospel proposes, will at last be secured.
While it was intended that man should love his fellow, and the love of the race therefore was implanted in the heart, there are lesser limits within which the emotion we are considering was to have its sphere of action, and in its operation within which we see a beautiful exercise of the emotion itself, and an admirable provision for the happiness, and for the best interests of the species. The oecumenical, or more universal, love is un doubtedly the nobler ; there is something more generous, less selfish, in the love which is felt for the race, in the sincere outgoing of the heart towards all who wear the same nature with ourselves, irrespective of any claims of kindred or nation, and just because of community of nature, which we do not recognise in the more limited exercises of the emotion. We do not regard the philosophy of Pope's celebrated lines on the order in which our affections spread, from the first mo tion created by self till not only the whole race, but " every creature of every kind," is included or embraced, as at all just ; and not merely because he assigns a selfish origin to those affections which are more exclusive or more limited in their range, but because he would seem to account for every wider affection, as it spreads, by the narrower or more limited affec tion, and make the one a sort of extension or overflowing of the other. This does not seem to be a just or philosophic view of the affections. But a little reflection surely is necessary to satisfy us, that we could not love our race merely because we love our family, but that there must be an original and inde pendent principle or affection directly bestowed by our Creator, which takes in the whole race, or which loves our fellows as such, without any impulse or assistance from a previous affec tion. The philosophy of Pope's lines has long passed without question, and on a superficial glance it seems quite unchallenge able, but it is poetry rather than philosophy.
" God loves from whole to parts, but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole.
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Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake : The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads ; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace ; His country next ; and next all human race ; Wide and more wide the o'erflowings of the mind Take every creature in of every kind; Earth smiles around with boundless bounty blessed, And heaven beholds its image in his breast."
This presupposes the love of family in every case where there is the love of country and the more extended love of the race. A case might be supposed where the family affection was never known ; would the love of country, or the love of the race, be impossible in such a case ? Doubtless, many have loved their country, and their fellows, intensely, who never knew any family relations. Certainly, mankind are born in families, for the most part, and their earliest affections are exercised within the family circle, and as their intercourse enlarges, their affec tions take a wider range ; but it is not necessary to the new exercise or development of affection, that it spring from some thing prior, be but the burgeoning of something more limited. It is possible, where there has been no family tie, where there have been no family connexions, or these have been early snapped or lost, the heart may be less exercised to affection, may be less impressible, and less therefore of the love of the species, or the love of our fellow, may be seen. The heart may be hardened, from its affections not being exercised in those more immediate spheres in which most have the happiness to move ; and it may contract a selfish nature in consequence : so selfish as to be insensible to any more refined or generous sentiment. It may become even misanthropical, or at least callous ; and many doubtless are the individuals, irrespective of any such cause, that think only of self, that are never stirred with any sympathetic emotion, are bound by no feeling to others but that of interest, and would experience no pang at the most wide-sweeping calamity, if they themselves were not affected by it, or if it involved no matter of a strictly personal or selfish nature. But these are the exceptions instead of the rule, and
2 c
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perhaps they will be found amoDg those who have had every advantage for the development of the affections, as much as among those who have had fewer advantages in this way. The feeling of love for the species, is evidently the growth of no other and more limited affection. It is an independent affec tion. Were it dependent upon any other affection, it would not be so uniform in its operation. We feel it to have an in dependent source and action ; and it is rather first in the order of nature, and the more limited affection after. We say in the order of nature, not in the order of fact, not as it actually happens, but as from a higher point of survey it ought to be. Must not the claims of family yield to those of country and of race ? Are they not postponed to the latter in all cases when they come in collision, or when those of the former would bid us defer, or would run contrary to, the latter ? For the most part, it is within the more limited circle we are called to act — it is within it that our affections more immediately move, and, therefore, as more incessantly exercised, having more imme diate and more constant opportunity of action, the limited affec tion is the stronger ; it may be always the stronger, and wisely so, but it is not the higher — it is not the more paramount ; it lords it not so as do the others ; and when country and the interests of the species call for it, it must give way. Eegulus listened to the claims of country rather than those of family — of wife and children — when he advised Rome to prosecute the war with Carthage, and in spite of the tears of kindred, returned to Carthage, where he knew nothing but death awaited him.
" Fertur puclicre conjugis osculum, Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor, Ab se removisse, et virilem
Torvus humo posuisse vultum ; Donee labautes consilio patres Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato, Interqne mrerente s amicos Egregius properaret exul."
If the love of country grew out of the love of family, could these illustrious examples of patriotism be exhibited ? Could
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Horace have sung of a Regulus, or a Fabricius, or the Scauri ? Could a patriot have lived in any age ? Must not the claims of the prior affection have been always paramount ? The good of the species too has in a thousand instances displaced every narrower and more selfish feeling. The latter has never been allowed to come into competition with the former, whenever there was a clear call for a course of action in which the good of the race would be promoted. It is evident, therefore, that the wider affection is first in importance, and first therefore in supposition, or in the order of nature. The more limited affection is subsequent in supposition to the other. God has implanted the larger affection in the heart, immediately. It is the more absolute of the two. The other is more the effect of arrangement, and a kind of economy which God saw meet to adopt, which is subservient to very wise purposes, and to the exercise of holier affections than would otherwise have been exhibited, or would have been possible. Whether is the rela tion of man to his fellow, or the relation of man to his kindred, the more absolute ; for which relation chiefly does man exist ? Is the larger or the lesser family the more important, of the most consideration ? The individual who lives only for him self, or his family, hardly lives for any purpose. What is self ? What is family ? In an innocent state, they would have been hardly considerable in comparison with the universal love that must have pervaded the whole family of man. It would have been tenderer, as we find it is its very nature to be still, closer, dearer, but not by any means possessing the high and disinter ested character of the other. Personal considerations mingle in our more limited affections — it is the soul, the spiritual being, purely, that is regarded in the other. We love the being for his soul's worth, for what his soul is to us. In the other case, we are so accustomed to regard the whole per sonnel, to value the objects of our affection for what they are wholly to us, that we make no separation : it is the entire individual that we consider. But what are the rest of the species to me, except as possessing immortal spirits, and therefore as beings with an immortal stamp upon them ?
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Much more would this have been the case in a state of innocence. In such a state the distinction between the family and the race would have been much less than it is now, when self so greatly predominates, and has so large a share in our feelings and actions. We have reason to believe, then, that the more limited affections were secondary to the other, or at least are inferior in real worth and importance ; still we have these more limited affections, and they are beautiful and im portant in their own place — most beautiful, most important. It is the love of the species that prompts to such noble and self-sacrificing deeds. The disinterested man labours not for his family merely, but for his kind. His most generous, his highest actions, are for his species. He forgets his family for a time. He says, — " I have higher duties to attend to." The occupations of business, the pursuits of his calling, have their stated hours, and must receive attention ; but they are all put aside for the duties of a public nature. They are deferred when public interests demand his time, when they solicit the regard ; and a man feels that he lives not for himself alone — not even for his family alone — but for the wide family of man. In these interests, even the nearest relation is forgotten, is merged. The wife, the husband, the parent, the child, are not regarded. They become undiscriminated. It is with principles, not with individuals — with interests, not with persons — with beings, not with these in their circumscribed relations, that we have to do. All such relations are forgotten in the wide and general regards. Every man becomes the friend, the brother, of another. We overlook those that have the nearest relation to us — we look upon all alike. We carry questions of general interest into our family as we would into another household, or among the greatest strangers. Friends are nothing to us ultimately, but human beings ; the greatest, the most important, interests affect them not otherwise. But does this destroy the other relations ? Are these lost ? By no means ; but the love of our fellow is the greater. It is the more absolute — it is first, as it were — it is prior in our supposition. God had respect to it before He consulted for the other, or provided for the other. This may
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let us into the meaning of some of the statements of Scripture : " In heaven, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but all are as the angels of God :" — " All ye are brethren :" — " Ye are all one in Christ ;" while the larger relation swallow ing up the lesser, will make the sad separation of friends in the next world hardly appreciable. The more limited relation, however, still is a very important one, and it secures the most beautiful exercises of affection, and the most admirable results. It begins with that provision which was established at first for the continuance of the race. In that law which God consti tuted, by which a peculiar attachment is formed between the man and the woman, we have the origin of the family relation. This undoubtedly was a subordinate law ; and the source of so much happiness in itself, it was connected with the mode which God took with our race for its continuance and propa gation. The love between man and the other sex is altogether peculiar. It is the same emotion we are speaking of, however, still in its essential characteristics. It is love, though love of a special and peculiar kind. The properties that inspire it account in part for its special and peculiar nature ; but this will not all account for it. Let it be considered that love in itself is absolute — is a part of that emotional nature with which, as we were created in the likeness of God, He was pleased to endow us. Love may be contemplated as an abso lute emotion existing even apart from an object to exercise it or call it forth. It is a state conceivable prior to the existence of any being to call it forth. God was love in this absolute sense, from the very eternity of His being, except as we may consider the reciprocation of this affection between the persons of the Godhead. Love is the necessary condition of a perfect moral nature. Hatred would be the opposite of this. Nothing could be the object of hatred but moral evil, or being so identi fied with evil as to be its impersonation. God had only then to call beings into existence to have objects for His love. His love would be complacency with all that He had created — every being, every object, the object of a complacent regard. But that complacency becomes higher according to the object
406 THE EMOTIONS.
contemplated. We feel that we can regard with a kind of affection even inanimate objects ; that our love, the absolute emotion, rests upon them. All creation would thus at first lie in the smile of God's love ; but in proportion as the being rose in the scale of creation, the complacency, the love, would be of a higher character, would rise too. Intellectual and moral beings would be the objects of its highest exercise. Now, when God created man at first, just such would be his nature — the very condition of his being — he would know nothing but love — hatred would be foreign to him — and his love would take a higher exercise according as its object rose in the scale of being, until God himself was its object, who would draw forth its supreme and undivided regards. But God adopted a peculiar procedure with respect to man : He did not create the race at once, and He made the law of its continuance the source of a new aspect of this peculiar emotion. Undoubtedly there was something arbitrary in this. It was not absolute, it was not necessary, as in the case of the other aspect of the emotion already referred to. The new aspect of the emotion was some thing special. It depended upon a peculiar fiat or arrange ment of creation, — upon an arbitrary but beautiful provision on the part of the Creator. Can we give any other account of the affection which sprang up in Adam towards the helpmate which God had provided for him ? Can we give any other account of the emotion now ? It is the love of our fellow ; but it is modified by the constitution or arrangement which God adopted, and depends upon the will of the Creator. What account can be given of the influence which female form and beauty have upon the mind ? It is not accounted for by the influence which beauty has upon the mind wherever seen. That does not affect the mind at all in the same way. No doubt we are affected by the one beauty in many respects as we are by the other. Many elements enter into the conception of the one that go to the conception of the other ; but why love at last in the one case, while there is nothing of the kind in the other ? What is love in this instance ? It is the love of a being — it is the love of a fellow-beinjr — and that bein^ is the
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woman whom God gave to man. We can say nothing more of this love than that it is a law of that nature or constitution which God originally conferred upon us. It is the same with parental love and filial love. Both depend upon an arbitrary provision or arrangement on the part of God in creation. It is more than love absolutely — it is love, but it is love again modified. It may be said to depend upon the peculiar proxi mity of relation in which the parties stand to each other. But how does this produce the effect ? We can say no more of the matter than that God has ordered it so. The love of a parent to a child, and of a child to a parent, and again of the mem bers of the same family to one another, — how shall we account for this but by a peculiar will or fiat of God in creation, or in those arrangements which He was pleased to adopt with respect to our race ? The most admirable effects are secured both by this and the other arrangement alluded to, which is a condition again to the family relation. It is from such springs that the social economy is conducted — it is in accordance with these that it works. The effect would not otherwise have been se cured ; and how otherwise could it have been secured with such happiness to the species ? Of what delightful feelings, of what amenity, of what order, of what virtue, are the arrangements we have alluded to the source or the cause ! The love of the sexes is as peculiar as it is strong. The happiness it inspires is perhaps the most exquisite which God intended His creature to possess on this side of time. It is not purely moral, but it need not be separated from this, and the moral properties of the affection, or which may mingle in the affection, or be asso ciated with it, are at once the guarantee of its permanence, and necessary to its very being. The emotion, we do not forget, is the resultant of combined causes ; but we say, where no moral element enters into the emotion, — where moral quali ties are not seen and loved, the love can neither be genuine nor lasting. It is soul, and the highest properties of soul, that are the true objects of love. The body can be but the index of these ; and it is when these attract through the external form, that love is worthy of the name.
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We have spoken of love as absolute, and we have noticed certain aspects of this emotion as depending upon an arbitrary will, or arrangement in creation. Let us explain a little more fully what we mean by love as an absolute emotion. Those aspects of the emotion which depend upon an arbitrary will and arrangement on the part of God still present to us love, but it is love under a peculiar modification, having a special direc tion, and connected with a special purpose. Love absolute, presents no modification, and exists for no purpose but for itself. It is, as we have said, the condition of a perfect moral nature, and could not but be. It is a feeling of harmony with being as such ; that feeling becomes complacency as it is allowed to rest upon the object ; it becomes love as the object rises in interest, or even as it may happen to excite our interest, and still more as it develops excellencies of being, external, or men tal, or moral. The one state of love exists ; every object, every being, shares in its exercise : it has selected no object for its exercise; but every object receives a part of its regard as it comes within its sphere. In its most absolute character, being is its object.
But the emotion increases with its object : the higher the being, the higher the emotion. When God is its object, it is the highest character conceivable of the emotion. We might suppose angels next; and, doubtless, were we as con versant with them as we are with our own race, and were the relation of race lost in the one great relation of being, this would be so. We see a modifying law even in the case of the race as distinguished frorn other races. Our love of the race, however, is the love of being ; just as the love of family may be considered the love of being, apart from the modifying circumstance ; but it is then not the love of family but the love of being. The love of race is the love of being, take away the distinction of race. The truth is, being is ulti mately the object of love, and being should properly be regarded only as higher or lower, apart from every other distinction. It will ultimately come to this, or if the modifying circum stances or arrangements connected with this emotion continue
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in a future world, being will then form the grand relation, and the love of holy beings will be a far higher and intenser love than any other.
If being is thus properly the object of love, there is a sense in which a being may really be the object of our love, in spite of moral qualities the opposite of excellent. This may be affirmed, that a malicious being cannot be the object of our love ; and those beings, accordingly, in whom malice has its climax, are, and must be, the objects of our hatred. Hatred to being can be met only by hatred. The malice of Satan, and the other wicked spirits who fell with him, as we are taught to regard their nature, excites our hatred even towards the beings in whom such malice lodges. Direct enmity to good can be met with nothing but enmity. It is the distinguishing circumstance of God's love, that it loved not only its enemies, but sinners. In what other case has such a love been exhi bited ? This is made the very marvel even in Scripture of God's love. Here we speak in ignorance, and can only wonder. " Herein is love :" — " Herein God commendeth His love toward us ;" these are the expressions which magnify God's love to our conception. But where malice is not discerned, as it is by God even in man, or where it is not seen in such distinct and palpable form as in the case of the fallen angels, a being may be loved though otherwise morally depraved, or desti tute of those excellencies that may be supposed necessary to awaken our love. That being has not forfeited our love by a disposition that cannot but call forth hatred. Towards God he may have exhibited all the qualities of enmity, of hatred ; but it has taken no active shape against all that is good, and the love of being, therefore, has still room to operate. That state of love is not repelled by what is in direct opposition to itself. The absolute emotion, love, still rests upon its object ; wherever it finds being it finds an object on which it terminates. It is here we perceive the nature of that command, " Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself ;" and again, " Love your enemies." These are commands, be cause the love of being, as such, is an essential condition of a
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perfectly moral nature : we are to love our enemies if they are not the enemies of all good.
The qualities of being enter as an element into our estimate of being : they are not properly the object of love, but rather the being in whom they reside. Moral and intellectual quali ties give an immense increase to the emotion.
In this way it is, we think, that excellencies of character operate in connexion with this emotion — not the first object of love, but augmenting it, or giving rise to an especial love, and making the emotion, hardly traceable, or not directly taken notice of, peculiar and strong. It is no longer the absolute emotion merely, it is an emotion strongly felt, because of those excellencies which augment it.
This view of love as absolute may seem inconsistent with the idea of love delighting in its object ; for it may be said that to delight in an object is to suppose some grounds of our delight, and that this is inconsistent with the notion of an absolute emotion. Now, it may be maintained that love does delight in its object, but the delight is the accompaniment not the cause of the emotion, while the emotion may have primarily an absolute character. We think this primary character of the emotion is the highest and most honourable aspect of it. Its high value is seen in needing no cause to excite it — in being absolutely without cause. In the case of God, it is a state supposable even without an object. We may hardly be able to conceive of such a state, but it is exemplified in our own case, when just as object after object appeals to our love, we do not find any new emotion springing up, but just objects coming within the ecope of an emotion already existing. They become the objects of a love which may be said to have existed before it had these objects on which to be exercised. This is the absolute view of the emotion, and it may be pro nounced its highest state or character. Its object is being as such ; it does not need a cause ; it includes all being, even our enemies, and the only object it cannot love is the enemy of good — not our enemies, but the enemy of being. It is the crown ing malediction of Satan, and those who are involved in his
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condemnation, that they are the enemies of being, and that they are hated of all being. God has given them up, and no being still on this side of such a doom, especially no pure and holy being, can love them.
Excellence, however, does awaken our love, or enhances it, and then the emotion has a stronger character. We then love not only being, but the excellencies of being, or we love being all the more because of such excellencies. We admire the ex cellencies : we love the being in which they reside. It were surely singular if the excellence of a being did not render it the more loveable, did not increase the emotion which was at any rate felt.
Causes, we have seen, of an especial kind, modify the emotion, give it a peculiar direction or aspect. In the case of parental and filial love, the peculiar relation there augments the love, nay, gives it altogether a peculiar character. The peculiar and arbitrary arrangement secures effects which are connected with such an arrangement alone. No other con ceivable arrangement could give the love the aspect which in such cases it possesses. The love implied in friendship, also, and the love of country, or of one's nation, are peculiar aspects of the emotion, and are connected with an especial provision on the part of God, or adopted by Him in assigning us our constitution, and making provision both for our happiness and the accomplishment of His own purposes. In respect to friend ship, indeed, it might be supposed that it is but an instance of the stronger emotion produced by especially recognised excel lencies. But there is something more ; there is a special provi sion in our constitution for friendship. We shall speak of this presently : meanwhile, we guard against its being supposed that friendship is but the emotion of love called forth, or awakened, by peculiar excellencies, and deriving intensity from these excellencies. This may often be where no friendship springs up, nay, where friendship, from disparity of rank or age, and other circumstances, is impossible. We do often love in a peculiar manner, because of certain excellencies contemplated. We cannot help loving the good, the amiable, the excellent, in
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a peculiar manner. They excite our peculiar regard ; and thus, in addition to the love of our fellow as such, which must be an absolute emotion, there are those instances of the emotion where it has peculiar excellencies, if not to awaken, at least to augment it. Our absolute love is receiving perpetual addition from such a source. Excellencies of character, amiable quali ties, are not so rare that we have not perpetual excitements to this especial aspect or exercise of love. There is not an indi vidual, we believe, in whom we do not discern some qualities especially to be loved. There is generally some amiable trait or another appealing to our sentiment of love. Love, in fact, would be a far more prominent feeling, did we do justice to what is loveable in character, as we are apt to observe or trace what is unaniiable. This is not to make us insensible to what must and ought to excite our aversion ; but far more justice might be done to the actual virtues or excellencies in others than we find to be the case. Bad qualities must excite our hatred, and what is unamiable cannot be lovely : but is there nothing to excite our love, nothing to praise, nothing to call forth our commendation in the most unamiable, or those whom we are apt to regard as such ? They, in truth, are the most unamiable who are least disposed to allow what is amiable in others. It is the selfish disapproving spirit which of all others is the least lovely.
Two of the modified aspects of the emotion remain yet to be noticed — (and we merely advert to them here, for they, with parental and filial love, more properly come under review in the discussion of the virtues.) We mean the love of friendship, and the love of patriotism, or the love of nation or country. It is necessary merely to advert to them now, to recognise their place under the special emotion we are considering.
We have said, then, that friendship is something more than a special love produced by special excellencies. That is not friendship. That is only the love of our fellow heightened by peculiar excellencies. Of such an exercise of the emotion there may be many examples : we may have many calls for such
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exercise of our love. Nay, it is hardly ever but being exercised in this way. The heart is glad to recognise those virtues and amiable qualities which ask its especial love. And such a feeling is a very delightful one. But friendship is something more. It is a feeling of peculiar attachment which grows up in the mind from causes which are not always easily discerni ble. A conformity of disposition, a congeniality of character ; but, above all, whether there may be the former or not, an actual consultation of each other's feelings and interests, and these in the nicest particulars, with frequent intercourse, seem to be what make up friendship, or go to produce it. If a person uniformly consults my feelings, enters so far into my sympathies, seeks my good, and, notwithstanding faults and imperfections, seems really to bear and cherish a re gard for me, I cannot help feeling friendship for him, and my friendship is the peculiar feeling of love and confidence which his actings and sentiments towards me excite. If I act towards him in the same way, cherish the same senti ments, and exhibit the same conduct, he feels a friendship for me. The friendship seems to consist in the mutual re gard, forbearance, and confidence. Was there any peculiar constitution necessary for this ? Undoubtedly there was. We enter not upon the explanation of this now : we advert to it to shew how friendship, or the love implied in it, comes under the instances of modified love. It is not the absolute emotion : it is that modified by the peculiar provi sion in our constitution and circumstances for this more special love.
Nation and country, in the same way, appeal to our peculiar love. Patriotism is the consequence. This also belongs to the modified emotion, or modified instances of the emotion, and depends likewise upon some peculiar law or arrangement of our constitution. It is love modified by a cause. It has not its action absolutely. The peculiarities of this emotion are very interesting — the whole circumstances connected with it, and the effects flowing from it, or secured by it, these present subjects most inviting; but these, and the emotion itself, would
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more properly come under consideration when treating of patriotism as a virtue.
The love of God, also, it will be seen, is a subject which, in all its bearings, and viewed as a duty, does not come under consideration here. We have adverted to the place which it holds in relation to the emotion generally, and have seen, while it is an aspect of the absolute emotion, is that emotion height ened by all the excellencies peculiar to the Divine Being, and is therefore the supreme love of the heart, is the highest aspect of the emotion which can be considered, or which the emotion presents.
We have already spoken of the opposition or antagonism that exists in the emotions, and we took notice of the circum stance that this must be characteristic only of the present state of human nature, and that the antagonist emotions must have taken effect, or come into operation, consequent upon the fall of man from his original integrity or perfection. The circum stance of this direct antagonism, the direct opposition of emotion to emotion, is worthy of remark, as exhibiting something more than a peculiar provision by God for the new condition that had arisen, something like a necessity in the case itself, so that, •whereas certain emotions were appropriate to a state of perfec tion, where no moral evil existed, as soon as moral evil did exist, each several emotion had its opposite, or exhibited its antagonist state. It was like the shadow of evil coming out of good. It was like the dark side of a planet relieved against the light of another which it eclipses. It was like some undeveloped pro perty in a substance requiring but a cause to bring it into activity. Bishop Butler puts the case thus : In introducing his sermon upon " Resentment," he says, " Since perfect goodness in the Deity is the principle from whence the universe was brought into being, and by which it is preserved ; and since general benevolence is the great law of the whole moral creation, it is a question which immediately occurs, 'Why had man im planted in him a principle which appears the direct contrary to benevolence ?' Now, the foot upon which inquiries of this
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kind should be treated, is this, — to take human nature as it is, and the circumstances in which it is placed as they are, and then consider the correspondence between that nature and these circumstances, or what course of action and behaviour respecting those circumstances any particular affection or passion leads us to. This I mention, to distinguish the matter now before us from disquisitions of quite another kind, namely, ' Why we are not made more perfect creatures, or placed in better circumstances ;' — these being questions which we have not, that I know of, any thing at all to do with. God Almighty undoubtedly foresaw the disorders, both natural and moral, which would happen in this state of things. If upon this we set ourselves to search and ex amine why He did not prevent them, we shall, I am afraid, be in danger of running into somewhat worse than impertinent curi osity. But upon this, to examine how far the nature which He hath given us hath a respect to those circumstances, such as they are — how far it leads us to act a proper part in them, plainly belongs to us : and such inquiries are in many ways of excellent use. Thus the thing to be considered is not, ' Why we were not made of such a nature, and placed in such circumstances, as to have no need of so harsh and turbulent a passion as resentment ;' but, taking our nature and condi tion as being what they are, ' Why, or for what end, such a passion was given us.'" The passage we have quoted is characterized by the usual wisdom and discrimination of the author ; but it will be seen it seems to be taken for granted, that we were not made more perfect creatures than we are, and loere not placed in better circumstances than we actually find ourselves ; at least it makes no allowance for any other case ; and the inquiry that Bishop Butler accordingly limits himself to, and seems to think we have alone to do with, is not, " Why we were not made of such a nature, and placed in such circum stances as to have no need of so harsh and turbulent a passion as resentment ;" but, " taking our nature and condition as being what they are, ' why or for what end such or such a passion was given us/" This is too low a view to take, and does not meet the demands of the case. We were created in a more
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perfect state ; and the question ought to be, Whence this new character of emotion, whence this adaptation to the new state of things that had arisen ? We have indeed nothing to do with the question — Why God permitted evil ? but it is an interesting question, Why all the benevolent and happy emo tions had just their direct counterpart, or rather opposite, when evil did arise ? It may not be possible for us to answer the question, but it is Xmdoubtedly one of an interesting nature. It is interesting to inquire, whether it must be so ? or did God adapt our nature to the new constitution of things ? The latter is evidently Bishop Butler's view. The object of his sermon — one of the famous sermons in which Butler's views on moral questions are set forth — was to settle the nature of re sentment, and to trace the design of it, shewing that it had a wise design, and was exactly adapted to our circumstances, being intended to meet the case of man as exposed to injury, and given as a safeguard against it. " It is to be considered as a weapon," he says, "put into our hands against injury, injustice, and cruelty." Similar is the view presented by most moral writers. Dr. Reid says : " It is sufficiently evident, upon the whole, that this sudden or animal resentment is intended by nature for our defence." Butler not only speaks of sudden re sentment, but of deliberate resentment, or anger. "It pre vents," Dr. Reid continues, " mischief by the fear of punish ment. It is a kind of penal statute, promulgated by nature, the execution of which is committed to the sufferer." Dugald Stewart says : " The final cause of instinctive resentment, was plainly to defend us against sudden violence, (where reason would come too late to our assistance,) by rousing the power of mind and body to instant and vigorous exertion." " We are formed to be malevolent in certain circumstances," says Dr. Brown, " as in other circumstances we are formed to be bene volent." " The moral affections," he says, " which lead to the infliction of evil, are occasionally as necessary as the benevolent affections." And in reference to the circumstances in which the world is placed, he asks, " What is it which we may con ceive to be the plan of the Divine Goodness ? It is that very
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plan which we see at present executed in our moral constitu tion. We are made capable of a malevolence that may be said to be virtuous when it operates ; for the terror of injustice that would otherwise walk, not in darkness, through the world, but in open light, perpetrating its iniquities without shame or re morse, and perpetrating them with impunity." In all of these quotations there seems to be an entire overlooking of the ori ginal state in which man must have been created : the several writers do not seem to have thought that this was a matter which bore in any way upon man's state now ; and their prin ciples have reference only to the present appearances and emer gencies of our nature, regard only the provision which God has made to meet the case of our nature as we now find it, and of the world as it now is. Butler's inquiry at most is, why we were not made better than we now are, and placed in better circumstances, or rather he deprecates such an inquiry at all ; and the proper point of interest and attention with him is — taking our nature and condition as being what they are, what purpose does such and such a passion serve in our constitution ? This unquestionably is an immediate prac tical question, and it is as such, undoubtedly, that Butler proposes it ; but it overlooks the nice point — one of philoso phical interest at least — how our emotions happened to take the opposite character, or each to have its counterpart or an tagonist, as we actually find to be the case, when that event occurred, which it is an entire solecism in philosophy to overlook, and which changed the whole aspect of our nature and of our destinies. It is an absurd as it is a great mistake, to omit all reference to man's primeval condition in those questions which now come within the domain of philosophy. It were like attempting a science of geology without looking at the primeval conditions of the earth. So far as we know, the laws which regulate the movements of the heavenly bodies have been undis turbed since the beginning of time, and therefore the science of astronomy is unconnected with any questions as to a previous order of laws affecting the motions of these bodies ; not so with geology, with the internal history of our earth, and that science
2D
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were altogether defective, if it overlooked the evidences that are presented of a former state of existence, nay, of the successive revolutions through which our earth has passed. Equally de fective is that philosophy which has man for its object, which takes no account of his primeval state, and the mighty revolu tion that took place in his nature, when, from a perfect and sinless, he became a fallen and sinful creature. The whole aspect and character of philosophy is affected by this radical defect. This will appear more particularly in those questions which have regard to the very nature of morality, or virtue, and of the moral principle. The point on which we suspend our interest or attention, at present, is the new aspect which the emotional phenomena presented as soon as moral evil had place in the universe, or affected our nature. We might even carry the question up to the case of the angels, and see the same phenomena under the same modifications in their case, for their spiritual nature is the same, in all essential particulars, as our own. We must, indeed, look at the subject abstractly, and apart from the case either of the angels or of man, except that it is in our own case that we actually experience those emotions of a new and antagonistic character, and we know of them in the angels only by the informations of revelation. The abstract question is, How, when evil took effect, such a change took place in the emotions ? we do not mean why a change at all took place, but why the change from the different emotions to ex actly their opposite ? What is the philosophy of this ? or if we cannot give the philosophy of it, let us, at least, mark the interesting phenomenon. For joy we have the antagonistic emotion, sorrow ; for confidence, fear ; for love, hate. Why this ? Can we give any account of it ? Good and evil are not more directly opposed than are the emotions, respectively, which belong to the two separate conditions. The antagonism of evil and good themselves is not uninteresting ; but it does not pre sent so interesting a question as the same phenomenon in regard to the emotions. And yet the latter of these may be somehow connected with the former. The interesting question that forces itself upon us, or that we cannot help meeting, is,
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Does such antagonism exist in the very nature of things ? is it of necessity that there should be evil as there is good ? and do the counterpart emotions exhibit some necessary relation to those which were primarily existent, and belonged to a state of moral perfection ? We by no means propound the question as if it was one that could be answered ; we propound it merely as one that necessarily arises. Bishop Butler's mind was of so thoroughly a practical cast, that it would not entertain the question even in the shape in which he could suppose it put, namely, Why we were not made more perfect creatures than we are ? or, " Since perfect goodness in the Deity is the principle from whence the universe was brought into being, and by which it is preserved; and since general benevolence is the great law of the whole moral creation, why man had implanted in him a principle which appears the direct contrary to bene volence ?" And yet Bishop Butler admits, " this is a question that immediately occurs ;" it is one which unavoidably suggests itself. It is not, indeed, one with which we may have practi cally to do ; but it is one we cannot help putting. In like manner, we think it is as inevitable a question, how the emotions which were all of one kind at first came to exhibit what Butler describes as " the direct contrary character ;" or, at least, why emotions the direct contrary to those originally possessed arose. And this question seems to be connected, as we have said, with the nature of the antagonism between good and evil themselves. That \ve can perceive a wise purpose served by the change does not satisfy the mind. We, at least, contemplate the antagonism as worthy of our observation. That antagonism is singularly recognised in the words of the tempter to our first parents in the garden : " Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." Good they knew already. Evil was the other aspect of knowledge, and that they had yet to learn ; and it was the attribute of God to know it. It could be known by the crea ture only from experience, and better, the tempter seemed to think, to incur all the effects of it, than remain ignorant of it. We but indicate this — we do not dwell upon it. Such, how ever, are the two hemispheres of knowledge, and, we may add,
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of being also. Is it sufficient to consider our malevolent emo tions without connecting them with such a view ? All practical views may rest satisfied with the case as it is, without seeking any explanation, or connecting it with anything further — any thing recondite in the principles, or the very nature of things. But it is by no means adverse to the practical to attempt at least the speculative solution of any question, carry it up to the furthest limits of inquiry, and look into the mysterious and unknown. It is interesting to approach the verge of that un seen, unknown region, into which all questions of vital moment stretch. It may be a perilous gaze, but not if we know to rebuke any farther inquiry, and suspend any farther interest — if we can say, " hitherto, but no farther." Apart from any such interest, or the particular source of it, it is but philosophic to carry our inquiries as far as we can, and a high philosophy will rest satisfied with nothing short of this. It must approach at least " the shaded territory," — it must " look into the majesty of darkness." The matter, then, which we regard as so inter esting in respect to the emotions, is the transition from the one set of emotions to another — the nature of that transition, and the grounds of it — in connexion with the circumstance of antagonism to which we have adverted. Whence the transi tion ? Why that antagonism ? From what region did those opposite emotions spring — did they take effect ? Whence the new aspect of the emotions, corresponding exactly to the oppo site state of things that had arisen — every emotion in the new state suiting its corresponding emotion in the previous state ? Love, hatred — whence the change ? There can be no doubt, we think, that the emotional nature is such that good and evil, presented to it, awakens two sets of emotions, and ex actly the opposite, according as the evil in any case may be the opposite of the good. Good has its corresponding evil in every particular, perhaps. The emotions answering to the former, accordingly, have their opposite emotions an swering to the latter. We have seen the opposite, or con trasted emotions, in every several instance in which we have considered the emotions hitherto. No doubt, the very nature
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of the emotional capacity supposes the change, corresponding to the different objects or circumstances appealing to it. It is ac cording to the attitude of the mind what emotion it will exhibit.
O
Evil, annoyance, suffering, calamity, are not the objects or causes of joy, delight, cheerfulness, or the circumstances which directly comport with the emotion of cheerfulness. They rather awaken sorrow, vexation, melancholy, fretfulness. The objects or sources of the former are of a pleasant or agreeable nature, having in them the element neither of moral nor temporal evil, — at least good preponderating over the evil, in a state in which we find good and evil so variously blended. Good is the preponderating element in the former, evil in the latter, and, if not directly moral evil, at least temporal evil as the effect of moral evil. All good awakens only the good and happy emotions ; all evil, the evil or unhappy emotions, or those emotions which are either unhappiness themselves, or the causes or sources of un- happiness. It is thus that love and hatred are distinguished. Being is indeed the proper object of love, and we love being absolutely. It must be allowed, therefore, that the absolute emotion, love, or love in its absolute state, has not directly good for its object, but still its object is good. Being is good ; we invest being in itself with an attribute of good. It is essentially good, for it is essentially valuable. It has a value to the mind, which we cannot divest it of but by annihilation, and we can not even contemplate annihilation without an utter recoil of the mind and all its feelings. Still it is not the good of being as such which awakens the emotion, or is the object of the emotion — it is being itself. Love is an absolute state of every moral nature, having no cause, but resting on its object abso lutely, irrespective of cause. In this absolute character of the emotion, it has properly no opposite. Hatred must have a cause for it. In a nature utterly lost to good, indeed, it takes the shape of hatred to all good — to being itself. Being to such a nature is evil. Hatred may thus be said to belong to evil as love belongs to good. Evil, however, must have been first in supposition, then hatred, whereas love was contemporane ous with good. But love rests upon more than being : it
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rests upon good being — it peculiarly loves it. The qualities of such being augment the love. In this aspect of it alone can love have its contrast in good beings. What is its ob ject with them ? Evil being. All evil is hateful to them, but more properly all evil being, for evil is but a quality, and must have being in which to reside. The quality is rather the object of disapprobation, aversion, moral dislike. The hatred of being is distinct from this : it is called out by the contemplation of qualities, but itself rests upon being, not upon qualities of being. The operation of hatred in such na tures is limited to moral evil, and that as existing in being, or to being in which moral evil exists or exhibits itself; and this is perhaps the only contrasted emotion which such natures are susceptible of, or exemplify. Such natures do not exist within the sphere of evil, and have no experience of it. Doubt less they are cognizant of the revolt of that portion of their own number which fell from their original estate, and they are not ignorant of our destinies ; but it would be rash to say that they were capable of all the emotions which actuate those who are themselves placed within the sphere of evil. We cannot contemplate them as affected with sorrow, for example, or moved to hatred in general, or except when the revolt against that Being whom they love and serve, is in some way the object of their thoughts, or is brought before their attention. They can know nothing of disappointment, vexation, melancholy. The contrasted emotions are unknown to them. Shall we say they are even influenced by hatred ? Such natures, however, as exist within the sphere of evil, and which are themselves evil, though not utterly lost to good, exhibit all the contrasted emotions, and hatred in all its forms ; only hatred has not reached that malignity which a nature utterly abandoned manifests : it does not yet, perhaps, hate being as such. Nay, it is capable to a certain extent of hating moral evil, which an utterly lost nature cannot do. The emotion of hatred, however, has ample enough scope as regards being, with out supposing being itself — or all being — the object of it in such natures. And just the opposite of those qualities that
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augment love, awaken hatred. The excellencies of character which intensify the former have their contrasted properties which awaken the latter. We love the virtuous qualities, or the being in whom they reside : we hate the vicious ; and the emotion is too apt to terminate upon the being ex hibiting them, or in whom they dwell. Take any object of love, and you will find its corresponding object of hatred. We except from this remark the case of the modified exer cises of the emotion, which are instincts of our nature, and which are implanted for peculiar purposes. In all the un modified exemplifications of the emotion, we have the contrast we have pointed at. Let any virtue adorn the character of an individual, shall we not find the opposite vice in another ? We love those noble exhibitions of integrity, of honour, of generosity, of patriotism, which history records, or which ob servation furnishes : we hate those cases of dishonesty, of selfish and contracted spirit, with which the world abounds, and which the history of the world so plentifully illustrates. All narrow ness, all selfishness, all illiberality of sentiment and of conduct, all ungenerous, or worse, actions, necessarily beget a degree of hatred towards those who are capable of them. And vice, profligacy, moral evil, in every shape, — must not these be the object of our aversion, and draw forth our hatred, even to wards those who are the subjects of such qualities, or exhibit such tendencies ?
While love and hatred terminate on being, or have properly being for their object ; they have also their exciting cause in the qualities of being. Hatred must always have its source there ; for it is not absolute, and must have a cause. Hatred came indeed with evil, and the more evil a nature, hatred becomes inwrought with its very being ; still, it must always have some exciting cause. Love, on the other hand, may be absolute ; but it, too, may have its exciting causes in the quali ties of being — we mean a special love. We have already adverted to this, and we repeat the observation, that we may point out what seems to be a very natural explanation of the phenomenon. We are formed to love that which gives us
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pleasure, or with which our pleasure, or gratification, is in any way associated. The feeling of pleasure, or the emotion of delight, excited, or ministered to — love naturally follows, has an immediate relation to the former. Much of this goes into the modified aspects of love, but is not all their explanation. Stronger love and stronger hatred, and special love and special hatred, however, have their explanation here. Hatred, though one, takes a variety of character from these specially exciting or operating causes. Love, though absolute, has also this varying tinge from its special provocatives. The kind of quality exciting our admiration, or awakening our pleasure, gives an impress to our love. The same with hatred. So in timately do our feelings meet and blend in their operation — preserving their original character even while they take their character in part from the feelings which mix with them — like the waters of a stream coloured by the tributaries that flow into it, or the ingredients that mingle with it.
Anger, indignation, resentment, envy, revenge, may be re garded as modifications of hatred, or somewhat akin to it. Distinctive characteristics may be marked in each of these, but they all partake more or less of the emotion of hatred ; they are all contrasted with love. Hatred blends in each of them. Love retires for the moment, and what can be left but hatred ? I am indignant at some injury inflicted, at some act of moral wrong, — can the person perpetrating the wrong, or inflicting the injury, be for the time the object of love ? and can we separate between hatred and indignation ? The same with anger, re sentment, revenge, envy. That there is more than hatred is obvious ; and that the hatred but glances, as it were, in the emotion, is allowed, but that there is hatred, we think, must be admitted. Hatred for the time actuates, reigns, has posses sion of the heart. Indignation is just hatred, or exhibits just hatred. Anger, resentment, revenge, frequently unjust hatred; the last always undue hatred, or hatred improperly exercised. Envy is always improper, and the hatred that mingles in it uncalled for, unjustifiable. If I am entitled to be indignant, I am entitled so far to hate, or hatred must necessarily mingle in
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ray indignation. If my anger or resentment is just, my hatred is just: but revenge cannot be just to the extent that it is un due, and that the expression which revenge takes for itself is improper. Envy can, in no way, and to no extent, be vindi cated. We by no means identify these emotions with hatred ; but something of hatred mingles in all of them, and they stand in the same relation as hatred to the original emotions of our nature, and especially to the emotion of love. They contrast with love as hatred does. They are incident only to a state of evil : they belong to such a state. Hatred so far characterizing them, they have been called the malevolent passions or affec tions. Most moral writers, however, as in the case of all the antagonist emotions, have failed to recognise their origin, as traceable to a state of moral evil. They have, for the most part, been contented to regard our present condition as the only condition of our race, in which we ever existed, or could be supposed ever to exist ; and our passions or emo tions they have considered as just belonging to our nature; they do not inquire how that nature came to be vitiated. Dugald Stewart, indeed, speaking of our malevolent affec tions, "hatred, jealousy, envy, revenge, misanthropy," says, " It may be doubted if there be any principle of this kind implanted by nature in the mind, excepting the principle of resentment, the others being grafted upon this stock by our erroneous opinions and criminal habits." He allows at least resentment to have been implanted in our nature, and he gives no opinion about the origin of our erroneous opinions and criminal habits, as if these were a mere matter of accident. Whence these opinions and habits ? If these are the cause of our malevolent affections, for the most part, what was the cause of them ? Surely the subject was not one to be dismissed in such a summary way. Dr. Brown, again, justifies, and even sees a wise and benevolent provision in our malevolent affec tions, never questioning for a moment but that they were original emotions, and accounting for the worst of them only by good running to excess. " The last desire," he says, " in our arrangement that we are next to consider, may seem,
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indeed, at first, to be inconsistent with these delightful feelings of social regard, the importance of which I have repeatedly endeavoured to illustrate to you, though to those who have felt them, as you all must have felt them, they do not require any argument to prove their importance. The desire which still remains to be noticed, is our desire of evil to others, a desire that bears the same relation to hatred in all its forms, which the desire of happiness to others bears to all the diversities of love. It is an element of the complex affection, not the mere hatred itself, as the desire of diffusing happiness is only an element of the complex affection, which is usually termed love." Dr. Brown thus makes hatred a complex affection, including the desire of evil to its object, as he made love a complex affection, including the desire of good to its object. We think both hatred and love are simple emotions ; but love seeks the good of its object, and hatred its evil ; and while all the forms of love take different directions of active bene volence, hatred mingles in all the emotions of active male volence, if it does not prompt them. But Dr. Brown continues : " I have already, in treating of the simple modifications of hatred itself, anticipated the remarks which it might otherwise have been necessary to offer now, on the importance to the happiness of society of this class of our affections, while society presents any temptations to violence or fraud, that are kept in awe by individual and general resentment, and that without these guards which protect the innocent, would lay waste all that beautiful expanse of security and happiness which forms the social world, making a desert of nature, and converting the whole race of mankind into fearful and ferocious savages, worthy only of inhabiting such a wilderness. As the whole system of things is at present constituted, in other respects, therefore, it is not of less importance that man should be sus ceptible of feelings of malevolence on certain occasions, than that he should be susceptible of benevolence in the general con cerns of life ; and man accordingly is endowed with the suscep tibility of both. Like our other emotions, however," Dr. Brown adds, "our malevolent wishes, important as they truly are,
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and relatively good as a part of our general constitution, may, as we know too well, be productive of evil when misdirected." Now it is obvious, from the whole tenor of this passage, that Dr. Brown regards the present system of things as one which was adopted apart from any such event as man's apostasy, and in which, being the system adopted, it be hoved to provide such safeguards in our constitution as would prevent the evil effects proceeding from principles or parts of our constitution which are not accounted for at all. These are allowed to exist : there is no attempt to account for them, but certain provisions may be discovered in our malevolent affections by which good is secured, and this is the whole account of our moral constitution which a certain class of writers give. This, we maintain, is very unphilosophic, as well as coming far short of the real necessities of the case. This is not the point of view from which to regard our moral constitution, and the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed. We should take into account our original condition : we should look at the change which has passed over our nature, and we may then admire the peculiar modification of our emo tions, which made them what they must be, or what it was necessary they should become, in the altered condition that had arisen. Therefore, we speak of our original and our antagonist emotions : in the present instance of our benevolent and male volent emotions, as we before had our happy and unhappy emotions. The prior state of man is a postulate in all moral questions. That good may be educed out of these counterpart emotions is not doubted ; but the first wonder is, why these counterpart emotions at all ? Why this antagonistic state to one of good ? This is the question that suggests itself on the very threshold of all moral discussion. Moralists have, for the most part, shut their eyes to it, or contented themselves with the most indirect allusions to, and awkward solutions, or rather evasions, of, the question altogether. We recognise the previ ous and original state : we mark the change which has taken place — we refer the one set of our emotions to the one, the other to the other condition ; and no system of compensation
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merely, or balancing of opposites in our constitution, is suffi cient to account for the phenomena as observed, or explain what is so obviously supposed or implied, namely, a prior and a present state of our race, the former good, the latter evil, the former one of moral perfection, the latter one of moral degeneracy.
In what are called our malevolent affections, then, we recog nise a desire of evil to the objects of them, that desire greater or less according as the emotion or affection is more or less strong at different times, or the affections may be more or less malevo lent. Indignation may be stronger at one time than at another ; envy or revenge is a more malevolent affection than indigna tion. Stewart hesitates about putting resentment among the malevolent affections : in the same way he might hesitate about indignation. But, undoubtedly, a certain malevolent wish is found in each of these: hatred, as we have said, glances in them at their object. We do not say it may not be j ustifiable, but, at all events, it is there. It is in jealousy, envy, revenge, that we see that hatred, or that malevolence, in its worst character, and in its evil exercise.
Indignation may have either personal injury or general moral wrong for its object or exciting cause. Resentment is confined to the former, is felt only on the occasion of personal wrong or injury. Butler confounds the two. He speaks of indignation and resentment reciprocally, or as synonymous. Stewart, again, seems inclined to limit the term indignation to the feeling ex perienced at the wrongs or injuries of others, and resentment to that awakened by injury or injustice done to ourselves. Resentment seems thus properly limited, but indignation, it appears to us, may be felt in either case, and the term is pro perly applied in both. We resent that which affects ourselves : we are indignant at that which affects whether ourselves or others. There is a clear distinction, not only in the use of the terms, but in the feeling experienced, or denoted by each. It is to confound the two, to use them indiscriminately, or to re gard the emotions as one. Even when the emotions have injury done to ourselves as their object, they seem to be somewhat
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different : they undoubtedly are different. Stewart says, " We are so formed that the injustice offered to others, as well as to ourselves, awakens our resentment against the aggressor, and prompts us to take part in the redress of their grievances. In this case the emotion is more properly denoted in our language by the word indignation; but, as Butler has remarked, our principle of action is in both cases fundamentally the same ; an aversion or displeasure at injustice and cruelty, which in terests us in the punishment of those by whom they have been exhibited." We do not think this view is warranted by the nature of the feelings of which the two terms are expressive. The exciting cause in both cases may be the same — injury done by another ; but the feelings differ according as the injury affects ourselves or others, and even when it affects ourselves, our indignation seems one kind of emotion, resentment a dif ferent one. Indignation, in this latter case, has more regard to what is moral in the action than resentment ; resentment has more regard to the injury suffered, contemplates it more, while what is moral in the action, or in the actor, is hardly looked at, or is not so much considered or thought of. Stewart says, — " Kesentment, when restrained within due bounds, seems to be rather a sentiment of hatred against vice than an affection of ill-will against any of our fellow-creatures ; and, on this account, I am somewhat doubtful whether I have not followed Dr. Reid too closely in characterizing resentment, considered as an original part of the constitution of man, by the epithet of malevolent." This remark would have more properly applied to indignation, had Dr. Reid included it among the malevolent affections, which he does not seem to have done. Resentment is the only term which he employs, and he does not seem to speak of indignation. His description of the former indicates in what sense he understood it : — " Nature disposes us, when we are hurt, to resist and retaliate. Besides the bodily pain occasioned by the hurt, the mind is ruffled, and a desire raised to retaliate upon the author of the hurt or injury. This, in general, is what we call anger or resentment." This is regard ing the injury inflicted as a physical one, and the whole of the
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remarks upon the emotion have regard to it in this aspect. But we may resent an affront as well as a bodily hurt or injury — a moral injury as well as a physical. We may resent injury done to our character, to our reputation, to our feelings. In dignation would be at the party offering the injury, or affront, or wound ; resentment is for the injury, or affront, or wound. Indignation regards the state of mind, or feeling towards us, of the party inflicting the wrong ; resentment regards the wrong itself. Indignation respects the morality of an action ; resent ment respects the effect or effects of it, although indignation may be the stronger as the effects are greater. We may thus properly demur to the propriety of regarding indignation as one of the malevolent emotions. If the view we have taken of it and resentment respectively be just, there can be no hesitation about the latter ; but if even in the former there mingle to any extent the desire of evil to the object of the emotion, as unquestionably there does, then there can be no propriety in excluding it from the same class of affections, merely because there is more regard in the emotion to the morality of the action, or the motive of the actor. It is the desire of evil to its object which renders an emotion malevolent. The term malevolent, indeed, is apt to be taken in a bad sense, and often has the signification of malicious, — indeed, such is its common acceptation ; but, in its philosophical acceptation, it may be understood in no other sense than as wishing evil to the object of an emotion, let it be indignation, resentment, revenge, or merely instantaneous anger. Perhaps the classification is not a happy one, as it includes under one name a virtuous indigna tion and justifiable resentment with the less worthy passions or emotions, from the meanest envy to the fellest revenge. A classification which would confound feelings so different, may well be regarded with distrust ; but still the emotions do all agree in one common feeling, of desire of evil to their object. The justifiableness or unjustifiableness of that desire, or the length of time it may endure, or the particular aspect it may take, does not alter the fact of the desire itself, and of its being one of the distinguishing circumstances of the emotion. We
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have referred them all to that class of emotions which derive their character from the absence of love, or from a state of mind which is the opposite of love. Love, we have said, retires for a time — it is not felt — it does not distinguish the mind — and what can be present but hatred, or a feeling very much akin to it ? Love, present and active, cannot consist with any one of those emotions to which we are referring. Love with draws that these may reign, or the sudden invasion of these may displace love from the heart. There are the two opposite states, love, and any one of these emotions. We have been so constituted as to be capable of both, or our moral nature has undergone such a change, that where love had its seat, any one of these emotions may exist by turns, and may have even the sole sway or dominancy. Indignation may consist with an innocent state, and is perhaps felt by holy intelligences against evil, and the abettors of it ; but how far this may be allowed to disturb those pure intelligences, or how this feeling may consist in the Divine Being himself with an unruffled calm, and with a nature ivhich is emphatically love, and can only feel anger at evil, it is difficult to say. With ourselves, we feel the presence of the emotion, while it lasts, to be incon sistent with the exercise or feeling of love. To be indignant with any one, is for the time not to regard that individual ivith love. There is hatred for the moment, let that indi vidual at other times be ever so much the object of love. The presence of the malevolent feeling is more directly ob served in anger — still more in resentment — still more in re venge; and envy and jealousy would rather, undoubtedly, see evil to their object than that they themselves should be baulked of the good they covet or desire, or of which they dread the dispossession or the loss. Indignation wishes evil to its object : Kesentment seeks it. A momentary desire of evil to its object blends in indignation ; is identified with it ; seems inseparable from it. We conceive a wrong done ; can we wish well to the party whom we conceive guilty of the wrong, or know to be the actual aggressor, or inflicter of the injury? It maybe a momentary feeling, and may be corrected by other feelings,
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or by the considerations of reason, that come in to modify all our emotions ; or if we were to ask ourselves what evil we would wish, we may, indeed, be at a loss to say : we would not be very well able to say what kind of evil we would inflict, if we had the power, were the means of inflicting it as instantane ously in our hands, as the indignation is in our hearts ; but that the desire of inflicting it, or of its being inflicted, is ex perienced, can hardly be doubted. When Brutus rose in patriotic indignation against his very benefactor, but against the enslaver of Rome, he withheld not his own hand from the act which for a little while at least preserved to his country her ancient freedom : but only for a little while ; for Rome was willing to be enslaved when she crouched to the Caesars. The indignation of the patriot, or of the friend of liberty in every form, does not shrink from inflicting suffering on the tyrant who has made so many suffer, and would gladly see some retribution upon those who have been the oppressors of their fellows. The invocations of indignant humanity have always been for vengeance on the oppressor. Nor is it possible to see wrong done without wishing it returned upon the per petrator, or the perpetrator in some measure overtaken with punishment. It cannot be otherwise. It is the very object of the emotion to secure the punishment of injury, or to be itself, without the need of punishment, the vindicator of the helpless, and a protection against personal wrong and suffering. It is an emotion adapted to a system in which evil exists, that evil may not be unlimited, but have its restraints — that injury may not rim riot — that high-handed injustice and tyranny may have their checks, and each one may be the defender of himself, and the protector of others. It is an unseen guardian of the right, and of happiness, whether individual or social. It is on the side of good. It is the unrepealed statute in favour of virtue which the Fall has not obliterated, and which became indignation when the approbation of what was good, or the perception of what was right, suffered infraction. It is the judge within the breast ; it is that judge recording his decisions, and making proclamation against all aggression, and wrong,
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and injustice. It is God's voice in behalf of the sufferer, making every man his brother's keeper. It is the approbation of right in a decision which takes the form of a feeling of the heart as well as a dictate or perception of the understanding. It is the loud outcry which nature makes, — a nature which, permitted to survive the wrecks of the apostacy,or the Fall, presents something of its original integrity, and now stands up for all good against evil, making itself heard when it can do nothing more, urging the law of right when power or violence would overbear it, or injustice would deprive it of its own. It anticipates judgment ; it goes before punishment. It is the man within whom we dare not rouse, whose wrath we foresee and avoid. It is our own decision against aggression already recorded for the benefit of others, that they may not provoke our displeasure as we would not incur theirs. All this has been ascribed to resent ment. But resentment, as we have seen, is rather the personal emotion, and respects always the injury done rather than the motive of the agent doing it, or the morality of the action. Indignation is more general ; it is felt at wrong whether per petrated against ourselves or others ; and it is the morality of the action that is regarded, rather than the action itself. Now, while resentment, undoubtedly, operates so as to prevent injury in the same way as indignation, the latter is far more influen tial ; for resentment is only the feeling of the person injured, while indignation is the feeling of society, or of impartial spectators, as well as of the individual more immediately con cerned ; and that must always have a greater effect than where the sense of personal wrong and suffering may be conceived directly to operate, where it is the judgment or feeling regard ing the action, rather than the mere irritation or feeling produced by its effects. We are always more influenced by the judgment respecting the morality of an action, than by that regarding the action itself, or its effects. We feel the one to be the opinion regarding ourselves, the other to be that re garding what is beyond ourselves, what may not be a part of us at all, if we cannot condemn ourselves in respect to our in tention or motives. An action is ours as it is dictated by a
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motive, and according to the nature of the motive will be the nature of the action. When a judgment is pronounced, then, upon our action, it is then that we feel ; it is then that we our selves are called up for judgment ; but when the effects of the action merely are regarded, it is not we who are arraigned but the action, and though the action may be resented, we are not punished. There may be indignation in resentment, it may sometimes blend with it ; but it is not resentment itself that will secure the effects of punishment. We resent suffering-, we punish evil. Resentment fails of its effect by having so exclusive a regard to the injury suffered, looking to it, taking vengeance for it. It is where the morality of an action alone is considered that a decision pronounced upon it, either in the way of a feeling which it awakens, or by the punishment to which it prompts, that the decision, whether in the feeling or punishment, is regarded. Now, it cannot be doubted, that resentment takes but little account of the morality of an action ; and it is when along with the resentment there is indignation, that the resentment, or its expression, has any effect. Indig nation may be too strong a term for the feeling in many cases where there is resentment ; but disapproval is the same, in such cases, as indignation in those cases where the ground of disapproval is enough to awaken indignation. Moral disap proval, or displeasure, with the motive of the action in view, is always the reason why we feel sorrow for an action, and why the wrong retaliated, or the punishment inflicted, is efficacious. Eesentment is otherwise mere revenge. Revenge, indeed, is but strong resentment. Resentment is revenge in but a miti gated degree. It is when indignation and resentment are combined, or when it is indignation that punishes or resents, that the influence of retaliation in any case is felt ; it is then felt to be not mere retaliation, but a proper return for injury inflicted. But the indignation itself operates where there is no actual return of injury, but merely the indignation which any action may awaken. This is even stronger than punish ment, more influential in checking wrong. Punishment, as suffering, may be little cared for, and it is the displeasure or
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disapprobation of our fellows that \ve really feel. What makes suffering punishment is that very disapprobation : it is the relation of suffering to wrong, and to the estimate of that wrong. It is the evil of an action written in its punishment. Otherwise it would be mere suffering : it is an action called up in suffering that makes it punishment : in other words, it is suffering for what is justly pronounced an evil action. The disapprobation or condemnation of the action, therefore, is the main part of punishment, and the fear of that, and not the dread of mere suffering, is what operates so powerfully in re straining from evil. The former will be found by far the more influential feeling. Both may come to be disregarded, but while any moral feeling remains at all, the former is the stronger ; and where this is not so, where all moral feeling is blunted, it will come to be a balance in every case, when a wrong action is about to be committed, between the physical benefits that are contemplated, and the physical sufferings that may accrue from, or may attend upon the action, in the way of punishment. It is to be remarked, too, that indignation consequent upon an action is the feeling not only of the individual suffering from that action, but of all who are spectators of it, or who may come to be acquainted with it ; resentment, that of the individual suffering, unless we take resentment in the wider sense of in dignation, as seems to be done by Butler and by Stewart. Indignation is the resentment of society as well as of the party more immediately concerned — resentment in the feelings, may hap in action. And if the condemnation of an action is its punishment, how is the punishment increased, multiplied so to speak, when the indignation not of an individual only, but of multitudes, is what is felt, or is what is apprehended ! Indig nation against wrong, then, or the inflicter of wrong, is truly the avenger and safeguard of society : it is the moral estimate of an action that is its reprover, and the restraint upon its commission — our own moral estimate, and the estimate of others, the latter often where the former would not be enough. The tribunal which this estimate erects prevents, by the appeals which the mind itself is constantly making to it, a thousand
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actions which would otherwise be perpetrated without restraint, and without fear. And the very parties who are kept in check by such a tribunal, are themselves part of the court which others are fearing. They are capable of the very indignation which they apprehend. They themselves are a part of the universal court of appeal ; and not only the living sit in judg ment in that court, but all who have lived, or shall yet live. The universal conscience of mankind is appealed to, and their disapprobation is supposed. It is the most august tribunal, and the most solemn that can sit, until that in which, while there will be one presiding Judge, the universe will also pro nounce sentence. It is the court of conscience, — a court which may be extended from one's own individual sense of right and wrong to the sense of every moral being. It is not needing to carry its sentence into execution — its sentence is enough. The fasces borne by the Koman lictors prevented, perhaps, many an infringement of those laws whose combined strength, and whose sentence they typified. Far more influential is the silent prin ciple of which we are speaking, anticipating judgment, and making all moral beings the judges.
The relation which anger bears to this emotion, is that of an element in a more complex state or feeling. Anger is a part of indignation ; but in indignation, there is the moral element which is not in anger. Indignation is anger excited by a moral cause. Anger may not necessarily regard the morality of an action, — may be produced irrespective of that. The injury or suffering experienced may awaken anger, without the motive being taken into account which led to the infliction of the injury, or which was in the action inflicting it. In this it is like resent ment, but anger may be felt for injuries inflicted on others, and is a part of the indignation then experienced, if we not merely contemplate the injury, but the motive or morality of the action producing it — is the sole feeling, when we confine our regards to the injury. It is, with respect to injuries inflicted on others, what resentment is in respect to injuries inflicted on ourselves ; or at least it contemplates the same object, the mere injury done. Resentment is not only anger, but is anger seeking the
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return of the injury upon the person inflicting it. In this, we have said, it is mitigated revenge. Auger mingles in all these — is a part of them all — of indignation, resentment, revenge — and yet it is a feeling by itself, and may be considered apart from the more complex feelings in which it mingles. All our emotions are ultimately simple ; and though we may speak of a complex emotion, and of elements mingling in them or con stituting them, there is an ultimate or resultant feeling which is simple, is itself elementary, and deserves and receives an ap propriate name. It is thus with what, in one point of view, may be called the complex feeling of indignation — it is thus with resentment — it is thus with revenge. There is an ultimate feel ing peculiar in each case (unless we regard revenge as just stronger resentment} which is simple, and is itself indignation, is itself resentment, is itself revenge. Revenge, even considered as but a stronger feeling than resentment, takes a peculiarity which appropriates to itself its own name, and may therefore be said to be revenge, and not resentment. It is thus, too, that anger takes a character apart from the feelings in which it mingles — is by itself — is anger — and is not indignation, is not resentment, is not revenge. All the emotions are thus separable, however they may blend, and ultimately we perceive, or are conscious of, an emotion, which is properly called by one name, and no other. Anger, simply, also operates in protecting us from injury, and as a general safeguard in society. We dread the anger of others, while we may not altogether excite their indignation. We may often provoke anger without calling forth indignation. In the lesser actions of life this is often the case. The provo cation may not amount to a cause to awaken indignation, but it is sufficient to produce anger. When there is nothing moral in the action — when it is merely against us, opposed to our interests or our feelings, without involving any moral blame, or at most the blame that we attach to carelessness or inatten tion, the emotion produced is anger. Butler speaks of anger and sudden resentment as one ; and what Butler calls sudden resentment, Dr. Reid calls animal resentment, as an emotion shared with the lower creation. We question the propriety of
438 THE EMOTIONS.
this term, for we would rather be inclined to suppose that there is something in the lower animals frequently akin to reason, than to suppose that any of the emotions in man are simply animal, or the effect of a blind irrational impulse. The lower creation undoubtedly frequently exhibits anger where there is no provocation ; and the roar that may wake the forest, may be nothing more than the effect of a blind un reasoning instinct. And yet who knows what wrong, or what challenge, the inhabitant of the desert may be proclaiming, when its voice fills the wilderness, and makes every lesser beast of prey hasten to its den ? It is always unsafe to reason from the lower creation to our nature, for what portion of reason they may be imbued with it is impossible for us to say. We may safely affirm that no emotion of the human mind can arise without a cause in a conception of some kind. The seat of the emotions is reached through the intellect. A conception always accompanies a feeling, and is the immediate cause or occasion of it. In the most absolute emotion we possess, there is the conception of being, and of the value of being. We do not say that is the cause of the emotion, but it is at least prior to it. The emotions belong to a department distinct from the intellect, and there must be a spring in themselves, or in the emotional nature ; but still, as the immediate occasion of the emotion, some conception is necessary, otherwise our emotions would have no object. And this may explain the connexion between truth and a right state of the emotions, and the rela tion which these reciprocally bear to each other. Truth may be necessary to the right emotions, but the emotional nature must be itself right before truth can have its effect. Without this, truth may awaken the very opposite emotion from what it ought. A conception is always prior to any emotion, but the most false conceptions may be entertained, or truth may not be rightly perceived, just from the influence which the emotions, or a state of the emotional nature, may have upon the intellect. What is necessary to our present purpose is, that in the blindest emotion, there must be some conception which is its cause or its origin. It is owing to the very
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derangement of our moral nature, that we cannot always say what is the ground of our anger, or the cause of any of our emotions. Why is anger sudden ? Why does it seem to be a mere animal impulse or feeling ? Because of the very derange ment to which we have adverted. In that derangement we can hardly distinguish sometimes the cause of our emotions or feelings. We might in vain seek for it. The immediate cause we will for the most part be able to trace, but its connexions, or relations, to previous causes, may be past our reckoning ; and yet these, too, are not always so undistinguishable or imtraceable as we may suppose. Is sudden anger awakened ? Is it without a cause ? Does it appear a mere animal impulse ? We have only to look a little more narrowly into the circum stances, to perceive a conception of injury of some kind. Even an untoward accident or circumstance begets the conception of injury. That conception takes possession of us in spite of our selves. We animate even inanimate objects, and we conceive them capable of doing us wrong. Or this, perhaps, is not so much the state of mind as some vague, undefined, impression of a kind of fate or destiny attending every misfortune or chance that befalls us ; and the idea of fate or destiny will always be found to be that of some being, and that a spiritual being, powerful for good or evil. In those cases, therefore, where injury comes from inanimate objects, we either animate these objects, or we conceive an agency present in them, of which they are only the instrumentality. Both Keid and Stewart incline to the view that we have a momentary belief that the object is alive. We wreak our vengeance upon it in conse quence. We suppose for a moment that it has life and intelli gence, and that it designed us wrong. So active, indeed, are our imaginations in ascribing life to inanimate objects, and in endowing them even with qualities proper only to rational natures. Dr. Keid supposes that this is so much a tendency of our natures, that it is not till reason corrects the tendency, as individuals advance in years, and nations advance from rudeness to civilisation, that we do not really believe inanimate objects to be endowed with life and intelligence ; and it is by a
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momentary relapse into the belief of earlier years, or of a ruder state, that we ascribe life and even intention to the inanimate objects by which we are injured. " I agree with Dr. Keid," says Stewart, " in thinking, that, unless we had such a belief, our conduct could not possibly be what it frequently is, and that it is not till this momentary belief is at an end that our conduct appears to ourselves to be absurd and ludicrous." There is indeed something very like this momentary belief — but may there not be something more than this, and not merely a relapse into the belief of a period of infancy, or of a ruder age, but the actual belief of a hidden agency in the inanimate object ? and our emotion is at that agency, that unseen power, that untoward luck, of which some unfriendly spirit is the cause or principle. We rather think this is the explanation of those apparent caprices of temper, that anger that we feel even at in animate objects, and which, when the momentary rage has spent itself, appears so foolish or ludicrous. Accordingly, we do not merely wreak our momentary vengeance against the object ; we blame our fate ; we think of some luck, or chance ; we have the idea that some hostile agency is at work, or has sought our injury. But is not this owing to a wrong state of the emotions ? Is it not a quickness and irascibleness of temper, or impa tience of contradiction, in which we arraign the Providence that guides the minutest event, but arraign that in the infidel, or almost atheistical, spirit, which is not separate even from the Christian, and from the best of Christians, in whom the natural tendencies of the mind are not wholly subdued ? We forget the agency that is present in the minutest event, and think of some other which we dare impugn, and, like Jonah, we do well to be angry. But whatever the cause ; that even inanimate objects excite our anger as they may be the objects even of our hatred, no one can question. It is not the child only that wreaks its vengeance upon these objects, and that will cry for very vexation when it is baulked of its puny revenge ; but grown man will often indulge in like freaks, and we may break the instrument in pieces that has occasioned us suffering, or that has caused a little annoyance. Much more is the emotion
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not objectless, though sudden, when it is a rational agent that produces our anger ; the suddenness of the emotion does not at all infer that it is a mere blind impulse, a mere animal resent ment. There is a conception of injury in the most sudden passion or anger. Butler makes a distinction between injury and harm in the case of sudden anger, and makes injury what excites resentment, and harm merely what produces anger. "Sudden anger," he says, "is raised by, and was chiefly in tended to prevent or remedy mere harm, distinct from injury." That anger has not the same regard to the motive in the case of any injury inflicted, or harm sustained, as resentment, taking resentment, as Butler does, in the sense of indignation, is true ; but there cannot but be some regard, also, to the cause of the suffering, call it harm or injury ; and without perceiving any thing very marked in the motive of the actor, or having distinct regard to that at all, still, a conception of blameworthiness of some sort in the agent causing the harm, is entertained in every case of anger. The motive is not so palpably a bad one as to produce indignation, still some blame is attached to the agent, and till that conception is corrected, if no blame does exist, there is anger. In resentment, in the same way, there is not the same regard to the motive of the actor, or to the nature of the action, as in indignation ; but there must be some regard to these. When we speak of indignation having regard to the mind or feeling of the actor towards us, and resentment to the wrong inflicted rather than to the motive of the party inflicting it, we mean chiefly regard to these ; for it would be as incor rect to separate from indignation all regard to the wrong sustained, and to say the feeling had regard only to the pro ducer of the injury, as to say that resentment had regard only to the former and none to the latter. We may notice the chief elements in both emotions without regarding them as single or alone in them. Even sudden anger, then, is founded upon a conception of injury to some extent. We never regard the actor or agent as altogether blameless. When we come to do so, all anger, all resentment, ceases. In the case of those who retain anger, even when it has been shewn that there was
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no blameworthiness on the part of the agent, in the injury or suffering inflicted, that there was not even carelessness any more than malicious motive ; it is because some thought of these still remains, and, perhaps, the mind may be unwilling to be con vinced that no injury was intended, or that there was no culpable negligence. Still, in anger and resentment as distinct from indignation, there is more regard to the injury inflicted than to the inflicter ; the mind dwells upon the one more than the other ; in the case of indignation, it is possible that the malice or wicked motive of the inflicter of the injury may be so much the object of attention or exclusive regard, as to prevent almost any feeling of the injury : all our feeling is that of con tempt, or pity, or indignation towards the injurer. Any strong emotion has often the effect of rendering the mind insensible even to suffering, or to any other object of interest or attention. The mind may be so absorbed again by the pain or injury sus tained, or endured, that it is only a general regard at all that is had to the motive that inflicted it: we conceive only an injury meant, and we feel that injury in all its poignancy. Whenever the mind rests upon the motive and the party cherishing it, on the actor and the state of mind or feeling by which he is actuated, the sense of indignation is awakened in all its strength. It will easily be seen, then, how all of these emotions, while perfectly distinguishable, are yet so mixed up with each other, and may therefore so readily be confounded. For the most part, the feelings will distinguish themselves, and we will be able to apply the appropriate term in the case of each. Anger, how ever, is a term which may apply to all the three, and accord ingly is so applied, and is never very carefully distinguished. We may make the distinction, however ; and correct language, a strict and accurate use of terms, is always proper. Wrath is a stronger term than anger, and may be properly used for the strongest degree of that emotion. Anger, we have said, as well as indignation, is a defence against injury, and even before injury is contemplated. It operates secretly, and by anticipa tion, against the encroachments of wrong and inflictions of injury. Anger, even though there should not be indignation,
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and where also there may not be resentment, is dreaded, and deters from injury or mischief. The anger of a party whom we have injured, or against whom we have meditated injury, is not to be causelessly encountered. We shrink from it : it is painful. It cannot be provoked without suffering. To meet it is often too much, and we are therefore careful of exciting it, and unwilling to encounter it when excited. It is thus that society is protected, that this one principle throws a barrier around every person, erects a bulwark of defence everywhere, and at all moments, guards property and character, puts a weapon of defence in every hand, and makes every member of society amenable to another for his conduct. So wise are the provisions which the Almighty has adopted, making the very mechanism of evil itself — a passion incident only to a state of evil — the instrument that works its cure, or preserves against its more violent outbreaks. The sanctions of law are not a part of law, but they secure its administration or its observ ance. The emotions we have been animadverting on, are not a part of right, but they secure it in a state in which it would otherwise be but little consulted, and might be overborne. " There is a principle in our mind," says Dr. Brown, " which is to us like a constant protector, which may slumber, indeed, but which only slumbers at seasons when its vigilance would be useless, which awakes therefore at the first appearance of un just intention, and which becomes more watchful and more vigorous, in proportion to the violence of the attack which it has to dread. What should we think of the providence of nature, if when aggression was threatened against the weak and unarmed, at a distance from the aid of others, there were in stantly and uniformly, by the intervention of some wonder working power, to rush into the hand of the defenceless a sword or other weapon of defence ? And yet this would be but a feeble assistance if compared with that which we receive from those simple emotions which Heaven has caused to rush as it were into our mind for repelling every attack. What would be a sword in the trembling hand of the infirm, of the aged, of him whose pusillanimous spirit shrinks at the very
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appearance, not of danger merely, but even of the arms by the use of which danger might be averted, and to whom conse quently the very sword which he scarcely knew how to grasp, would be an additional cause of terror, not an instrument of defence and safety ? The instant anger which arises does more than many such weapons."
Anger acts as a barrier against itself. When it would be too strong, when it becomes resentment, when the resentment is undue, the anger of others is kindled, their resentment against us is awakened, and we restrain anger for the fear of anger. The effects of unbridled rage would not be the least of evils, even in a state where anger is necessary to protect against evil. The injury which anger would inflict, would often be worse than the original injury which it resents, did it not fear the anger of others, and were not the very principle a check against its own too violent ebullitions. " When resentment," says Stewart, " rises to cruel and relentless revenge, unconcerned spectators become disposed to abandon the cause they had espoused, and to transfer their protection to the original aggressor." Anger then becomes injury, and the greater of the two. Parties change places ; the original aggressor becomes the injured person, and the same passion comes to his aid as before flew to the assist ance of him who first sustained the wrong. So nice is the balance of the emotions, so admirable is the provision in nature for securing the preservation, and effecting the happiness, of individuals and society. But while a sense of wrong remains in the human constitution, the wrong which anger inflicts must be as amenable to it as any other, so that the simple principle of society, or of a right and harmonious state among moral beings, is just the moral principle itself, which, seeing evil in any shape, has its indignation, or its anger, aroused, and seeks its expression in righteous resentment.
Dr. Brown divides the emotions into the immediate, the retrospective, and the prospective. Every emotion is thus regarded as founded upon, or arising out of, some conception, either of a present, or a past, or a future good or evil. All the
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emotions which have a present object for their cause, or on which they terminate, are classified as the immediate emotions, and these again are considered as involving, or as not involv ing, a moral feeling or affection. To the former of these are referred love and hate, sympathy with the happy and with the miserable, pride and humility : to the latter, which he considers first, are referred cheerfulness, melancholy, wonder, mental weariness or ennui — the feeling of beauty and its opposite — sublimity and its opposite. The retrospective emotions are those which, in Dr. Brown's own language, " relate to objects as past — the conception of some object of former pleasure or pain being essential to the complex feeling." These are sub divided as they relate to others and to ourselves. The former are, anger for evil inflicted, gratitude for good conferred : the latter, simple regret and satisfaction — regret, when there is a moral element in it, taking the aspect of remorse ; satisfaction that of self-approbation, or what is termed a good conscience. The prospective we shall speak of when we come to consider them as we proceed in our own classification or arrangement. It will be seen that anger, in Dr. Brown's arrangement or clas sification, is among the retrospective emotions. The principle on which we have proceeded hitherto has been irrespective of any feeling of time, or any reference to the object as present, past, or future. We were led rather to consider the emotions as belonging to our original nature, or as they must be con ceived to have belonged to our original nature, and the change that took place in them, or rather the exact counterpart emo tions that arose on the introduction of evil, and as evil, accord ingly, and not good, was the cause or object of the emotion. Thus, we considered cheerfulness, melancholy, moroseness, fret- fulness, peevishness; joy, sorrow; wonder ; and the modifications of this latter emotion, surprise, amazement, astonishment, admi ration, adoration ; love, hatred, indignation, resentment, anger. " There have been almost as many different arrangements of the passions," says Sydney Smith, " as there have been writers who have treated on the subject. Some writers have placed them in contrast to each other, as hope and fear, joy and sorrow.
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Some have considered them as they are personal, relative, or social ; some according to their influence at different periods of life ; others as they relate to past, present, or future time." We have not only given the emotions in contrast, but we have sought, so far as this could be done, the principle of this con trast, in the change that has taken place in our moral nature. It is in connexion with this that the contrast in our emotions possesses any interest. It is not merely as a principle of convenient arrangement that we have noticed the contrast, but as really founded in some principle of our constitution. We recognise some emotions as essential to our emotional nature, or as likely to have belonged to our original emotional nature, and we have taken notice of those which, when evil came into being, or took effect, assumed the directly opposite character, or were directly the opposite of the other. The circumstance of time in reference to the emotions is not a very philosophic bond of connexion, or ground of classification. Cheerfulness, for example, we have seen, has properly no object at all, past, present, or future ; but is just a general state of the mind, accountable by no circumstance, except a virtuous or moral state, and a certain equableness or harmony of the affec tions or the emotions. Melancholy, again, has as much refer ence to the past as to the present ; for it implies disappointment, and disappointment has reference to the past ; and so far as melancholy is a present emotion, or immediate emotion, it has no object, but, like cheerfulness, is a general state of the mind, resting upon nothing, a result rather than any direct or imme diate emotion, that is, an emotion having any direct or imme diate object. Sorrow, too, may be regarded as distinct from regret, and yet the event that has awakened it may be in the past. It is past, if it was only yesterday. The loss of fortune, or the death of a beloved relative, is the object or occasion of sorrow, though it happened years ago : it is not the object of regret simply, in any proper use of the term. The object of anger is no more a past object than that of sorrow : the object of anger may be every whit as immediate. The emotion is the stronger the more immediate its object. And when the very
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cause of it is before us : when the weapon has but dropped from the hand of him who has inflicted the blow, or aimed the murderous stroke : when the word has just passed from the lips of him who has insulted us, or wounded us in our tenderest feelings: our indignation or anger is at the strongest. Our prospective emotions, again, are rather desires than emotions, and the emotions accompanying them are, as we have said, the emotions of the desires — that is to say, there is a feeling which we call by the distinctive name of desire, but there is always a peculiar emotion accompanying the particular desire ; let it be the desire of wealth, or the desire of power, or the desire of knowledge ; and the particular degree of the desire, or in which the desire is felt ; and again the degree of certainty as respects the attainment of the object of our desires, as hope, expectation, or mere possibility, or even utter despair. There is an impa tience connected with strong desire, which is not felt when the desire is calm or less lively. In anger, again, as a modification of hatred, as we have seen, there is a certain desire of evil to its object. Dr. Brown separates the two, and makes anger strictly retrospective. The desire of retaliation, he says, is as much a desire as any other. This is true ; but it is still a part of anger, or it characterizes anger : is anger, then, retrospective or prospective ? Again, anger and the desire of retaliation, when strong, constitute resentment ; and is resentment a pro spective emotion ? Is there not a resultant feeling out of these two, anger and desire of retaliation ? — how much of it is retrospective, and how much of it prospective ? Aristotle, according to Seneca, makes anger a desire of paying sorrow for sorrow. This is rather resentment. There is the injury felt ; there is desire of evil, or of punishment, to the inflicter of the injury : these two blend in one, or result in one, emotion, for which we have invented the name of resentment : though there is complexity, there is resultant simplicity, and that is resent ment. Now, this feeling is as much retrospective as prospective. So closely are the two elements in it united ; so much is the resultant emotion one, that Dr. Brown himself says, — " But though in our minute, philosophic analysis, this distinction of
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the two successive states of mind is necessary, it is not necessary, in considering the feeling of resentment in its moral relations ; and in the few remarks I have to offer on it, I shall, therefore, consider the instant displeasure itself, and the desire of returning evil as one emotion." We are inclined to think there is a resultant emotion we call resent ment, which, in Dr. Brown's own language or phraseology on another subject, is virtually equivalent to the two emotions or feelings mentioned, but in itself simple, as the emotion of a simple substance, mind ; just as a complex idea is said by Dr. Brown to be virtually equivalent to two ideas, while it is in itself one or simple, because it is the idea of a simple substance, mind. Time does not seem to be a part or element in our emotions, or is not a circumstance in any way distinguishing them ; or, if regret and desire are to be considered as emotions, time is only an influential element as respects them. The one has essentially reference to the past, the other to the future; it would not be regret without a reference to the past ; it would not be desire without a reference to the future. Time itself mingles as an element in these states, or so far gives a character to them. This cannot be said of any of the other emotions. The desires, however, we are not inclined to regard as emotions ; they constitute a state altogether peculiar, and to which we give the distinctive name of desire. There are emotions accompany ing the desires, but the state of desire itself may be separated from the emotion.
We have proceeded in our arrangement of the emotions, or rather just in our consideration of them, on the principle that we have already so often stated, because no one circumstance seems so to distinguish the emotions as to allow of a philosophic ground of classification, but the grand one of belonging to our original emotional nature, when we are called to take notice of the change that has passed upon that nature, and the peculiarity in that change, so that, for the original emotions, we have, in every several instance, their exact counterpart, exhibiting those contrasted emotions which have afforded a ground of classifica tion to some writers, without the explanation derived from
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considering them as counterpart. Along with this, however, there is a certain order, in which our emotions may be con sidered according to the way in which we regard the emotional being, as susceptible of happiness, and now of misery ; capable of being affected by objects or events ; receiving impressions of the infinite, and, therefore, feeling wonder, and admiration, and the emotions of beauty and sublimity ; being linked in social relations to his fellows ; imbued, therefore, with love, or having also now the capacity of hatred ; experiencing indignation, and moved to anger or resentment. Thus, instead of having the relative and social emotions, we have the general emotion of love, and we recognise the modifying circumstances affecting that emo tion ; while hatred, indignation, resentment, are traced to their origin in the moral evil that now exists in the world. Here an other emotion of a most interesting nature solicits our attention, the emotion, namely, of Sympathy ; compassion for the sorrows, and interest in the joys of others ; indeed, community of senti ment or feeling with any emotion that may actuate another.
We are so constituted as to share in the joys, and now also to feel for the sorrows, of others. Not only do we feel joy and sorrow at events happening to ourselves, but a great part of our joy or sorrow is in the joy or sorrow of others. Our emotions communicate themselves; the very emotions with which we are inspired become the emotions of others, and theirs as well communicate themselves to us. We give and take in this reciprocation of feeling. The joy of another becomes my joy ; the sorrow of another becomes my sorrow. This is a very wonderful law of our constitution. We might have been so constituted, that the circumstances of others would not have affected ourselves at all. This would have been, however, to alter the whole emotional nature or con stitution ; for it is impossible to conceive of love which did not sympathize in the joys or distress of its object ; and this spring of our emotional nature touched, what would remain ? It is on this account that it is so difficult to speak of the final causes connected with our original emotions, which seem rather absolute in their nature, and incapable of being other than they are. We may,
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however, perceive what is wonderful and admirable in our constitution, even regarded as absolute, and not created merely to minister to subordinate ends. Most important purposes are ministered to, even if we should regard our original nature as absolute. What is this but allowing the perfection of that nature after which we were formed ? God's nature cannot work but to admirable effects, and the same with those natures which He has created like Himself. ' Sympathy is often a modification of love, or rather one of its effects. Is it possible to love a being without rejoicing in his joys, and sorrowing in his sorrows ? Let us remark here, again, the strict antagonism in consequence of the existence of evil — though in the same feeling — joy in the joy, sorrow in the sorrow of another. Sym pathy in such cases is an immediate effect of love. It is a separate principle, no doubt, even in such cases, but it is in timately connected with love. And, accordingly, it will be found that our sympathies are the stronger as our love is the stronger. We sympathize more with the joys and sorrows of those we love than of those who are indifferent to us, or who are loved only as part of the race. In consequence of the universal feeling of love, there is an equally universal feel ing of sympathy. We have only to see joy and suffering, to sympathize with them. As the circle of our attachments nar row, however, our sympathies grow in intensity. We are not likely to be greatly affected by the joy or sorrow of a perfect stranger ; but let that individual come within the range of our sympathies — let the love of our species have scope for opera ting — let it in some way be excited, and we sympathize in the joy or sorrow which before was comparatively indifferent to us. It is a beautiful law of sympathy, that we sympathize more in the sorrows than we do in the joys of others ; and this, too, is an effect of love. Love may be contented if others are happy, though they should not be very joyful, but it feels uneasy at the least pain of another. How are its sympathies called forth at any overwhelming sorrow ? How does great suffering appeal to it ? Every addition to the suffering aug ments the sympathy. This can hardly be said of joy. We
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would almost share with the sufferer a part of his woes. Gladly, at least, would we do anything to mitigate the pain, to assuage the distress. This makes us run at the call of misery, and makes every man the helper of his fellow. How is every consideration sunk — how is every hardship endured — how is every peril encountered at the cry of distress ! Let it but be announced that life is in danger — that a fellow-creature is drowning — that the treacherous element is dealing with a life that is no more precious to us than as being the life of a fellow- mortal — and that but a few moments longer and that life shall have perished, — how do we risk our own lives to rescue that one ! We see a fellow-being, that is only a fellow-being to us, in a building fast sinking under the devouring element — we see that but a moment or two and all chance of escape will be gone, — how intensely do we desire that deliverance could be extended, and with what interest do we watch the dar ing effort of one of the spectators who rushes through the flames, or, in the only way that safety can be effected, puts his own life in jeopardy rather than that other life should be sacrificed ! We feel more for the sufferings than we do for the joys of others. We could pass a place of festivity without a sensible addition to our happiness ; we could not pass a lazar-house, or a sick hospital, without a strong emotion for the sufferers within. This may be explained by the very obvious law of love itself, with out supposing it to be connected with any special provision of our nature ; — the law that love is satisfied if its objects are happy, without feeling much more by any additions to that happiness, while every additional pang to misery is an additional pang to its own sorrow or sympathy. The beautiful law of love itself, however, is worthy of being noticed ; and it is the law of that nature which created ours in its likeness, and whose happiness consists in seeing happiness diffused — whose goodness is in the very diffusion of that happiness, and whose righteousness or justice alone it is that can contemplate misery.
Philanthropy is the name given to that more extended sympathy which leads us to take an interest in the joys and
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sorrows, not only of those more immediately appealing to this sentiment of our nature, but of mankind at large. The chord of sympathy vibrates in unison with the remotest event or cir cumstance affecting our fellows, whether that event be joyous or sorrowful. In the consideration of the emotions of joy and sorrow, we have already given illustrations of this : it is through the principle of sympathy that these emotions come to be awak ened in connexion with such events. It might seem to be in venting a new principle to account for these emotions, in such cases, when we have already the capacity of the emotions them selves to account for them : the capacity of being affected by such emotions on the occasion of such events, might seem to be all that was necessary to account for the emotions. But the very peculiarity of sympathy is the capacity of being affected by the joys and sorrows of others. It is not sympathy when we experience joy and sorrow merely in themselves. We joy in the joy : we sorrow in the sorrow of others. It is not won derful that we should be affected with joy or sorrow by events befalling ourselves ; but that we should rejoice with others, and weep with others, is the peculiarity of that principle or pro vision of our nature we are now considering. It is accountable on the principle we have already explained — namely, the love we feel for others, which leads us to take an interest in them, and in all affecting them, very much as if their interests were our own. It is impossible to love another, and not feel inter ested in all that concerns him ; and, accordingly, our sympathy in the fortunes of others, or events affecting them, is just in proportion to the love we feel for them, or for the species gen erally, of which they are a part. That a certain love towards the species is experienced by all, and is exhibited in the thousand ways of mutual regard and interest which intercourse with our fellows gives opportunity or occasion for, is abun dantly manifest. It is when any causes give a selfish direction to our nature or our feelings, that we experience less of that love, and accordingly evince less of that sympathy. Where the feelings are unsophisticated — where nothing stifles or in terferes with our love, our love will be general and active, and
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all its sympathies will be prompt and genuine. Some natures, however, seem to be more imbued with this sentiment than others — to have a more instinctive impulse of affection for others ; and they, accordingly, exhibit wider and warmer sym pathies towards their fellows, or for all that concerns them. Nothing is more manifest than that there are natures more loving, more generous,' more unselfish, than others — less influ enced by considerations for self, looking less to personal inter ests merely, incapable of being selfishly bound by personal regards alone. There are those again who have the first law of their nature — we mean the love of self — so strong, that it is as steady in its operation as if it were as right and praiseworthy, as it is unamiable and altogether reprehensible. Their sym pathies, accordingly, are not so lively, so ready, or so extended. But there are those who seem to be born with so strong a love for their species, that it seems to absorb the personal feeling altogether, and almost to exclude the love of self. Self seems hardly to be thought of. Others, and not self, seem to be ex clusively the object of their regards. To think of self, seems with such natures to be a fault as great and as odious as the too exclusive consideration for self will be pronounced to be in other cases. Every feeling takes the direction of regard, not for personal interest, but the wellbeing, the good, the interests of others. How others fare, how their wants may be relieved, how their sorrows may be alleviated, how their sufferings may be mitigated, how their good may be promoted, is their grand concern. Their own interests may be allowed to lie in abeyance, or they trust to their being promoted without too exclusive an attention to them. This may proceed even to a faulty excess ; but undoubtedly it is an excess of an amiable kind, and in the more amiable direction. Philanthropy is the ruling passion or principle in such hearts, with such individuals : philanthropy is the name we give to their wide and active sympathies. You will find such persons actively employed in every good cause — at the head of societies, organizing institutes, founding, or get ting founded, benefactions, advocating great social rights, plead ing for the abolition of oppressive laws, denouncing tyranny,
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traversing continents, and perhaps compassing the globe itself, for the advancement of those objects with which their life is identified, and the wellbeing of humanity commensurate. Howard is the great example of this class ; and the number of those who exhibit the same spirit on a lesser scale, is not small. The great principle of philanthropy, however, it must be allowed, is the love of the species which the gospel implants. That there are strong sympathies with the race, apart from such a source or cause we have seen, but this insures it. And then the principle takes its highest, its noblest direction, the diffusion of the gospel itself, the advancement of the spiritual interests of the race, and with that every other good follows. This does not exclude attention to every inferior or subordinate interest connected with the good of our fellows ; the former is only paramount ; every other has that portion of regard be stowed on it which its relative importance demands. Howard was a Christian, a sincere believer, a disciple of Jesus. The mainspring of his movements was the love implanted by the Gospel, taking control of all his actions, and making the native love of his heart break through every obstacle, carrying it as an irresistible tide over all opposition, and mak ing way for itself where discouragements would have baffled the ordinary principles of action. The love of the Gospel, not the mere native benevolence of heart, carries it where every inferior principle would give way. Marvellous examples there have been, indeed, of mere natural philanthropy — the strong native impulse of a heart touched to all the sympathies of our nature, and so finely touched that no appeal is resisted, and the heart beats to every tone in the " still, sad music of humanity." A strong will, perhaps, co-operates with a benevolent heart, and the philanthropist is formed. But he is pre-eminently the philanthropist who promotes the spiritual as well as temporal wellbeing of his fellows ; and we see such a one wherever we see one who truly seeks the spiritual good of his fellows in the humblest way. Selfish feelings are so far modified in every case where the grace of God has been received ; and there is in the desire of the heart to convey the Gospel to our fellow-
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men, and to bring its great truths to bear upon their lives and hearts, the germ of that philanthropy which animated the Saviour himself. We are speaking of the emotion, we are not now insisting upon the duty of philanthropy, or of sym pathy with the wants and the miseries of mankind.
So predominating are the evils over the good in the condition of the world, that there is perhaps more demand for the exercise of sympathy with the former than with the latter ; and hence the names of the particular sentiment. Sympathy and philanthropy have been almost exclusively appropriated to the common feeling we have with the sorrows and sufferings of others. These, we say, have almost exclusively appropriated the name. Philan thropy, indeed, has almost no aspect in the other direction. A philanthropist is one who addresses himself to the removing of the miseries of mankind. These may be on a larger or a lesser scale : they may be isolated, the miseries or misfortunes of in dividuals, or they may belong to a society, to a people, to a race, and be bound up with institutions, laws, governments. The philanthropist takes the wider survey : he addresses himself to evils on that large scale ; he seeks to rectify laws, to purify the systems of legislation, to correct the abuses of governments, to reform institutions, to remove the evils that afflict the race. The patriot does this in his own country. But there are those who regard the world as their country, and who seek the remedy of evils wherever found. Mere benevolence has a more limited range ; and, accordingly, it has more immediate and more con stant calls for its exercise. Benevolence is a more limited pas sion or feeling, but it may be raised to philanthropy: it is capable of taking the wider range : it is not a feeling different in kind : it is the same feeling viewed only in a more limited exercise. Sympathy, benevolence, philanthropy, all are aspects or operations of the one feeling, and love is the generic virtue leading to them all. As we have said, it is impossible to love without seeking the good of the object of our love ; and if we love our species, we will seek the good of our species. This, then, we take to be sympathy in its more limited and wider range. It takes in the whole of mankind, but it feels for the
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individual who appeals to it ; and perhaps may be the more intense the more individualized its object, the more within the sphere of our immediate regards. It is a law of sympathy to be the intenser, the more that it is fixed on a single object, or has a single object for its cause. It is thus that in all vivid pictures of misery the object is individualized : as in Sterne's captive ; and when the orator or the poet would convey the hor rors of war, or depict any other evil, an actual or supposed example is made the subject of his vivid portraiture. How finely does Campbell select the Congo chief to individualize his picture of the miseries of the slave-trade : —
" Lo ! once in triumph on his boundless plain, The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ; With fires proportioned to his native sky, Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, The spear, the lion, and the woods his own ! Or led the combat, bold without a plan, An artless savage, but a fearless man !
The plunderer came ! Alas ! no glory smiles For Congo's chief on yonder Indian isles ; For ever fallen ! no son of Nature now, With Freedom chartered on his manly brow ! Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, Starts with a bursting heart, for evermore To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore !
The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell His guardian angel took a last farewell ! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned The fiery grandeur of a generous mind ! Poor fettered man ! I hear thee whispering low Unhallowed vows of guilt, the child of wo ! Friendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbour there A wish but death — a passion but despair?"
The same individualizing takes place when it is a picture of joy that is to be conveyed. The sympathies are divided, as it were, when we think of misery or joy in the mass, when a nation, or community, or race, is their object. But having individualized our sympathy, we can then multiply the feeling of joy or sorrow awakened to any extent ; and carrying it over
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a race, or a nation, or a multitude, involved in one common misery, or feeling one common joy, we obtain all the vividness of the individual feeling, and all the largeness and overwhelm ing strength of the multiplied emotion.
It was a noble sentiment, " Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto :" it was a correct enunciation of the emotion or principle of sympathy in its widest exercise. Too many discard the sentiment, and have contracted their feelings to the narrow est bounds, if not entirely to selfish interests. The tyrant, the oppressor of his race, the man who steels his heart to the groans and cries of the victims of his cruelty, or who heeds not the misery he creates, if so be that his own selfish objects may be promoted — knows nothing of the sentiment, has never known it, or has learned to forget it. Who would not prefer the Roman's feelings to the splendid career and destinies of the greatest tyrant that the world ever saw, to retain that senti ment amid chains, rather than to forego it with a kingdom or an empire at our command. Tyrants and oppressors have come to need that sympathy which they denied to others, and have sought the refuge they would not extend to the neediest of their subjects, or the most helpless of their victims.
Sympathy is felt not only with the joys and sorrows of others, but with any emotion they may for the time be actuated by. We are capable of experiencing the same emotion, of being actuated by the same impulse. We may sympathize in the anger, as well as the grief of another. We cannot be thrown into the company of others for any time without an inter change of feeling ; unless the emotion reigning in any case be so strong and absorbing as to refuse amalgamation, and to draw all into itself. Any violent emotion will do this : like the larger of two globules of water, the lesser will run into «£, not it into the lesser. The larger always attracts the lesser : this is true of bodies ; it is also true of the emotions, or the stronger emotion has the power of making the lesser yield to it, and our minds come under its influence ; it may but to a very insensible degree come under ours. There is, however,
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a certain influence exercised by the weaker emotions on the stronger ; as there is a certain degree of attraction exerted by the lesser body on the greater ; so much so, that the least particle of matter is not without its influence on the sun. A person under strong rage feels the influence of a third party, and perhaps suspends that anger for an instant, which would have fallen in direst effects upon the victim or object of his fury. It is in this mutual or reciprocal influence of the emo tions, and of all the emotions, that the harmonious, or more harmonious, operation of this part of our nature takes place — the play, the mutual interchange, of feeling and sentiment is effected. Were there not this amalgamation or assimilation, even so far as it takes place, society would present a far greater disparity of sentiment than exists, and we would have emotion at war with emotion, instead of that accommodation, or run ning into each other, of the emotions, which we find actually to obtain. Were a person to retain his own emotions, and never be affected by those of another, — were this the law with every individual, where would be that melting down of the feelings, that fusion of each separate emotion and interest, and of all together, which makes society what it is, and renders it useful to mingle in the world, were it for nothing else than that our individual emotions might lose their individuality, or become somewhat mitigated in strength, and relieved by other feelings or emotions that blend with them, or divide with them the empire or possession of the heart ? Much of this amalgamation, indeed, depends upon a compromise, a tacit compliance with the pervading feeling of those around us — of the society in which we move, or the individual into whose company we are thrown, or with whom we may associate. We are often compelled to suppress our peculiar emotions, even at the dictation of common politeness, or out of regard to the feelings of others. Others do the same by us. There is a mutual restraint and accommodation in this way, without which society would be at perpetual jar ; and the business of life could not, any more than its pleasures, proceed or be enjoyed for a single hour. But besides this accommodation, there is
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the actual influence of sympathy itself — feeling blending with feeling, emotion passing into emotion, and from one to another, by this fine law of our nature. And when any emotion is very strong, when it takes the predominance, when it cannot yield for the time — if that emotion be legitimate, we yield to it, we feel drawn into sympathy with it, it becomes ours, and we are one as it were for the moment with the actual subject of the emotion. We are fired with the patriot's rage — we may know something of his noble enthusiasm — we can kindle with his ardour — we can denounce the oppressor with his eloquent and burning words — we are carried away on the same tide of strong and indignant emotions. In short, there is no sentiment or feeling with which another may be actuated in which we may not sympathize, and into which we do not enter, by that law of our nature we are considering ; and this brings out more distinctly the pecu liarity of this particular law. It is undoubtedly a distinct emotion of the mind. It is closely connected with the more generic emotion of love, when it is the joy or the sorrows, the happiness or miseries of others, that we sympathize with, — very often the very effect of that love. But this cannot be the source of the emotion when it is with any other of the emo tions — as anger, for example — that we sympathize. The emo tion, in such instances, is a distinct principle, and is directly experienced when any such emotion in others is the object of our contemplation or regard. The emotion operates directly in such instances, in virtue of a direct law of the mind, or of the emotional nature. In the case of joy or sorrow, we think love has a great deal to do with our sympathy, — not that the capacity of sympathy is not even then a distinct principle, but that it is often the effect of love.
Very much of our sympathy depends upon the vivid conception we have of the cause of the emotion with which we sympathize. That cause cannot be realized even to the mind without the emo tion appropriate to the original cause itself. It is impossible to realize, even in conception, the cause of a particular emotion or feeling, without in some degree participating in that emotion or feeling itself. The cause of the particular emotion may not affect
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us at all — it may be altogether unconnected with us — but our conceptions give us it, as it were — bring it in some sense in connexion with us; — make it for the time a cause affecting ourselves — and we feel accordingly, or are inspired with the emotion which such a cause always produces, as if it were in reality one affecting ourselves. But the question arises, Why should a mere conception of the mind have such an effect ? How should we be capable of the emotion arising from any cause, when that cause is merely realized to us by the imagi nation, as it were, or by the conception ? That is the very peculiarity of the principle we are considering, and which we call by the name of sympathy : it is a law of our constitution, like any other law. It is just here that we observe the pecu liarity of this law of our nature. The conception realizes to us the cause : we would not otherwise be capable of feeling the emotion appropriate to that cause ; but we might have the con ception of that cause without the emotion, if we had not the capacity, or were not distinguished by the law, of sympathy.
Our sympathies with the general emotions will depend very much upon constitutional tendencies, upon the peculiar sen sibilities with which we are imbued. The emotional nature itself may be quicker in some cases than in others, and the susceptibility of the reflex emotions may, therefore, be greater, more lively. Again, we may be more constituted to sympathize with one kind of emotion than with another. The nature may be the more or less irascible, more or less generous in its tone and sympathies — and accordingly, we shall be the more or less liable to sympathize with the angry passions, or with the gene rous emotions. Habits, pursuits, professions, will mould our sympathies. We sympathize even with the most ordinary moods of mind ; and even with appearances in outward objects ; according as these are indicative, however, of one or another emotion, or supposed to be the sign of such emotion. It will be seen, therefore, that this is a state or law of our constitution which is seldom but in operation. Our feelings are ever taking their hues from the feelings of others ; are more or less influenced by them ; so that the general state of feeling in society is just the
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result of the emotions circulating from one to another, — is the prevailing emotion of each, and yet the compound effect of all. The very tastes, the very predilections of others, become our own, and we communicate ours to them. We seek, however, the society of those with whom we have a community of taste and principle. The cultivation of the mind, too, will give a tone to its feelings which will meet with its answering tone only in those of similar cultivation. We prefer the society of those who are of similar pursuits, similar habits, similar tastes, similar cultivation, with ourselves, — who can converse on the same topics, relish the same subjects, and perhaps entertain the same general views and sentiments. With what delight do we converse, do we associate, with such persons ! Their society is a restorative, a cordial, to the mind, and all ages have their companionships. We seek a congenial age, if we may so speak, in our companionships, as well as a congenial temper, and a congenial mind. Every society has its own friendships, every pursuit, every trade, every profession, every period of life. We sympathize even with the aspects of nature, as these are indicative of certain feelings, whether essentially, or by arbitrary circumstances of association, and we enter into the very mood of external creation. All nature speaks to us, has a voice and an aspect that we understand.
..." The wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky :"
the air, the earth, the water, all changes, and all seasons, speak to the mind, and impress their peculiar lessons, or beget their appropriate emotions. And we communicate our feelings again to outward objects. All nature is joyous or sad, as we are so ourselves. Half of its power over us is from ourselves. The internal mind is imaged on the external world. It has a power, however, intrinsic to itself. We could not make a cheerful sky sorrowful if we would, and that it does not in spire us with joy is from the state of our own minds, which would refuse any appeal whatever to our mirthful or joyous feelings. There is something in the voice of a brook which
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stirs the innermost emotions of the soul, placid, steady, deep ; in the sigh of the wind ; in the dash of the ocean ; in sunshine and gloom ; in calm and tempest : our mind feels in all, has an emotion corresponding to each. Such is the law, such is the power of sympathy. What a power does it exert in uniting society ! What a bond of connexion ! What an amalgamating principle ! And through it, nature itself is animated, intelli gent, full of sentiment, and the inspirer of the finest, and the most delightful, sometimes the most exalted, emotions.
Generosity, or kindness, and gratitude, are the emotions that come next in course, and they also belong to the generic emotion of love, have their rise in it, or connexion with it ; for generosity is love in action, while gratitude is love answering to generosity. Love seeks the good of its object ; it prompts, therefore, to acts of generosity and kindness. Were love an emotion confined to the heart, without going out in action, it would be of very little use, however pleasing or agreeable. But it is not so confined ; it seeks the good of others. It prompts to deeds of active benevolence ; it leads to all generous or kind actions. Kind ness is just love doing good. Gratitude is love repaying that good, or answering to it : it is the corresponding sentiment to kindness, has relation to the same generic virtue or sentiment. We may, indeed, shew kindness where we do not love, and we are required to do so even to our enemies ; but it is a loving nature that does so. It seems to be essential to gratitude, how ever, that there should be active love ; love in the very emo tion, and while the emotion lasts. Is there not here, again, a beautiful relation, and dependence, among our sentiments ? How fine is the interchange of kindness and gratitude ! How delightful are both emotions ! Any act of true kindness, where this feeling is really experienced, is as much a source of pleasure as the greatest personal good experienced by ourselves can be. It is a pleasure to shew any kindness, to be the cause of any good, to be the means of any happiness to others ; and the feeling of gratitude is only inferior to it: it is a direct pleasurable emotion. It has been said by high authority, " It
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is more blessed to give than to receive." But any one who has felt the pleasure of gratitude will acknowledge it to be a plea sure, and one of no mean kind. There is no inferiority implied in being the object of kindness, and there can be no painful sense, then, in gratitude. The object of our kindness, now, may be the object of our gratitude again. We may require of him the kindness we exemplify. What is life made up of but an infinite number of acts of kindness and returns of gratitude ? What would life be if this law of kindness and gratitude were not recognised ? The greatest of all benefactors must be the Creator ; and to Him the greatest gratitude is due. He is the first object of love ; and He is the highest object of gratitude ; for all excellencies centre in Him, and the greatest blessings flow from Him. But every inferior benefactor is the proper object of gratitude ; and if he is a true benefactor, he exempli fies in his deed of kindness the active influence of love. There is a way in which a benefaction may be done, which makes it no real kindness. It is the spirit of the action that gives it all its worth ; and our gratitude will be found, accordingly, to correspond to the nature of the action which may seem to call for it. It will be the greater, the more kindness has been in the action, the more it has been really prompted by kindness, by love. The amount of the benefaction \\ill influence our gratitude, where we have reason to believe there has been real kindness, real love in it ; but where there has been this, it is not the amount of the benefaction that will measure the love. The love itself will be the grand element of consideration, and our love will answer to it, and our gratitude will be love respond ing to it. Here, again, both emotions are ultimate, simple ; but they have an obvious relation to the more generic emotion, love; and as the one is love doing good, the other is love answering to that good, and just in proportion to the love discerned in the state of mind which prompted to the good done. WTe are not grateful for mere good done, we must perceive kindness in the motive that prompted it; as generosity is not merely doing good, it is love or kindness in the act, or in the disposition leading to it. We refer to the emotions just
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now ; the morality of the two states of mind, and their corre sponding actions, or expression, come under another department of a moral course. They have a moral character, and come more properly to be considered after the consideration of the moral element itself.
We now come to that state of mind we denominate Desire. This we regard as a generically distinct state of mind from emotion simply. Emotion and desire are not the same ; they are specifically different. Both Stewart and Eeid consider the desires separately from the affections, as distinct states of mind. Dr. Brown, ;on the other hand, ranks the desires among the emotions, classifying them as the prospective emotions. If desire, however, is an emotion, it is so peculiar, or specifically distinct, as to take a different name from all the other emotions. We do not speak of the emotion of desire ; we speak of desire, or the desires. There is the general state, or phenomenon, of desire ; this is a characteristic of mind, and the desires are called so, because the one state or phenomenon, desire, may be directed towards different objects. Dr. Keid enumerates the three desires ; the desire of power, the desire of esteem, the desire of knowledge. Stewart's enumeration is, the desire of knowledge, or the principle of curiosity ; the desire of society ; the desire of esteem ; the desire of power, or the principle of ambition ; the desire of superiority, or the principle of emula tion. Dr. Brown, again, considers the desire of continued ex istence, the desire of pleasure, the desire of occupation, the desire of society, the desire of knowledge, the desire of power — which he considers under the division, the desire of direct power as in ambition, and the desire of indirect power as in avarice — the desire of the affection of those around us, the desire of glory, the desire of the happiness of others, the desire of the unhappiness of others. The last of these enumerations will be allowed to be very complete. We would, with all deference, ask, If it is at all necessary to make a specific enumeration of the desires, and if it is not more philosophical, to consider desire simply as one of the states or phenomena of
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our mental constitution, and to consider any object whatever as the object of desire, if it yields pleasure and confers happi ness, or secures some good ? Desire is properly one state ; and that has as many objects as there are supposed sources of happiness, or objects capable of conferring delight, or produc tive of good. Is it possible to enumerate the desires, or bring them under any classification ? For example, the desire of rest is as much a desire as that of occupation ; and the desire of study as much as that of knowledge. Kest, surely, will not be included under the desire of pleasure : it yields pleasure, indeed, but it is a distinct object of desire, — and why not include the desire of occupation under the same class ? The pleasure of study, and the pleasure of knowledge, are dis tinct pleasures, and they themselves, therefore, are distinct objects of desire. Then, what Keid and Stewart call the desire of esteem, Dr. Brown includes under the desire of the affection of others : they seem, however, to be distinct, and the desire of the affection of others, neither Eeid nor Stewart has taken any notice of. The desire of fame, again, is with Stewart a modi fication of the desire of esteem ; with Dr. Brown, it is a distinct desire, or a modification of the desire of glory. And how are we to distinguish ambition and emulation ? Is ambition no part of the desire of superiority ? is it only a modification of the desire of power ? The desire of superiority and the desire of power are distinct according to Stewart. It would be dif ficult to say whether ambition is a modification of the desire of power or the desire of glory, or identical with either. What ever gives pleasure, or is regarded as a source of happiness — falsely or not — or confers good, or may effect it, is an object of desire. Dr. Brown has taken notice of the desire of continued existence, which is not included in the other classifications. This is undoubtedly one of our desires ; for existence itself is felt as a pleasure as distinguished from non-existence ; is pre ferred, with all its pains and sufferings, to non-existence, or annihilation. But why enumerate this as a distinct desire, when it is an object of desire, as being a source of actual plea-
2G
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sure ? With some, it may be an object of desire, chiefly because it affords an opportunity of doing good ; and yet the desire of doing good, the desire of usefulness, is not taken notice of, except it be involved in the desire of power, under which aspect Dr. Brown makes pointed and beautiful allusion to it. Here, again, we have a distinct or separate desire included as an element in another. The desire of doing good to others is not to be regarded as in itself the same as the desire of power, or as in any way belonging to it. It is more like the desire of happiness to others, which Dr. Brown also specifies, but it is not the same, for the desire of the happiness of others is not always the same with the desire of conferring that happiness. We may desire this too, but the former is independent of the latter, and may be felt the most strongly when there is the least means to accomplish our desire ; the desire of the happi ness of others, therefore, is distinct from the desire of being the actual producers of the happiness. The desire of doing good to others may often be the opposite of the desire of their happiness, their immediate happiness. Our moral desires, again, are a distinct class of desires ; as the desire of the happi ness, and the desire of the virtuous conduct, of others, the desire of the true, the desire of the just, the praiseworthy, the good. The Apostle exhorts to covet, or desire, the best gifts : this was moral desire. In addition to anything — any quality, object, situation, circumstances — being a source of pleasure, and occasion of happiness, and consequently desirable, — the honour able, the excellent, the fair, in one word, the virtuous, the good, may be the object of desire. Our desires, in other words, again, may have for their object whatever is good in the sense of producing happiness, and whatever is good in the sense of being virtuous or excellent. We would not attempt, then, a complete enumeration of the desires ; and as desire itself is very much moral in its character, a moral state, or involving a moral state, or very intimately connected with such a state ; while there are moral desires ; we prefer deferring the considera tion of this characteristic of our nature, till after we have con-
THE EMOTIONS. 467
sidered the moral element itself. This, we think, is demanded by the very nature of the phenomena of desire. If there is anything moral in desire ; if it involves or supposes a moral state ; if, at least, in a moral being, it can hardly be separated from what is moral in the general state ; and if many, or most, of our desires are directly moral in their character, or involve a certain degree of morality — as with the desire of power, or ambition, the desire of superiority, or emulation — we must obviously know the moral element, be able to recognise its presence, and estimate its amount. We enter upon the con sideration, then, of what is moral in our nature, as just another aspect of our nature ; and we enter upon it at this point, be cause it is just here that we see the influence of that part of our nature, characterizing our desires, and now lord of the ascendant, as it were, or asserting its control over every other part of our complex being. We now, however, pass out of the PHENOMENAL MERELY, into the moral, out of the laws of our constitution merely, into the laws of duty. The questions we have to do with have now an abstract value, and are out of our selves, as it were, although the states or laws of mind by which we deal with such questions, or are concerned in them, are strictly phenomenal, and belong to the moral part of our con stitution. We have hitherto had to do only with the pheno menal. We have now to do not only with the phenomenal but with the dutiful, if we may so speak; not only with the " esse" but with the " oportet" The additional element that comes under our consideration is one of grand and paramount importance, and gives a distinct character to this part of our being. So important is it, so distinguishing, that it takes man out of the category of mere existences, and connects him with the universe of truth, and not only truth, but moral truth, im posing upon him a law, and that the laiv of duty. Man is now not only a mere being, he is a moral being ; has not only a place in creation, but has a part to perform in creation : he not only lives, and thinks, and feels — he wills — and not only wills, but wills according to a law of right or wrong. And
4t)8 THE EMOTIONS.
this law is not arbitrary, it 'is eternal ; it is not imposed, it is a part of his very nature. It belongs to every moral being, enters into the essence of a moral constitution. It is the law of duty, the law of right and wrong, a law of eternal and ab stract propriety. It is true, it is our moral nature which pos sesses this law, which admits of it, which gives it concrete existence, or actual power and bearing, or application, and which discerns and appreciates it : but the law would be the same in abstract right and propriety, though there had never been a moral nature to apprehend it, and though every moral being should at any time cease to exist. We have, therefore, a very distinct subject of consideration from any that has hitherto engaged us. Had we dwelt upon the abstract rela tions of number, and magnitude, and figure, or lines and super ficies, we would have come into a region of the abstract, and of necessary and eternal relations. " Why is it," says Whewell, " that three and two are equal to four and one ? Because, if wre look at five things of any kind, we see that it is so. The five are four and one ; they are also three and two. The truth of onr assertion is involved in our being able to conceive the number five at all. We perceive tins truth by intuition, for we cannot see, or imagine we see, five things, without perceiving also that the assertion above stated is true.
" But how do we state in words this fundamental principle of the doctrine of numbers ? Let us consider a very simple case. If we wish to shew that seven and- two are equal to four and five, we say that seven are four and three, therefore seven and two are four and three and two. Mathematical reasoners justify the first inference, marked by the conjunctive word therefore, by saying that 'when equals are added to equals, the whole are equal,' and that thus since seven is equal to three and four, if we add two to both, seven and two are equal to four and three and two." We introduce this extract to shew that the determination of a question of numbers depends upon abstract truth ; and all questions of numbers depend upon abstract truth, intuitions of the mind ; and not only
THE EMOTIONS. 4(J9
so, but inconceivable, nay impossible, to be otherwise. It is the same with abstract relations of rectitude. These do not depend upon a constitution ; it is not because the moral constitution is so and so ; it is not because we are thus consti tuted, or God himself is thus constituted ; but they are so and so eternally, of themselves. We could not conceive them other wise, nay, they could not be otherwise. Everything else may be said to depend upon a constitution or nature, if not the created constitution or nature, yet the constitution or nature of the Eternal Being himself. Everything else may be re solved into being and the laws of being. But the relations of number and magnitude, and the abstract relations of right, are eternal, or are impossible to be conceived, and even to be, otherwise than they are. The mind refuses not only by a law of its oiun, but by all law, to conceive or to judge otherwise. But how different, again, these relations ! The one class have a bearing upon ideas alone ; the other suppose moral beings among whom the relations reciprocate. There is in a moral relation what necessitates the supposition of being ; or there is in the authoritative force of the sentiment what will not allow our minds to suppose that the truth perceived is a relation and no more. There is & practical power in the sentiment. It has an authoritative voice within us which makes us feel our relations to being, and such relations as we dare not disregard. It is here that consciousness cannot be mistaken. There can be no discussion about the truthfulness of its intimations. The feeling within now is such that no dubiety rests upon it ; it is practical, overwhelming. There is reality here if nowhere else. We have got out of the world of shadows into the world of realities — of mere consciousness into authoritative conscious ness — consciousness which speaks aloud, which enforces itself, which does not admit for a moment of questioning, which will not allow debate or parleying, which unites us in relations not to be broken with our fellow-beings, while it makes us realize to ourselves our own substantive existence and importance. This is Kant's " practical reason," and it is interesting to notice that
470 THE EMOTIONS.
it is just at this point that Kant gets back to the world of actual existence, when he had hitherto contended, and on the ground, as he thought, of the most rigid demonstration, that all that we knew was but our own consciousness, and that it was the forms of mind alone that gave to us the external world, or external existence.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL NATURE.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL NATURE.
" Now," says Morell, in giving an account of Kant's philo sophy, " the best, the most satisfactory, and by far the most useful part of the Kantian philosophy is to come, that, namely, in which he sets aside the results of speculative reason by those of the practical reason. The immortality of the soul, the existence of God, and all such superseusnal ideas, cannot, it is true, be demonstrated ; but, says Kant, our reason has not only a speculative movement, it has also a practical movement, by which it regulates the conduct of man, and does this with such a lofty bearing and such an irresistible authority, that it is impossible for any rational being to deny its dictates. Ideas, therefore, wliicli in theory cannot hold good, in practice are/ seen to have a reality, because they become the cause of human actions, — an effect which could never take place, if there were- not some real existence to produce it."
This extract points to the difference that there is between the speculative and the practical reason, or reason when directed to speculative subjects and the same reason when applied to practical. In our dealings with merely speculative subjects, we may allow our minds the utmost latitude, and go all the length of the most rigid metaphysics, stop short of no conclusion that abstract speculation thinks itself warranted to draw : but when any practical question arises, when especially the dictates of duty are heard, when reason speaks out in the voice of conscience, and when the intimations of consciousness
474 THE MORAL NATURE.
are concerned with moral obligation, we have no hesitation in admitting these intimations ; and reason in moral decisions sets aside all cavil about existence, either personal or other wise ; and we no longer demur, but carry out boldly our con victions, as if the intimations of our consciousness could not for a moment be called in question. Morality is the grand determinator of all speculative questions : it cannot admit them for a moment: it issues its own authoritative commands in spite of them : it does not take them even into consideration : if there is no outer world — if ideas are everything to the mind — if the mind's own forms are all that can be predicated, or can be known to exist, — still duty must be done, its demands cannot be deferred, and the external being, and the external world, are the objects among which the relations of duty are recog nised, and the arena on which these relations are to be practi cally acknowledged. It is somewhat singular that the question about an external world has always been discussed with refer ence to external matter alone. It might well be admitted that our consciousness in reference to it might be a subject of doubt, and that we were warranted to admit nothing more for certain than the internal feelings and states of consciousness ; that, so far as we knew, these were all that truly had any existence ; that a material world, with all its phenomena, were so many phantasmagoria passing through our own minds ; — but the minds of others, the influence they have upon us, the intelli gence communicated from them to our own, the flash of mutual recognition, and, still more, the duties we owe these other mental existences, or spiritual beings, in a world, or system, of which we are only a part, seem to put all speculation about an external world at an end ; for if we cannot but admit mind to exist — if we cannot deny it — if the intercourse of mind with mind, and the paramount demands of duty in an especial manner, render every tendency to stop short with a negative, if not an actually sceptical philosophy, impossible or absurd, why should there not be a material world without us, corresponding to the informations of consciousness, or impres sions upon the self-conscious being, as well as that spiritual
THE MOKAL NATURE. 475
world, of which we become cognizant through the interchanges of intelligence, and communion of intelligent minds ? We cannot deny at least mind to exist. Why deny matter ? Is our consciousness with reference to the one a whit more autho ritative than our consciousness with reference to the other ? Can any laws of mind be regarded as more authoritative than other laws ? What is there, after all, even in the demands of duty, that make them so irresistible as respects the convic tions of being without us, and the claims they have upon us ? Is all speculation to be determined by this, and to be deter mined by no other intimations of consciousness ? There may be greater power in the intimations of consciousness now, but is there greater truthfulness ? Is it not the same self-conscious being still ? We are satisfied, however, with the admission, that now we have an irresistible authority, that we have an appeal which cannot be resisted, that conscience depones to an external world, and an external sphere of being : duty has its relations, and these are external, or suppose external being. Undoubtedly, there is a power in moral convictions, in the felt relations of moral duty, which nothing can gainsay, and nothing can silence. It is wisdom to listen to its voice, though wisdom might have come earlier to the determination of such a question, and a less authoritative and powerful appeal might have sooner satisfied the mind in reference to a subject on which all consciousness should be authoritative.
The moral in our constitution, it will be seen, therefore, has a very great importance, and asserts a very great power and control. It determines a question, according to Kant himself, that were otherwise undetermined, or that but for it, for the practical in our nature, had remained undetermined, and would have admitted of no solution. We would still have been in doubt as to an external world, and all its phenomena ; they might have existed, or they might not. We are no longer in doubt : we have practically to do with that world : it makes practical demands upon us, and we are now recalled to cer tainty, to actuality, to unmistakable existence, to a world that we were disposed before to let go, to dismiss from the category
476 THE MORAL NATURE.
of being, and resolve into the mere phenomena of conscious ness. This is a great effect. It was candid in such a philoso pher to admit it. We may remark the superior certainty that moral consciousness, the intimations of duty, give to our feel ings, while we had no such tendency to let go the external world, merely from the difficulty of passing from a state of consciousness to one of actual cognition or belief — while to our minds the intimations of consciousness in every state of it was regarded as decisive or irresistible. We do feel that we have to do with less mistakable matter: that we have more cer tainty ; or, at least, that there is less possibility of appeal from the intimations within, and the demands that we recognise from without. The moral and spiritual being — the faculty belonging to such a nature — is authoritative and paramount ; the infinite destinies connected with the possession of such a nature do not admit of trifling, are grand themselves, and assume a grand importance — make us feel a reality which characterizes in the same manner no other feelings; so that while we could look abroad upon the world, and admit the possibility of its being all illusion, we cannot for a moment so deal with our spiritual and immortal nature, and with those duties that it imposes, and those destinies it implies.
It is worth while remarking this peculiar characteristic of what Kant calls " the practical reason." It was a solution to Kant himself of what ought never to have been to him a problem. The informations of consciousness ought to be au thoritative in every case. There is a difference between the erroneous informations of consciousness at particular times, as under a hallucination, or in a dream, and the stable informa- .tions of consciousness upon which all proceed, and which we ' have not at particular times merely, but at all times, uniformly, whenever our minds and senses are in the circumstances to receive such and such impressions. Kant himself owns the authority of the " practical reason ;" but wherein is our con sciousness now distinguished from our consciousness before ? What makes the difference ? There is no difference in the nature of the consciousness ; there is a difference only in the
THE MORAL NATURE. 477
strength of it. Nothing can be more absurd than a negative philosophy, in spite of all the demonstrations of German metaphysics, or the apparent difficulties in which Berkeleian- ism involves us. How absurd for a moment to doubt the ' informations of the mind which God has given us — of mind at, all ! It comes to be a question at last, what is certainty itself? Let the philosophers who refuse to believe in the informations of mind, given in our consciousness, determine what certainty £ is at all. What kind of certainty do we need other than we have ? What other kind of certainty can there be ? What is the certainty of demonstration, but the certainty which our mind gives us, which our minds allow ? Is it not mind that appreciates that certainty as much as the certainty of sense — or moral certainty ? We cannot see that we have ground for believing anything, even a demonstrative truth, if we have not ground for believing in the clear and distinct informations of consciousness. It was a true test of existence which Descartes laid down, namely, the clearness and distinctness of our ideas. )( What else is the test of demonstration ? We allow, however, the^ superior force of our moral convictions, of moral consciousness.* There is something, no doubt, in the manner in which a moral principle announces itself, that speaks of being ; that depones more authoritatively in respect to other existence?,to other beings. To recur to the extract from Morell, — " Ideas -which in theory, cannot hold good, in practice are seen to have a reality, because' they become the cause of human actions, — an effect which could never take place, if there were not some real existence to pro-ii duce it." We might be disposed to ask the absolute philo-'1 sopher, Why this is an effect which could never take place, unless there was a real existence to produce it ? May not the effects in the region of morals be as much an illusion as any where else, and may not all real existences be as little credible now as ever? What is there in a moral feeling that makes x existence credible, or likely, when it was discarded before ?if Nothing, surely, more than the greater authority and vividness^ of the feeling. This is all the difference. But will authority and vividness decide the question, where Descartes' distinctness
478 THE MORAL NATURE.
and clearness were not enough ? They might not, certainly ; but they may come in to help the criterion which Descartes laid down. The additional distinctness, the additional clear ness, if there can be said to be these — at all events, the addi tional authority, may well strengthen our convictions of an external, even a material world. It will be found that philo sophy is never true to itself when it seeks more than con sciousness depones to ; but that it is perfectly true to itself when it receives all to which consciousness does depone. To question the informations of consciousness, is to set up an arbiter which we have no right to appoint. Consciousness is our arbiter. Mistake, deception, false inference ! we have no right to use the words ; we must believe as we are informed. True, all is consciousness ; but our belief is consciousness, too, or is as much a law of the mind as consciousness. We are conscious of the belief: — Shall we discard that consciousness, and trust implicitly in the other ? It is the consciousness of a belief ; the other is the consciousness of a certain impression ) or sensation. Is the one consciousness any less true than the other ? Consciousness itself is not to be believed — must be all an illusion, at this rate. It may be said that a belief is autho ritative, as a part of consciousness, but that it is not authorita tive as a belief. It is a mere consciousness. What, then, is the good of our consciousness ? Does not consciousness itself infer the belief in the truth, or in the existence, of at least that consciousness ? Are we not warranted to believe in that ? We are not, if a belief of the mind, as such, is not self-evidencing or authoritative ; and, if we are not warranted to believe in our state of consciousness, the last subject of belief is taken from us, and there is nothing in which we can believe. There is nothing between us and the most absolute nihilism, which, accordingly, is the result of an absolute philosophy, and to which some of the German philosophers hesitate not to come.
We make these remarks in connexion with the new depart ment on which we are entering, because of the peculiar nature of that department, and the assistance which it seems to lend to the interests of a positive philosophy, — a service recognised by
THE MORAL NATURE. 479
Kant himself, — too candid a philosopher, it would appear, to reject an evidence when it was so plain and authoritative. It is a peculiarity of the moral department of our nature, which strikes the mind at any rate. We shall have occasion, as we proceed, to mark the authoritative voice of conscience, its supreme majesty, and the evidence that it yields, that we are not alone in the universe ; that we are bound up with a system ; that there are other beings besides ourselves ; and that exist ence, and the relations of existence, are not mere fictions, but,, if we may so express ourselves, the truest verities.
After the course of inquiry we have prosecuted, it will not ap pear surprising if it is ultimate facts we have to do with in the moral, as well as in the mental and emotional departments of our nature. In any department we but carry up our discussions a certain length, and then stop, unable to penetrate farther, and resting in the ultimate facts or laws of our minds at which we arrive. Can it be otherwise ? We do not know what we • are inquiring into, when we would ascertain anything farther1 than appearances, or more than what any being, law, or nature, is as it appears to us. Is this not all the Ontology that is* possible ? Arrive at the most ultimate, the most elementary principle in our constitution, and is that not needing to be< accounted for ? and what is ontology except just things as they affect us ? We cannot speak of the nature of the Divine mind, and Divine knowledge, but we might be warranted to ask, If there can be any ontology beyond what things are as they appear to the Divine Being himself ? Things are just as they appear, and more elementary principles or elements may be known to an omniscient mind, but the very last element would seem to be just an element of being or of truth. The essence of being, for example, the substratum of qualities — must not that be just what it seems, or, more properly speaking, what it is seen to be ? We admit there is an essence or sub-,* stratum in which qualities inhere, and which is known, pro- i bably, only to the Divine mind, or, at least, is not granted to! our knowledge here. But grant that essence known, and what
480 THE MORAL NATURE.
would it be to us other than it was seen to be ? It is the same with those ultimate facts of being, and principles of truth, which are subjects of our knowledge : What are they, and what can they be, but as they are seen or known ? Need we quarrel with this limit of our knowledge ? Or does the fact of knowledge having a limit somewhere undervalue what we do know ? or is a principle depreciated in worth because it is an ultimate principle, or because we can say no more about it than that so it is ? We know nothing of the essence of being ; arid we know nothing of the qualities of being further than as these qualities affect us. But is being, and are the qualities of being, nothing on that account ? Shall we deal with these as we would with illusions merely ? No ; we cannot say what they are other than as they impress us, or as we may have an idea of them ; for we have an idea even of essence, or substratum, such as that idea is ; but we do not, therefore, deny them to be — as Berkeley, and the German Idealists, would — but believe them to be something, and what, at least, they impress our minds with being. What conceivable necessity is there for defining a quality to be more than what it appears to us, or than just as it affects us ? Is not that the very thing to be described ? We wish a certain quality described ; we say, then, it is that which affects us in such and such a manner. Is not this all that is necessary — all that, perhaps, can be ? We might ask if qualities appear to the Divine mind other than they do to our own ? What can be beyond the quality besides the quality of affecting us in such and such a way ? Time, Space, Power, or any elementary idea — is there anything in it beyond what itself is seen or recognised to be by any given Intelligent ? What could that be — is it likely that there is anything more than what our minds are capable, even now, of informing us of, or representing to us ? It might, without irreverence, be ques tioned, if the Divine Being has any other knowledge of these than we ourselves possess. More precise ideas the Divine Being must possess, but are they not still of the same kind with • our own ?* What can power be to any mind other than that
* See Note C.
THE MORAL NATURE. 481
which produces an effect ? what could be more precise about that idea than just what we have here said of it ? If there is more to be known of it, it must be not as power, but as something connected with it, distinguishing it, arid making the idea of power more vivid, perhaps, and more complete than that which we possess. Power of itself must ever be that which produces an effect. How power operates, one, and yet varied, in all the different manifestations of it, may be inconceivable to us, and may admit of more definite ideas, and must be clearly compre hensible to the Divine mind, — but power itself, can it ever be other than that which produces an effect ?
When we come, accordingly, to deal with the abstract prin ciples of right and wrong, we say it is not wonderful, if here, too, we have something ultimate, and, indeed, abstractly speaking, it were strange if in all knowledge there was not something ultimate, something beyond which nothing farther could be known. Must not this, we have already asked, be the case even with the Divine mind ? Must there not necessarily in every case be a last element of knowledge ? Is this to limit the Divine knowledge ? It is not. And the question just comes to be, If there is something so evidently unexhausted in what may be the object of our knowledge, that, although we cannot go any farther, there must evidently be something further which remains yet to be known ? It seems to be a gratuitous assumption that this is the case. It has been the custom with philosophers, and with those who are not philoso phers, to think and speak as if there must be something beyond every subject of knowledge, which can be apprehended only by the Divine mind, or as the Divine mind chooses to reveal it, or make it the object of knowledge also to others. This is the origin of Ontology, and of all questions to elucidate the hidden nature of being, and of the principles and laws of being. Something more is sought for, or is inquired into, than being as it is, or qualities as they affect us, and principles as we can appreciate them. In no questions has this tendency been more seen, and produced more discussion, than in regard to the nature of right and wrong — the standard according to which
2e
482 THE MORAL NATURE.
we judge of it, and the nature of that principle by which we form our judgment. The tendency here, as in regard to the other parts of our nature, and indeed to being and law gener ally, has been perhaps a natural one ; as much so, at least, as in any other department, or in regard to any other object of inquiry. To determine the precise nature of virtue — of the moral principle, of the moral element — was no more than a natural tendency, surely, and might well be deemed as worthy a subject of inquiry as any other ; more worthy, by how much the subject itself is more worthy, more important. But as respects this subject, there was a greater danger of the tendency, ; perhaps, than as regards any other; for if to seek to penetrate beyond an ultimate law or principle be always dangerous, landing, as it does, in a professed scepticism, or in a vague unsatisfactory doubt, and even in some cases leading to a rejection of all knowledge whatever, and therefore plunging into the abyss of nihilism ; the evil is augmented when it is moral principle, or the law of morality, with which we have to deal, inasmuch as a moral principle, or the law of morals, is of far greater importance than any other ; and to involve the mind in doubt or uncertainty here, or again in a state of entire abnegation, is to insure the most undesirable and the most disastrous consequences. Here especially is it dangerous to refuse assent to a principle of the mind itself, and to what that principle asserts and demands of us. It is a more sacred and precious element we have now to deal with ; where, if the fine ness and sacredness of the element escapes us, through a too eager and inquisitive desire to bring out that element itself to view, we have sacrificed all that was valuable and dignified and exalted to a speculative tendency, and have gained nothing in the additional information we have acquired, or in the supposed light we have been able to throw upon the sub ject. We have only found out our own ignorance, while we have not added to, but rather diminished, the weight of our principles. Virtue is like a fine essence that will not be analyzed without escaping in the hands of the experimenter. y. That there are eternal distinctions of right and wrong, who
THE MORAL NATURE. 483
can for a moment doubt ? How vain to inquire into the ground of these^as of any abstract principles whatever ! It is different when we inquire into the nature of any complex feel ing or law of the mind. We have then to determine the elements which go to compose it. This may be at once interesting and useful. To fix the nature of beauty, for ex ample, we may consider all the elements that are either involved in the emotion or feeling, or that are connected with it, and if we come to any ultimate principle, it is in vain, and it were foolish, to attempt to go any farther. Why it is that^ any object appears beautiful or otherwise, may be a question ^ comprehending distinctions, and requiring analysis of certain* complex feelings ; for the emotion of the beautiful, if ulti-* mately elementary, and incapable of analysis, has yet muclif. connected with it which it derives from other feelings, into* which we may inquire, and which we may with interest inves tigate. But the ground of moral approbation — the distinction^ between right and wrong — is essentially an ultimate question/* and can admit of no analysis : and farther than the distinc-/. tion itself, therefore, we cannot go. Is this to do away withX the distinction ? By no means. It remains in its own im-i pregnable stronghold, from which nothing is able to dislodge it. There are many circumstances, however, connected with* the distinction, which it is important to remark, as we would remark the circumstances characterizing any speculative or practical distinction whatever, and calling for more particular remark, the more that the distinction is one of great and para mount importance. The distinction in our minds between right and wrong, as every phenomenon of our nature is calcul ated to do, leads to the inquiry, What is the amount of the i distinction — what is the nature of it — why do we regard this /> as right and that as wrong ? But no sooner was this inquiry** started, than it took different shapes, which were after all one in reality, or resolvable into one and the same, but which, from the different terms employed, as the question took one form or another, created, and still occasion, considerable confusion. ]f we were to limit our inquiry to what is the nature of the dis-
484 THE MORAL NATURE.
tinction between right and wrong — what is the ground of this distinction ? we would have a very precise object in view. But when we ask what is the standard by which we judge between right and wrong, how do we recognise the distinction ? what again is virtue ? and what is that faculty within us by which we determine what is right and what is wrong — what is virtu ous and what is not ? — all these separate inquiries, involving, in the main, the same element, or resolvable ultimately into the same inquiry, were still different, and led to great confusion, by being discussed as one, or by the terms employed in the differ ent inquiries being regarded as interchangeable. Let the in quiry be, What is the distinction between right and wrong, or what is the ground of that distinction ? and it will be seen we inquire into an abstract principle, and we might soon perceive that we are no more able to determine that principle, or to say anything more about it, than that it is ultimate, or that so it is, than in the case of any of the ultimate laws or principles of our minds, and of any of our original and elementary ideas. We perceive the distinction — the distinction presses itself upon our attention in spite of ourselves ; we cannot destroy it if we would ; but it is ultimate : it has no grounds for it beyond the nature of the distinction itself, or at least we cannot perceive ;the grounds. But when it is asked, What is the standard by : which we judge of right and wrong — what is the standard of V right and wrong ? — we are in effect asking, What is the ground V of the distinction between right and wrong, or, in other words, V what is the nature of right and wrong ? But then, the mind, in its inattention or inadvertence, introduces arbitrary standards, formed upon certain views of right and wrong ; and thus the question is transferred from the distinction between right and wrong, or the ground of it, if that can be found, or, if the dis tinction is not ultimate, to something else, some characteristics, or circumstances, connected with the distinction, which we conclude to be the ground of the distinction itself, and which we accordingly regard as the standard by which we estimate it : and we seem all the while to be inquiring into the nature or i ground of the distinction itself. In like manner, when the in-
THE MORAL NATURE. 485
quiry is into the nature of virtue, we may seem to be inquiring into the distinction between right and wrong — the nature or ground of that distinction ; and we fix upon certain circum stances connected with virtue, characterizing and distinguish ing it, which we pronounce to be of the essence of virtue itself, and which we call the standard of virtue, according to the par ticular circumstance that we may fix upon. The term virtue carries the mind away from the real object of inquiry, namely, the nature of right and wrong, the distinction between these, the eternal characteristics of the qualities themselves ; and it is easy to find something distinguishing so undefined a term as virtue by which to describe it, and in which the thing itself may be said to consist. Then, again, we inquire into the nature of the moral faculty. We ask, what is that according to which we approve of an action, and disapprove of another ? and we say it is this or that quality in the action ; and the moral faculty is that by which we recognise that quality, while the quality is that which constitutes the morality of the action; or the moral faculty is a sense within us, and the morality of an action is its correspondence with this moral sense. This too removes the question away from the true object, and fixes it upon, it may be, some arbitrary quality, or makes right and wrong dependent upon a certain sense within ourselves. The proper object of inquiry is, What is right and wrong in itself — what constitutes the distinction — can we find anv ground of it
•/ O
— can we lay down any principles or reasons why we pronounce an action right or wrong — are there such principles either dis coverable, or at all — or is the distinction ultimate, and can we find no ground of it beyond itself? This seems to be the proper question ; and the standard of right and wrong, and the nature of virtue, are just the Tightness and wrongness of an action itself, perceived to be such by the mind ultimately ; and the moral faculty is the judgment, with the accompanying feel ing, by which we perceive this distinction, and by which it has such authority over us. Sir James Mackintosh, at the com mencement of his " Dissertation upon the Progress of Ethical Philosophy," has pointed out the confusion which has arisen"
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from the blending of the above questions, and from not keeping in view the true object of investigation. The different theories upon the subject of morals, therefore, cannot be regarded as theories upon the same subject at all, although they are so re garded — as theories, namely, having in view the determination of the nature of virtue, or of the distinction between right and wrong : the nature of the moral faculty merely comes in as sub sidiary to this, at least professedly so ; although with those again who exalt this faculty into a moral sense, their main object is to settle this, and then an action takes its character according as it is regarded as in unison or not with this inward sense. This diversity of object creates great difficulty in dealing with the opinions and views that have been entertained in this depart ment of inquiry, for no two writers almost have precisely the same object, while at the same time their own remarks are not confined to one object, but take up by turns every one of the questions that we have hinted at above. We must endeavour to extricate the real object of inquiry, and form a right esti mate of the different theories, according to the real point of view from which the question was considered in them, whether their own precise question, or the general abstract question of morals or of duty.
That the mind recognises a distinction between right and wrong in action, is undoubted. The mind as certainly pro nounces between these two qualities as between any two quali ties, between numbers, or between the comparative magnitudes of bodies. The relation of number and magnitude is not more certainly appreciable by the mind than the relation of right and wrong. In any theory of morals, then, or any attempt to determine in what consists the morality of an action, the ques tion simply is, What is it which gives to us the Tightness and wrongness of an action, or whereby we determine it to be right or wrong ? What is the ground of this distinction ? Is there any ground for the distinction appreciable by the mind ; or is the distinction ultimate ? When we say that an action is right or wrong, have we any ground for saying so beyond the right- ness or wrongness of the action itself ? Can we explain why
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it is right, or why it is wrong — give any reasons for pronouncing it so ? Now, it would seem that no account or explanation of this can be given, but that we perceive at once the quality of lightness or wrongness apart from any such explanation ; in other words, that the distinction is an ultimate one, and that the best reason for the distinction is the distinction itself. Why should we seek a reason ? The distinction is cognisable by our minds in itself, and depends on nothing else. It is not because this or that is so, that an action is right or wrong ; it is right or wrong in itself. To abstain from injuring our neighbour is right, not on any ground that we can assign, but in itself absolutely. The moment we seek for reasons for act ing in this way, we degrade our action from its high moral character, its own imperative obligation, and make it something else than an action implying moral obligation ; or, if the rea sons we assign imply moral obligation, it is still because of some Tightness or wrongness, which requires us to act in such and such a way ; and thus the question is still as to Tightness and wrongness, and not as to anything else. Do I say I should not injure my neighbour, because he is my neighbour — because he holds that relation to me — the question recurs, Why should we not injure any one holding this relation ? Why should we abstain from injury at all ? Is there not a propriety in doing so apart from all reasons beyond the nature of the action itself ? The previous obligation is considered or felt before there is even time to entertain any other question. If we act in any case from other reasons than those of moral Tightness and propriety, the action is not a moral one, or it is morally wrong, because it is not performed with a view to the moral lightness of the action, when it ought to be ; nor can it be all one, whether it is done from a moral principle or not, provided it be done at all. Moral principle demands that it be done from a regard to the Tightness of the action, not only to be morally right, but if it would not be morally wrong. Negation of principle is wrong principle — is itself wrong. I am required to act in such and such a way, from a respect to the Tightness of the action itself. No other motive should influence me. The authority of the
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action, its lightness, should be my sole motive, or my para mount obligation. This is the obligation of duty. The right- ness or wrongness in any case should be all — is the highest rea son. The mind is capable of apprehending right and wrong ; the perception of this relation as much belongs to it as that of any other. But there is something in the nature of the relation which is in no other. Any other relation is but an object of perception, or, at most, the perception, is accompanied but with an aesthetic emotion, or an emotion peculiar to the perception of the beautiful, or, more generally, the imaginative or ideal ; but this is accompanied with the feeling of obligation, or the strong feeling that impels to duty. The feeling of obligation arises out of the very nature of the action ; it belongs to the distinction between right and wrong ; to the perception of that distinction. The perception of the distinction carries with it the weight and the force of duty. It is not to weaken the distinction between right and wrong, to suppose such a feeling accompanying the perception of it. The perception is not the perception of a mere relation, it is of a moral relation, or the relation of right and wrong ; and that perception, when it is just, is never but accompanied by a certain feeling or emo tion. Were we to see a person deliberately inflicting injury on another, from whom he had never received any provocation, the mind would perceive at once a wrongness in the action ; nothing required it ; no law demanded it ; it was contrary to the relation in which the party injured stood to the party injuring, that of never having done injury to him, given the slightest provocation : the action, therefore, is essentially wrong. There was no relation whatever, it may be, between the parties : Why should there be that of unprovoked injury and unmerited suffering ? No reason could be assigned for this ; nothing could explain it. But this incongruity or inconsistency is not all that we perceive ; there is a wrongness, a moral wrongness, a wrong- ness that excites disapprobation. In like manner, any act of fraud — taking that which is not our own — which is another's — so that we use that which he had the right to use, is surely to introduce a new relation, making one's-self the owner of what
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was not really his own, and acting as if the real owner was not the owner : But whence the peculiar idea of right and wrong, and why, in this mere perception, the feeling of moral dis approbation ? It is obvious there is something more than a perception of a relation ; the relation is that of right or wrong : it is something which we at once pronounce wrong, in the instance supposed, and is accompanied or followed by a moral feeling. Brightness and wrongness, respectively, imply this feeling ; it would be merely a perception of incongruity other wise. The morality of the action is something more than its incongruity. Many actions are incongruous which are not wrong, and excite no moral disapprobation. Whence the wrongness ? whence the moral disapprobation ? The wrong- ness is the moral incongruity. And here all the peculiarity lies in the moral element — moral incongruity. Incongruity we can understand ; inconsistency, unfitness ; but what is moral in it — the element which allows us to call it moral incongruity ? which allows us to speak of it as wrong ? This is the very point in the question. And we are thus, undoubtedly, brought to an ultimate law of the mind. It is the mind itself ultimately that determines the good of an action. It is good, and the mind perceives it to be so. The mind does not make the action good : it is good independently ; but we can give no reason for its being so, and it is the determination of the mind itself that allows us to pronounce it so. It is the decision of the mind depending upon no assignable grounds ; and ultimate, or what reason sees necessarily to be. To go farther than this would be to seek a reason, which would itself require a reason, and so on infinitely. There must be ultimately something appreciable by reason which needs no reason for it, for which we could give no reason. A relation is appreciable by the mind irrespective of any reason ; it contains its own reason ; it is self-luminous, self-evident. Relations are what are appreciable by the mind, the matter of the mind's thoughts ; and while there are rela tions that may not be seen but in virtue of simpler ones, dependencies of truth upon truth, there are simple truths which do not admit of proof — relations, ultimate, for which we
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can give no account. This is seen in every department of truth, and in moral truth as well as any other. Man is an intellectual, an emotional, and a moral being, and in respect to each department of his nature, there are ultimate facts or laws beyond which we cannot go. To seek a reason for any of these, would be to seek a reason for reason itself, or a law for law itself. " The main principles of reason," says Hooker, " are in themselves apparent ; for to make nothing evident of itself to man's understanding, were to take away all possibility of knowing anything. And herein that of Theophrastus is true : — l They that seek a reason for all things do utterly over throw reason.' " If I ask why an action is right, it is impossible to give a reason ; and I. can perceive that its own rightness is its highest reason — that it were to degrade it, to seek a reason for its being right. That the relation of right and wrong, as a relation, is of the same nature as any other, is perfectly obvious, and it differs from any other only in being a moral relation, or the relation of right and wrong, and the object therefore not only of perception by a percipient agent, but of moral approba tion or disapprobation by a moral agent. We not only perceive, but we approve, what is right, as we not only perceive, but disapprove, what is Avrong. The relation of rightness and wrongness, however, in itself is appreciable by reason : it is the peculiarity of the relation that makes it further an object of moral approbation or disapprobation. The peculiarity of the relation excites a certain emotion in the moral percipient. What can we say more of this, than it is in the nature of the perceived relation to do so, and of the moral nature to experi ence that emotion in every such case of a perceived moral relation ? That we possess a moral nature is not more wonder ful, surely, than that we possess a nature at all. He that formed us, formed us with that nature, and we have but to mark its operations, and obey its dictates. Nor, because we were so made, is our nature arbitrary, might it have so been or not. If it were arbitrary, then were God's nature arbitrary, and moral distinction were a thing of creation. But it is not so ; moral distinction is eternal, and God made other natures
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like His own, moral in their constitution, and capable of moral discernment. The distinction which such a nature appreciates is one of eternal value or import, and independent of God himself. It is one intrinsic, eternal, and not constituted or created. Were it to depend even upon the nature of God, it would lose half its worth — might we not say all its worth ? — for its value consists in being of eternal, intrinsic worth, and therefore that to which God's own nature is conformed, al though eternally and essentially so. The distinction is such that there cannot be a moral nature without appreciating it, and there cannot be a perfect moral nature without being entirely conformed to it. A moral being apprehends the dis tinction, and a perfect moral being is in unison with it. It is like any other relation that pervades any other being : it is the relation of that being, and, if an intelligent being, appre hensible by it. Could we conceive matter intelligent, it would be perceptive of the relations pervading it: all intelligents perceive the relations of mere intelligent being, and all moral beings perceive the relations of moral being. To possess a moral nature, is to possess a capacity for deciding between right and wrong — perceiving the distinction, which is ultimate and eternal. Ask a reason for it, and none can be given : it is like any of the relations of the mind which are ultimate. Does this detract from the value of the distinction ? Is a principle less right because it is ultimate, and we can assign no reason for it ? If it were so, would not this suppose an infinite series of reasons to constitute the worth of one ? — for arrive at any ultimate reason, and what constitutes the worth of it, if every principle up to it was worthless unless we could assign a reason for it ? or why may not some principle at an earlier stage of the series be the ultimate one ? The distinction is not the less a distinction that it is ultimate. It is perceivable, and it is authoritative. The mind appreciates it, and it comes with all the moral weight of a moral principle to the mind, asserting its own intrinsic and eternal value, and commanding conformity and obedience. The very distinction is a law to every moral nature : it is the most authoritative law in itself that could
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possibly be proclaimed or promulgated. It is the eternal voice, speaking in eternal distinctions. That voice rises above every other, and demands an obedience in virtue of its own commanding authority. No other can be heard in preference to it, or before it. God himself has given place to it, as it were, and put it before His own authoritative command. lie has done so by constituting us capable of perceiving the dis tinction between right and wrong. This was not merely that we might perceive the propriety of obeying His command ; it was that we might perceive the propriety of that which He commanded, and which He commands, because it was eternally right in itself, and because His own nature is immutably con formed to it. It is not His will that gives it authority, else it would have no authority prior to His will ; and His will would be but an arbitrary appointment unless there were principles on which that will was based. It is the appeal which God him self makes in His own Word : " Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right ?" — which would have no meaning unless there was a standard by which His own actions were to be tried. His righteousness is one of His attributes ; and it is one which He peculiarly vindicates, and which He peculiarly sets forth as distinguishing His character, arid forming the ground of His procedure. It marks His dispensations, it characterizes His actions, it is embodied in His law, it will guide His decisions in the last great day. That righteousness is what He appeals to in all His varied dealings with our race. It was to vindicate it that the scheme of redemption was devised ; for otherwise God could not be a just God and a Saviour. In the contempla tion of the completion of that scheme, speaking prophetically and by anticipation, He says : — " I am well pleased for my righteousness' sake ; for I have magnified the law and made it honourable." The death of Christ exhibits the law in an aspect in which nothing else could, even that of eternal and unswerv ing obligation. Till this, it might be capable of a question, whether it might not be relaxed. No ; such a question could never be entertained, and the grand problem \vas, How God could be just in justifying the ungodly, how His clemency could
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reach the sinner ? for the law could not be relaxed. It bound the Almighty himself, and He could reconcile love and justice only in the substitution and sacrifice of His Son. It is not too much to put this law, then, not above God, but in a place of authority in which it can be regarded apart from Him, and as of eternal and immutable obligation. It is the law of eternal right and wrong, which must govern all moral beings, and from whose claims or principles the Divine nature itself is not exempted.
Though the distinction between right and wrong must be regarded as eternal and immutable, and the law founded on it of independent and immutable obligation, there is a high sense in which the law, is the law of God, deriving additional autho rity from its connexion with Him, and possessing an additional value, in consequence, to every moral being. That law had no concrete existence but in God ; and though we can recognise it as of abstract and eternal obligation, and having its authority in itself, on the ground of its own Tightness, or in virtue of the distinction which no being could create, but which must be eternally true or just, it had a concrete existence in God from all eternity; and, sovereign among the beings He had made, they must be under subjection to Him, and the law of eternal rectitude must bind them not only by its own authority, but by the additional obligation which it derives as being the law of Him whose creatures they were. The law of an empire is the law of that empire, though the principles on which it is based be eternal. The law of eternal rectitude is the law of God's nature, and He has adopted it as the law of His govern ment. The relation of the creature and the Creator necessarily infers obedience and sovereignty — sovereignty in the Creator, obedience from the creature. This is as eternal a principle as any other, and belongs to that law which, one and indivisible as the law of right, has as many aspects as there are relations of being to which it applies. The law of moral right is one, but it contemplates in its sweeping authority every relation in which beings stand to each other, and takes its aspect accord ingly. Does God stand in the relation of the Creator to His
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creatures ? The law of right guides Him in His relation to them : the same law guides them in their relation to Him, and to each other. Their relation to Him is necessarily that of sub jection, and if subjection be that relation, obedience is its duty and expression, and the law of right must control and direct in that obedience : it is therefore the law of God. and must be obeyed in obedience to Him, as well as from obedience to the law itself. The relation in which God stands to us, and in which we stand to Him respectively, ought never to be for gotten. It is a solemn one ; and it does not at all follow that it is to be disregarded in recognising the eternal obligations of the law of right. We are God's subjects, and we are to recog nise His authority in every duty, while we recognise the claim of duty itself. Undoubtedly, the law of right has its own in dependent claim, but God is to be recognised also, onr subjec tion to Him, and His right of sovereignty over us. It is never to be forgotten that He not only has, but asserts a right of sovereignty over us, that we are accountable to Him, and He is pleased to be regarded as our sovereign and our judge. It is surely an act of infinite condescension on the part of God to recognise this relation, and to assume us into such a relation with Himself. Having endowed us with such a nature, He takes cognizance of our actions, and will at last bring us to account. As we were at first created, and in that innocence in which we at first came from the hands of our Maker, the same subjection, springing out of the same relation, required or inferred the same obedience ; but obedience alone was known, and no final judgment could be necessary when the law had not been broken, and God's authority had never been resisted or disowned. Then the law was obeyed in the spontaneous acts of the soul, and God's sacred authority was felt, and was secretly delighted in. The obligations of the law would be recognised in no other way than as they were felt : resistance would awaken no challenge, and hardly authority would be felt at all in the spontaneousness of that obedience that would be rendered. The law would truly then be that of love, or just the conformity of a nature to every moral obligation. Obedience
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to God would be obedience to the law. In rendering obedience to the latter, it would hardly be felt that any obedience was in the case, and love and reverence would be the only feelings towards God. It is now, in our fallen state, that obedience to God is more direct, and more observed, and that He gathers up the principles of moral rectitude, and imposes them as a law upon us. Before, it would hardly be recognised that he was the lawgiver, just as among the unfallen angels it will be the law of universal love, of pure and holy natures, who know no thing of evil, and are superior to it. Direct obedience to God in those services He may require, is altogether different from obedience to the law generally, and obedience to it with a recognition of subjection to God. It is because of the chal lenge that the law makes upon us, and the resistance it meets with, now that we are evil, that it is felt to be a law, and that it has actually been promulgated by God ; for the law in the heart would never have been felt to be a law, and would have rendered any authoritative promul gation of it by God unnecessary. It would not have been a law in itself, and still less would God have found it ne cessary to issue it as a law from Mount Sinai. Before, it would not even be the distinction between right and wrong, for wrong would be unknown, and right would be the spon taneous choice of the heart. It is now, accordingly, that it seems to be at all extraordinary to say, that the law of right is independent of God himself, for He has now authoritatively promulgated it, while before, He had written it only on the heart. He has challenged it as His law ; He has made dis obedience to it, disobedience to Himself; and He has shown the consentaneousness of His own nature with it, and made its cause His own. He has put His will directly in the case. Before, that will was directly proclaimed only in the matter of the command enjoining our first parents to abstain from a certain act. Now, it is authoritatively promulgated with the whole law, and the authority of His will, His command, is given along with the authority of the law. When He created moral natures capable of moral distinctions, that was the law,
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although the supremacy of God, His right over the creature, was felt so as it cannot be felt now, and a holy obedience was rendered to God just in the spontaneous performance of every duty, and in direct reverence and homage. But the law is now more directly challenged by God as His own, and He has directly imposed it, by His own authority, upon man. It is His law now pre-eminently. He has published the rule of life — He has put it on the tables of stone — He has given His im primatur to it. It was lying broken and neglected : He has taken it up and vindicated its integrity. What He trusted to be done in the nature which He had created, He now insists upon being done when that nature is no longer impelled to wards it by spontaneous obligation, by an unfallen will. The law is maintained in its integrity — it is still held up to the creature. The juncture required such a promulgation of the law in connexion with the scheme, which is intended not only to vindicate the law, but to save the transgressor. The com mand to our first parents, by which they were put on their trial, was an arbitrary one, as if His right of command could not have been so well seen in any other way. He must show His right of command, and put our first parents upon trial. The spontaneous preference of the right, or rather conformity with the law of their being, would have otherwise had no pro per trial. It was by an arbitrary command that God showed His right to obedience. We cannot understand all the nature of that transaction by which God put our first parents on pro bation, and on which the destinies of onr race were made to hinge ; but most probably it was, partly at least, that other wise no proper test of obedience could have been proposed. An arbitrary law was necessary ; for the eternal law of duty would have been obeyed for itself, and there would not have been the same possibility of challenge, and consequently means of probation. The harmony of their natures with all that was in the usual course of rectitude, would not have allowed of the same test as an arbitrary law. Nothing would have stalled a doubt in their rninds as to the propriety of obedience, or the right in any one instance to dispense with known obligation.
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Now it is different. The law of eternal right itself must be published in the form of a command. There is disinclination, where before there was inclination, to the law. The law itself is no longer in the nature of the moral being : it is a law from which the moral being is in revolt, although He may still recognise its authority over him. If God is to maintain His authority, then, the law must be published as a command. It must be promulgated authoritatively from the throne of God. It has been so promulgated, and therefore it is that it is now especially regarded as the law of God, and not the law of eternal right merely — especially regarded, for it could never but be the law of God. It has obtained re-enaction from Him — it has been revealed with new sanctions — and those sanctions are connected with it, which were formerly con nected with an arbitrary command only. The penalty of transgression could never be other than death, but that penalty was not made knoivn in connexion with the eternal law of right, but with the arbitrary statute promulgated in Eden. It is now the penalty of the law itself, and is lying upon every transgressor. Hence the re-promulgation of the law. It was added, because of transgression. Still it must always have been the law of God, as the creature could never but be amenable to the Creator ; nor had it ever any actual existence but in God. The true state of the case was, that the creature was under the law in itself ; it had eternal and inalienable authority over him ; but the creature must be subservient to the Creator, and bound by His authority. The law had eternal and intrinsic application as respects the Divine Being himself, but then, He was under it to no one, but was Himself eternal and supreme, existing alone, and of His own necessity of being, till He was pleased to call other beings into existence like Himself, with a moral nature like His own — His subjects, because His creatures; while the law, in virtue of that very moral nature with which they were endowed, possessed intrinsic and independent obli gation over them. The importance of the law, then, as God's law, is not in the least abated by the recognition of its inde pendent claims. It is still God's law in the sense we have
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described, and it only derives additional claims by being recog nised in its independent authority. There was, undoubtedly, a long period of our world's history during which the law was not yet promulgated, as it was from Mount Sinai, but it was as good as promulgated in the penalty that had already over taken disobedience. The transaction in the garden was like a promulgation of the law ; for disobedience, though it was disobedience to an arbitrary command, was visited with the penalty which had been threatened, and which could never have been just, had not the arbitrary command, as given by Him who had a right to enjoin any statute that did not in itself contravene the law of eternal rectitude, possessed, when once enjoined, the obligatory nature of an eternal law. It is quite obvious that God claimed the obedience, and had a right to claim the obedience which the law itself enjoins : Was not the law then virtually promulgated ? But more than this, being the law of God's nature, the law by which He himself was guided, and the creature being subject to God, the law could not be broken without God himself being dishonoured, and His authority despised. Still further, God having created moral beings, endowed them with such a nature, it was tanta mount to the imposition of a law, and a claim of authority on His part, which they could not resist without incurring the penalty of disobedience to Him. To make a piece of mechanism with certain laws, and for certain purposes, is to expect of that mechanism the very kind of work for which it was designed, and is to promulgate the law of that mechanism. So it was with God, when He created beings with an internal law of rectitude, a law like that which regulated His own nature ; it was to promulgate that very law, and disobedience to it could not take place without disobedience to Himself. Creation was tantamount to legislation, while creation itself involved auth ority on the one hand, and subjection on the other. And it is when contemplated in God himself, that the law assumes a concrete value, and appears an actual laiv, being the law of a living Existence, the law of an Eternal Being, regulating His nature, and therefore, surely, rightfully claiming authority over
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every other similar, though created, being. We now perceive not only its own intrinsic value, but its value as the law of a Being so great, and so holy, and so holy from His very conformity to such a law. We see the law in God, and that enhances it mightily in our estimate, while it surrounds it with a majesty derivable only from Himself. The law is not an abstraction, it is the law of being, and of a Being inconceivably great, and infinitely glorious. It is a principle of our nature to estimate the con crete above the abstract ; and when we see this eternal law in God, how is it magnified in our estimation ! — how is it en hanced ! — what a value do we put upon it ! — how do we love it ! This accounts for the superior value which every one who loves the law at all puts upon it as the law of God. It has a con crete value. It is loved even for the sake of Him whose law it is. Angels love it the more on that account. The claims of God are allowed in the claims of the law, and the holiness of the one and the integrity of the other are blended in the same idea. It is thus that the admiration of the law is begotten in a renewed nature on earth : it is seen in God ; it is beheld in His administration ; above all, it is contemplated in the work of redemption : it is then that it is signally perceived to be God's law, and every renewed nature values and esteems it the more. The admiration, accordingly, of saints and angels, is the admiration not of an abstraction, but of a law of God's nature, and a law which He has authoritatively promulgated — which He has promulgated in the very nature with which He has endowed them, and by which He has called them to an eternal rectitude and holiness. We cannot wonder at the Psalmist's estimate of the law, so remarkably declared throughout the Psalms, but especially in the hundred and nineteenth Psalm. It is the law of God ; it is the law of all holy natures ; it is a law of eternal right. It was before creation, because it existed in God ; and could we conceive God not to have been, it would have had an abstract existence capable of being seen as soon as any moral being existed. It is its abstract nature, its Tightness independent of God, that makes it so valuable in itself; but it is its concrete nature, as the law of God, that enhances it so
5UO THE MORAL NATURE.
much in the estimation of the moral creature. As an eternal law, as the law of God, it claims the admiration of every moral being, and it will reign supreme as the law of heaven, when God's ways are vindicated to men, and when God himself will be enthroned in every heart.
We have said that the law of right is one. It is the obliga tion of right. There is the eternal distinction between right and wrong ; and to appreciate that distinction is to come under its obligation ; in other words, the nature that can perceive the distinction is also bound by it, and must either observe the distinction, or incur guilt in disregarding it. The distinction cannot but be approved of, but it must also be complied with, or obeyed. If it is not complied with, an eternal distinction is contravened, and it is a distinction of such a kind that it cannot be contravened without guilt, or moral blame. This is the grand peculiarity of the distinction. Any other relation may be disregarded, and no result follow, but perhaps some practical inconsistency and inconvenience ; but the relation of right and wrong cannot be disregarded without guilt, without moral blame. And this is owing to the very nature of the dis tinction, and is to be attributed to nothing else. If it is to be referred to some ground of the distinction itself, this is at once to find a ground for the distinction, which we have already seen cannot be ; and it is to find the morality of an action and of the actor, not in the Tightness or wrongness of the action, but in some other relation which is supposed to make it right or wrong, but which is not itself the relation of Tightness and wrongness. Nothing obviously can constitute that relation but the relation itself, and nothing can constitute the guilt of vio lating it but the guilt of such violation. The law founded upon the distinction, therefore, is the one law of right. It is one and indivisible in itself ; but, as we have said, it takes as many aspects as there are relations of being to which it applies. The Apostle James recognises this oneness of the law, when he says, that he that offends in one point is guilty of all. He has broken the law. The Apostle John seems to recognise this oneness, when he says, " Whosoever committed! sin transgresseth also the Imv,
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for sin is the transgression of the law" And again, it is the law that is magnified when God says, " I have magnified the law and made it honourable." The same view is entertained in respect to human law. Multiplied as are the laws of a kingdom, almost infinitely varied, applying to every diversity of circumstance and of action, they are all included under one name, are regarded as the laiu, taking, however, different aspects according to the diversity of application. When any particular law is broken, we regard the law as broken, and the violation of a law would be nothing unless it was the violation of the law. It is the majesty of the law that vindicates itself. It is indeed the majesty of a law, but the majesty of a law as the one law of right, or a particular modification or aspect of that law. A law would be nothing otherwise than a rule. The particular law comes under the general law of the kingdom, and, if a just law, the general law of rigKt ; fur all human legislation ought to be founded upon the general law of right, ought to include its principles, and embody its sanctions. We have thus a further illustration of the infinite divisibility of the law as respects its application, while it is yet the one law of right. " The science which teaches the rights and duties of men and of states," says Sir James Mackintosh, " has, in mo dern times, been called ' the law of nature and of nations.' Under this comprehensive title are included the rules of mora lity, as they prescribe the conduct of private men towards each other in all the various relations of human life ; as they regu late both the obedience of citizens to the laws, and the autho rity of the magistrate in framing laws and administering government; and as they modify the intercourse of inde pendent commonwealths in peace, and prescribe limits to their hostility in war. This important science comprehends only that part of private ethics which is capable of being reduced to fixed and general rules. It considers only those general principles of jurisprudence and politics which the wisdom of the lawgiver adapts to the peculiar situation of his own country, and which the skill of the statesman applies to the more fluctuating and infinitely varying cir-
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cumstances which affect its immediate welfare and safety." Godwin thus traces the science of " Political Justice" to the Science of Morals. " From what has been said, it appears that the subject of our present inquiry is, strictly speaking, a department of the science of morals. Morality is the source from which its fundamental axioms must be drawn, and they will be made somewhat clearer in the present instance, if we assume the term justice as a general appellation for all moral duty." It is plain, therefore, that there is one law to which all law may be referred ; and that can be none other than the law of right, whose seat has been said to be in God, but rather is in every moral being, though primarily and chiefly in God, and in Him not so much as a subject of the law, but as the lawgiver, or at least as co-eternal with the law, and not under it to any other being. Man is not only under the law but is in subjection to^nod, and to obey God is to obey the law in God, or as the expression of His will, with the superadded authority belonging to God himself as our Creator. The obligation of right thus takes a concrete form : it exists in the shape of a command, and a command from one whom the law itself teaches us to obey. It was not, however, always a com mand even as coming from Him. It was rather just authority recognised in a relation which implied it, and which the crea ture was bound to regard, and could not fail to regard as long as his nature was unvitiated. The recognised supremacy of God — the felt subjection to Him — the willing obedience to moral right, would be all the law, or promulgation of law, that existed from the first, and that could be needed. God did not need to issue a command: the command was in the heart. The law was in the very preference of good — in the very ignorance of evil. It is now that a command is necessary, when the crea ture is in rebellion against the law, and would disobey rather than obey it, would shun it, would despise it, would trample upon it. Resistance to it renders a command necessary, com ing from the Creator, who would guard His own law, and vin dicate His own authority. The sacred sanctions of the law itself must be enforced by an imperative issuing from the
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Divine throne. God must take up the cause of that law which was now despised and broken. It was so much His law, the rule of His government, that to permit it to be broken, was not only to permit the law itself to be dishonoured, and His own authority contemned, but all moral disorder to exist, and to spread without limit. The obligation of right was the law of His own nature : could He permit it to be contravened at pleasure among His creatures, thus suffer unlimited evil to prevail, and His own authority to be set at nought by those who were dependent upon Him for their very existence ? — let anarchy reign, and subject Himself to the charge either of connivance or weakness ? This was impossible ; and, accord ingly, He promulgated the law, issued it in the form of a direct imperative — a series of commands — no longer suffering it to be a mere principle in the heart, but directly enjoining it, making at the same time an admirable classification, or summary, if we may so speak, of its duties. This promulgation was made on Mount Sinai, to the Jews in the first place, and through Moses their leader, their legislator under God. It is something interesting to contemplate God making direct promulgation of His law, the eternal law of right, and in such circumstances as we find attended that event. He descended upon a mountain which burned with fire, and amid darkness and tempest, and with the sound of a trumpet : " And when the voice of the trumpet sounded long, and waxed louder and louder, Moses spake, and God answered him by a voice." In ten precepts or commandments God summed up the whole law. Now, the question comes to be, What is the law of right as respects these ten commandments, and how may it be summed up in these few precepts ? The law of right, then, as respects these ten commandments, is just that law applied to the circumstances in which man is placed, and the relations which he holds. The same law, in its particular modifications, could not apply to other moral beings, because they are not in the same circum stances, and do not hold the same relations. Duty is one, law is one, but its modifications are varied, and as varied as the relations of being. The prime idea to be insisted on in refer-
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ence to the law is its essential sameness as respects the law itself, the rule of right, while it may be endlessly diversified as respects the beings to whom it applies, and the relations and circum stances of these beings. The law of right is what binds all moral beings, but the duty of one moral being is not the duty of another, because their circumstances and relations are different. The law of right must have a different application to the creature and the Creator, to angels and to men. We know not the relations that may prevail among other moral beings, and the modifica tions of the law as respects them must be altogether beyond our cognizance ; but we can appreciate the relations among our selves, and in the moral law or decalogue we perceive the application of the rule of right to these relations. It is just the law of right applied to these relations, taking a direction or application accordingly. For example, the First Command ment is, — " Thou shalt have no other gods before me." We perceive at once the Tightness of this, but it is a Tightness which can apply only to creatures ; and it will apply to all moral creatures as well as man. The first part of the moral law regulates the applications of that law to the duties owed to God, and, in two of the Commandments at least, owed by man to God ; for the Second and the Fourth Commandments, respectively, are not such as we can conceive applicable to angels, for example. The injunction of pure spiritual worship, contained in the Second Commandment, and the prohibition of representing God by external forms or resemblances, which may not be so at first, but which always degenerates into idol worship, cannot apply to beings who are under no temptation to such a kind of worship, or who could not possibly worship God otherwise than as a Spirit, being themselves pure spirits, and inconversant with external material forms. And how could the injunction of the Fourth Commandment apply to beings to whom it was a perpetual Sabbath, or who knew no other devo tion of their time and their faculties than to the service of God ? To worship God alone, to have no other gods before Him, arid to reverence His names and titles — if He has any among purely spiritual beings — His attributes, His ordinances — if there
THE MORAL NATURE. 505
are any such again among purely spiritual beings — must be a duty or duties alike applying to spiritual beings with men. It will be apparent how the law, as directed to the duties which have God for their object, takes its aspect from the peculiar nature of the moral being to whom it applies. This is obvious as respects our own race. The same remark is to be extended to the other part of the moral law — that is to say, the law here again is modified by the nature and circumstances of the being to whom it applies. The law of right as respects crea tures must affect them in a twofold manner — as regards their duties to God, and as regards their duties to one another. We have seen how it may be modified as regards the former ; and the slightest attention to the second table of the law, as appli cable to man, will show how it is modified also as respects the latter. It would be needless to dwell upon this particularly ; it is enough to advert to it. That the moral law is a summary of all the commandments that could be issued embodying and enjoining duty, it would not be difficult to demonstrate ; and, when considered in this light, it is wonderful for its compre hensiveness, and admirable for its provisions. In this point of view it bears evident marks of its divinity, and it excites the admiration of every renewed nature, as it must of every moral being. When we allow our minds to ponder it, what compre hensiveness, what justice, what Tightness ! How productive of the best interests of the moral being — how provident in respect to his good ! It is eternally so — it was not created so. It was not made so by God. But how does such a view bespeak the character of God himself, enjoined as the law is by Him ; nay, His law, having its eternal concrete existence only in Him, being, as the law of right, the very law of His nature, a tran script of His own holiness, and the law of moral beings, whom He made in the image of Himself ? We cannot surely suffi ciently admire a law of such rectitude, and a summary so com prehensive and so complete of all that the law can require. Alas ! it is the very impossibility of admiring it that renders the authoritative promulgation of it in the form of a law, or of specific commands, in our present condition, necessary. Other-
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wise, there would have been no need for such a promulga tion. The law would have been obeyed in the felt sense of right, without any injunction or command. The sense of right would have been itself a command, or it would have been the tendency of the moral nature irrespective of com mand. No law would have been when all was inclination, nature. Do the angels obey a law ? They obey their nature ; not blindly, indeed, not unintelligently, but still, more as the dictate of nature, than from the obligation of law. Of God we can only speak conjecturally, or only as we may conceive His nature from the knowledge of created nature ; but in Him, too, there must be a calm preference of the good ; although, as He is capable in His omniscient mind of conceiving evil, or dis obedience to law, there must be a stronger preference of it, approbation of it in contradistinction from the wrong — a power ful revulsion from the evil in the very preference of the good. It is thus also in the case of a renewed nature: it is an approbation of the good, not an impulse to it merely. There is the knowledge of good and evil, which was the fatal dowery of the Fall, with the preference of the good, which is the effect of the new creation. We may perhaps assert that there is a stronger appreciation of the good in a redeemed nature than in one that never fell. The law has perhaps a far higher character to such a nature. There is greater means of admiring its scope and seeing its excellence — there is disapprobation of the evil as well as approbation of the good — the revulsion from the one, while there is the tendency to the other. Angels, no doubt, must know the evil ; for they cannot be ignorant of the revolt of Satan and his angels, and of the inhabitants of this world ; but their knowledge cannot be such, as an omniscient being, on the one hand, must possess, and a redeemed being, or one who has himself been a subject of the evil, on the other, must have acquired. But where the new creation has not taken effect, and just in the natural state of the moral being here on earth, it is, as we have said, the impossibility of admiring the law, the want of any right appreciation of it : it is this which rendei-s the promulgation of it by authoritative command
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necessary. This gave occasion for its promulgation at all, and its promulgation by authoritative statute. It would have been, otherwise, but the law of right felt in the heart, and obeyed without any knowledge of wrong. To the wrong there would have been no bias, and to the right there would have been no need for a command, whether to stimulate to obedience or to enforce obligation.
We cannot help admiring, with some exception, the point of view in which Kant has put the subject of moral duty. He makes duty " the necessity of an act, out of reverence for law." This law must be the perception of right ; for " an action done out of duty," he says, " has its moral worth, not from any purpose it may subserve, but from the maxim according to which it is determined on ; it depends not on the effecting any given end, but on the principle of volition singly.'"' It is a good action as it is the result of a good volition, or its moral worth depends upon its being the result of a good volition. A good volition, or a " good will," he had before traced to reason alone ; and reason was given to man mainly in order to a " good will ;" for the other objects of reason might have been more surely gained by another principle, as that of instinct, which would have been more unerring, and more certain in its operation. A " good will," then, is a will choosing what reason alone offers for its choice, or proposes as worthy to be chosen. What can that be, but the right'/ The law which duty obeys, then, is the law of right. " Duty is the necessity of an act, out of reverence for law." Kant maintains the action must be done for no ulterior end, but purely from rever ence for law : it must not be done even from inclination merely, or mere inclination will not make it done from duty. The law is what makes the action right, and infers the duty to perform it. " Towards an object," says Kant, " as effect of my own will, I may have inclination, but never reverence ; for it is an effect, not an activity of will. Nay, I cannot venerate any inclina tion, whether my own or another's. At the utmost, I can approve or like ; that alone which is the basis and not the effect of my will can I revere ; and what subserves not my
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inclinations, but altogether outweighs them, i.e., the law alone is an object of reverence, and so fitted to be a commandment. Now, an action performed out of duty has to be done irrespec tive of all appetite whatsoever ; and hence there remains nothing present to the will, except objectively law, and sub jectively pure reverence for it, inducing man to adopt this unchanging maxim, to yield obedience to the law, renouncing all excitements or emotions to the contrary.
" The moral worth of an action," Kant continues, " consists therefore not in the effect resulting from it, and consequently in no principle of acting taken from such effect ; for since all these effects (e.g., amenity of life, and advancing the well- being of our fellow-men) might have been produced by other causes, there was no sufficient reason calling for the interven tion of the will of a reasonable agent, wherein, however, alone is to be found the chief and unconditional good. It is there fore nothing else than the representation of the law itself — a thing possible singly by intelligents — which, and not the expected effect determining the will, constitutes that especial good we call moral, which resides in the person, and is not waited for until the action follow."
To this it may be excepted, that it is to deprive virtue of all feeling, and separate it from all motive, or, if reverence be a feeling of the mind, as undoubtedly it is, there cannot be said to be obedience to the law as such, from a simple representation of the law itself; but the mind is influenced by a certain feel ing of reverence for the law. Kant saw this objection, and accordingly he says in a note, — " Perhaps some may think that I take refuge behind an obscure feeling, under the name of reverence, instead of throwing light upon the subject by an idea of reason. But although reverence is a feeling, it is no passive feeling received from without, but an active emotion generated in the mind by an idea of reason, and so, specifically distinct from all feelings of the former sort, which are reducible to either love or fear. What I apprehend to be my law, I recognise to be so with reverence, which word denotes merely the consciousness of the immediate, unconditional, and unre-
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served subordination of my will to the law. The immediate determination of the will by the law, and the consciousness of it, is called reverence, and is regarded not as the cause, but as the effect of the law upon the person. Strictly speaking, reve rence is the representation of a worth before which self-love falls. It cannot, therefore, be regarded as the object of either love or fear, although it bears analogy to both. The object of reverence is therefore alone the law, and, in particular, that law, though put by man upon himself, is yet notwithstanding, in itself necessary. As law, we find ourselves subjected to it with out interrogating self-love ; yet, as imposed upon us by our selves, it springs from our own will, and, in the former way, resembles fear — in the latter, love."
Where Kant errs, we think, is in not admitting love to be a part of reverence, or as possible to be felt towards the law as reverence itself. Love does seem to be a part of reverence, or is as much in the mind for the law as reverence itself. In all reverence there is a certain degree of love, and, without love, it would be mere fear. Kant seems to have recognised this when he said, — " As law, we find ourselves subjected to it without interrogating self-love ; yet, as imposed upon us by ourselves, it springs from our own will ; and, in the former way, resem bles fear — in the latter, love." The love to the law may be even very strong, and surely it is not the less virtue, or con formity with duty, if love be in the feeling or in the act, although reverence may be the predominating feeling, and love may not be so distinctly traceable. The truth is, the right does inspire love as well as reverence, and moral approba tion includes love. Kant all but defines reverence to be a combination of fear and love. There is reverence for the law, but there is also love for it. We have already distinguished between love and delight, while we have noticed the resem blance of the two feelings. Love has more properly being for its object ; delight may have either being, or the qualities of being; and we also take delight in circumstances or events that happen to us or others. Delight, therefore, may be rather the feeling than love, when the law is its object ; but that
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there is something more than reverence, or that this feeling, whether we call it delight or love, blends in the reverence that is felt for the law, is obvious on but the slightest consideration. There is not only veneration for that august principle, which ought to command obedience in all time, and in all circum stances, but there is a certain regard of affection towards it — the law being riot only venerable, but amiable. There is a certain moral beauty, as well as augustness, in the principle of right, and the one as necessarily inspires delight or love, as the other begets awe or reverence. This is not to destroy the Tightness of the principle which awakens both, and awakens both equally ; nor is it to bring the principle down from its high a priori character as a principle apart from any sentiment it may awaken, or with which it may be ac companied. It would seem to be necessary, in order to moral approbation being real, that there should be love as well as reverence for the law : it would be otherwise a distant rever ence, not approval : there would be assent to the rightness of the law, not approbation. Distant reverence is at most a cold feeling, and it is not properly approbation till there is love. An assent may be given to a principle or an action while there is even aversion to it, and this may be called approbation, but we make a distinction between this and hearty approbation ; and the latter alone is what is worth while in a moral being, and may be regarded as true or real. It is common enough to say, we heartily approve of such and such a principle or action ; and otherwise it is not the approbation that duty should com mand or principle should draw forth. Love seems the most essen tial feeling of every right emotional nature, and surely it cannot be wanting, it ought not to be wanting, when duty is its object, or the law of right. " It is of the greatest consequence," says Kant, " in all ethical judgments, to attend with most scrupu lous exactness to the subjective principle of the maxims, in order that the whole morality of an act be put in the necessity of it, out of duty, and out of reverence for the law, not in love and inclination towards what may be consequent upon the act ; for man and every created intelligent, the ethical necessity is
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necessitation, i.e., obligation, and every act proceeding there upon is duty, and cannot be presented as a way of conduct already dear to us, or which may in time become endeared to us, as if man could at any time ever get the length of dispens ing with reverence towards the law, (which emotion is attended always with dread, or at least with active apprehension lest he transgress) ; and so like the independent Godhead, find him self, as it were, by force of an unchanging harmony of will with the law, now at length grown into a second nature, in possession of a holy will, which would be the case, the law having ceased to be a commandment, when man could be no longer tempted to prove untrue to it." Kant, in the first part of this passage, seems to confound love to the law, and " love and inclination towards what may be consequent upon the act" — any moral act, which he maintains ought to be done strictly out of reverence for the law, and not from any such inclination or love ; but in the latter part, again, he seems to intend the love of a pure moral nature to the law itself, which he recog nises as possible in the Godhead, and which would be the case with man only when he became like the Godhead, possessed of a holy will. Now, love to what is consequent upon any act corresponding to the law, is very different from love to the law itself, and surely if love to the law is possible in any moral being, it must be possible in any other ; and this is exactly what we believe obtains in every perfect moral nature, an " unchanging harmony of will with the law," " a holy will," in respect to which it may be truly said, " the law is not a com mandment," since the moral being is not " tempted to prove untrue to it." We believe this was the case with man before he sinned ; this is the case with angels ; and it will be the case with man again when his nature is renewed. We have already spoken of such a state in the case of the angels who have no temptation to sin, and who know of evil only by report. The law has not the effect of a commandment to them ; it is hardly felt to be a law : it is an unchanging harmony of will with the law in their case. Kant obviously recognises this as a state possible ; and this is the state then which ought to be contem-
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plated, as this is the perfect state, and Kant should have remem bered his own definition of an " imperative :" " an imperative is then no more than a formula, expressing the relation be twixt objective laws of volition and the subjective imperfection of particular wills, (e.g., the human)." Where there is not this subjective imperfection, the objective law, as an imperative, will be no longer necessary, and to this state man is progress ing, as it is already the state of every holy being. Kant seems to draw a distinction between holiness and moral rectitude, the former of which he seems to confine to God, while he regards the latter as what more properly may be ascribed to the crea ture, or every finite intelligent. The former does not suppose duty, the latter does. With the former he would regard love to the law as consistent, with the latter not. Duty supposes only reverence to the law, and excludes, and must exclude, according to Kant, love to it. Now, there seems to be some confusion here, for he spoke of a holy will as possible even in man, an unchanging harmony of will with the law grown into a second nature ; but to carry out the distinction between duty and such a harmony of will with the law, he again supposes such a harmony as properly true or characteristic only of God. " The moral law," says Kant, "is, for the will of the Supreme Being, a, law of holiness, but for the will of every finite intelligent, a law of duty." The confusion which is obvious here seems to have arisen from an incorrect idea in respect to duty as obedience to law. Either Kant's own definition of duty is incorrect, or the law of duty must be the law to God, as it is the law to all other intelligents, or moral beings. " Duty is the necessity of an act out of reverence to law." Has God no reverence to law ? Is there no such sentiment in the Divine nature ? If not, what is the sentiment, if we may so speak, with which the Divine nature regards law ? Let it be according to Kant's own expression, a law of holiness, it is a law : What is the sentiment with which it is regarded ? If Kant should say love, then law is an object of reverence to every moral being but God. What is august to others is not so to God. But must it not possess the same intrinsic qualities to God as to others ? Is it because He is so great that it can-
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not be so regarded by Him ? But can the greatness of the Being contemplating the law change the abstract properties of the law itself ? Is it merely from the point of view from which it is regarded that it is venerable ? Does the fact that it is a part of God's own nature render it the less venerable ? Surely it is as venerable still. Has it not an abstract propriety even to God ? What is it that binds His own nature to a certain course of action ? We call it not duty ; but it is the same reverence for law that actuates any moral being, and in that reverence He has reverence for His own nature. " Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right ?" Is there not an awful respect for His own righteousness ? That is seen in all God's procedure, and in all the language of Scripture respecting His righteousness. No reader of Scripture needs a quotation to shew this. How august must it have been in the eyes of God, when He accepted the sacrifice of His Son for its vindica tion ! But why, then, is the name duty inappropriate when we speak of God's reverence for the law, and conformity to it ? Simply because — and this is what Kant seems to have failed to notice — the term duty, as being applicable in our minds to the obedience we owe to the law, and that springing from the re verence we owe to it, has an aspect towards the law not in itself, but as the law of another. God, as Creator, is regarded in the regard which is had to the law by the creature. The law imposes its own obligation, but we do not forget, at the same time, the authority which God has over us, and we remember that we are amenable to Him. Kant takes no notice of this element in duty, but this, after all, is the only difference between the relation of the creature to the law and that of the Creator himself. It is a law which every intelligent recognises, but it is a law, for obedience or disobedience to which, the creature is amenable to the Creator, while the Creator is amenable to no one but to Himself, or at the tribunal of His own perfect holiness, or absolute rectitude. We hold, therefore, that the law of holiness, and the law of duty, are essentially one as re spects the regard to the law ; and the only difference is, that in the one case the holiness regards the law singly, in the other,
2 K
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duty regards God besides the law, or respects the law under the feeling of responsibility to God, as well as amenability to the law, or rather responsibility to God for the way in which the law has been kept.
If Kant, then, thought that in the law of holiness, as " the moral law for the will of the Supreme Being," there might be love to the law as well as reverence, but that in the law of duty, as the same law for the will of every intelligent, there could only be reverence, we are persuaded he proceeded upon a wrong view of duty, as distinguished from what he calls the law of holiness ; and the admission of love into the sentiment of reverence, or as co-existent with that of reverence, can never alter the nature of law, or bring down its prerogatives. It has as much supremacy as ever, and is as entirely abstract, and a priori, or before all motive or excitement to action.
Kant discusses the question whether love can be a part of the sentiment with which the law is regarded, and so enter into the constitution of duty, or rather obedience to duty, as if love to the law, and love to effects, ulterior, arising out of obedience to the law, were the same. We can never admit the latter into obedience, as forming any constituent element of it ; or when any ulterior object is aimed at, it is possible that that may be sought in obedience to law, as when we may benefit a friend from the duty of friendship, or perform a filial act from the regard had to filial obligation. But the law of friendship, and the law of filial duty, may not be the direct object of regard, but the ulterior consequences : it may be those that are more directly had respect to ; or love to the being, and not love to the law, may be the motive of action ; and so far, there fore, it is not duty, but a mere subjective feeling. But what is to be maintained is, that love may be a feeling of the mind in respect to the law, as much as reverence : all its beauty, and hold upon the affections, may be felt as well as its majesty and awfulness ; and we may no't only bow with reverence before it, but regard it with the sentiment of love. Strange, if it were only an object of reverence — that law which is holy, but which is also good, which calls forth the innermost approbation of the
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heart, which it cannot reach without surprising love from its concealment, if love did not rather start forth to meet its appeals. Can love be withheld where there is a beauty which takes the heart captive, a loveliness to which the heart cannot refuse homage ? Eeverence for the law, mingled with a cer tain affectionate regard, is what constitutes moral approbation. It would not be moral approbation without both of these. In regard to the law of right, therefore, or just the distinction between right and wrong, there is first the perception of this distinction, but along with this, as we said at an early stage of our remarks upon this subject, there is a certain feeling, or emotion, with which it is never but accompanied, and which feeling it is that impels to duty. The perception of the rela tion would be a mere perception : it would never be a principle of action. Feeling or emotion is the only motive principle. Mind gives us judgments : feeling or emotion produces action. And here again it is necessary to guard against the confusion that is apt to arise in respect to the precise question at issue. The question with which we are now dealing is as to what constitutes moral distinction — what is that of which we approve or disapprove ? But this leads us to consider the relation of the mind to what is thus approved or disapproved, and the state of the mind in the moment of approbation or disapproba tion would appear to be what we are determining when it is really what excites our approbation or disapprobation, and not the approbation or disapprobation itself. Then, again, the necessity of the action, or the obligation to perform it, in other words, duty, moral obligation, is neither the quality that pro duces approbation, nor approbation itself, but something that arises from the relation between these two ; or it is the obliga tion to perform a right action, which the moral intelligent perceives, in which perception again there is the feeling of obligation, so that it would seem that the obligation is not independent of the feeling, while the feeling could not be excited unless there was obligation; and the ability to perceive the obli gation, again, depends upon the perceived distinction betioeen right and wrong. So blended are the questions. The first
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question to be determined is as to the nature of right and wrong itself. That we find to depend upon an ultimate principle of the mind — not that this constitutes the distinction between right and wrong — but that we cannot describe it otherwise: it is a distinction which the mind perceives, and by an ultimate principle of the mind itself. The distinction is not created by the mind, but the mind ultimately perceives it ; that is, perceives it without being able to give any account of the perception. Ultimate ideas or principles -are those which the mind can give no account of, but that is not to say they are the creation of the mind itself, or there is not that of which they are the ideas. It is obvious, however, that we can describe that of which they are the ideas, only by saying that it is what produces these ideas in our minds, or that of which the mind obtains such ideas, in virtue of the very nature of mind. Such is the idea of moral distinction, of right and wrong, and, we may add, of the obligation arising therefrom. Both the distinction and the obligation are realities, although the mind ultimately perceives them. We have already adverted to the confusion among moral writers from the commingling of these different questions. What we have endeavoured hitherto to establish is the distinction between right and wrong, although we have been necessarily led to take in, or touch upon, the other questions ; for they are all related. The distinction between right and wrong is the eternal law which the mind perceives, and which imposes obligation upon every moral being. The mind does not perceive this law, however, without an emotion accompanying the perception : and the feeling of obligation is in the very perception with its accom panying emotion.
We now then ask, What is moral approbation and disappro bation ? and we have already so far determined this indirectly, when treating of the question, What is the distinction between right and wrong ? The latter is the only question we have directly determined ; this now demands some specific notice.
Moral approbation or disapprobation, then, is just the senti ment with which we regard the distinction between right and
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wrong — the judgment, or particular idea, with the accompany ing emotion which that distinction awakens in the mind. Every idea of the mind is not accompanied with emotion, but this is. The very nature of the relation perceived occasions this. It may be asked, How does a mere intellectual percep tion produce an emotion in one case, while it does not in another ? But may it not be fairly asked, on the other hand, if it is a merely intellectual perception. It is an intellectual perception, but it is an intellectual perception of a moral rela tion. The thing perceived is good or bad, and we cannot per ceive this without emotion. Such is our nature. A judgment pronouncing right or wrong, and an emotion accompanying that judgment : such is moral approbation or disapprobation ; a relative idea of right or wrong, and the corresponding feeling or emotion. The law of right produces a sentiment of high regard — reverent but also affectionate regard ; but then without the judgment as to Tightness and wrongness, or the relative idea of right and wrong, it would not be approval or disapproval. There is the judgment, and the emotion accompanying it. We perceive that an action is right or wrong, but we not only per ceive this, but we have a certain emotion accompanying our perception. That emotion is reverence and love — or it is aversion and contempt. The very perception of right begets the one, the very perception of wrong the other ; and the emo tion is as instantaneous as the perception. We call this moral approval or disapproval — moral praise or blame. And it matters not whether the right or wrong is seen in ourselves or others, so far as regards the single state of approbation or dis approbation ; still that state is a judgment, or relative idea of right or wrong, and the accompanying emotion. We pronounce judgment upon ourselves, as we do upon others, and either approve or disapprove, blame or praise. The additional feeling, when it is upon ourselves that we pronounce judgment, is some thing distinct from the approbation or disapprobation : this is first ; and then there is the distinct and superadded feeling. When we approve or disapprove in our own case, there is more than the feeling for the law, or for the disregard to it, there is
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a feeling which is personal, and of which none can be the sub jects but ourselves. That we ourselves are concerned in the action which we approve or disapprove, begets either satisfac tion, complacency — or compunction, shame. We are not speak ing of the faculty which gives occasion to this just now, or of the law according to which it arises ; we are speaking of the feeling itself. Immediately upon self-approbation or disapprobation, there is the additional feeling in question. This, however, is distinct from the approbation or disapprobation which is pro nounced or felt in connexion with conformity, or want of con formity, with a law. The latter is approbation or disapprobation, whether this conformity or nonconformity is seen in ourselves or others. We judge of ourselves as we do of others, or we judge of an action, and feel moral approbation or disapproba tion, whether we ourselves or others are concerned. Regard to the law is the same in both cases ; the law, the distinction of right and wrong, is what objectively presents itself to the mind, and the mind feels all the reverence and love of which we have spoken — or it is impressed with all the aversion and contempt; and the feelings which in any abstract case, or any mere con templated case of conformity or want of conformity to law, we would experience, include the actual doer of the action which we approve or disapprove. We approve or disapprove of the action, and the action becomes the object of the feeling. The love and reverence for law terminate upon conformity of action with it, and again upon the actor in whom that conformity is seen ; and the same with the opposite sentiment or state of mind. There is first the law itself contemplated, then the action in which the law is concerned, and then the actor by whom the action is performed. We feel for the law itself at once reverence and love ; these terminate upon an action, then upon the performer of the action, and just as the case may arise, or present itself to the mind.
What are the feelings with which we regard the right, — a right action, — or the performer of a right action ? It is obvious that all these are contemplated, or had regard to, in every case of moral approbation. It is in vain to say that
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an action is nothing apart from the actor, and that the right of an action is nothing apart from the action. The mind contemplates these separately ; and, at all events, the right, as distinct from the action that is right, and the agent that is acting rightly, is a separate object of contemplation, and involves a relation that is abstract and eternal, or there is no relation of the mind whatever. Ideas are nothing, if they are not ideas of the mind, but as they are the ideas of actual objects, or having existence in actual objects. The abstract idea of right is what is first present to the mind when we contemplate a right action, and without this idea the action would be an action merely. It would be an agent acting, but it would excite in us no moral emotion, for it would awaken no moral idea ; but awakening that idea, the Tightness of the action, the action, and the agent, are all present to the mind as separate ideas, or blended in one complex idea. We recognise and approve the right — we do the same by the action — we do the same by the actor ; or it is the right, strictly speaking, that is the object of approval ; and the sentiment with which we regard the right, seems to be felt for the action, and again for the actor. That the law of right is itself first regarded, is obvious, for there is an idea of right, and it is this which awakens the moral emotion ; and either the action or the actor may be the object of that emotion, as that idea is clearly explicated to the mind, or possessed by it. The emotion is the result of the conception of right. It is true that this conception cannot be formed in any supposable case of action without regard to the agent, but the abstract conception grows out of the circumstances of the case. It is such and such an action — it is an action involving such and such a principle, and, contemplated with relation to the actor, it must be done from that principle. It is, in other words, right itself which awakens the emotion ; and we now consider particularly the elements of that emotion. These, as we have seen, are at once reverence and love, love either being an essential part of reverence, or always accompanying it. The right inspires reverence ; it begets love. Could we suppose a case in which love was not felt towards the right ? Reverence
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may be the most prominent emotion ; or respect, or awful regard, may be more distinctly marked ; but where there is true moral approbation, there will always be love. It might be asked, Where then is the distinction between the approba tion of a pure moral nature and one that has sinned — that is no longer pure — and whose perception of right, if there is any such perception, is hardly accompanied by any moral emotion — or if so accompanied, where can be the difference between the two natures ? The difference may lie in the degree in which the emotion is felt, and that may allow of a radical and essen tial difference of moral condition even where there is not such a difference in the moral nature. The heartiness with which ap probation is rendered, or just the degree in which it exists, may arise from an essential difference now in the moral state. Of the right, there must be some remains in every moral being both as regards the perception of the right, and as regards the emotion towards it. In devils, or reprobate spirits, this will be seen in the immense regrets that will be entertained for the loss of their former state, — the loss of good. A distant and awful reverence, and a love that would fain make goodness their own again, if it were possible ; that would prefer, at certain moments, the good to the evil ; will distinguish even them. How would they climb the heights of virtue again if they could — how would they regain their lost honour, and the purity of that state whence they have fallen ! The vexation of a lost spirit will be partly the impossibility of ever being, what there is no moral nature that would not prefer being, upon a whole review of its own state, and that of others, whether the good contemplating the evil, or the evil contemplating the good. The eternally right must command the approbation, and in that, so far the love even of reprobate or lost spirits. Why is it that it does so even among men ? Their nature is depraved enough — their bias to the wrong is sufficiently strong — but among the most morally depraved of our race, there are remains of a better state, and in them love to the right is not altogether extinguished. Let the better nature speak, and it would speak for virtue — let it have scope, and it would love it ;
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but the depraved nature obtains the sway, or it is but in partial preferences that the original moral nature is seen. We think it is no hazardous statement, then, to say, there may be love for the right even in a depraved moral nature, although it exists along with a love for the wrong, and the latter greatly predo minates. Here, again, we have to determine our question with a view to the original nature with which man was at first created, the first supposable state of every moral being. It is not what man is now that must determine any moral question, or what those spirits that kept not their first estate may be : we must conceive of a moral nature as it must be, as abstractly it must be regarded ; and no moral nature, without ceasing to be such, can so change as to lose what must be of the very essence of a moral nature, so that when it contemplates the right it must possess in degree the same emotions with which the right must ever be contemplated, or the right cannot even be apprehended at all. Is the question, How man in his present state regards the right ? Then, we either view him as unfallen, and the question in that case is. How absolute moral nature regards the right ? or we view him as fallen, and his nature vitiated, and then we look at his nature as it is, the same as ever in all essen tial particulars, in its essential elements, though now having a vitiating element in it by which the wrong is chosen in prefer ence to the right, though, yet again, the right, when it is an object of contemplation at all, may both be loved and approved of. The question is, What is the absolute moral emotion ? How is the right regarded by a moral being ? and surely it is not man as he now is, or rather fallen spirits as they now are : it is not by a reference to either of these that the question is to be determined. So much of reason, and even of a moral nature, remains within us, that we can determine the question abso lutely, and apart from existing elements that might seem to ren der any absolute solution of the question impossible. We seek in our moral nature, in spite of its fallen state, for the very ele ments which are to determine the question. We examine our moral preferences : we take the moral emotion even as it is ; but we are able to go up beyond these, and consider what the emo-
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tion must have been, what it ought to be ; and in both ways we come at a determination of the question, though the very mixed elements with which we have to deal do create confusion, and render it uncertain what is the precise criterion we have adopted for our judgment, or what is the nature of our solution. Reason does inform us, in spite of any fault in our experimental data, (for reason can go beyond these, or the absolute relations of ideas are independent of them) ; — reason, we say, informs us what the proper moral emotions must have been, viz., rever ence and love ; it informs us of the right itself; and it is an a priori, absolute truth, a truth which mind as mind must possess, must abstractly present to itself — that the right is wor thy of reverence and love. The right must inspire these emo tions ; they are appropriate to it : we cannot contemplate the right without experiencing them ; nay, it is worthy of them. In saying it is right, we are saying it deserves to be regarded with these emotions. The right is not merely a relation, it is a relation of a moral kind : it is such a relation, that when we judge of it, we are at the same time judging of the emotions with which it should be regarded. Reason determines both of these for us apart from experience. It cannot apprehend the right without perceiving in the very apprehension the emotions by which it should be distinguished, or which it must command. But in determining these emotions we are not determining the right ; the right is what is worthy of these emotions, not merely what excites them. The right is an object of perception, not merely ivJiat produces an emotion : it is an object of reason, not of feeling, but so an object of reason that it cannot be seen without feeling: it is perceived, but it cannot be perceived without emotion. That emotion is clearly one both of rever ence and love — high but affectionate regard. Love is in the emotion. The beauty as well as the high integrity of the right is seen : all its loveliness, as well as all its authority. There is a moral beauty as well as a natural, and the moral is often an element in the natural. It is when the moral is conceived along with the natural, or is suggested by it, that the natural has all its effect. It often renders that beautiful
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which would be plain or positively ugly. Much of the sen timent of the beautiful depends upon our moral state. It is in the emotions of the one that we have the groundwork of the other. Man is capable of the sentiment of the beautiful, because he is capable of the sentiment of the moral. Now, what is lovely must attract love. The good, the right, must inspire it. Hence the love which the law of God inspires in the heart of a believer, in the regenerated soul. " How love I thy law !" " Thy law is my delight." Love is felt strongly to the law when the soul is renewed, has undergone the re generating operation of God's grace. It is then that it is loved, loved with a strong and predominating feeling. It has the pre-eminence now ; before, it was little loved, or it was over borne by the love of sin. Now, it is loved in preference to sin. The love to it, as the love to God himself, becomes the master principle of the soul. Now it is that we see moral approbation in its proper state, not feeble, not fluctuating, not temporary merely, but taking the control of the soul, the most prominent feeling in it, ruling its other feelings, and commanding the sentiment, " How love I thy law !" — "Thy law is my delight!" Wonder and love blend. " Thy testimonies are wonderful." There is an appreciation of their Tightness, for the Psalmist esteemed God's testimonies to be right, and they rejoiced his heart. Will not love inspire the angels when they fill heaven with their anthem — " Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ; who art, and who wast, and who art to come ?" Will they not love the holiness which they celebrate ? Will they not delight in that law which binds them in admiration to the throne of God : that law of goodness which they are ever fulfilling, which, as we have already said, exists in them more as a nature than as a law, but the abstract Tightness of which too must be apprehended by them, otherwise we would not find them so celebrating the holiness of Jehovah ?
We have thus presented such a view of moral approbation as its nature has seemed to demand ; and we have kept it apart from the discussion of right itself, — as what follows upon the perception of right, and not what constitutes it. A certain
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emotion accompanies the perception of what is right ; the right is the object of that perception. We perceive the right ; we experience the emotion ; and the perception and emotion form our moral approbation. The perception is as necessary as the emotion : the emotion is as necessary as the perception ; and the right is not the right because it inspires this approbation, but it inspires this approbation because it is right.
We now seem to be in circumstances to determine the nature of the moral faculty, or conscience, which would appear to be nothing else than just the capacity to perceive the right, and to be affected by the moral emotion which accompanies that perception. If we seek for something else distinct in the mind, as the faculty in question, we either just arrive at a supposed original faculty, which can be nothing else than that power of judging of right, and being affected by the appropriate emotion, or we seek in vain, and we discover no faculty beyond the capacity of moral judgment and moral feeling. The moral faculty, conscience, with all its mighty influence, is just the power of perceiving the right, with the emotion accompanying. The faculty of conscience, however, is more properly spoken of when it is the capacity of moral approbation or disapprobation as respects our own actions, or moral states, in which case a distinct emotion accompanies its exercise. In addition to the ordinary emotion accompanying the moral approbation or dis approbation, there is a feeling which is altogether peculiar, and [which feeling it would seem it is that has given rise to the idea of some separate faculty as what constituted conscience. Does the faculty consist in that peculiar feeling ? Is conscience a feeling merely ? Is there not moral approbation or disappro bation implied in it ? Is there not a judgment pronounced as well as an emotion experienced ? Could there be the emotion without the judgment ? It is plain that the peculiar emotion in question will not account for the phenomena of conscience, in which there is as certainly a judgment pronounced, as in any case of judgment whatever.
Even when conscience takes cognizance of abstract right merely, or of the actions of others, it has something of a per-
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sonal character : that is to say, there is in the regard which is had to the Tightness or wrongness which we approve or disap prove, in the approbation or disapprobation which we experience or pronounce, a regard to the Tightness or wrongness of our\ own decision, and our approbation or disapprobation in this » case is pronounced, or is felt, under responsibility to that review ', which the mind institutes or takes of its own moral judgments. * We approve or disapprove under an appeal, as it were, to the moral judgment within us, and submissive to a review from that internal court. Conscience, then, ultimately, is the moral } faculty, or the faculty of approbation or disapprobation, deciding f upon ourselves, and even upon our moral decisions. In respect to moral principle in the abstract, or the moral actions of others, we often say, — we cannot in conscience approve of such and such a principle, of such and such a course of action ; we feel our selves amenable to the tribunal of our own minds in the 1 decision we pronounce. Simply, it is moral approbation or disapprobation when it is not upon ourselves we pronounce ; it is conscience when it is upon our own actions that we decide. We often, however, say, our conscience approves or disapproves of such a principle or such an action, when the principle is abstract, and the action is that of another. Are not moral approbation and conscience in this case one ? Is it not con science pronouncing upon the principle or action ? It will be found, however, that what is meant in such a case is, that conscience would pronounce such a decision, were the principle our own, or were the action performed by ourselves. We have respect to ourselves in such a decision. The decision more properly is, conscience will not allow me to entertain such a principle, to perform such an action. Conscience has therefore a personal reference even in such cases ; it is a moral decision, whether ourselves or others be the object ; and, therefore, there is strictly no distinct faculty in operation when it is even conscience more properly that is at work ; it is nothing more than moral approbation in either case ; but in the one case, it! jis moral approbation deciding upon ourselves ; in the other, it ! is moral approbation deciding upon others ; or when we speak
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of conscience deciding upon others, it is moral approbation with a view to the scrutiny of conscience as to whether that appro bation is right or wrong. It is very evident that conscience is nothing different from the moral capacity or faculty by which we pronounce an action to be right or wrong ; it is the capacity of • moral approbation or disapprobation ; and all that distinguishes } it as conscience is the peculiar emotion that accompanies any j instance of moral approbation or disapprobation when we our selves are the object. There is an emotion accompanying every instance of approbation or disapprobation, or the approbation or disapprobation is a judgment with a moral emotion — a moral judgment, or the perception of a moral relation. In the case of conscience, there is an additional emotion, a certain com placency, or satisfaction, on the one hand, or the absence of this complacency, or dissatisfaction, on the other. Conscience would seem to be nothing more, as distinct from moral appro bation and disapprobation, than the peculiar happiness that is felt when we ourselves are the object of our moral approbation, or the peculiar pain when we are the object of our moral disap probation. The happiness or pain attending the moral appro bation and disapprobation when ourselves are its object, would seem to give us conscience. The grand peculiarity of all moral decisions, the moral judgment, is the same in every case, and is nothing different in conscience from what it is in simple moral approbation or disapprobation. The appropriate emotion, too, which accompanies every case of simple approbation or dis approbation, is only modified, when it is self-approbation or self-disapprobation, by the object being self rather than another. It is reverence and love, however, or if not love, complacency, as much as when others are the object of our approbation ; disesteem and aversion, as much as when others are the object of our disapprobation. We may regard ourselves with a feeling akin to love, as we may also with a feeling akin to aversion ; complacency is, perhaps, the best name for the feeling in the one case, dissatisfaction in the other ; that dissatisfaction rising sometimes to the strongest displeasure. Self-respect and self-disrespect are not more common terms than the feelings
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which they denote are well-known feelings. Now, these feelings or emotions, respect and complacency, or disrespect and dis satisfaction, cannot be entertained towards ourselves without a happy or agreeable feeling, or a painful or disagreeable feeling. In these latter seems to consist the peculiarity of conscience. It admits of a very easy explanation from the principles we have pursued in determining our mental constitution hitherto : we have seen certain mental states, certain emotional states, and now we have certain moral states, constituting the mental and moral phenomena ; and what should surprise us in finding a mental decision or judgment, or an idea of a peculiar relation, an emotion accompanying, and either happiness or suffering resulting, especially when the emotion in question has respect to ourselves, or rests upon ourselves as its object ? When we have thus explained it, however, we do not detract from its high and commanding power and authority. The moral deci sion, and the happiness or pain accompanying it, is a principle of prodigious power. In a moral decision, there is that which might govern the world, were every other power equal, or pos sessed in equal degree — a peremptoriness of authority which cannot, and ought not to yield to anything whatsoever — not though the whole world wrere in opposition. How does Butler speak of this principle ? " Thus," says he, " that principle by which we survey, and either approve or disapprove our own heart, temper, and actions, is not only to be considered as what is in its turn to have some influence ; which may be said of every passion, of the lowest appetites. But, likewise, as being superior, as from its very nature manifestly claiming superiority over all others : insomuch that you cannot form a notion of this faculty, conscience, without taking in judgment, direction, .superintendency. This is a constituent part of the idea, that is of the faculty itself: and to preside and govern, from the very economy and constitution of man, belongs to it. Had it strength, as it has right, had it power as it has manifest autho rity, it would absolutely govern the world." All bow before the authority of conscience. It controls the strongest as well ' as the weakest, the highest in rank as well as the humblest in
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station, the mightiest equally with the most insignificant. The t moral decision, with the accompanying emotion, is what none ;can disregard: it may not be listened to : its voice may be stifled : it may be overborne by the force of temptation, or it may be silenced amid the clamours of vain ambition or the solicitations of selfish desire : but it can be so only for a time, and conscience will be heard when every other voice is hushed, 'and when there is nothing to solicit, or to draw away, the mind from its immediate demands.
We need not wonder at the power of this principle, when we recollect that it is mind itself in a state of approbation or disapprobation, and that, when itself is the object of its own approval or disapproval. The mind itself is the object of its own moral judgment. There is here, however, again some thing ultimate. We cannot understand the mysterious con-< nexion between a moral perception and a moral feeling — the perception of a moral relation, and the feeling of a moral emotion. The connexion between these two is beyond all effort at explanation. The connexion is, doubtless, not arbi trary. There seems to be an appropriateness between the perception and the feeling, a necessity from the very nature of moral distinction and of the moral being : but that necessity itself it would be impossible to rationalize or explain. We may not resolve it into an arbitrary constitution or appoint ment by the Creator. Our own nature partakes of all that is absolute in His ; and the distinction of moral good and evil, and the emotion accompanying the perception of that distinc tion — the reverence and love for the good, and the contempt and hatred for the evil — cannot be arbitrary in Him, but must 'be absolute. How peremptoiy, how authoritative, is the ' distinction ! — how mighty, how puissant the emotion ! In God, it must be an infinite recoil from the evil, an infinite love and admiration of the good, consistent with a calm and undis turbed tranquillity in the contemplation of both. So vast must be all the states of the Divine mind, that disturbance or agitation is at any time inconceivable. The infinite happi ness of infinite holiness — that is, the happiness and holiness of
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an infinite being, is conceivable ; but disapprobation and hatred of evil, without any disturbance or interruption of tranquillity,, is what we can have but the faintest conception of, if indeed we can have any conception. In the creature, however, the moral emotion must be accompanied with the greatest delight or happiness, on the one hand, and the most exquisite misery on the other — where the subject of the emotion is himself the object of it : that is, where the being is the object of his own approbation or disapprobation. How great that happiness,, how exquisite that misery, every one can in some degree say who has felt himself the object of his own moral approval or! disapproval. Self-approbation, self-condemnation, are the names i we give to these states of mind; and we call that conscience] which gives us either state. It is the power which approves prj condemns in our own case : it is the power which approves ori disapproves our own actions or moral states, with the peculiar feeling which belongs to such approval or disapproval.
The influence which this principle has upon our other states, N — mental and emotional, — is worthy of remark. It exercises a' prodigious effect upon the whole mental economy. A right state of the conscience is of wonderful importance just to the ordinary processes of the mind — to the very correctness and vigour of the understanding. An approving conscience admits of the understanding being unfettered and free, and the action of the understanding consequently is unencumbered and ready. It is free to act, and it acts freely. The effect of an accusing conscience is to disturb the mind, and when the mind is dis- i turbed it cannot act promptly. It is to fill the mind with thoughts, which occupy it to the exclusion of others. There is,, in the very unhappiness of the mind in such a state, an arrest to thought. Thought itself is painful, or it is felt to be worth less. The importance, therefore, of maintaining a good con science must be obvious, were it for nothing else than to allow of the unfettered action of the mind. It is far more valuable on its own account. For a moral agent to transgress the line of right, is an evil of which the magnitude cannot be con ceived, simply because it is evil. To be capable of transgress-
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ing the right, is a disaster, all the consequences of which cannot be measured. Evil in any amount, — that is, evil at all, — is a worse event than the greatest amount of evil, and is far more to be deplored. A moral nature that can transgress the boun dary of duty, is a sadder calamity, — an object more to be re gretted far, than any degree of evil to which that nature can attain. To incur the condemnation of conscience, must then be something greatly to be deprecated, yea, infinitely to be avoided. The provocation of this master principle of our nature is a folly to be shunned with all the energy of which we are capable, in a state in which the conscience itself is depraved, the moral nature vitiated. With the utmost effort it is im possible to keep the conscience pure, or in every case to obey it. The desires and tendencies of our nature lead us to oppose it. Sentiments, in themselves good, become evil, from the degree in which they are indulged, or from the direction they are allowed to take. Our compound nature, body and soul, operates to the prejudice of the latter. The spiritual is brought into captivity to the sensuous. Still conscience is paramount. {It is fitted to guide us, if we would listen to it, not without permitting us ever to do wrong, but for the most part to direct us to do right. Even then, indeed — when outwardly we conform to the dictates of conscience, there may be wanting that entire homage to it which makes an action purely moral, and which, with the regard to God, which every moral being should cherish, 'and which conscience itself requires, makes an action acceptable in God's sight. Still it is much to listen to ' the voice of conscience, even when there may not be that pure reverence for law, and love to good for itself, which alone are- of any account in a true moral action.
Here it is that the relation of conscience to action, and to the other principles of our nature, comes in and demands attention. Moral approbation and disapprobation, the estimate of law, the perception of right and wrong, with the accompany ing emotion or emotions, infers duty, or moral obligation. It at once infers these, and imposes them, for the perception of these is to impose them, or exact them. The obligation of the
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moral agent to perform certain actions, is not created surely by the perception of the obligation, for it must exist before it can be perceived ; but the perception of the obligation implies an obligation in itself, or makes it obligatory, if we may so speak, to comply with the obligation perceived, and imposed upon us from without, or in virtue of law. What have we then in all these states and conditions, external and internal ? We have, right or law, the obligation of these, the perception of them,; the love and reverence consequent, and the obligation arising from the perception of right, and the consequent perception of { obligation. The two species of obligation, that of law, and that which the perception of law implies, unite in one ; and duty may have regard to either, as the case may be, as we have regard ourselves to either ; or it may regard both, and is then the result of both. Conscience is just our moral na~i Jture perceiving law, approving of right and disapproving of 'wrong, with the peculiar satisfaction or pain which is expe rienced when it is of ourselves we approve or disapprove ; or, when it is others that excite our approbation or disapprobation, or abstract right or wrong, our approbation or disapprobation, as given by conscience, is given under responsibility to that inward monitor, that is to say, to another approbation or dis approbation which the mind passes upon its own judgments ; in which case we have the additional phenomenon of a pecu liarly painful or pleasing emotion. It is obvious, then, that conscience, while it is not a distinct principle or faculty of the mind, is, as the faculty or principle of moral approbation or disapprobation, still characterized by an emotion which is pecu liar, and that because we ourselves are in such a case the object jof the moral approval or disapproval. It is also obvious that ^this faculty or principle must have a peculiar relation to all the other principles of our nature, and to our outward actions. The nature and extent of this relation we must now endeavour to explicate as we best may, and as the difficulty of the subject will permit. We are here brought into connexion with the active principles of our nature, the springs of action ; and the desires, and the will therefore must be formally considered.
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(We thus consider the desires as principles of action, and in strict connexion with the moral part of our being. The will is a distinct principle, and one of the most interesting pheno mena of our constitution.
We have already adverted to the distinction between the emotions and the desires, or desire as one generic state of mind, of which there may be different objects, giving us the different desires. The emotions, desires, and appetites, constitute the active principles of our nature, or the principles or states of our mental constitution which lead to action. Man was de signed for action. Had he been created to exist as an indi vidual, and not in society, — as a meditative recluse, and not having a part to act in his relations to his fellows, — he might have been constituted otherwise than he is. But his nature shews what he was designed for, and the design or inten tion of his being required such a constitution or nature as that of which we actually find him possessed. His emo tions bind him to his fellows, while his desires and appetite* impel him to act whether for private or for social ends. The appetites terminate upon the bodily wants, and are more bodily than mental. So far as they are bodily, they are shared in common with the lower creatures, being connected with much the same physical constitution, and serving much the same physical purposes. But man has a higher than a mere physical nature, and was designed for higher than mere phy sical purposes. While it is a physical nature that connects him in visible relation with his fellows, while it is man in his phy sical being that we see moving in society, and fulfilling all the purposes of social existence, we see something beyond that physical being, and it is what resides and animates and actuates within that makes him what he is, constitutes his higher nature, and shews us the true end of his creation. On his multifarious errands, in the multifarious objects he has to accomplish, in the eager pursuits which he prosecutes, in the social affections and social desires which he cherishes and evinces, or in the private or personal affections or emotions with which he is actuated,
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we see his mental or spiritual nature ; and it is in these we are to behold those marvellous principles, principles of marvellous power, which make life action, and fill up its brief space with the busiest passions, the most exciting interests, and the most momentous events. Emotions and desires develop themselves in constant succession, and are never but in operation. The mind is a magazine of passions, emotions, desires ; or it is a fine mechanism, and these are its motive powers. The emotions we have already at some length considered. The desires are more directly our motive principles. The emotions, indeed, are not motive principles, but as they are connected with the desires. Compassion, for example, or sympathy with the suffer ings of others, would lead to no action but for the desire to relieve the sufferings with which we sympathize. It is the latter part of our nature which is truly the impelling prin ciple, and which leads to action. The emotion begets the desire, and therefore is an active principle : it is not the proxi mate, but it is the remote principle of action. Without the emotion of compassion there would be no desire to relieve suffering, but without desire there would be no action towards its relief. There are emotions which are not connected with desire at all, and these do not lead to action. When we rejoice in the joy of others, we do not experience any impulse to action of any kind, but our emotion is its own end, or terminates with itself; or again, if it leads to action, to express or communicate our joy for example, it is through the medium of a desire to let our joy be known, and make others sharers of it ; or this is hardly action in any proper sense, but the mere utterance of joy. Anger does not lead to action until it becomes resent ment ; and love is a separate emotion from the desire to benefit the object beloved. Still, as our emotions are followed by desire, they are counted active principles, and spoken of as such. The desires, however, are more properly the active principles, and the emotions are so only as they awaken, or are con nected with desire. The desires are the effect of the emotions ; of certain emotions ; for every emotion does not awaken desire. The desire of life, or of continued existence, is the result of a
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certain enjoyment of life, or of an emotion or feeling of plea sure, of which life is the immediate cause ; or it may be the result of the combined emotions or feelings of happiness or pleasure, which go to make up the enjoyment of life. No one emotion may be the cause here, but many combined emotions, all concurring to produce a certain pleasure or happiness, of which the love of life, and the desire of its continuance, are the consequence. It may be questioned if there is the love of life for its own sake, or except as it is connected with the experience of a certain happiness. The same with the other desires ; for how could any object be desirable but as it had been found to be connected with certain pleasurable emotions, or with an estimate of its worth or importance, which is equivalent to, or is itself, an emotion ? The desire to do good, or for good to others, is the effect of a certain esteem, or appreciation, or love, for the object whom we wish to benefit, or for whom we desire the good. Any one of our desires, therefore, it would seem, must have been first preceded by a certain emotion, before the desire could be awakened, or to make the object or end desir able. Our very emotions have been divided into primary and secondary ; the strict philosophy of which, however, we would be disposed to question. The objects of certain emotions may not be primarily or immediately the objects of these emotions, but may be so only though the medium of other objects, with which other emotions are connected. The social affections are thus traced, for the most part, to the medium of intervening affections. We experience a certain pleasure in the company of others, in their esteem, their confidence, their conversation, their kind offices ; this begets the love of society, and the love of social intercourse. Is it, however, the emotion that is secondary here, or the object of the emotion ? Is not the emotion the same, that of love or enjoyment, as in other instances of it ? and it has now just a new object through the intervention of other joys, or through the medium of other objects of enjoyment. Perhaps the love of knowledge is the result of certain emotions, and the former, simple as it may appear, may not be felt till these other emotions have been
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first experienced. But here, again, we have only a new object of love, and the emotion, in its own character, is the same with any other example of it. Many objects may thus be secondary while the emotions are not strictly secondary, but the same in their essential nature, whatever may be their object. The desires, however, seem to be secondary to the emo tions, or only consequent upon the emotions. We would not have the desires but for the emotions. The emotions make the objects of them desirable, or awaken desires in connexion with these objects in all time coming. We believe this is the true account of the desires, and instead of their being emo tions themselves, prospective, or however we may denominate them, they are distinct phenomena, and are consequent upon the emotions — the result of the emotions. We have, accordingly, the desire of life, the desire of happiness, the desire of esteem, the desire of gain, the desire of honour, the desire of power ; for these are all felt to be desirable, and are felt to be so from having been the objects of certain emotions, having been con nected with certain agreeable feelings previously. Desire is a distinct phenomenon, and results from an object having been felt to be desirable, that is, from having been the cause or occasion of certain happy or agreeable emotions, or an emotion, such as that of admiration, awakening a certain estimate of worth or value, and producing the desire of possession. Some of our desires are made secondary, in the sense of being secondary to other desires, such as the desire of wealth, as the result of the desire of power ; and the desire of power, again, as the result of the desire of doing good. That these desires may be secondary, in that sense, in certain cases, may be allowed ; but that they are often as original as any of our de sires, since all are consequent upon certain emotions, we think is obvious, and they are secondary only to the emotions out of ivhich they spring. A certain happiness has been associated in idea with the possession of wealth, whether the happiness springing from power, or distinction, the superior esteem of our fellows, or the command of the luxuries and enjoyments of life. The happiness resulting from all these sources, or from
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any one of them, is the immediate cause of this desire. Desire, we would say, is the consequent of happiness experienced, or worth appreciated ; except in the cases of resentment, and the desire of good, or of doing good, to others, when it is the result of anger or of love, the desire of evil to an object apart from provocation, when it is the result of hatred. Desire, we think, may be traced to one or other of these sources ; anger, when it becomes resentment ; hatred, when it expresses itself in the desire of evil to its object ; love, when it desires, or seeks, the good of its object ; a feeling or experience of happiness, or a certain sense or appreciation of worth. Desire is en tirely a secondary phenomenon of our nature, and seems to be consequent upon one or other of these sources or excite ments.
The opposite of desire, is fear ; or at least that is very nearly the antagonistic state to desire. As we desire those objects which we have found to be connected with certain good, so we fear those objects which we have experienced to be connected with certain evil. Certain objects may be terrible, and capable of awakening at once, and of themselves, the idea of evil, and consequently producing apprehension, or inspiring terror; or the connexion of terror and terribleness with these objects may be the effect of very rapid, and very early, associations — as in the case of a precipice, with which the mind will be able at once almost to associate danger — a storm — an enraged animal — or an infuriated fellow-mortal — a person whom we have provoked, and who has the will and the power to hurt. Nelson, when a boy, was once found sitting on a rock by the sea-shore, during a storm, and when asked if he had no fear, he asked in reply, what fear was, for he had never seen it. There seem to be minds to which fear is a stranger, and which may meet every evil with equanimity and courage. Courage is the power of meeting evil, or anticipating it, unappalled, and without apprehension. And as evil is physical and moral, so we have physical courage, and moral courage. Minds possessed of the former are not always possessed of the latter. The explanation of this may just be in the different kinds of apprehended evil. Physical
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evil may have no power to appal or terrify a mind that would shrink from the encounter of his fellow-beings incensed, or otherwise armed with power to hurt. The reverse, too, is the case. Physical evil may be dreaded by those who would feel nothing in the encounter with their fellows, but would rather rejoice in the opportunity of combat, whether in the arena of debate, or in the struggle of principle. However this is to be accounted for, it is seen in multitudes of cases. The physical frame and the moral constitution may have respectively to do with it. Confidence in one's integrity and motives may im part moral courage to those whose physical constitution would tremble in the face of the smallest danger.
That fear and courage are principles of action, and very powerful ones, we need not stop to show. We might dwell upon them more at large, as emotions of the mind, or rather states, which have their origin in the apprehension of evil, and in the necessity to encounter it ; but this would occupy us too long, while what is important is to see the connexion of these states with the other states of mind, especially as principles of action, and taking their place among the principles of action — the emotions and the desires.
Hope is a modification of desire. It is desire with some prospect of the attainment of the object desired. It is desire modified by this prospect or likelihood of attainment. And according as the prospect is strong, the hope will be strong, till it amounts to expectation, and again to certainty, when it becomes absolute confidence. Desire is in each of these states of mind, and there is greater or less certainty of attainment. The feeling resulting, however, would seem to be something more than a mere modified feeling. We cannot allow hope, expectation, confidence, to be nothing but desire modified : there is a resulting feeling which we call hope, which we call expectation, which we call confidence. We have repeatedly adverted to the circumstance of a new feeling, springing out of other feelings, the result of these combined, but constituting an entirely new feeling in itself — the resultant feeling being simple. So it may be with desire modified by a particular
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idea of certainty, either greater or less : the result may be an entirely new principle or feeling.
Such we take to be the states of mind we call hope, expecta tion, confidence. They are distinct — simple — resultants of other states. They are intimately connected, however, with desire, as the result of any combination must be with the elements that enter into it. What admirable principles these are, espe cially hope, and just because of at once the certainty and un certainty that enter into its composition, all are aware. The value of the principle is almost lost, at least in the same direc tion or use of it, when it becomes expectation, confidence. It is when there is uncertainty, and yet hope, that the mind values the principle that sustains it in the absence of every other. It is in the uncertainty, that the principle which bids us yet hope is prized so much, and is so important as a principle of our constitution. The mind would droop otherwise — would give up the object as lost, as unattainable. This principle bids it hope — bids it still look forward. There is, indeed, in the prin ciple, a certain calculation of probabilities, and it seems to depend upon plain enough matters of fact, prosaic enough circumstances ; but this does not detract from the nature of the feeling or principle itself. It is an animating principle, and plays a most important part in our nature as a principle lead ing to action. By means of it we struggle against difficulties — we yield not to disappointment — we still anticipate success. We act as if the object were ours, or as if we knew it was to be ours. It is the great painter of life, the anticipator of future good. What is at any one time in possession is but little, and perhaps still less worth ; but the future is ours, and that has a worth above all the present, because it is future. Experience has not yet undeceived the mind. It is also the happiness we next look to when all else has failed, or when we are weary at least of the present. Hope sustains the mind when there is almost no room to hope. It cheers the captive in his years of confinement, and bids him still look for release, though the hope should be as feeble as the light that penetrates, or hardly penetrates, his lonely dungeon. It makes the wronged bear
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his oppression, if anything could reconcile the mind to the degradation of injury. It mitigates every evil by promising future good. It mingles in the very experience of good itself ; for, if we had no prospect of its continuance, or could not hope for other good, the good \ve presently enjoy would often be come the worst of evils, from the very apprehension of its loss. Fear is thus opposed to hope, as well as to desire in its more simple and elementary state, and takes a different aspect ac cordingly. It is the fear of losing what we might hope to attain, in the one instance ; it is fear of evil, just as there may be the desire of good, in the other. The kind of evil appre hended in the two cases is different : in the one it is negative, in the other it is positive ; in the one it is the losing or not attaining a good desired, and in some measure expected; in the other, it is a positive evil that is apprehended, and apprehended with some likelihood, or at least possibility, of its actual occurrence. In all hope there is some degree of fear, otherwise it would not be hope, but certainty, expectation. It is made up of expectation and uncertainty, as we have already seen it to be desire, with some prospect of attainment, — that is, with more or less of certainty, or rather probability of attain ment. The very fear gives impulse to hope in the struggle of the mind to overcome its fears, while the intensity of hope, or the desire rather that mingles in it, gives strength or poignancy to fear. There is a reciprocal influence of the two sentiments or states : The very hope leads us to fear — the very fear makes us still hope. Such is our nature, that one state catches strength from its very opposite ; at least, so is it in the alternations of hope and fear. Coleridge has beautifully expressed the com mingling of these sentiments, and their mutual influence, in the stanza which occurs in his Genevieve : —
" And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long."
A great part of the principle of hope, it must be confessed, may be said to consist in the unwillingness of the mind to
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negative its own desires, or to renounce them altogether. In some cases it may almost be said to be just the persistency of the mind in its own desires. It may thus be questioned, in some instances, whether any degree of certainty, or rather pro bability, is necessary to admit of the principle of hope, or in order to its being cherished. In many cases there is no proba bility connected with the sentiment, or admitting of it, and yet it is cherished. The faintest possibility, however, must exist, and is enough for the exercise of the principle, or the existence of the feeling. Does the captive cease hoping that he will yet see the light of heaven, and be restored to the blessings of freedom and of life ? The very possibility of his being so keeps alive hope, or allows of it. The mind will not say to itself, " It can never be ;" " It may be," is its utterance, or state, or sentiment. It may be — and how much depends upon that may be ! — years of captivity, and the mind's existence through all ! Hope is the state of the mind answering to the possi bility of an event, when that event is desirable. The same event looked at according to the different degrees of probability, when it is desirable, produces hope or fear. The possibility of it allows hope, the possibility the other way produces fear. Let the object be not desirable, and the order of the sentiment is exactly reversed : the hope is, that it may not be realized : the fear is, that it may. Some minds are constitutionally more prone to one of these sentiments than to the other. The pro bability, or the improbability, is what is seized in some cases rather than in others, by some minds rather than by others. Constitutional differences will account for this, as for many of the indications or appearances of mind. The constitutional differences of minds is a subject but little understood, and perhaps incapable of being appreciated. The physical tem perament undoubtedly has something to do with a phenomenon which is seen every day in the most ordinary events and circumstances of life. The sanguine, the desponding, or less hopeful, represent two classes of individuals. Judgment, too, in many cases, may control the hopes that might otherwise be cherished ; and this makes the cautious and the prudent
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character ; as the hope that goes before judgment often makes the rash or the imprudent. In leading to action, it is often a beneficial principle — hope that anticipates judgment, and will not wait on its decisions — and the judgment is often in the very hope that leads to success, the hope being the confidence of the mind that it will succeed, or that there is no room for doubt or despondency. The judgment is one of the mind, made previous to any actual case that may arise, that by the requisite effort anything within possibility may be accom plished.
Youth is chiefly the season of hope. " In life's morning march" all the energies are active, and the future promises a thousand objects to exertion. The desire and the requisite effort seem all that are necessary to command the very object of every several wish. No defeat is anticipated : the elements of defeat are yet unknown : the obstacles to success have never for a moment been taken into account. Life is yet unex perienced, and between the present moment, the present wish or anticipation, and the realization of all that is anticipated or wished for, there is no interval, or but one to be filled up with the requisite exertion. How important all tins is to effort, and just at the time when effort is most necessary, when the pre paration has to be made for the future, when the mind has to be trained, when the equipment has to be secured by which the whole life is afterwards to be characterized or distinguished, will at once appear. The stimulus of hope is more necessary at that period, because the feeling of duty is not then so strong, and the considerations of judgment do not weigh so much in the balance.
Hope is a principle which pertains chiefly to a world in which good and evil are mixed. The good allows of hope ; the evil prevents, seldom permits, certainty ; and the mind desires good, at least some good. Good of some kind, the mind sets before it. In our present state the mind puts good for evil, and evil for good, but an object must be apprehended at least as good before it could be desirable. It must have been associated in the mind with some idea of happiness or
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worth ; and it matters not, however wrong the idea may be. A false idea of happiness or worth may be as capable of pro ducing desire as the most correct : it is necessary only that there be such an idea. Dr. Brown has certainly a very singu lar doctrine on this subject. He makes the good that consti tutes desirableness just the relation between the object and the desire. He expressly makes the distinction between such a good, and physical and moral good. His own words are, — " I must request you to bear in mind the distinction of that good which is synonymous witli desirableness, and ofwliicli the only test or proof is the resulting desire itself, from absolute physical good that admits of calculation, or from that moral good which conscience at once measures and approves. That which we desire must indeed always be desirable ; for this is only to state in other words, the fact of our desire. But though" we desire what seems to us for our advantage, on account of this advantage, it does not therefore follow that we desire only what seems to be advantageous ; and that what is desirable must therefore imply, in the very mo ment of the incipient desire, some vieiv of personal good" " Desirableness, then," he adds, " does not necessarily involve the consideration of any other species of good, it is the relation of certain objects to certain emotions, and nothing more ; the tendency of certain objects, as contemplated by us, to be followed by that particular feeling which we term desire." This is surely a very arbitrary view of desirableness, or what we desire as good — merely its relation to desire itself — the tendency of certain objects, and that merely as contemplated by us, to be followed by that particular feeling which we term desire. Is there nothing more than this even in those instances of desirableness which Dr. Brown refers to ? — nothing more than a relation between an object and desire — the tendency in an object to produce desire ? Is there not some conceived of happiness or worth connected with the object, or which it is capable of yielding ? There plainly must be ; and we can only wonder at a view which makes the good which excites desire nothing, or nothing more than a relation between any object
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and the subsequent desire. Good of some kind, physical, in tellectual, or moral, must belong to the object, or conceived of as belonging : otherwise no desire would ensue, and the object would at least be indifferent to us. We are so constituted as to desire happiness, and appreciate excellence of whatever kind ; and whatever is associated in our minds with these, may be the object of desire. Either as capable of yielding happiness, or as possessing worth, must an object be desired, if it is desired at all. This remark has regard to the one class of our desires. We have already recognised that class which springs from the emotions of love and hatred — the desires, namely, of good or evil to the objects of these emotions respectively. We alluded to a certain desire towards the good or evil of their object when speaking of these emotions, thereby giving rise to the bene volent and malevolent affections respectively. We find our selves brought to the same distinction when now speaking of the desires. We recognise this second class of our desires just as we could not overlook them, when speaking of the emotions from which they spring, or with which they are connected. Now, it is just from overlooking this class of our desires, and fixing exclusive regard upon the desires connected with our own advantage or happiness, that the selfish view of human nature, or what is called the selfish system of morals, has been adopted or entertained. Had due prominence been allowed to that emotion of our nature, by which it is undoubtedly charac terized, or we have no emotions at all — we mean the general emotion of love, the selfish system would never have been heard of. For, though there is such a principle as self-love in our nature, and man must act from that principle as well as from others, there is as certainly the principle of love generally ; and love to our neighbour is but a modification, or but a part of the general principle. Love is an original and essential state of the emotional and moral being ; and to deny its existence, or exercise, is to take but a very miserable view indeed of our essential constitution. The truth is, our constitution has been looked at from a wrong point of view altogether. Everything shews us that it ought to be regarded from the grand stand-
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point of the essential moral nature. It is not what we now are : it is what we must have been. It is a poor consideration, what is the aspect which our nature at present presents. Even that will be found consistent with all that the absolute view of our moral constitution requires us to think respecting it ; and leads, or may lead, to the absolute view ; but in itself it is far short of what we are required to regard or consider in respect to our moral constitution. Taking this view, we find that love is a part of our nature; and benevolence is but the outgoing or expression of that love. That benevolence is a part of our constitution, was settled in the most satisfactory way by Butler ; and in his own profound and ingenious manner of treating a subject, it was shown that benevolence was as independent of self-love, as was any other principle whatever. Because hap piness was an object of pursuit or desire, we were no more warranted to conclude that there was no benevolence in our constitution, than that there was no other passion or affection. The sum of Butler's argument is thus given in his own words : " Happiness consists in the gratification of certain affections, appetites, passions, with objects which are by nature adapted to them. Self-love may indeed set us on work to gratify these, but happiness or enjoyment has no immediate connexion with self-love, but arises from such gratification alone. Love of our neighbour is one of these affections. This, considered as a virtuous principle, is gratified by a consciousness of endea vouring to promote the good of others ; but, considered as a natural affection, its gratification consists in the actual accom plishment of this endeavour. Now, indulgence or gratification of this affection, whether in that consciousness, or this accom plishment, has the same respect to interest as indulgence of any other affection ; they equally proceed from, or do not pro ceed from, self-love ; they equally include, or equally exclude, this principle. Thus it appears that benevolence and the pur suit of public good hath at least as great respect to self-love and the pursuit of private good, as any other particular passions and their respective pursuits."
" Every particular affection, even the love of our neighbour,"
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Butler had previously said, " is as really our own affection, as self-love ; and the pleasure arising from its gratification is as much my own pleasure, as the pleasure self-love would have from knowing I myself should be happy some time hence, would be my own pleasure. And if because every particular affection is a man's own, and the pleasure arising from its gratification his own pleasure, or pleasure to himself, such particular affec tion must be called self-love ; according to this way of speaking, no creature whatever can possibly act but merely from self- love, and every action and every affection whatever is to be resolved up into this one principle."
But satisfactory as this mode of putting the subject is, we think a higher view may be taken, by considering the absolute emotional and moral constitution, and there we find love one of the highest, the very highest principle of our nature. How poor is the question whether benevolence be one of the prin ciples of our constitution ! If love is the grand principle of an emotional and moral nature, benevolence is but a consequent or effect of that principle ; for benevolence is but desire for the good of the object whom we love. What is the worth of the selfish system when we take this absolute view of our nature ? Can it be maintained for a moment ? Does it not proceed just from not considering our nature from this absolute point of view ? And then, there is the further advantage of this absolute point of view, that in the anomalies which our nature now presents — in the selfishness, for example, which our nature now exhibits, as distinct from self-love, which, in the sense in which that term is to be taken, must belong to our nature, or form a part of it — we see traces of the Scriptural doctrine of the Fall, and we can account for all such anomalies accordingly. But we are not directly discussing the selfish theory of virtue at present. We notice the selfish view of our constitution merely in connexion with the subject of our desires — those two classes which spring from the conception of good, happiness or worth, or from the love of our fellows — the one class arising from something desirable in the object, the other being in itself pure benevolence, and arising from the emotion of love. What is
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desirable in an object, either as contributing to happiness or connected with the idea of happiness or pleasure, or as valuable and worthy of pursuit, awakens desire : the love of our fellow is attended by the desire for his good : the one is the desire of possession from the idea of good to ourselves ; the other is the desire of doing good to others, or for the good of others, from the love of others. Self-love is the principle of the one, bene volence of the other. We naturally desire our good ; we as naturally desire the good of others : and the one is no more a selfish principle than is the other. Selfishness is when we seek our own good, and not at all the good of others, or our own good to the exclusion of the good of others, qr even to the detriment of others. Butler has made prominent distinction between self-love and selfishness. That we are capable of selfishness, or an exclusive regard to our own good, is manifest, and is too frequently exhibited. This arises from the derange ment of our moral nature, and is something entirely distinct from that nature itself. That may still be determined upon apart from such derangement, and the derangement no more allows of a theory of our moral nature than would the de rangement of a piece of mechanism allow of a theory of that mechanism, should its nature come to be inquired into.
Whatever promotes happiness, then, or is regarded as ex cellent, worthy, or valuable, is the object of desire, or may be the object of desire. Happiness must be taken in the large sense of whatever begets or is connected with pleasure, or certain pleasurable emotions, and ivortli or excellence is an idea we cannot analyze ; but yet it is something more than a rela tion between any object and a desire; just as good, and Dr. Brown recognises physical and moral good, is an idea which we cannot analyze, and which Dr. Brown would not resolve into a relation between an object and desire. We shall thus have the general desire of happiness, and the general desire of worth — the desire of good, and the desire of evil, to our fellow — the last desire being incident to a state of moral derangement, in which we may properly desire evil to others in the way of punish ment, or desire it not as a punishment, but from the malignant
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principle that now reigns in the heart. Under this general classification may be enumerated those desires which have been specified and treated of, by certain writers, as the grand and prominent desires of our nature.
It seems altogether unnecessary to dwell upon the particular desires, if we have seen their relation to the other parts of our nature, and the influence they were intended to exert as prin ciples of action. It is of the utmost importance, however, to notice the aspect they now present, in connexion with the peculiar character they must have exhibited in an unfallen state, — to consider, in other words, our desires now that we are fallen beings, and what they must have been, or what must have been our state, when our nature was unvitiated. The desire of existence would hardly have room to exercise itself when death had no place, and the possibility of non-existence was not con templated. That desire is awakened, in recoil from a state which we call death, or non-existence. The desire now leads to the employment of every proper means to preserve our own life, to the duty, in other words, of self-preservation, or all lawful endeavours towards it. The imperative, or command, to this effect, is contained in the Sixth Commandment of the Decalogue. It is not difficult to see a reason for this command in the law re-promulgated from Mount Sinai. Respect to life, to our own, and that of others, becomes a duty in a state in which it is liable to be impaired or destroyed. " Thou shalt not kill," was, accordingly, the authoritative injunction issued by Jehovah from His pavilion of clouds and thick darkness. The desire of existence, however, or the love of existence — for the one is the effect of the other — if it is not essentially the same state or feeling — is now, without the command, a strong enough principle, to secure, for the most part, the preservation, by each, of his own life. There may not be the same respect for the life of others ; and hence the command, in the form in which it is couched, has more direct reference to the life of others than to our own. In an unfallen state, life, as we have said, would be the only supposable condition, and the impulse to
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take it would be an impossibility. The desire of life would not be one of the desires, for nothing else would be known or conceivable.
It would be much the same with the desire of happiness. That could not be an object of desire which was the only state, and the opposite of which was not, and could not be conceived of. We could conceive the desire of different degrees of it, and different modes of it, and the desire would be more akin to the desire of pleasure, as that now exists : it would be the desire of accessions to happiness, which still would be perfect in its degree and kind. There would be nothing like the desire of honour, or ambition, the desire of excelling, or emulation, the desire of wealth, in any degree, much less when it amounts to the degree of settled avarice. Perhaps there might be dif ferent endowments even in an innocent state; and an innocent ambition, or emulation, would be conceivable, but nothing like what we have in the exercise of these passions or feelings now. It is in a state like that in which we now are, that we see room for the exercise of these principles or passions, and it is in our present state, accordingly, that we find pride as one of the emotions of our nature. Vanity is a modification of pride, and envy the result of both. The desire to be great is, undoubtedly, one belonging to a fallen state, for, in another state, the idea of greatness, except the greatness of God, would not be entertained. According to the idea of greatness, we have ambition, pride, vanity, the fear of ridicule, and the sense of shame. False shame, and false delicacy, spring from the same source, but are connected with a wrong judgment of the mind. Bashfulness may have its origin in this state. What would the desire of power be — which implies the desire of sway or influence — when the only rule would be that of love, and when none would ex ercise a greater influence than another, but such as would be consistent with the law of love, would be accorded without envy, and exercised without arrogance ? Love would be the pre dominant feeling ; and the only desires consistent with such a state, or conceivable in it, would be the desire of good abso lutely, and perhaps the desire of knowledge. The desire of
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good would take every direction in which good manifested itself, or could have exercise. It would take two prominent forms, the glory of God and the wellbeing of our neighbours, which, even as it is, is the twofold division of the law. The love of God, and the love of our neighbour, are pronounced even now to be the fulfilling of the law. Whatever that twofold love would prompt to in any state would be the fulfilling of the law, and would be the accomplishment of all good. The char acteristic of our desires now is their selfish direction, not to the exclusion of what remains of that love absolute which is the condition of all perfect being, but still existing and exerting its influence over the whole emotional and moral nature. How this element took effect it is vain to inquire, but that it does exist, and has operation, is too plain to the most superficial observer ; nay, so conspicuous is it in its operation, so marked in the motives which actuate mankind, that the theory of a universal selfishness has been resorted to, to account for all actions whatever, even the most apparently disinterested. It is this element that is present in all those desires that are now characteristic of our moral nature. Man would now build his happiness upon the ruins even of that of others. He would be accounted superior to his fellow — he would influence or control his neighbour, bear rule, wield authority, have obeisance and homage, command the resources of pleasure, and be at tended by all the insignia of power and emblems of greatness. As soon as the vitiating taint affected his nature, desire took every one of these forms. His nature became susceptible of every one of these desires. Not native to his essential being, they became his, part and parcel, if we may so speak, of him self, as soon as he had lost his innocence ; and, accordingly, what we now see is the restless desires in all those directions to which selfishness prompts, and of which personal happiness, and personal aggrandizement, are the object and the gratifica tion. Why should happiness be so eagerly sought, but that it is felt to be a want ? Why should pleasure be so eager an object of quest, but that happiness is so rare a possession ? Why should man seek superiority over his fellow ? Why should
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he aim at power, dominion, authority, distinction in any form ? These are not the aims of pure moral natures. It is in a state of being like what now obtains, that these become objects to the mind. Man is now an end to himself. He must be great, honoured, obeyed, esteemed above his fellows, the object of their envy, attract their notice, wield the sceptre of empire, command the voice or decisions of senates, by his arm, or by his eloquence, sway the destinies of nations ; or he must be increased in wealth, acquire the goods of this world, catch its favour, enjoy its smile, draw its admiring applause, and be the centre round which its affairs and interests revolve. Fame is desired even in the pursuit of knowledge ; — that which should be loved for its own sake, on whose self all the mind's interest should be set, and even that not too much or too fondly, is cultivated for the fame which it brings, or, more sordid, for the wealth it may acquire. The walks of merchandise, the busy mart of trade, the path of gain, the course of fair and honour able competition, where nothing, however, is sought but the advantages which it brings, or the prize which it holds out, are frequented and pursued, as if these were a proper arena of man's exertion, the proper objects on which man's energies were to be expended, or for which they were to be devoted. War is the field for the ambition of man: conquest, the renown of victory, the motions of armies, battle itself, the laurel, " blood nurst and watered by the widow's tears," — these call forth the ardour of ambition, and the interest of martial passion, which is contented that millions of lives should be sacrificed rather than its own high achievements should be baulked, or lust of empire defeated. Then we have the thousand avenues of pleasure : the true object, happiness, is not attained, or attain able, and the substitute, pleasure, must be sought in its stead. There is not an object which may not be made to minister to this, or in which pleasure may not be sought, or some gratifi cation proposed to the mind. All this is in the absence of happiness, or in the want of true delight. The mind is put upon false objects of pursuit, that this desire may be gratified. Anything rather than vacancy, stagnation, or the weight of
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ennui, weariness, disappointment, or the load of the world's misery, or the world's anxieties: hence the chase, the game, the party, the walks with nature — which one might suppose entirely distinct from pleasure as an object, — the pursuit after literary or scientific objects.
Art itself may have the vitiating element, being prosecuted for some ulterior end, not because it is itself an end ; not for the love of the beautiful simply, but for the applause of the world, for the voice of fame. Self is the vitiating element in all our emotions and desires. That there is a line of right, perceivable by the understanding, and that to go beyond it is to transgress : that right and wrong are diametrically opposite : that the one can never be the other, and that our minds perceive the distinction ; cannot for a moment be doubted or called in question ; — but self will be found in all instances of transgression ; for though the law may be transgressed when some other object than self directly is to be subserved or grati fied, self is so far in the action, that the law is not regarded in its supremacy, and self, or personal will, is put above law. Selfishness is consulted ; for it is selfishness : there is emotional self even when actions are done out of regard to any other authority than that of law. Take the case of an individual bound by the rules of his order, sworn to obey them, volun tarily coming under their authority, and confessedly preferring these to known right — is there not personal will here — is there not self in such restraint, in such obligation, irrespective of law, and in defiance of the only rule of obligation ? The exact vitiating element in wrong actions cannot be determined. All that we can say is, that it is a bias to the wrong rather than to the right ; and that has an import of inconceivable and pro found importance, which we can never measure or apprehend. To be capable of wrong, of doing wrong in a single instance, is a vicious state, or involves a moral depravity, which may not stop with one transgression, but which may include all trans gression. Any act, or even any thought, of transgression, implies moral derangement, depravity, a nature evil, and the source of evil. We do not need to determine the origin of
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evil — a question beyond any faculties but those of God him self — which no mind, perhaps, can take cognizance of, but that of the Omniscient. Facts we must admit even while we can not give the rationale of them. Our natures are now vitiated, but what is the vitiating element we cannot say : all we can say is, that evil is preferred to good. We can so far see the evil tendency in the proneness just to follow our own desires, and to put self above every other consideration. The desires now take a selfish direction, and objects are sought by the mind, apparently legitimate, which could not so much as be conceived of in a right moral state. Our desires are for the most part vicious, in that they are away from God and from good, and set upon other objects altogether. Objects arise, are now proposed, which could not have been even thought of before. What is almost any object pursued, compared with the grand object for which the moral being ought to live ? It is true that our compound being requires us to pursue, or to attend to, objects that have directly no moral character in them ; but they become moral when done with a moral design, or when they are means to an end, and not themselves the end, and ourselves the means. To make self an end, and our selves a means — that is, to make selfish gratification the end, and ourselves a means to this gratification — seems to be one great circumstance in every action that is evil, or which trans gresses the right : an evil action transgresses the right whether or not, but we may observe this circumstance in all wrong action — ourselves made a means, and self an end. Our selfish desires are the vitiating element in action, though what is the cause of our selfish desires, it may not be possible to say ; and why the gratification of our selfish desires in certain ways is morally evil is not to be determined, but is an ultimate point. We see, therefore, the relation of our desires to good or evil ; the active principles of our nature constituting the motives to action. The desires are the active principles, and they are the motives to action in every instance where the motive is subjec tive, and not the adherence to law. The adherence to law is the only right motive. We are far from saying that the glory
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of God, or regard to God, may not mingle in that motive : for the law and God, or the authority of God, are so identified that the one seems hardly separable from the other. And yet they are so, and obedience to God himself is required by a law cognizable by our minds. Still, reference to God undoubtedly ought to be had in every action that we perform, for we are not only under law, but also under God ; and His authority is paramount, and is in truth the only actual or concrete autho rity with which we have to do.
We perceive, then, that there are active principles in our nature — that the desires are these principles ; and that it is only when there is obedience to law, rendered from a regard to law, that we are acting irrespective of desire, though still under the influence of motive ; for reverence for law is motive, and the reverence for law is always accompanied by love to it. The relation of our desires, then, to law, to conscience, to moral obligation, is very obvious. At first, love to God and to our neighbour would be the controlling principle, the paramount motive in every action. Everything would be done from this principle, from this motive ; and hardly law itself would be re cognised. Conscience would then be but the law of love, in unison with all that is good. Since evil took effect in the world, a brood of desires sprung up in the mind which had no existence before ; and many of what are called principles of action, are essentially vicious principles, would have no exist ence, and can have no existence, in a perfect state. Those passions which are designated by the name of noble — emulation itself, the purest of them perhaps — have more or less of the taint of evil, because they more or less are selfish, or have re ference to self. Where it is the emulation of excellence, where it is the ambition of excelling in good, the principles are right; but then, they are just resolvable into the love of excellence — of good ; and superiority will not be an element in them at all : excellence, good, themselves, will be the only element ; or the love of these. Now, conscience is the appreciation of the ex cellent, or the power of appreciating the excellent, the good ; and every desire is taken cognizance of by conscience, and is
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approved or disapproved according as it is in accordance with the standard of the excellent, the good ; and the action, of course, springing from the desire, is thus excellent or good, and is pronounced so by conscience. The authority of conscience is the authority of law appreciated by the mind. The law is per ceived, and it is felt in its might and its integrity. Obligation arises out of this, and it is the obligation of law, while there may be love and reverence for it. We perceive the obligation : it becomes also a matter of sentiment or feeling. Both are in the apprehension, or sense, of obligation. Now, our active prin ciples ought to be under the strict control of the perception of the right, or the feeling of obligation. Whatever our desires may be, they should be suffered no farther than conscience approves, and the perception of right allows. And from the view we have presented, we shall perceive the harmony between strictly ethical views, and the view of our nature and of duty or obligation as given in Scripture, or by revelation. We see there that the only principles of action are love to God, and love to our neighbour ; and everything inconsistent with this is sin, is morally vicious. Allowance is made for no other principles. All is reducible to these. The law is not then a nonentity. The authority of law is not thus a nullity ; but if we act from these principles, law will be embodied in every desire and every action ; and the distinct aim of Scripture is to reduce the heart and conduct of the now vitiated moral being under these principles. And do we not find, accordingly, when the nature is reduced under these two principles, every other principle is discarded, or is subordinated to them ; and, instead of ambition, the love of praise, the love of money, the love of pleasure, even the love of existence — the love of God, and the love of our neighbour, are the grand and paramount principles ? Under subordination to these, the others may be allowed ; but they must be subordinate : these must be paramount. We must not love ourselves, but in subordination to the love of God, and we must love our neighbour as ourselves — that is, the love of ourselves must not be such as to be inconsistent with the love of our neighbour. The selfish principle must not dis-
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place the social. The two are compatible, and they ought to exist in harmony. It is common to say, that a certain degree of ambition is right. This is questionable, if ambition is the desire of greatness or distinction. This can never be directly the motive of a pure moral nature. The question is, Is great ness in the creature consistent with the laiu of right ? Can it be consistently desired ? Is the desire of greatness a right one ? Is it for the creature to seek to be great ? The idea of great ness is altogether inconsistent with the position of the creature. Moral greatness is the only kind of greatness that can be legi timately sought — and this is seeking excellence, not properly greatness. What has the creature that he has not received ? and his position is that of subordination to God ; and the measure of the endowments which God has conferred on him, is, and must be, the measure of his greatness. Emulation is somewhat different from this, for it has more directly in view the excellence in which pre-eminence is sought ; but in so far as it is a desire to excel others, not for the sake of the excel lence, but for the sake of superiority, it is wrong, and is in cluded among the works of the flesh which are condemned — emulations, wrath, strife. It is the excellence that should be sought, not the superiority. The love of money, again, is said to be the root of all evil, and they that would be rich fall into temp tation. It is obvious that those principles which are generally regarded as legitimate ought to be brought to the standard of the two we have mentioned ; and measured or regulated by them, we have the proper criterion of their Tightness, or rather, under the influence of these two principles, the others will have very little power over us, or will fall into their appropriate place. What was regarded as legitimate and even praiseworthy will then be viewed very differently, and the law of the Chris tian will be the law of eternal rectitude, the law originally written on the heart. Many fine examples could be brought of all these principles reduced into subordination to the two, the love of God and the love of our neighbour — duty para mount, and that twofold love the grand controlling principle of action. And that is always an interesting and attractive ob-
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ject of contemplation, an individual, who would otherwise have been ambitious, as the expression of the world goes, loving only the right, or seeking to bring every motive in subjection to it, and loving the right chiefly in loving God, and his neighbour as himself. We have such an example in Colonel Gardiner after his conversion, who had the very soul of the hero, but whose every action after his conversion was regulated by the love of God and his neighbour : in Wilberforce, who could have climbed the loftiest heights of ambition, but in whom every high thought was brought into captivity to the obedience of Christ, whose grand controlling principle in those actual tri umphs of statesmanship which he achieved was not the ambi tion of statesmanship, but the love of God and his fellow. The highest in rank have cast at the foot of the Cross their earthly honours, their crowns and sceptres, and they have acknowledged that God alone is to be exalted.
In considering the emotion of love, we were led to take the view of this emotion as absolute, but capable of being increased by the excellencies of being which may be contemplated. We held that this emotion belonged essentially to every moral being, and the love of our neighbour, of course, must be but the exer cise of this principle or affection in that range of its exercise which takes in our fellow-beings as its objects. That these should come within the scope of its exercise is surely not won derful, if it is a principle or affection at all. The only question is, Does this principle exist in man's nature as fallen, or as we find it, or has the principle been obliterated in the ruin which has overtaken our nature, or in which it has been involved ? That all traces of it are not lost, is a truth which may be admitted in perfect consistency with the doctrine of the total depravity of our nature. That depravity consists in some essen tial characteristic which has only to have sphere or opportunity for development to exhibit itself in every individual of the race, and to whatever extent moral evil may go. We shall find, for the most part, the same grand essential characteristics of moral nature in all. There may be, therefore, an essential element of depravity consistent with partial development, and with
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much of the original nature which has thus undergone a change. How it is to be explained we do not take it upon ourselves to say, but the fact again here is indubitable. We are not surely to deny the existence of love to our fellows, and to maintain that self-love is the only principle now remaining in the heart of man. Are we to maintain that every patriot and philanthropist, and disinterested, or apparently disinter ested person, has been acting under a delusion, and that the estimate of their patriotism, disinterestedness, philanthropy, was a mistaken one ? Too much of mingled motive, indeed, may be detected in the best actions, but the love of country, the love of the species, the love of our neighbour, though not so pure and perfect as they ought to be, are still found in some degree, and are powerful principles of action. Self-love may co-exist with these, and in some measure gives strength to them. We are to love our neighbour as ourselves ; as we love ourselves, so we should love others, — not in equal degree, but because we love ourselves, and others are the counterparts, as it were, of ourselves. The golden rule is, " Whatsoever ye would that others should do unto you, do ye even so to them ;" and our Saviour adds, " This is the law and the prophets." To love others, therefore, and to love ourselves, to do good to others and to seek good for ourselves, are by no means incompatible principles ; and these and the love of God are the real and only legitimate principles of action ; or others must be in sub ordination to these, must never be so strong as to frustrate or be inconsistent with them. No motive or desire should be so strong as to lead us to act incompatibly with the love of self, the love of our neighbour, or the love of God. The desire of esteem, or of the good opinion of others, is almost a necessary effect, or at least concomitant, of the love of good itself. To be reputed what we are not, if we truly love good, is what no one would choose, but what every heart shrinks from. The love of the good opinion of others may, therefore, be nothing else than the desire to be estimated at the worth of the good that we do love. It may be a light matter to be estimated by man's judg ment — at any standard, when brought into comparison with
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God's judgment. But it is not a light matter to be estimated at a lower standard than one's own appreciation of worth, of the good, the excellent. To desire the good opinion of others, then, is often nothing else than an aspect, or a necessary effect, of the love of good itself. The desire of fame, or applause, or, more humbly, of praise, may be in some degree explicable on the same principle ; and in so far as it is not a desire to be great, but a desire to be estimated by a standard that we may form of excellence in any department of useful and honourable exertion, from the very love that we have of that excellence, it is not an improper principle. The love of praise for itself, and not according to a standard that we may set ourselves, and which we may have reached, is always wrong, and is unworthy of any mind. This is the love of flattery, not true commenda tion ; but it is still a homage to good. To be indifferent to the good opinion of others would argue a mind insensible to good itself. Shame is a modification of this very desire ; it is the feeling when we have forfeited the good opinion that we value ; it may be the feeling when we have forfeited our own good opinion. One's own approbation is more valuable than the approbation of all others, and conscience is a faithful principle, taking strict cognizance of the minutest action by which we may depart from the right. To be capable, in the least degree, of acting in such a manner as conscience con demns, of making ourselves, in any degree, a subservient means in order to a selfish gratification, overlooking the while the paramount claims of conscience, is to incur our own disappro bation, and to fill us with a stinging sense of self-reproach. To be a means is contemptible, and is unworthy of the dignity of a moral being. To act not according to duty, or with a regard to duty, to gratify desire, to stoop to act beneath law, or inconsistently with its claims, with its rigorous demands, its uniform rectitude, its unyielding authority ; to have forgotten, in ever so slight a degree, its high and paramount obligation ; may fill the mind with the most painful and humbling sense of unworthiness ; for between rectitude and the slightest deviation from it, there is an infinite distance. It is difficult to know
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sometimes where evil begins, but the moment it begins con science takes cognizance of it. And the principles of conduct are so mixed, that we may often, we do often, transgress, find ourselves in evil, before we are aware. A most praiseworthy motive or intention, the very generosity of the heart, may be the neighbour, or the instrument of sin, be on the very border land of evil. A sinful motive or state is often as near a strictly moral and good one, as the intermingling elements in any com pound are to each other — often like the advance or recession of the tides, which every moment may see, now below, now beyond, the mark of advancing or receding progress. Hence the neces sity of keeping the heart with diligence, of watchfulness, — a department of conduct which we are not aware that any system of morals condescends to take notice of, and which was reserved for the law of Scriptural holiness to enjoin. How often, by un guarded words, by idle thoughts, by incautious and inconsiderate actions, may we transgress law, and occasion self-reproach, call forth the condemnation of that inward monitor that will not remit its vigilance, however we may remit ours ! The very thoughts and intents of the heart come under the inspection of conscience, and may expose to its reproaches. A hardly-formed desire or purpose may be as much taken cognition of, as one not only formed, but carried into act. It must be so, for the very purposes may be evil, and must be under the surveillance of conscience. The desires even are thus cognizable by conscience, those springs of action which may give the character to action itself, and in which we may discern good or evil, though action should never follow ; the desires themselves being accounted worthy of approbation or disapprobation. And this leads to the question, What part the will has in those states or actions with which we connect moral blame, to which we ascribe moral culpability ? Is moral blame really attachable to our states of desire, or our purposes, where there may be no action ? The will is that phenomenon which makes the difference be tween these three, there being more or less of will in a purpose, none directly in a simple desire, and will being present in every action ; action, where it is unconstrained,
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being in every instance the result of a volition. To the ques tion, whether our desires may be deserving of moral blame, if evil, we think there can be but one answer, and that is, that all evil must deserve moral blame, and the difficulty in the case of our desires, when evil, is not whether they deserve moral blame, but where the blame is due. It may be thought if the desires are evil, the blame must be with the desires, or the subject of these desires ; and therefore the question may seem to admit of a very short issue, and to admit of but one conclusion, that the individual who is the subject of the desires must himself be culpable. But it is to be remembered that a j desire is but a state to which the subject of the desire may give no consent, and which may be in spite of himself. A desire is of the very essence of a being's nature. It might seem, therefore, that an evil desire must be the desire of an evil being, and that that being must be responsible for all that its evil in him, or in his actions. And so it would be, were that evil nature the effect of his own choice, and had he been the cause of that evil nature himself. Now, was man the cause of his own evil nature ? In one sense he was, in another he was not. He was, through federal representation ; he was not, directly himself, by his own immediate act. The question comes to be, then, how far does federal representation make the act his own ? And here it must unequivocally be admitted that such a constitution does make the act truly his own, and that for his state now man is responsible ; that even for evil in his very nature he must be held guilty ; — that his states are his own, and must be chargeable upon him as blameworthy, if they are truly such in themselves. But this very view of the matter shows that volition, will, is necessary in order to moral culpability ; for it is will that makes any state our own ; with out volition, any state would be as little our own as the state of another being. Our nature now must be regarded as ours by our own consent ; otherwise God would never have adopted that arrangement or constitution of things which He did. He would have put every individual on trial for himself. Man would not have been made dependent upon his representative.
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A covenant-relationship would not have been established, but each individual would have been tried on his own merits, on his own power to obey. If this view be correct, and if we must say in reference to all God's procedure, that He is righteous in all His ways, and holy in all His works, then man is responsible for his very nature ; and the doctrine of Scripture is that of original as well as imputed guilt — the guilt of our nature as well as the guilt of imputation. Man, undoubtedly, is respon sible for his very desires. They are his, and must be regarded • as his. In the government of a righteous God, it is not con ceivable that where there was no guilt in any sense, any being under His government could have been involved in the moral evil to which guilt attaches, and all the consequences to which that evil leads. We would be Avarranted to assume, then, even did we not see to any extent the rationale of the procedure — which we do — that wherever there is evil there is culpability. Had man been created with an evil nature, there would have been no culpability, for the evil would have been the work of the Creator, the effect of His own creative fiat or will. But such is not how the matter stands between God and His crea ture, and we are not left to such a supposition as this. Accord ing to the idea we must entertain, then, man is culpable — he has involved himself in evil and in all its effects — his depraved nature is his own, is attributable to no one but himself ; and for all the acts or characteristics of that nature he must be responsible. An evil desire, even, must be guilty in the sight of God. It is more directly culpable, however, if entertained, and accompanied by an act of will — and the relation of a will to an act is what we must now explain.
The will is that phenomenon of mind by which we allow or assent to any act or state, whether of the mind itself, or of the body with the mind, — that is, of our entire nature. Every act is a result of will, and will is necessary to every act where the agent acts freely. Like all our other ultimate states, it cannot be explained, but may be intelligible enough without explana tion, as it is a subject of every one's own consciousness, about which every one's own consciousness is conversant daily arid
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hourly. It is understood, because it is a subject of conscious ness. We know what will is, because we obey it. We can do nothing without an act of will. If we act, it is because we will to act. A determination of the will, or rather the Avill itself, or the will willing, must precede any act that we perform ourselves, and of which we are, therefore, the real agents. The most simple acts are the results of a will, or a volition, as an act of will is called. The general phenomenon, or principle, is different from that phenomenon or principle in exercise, or any single act of the phenomenon or principle. The one is called the will ; the other an act of will, or a volition. The general law, or phenomenon, or principle, acts in a particular case, and that is a volition. It is a will, or a single act of will, as the other is the general phenomenon, or law, or principle of the mind. The peculiarity of this phenomenon is, that it com mands or controls the other phenomena of the mind, and that our whole compound being is under its influence, and would be nothing, or but a mere automaton otherwise ; nay, not even an automaton, for the will is necessary to all the voluntary movements of the body. It is by the will that the hands move, that the limbs walk ; that we look, that we listen, that we speak, that we think. Without a volition none of these would take place. It is the ivill, therefore, that makes us active beings, and capable of regulating our actions. Will, however, is not a mere principle, like the principle of motion in the external world ; it is under the direction of reason. Eeason directs, will moves. There is a certain influence of the will, however, over the operations of mind itself. By a volition, or an act of will, we may make one thought, or process of the mind, more the thought or process of the mind than another ; and, by doing so, either make that thought more distinct, or a link to other thoughts, or that process more the process of the mind, at the time, than another, according as it may be our purpose to reason, abstract, imagine, compare, remember, generalize, or whatever may be the purpose or object of the mind. The influence is only indirect ; it has connexion with the purpose we have in view ; and that, by the operation of a
THE MOKAL NATURE. 563
volition, or the continued act of will putting the mind in a particular state, or operating upon certain laws of mind itself, these laws proceed in their own way until the result is attained, or the process is accomplished. It merely sets a law of the mind a-working, and we continue or suspend the law at our pleasure. It has the same influence over the emotions. We may, by an act of will, and by the influence which it has over our trains of thought, secure a certain emotion ; we may, by the same act of will, prolong that train of thought, and so pro long the state of emotion. It is true there are states of mind which are inimical to certain emotions, and under these states no train of thought that by an indirect volition we may com mand will secure or be attended by the emotion ; or the train of thought itself may not at that instant obey the volition, for the train of thought as much depends upon the emotion as the emotion upon the train of thought, after the train is once awakened. If, when that is the case, the emotion ceases, is stifled or repressed by some foreign cause, some other and alien state of mind, the train itself ceases. Our thoughts of imagi nation are possessed only in the element of emotion. They are ideas of emotion, or connected with emotion, without which they could not be. Let an adverse state of mind, therefore, frustrate the emotion, and the thoughts themselves would not proceed in their train. A hostile emotion, or state of mind, prevents even ordinary thought, trains of reasoning itself, and the associations by which we have the phenomenon of volun tary memor}'. The will, therefore, has not absolute command over the mind, or states of mind ; it depends itself upon states of mind, particularly states of emotion. These may be hostile or helpful, and influence the will accordingly. When the mind is unfettered by any enslaving thought or passion — when it is unengrossed by any absorbing emotion — when it is free to act, then, under the influence of a volition, it will act vigorously, or its laws will be proportionably powerful. The will, however, has a wonderful effect, when itself is strong, in counteracting the influence even of adverse states. We speak of a strong will, a strong determination. There is unquestionably such a
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phenomenon. The will itself seems to be stronger in some individuals than in others. It is this which constitutes a firm character. Many circumstances may concur in strengthening or giving decision to the will, as different elements of original character may go to compose a vigorous will and a decisive character ; hut, undoubtedly, after all our analysis, we shall arrive at some peculiarity in the phenomenon of the will itself, or of a state, an ultimate state of the mind, of which an indo mitable will is the immediate result.
Now, the connexion of the will with our active principles, with action, and consequently with the right and wrong of an action, is obvious. Our active principles are the prompters to action ; but without the will, without a volition, action would not follow. A volition is consequent upon the active principle, and volition is the immediate precursor of action. Action follows upon the volition. Unless volition followed upon desire, no action would take place. There may be a state of desire, which does not result in action. There must always, however, be some volition in the mind, else we would never act in any way ; and the volition supposes a preference to some mode of acting over another, or a preference to acting rather than not acting. It has always a positive and negative charac ter, therefore, — it is a preference to act in one way rather than in another, or a preference to act rather than not act. The preference, however, is before the will, or volition, and is in the preponderating desire of the mind. There is a judgment in the preference as well as a desire, and the two go to con stitute that state of mind which leads to a volition, and hence to action, and is therefore called a motive — is the motive to action. We never act without a motive ; and a motive is just a state of desire, along with a judgment, producing preference, and leading to volition. There is always some element for judgment in connexion with desire. It may be an aesthetic judgment — a judgment of taste — but desire is never but ac companied with some judgment, founded upon some judgment, some conception of happiness or worth. The judgment is often emotional, as our estimate of happiness or worth depends
THE MORAL NATURE. 565
upon some emotion that we connect with the particular circum stance or object, but it is a judgment that the circumstance or object will be connected, or is connected, with that emotion, and the desire of the circumstance or object follows upon the judgment. But may not worth and happiness themselves, in their abstract character, be the object of desire ? and this may seem to imply no judgment, since worth and happiness are ultimate ideas. But is it not a judgment, that happiness or worth, is desirable ? while in every ultimate idea is there not a judgment ? — it is an ultimate judgment, but it is a judg ment. It must be allowed, however, that here the desire appears as ultimate as the judgment, and does not seem to pro ceed upon it. But this does not alter the general truth, that in respect to what will confer happiness, or what is worthy, or valuable, there must be a judgment of the mind, and that this is necessary before any object or circumstance, or circumstances, can be the object of desire. But still further, there may be a judgment of the mind, whether the desirableness is such as ought to be gratified, and there is a review, therefore, of the desirableness itself, and a judgment whether the desirableness itself be desirable. There may be different grounds of desir ableness. What may be desirable in one respect, may not be desirable in another ; and if the non-desirableness in the one respect prevails over the desirableness in the other, even the desirableness itself is not really desirable. We prefer some thing on the ground of some other of the active principles of our nature ; even while certain of our active principles would lead us to a different choice, makes something else really the object of our desire. The volition follows upon the stronger preference, or rather upon the preference ; for the one object may excite stronger desires in one direction, while it does not excite the stronger upon the whole. It is the strongest desire upon the whole that leads to action. The prevailing desire may not have very much of the aspect of a desire : it may seem rather a judgment merely, that a certain course of action is the best; but a desire follows that judgment, and the reason that it may be less lively than the other is, that it is the desire, perhaps, of
566 THE MORAL NATURE.
advantage, of worth, something valuable in the estimate of the mind, — the desire of value, not of happiness. When an object promises immediate happiness or pleasure, it excites a livelier emotion than what promises only advantage or good. We would prefer our happiness to our advantage, although ulti mately our happiness may be in the direction of our advantage, and not of what seems to be our immediate happiness. Hence the conflicting motives, and hence the prevailing motive is not always the liveliest, although it must be the strongest. A motive is a judgment and a desire. Where it presents to us happiness, it is lively ; where it presents to us advantage, it may preponderate, but it is not so lively. It is still, however, the stronger. The motive which the mind obeys is the stronger to its. It is possible to prefer our happiness — immediate happi ness — to our advantage, and actually our greatest happiness ; and though the one motive ought to preponderate, the other does. In this case, our minds seem machines actuated by no reason, obeying some law or impulse : it is reason, however, preferring the gratification of an immediate desire, or a weaker conception of good, because it promises greater happiness, to obeying a stronger conception or view of good, because promis ing advantage and not immediate happiness. It is reason allowing the preponderance to one object of desire rather than another, from the liveliness of the desire, and not from the superiority of the object. Here the state of the desires must be considered.
It is by an inductive process strictly that we arrive at the state of the desires : we may perceive abstractly what they must have been, or what they ought to be. As love is the only supposable state in a perfect moral being, the desires would be in harmony with this state, and would in no case be incon sistent with it. Desire is consequent upon emotion, and according to the state of the emotions would be the state of the desires. The prevailing emotion will give the prevailing desire. If we suppose then Love the prevailing state of the mind, Desire will be in harmony with it, could not be incon sistent with it : there could be no desire inconsistent with this
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reigning affection. All being is the object of love ; but the excellencies of being excite a proportionate degree of the prin ciple or feeling. It is the nature of the principle to be stronger, as the being on whom it rests rises in excellence, moral, intel lectual, or physical. Moral excellencies chiefly call it out ; but moral and intellectual excellencies together will awaken a greater degree of love than moral excellencies singly. Physical qualities are the object of love, or are connected with the exer cise of this feeling or principle, only by arbitrary appointment, or as they are the index to us of intellectual and moral quali ties, or suggestive of conceptions with which are associated certain feelings — conceptions of emotion as they are called — and from which results, therefore, the emotion of beauty — the object of love when seen in rational being ; of admiration, or a kind of love, when seen in other being. Ultimately, it is the intellectual and moral excellencies, indicated, or sug gested as mere objects of conception to the mind, which are the objects of love, and the feeling is modified by the physical qualities which indicate or suggest these ; or, by a peculiar constitution of our nature, there is a feeling of which physical, intellectual, and moral qualities, are the combined cause or object. Being, however, as such, is the proper object of love ; and spiritual being excelling physical — nay, as the only per manent and indestructible being — must be loved above physical, and prior to it. The Supreme Being must of course be the supreme object of love, as in Him all excellencies centre, and from Him all being and excellencies take their rise. While He is possessed of awful attributes, He is at the same time characterized by every amiable perfection. He is essentially good, and good is the object of love : goodness inspires love. It is God's love to the good that insures, if it does not con stitute, His justice. Moral beings possessed of the same quali ties as God, must, like Him, be the object of love. Now, this state supposed, love being the absolute state of the emotional being, all desire would flow in harmony with it: no desire would be cherished, or could be known, which could not consist with love. The law of right, too, in a perfect moral being,
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would influence the desires — secure a certain state of the de sires. Nothing would be desired but in harmony with it, which it did not allow or approve. The excellent strictly, as well as the amiable, would be regarded. The right, the just, the good, the true, would be the object of reverence, as well as the lovely of love. All this supposes a perfect moral state ; and in that state the spiritual would be paramount to the physical, the wants of the soul to those of the bod)'-, or not so much the wants, as the proper objects, of a spiritual nature, superior to those of the physical. Every desire which had its source from the body, or terminated on the body, or was partly physical and partly spiritual — that is, supposed the physical as an element in the desire, or as necessary to its gratification — where the result was a mental or spiritual one, but the physi cal, whether our own physical nature, or the physical frame work by which we are surrounded, and which ministers to our pleasure, or subserves our uses, instrumental to the result — every such desire would be subordinate to what was strictly spiritual. The first desire would be towards the source of being and the centre of perfection. The approbation of that Being, and His glory, would claim the first desire of the mind ; excellence itself would claim the next. All spiritual objects would fill the mind, and obtain its homage. Spiritual com munion, the interchange of mind, of feeling, of love — high intellectual and spiritual intercourse — would be a principal object in the desires of a rightly constituted moral and spiritual state. The body would be in subjection to the mind : its wants would find their object, would meet their fulfilment, and they would have no tyrannizing sway. No inordinate desire would exist. The pleasures of sense would not have come to exert that power or predominance which is implied in the term, but would be moderate, not only under strict regulation, but having no tendency to go beyond the strictest bounds, to exceed by the slightest degree — like the natural play of the fountain, welling from its spring, but never rising higher than the force below impelled its waters. A predominance of higher aims, of spiritual objects, of spiritual pleasures, would
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preserve the due subordination in the physical wants, would be a surrounding law acting along with the law of the desires themselves, and insure a perfect equilibrium, or the just action of the physical and the spiritual. The two elements would be kept in harmony. Better than the laws which establish the equilibrium of the elements without us — the fine and pervading action of the surrounding air — would be the laws of the spiritual being when yet unfallen, the subtle but powerful influence of the spiritual nature, pervading, surrounding, commanding, regulating.
It is different with the desires now. The rectifying principle of love has lost its influence, or it no longer exists in that degree, to take the other principles of our nature into its regulation, or to exercise over them its mighty control. The right is now but imperfectly recognised, and the physical usurps it over the spiritual. The moral derangement which we have all along supposed, and which must be admitted, is seen in the desires as well as the emotions, must be seen in the desires if in the emotions. Tlie way in which objects, and all being, are re garded now, is the effect of the moral derangement we have spoken of. We have seen that selfishness is the vitiating taint or element of our now moral state. Grod is not the supreme object of desire, as He is not now the supreme object of our love. Our desire is not now naturally for His glory, nor for His favour. We do not now love other moral beings as we ought
o o y
or as they should command our love. The spiritual nature is in abeyance to the physical, and the law of right has but a feeble hold upon our regards. Selfishness is the pervading law that operates within us, and our desires take a direction accord ingly. God is little or not at all thought of: our fellow-beings obtain not that amount of interest which they should command: we accord them just as much as may be consistent with a para mount regard to our own interest, or happiness, or pleasure. The right has little weight with us as moral beings, is deferred to the pleasurable or the agreeable, if not, as it too often is, to the wrong or sinful. Selfish gratification, honour, power, pleasure, displaces everything else, and is sought in a thousand
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ways, in a multitude of objects and pursuits, often conflicting, and seldom in harmony. We go towards one object, and we find we are baffled by another : we seek on one road our hap piness, and we are met by another : the ways cross, and we are bewildered or led astray. We have our object in view, and something intervenes and plucks it from our grasp, or puts another desire in the very place of that which was but this moment dominant. The moral nature is not one, simple, con sistent. It is not spiritual, holy. It has not God as its great and central object — His glory as its end. The love of spiritual being does not actuate, or but feebly ; and by starts, not con tinuously and powerfully. Subjective right yields to objective motive or desire — is made to defer to an object which promises pleasure or gratification of some sort. And yet the law of right does exercise an influence, and modulates our desire. It still exercises a sway in our constitution. It has not lost its influ ence altogether. Some of its power is felt. Conscience takes cognizance of our states, and desire is amenable to it. Hence, what we often see, desire restricted by desire, because controlled by conscience. The desire is one way ; conscience comes in and turns it another way, or imposes another desire, and that is paramount, because it obeys conscience, though it may not be the strongest of the two feelings, the prevailing desire, not the strongest feeling, or not accompanied by such a vivid emo tion. The conflict among the desires themselves, or the objects of desire regarded as objects exciting desire, apart from subjec tive law, gives us another cause of the conflicting desires which are so common an object of observation in our moral nature. Pleasure interferes with pleasure ; one pleasure is the rival of another: honour conflicts with honour: we have contending passions: the mind at one time desires one gratification, at another, another. At one time the spiritual predominates over the physical ; at another the physical over the spiritual. At one time ambition is uppermost, at another pleasure. The higher part of our nature predominates now, the lower again. Sin is no barrier to our gratification. Law is cast aside : the authority of God is despised : what can restrain from the
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accomplishment of our object ? Gain, sensual indulgence, bodily appetite, pleasure at the expense of duty, even the refined pleasures of the intellect rather than the spiritual ex ercises of the soul, — these are preferred, or dispute it with the sense or feeling of right, and too often carry it over the latter. The vitiating element of self does all this — the entrance of the one powerful element of sin. Driven from his centre, — the object that should fix and retain his regards, and that would take up every other law of his nature and control it, — man is now a wandering star, having no orbit, no centre ; having desires as multifarious as he has conceptions of the true, the good, the desirable — as he has appetites, as he has passions, as he has mental objects, as he has ideas of pleasure, as he has, or would have, means of gratification and sources of enjoyment. " This is next to a miracle," says Pascal, " that there should not be any one thing in nature which has not been some time fixed as the last end and happiness of man ; neither stars, nor elements, nor plants, nor animals, nor insects, nor diseases, nor war, nor vice, nor sin. Man being fallen from his natural state, there is no object so extravagant as not to be capable of attracting his desire. Ever since he lost his real good, every thing cheats him with the appearance of it ; even his own destruction, though contrary as this seems both to reason and nature." False conceptions of good, of happiness, lead to a wrong estimate of objects and pursuits, as securing happiness, invest them with a false importance, or appearance of good, and consequent desirableness — and these are desired, accordingly, to the exclusion of what should rather excite our desire, or be the object of our appreciatory regard and quest. And amid the multifariousness of his desires, there is not one that fixes his attention, perhaps, for any long time together ; at least, most men are fickle in their desires, as they are wrong in the objects of them. In some instances one predominant desire greatly carries it over every other, and is able so to fix the desire, that that becomes a ruling passion, and draws every thing else into subserviency and subjection. In such instances there is often a surprising degree of consistency and steadfast-
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ness as regards the object of desire, and efforts towards it, and plans to secure it. We see the ambitious man bending every object to his ruling passion, pursuing one straight course towards it, never swerving : there are no conflicting desires with him, no varying motives ; there is one steady purpose, and nothing will stop him in its pursuit, or deter him in its prose cution. Everything is sacrificed to this one object ; it is not too much that blood should flow, that misery should be the consequence, that multitudes should suffer for the sake of that one desire, of that one individual.
" What millions die that Csesar might be great !"
In other instances, or even in the same instance, with respect to other objects, the utmost fickleness may be evinced, and desires may be as conflicting as the warring elements.
" Of contradictions infinite the sum,"
a man may veer to every point of the compass in the history of a day, and his life may exhibit the same consistency in change. The rectifying principle of the desires is alike want ing in both cases. In the one it is consistency in evil ; a ruling passion has so taken possession of the mind, that while the passion itself is evil, its predominance, and the consequences to which it leads, are terrible. In the other, it is not only the absence of good desire, it is inconsistency even in those which are frivolous or sinful.
The desires, considered as regards their objects, or the source from which they spring, may be viewed as moral, aesthetic, or physical — the last including the appetites. Desire is a state consequent upon the conception of something good or worthy, and an emotion appropriate to the good or the worthi ness which is contemplated ; and good, or worthiness, is either moral, sesthetic, or physical. The aesthetic is the beautiful, or that which belongs to the department of the beautiful, in nature or art. The aesthetic includes all those emotions which spring from the contemplation of the beautiful, or the fine in nature or art. That we have these several departments, or dis tinct kinds, of emotion, or of an emotional nature, is obvious.
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Our moral and aesthetic emotions are too common and familiar to need to be pointed out. The physical is not so much the region of emotion as of feeling, and the feeling is not so much mental as bodily, and hence the desires springing from this source are rather appetites than desires. Many of them, how ever, too, are strictly desires, not appetites. There are bodily wants or pleasures which do not belong to the department of the appetites — such as the pleasure simply of motion, of action, of recreation. There is a bodily pleasure, too, accompanying the contemplation of the beautiful, or every instance of the aesthetic. But even when our bodily pleasures do not belong to the region of appetite, and approximate more to that of the esthetic, still the feeling is not so much emotion, as just bodily pleasure ; and what is emotional in the state, is owing to the sympathy of the mind with the body, and the tendency to a mental state, consequent upon a bodily. Where the state is entirely mental, where we have entirely the moral, or the aesthetic, desire is consequent upon a conception of good, or worth, or excellence, and the accompanying emotion of pleasure, or approbation, or estimation. The moral desires are all those which have moral good or worth for their object, whether moral good or worth in itself, or that in connexion with the character or actions of others, or good in the more generic sense to others, the desire of which is moral. Every desire after virtue in ourselves or others, or for the temporal good of others, is moral. Have we such desires ? Are we characterized by desires which have virtue for their object, and which really seek the good of others, wish well to others ? Undoubtedly we have such desires. We have already seen that there is still remaining moral good in our nature ; that though that nature is radically depraved, though there is the germ of all evil in our nature, evil has not proceeded so far as to exclude all remains of good : all moral good is not utterly lost. The nature is essentially depraved, or it could not be depraved at all, but the depravity has not gone so far as to negative or annihilate good. There are the remains of good. We see a ruin, not utter destruction — a principle of evil at work, riot unmitigated evil. There is that amount of
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good even in our nature that we can approve tlie good, we can love it, or estimate it, and we can desire it both in ourselves and others. From the same cause we can still desire the tem poral good of others. Our natures are not utterly depraved, nor are they utterly malignant. Where depravity has pro ceeded all its length — where there is no remaining good, or approbation of good, there the malevolent passions or feelings, the malevolent desires, may reign undisputed, may alone exist. But this is not the case with man yet, with our moral nature; and, consequently, whether we have the benevolent feelings or not, whether we are characterized by benevolent desires, admits of no dispute. The selfish theory of morals we have already seen to be inconsistent with the truth. We have seen this in directly when considering our absolute moral nature, or the moral nature as it must be considered absolutely, and as it now is. We find the same when now animadverting upon our desires. It is impossible to deny a certain benevolent state of desire, or certain benevolent desires, if we admit observation to have any weight in our moral reasonings. It is as certain that we have these desires as that we have the malevolent ones. There is no more doubt about the existence of the one class than there is about that of the other. Both are subjects of observation and of consciousness: we observe both, we are conscious of both. Our moral nature, there fore, gives us our moral desires, and these moral both as re spects morality itself, as the object of desire, and because wishing either good or evil to our neighbour, in which case we have the benevolent and malevolent desires. Our nature is capable of both, exhibits both. Love, we have seen, has not altogether deserted the mind, is still found among the affec tions. But the mind is capable also of hatred. The moral change that has passed upon the moral nature has brought with it the disposition, or the tendency to the disposition, which is the opposite of love : in other words, there is now a capacity of hatred as there was formerly only love. That ten dency is inevitable in the change that has taken place in the moral state, the disposition having its objects or exciting
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causes ; but it is also characteristic of a fallen nature, and is often exhibited without a cause, or has its cause in the internal moral nature itself, in the wrong state of the affections, which may cherish hatred where there is no exciting cause without. According as the one or other of these emotions predominates, therefore, there is the benevolent or malevolent affection, the desire of good or the desire of evil to its object. There are the benevolent and malevolent affections, and there are the bene volent and malevolent desires. It is properly the desires, how ever, that are so characterized, and the affections are charac terized as benevolent and malevolent, because the desires are so close attendants upon the affections. Love, in all its exer cises, desires the good of its object ; and in these modifications of love we have the benevolent affections. Hatred, in all its exercises, desires evil to its object ; and in these modifications of hatred we have the malevolent affections. It is truly the desires, however, accompanying these affections that are bene volent or malevolent, and therefore we more properly speak of the benevolent and malevolent desires, than of the benevolent and malevolent affections : the latter wish good or they wish evil to their object : it is the desire for good or the desire for evil to the object of a particular emotion or affection. These desires may be justifiable or they may not: in both cases they are called the benevolent or malevolent desires. There is a state of mind in which benevolence prevails, a character of mind of which benevolence is the predominating state, and although always amiable, it is sometimes unjustifiable. There is a state of mind again in which malevolence prevails, or a peculiar character of which malevolence is the predominating emotion or desire, and it is not strange if it is sometimes ill-directed, or without a cause. We are not, however, dealing with the morality of these affections or desires ; we are remarking upon the state of the desires, and we find the benevolent and male volent element in them, and have accordingly the benevolent and malevolent desires. The virtuous and vicious desires also indicate a certain element, and suppose a certain state of the desires. The benevolent and malevolent desires may be charac-
576 THE MORAL NATURE.
terized as virtuous or vicious ; but properly the virtuous and vicious desires are those which terminate on something else than evil or good to an object — which, however, are in accordance with, or in opposition to the law of right. All the desires be longing to the virtues which reciprocate in the relations of life, the relations of family, of friendship, and the wider relationship of humanity; the personal virtues, temperance, chastity, truth, contentment, justice, and honour, are the virtuous desires: the opposite the vicious. The moral desires belong to the moral nature, and are amenable to law.
The assthetic desires are those which are connected with the emotions of beauty. Taking beauty in its widest sense as in clusive of sublimity, the picturesque, or whatever appeals to the eesthetic emotion, — that is, whatever may have less or more of the beautiful and the sublime, and the picturesque — be made up, more or less of each, or any two of them to the exclusion of the third. There are desires which have their appropriate gratification in these qualities, or objects possessing them. There is the love of the beautiful, the sublime, and the pictu resque, and there is the desire for them, or for gratification in them. This desire finds its gratification in objects of nature, and in the works of art. All nature is filled with beautiful, and sublime, and picturesque objects and scenery. We can hardly lift our eyes but they light upon such objects, such scenery, of surpassing loveliness, of imposing sublimity, of sug gestive picturesqueness. We may be ever meeting such objects, encountering such scenes. It but requires us to have an eye for the beautiful, the sublime, the picturesque, to be perpetually gratified. Nature is not stinted in its beauty, or in its sublime and picturesque scenes and objects. It has delighted in them all ; and it hardly sketches a landscape, rears a mountain, or throws up a rock, but it has secured one or other of these effects. In its trees, in its plants, in its flowers — in its rivers, in its lakes, in its oceans — in its waterfalls and cascades, it has made provision for them all. Art is the imitation of nature, and it, too, secures the qualities which are the object of the aesthetic emotions and desires. In painting, sculpture, poetry,
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music, we have all these qualities ; and, accordingly, we have scope for these emotions, and incitements or objects of these desires. The desire may often amount to a passion for these. In some, the passion is for one of them more than for the rest. Poetry and music claim the most numerous and devoted ad mirers, indicative of their superior excellence, and more uni versal qualities. Painting and sculpture are more imitative than poetry and music ; and there is nothing in the merely imitative to produce great delight, while they are outdone by what they imitate. Nature must ever surpass art. But poetry and music appeal to the loftiest thoughts and emotions of the soul — so may sculpture and painting, but the imitative is what is most obvious in them ; and it requires great mastery in the arts to make the permanent and the poetic envelop their productions, as something separate from the very produc tions which they render so attractive. On this very account the productions of painting and sculpture which secure the poetic are all the more praiseworthy, and of higher character, as works of art. The aesthetic emotion insures the aesthetic desire. The emotion of the beautiful and the sublime makes us seek its gratification, and delight in the object which mini sters to it. The painter, the sculptor, the poet, the musician, are strongly characterized by the aesthetic emotion, and strongly actuated by the corresponding desire. This produces enthusiasm in a particular art, and leads to excellence in that art. The aesthetic emotion and desire are cherished and gratified where- ever the beautiful is made an object of cultivation, and is sought, in whatever department, or in whatever direction.
The physical desires give us the appetites. They have their source in the body, and their objects in all that ministers to those wants which are a part of our physical nature. They are legitimate, but they may be carried to excess ; and to become the slave of these is to subject the mind to the body, reason to impulse, and the intellectual and the moral to animal states and sensual gratification.
The desires are consequent upon emotion, as emotion is consequent upon some conception of the mind, and all go to
2 o
578 THE MOliAL NATUKE.
make up motive. The will follows upon motive, aud leads to action. We are now in circumstances, therefore, to consider the relation of will to action, and to enter upon the considera tion of the question as to the freedom of the will.
A conception, or judgment of the mind, an emotion, and a desire, constitute motive. Motive is so called from its con nexion with the active decisions of the mind, or with the acts of the will, and the corresponding actions of intelligent moral agents. In the active moral being we observe the phenomena of a judgment, an emotion consequent upon that judgment, or along with it, a desire, a volition, and then following upon all, an action, or actions. That these several states are observa ble, and may be received as certain, as the actual phenomena, in every case of the action of intelligent moral agents, is indu bitable. A certain feeling or emotion accompanies every judg ment where action is in question, or accompanies certain of our judgments : a state of desire is the consequence : a determina tion of the will follows, and action is the result. Action is the putting forth of a certain power, however, or through whatever instrumentality, that power is exerted. There is action with purely spiritual beings, although they do not act through the same instrumentality as spiritual natures which are also cor poreal. With corporeal natures there is the employment of physical agency for the accomplishment of their volitions, or will acts through the agency of matter. But in action, what is to be observed is, the mental decision, the emotional state, the act of will, and the exertion of power. The last of the strictly mental conditions to action is the decision of the will, or the act of will : the exertion of power is not strictly a mental phenomenon, it is the phenomenon of active being. All prior to this is within the being itself, belongs to the internal pheno mena — action is the being not internally, and by one of its states or operations, but in its whole being putting forth a power, which has its effect or result without itself. Now, as necessary to every action, there are the strictly internal or mental states — including the judgment, the emotion, the desire
THE MORAL NATURE. 579
— and the act of will. These are all internal, and precede, or are necessary to, every action. Action is the consequence of these ; and the question is, what is the relation of these to action, or what is observable in these as antecedent phenomena ? There would seem, from the very statement of the phenomena themselves, to be the relation of a judgment to an emotion, the relation of an emotion to a desire, the relation of a desire to will, and the relation of will to action. What is that relation in each case ? That it is that of cause and effect between the judgment and emotion, and between emotion and desire, we think, cannot be doubted. That certain judgments are fol lowed by certain emotions in every case of these judgments, is plain to every observation, and this is enough to show the causal connexion between the two. The difficulty here is, that the emotion seems as immediate as the judgment ; nay, the judgment is hardly distinguishable from the emotion, or the emotion absorbs, as it were, the judgment. Still there is plainly a judgment distinguishable, and the connexion of the emotion with the judgment may also be traced. The judgment that an action is right is as clearly a judgment as any other; and but for that judgment we have no reason to believe there would be the moral emotion. The judgment, again, that an object is beautiful, may seem less a judgment and more an emotion : the element of judgment is not so clearly distin guishable in tliis case. And if the theory that makes beauty in itself absolute and ultimate be correct, — if beauty does not depend upon any associated conceptions, — if it is not through these conceptions which an object awakens, or is associated with, in our minds, that the object is beautiful, but beauty is an ultimate attribute which admits not of analysis, there would not be so plainly a judgment in this case, and it would seem more an emotion, or the judgment would be in the emotion : the emotion would be the judgment ; — like the judgment that an agreeable taste is agreeable, or a pleasant sound is pleasant. The emotion in that case would not be the effect of the judgment : the judgment would only testify to the emotion, or would be in the emotion : it would be a judgment that such an object is capable of exciting such an emotion :
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the object would in such a case be beautiful. Such we do not take to be the proper theory of beauty ; and we prefer the theory, that the emotion is the result of other emotions, these being the result of certain conceptions or judgments — the con ceptions of purity, of tenderness, of fragility, and suchlike — which conceptions having their appropriate emotions, the con ception of beauty, and the emotion of beauty, are the result. Even in such a case, then, the emotion is the result of a conception or judgment. Purity is a judgment : tenderness is a judgment : fragility is a judgment : simplicity is a judgment : modesty, honour, riches, pomp, power, are all judgments of the mind ; and it will be found that the emotions with which beautiful and stately and splendid objects respectively are contemplated, has its connexion with one or other of these conceptions. These conceptions, then, are some way or other the cause of these emotions. The judgment that an object is capable of conferring pleasure, or yielding profit, that such a pursuit is capable of ministering to our happiness, or promoting our good, is accompanied, or followed, by an emotion, corresponding to the pleasure, happiness, or good con templated. There is the relation of cause and effect. That such an emotion, in the particular case, should be accompanied or followed by desire, seems a natural consequence, if we can form a judgment of what is natural, or to be expected, in such a case, apart from experience, or what is usually observed. It is observed in all such cases, that the emotion is accompanied, or followed, by desire — the desire of possession, or attainment, or enjoyment. Profit or pleasure is accompanied by a certain emotion in the contemplation ; the very conception insures the emotion ; desire is the immediate result. In many cases, indeed, neither would the emotion follow upon the conception, nor the desire upon the emotion. The prepossession of the mind with other objects, other pleasures, other desires, or just a certain regulation of the mind itself, may frustrate or pre vent both the emotion and the desire; or the emotion may be experienced without any desire of possession or enjoyment. But that is owing to the operation of other causes, not because there is no connexion of cause and effect between the concep.
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tion and the emotion, or between the emotion and the desire. A cause is followed by its effects only in circumstances the same as those in which it has been followed by these effects. There is nothing in causation to warrant the expectation that it will be followed by these effects in circumstances different. The state of the mind is a necessary element in the causation implied in the connexion between a judgment and emotion, and an emotion and desire. Certain emotions, again, which in one stage of them might awaken desire, in a higher degree of them have no desire connected with them — are too lofty or too pure to have any effects beyond themselves, and are themselves enough for the mind ; they are self-satisfying. It is always so with the higher kinds of beauty, and with the emotions of sublimity : the mind rests in the emotion ; it would desire nothing beyond it. Indeed the emotion may be too great, and the desire may be to escape from it, or that it were not so oppressive. But allowing the causal connexion, in any instance of action, between the terms of the series so far as con sidered, is it the same connexion in the last link of the series or chain ? — is there a causal connexion between the desire and the will ? — is it cause and effect which obtains here ? That it is so in all the previous part of the series, may be admitted — that there is causation hitherto, may be allowed. Is it causa tion when the will follows upon desire ? It is here, we think, that the whole stress of the question regarding the freedom of the will lies. It does not seem causation in the same sense between the strongest emotion, or the prevailing desire, and will, as between a judgment and an emotion, or an emotion and desire. The will is not the effect of a desire in the sense that a desire is the effect of an emotion, or an emotion the effect of a conception or judgment. Or taking the motive conjointly, as including the judgment, the emotion, and the desire, still it is obvious to every one's own consciousness, that the will does not follow upon that, precisely as an effect follows upon a cause. The will follows reasons, inducements, but it is not caused. It cannot in any proper sense be said to be so. It obeys, or it acts under inducement, but it does so sovereignly.
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It is not a slave, or a servant, it is a sovereign. For the mind to will, is for the mind to act, and to act sovereignly, without control, though guided by law, or influenced by motive. It chooses to act : it wills. A motive precedes it, and it follows the motive, acts under its influence ; it is from a certain motive that the will decides in any particular way, it would not decide that way but for that motive ; but it is still the phenomenon of will that we are contemplating, and it is the very nature of will to be active and free. Whatever is active is free : all else is caused. Will is the only phenomenon of our nature that is active. There is what we call the activity of mind, the spon taneity of mind ; but that is a different activity from the activity of will : it is the activity of nature, not the acti vity of being. The peculiarity of will is that it is the being that wills ; in everything else it is only the nature that is in operation, that acts, or that is the subject of phenomena. When we will, it is we, in our personality, and as beings, that will ; not in our subjectivity, but in our personal activity. The being is acting. All else is phenomenal in our nature ; this is not phenomenal, this is being acting. It is the being that wills. We have a motive, we have an inducement, but it is ive that will. To obey a motive, is not to be controlled ; it is still to be active, and to be active is to be free. Even with the strongest motive that could operate, to obey that motive is to be free ; it is to will, and that is freedom. It is enough that in the act of will, if the will is controlled only by a motive, there is freedom, in the very nature of will. The will does not determine itself: it may be allowed even that it is determined by motive : but still to will is to be free ; or it is to act ; and if we attend to the idea implied in action, we have the essence of freedom. What other freedom could be desired ? If we are under any kind of restraint, or constraint, it is in our circumstances, and in the kind of motives that bear upon us, or exert their influ ence. But in willing, there is essential sovereignty or freedom. Reasons for action every being must have. The reasons may be capricious and foolish, but still they are reasons ; but in following them the will acts : it is not an effect, or it is an effect
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of so peculiar a kind as to be like no other, and to vindicate for itself the title to be called active from its source, that is, from itself. No other effect is active in the same way, or in any way. It is in our will that the being is seen : in everything else we have but the phenomena, or the subject of phenomena. Will is the being in action, choosing to act, and acting. The being is in the will. The will does not control motives : it does not even choose between motives : it follows or obeys a motive, a motive prevailing at the time — the strongest motive ; but in doing so it wills, and that is activity, freedom. In willing I am active, and therefore I am free. That, as we have said, is the only freedom conceivable. Every other freedom would be caprice, blind chance, unreasoning fate or accident. Freedom is freedom to obey motive — for the will to obey motive, or to decide in obedience to motive. In that consists essential free dom. The motive which the will obeys is influential, but the will acts, and that is its freedom. It is unlike any other effect proceeding from a cause. It is not a self-determining power: it is activity : that is the phenomenon which the will exhibits, and which is sufficient to claim for it freedom.
The activity of the will amid motive influence is clearly dis cernible, and is the phenomenon presented in regard to the relation of the will to action. In all action there is a motive, and there is the operation of will : there is influence ; but there is something that is more than influence, which is not inde pendent of influence, and yet is beyond it, and separate from it, which influence cannot touch, is in a sphere by itself — and that is the activity of will. It is allowed that there is motive in every instance of action : it is allowed that there is also will, and it is in the distinct nature of these that we have the two terms of the question as to freedom and necessity in the will, or respecting the freedom of the will. All writers on that question recognise both terms. And it is necessary in regard to both terms to remember what these terms are, and that they are recognised in the question in their separate and distinctive character. Influence is recognised, and yet the will is recog nised. Now, if there was riot something distinctive in these
584 THE MORAL NATURE.
two elements in action, why should they both be had regard to, and why should we have the question at all as to liberty and necessity in moral action, or in all action ? What is the ques tion as to the freedom of the will ? Why should there be a question as to freedom of action ? That question obviously could not be raised, unless there were some phenomena of our being that admitted of it. We would never raise the question as to the freedom of any of the material agencies in the uni verse, the action of merely physical nature. It would never be made a question whether the planets move freely — whether they have freedom of action. Action is not properly attributable to them at all, or to any physical agency, or it is the action of physical law. The will presents a totally different phenomenon. Intelligent and moral beings present totally different phenomena. But in their nature we see still the operation of something like laws, that is, something that proceeds in a course in virtue of a nature or constitution, and in which there is the action of law, not of volition — not of voluntary being, of voluntary agency. We discern also, however, the action of volition, of voluntary being : there is presented the phenomenon of will; and it is the existence of the two that gives rise to the question we have stated as capable of being raised — as actually raised. That there is will in being otherwise exhibiting mere laws of being, is the phenomenon presented in the case of every moral nature. That the two, will and the mere laws of being, are distinct ; that will is something more than the mere laws of being ; is obvious from the very name given to the one as distinguished from the other. The one claims to itself the name Will as distinguished from the laws of being merely. It would not be worthy of a distinctive name, it would not assume to it self that name, were it not something different from the other. The name is freely accorded to it. The difference indicated is recognised : nothing is more recognised than the grand peculi arity of will. "We observe," says Edwards, "that choice is a new principle of motion and action, different from that estab lished law and order of things which is most obvious, that is seen especially in corporeal and sensible things ; and also the choice
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often interposes, interrupts, and alters the chain of events in these external objects, and causes them to proceed otherwise than they would do if let alone, and left to go on according to the laws of motion among themselves." The distinction is recog nised in that drawn between natural and moral inability, or between physical and moral necessity. If the phenomenon ex hibited in the will was the same as that seen in the causal con nexion of any two events, there would be no room for any such distinction. There would be nothing then but physical neces sity: it is in the peculiarity of will that we have ground for the recognition of moral necessity as different from natural or phy sical. " When I use this distinction of moral and natural neces sity," says Edwards, " I would not be understood to suppose that if anything comes to pass by the former kind of necessity, the nature of things is not concerned in it, as well as in the latter. I do not mean to determine that when a moral habit or motive is so strong, that the act of the will infallibly follows, this is not owing to the nature of things. But these are the names that these two kinds of necessity have been usually called by : and they must be distinguished by some names or other ; for there is a distinction or difference between them, that is very important in its consequences." It is true, Edwards adds : " which difference does not lie so much in the nature of the connexion as in the two terms connected. The cause with which the effect is connected is a particular kind, viz., that which is of a moral nature ; either some previous habitual dis position, or some motive exhibited to the understanding. And the effect is also of a particular kind ; being likewise of a moral nature ; consisting in some inclination or volition of the soul, or voluntary action." But in this very qualification the differ ence is recognised in the nature of the connexion as well as in the terms connected. The difference does not lie so much in the one as in the other, but it lies in both. And in stating the difference in reference to the terms of the connexion, Edwards says : " The cause with which the effect is connected is a par ticular kind, viz., that which is moral in its nature. The effect is also of a particular kind, being likewise of a moral nature ;
586 THE MORAL NATURE.
consisting in some inclination or volition of the soul, or volun tary action." The distinction, again, is very strongly recog nised when stating the nature of moral inability. " It is improperly said that a person cannot perform those external actions which are dependent on the act of the will, and which would be easily performed if the act of the will were present." Here the will is the grand circumstance in order to action. The action could easily be performed if the act of the will were present. The act of the will. Will is an act, and there is no natural inability to action, if the will would act. The moral state is such that the will does not act. There is activity, however, in it, and it as well as motive is necessary to action. The activity of the will cannot be overlooked. " It is a new principle of motion and action different from the established law and order of things." The great difference consists in its activity. It is far from the nature of a mere effect. The least attention to our own consciousness will tell us this. It is an effect so far as it is under influence, but it acts under that influence by an activity of its own, derived from nothing without itself. The mystery of the will spontaneously acting, and yet in obedience to motive, is one which cannot be explained, though it is very obviously a subject of consciousness. No argument whatever can bring the will within the category of ordinary effects. That it is partly an effect ; that, in the language of Edwards, " it always is as the greatest apparent good is," may be admitted ; but that it is in itself, when it acts, active, and not a mere effect, is most obvious. It is so unlike an effect, that even when we would classify it among effects, the mind forbids us to do so. We vindicate to it a distinct nature, even when we say that it obeys motive. Why Edwards' measured or well-weighed language — that " it always is as the greatest apparent good is ?" Besides Edwards' own explanation of this language : " I have rather chosen to express myself thus, that the will always is as the greatest apparent good, or as what appears most agreeable, is, than to say that the will is determined by the greatest apparent good, or by what seems most agreeable; and because an appearing most agreeable or pleasing to the mind, and the
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mind's preferring or choosing, seem hardly to be properly and perfectly distinct:" besides this explanation, may there not have been the sense that the will was not properly an effect, so that to speak of it being determined was hardly allowable in a definition ? At all events it is a more correct mode of expres sion to say that the will is as the greatest apparent good is, than to say that it is determined by the greatest apparent good. We would accept of the former as the true account of the phenomenon rather than the latter. The logic may be all against us when we would attempt to vindicate to the will an independent activity, beyond the sphere of motive, though still influenced by motive, and even obeying motive — but obeying motive as a sovereign obeys law, or a capricious sovereign, even when most capricious, obeys impulse, passion — but there is a department of inquiry which logic does not reach — when we go up to the ultimate states of our mind, or phenomena of our being. There we pause before the intimations of con sciousness, and admit an authority which is prior to reason ing. As it has been expressed : " the holy ground begins where demonstrations fail." The most rigorous logic may tell me, that all that I am sure of as actually or certainly existing, is my own consciousness, or states of consciousness, but I believe in an external world notwithstanding. I rest in my intuitive convictions. It is as good as an intuition that the will is active even when obeying motive — spontaneously active — having its law within itself. Nothing could be more con clusive than Edwards' argument to prove that the will has no self-determining power. Nor is it for a self-determining power of the will that we contend, in any of the senses which Edwards so triumphantly shows to be impossible ; but an action along with motive, and that action within itself. It is for the asserter of unconditioned subjection to mo tive to explain the peculiar nature of will according to his theory. It will not set aside this to show, by the most irre fragable logic, the connexion of motive with will. The peculiar nature of will stands out notwithstanding ; and if it is an effect, it is an effect in which there is all the nature of sovereign
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control, sovereign action. Why do I refrain from imbruing my hands in blood ? Is there nothing to be allowed to the will in this case ? Is all in the motive ? Is all in the feeling of honesty that prevents me using my neighbour's property as my own, plundering where I cannot possess ? Is there no activity in the will here ? The motive influences, but the will acts ; or the being wills and acts. It is an unworthy represen tation of the will to regard it in these instances as a slave, bound in fetters by the motive — or as submissively lying at the feet of motive, even though the high and regal one of integrity or mercy — honour for the property, or regard to the life of others. While the influence is felt, the will still acts. It is not a passive effect : the emotion is so to the conception, the desire to the emotion ; but the will is not to them all. It refuses to be so regarded — to be classified with the phenomenal merely. It is being that wills, and if it wills from motive, there is nothing like a passive effect here ; but there is rather an active state in which being does not deny motive, but ex hibits a higher phenomenon — will.
The phenomenon of the will as possessed of activity, and yet under the influence of motive, as having its cause in itself, and yet in some sense caused, is seen in other departments besides that of the will. It is seen in the spontaneity of mind, or the action of mind ; where there must be independent activity ; and yet altogether independent activity, absolute independence of cause, is inconceivable in a system of created existence, where we must recognise the First Cause as necessary to all existence — the originator and sustainer of His own universe. We recognise an independent activity in mind, without which created mind would be inconceivable ; for the very idea of its separate existence, — that is, of its being created, and not the creator — supposes this independence, or separate action. But is the separate action of created mind not under causal influence ? Is it not in the chain of causal connexion ? Is there any de partment of the universe out of the influence of causal con nexion ? We see, therefore, the very same phenomenon in the spontaneous action of mind as we see in the will, only the
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action of will is higher in its kind than even the action of mind — is not the same — is more action, if we may venture the expression. The same phenomenon may be contended for in all subordinate causes whatever, only the kind of action — the independent causation — becomes less conspicuous, and not of so high a character, as we descend from the will of intelligents to mind, and from mind to the causes which operate in matter — from voluntary agents to mental action, and from mental action to material causation. Unless we adopt the theory out and out of mere sequence in causation, we must admit the possibility of subordinate causation, for that possibility can be denied only on the supposition of the impossibility of causation at all. If causation proper, and not mere sequence, is the account of connexion in events, then subordinate causation is possible ; for it is as possible for the Creator to create causes as to create effects. Mind can never be a mere effect ; it must be regarded as itself an agent. There is the spontaneity of mind : — What do we mean when we speak of that ? That the mind acts as mind, will not be denied by any one who allows it an independent existence. Is there not independent action here ? There is nothing more plain than that there is a sense in which all independent agencies have an action in them selves, and have the law, or cause of that action, in themselves. This may be said of the meanest agency in the universe. If we do not admit this, we must hold that creation is but a system of sequence — a chain of connected links — every one of which derives its influence from the first, and has no other in fluence, no other causal action ; or we may hold that the universe is every moment one effluence from the Divine Being, and is nothing but as it is that — rays of the Divine influence, the ex pression of divinity, the outward form and vesture of deity. This is Spinozism. Or, with Malebranche, we may maintain the universe to be nothing else than an uninformed structure, all the changes and evolutions of which are but God operating through occasion, and on occasion, of the very changes, which yet are nothing in themselves but as God operates. We con fess we see nothing between the admission of subordinate
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agencies and Spinozisru ; no other view is rational or intelli gible. The doctrine of sequence is as untenable as that of occasional causes, nay, is one and the same ; for matter must be allowed to be something, otherwise Berkeleianism is the true theory ; and if matter be admitted, it is the occasion for the Divine will to operate in the production of every effect. Now, either this is very useless as a system of the universe, a very absurd method of the Divine Being arriving at His effects, operating in and through a material frame, the essential qualities of which, and no more, are independent of God : all else is the Divine will ; or, the universe is an effluence of God. The more rational view, certainly, is that which admits of subordinate agency and efficiency ; which is the view also that most commends itself to the understanding of all, and to the understanding of the very theorists who would argue for the other views we have stated ; it is what they in the moments of unbiassed reason will feel and admit. But while this subor dinate agency is acknowledged, and cannot be denied without one or other of the above consequences, this subordinate agency is still in some sense dependent upon God : it was derived from Him, and in a sense could not exist without Him. The plant has its growth from the root, and exhibits a wonderful appara tus for its nourishment and progress to the full development of stem, branches, and flower, and its successive renewal from season to season — resigning its honours in winter, to exhibit them in new beauty as the agencies of another spring revisit it. What is that internal apparatus ? What are these agencies ? Are they nothing ? Have they no independence ? God is indeed in all, over all, and through all ; but not surely in such a sense as that all is God. And yet, in what other sense can it be, if there is no independent agency ? In the theory of occasional causes, and that of sequence, at least matter is an agent, if it is an occasion, and if the doctrine is not embraced which resolves matter itself into phenomena of our own minds — the doctrine of Berkeley, and of the Germans ; but admit this agency, and why not admit any other ? Every subordinate agency holds of God, but it is an agency ; it has an independent
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action, or there is no subordinate agency ; and Spinozism, and Pantheism, are the true theories of the universe, making God to be all, or all to be God. In this view, then, subordinate agency is absolutely necessary in the universe ; and there must be a consistency between independent subordinate agency, and yet a Divine agency on which that subordinate and indepen dent agency is still dependent. This looks like a contradiction, but it is a contradiction to which our reasons must succumb. It is what we observe: it is the phenomenon exhibited in creation. Creation is the Creator calling into existence agen cies besides Himself ; to give them independent action was not surely impossible, otherwise God is still all, and Creation is, as Spinoza makes it, the effluence of God, and nothing apart from Him — but a mode of the Divine action, and not distinct from God. Was it impossible for God to create other agencies besides Himself ? Is there no way in which an inferior agency may exist, and yet be derived — be continually deriving ? Is it impossible for anything to exist but God ? Must God be all being, if there is any being which seems apart from God, which is at once thus apart, and yet not apart ? This seems a far greater contradiction than that which allows an agency apart from God, and }-et not independent of Him ? And when we ascend to intelligent agency, to man the voluntary agent, is such an agent, is such an agency, also to be denied ? Can it have no independent existence ? Is there not action in such an agent ? Is man a part of the Divine Being ? Is his separate existence lost ? Is it merged in God ? Does man not live and act ? Has he no action ? If he has, What is the active power ? Is it motive ? Still, there is action following upon motive. What is the active power now ? What acts when the motive prompts ? If the necessity of causation is still insisted on, we hold the possibility of action even under a certain kind or amount of causation — action independent under causation — influenced, determined, not absolutely caused — obeying the cause, or rather the influence, but obeying that by a certain activity, or by choice. There is a higher kind of action in the will than in mere mental spontaneity ; and yet
592 THE MORAL NATURE.
spontaneity is action of its kind, dependent upon the same cause that is in all, over all, and through all, and yet inde pendent — action, not a passive effect. This must be still more claimed for the will. The activity of the will is the activity of the being : Spontaneity is the activity of mind ; and the action of the one is far more action than the action of the other. The action of the will carries with it the understanding, the emo tions, the desires : the action of the mind is in the mind itself, and is not so much the being acting, as the mind in spite of the being. Is this action, then, the peculiar action of the will — to be resolved into an effect merely ? Is it an effect just as the emotion is an effect — the desire is an effect — and the whole motive is an effect of circumstances, or is determined by causes ? It cannot be said so. It cannot be said that the will, or the action of the will, is determined by these : it is determined im part by them ; but the will acts, and its activity is within' itself, and from itself. It was constituted an active power ; but it is now active in itself: it takes its action from nothing foreign. The Creator has endowed it with activity, as He endowed it for action. Motives may influence, but they do not control it ; or they do not control it to the extent of setting it aside as an active power, or destroying its activity. When we will, we choose, and that is not properly an effect. An effect is not active in relation to its cause ; but the will is so, if it have a cause. It exhibits the phenomenon of activity in relation to the very motive which it obeys. It obeys it rather than another. It determines in reference to it, that it is the motive which it will obey. There is undoubtedly this phe nomenon exhibited : the will obeying, but elective, active, in its obedience. If it be asked how this is possible, how the will ;, can be under the influence of motive, and yet possess an inter nal activity — we reply, that this is one of those ultimate phenomena which must be admitted, while they cannot be explained. No ultimate fact is explicable. The causal con nexion in events, and yet the separate agency in them, in every ', separate event or causation, is a matter which our reason /apprehends, although it cannot comprehend it. There is not
THE MORAL NATURE. 593
an agent in nature, there is not a separate independent cause, which does not exhibit this phenomenon. Must it not be much more true of the will ? Is it to be but a link in a chain of sequence ? We cannot admit even ordinary causation to be so : far less what is so near an approach to causation in the Divine mind itself — to the very action of the Divine Being. And may not man have been made in the Divine image in this sense as well as any other : nay, was this not the distinguishing feature in that image, that he was created with a will, having its independent activity, although still bound in the chain of causes ; and therefore under those motive influences which, while they do not constrain the will, secure its action, and secure its action in a particular way ? —
" Fast bound in fate, left free the human will.1'
This view of the will is finely expressed in these two sentences of Sir James Mackintosh : — " How strongly do experience .and analogy seem to require the arrangement of motive and volition under the class of causes and effects ! With what irresistible power, on the other hand, do all our moral senti ments remove extrinsic agency from view, and concentrate all feeling on the agent himself!" This is not more true than it is finely put ; and it seems to contain the whole question as to the freedom of the will in a few words. The solution of the apparent contradiction is just in the impossibility of explaining any of the ultimate facts of our consciousness : or if this is not the reconciliation of the difficulty, it reconciles us to the diffi culty. Both terms of the apparent contradiction we may admit — and the reconciliation of them we may leave to other and higher intelligences — and perhaps the reconciliation is seen only by God himself. We perceive the same contradiction in all causation ; if it is a contradiction, if it is not rather a fine harmony.
We seem to have arrived at the conclusion that the will is n power which is acted on by motive, obeys motives, and which yet has an activity in itself, which it derives from nothing external. It acts, and in this it is altogether different from an
2P
594 THE MORAL NATURE.
ordinary effect ; so different as not with any propriety to come under the description of an effect. It is in its activity that its grand peculiarity consists, and in that we have the distinguish ing peculiarity of an active agent. We distinguish between an agency and an agent : an agency is a law or a power ; an agent is a being possessed of will. If the will came under the descrip tion of effects, there would be nothing peculiar to it as will ; and it would be merely a power or agency, like any other power or agency in a train of causation or sequence, or a power in no higher sense than the powers that operate in matter. The whole conditions to the constitution of an intelligent and active agent present something altogether different to the contemplation from the powers and agencies that we observe in matter. The whole phenomena of an intelligent agent might lead us to expect a different kind of action, or mode of action, from what obtains in material agencies. This might be expected prior to the findings of experience, and to all argument. It might be determined a priori that an intelligent agent will exhibit very different phenomena from mere unintelligent agency. But we might conceive intelligence apart from will: they are at least separable in our conception. The very attempt, however, to conceive them apart, brings out the characteristics of each, and shews what they are in union. Keason obviously exists for the will, or intelligence without action would be a somewhat singular phenomenon. The proper sequel to intelligence is will. A reigning intelligence without will, casting its glance over the universe, comprehending all knowledge, without feeling or action, is conceivable, but it would be somewhat useless in the universe. Results are what are aimed at in the universe ; but knowledge without action would give no results. If the will, then, must be united to intelligence, if action in the intelligent being is what is desired and looked for — when we have got that will — when will is found united to intelligence, — Is it after all to be resolved into a passive effect — a blind and obedient con sequent of an equally blind and obedient antecedent, both links merely in a chain of sequence or causation ? Is this all of an intelligent agent ? Has will no higher character or prerogative
THE MORAL NATURE. 595
than this ? Was it given for no other purpose than this ? Must we deem of it nothing more than that it is a term in a chain of sequence, or an effect in a train of causes ? The im possibility to determine the nature of the influence of motive on the one hand, and of the action of the will on the other, does not set aside the truth of these as being the actual phe nomena in the case of every intelligent and active agent. This is what we observe, and this is what is to be held up against any conclusions however rigorous, or any arguments proceeding upon whatever plausible data or premises. Still, neither is motive denied, nor is action denied : both are seen, and both are to be admitted. In the relation of the two consists the nodus of this great question : the two terms of the question arc both actual subjects of experience and objects of observation : — what is the nature of the influence, and how far it goes to secure the action : what is the nature of the action, or how it can be action in the proper sense of the term, while yet obedient to influence : the exact point at which action commences, and in fluence no longer presses upon action — this, we say, is the nodus in this question, whether it be called the question of the free dom of the will, or the question simply as to the relation be tween motive and action, the part which motive, and the part which the will, have respectively in the case of all action. And this is a question which does not affect one intelligent or moral agent alone, or one class of intelligents, or moral agents, but all intelligents, all moral agents, alike. All intelligents must have reasons for their action ; these induce, so far control ; but the intelligent is not a passive agent that acts only as he is acted upon. He obeys motive, or has reasons for action ; but it is action still, and that is altogether a peculiar phenomenon. Will is like nothing else among the phenomena of being. We do not deem it at all necessary to fortify ourselves in this view, as we might by quotations from other writers. The view must be judged of by itself, as it is within the compass of each one's own consciousness to do. We have stopped short, it will be seen, of calling the will an agent, but we have not denied the influ ence of motive. It is in the nature of the relation between
59G THE MORAL NATURE.
these two that we have either freedom or necessity. Too much has been contended for on both sides : too little has been al lowed, by those who took opposite views, to either. That the will is free, however, in the sense of having an activity in itself, which motive does not reach, or impel to action, but which acts from its own spontaneity or inherent power to act — the vis matrix being in itself — is what may be maintained at all hazards, and to all effects. The action of the will is the grand thing to be insisted on. It is true, it is in the right state of motives that we have the right moral nature ; but the will is the grand dis tinguishing property of an agent. It is in the will, as we have before said, that we have the being. All else is phenomenal in our nature. We see mind acting ; we do not see being acting. That mind it may be interesting to contemplate. Its processes and results may be fine and even marvellous : in the regions of speculation, of fancy, of science, the efforts of mind may be alike beautiful and interesting, and the most useful effects may attend them ; but it is in the will that we have the being : it is in volitions that the being acts : our volitions are, as it were, ourselves. Are these mere effects then ? The man of will, the man of action, always appeals more to our interest than the man of contemplation merely, because we have more of himself than with the man of contemplation merely. It is in action that the being comes out. In contemplation the being is within himself: he has withdrawn from others: it is his mind, not himself, that is in action. Immediately upon volition, as soon as there is volition, the being is there — comes forth — gives himself to his fellows, or it may be is just acting for him self ; but still it is the being. The will goes with all actions for duty. It is in every moral act. Morality derives its very being from the will. It was merely morality in the abstract before. Moral truth may be contemplated, and the law of right and wrong may be the object of a moral decision ; judgment may pronounce the decision, and a moral emotion may accompany it, but it is when it is acted, when the right or the wrong is in act, that we have morality, or its opposite. Not till then have we more than truth contemplated, morality in the thought — in
THE MOKAL NATURE. 597
the mind, not in action — not morality itself. As soon as it is in act we have itself, and will must accompany every such act — will in order to the act, and will in order to the morality of the act. It is the will that makes every action ours ; and an action must be ours, or the action of an agent, before it can possess morality. This raises the question of the relation of will to morality. Is the will necessary to the morality of an action ? Is it necessary to morality in the thoughts, in the emotions, in the desires, in the acts ? Must there be a state of volition before there can be anything moral in the internal, as well as in the external, acts of the moral being, for the mind is characterized by action ? It is virtually an act wherever there is a volition, or a state of the will. There is action wherever there is will. Is there no morality, then, apart from volition, or an act or state of will ? This question admits of an easy answer as regards outward actions. It does not admit of so easy an answer as regards states of mind, feelings, desires.
What are the circumstances in which any outward action is performed ? It is only a supposable case, in which an indivi dual is the instrument merely of an action, his own will not being in the action, and the will of another being the real agent. Such a case may be supposed. We may suppose an individual putting an instrument in the hands of another, and compelling him to perpetrate a deed of blood — the in dividual thus compelled being as passive as the instrument which he is made to wield. Such a case is often supposed, for the purpose of illustrating the difference between freedom of action and constraint. But such a case is hardly conceivable in fact ; for what would be the use of employing another as the passive instrument of our own action ? It would surely be an awkward way of accomplishing our purpose, to employ another as an instrumentality for accomplishing that purpose, which our own hand after all, our own agency, effected. There was but the employment of a double instrumentality in this case, when a single one was enough. We ourselves were the real agents. Where another is to be employed for effecting our purposes, it is not the instrumentality merely of that other that
598 THE MORAL NATURE.
is called in — it is his agency. The object in any such case is probably to divide the responsibility of an action, or to trans fer, as we may suppose, the responsibility altogether from our selves to another ; or to do by another what we may find it unpleasant to do, or have not opportunity or means for effec tuating ourselves. It is thus that tyrants often make others the minions of their own will ; or, through fear or torture, or by bribery, the will may be constrained or seduced, and an action may be performed with the will, and yet with an opposing inclination ; or with the will, if it had not been under such an influence, likely to have been different. But in all of these instances the will is present, and though under a strong influence, which it may be almost impossible to resist, there is will notwithstanding, and, so far as that in fluence is concerned, the will might have refused, resisted. The question as to the degree of morality in these instances may be modified by the strong influence brought to bear upon the Avill, which, if left to ordinary motives, might not have been exerted, at least in the particular direction. But there is will, and, in so far as there was room for will, there was action, agency, and there was morality accordingly. Morality, there fore, has direct relation to will in outward actions. Where there is not will, the individual is a passive instrument merely, not an agent, and there can be no morality in such a case. An instrument can never be an agent, and an agent alone is moral. In reference to those cases where the will is under such powerful influence, it has been sometimes said that the individual is not free — that in the actions which he performs he is not a free agent. It can only be in loose and popular language that this can be said, or that this way of speak ing is admissible. The torture may be too exquisite for the power of endurance to go farther, and the will may yield; the fear may be too dreadful for the will to hold out, and it may succumb ; the temptation may be too strong for the will to resist, and it may be carried in its tide. But the will, again, might have remained firm amid all the torture that could have been inflicted, and fear that could have threatened,
THE MORAL NATURE. 599
and temptation that could have influenced ; and therefore there was not actual constraint, — the will was free. It is in the endurance of pain, and the superiority to fear, and the despite of temptation, that the heroism and magnanimity of character have frequently been exhibited, as it is in these that they have scope for action. The will therefore is in every action performed by an agent. It is easy to see, therefore, that will must be necessary to moral action, since it is necessary to all action. It is the will that makes the action our own. It would not otherwise be action, much less would it be our action. And it will be seen, it is not the will that constitutes the morality of an action : that depends upon something else ; the action is moral or not in itself ; the will only makes the action ours. It is very obvious there could be no morality, good or bad, ascribed to an action, which was not the action of an agent, which was not action at all, which was mere instru mentality. It is to action that morality belongs, and to action the will is necessary. Will constitutes action, for the will is active. But while it is to action that morality belongs, the morality of action depends upon motive ; it is in motive that morality resides. The purpose, intention, feeling, with which an action is done, gives its character to an action. Morality is in the agent, not in the action. It is what the agent does, not what is done — what was in the intention of the agent, what feeling he had, what motive he was actuated by ; it is this which is the object of praise or blame, of approbation or dis approbation. Motive, however, may be seen in the action, and many actions are such that they would never be done but from certain motives. We cannot contemplate them apart from the motive. Or the circumstances may be such, that the motive is apparent. We may often misjudge, however, in reference to these, and our object always is to arrive at the motive. An action supposes a motive, and it cannot be done without a voli tion. A volition is supposed, of course, and to interpret the motive, is to give its character to the volition. That the voli tion could follow up such a motive, at once stamps the volition, and gives its character, too, to the action. The action is there-
600 THE MORAL NATURE.
fore good or bad according to the motive. This transfers the question, then, of the relation of the will to morality, from the relation of the will to action, to the relation of the will to motive. We have seen the relation of will to action, and in determining that we have determined the relation of will to motive, and of motive to will ; the question now is, how is the morality of motive affected by will ? We have said that the morality of an action is in the motive — that morality is in motive ; how then is it affected by will ? The morality is not in the will — how then does it affect morality ? Because the will is the consent of the being to its own states or acts. The formal consent of the being must obviously be a very important element in the morality of its internal states or external actions. Are these states or actions homologated ? have they the as sent of being ? is the being in them ? are they the states or actions of the being ? Now, it must be obvious, that in one sense our very states, as well as actions, must have the assent of our wills ; otherwise, we are mere machines, and our nature is independent of ourselves. At first, as we originally came from the hand of our Maker, this was the case ; our natures were independent of ourselves ; they were a fine moral mechanism. We had no part in our original constitution, and we received it as it came from the hand of God. But having been consti tuted with such and such a moral nature, and with a will as a part of it, that nature obviously could not act without the will going along with its movements : the will would never be opposed to a nature in which there was nothing but harmony ; and the action of the will would then be far more prompt than it is now, when there are such conflicting motives and states. And when that change passed over our nature, which has been fruitful of such consequences, and which has given rise to those very questions with which we are engaged ; for had man continued upright, the question of his freedom would never have been raised, but he would have done good without asking if he was free to do it, and he would have cheerfully accepted of the benefits of his condition, without asking how he came by them, or rather with a thankful recognition of the great
THE MORAL NATURE. fiOl
Author of them all : when the great moral change passed over our nature, could that take place without an act of will ? It could not be with an act of our own will, but was it not with an act of our great progenitor and representative's ? And if so, do not all our subsequent moral states take their character from this ? Our moral states are essentially either good or bad ; our moral emotions must partake either of the one character or the other. They were first in order, the will came after them. Could the will constitute their morality ? If the morality is in the emotion even after volition, and the will only consents to it, and makes it as it were doubly our own ; being our own, first, in itself, and now our own, secondly, by being homolo gated, or cherished, — the emotion may be moral even where there is no will. But there was a will upon which our whole moral state, as that now is, depended, as previous to that it took its character from the Creator, or His creative will. It was man's own will that introduced the new state of the moral nature that we find obtaining : it takes its character now from it, as it did originally from the will of the Creator. A single emotion or feeling, therefore, cannot now be cherished without its possess ing a moral character either good or bad. It must be in the very nature of the emotion — we speak of the moral emotions — to possess this character. A moral emotion without a moral character seems a contradiction. What can a volition do to that emotion in itself considered ? The volition is but the consent to the emotion : the emotion is moral in itself, whether good or bad, virtuous or vicious. If the will could render an emotion good or bad, it would have a transmuting power. It is not denied, indeed, by any, that the emotion is good or bad, but it is alleged that there is not guilt in the moral agent till there is a will going along with the emotion, entertaining it, or assenting to it. If the present state of the moral nature existed of itself necessarily, or had been created as we find it, then an act or assent of the will would now be necessary before there could be guilt or otherwise, praise or blame : and even then, perhaps, there could not be guilt attachable even to what was morally evil, since our nature would in that case be independent of ourselves:
G02 THE MORAL NATURE.
this would undoubtedly be the case if our nature had been created in that state. But our very nature, or the state of our nature now, was the fruit of a volition, of will. Does not that give its character, then, to all the subsequent states ? Do not these take their character from the primordial volition that led to them ? Their guilt is in their own evil nature, if they are evil — evil being essentially evil, if the fruit of choice. We were involved in our representative ; and his act — when he put forth that volition, and ate of that fruit — was ours. His choice was ours. Our moral state, then, has a choice, a will accompanying it, fixing it upon us as our own. It does not need a new voli tion to make every emotion ours, as it needs a new volition to make every action ours. Our emotions are our own in virtue of that primordial volition that occasioned the first apostacy. The relation of will to morality is only in making the act, or the state, our own. Let that be once determined, and then morality is apart from will, and belongs to motive, to the respect to law. It is the regard to law which constitutes an act or a state moral. Now there is a regard to law even in our pathological states, as they have been called — or emotions, as well as in our actions, not immediate, but from that primor dial volition which has characterized all our subsequent states, viewing the race as having one character, and as included in the great federal transaction. There is a disregard to law lying under all our states which may be characterized as evil. This is the very essence of the depravity of nature from which evil action itself proceeds. There could be no wrong volitions otherwise, and it is the revolt from law in our very nature that constitutes depravity, and that surely constitutes guilt. An emotion may be in revolt as well as a volition — a state as well as an act. The tendency to evil must be evil ; all depends upon whether that evil was our own, was brought upon our selves, whether we involved ourselves in it, so that it is ours.
Morality resides in the motive, or in the emotions — in the state of the soul, of which emotion is the first expression or act ; nay, there is morality essentially in emotion ; an emotion
THE MORAL NATURE. 603
is moral. We here have reference again to the moral emotions ; for there are emotions that are not moral ; and it is essential that in the moral emotions there be morality. They are moral in themselves, and an act of will is not needed to make them so. An act of will only makes them ours ; in other words, the will in conformity with the emotions, these become ours by being not the emotions of a mere passive nature, but of an active agent, recognised and acknowledged, — not pathological states merely, but the states of a moral and responsible being, respon sible at least to law, if not to higher being. In the creature, the state would be first, and the emotions of that state sub sequent, and the will would be subsequent to the emotions. This would be also in the order of nature with the Creator him self. But velleity, or the state in which the harmony of will with emotion is demanded in the very supposition, would be con sonant with emotion, and would not be a moment subsequent. This velleity would be a part of the creature as well as emotion, so that will would be in effect exerted upon emotion, even pre vious to actual volition. It is when actual volition, however, does take place, that the emotions are recognised, authentica ted, and become more our own. There is this grand peculiarity in regard to the emotions of our depraved nature, that these are our own by a prior volition — a volition which sprang up in the as yet unfallen being, in a manner which it is impossible to account for or explain. Here is a volition which it would be difficult to trace to any previous motive, the previous state of the moral agent being one of perfect moral rectitude. A wrong emotion first will hardly account for the phenomenon in this case. There must have been consent in the very emotion which first sprang up in the now fallen nature — fallen as soon as that emotion took effect in the hitherto unfallen nature, whether of man, or of the angels. There would be consent to the emotion, for the very admission of the emotion would be consent. It was an altogether new emotion — new, as contrary to the will of God — while the previous state had been in harmony with that will. Would not the will, admitting this emotion, be as in stantaneous as the emotion ? The emotion was rebellion against
604 THE MORAL NATURE.
God — opposition to His command, or His law. Could that be without a volition ? It is the will that makes emotion our own, as respects agency, not mere nature — as respects an agent, not a mere being. Wrong emotion prior to volition must have been either created or spontaneous; in itself, in either case, there must have been depravity, though not guilt. But a state of velleity, or the will possible, must be conceived, along with every state of emotion. Emotion and will are states of the same being, and the one co-exists with and supposes the other. It will be difficult to say what was the source of the depraved moral nature, if not a volition. There must have been some thing prior to this as causal, and that beyond observable causes ; but that nature could not be our own without volition. It is rather the moral state we have to contemplate, whether inno cent or fallen, and that supposes both emotion and volition. An emotion is moral, because it supposes volition, or there is possible volition, or velleity* Volition does not make the emo tion moral, but a moral emotion is not conceivable without possible volition, or volition possible in correspondence with it. It is not the will that makes the emotion moral, but a moral emotion supposes the possibility of volition. The two states are the complements of each other. The mind consenting to the emotion, is will in relation to the emotion. The mind chooses it, indulges it, does not resist it or bid it away ; or, if a virtuous emotion, cherishes it, invites its accesses, strengthens it by every consideration and every incitement. If the emotion has an object, it will frequently contemplate it — it will have it frequently before it — it will seek its intercourse or fellowship. If it be a duty on which it rests — or pursuit of any kind — it will delight in its performance, or eagerly engage in its prosecution. If the emotion is that of benevolence, the will will be the active, ever present, pervading, immediate spring and agent of all its expressions. The emotion will be the regent principle, the will the ancillary and executive, hardly separate or separa ble. The emotion must will : or, let it be love — a farther re move from will — the will acknowledges the emotion, allows it,
* \Ve ftdopt this word, if it has not the sense that we here put upon it.
THE MORAL NATUUE. 605
and if it too has commands, the will obeys, and it will shrink from nothing by which its behests will be accomplished. The will is the minister of the emotion, but not so its minister, as not to be sovereign in its own acts. It acts sovereignly, it takes up the matter for itself; it does not say to the emotion, Be out of the way — but it forgets the emotion in its own ser vices. It is predominant, it is the exultant faculty, it careers in its course, and it asks not if it is obeying love. Such seems to be the relation between motive and will, or emotion and will. The morality is in the emotion, but what would the emotion be without will ? It might be beautiful, but it would want action — it would be the vital principle without the active frame — it would be the atmosphere, or the steam, without the agent which it moves, and which re-acts upon the moving power by condensation and expansion, gathering the strength into a single act, and, in the expenditure of that strength, proving the expansiveness of the power. The morality is in the emotion. Love, for example, is essentially moral ; it com prises the law. Will could never affect love ; it can only in its own way carry out its behests. Justice is essentially moral. Will is but the severe minister of that stern Judge, with the sword and with the fasces of authority and execution. Let covetousness, or improper desire, be the emotion in the mind, is there no blameworthiness till the will has put its stamp upon the emotion, or followed it into action ? Is there no blameworthiness till the will has received the emotion into the mind, where it was before in the most incipient stage — as on the very threshold, seeking admission — or as the very germ of the emotion, which upon a single volition expands into full blow ? Undoubtedly the emotion gathers into won derful strength, compared with its incipient stage, as soon as volition has taken effect. It has an expansiveness bearing no proportion to its incipient state, like an essence filling the chamber into which it is admitted. But there was immorality in the first motion in the direction of covetousuess or impure desire. The simplest state of emotion was wrong, must be wrong. If it was inconsistent with the right, then it must be
(506 THE MORAL NATURE.
wrong : if it has an improper direction when will has taken effect, it had the same direction from the first. There is no new direction, and therefore there can be no new character derivable from will. The state decides the emotion, and if depraved, the emotion must be depraved ; and does depravity infer no morality ? Does morally depraved nature infer no punishment ? All this seems like repeating a truism ; but it is a truism which has been denied by such high authority that it seemed necessary to dwell upon this view somewhat at length. " Having illustrated," says Dr. Chalmers, " the distinction between the passive and the voluntary, in those processes the terminating result of which is some particular state of an emo tion, and which emotion in that state often impels to a parti cular act, or series of acts, we would now affirm the all- important principle, that nothing is moral or immoral which is not voluntary/' Dr. Chalmers thinks that this " should be announced with somewhat the pomp and circumstance of a first principle ; and have the distinction given to it, not of a tacit, but of a proclaimed axiom in moral science." If Dr. Chalmers had taken into account the primordial volition from which our depraved nature took effect ; and if his remarks had regarded that volition — all our emotions characterized by that volition, or connected with the guilt of that one act of the will — the principle he announces might have been admitted ; for undoubtedly guilt is attached to our depraved nature as spring ing out of that one volition. How otherwise could there have been depravity ? — and how can depravity be separated from guilt ? A mere pathological state in which there is evil is impos sible. This is implied in the very principle which Dr. Chalmers announces. He says, " nothing is moral or immoral which is not voluntary." Why draw a distinction, then, between a patholo gical state and an active, in respect to emotions from which it was necessary to resort to this distinction to exclude the moral element which was otherwise confessedly seen and acknowledged to be in them ? The distinction was in order to this exclu sion. The moral element was otherwise there. Surely the first emotion of covetousness is sin ; the first rise of evil desire is
THE MORAL NATURE. bOV
sin ; the first stirring of evil temper is sin. These may even continue without an act of will : they may be pathological in this sense. Whence their evil ? They are evil. If they had been a part of the nature conferred upon us, guilt in connexion with them may have been questionable ; and this leads us by an a priori argument to the principle, that while evil could not be created by the Divine Being, neither could it arise spon taneously, without a volition in the very act which admitted it. There must have been volition then. But it is not to this volition that Dr. Chalmers traces the guilt of the emotions in any case where guilt can be chargeable upon them, but to a volition accompanying actual emotion. It is for this that Dr. Chalmers thinks the principle he announces so important. It is to draw a distinction between emotion thus characterized and a purely pathological state, which he regards every emotion to be where there is no volition blending with it. He says, " Emotions are no further virtuous or vicious, than as volitions are blended with them, and blended with them so far as to have given them their direction or their birth." Evil in emo tion is evil ; the question is, To whom is it attributable, to whom does it appertain ? Surely to the agent in whom it resides ? Created evil is inconceivable. God did not create evil — whence did it spring ? We are at no loss to give answer, if we take revelation for our guide. Evil is the fruit of the first volition to sin. Whence that volition sprang we may in vain ask. This is the root of evil — in what it had its soil is the question. Whence sprang evil in man and in the fallen angels ? What was the cause here — out of the chain of causes —in the being and yet beyond the being ? What was the cause before any perceived cause ? Whence the spontaneity of this act — of the primal volition to evil ?
We have said that in the moral agent we perceive the phe nomena of a judgment, an emotion, a desire, a volition, and then following upon all, an action, or actions. Such seems to be the order of the states preceding action. Let us endeavour to realize the states or phenomena preceding the first volition
608 THE MORAL NATURE.
to evil. We are brought up to this in our inquiries iuto the nature of will, and its relation to action and to morality. We have seen that it does not constitute morality, that it only makes the moral action our own, and that the morality is essentially in the emotion prior to the will, in the desire, or the emotion and desire conjoined, constituting motive. Even an emotion we have seen may be sinful, being essentially an improper emotion : the will cannot affect its real nature in any way. The will only makes the emotion our own. An emotion where there has been no volition concurring with it, or consenting to it, is not ours in any sense. We see such a phenomenon often now in our emotional states, or distinguishing our emotional nature ; but these states, that nature, must be connected with the voli tion which made the nature itself our own ; otherwise, it had not been ours, and it is inconceivable that there could have been any morality in such a case. It would have been purely phenomenal, in no sense ours, or the nature of an agent. On that very account it has been denied that there is morality in any actual emotion apart from volition in our present emotional states. This might have been allowed had no volition ever made these emotions ours. Let them be ours, chargeable upon us ; and if the emotions are evil, — that is, phenomenally so, or in their own nature, they are evil as implying guilt, and attach ing guilt to their subject. The question is, then, as respects the first sinful state, or first volition to evil, Was that state purely emotional ? Was the first volition to evil preceded by an emotion ? and whether it was so or not, whatever was the phenomenon presented, what led to it ? What was the cause ? We have already supposed that the first state of evil could not be purely emotional, for the very entrance of the emotion would be a revolt from a prior holy state, or a state of harmony with, or subjection to, the Divine will. The first emotion, of which a volition to evil action was the result — supposing this to have been the phenomenon — must have itself been accompanied with, or been characterized by, a volition. At all events, in such a case, if there was no accompanying volition, if the state was purely emotional, it could hardly be conceived as having any guilt
THE MORAL NATURE. 609
connected with it. There was depravity, there was evil, but there was no guilt. Guilt was not till volition took effect, or till there was volition consenting to the state. An emotional state prior to all volition, or to any consent of the mind, must have been purely emotional, as much so as a sensation is a sensation, or any of our involuntary states are involuntary. It could not have been our own state, or the being was not in it ; all was subjectivity. A consent at one time or other was neces sary to make the emotions amenable to law, and the subject of conscience. Evil cannot be conceived separate from will. There is unquestionably a sense in which our present emotions, though depraved, are not characterized by guilt till volition mingles with them, gives its stamp or impress to them. It is the prior volition by which these emotions became our nature, that makes us responsible for them, and renders them in themselves guilty. They are depraved — they must be guilty. How did they be come so ? How did they themselves take their rise ? — first as phenomenal, and second as guilty, or exhibiting a circumstance of criminality or guilt ? What was the origin of evil emotion ? Where was the point of change in the emotional state ? or what was the cause antecedent to all existing cause, and out of the nature of the being that changed ? Let the first state of change, or in which there was change, be an emotion or a volition, or a phenomenon exhibiting both, what was its origin ? Whence did it spring ? what was its cause ? May we not per ceive here something to determine the nature of will ? Is it not in the spontaneity, the activity of will, in the cause within itself, that we are to look for the cause unexplained of the change in our moral state — that activity itself inexplicable, except as we find an internal activity of the will — not irrespective of motive, but still belonging to will itself — as we find this to be a subject of consciousness ? Is it not to the w ill, rather than to the emotion, that we are to look for the source of the change in our moral nature ? At all events, what could be the cause of a state which had no cause in any of the previous states of the moral being ? Is it more easy to conceive of emotion un caused than volition uncaused — uncaused as respects any actual
2y
610 THE MORAL NATURE.
state of the being prior to the emotion or volition to be ac counted for ? Must we seek for a cause of every volition, but may we suppose an emotion without a cause ? It comes to this : An emotion uncaused, unless we take refuge in a state or phe nomenon inexplicable ; and may we not have found refuge in that as respects the causality of the will, in the production of its own states or acts, its own activity ? — and may we not rather find in the will a power that supposes a power of choosing evil irrespective of motive, than in the emotional nature a susceptibility of evil emotion prior to yet existing evil ? Have not the Necessitarians of the school of Edwards at last to admit a state which had no cause — was induced by some cause extraneous to the being, or subject of the state for which a cause is to be found ? Here, unquestionably, we come to a phenomenon for which there is no accounting.
Different theories have been entertained respecting the phe nomenon, sin, in the moral universe of God — the origin of evil. It has been regarded as the shadow of good. In what light the shadow is cast — good being the substance, and not the light — or was it at once the light and the substance ? — this is not attempted to be explained. Goethe asks, —
" Canst thou teach me off my own shadow to spring V" —
and Carlyle recognises more in that one question than in volumes upon the subject of the origin of evil. We have seen something like this in our counterpart emotions — not however the shadow of our good emotions, or the emotions of an inno cent state, but an opposite corresponding to its opposite. Evil is in this sense the counterpart of good ; but that does not ac count for it as a substance accounts for its shadow. Every thing in the universe may have its counterpart or opposite. We have already noticed a duality in creation, when we were explaining the law of proportion as one of the laws of the mind. That duality may exist in the moral as well as the natural world, or rather it does now exist : are we to suppose that it must necessarily exist '{ It exists in the conception, and it exists possibly ; that is, good had its counterpart in idea, and evil was
THE MORAL NATURE. GIL
always possible : but does this account for it ? Does this give us its origin ? Does this explain its rise ? We cannot refer it to God without either supposing Him evil, essentially and eter nally ; in which case it would not be difficult to account for the origin of evil ; or supposing the change in Him, and the same phenomenon in the Divine Being which we have to account for in the creature. To avoid this, some have supposed two eternal principles, the one good and the other evil, the one the author of all good, the other of all evil, — the Manichean doctrine. Others have supposed matter to be the evil principle of the universe, eternal, untractable, incapable of being moulded to the purposes of the Almighty, and therefore the source of all evil. These were tenets of the Oriental theology, and were both included in the general views of the Gnostics, a sect of philoso phers, or theologians, who belonged to the East, and extended their influence over the world. It was reserved for the Ger mans to make evil the shadow of good, an ingenious enough thought, but in so far as it goes beyond the idea of evil being the counterpart of good, simply unintelligible. To dwell upon the doctrines maintained or views thrown out on this sub ject would be useless. All proceed upon the difficulty of account ing for what had not its existence in God absolutely considered ; for Schelling, according to Tholuck, recognised in God " a dark primitive origin, and a glorified form of the same," a doctrine as intelligible as many of the German doctrines. Not all the doctrines of human invention can explain the origin of evil, or account for a cause of what took effect in the mind while itself had no cause, — was, so far as we see, without cause. In the lan guage of Sir William Hamilton, applied to another subject, it is just the difficulty, the impossibility, as he calls it, of con ceiving an absolute commencement. If evil had not its cause in any previous state, whether of emotion or volition, where was its cause ? Out of the being himself ? This was impos sible. If in the being, in what state, since it was neither in the state of emotion nor in that of volition ? Is it not possible that it was just in the activity of the will itself ? May not this have been the origin, or source, of the particular emotion, or
G12 THE MORAL NATURE.
what led to the volition immediately prior to the first act of sin ? May there not be in the will a power apart from motive, and may not this very power, in the degree in which it exists, have been the cause of evil, evil in the will itself, walling what was forbidden, or what the moral nature of the very agent willing told it was evil ? The active will umay have been the cause of evil by willing what was evil. It may have been a state of indifferency in the mind before : is it necessary to suppose evil already in the will before it could will evil ? Per haps not. The will may have been capable of choosing evil arbitrarily, and the penalty may have been evil itself. This is at least as supposable, and as intelligible, as an emotion with out a previous emotion, or any conceivable state whatever as its cause. Some, accordingly, have maintained that evil is a de fect, that it is nothing positive, quoting the maxim, " Omne ens positivuni est vel primuni vel a primo." This may be maintained, perhaps, with respect to the first motion to evil ; but evil itself surely is something positive. How positive evil should have its origin in a defect, is the very question. But a mere defective will, or a will choosing arbitrarily, without a full view of the right, from a defective understanding, or rather capriciously, and without a regard to reasons furnished by the understanding : in this there was evil : but, from the nature of the will, the first apostacy seems as likely to have happened in this way as in any other. But perhaps it is best to leave the phenomenon unaccounted for, and to acknowledge that we can not account for it. It is satisfactory, at least, to have reached something ultimate beyond which it is impossible to go. We at least see that we cannot go further, and it is our wisdom to suspend our minds at an ultimate point, and neither presump tuously seek to explore further, nor complain because of the limits set to our inquiries. So far we may go, we ought to go, for our own satisfaction, and for a more intelligent comprehen sion of the truths that are so interesting to us, as they so vitally concern us. The limits to our minds may be acknowledged without surely any derogation to their dignity, while it is in the graceful acknowledgment of these that their true dignity
THE MORAL NATU11E. 613
consists. Kant, with his usual intelligence, and his customary candour, says, " Evil can only spring out of moral evil, not out of the mere limitation of our nature, and yet the original dis position (which no one but man could injure, if this corruption is to be imputed to him) was a disposition to that which is good. For us, therefore, there is no intelligible ground whence moral evil could arise." " Were our theologians of the ration alist class," says Tholuck, when remarking upon these words of Kant, " as honest as they deem themselves rational, they would have followed Kant, and avowed their ignorance on this central point. Were they sharp-sighted enough, (in case it seemed disreputable to take their stand on the simple statements of Revelation,) they would speculate till they reached the ultimate point of speculation." Our remarks apply equally to the apos- tacy of the angels and to that of man. We know not the cir cumstances of the former apostacy ; we have Revelation to guide us with respect to those of the latter. The temptation to our great progenitors was, " Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." But how that inducement took effect in a previously holy nature — the first rise of evil — is the insoluble problem. We are undoubtedly brought up to an ultimate point. In what the evil consisted — if the first state of evil, or towards evil, was a simple emotion — it is difficult to say ; there must have been a volition at least consenting to that emotion, nay, admitting it ; the nature was not entirely passive : now, this volition, the act of the will in the very emotion which it admitted, contempora neous with the emotion, may have been arbitrary ; it is in this that we seem to have sight of the possibility of the entrance of evil emotion. Still, we are not beyond a point which is ulti mate ; and without challenging the procedure by which evil was possible and became a fact, we cannot deny evil to exist, while our moral nature is not affected by the way in which evil found a lodgement in the heart of man. This is a fact we have to deplore ; evil we find existing, and that much more person ally concerns us than any question regarding the origin of evil. We see in the introduction of evil, however, an event of mighty consequence and solemn interest, the rationale of which it is
614 THE MOKAL NATURE.
not at all necessary for us to give. Scripture even does not give it. It relates the circumstances of the Fall ; it does not satisfy our curiosity by explaining the Fall itself. How simply does it relate that event ! — how simple the circumstances of the event itself! — yet how momentous in its consequences ! How great must the sin have been which involved such consequences ! In the Scripture account we have the only — we have the autho ritative — statement of man's apostacy. Philosophy may specu late : the Bible reveals — not the mode or nature of the change, but the circumstances of the change. The great fact is told, the modus of it is left unexplained. Redemption comes upon the scene ; and Regeneration — the creation of fallen man anew — is the grand doctrine of Scripture — the implantation of a new will, new motives, a new emotional nature, the susceptibility of holy emotions, desires, and the power of again willing what is right.
APPENDIX.
APPENDIX.
NOTE A. —P. 76.
THE doctrine of sequence, as propounded by Dr. Brown, is worthy of a more detailed examination, and we shall offer this by transferring to our pages the sub stance of a pamphlet published by the Author in 1842, under the title, " Strictures on the Idea of Power, with Special Reference to the Views of Dr. Brown, in his ' Inquiry into the Relation of Cause and Effect.' "
Dr. Brown's assertion is, that " the powers, properties, or qualities of a sub stance, are not to be regarded as anything superadded to the substance, or distinct from it. They are only the substance itself, considered in relation to various changes that take place when it exists in peculiar circumstances." — (P. 16.) Again, he asserts, " What substantial forms once were, in general misconception, powers, properties, qualities, now are. In the one case, as much as in the other, a mere abstraction has been converted into a reality; and an impenetrable gloom has been supposed to hang over nature, which is only in the clouds and darkness of our own verbal reasoning." — (P. 19.) " The qualities of substances, however we may seem to regard them as separate or separable, are truly the substances themselves, considered by us together with other substances, in which a change of some sort is consequent on the introduction of them. There are not substances, therefore, and also powers or qualities, but substances alone." — (P. 21.) These quotations, we think, are sufficiently explicit as to what Dr. Brown's doctrine is. Now, how does he support it, — by what mode of argument does he uphold it ? The amount of his reasoning seems to us to be, — -first, that we cannot properly conceive of powers and qualities distinct from substances themselves ; and, secondly, that it is unnecessary to suppose them to exist, as, on his favourite notion of sequence, they would, after all, be but additional terms of that sequence. The alleged inability of forming any conception of power distinct from the substance possessing it, and the facility of substituting the language of his system for the language of an older belief, — the arbitrary resolution of all the ideas we can entertain of power, pro perties, qualities, into those of state, succession, sequence, — seem to us to be the whole of Dr. Brown's argument for the peculiar doctrine of causation which he supports.
618 APPENDIX.
But it is no proof against the existence of power or efficiency, as a thing apart, or different from the substance, or as lodged in the substance, that we cannot clearly ap prehend it as distinct. We have seen that the idea of power arises in the mind at a very early stage — if not sooner, yet contemporaneously with the first reference by the mind of an inward consciousness to an external cause. There could be no such reference without the principle of causality, or except in virtue of that principle. But whatever the origin of the idea, it is one of the ideas of the mind, and the difficulty of conceiving of power as a thing distinct from the object which possesses it, does not, we humbly are of opinion, destroy either the force or the truth of the idea. Might not the same difficulty of conceiving of the soul as a separate entity, on equally just grounds, be an argument against our belief in the soul's existence ? To justify any of our original ideas, it is not necessary that we be able to support it by argument. It is generally received as sufficient in philosophy for our belief in the external world, that we have that belief. Our ultimate convictions or feel ings are what we have to retire upon in all the fundamental and most important points of belief and of conduct. Without these, we would be without any principle of belief whatever, — we would be compelled always to act by random. We cannot prove the existence of the external world, — we, however, believe in it ; and nothing could be surer than that belief. So, the idea of power is forced upon the mind at the very commencement of observation ; and it is no argument against its truth that we cannot state or define exactly what it is ; and it is altogether a refinement in ingenuity to resolve it into nothing, or, at least, into a mere mental abstraction, a relation, because we cannot hold it up to view, or give a clearer idea of it than every one origimilly possesses.
We shall advert, for a moment, to the other mode of argument pursued by Dr. Brown. He maintains that sequence is all that we actually observe, and he there fore argues that this is all that really exists in nature. There is a succession of changes in nature ; we have objects existing in different states or relations ; and he contends that, as we see nothing more, so it is unnecessary to conclude that there is anything more. It is altogether unnecessary, he holds, to introduce any thing else into the sequence ; while, again, if it is admitted, it will form, after all, but a part of the sequence itself, will be but another term in it, but another link in the chain of succession. This is obviously forgetting what power is alleged to be, so far as we can conceive of it. If it is anything, then, as power, the question does not turn upon the necessity to suppose, or not to suppose, it to exist, but upon the fact of its existence. It might be unnecessary: a mere succession of states, regulated according to a fixed and adopted order, a law of invariable connexion, impressed on objects by the Creator of the universe, might be all that was neces sary, or might now account for the phenomena of the universe ; but the question is, Is this all that exists, that actually has place V It is still alleged that we have the idea of power, and it is no argument to disprove its existence, that the phcno mena of nature maybe explained on another supposition. It was imperative mi Dr. Brown to show that the idea is unfounded; and this was not to be done by an ingenious speculation like that of sequence in events, however that might appear to account in a simpler manner for change and phenomenon. But let us hear T>r. Brown's argument in regard to the terms of the sequence. " If it be s.-iiil that A, B, 0, the substances which, as antecedents and consequents, I formerly supposed
APPENDIX. G19
to be present in a sequence of phenomena, are not themselves all that exist in these sequences, but that there is also the power of A to produce a change in B, vhirh must be distinguished from A and B ; and the power of B to produce a change in (.', which must in like manner be distinguished from both B and C ; is it not evi dent that what is not A, nor B, nor C, must be itself a new portion of the sequence ? X, for example, may have a place between A and B, and Y a place between B and C. But by this supposed interposition of something which is not A, B, nor C, we have only enlarged the number of sequences, and have not produced anything different from parts of a sequence, antecedent and consequent in a certain uniform order. TJie substances that exist in a train of phenomena are still, and must always be, the whole constituents of the train." — (Pp. 22, 23.) Now, it is obvious this is an entire begging of the question. The very assertion is, that power is something which can never be a mere term in a sequence. The very idea of it is opposed to its being so regarded. When, therefore, Dr. Brown asserts that it can be nothing else, — that " by the supposed interposition of something which is not A, B, nor C, we have only changed the number of sequences, and have not pro duced anything different from parts of a sequence, antecedent and consequent in a certain uniform order," he is assuming the whole point in dispute. Our assertion is, that we have produced something different from^arte of a sequence. The very idea entertained of power is altogether different ; it is essentially a different thing ; and it is therefore quite gratuitous on the part of Dr. Brown to make it the same, to make it but one of the links in a chain of sequence. The whole passage is a fine specimen of what logicians term upetitio prlncipii." It is assertion without argument.
From the connected phenomena of the material world, Dr. Brown proceeds to those of the mental, and applies exactly the same arguments to these as to the changes in matter, — a mode of reasoning which we have found it necessary to object to, as altogether untenable and invalid. Power, we may not be able to con ceive of, as it is distinct from the substance, material or spiritual, exhibiting it, or except in relation to its effect ; and yet we may be able to conceive of it as some thing belonging to the substance notwithstanding. What it is as distinct from the substance, we may not be able to tell ; but still as distinct or separate, we may both believe in it, and conceive of it. And it is as good argument for its reality, that we have an idea of it, — as it is against its existence, that we cannot define that idea, so as to describe the thing itself, of which it is the idea. Take the phenomena of matter or of mind, viewed not as powers, but facts: how are we to describe them, or form a clearer idea of them than we do of power, power itself, power in the abstract, separated from any of its particular modifications ? What is combustion, or adhesion, or gravity ; can we give any clearer notion of them than these terms themselves convey ? So, we know what power is, though we cannot describe it otherwise than as that which produces an effect; or, at all events, that we cannot describe it otherwise, is no sufficient reason for discarding it altogether, as a thing having no existence except in onr own thoughts. In this way nothing would be permitted to have an existence ; and, farther than either Berkeley or Hume, Mo;is themselves might be excluded from the category of being, and the universe would be a blank ; there would not even be a mind to be the subject of such illusions as \\<- d;nly experience, or illusions themselves ; for with the possibility of defining
620 APPENDIX.
even ideas, hud gone out the last spark of those embers which philosophy had extinguished all to this remaining principle.
Dr. Brown deduces what he calls a test of identity from what he had, indeed, before, abundantly shown, (but which we have not received as argument,) viz., — that the language or manner of speaking in reference to power may be resolved into another formula, reduced to equivalent terms, the terms of his theory or sys tem ; and that test of identity is, that when we speak in any case of power, we mean nothing more than that a certain phenomenon precedes a certain other ; or that, at least, our language conveys no other information than this. We quote the words of Dr. Brown himself. " When a spark falls upon gunpowder, and kindles it into explosion, every one ascribes to the spark the power of kindling the inflammable mass. But when such a power is ascribed, let any one ask himself what it is that he means to denote by that term, and without contenting himself with a few phrases that signify nothing, reflect before he give his opinion, and he will find that he means nothing more than this very simple belief, — that in all similar circumstances the explosion of gunpowder will be the immediate and uniform consequence of the application of a spark. The application of a spark is one event, the explosion of gunpowder is another ; and there is nothing in the sequence but these two events, or, rather, nothing but the objects themselves, that constitute what we are in the habit of terming events, by the changes of appearance which they exhibit. When we say to one, that, if a lighted match fall on a heap of gun powder, the explosion of the heap will be sure to follow, our meaning is sufficiently obvious ; and if we have perfect certainty that it is understood by him, do we think that he would receive the slightest additional information, in being told that the fall of a match, in such circumstances, would not only be invariably followed by the explosion of the gunpowder, but that the lighted match itself would also, in such circumstances, be found uniformly to have the power of exploding gunpowder ? What we might consider in this case as new information, would verbally, indeed, be different ; but it would truly be the old information, and the old information only, with no other difference than of the words in which it was conveyed. This test of identity," he adds, "appears to me to be a most accurate one. When a proposition is true, and yet communicates no additional information, it must be exactly of the same import as some other proposition formerly understood and ad mitted." — (Pp. 27, 28.) Here, again, Dr. Brown obviously takes an important point for granted, viz., — that when we ascribe power to any object producing a certain phenomenon, or whose presence, in certain circumstances, is attended by that phenomenon, we mean nothing more than that, at all times, in the same circum stances, that object will be the immediate antecedent of that phenomenon. This is exactly what is denied. We mean much more than this. The more we reflect, the clearer it appears, that what is meant in ascribing power to an object is some thing altogether different from merely predicting that it will be the uniform and immediate antecedent of a certain uniform and immediate consequent. We have an idea of power distinct from that ; and we mean something when we say that the object has power to produce the effect which actually follows its presence or applica tion. Let any one but reflect on his own meaning when he speaks of power, and he will see that antecedence and consequence does not at all explain it — is not at all adequate. There is still something left which is not accounted for, am] for which
APPENDIX. 621
nothing can account but the notion of power. Whether we communicate any additional information or not, just depends upon the amount of certainty or accu racy that we attach to the idea of power, which, we have said, all men possess. If we regard it as an illusion, then, instead of communicating any additional infor mation, we are using altogether incorrect or unphilosophic language, when we employ the term power. But if we do not regard it as such — if the idea we attach to power is held, like any of our original impressions, to be accurate, however unde- finable, or beyond the province of argument to establish, — then, if we do not communicate additional information, we have, at all events, some different and additional meaning in the words which we use ; and thus the test of identity fails. May not Dr. Brown's test be turned against himself? " When a proposition is true, and yet communicates no additional information, it must be of exactly the same import as some other proposition formerly understood and admitted." The proposition which ascribes power to the object, we would say, was the older of the two ; and, therefore, that which speaks merely of antecedence and consequence, must, if the two propositions are identical, take the meaning of the former, and we are still left in possession of our old idea of power.
It is really an unsatisfactory, metaphysical kind of thing, which is left us, when we strip the universe of its powers, and reduce it to the sort of skeleton structure which remains, unanimated by one quality, pervaded by nothing, — a platform, a mighty machine, moving, but without power or principle of motion ! But, it may be, we arc misrepresenting the doctrine of causation, which has Dr. Brown as its great advocate and supporter ; and, indeed, it would appear, from section fifth (Part I.) of Dr. Brown's Essay on " Cause and Effect," that we are. But the truth is, that we either misunderstand Dr. Brown's views altogether, or he is utterly in consistent with himself. We shall show that he nullifies, as we conceive, all he has been saying. He throws away his own doctrine, and boldly and uncompromisingly asserts the very views he has been engaged in confuting.
It is obvious, that if the doctrine of sequence only is to be maintained, — if, not merely all that we observe, but all that actually exists or takes place in causation, or in the changes or relations of phenojnena, is simple antecedence and consequence, as contended for by Dr. Brown, then we have nothing left but the material plat form or structure of the universe ; and, instead of repudiating this consequence — a legitimate one of his own doctrine — it behoved Dr. Brown to defend it, or, if un tenable, to have renounced the theory which led to it. Again, it follows from the doctrine of sequence, that what we have heen accustomed to term an event in Nature, is nothing but the presence of certain objects in a certain relation, and, consequently, we hold, (for a relation cannot imply efficiency, or if it does, it is power only under a different name,) but an occasion for the will of Deity to operate, on which that will intervenes, — inevitably landing us in a wider, or universal, doctrine oft " occasional causes." Dr. Brown, however, repudiates these conse quences, and, in doing so, most unaccountably, as we deem it, goes back to the very theory he had confuted, — the ideas he had been labouring to overthrow. For this there was no necessity. It was not so difficult to have admitted the above conclusions, if the doctrine of sequence was true. We think, at least, that they could be held. We shall show how this may be, afterwards. In the meantime, we must justify our allegation in respect to Dr. Brown's inconsistency, by the
622 APPENDIX.
quotation of his own words. " God the Creator, and God the providential Governor of the world," he says, " are not necessarily God the immediate producer of every change. In that great system which we call the universe, all things arc what they are, in consequence of His primary will ; but if they are wholly incapable of affecting anything, they would, virtually, themselves lie as nothing. When we speak of the laws of Nature, indeed, we only use a general phrase, expressive of the accustomed order of the sequences of the phenomena of Nature. But though in this application the word law is not explanatory of anything, and expresses merely an order of suc cession which takes place before us, there is such an order of sequences, and what we call the qualities, powers, or properties of things, are only their relations to this very order. An object, therefore, which is not formed to be the antecedent of any change, and on the presence of which, accordingly, in all imaginable circumstances, no change can be expected as its immediate consequent, more than if it were not existing, is an object that has no power, property, or quality whatever. That sub stance has the quality of heat which excites in us, or occasions in us, as a subsequent change, the sensation of warmth ; that has the quality of greenness, the presence of which is the antecedent of a peculiar visual sensation in our mind ; that has the quality of heaviness which presses down a scale of a balance that was before in equilibrium ; that has the quality of elasticity of which the parts, after being pressed closer together, return, when the pressure is withdrawn, in a direction opposite to the force which compressed them. If matter be incapable of acting upon matter, or upon mind, it has no qualities by which its existence can become known ; and, if it have no qualities by which its existence can become known, what is it, of which in such circumstances we are entitled to speak under the name of matter ?" — (Pp. 83, 84.) Such is exactly the question we are entitled to ask Dr. Brown, and to the views implied in which, his own doctrine of causation is directly opposed. But again, — " That the changes which take place, whether in mind or in matter, are all ultimately resolvable into the will of the Deity, who formed alike the spiritual and material system of the universe, — making the earth a habitation worthy of its noble inhabitant, and man an inhabitant almost worthy of that scene of divine magnificence in which he is placed, — I have already frequently repeated. That, in this sense, as the Creator of the world, and wilier of those great ends which the laws of the universe accomplish, God is himself the author of the physical changes which take place in it, is, then, most true ; as it is most true that the same power, which gave the universe its laws, can, for particular purposes of His provident goodness and wisdom, suspend, if it be His pleasure, any effect that would flow from these laws, and produce, by His own immediate volition, a different result. But, however deeply we may be impressed with these truths, we cannot find in them any reason for supposing, that the objects without us, which He has made surely for some end, have, as made by Him, no efficacy, no power of being instru mental to His own great purpcse, merely because, whatever power they can be supposed to possess, must have been derived from the fountain of all power. We have seen, indeed, that it is only as possessing this power that they are conceived by us to exist ; and their powers, therefore, or efficiencies, are, relatively to us, their whole existence. It is by affecting us that they arc known to us ; and, if they were incapable of affecting us, or — which is the same thing — if we were un susceptible of any change on their presence, it would be in vain that the gracious
APPENDIX. 623
benevolence which has surrounded us with them, provided and decorated for us the splendid home in which it has called us to dwell, — a home that may be splendid indeed, as planned hy the Omnipotent who made it, but which must for ever be invisible and unknown to the very beings for whom it was made." — (Pp. 93, 94.)
It is remarkable enough in these passages, with what facility L>r. Brown can assume either side of the question, and contend with as much success against his own doctrine as before he had contended for it. We are amazed at the instant change of language and argument, and to find ranged on the side of views he had been hitherto condemning, the very philosopher who had been opposing them with all his peculiar ingenuity and force of reason. Why this sudden conversion ? But it must be that we misunderstand him, and mistake his doctrine. If so, we are very apt to throw the blame off ourselves upon him. We cannot charge ourselves with any misapprehension of a doctrine so plainly urged, and so frequently reiterated. If we understand it aright, it is, that all we observe in causation, and all we are warranted to infer, is, mere antecedence and consequence, — a thing existing, and another by an invariable relation after ; or one state existing, and another, either of the same, or some other body, arising in consequence ; the absence, of course, of all power being supposed. If there is anything in the doctrine at all, then, it is im plied that there is nothing latent in any object, which, as powers, or properties, or qualities, on the one hand, may produce an effect, or, on the other, have an effect produced ; but certain objects or states in nature are connected together by an invariable law, however that law has been impressed, which operates without the necessary intervention, or supervention, of anything else, which may be called power, or by whatsoever name we may choose. That this is the doctrine, we refer to the reiterated statements of it by Dr. Brown himself. It is to discard all powei s and properties, and leave nothing but the simple antecedent and consequent, (or rather subsequent^ that Dr. Brown has produced his elaborate work ; to show an invariable connexion, but that there is nothing like power ; or that " connexion " is all the power we can conceive of, and that anything else is at once unwarranted and superfluous. It may indeed be said, that that connexion is power, is property, is quality, — is all the powers, or properties, or qualities, we conform any appreJtension of; — but that is what is denied, and, keeping the above view of the doctrine before us, we assert that it strips nature of powers, and properties, and qualities, and leaves it a bare platform, an uninformed structure, matter without qualities ; which quali ties, after all, according to Dr. Brown's own assertion, are all that we know of matter. But Dr. Brown falls back upon the powers and properties of matter ; and the purpose for which he does so, shows that he takes these words in the same sense as all must do who speak of powers, and properties, and qualities at all ; and what becomes, then, of the doctrine of mere antecedence and consequence, or what is it but a mystification of words, since, after all, powers and properties and qualities are supposed, and are in Dr. Brown's view just what they are in the view of every other person ? Is it so absurd, is it so ridiculous, to denude matter of all by which it is known, and does it involve so ridiculous a consequence, as that God has created matter, or the universe, merely to be a remembrancer when He himself is to act ? — Is this so absurd ? — then powers, and properties, and qualities must be restored to the place from which they were by a previous apparently triumphant train of argument dethroned ; and power, after all, is not a nullity, and all that
624 APPENDIX.
exists is not mere antecedence and consequence. We are not bound to say what power is, and Dr. Brown himself has claimed for it an existence, although, perhaps, he could not have defined it either.
We could desire no better answer to Dr. Brown's view of causation, than is con tained in the passages already quoted from his work, and to which we again refer our readers. In these passages, it is allowed, nay asserted, that it is only by the powers they possess that objects without us are conceived or known to exist, and that these powers are relatively to us their whole existence. Yet, all we per ceive, and that really exists, is but a train of antecedents and consequents ! Dr. Brovrn, of course, will not deny, that, although we cannot know anything of substance but by its qualities, yet that there is such a thing as substance, or sub stratum, in which qualities reside. But is this what Dr. Brown denies? Are powers and qualities nothing distinct from substance, but substance only existing in certain relations? "The powers, properties, or qualities of a substance," says Dr. Brown, " are not to be regarded as anything superadded to the substance, or distinct from it. They are only the substance itself, considered in relation to various changes that take place when it exists in peculiar circumstances." Per ceive then the strange incongruity in Dr. Brown. Powers are all by which sub stance is known ; but powers are only the substance itself existing in particular relations, by which it is that it becomes known to us. Whether then does Dr. Brown believe in substance or in the properties or qualities of substance ? And what is the force of the above passage, which contends so strenuously for powers and efficiencies, as possessed by objects themselves, if all is to be resolved into sub stance merely existing in particular relations ? It is not enough to say, that all that we know of these powers, is substance existing in particular relations. The object of the passage is to vindicate to matter an independent power or efficiency ; and to make that a mere relation, is to make it no efficiency, or it is to destroy our idea both of relation and efficiency. Or, perhaps, the true solution of the inconsistency — and then it becomes not an inconsistency, but a veiled and dangerous error — is, that power is only this relation ; and it was Dr. Brown's object to show that this was all the efficiency both in God and the universe. It would have been more direct to have come to this at once, as he does afterwards resolve the efficiency of God into the same relation of antecedence and consequence, which he contends to be all we can ascribe to matter. Power, in other words, is just this relation, and it makes no difference where it is beheld, (we cannot say possessed,) in Deity or in matter, it is the same thing ! Dr. Brown, then, is not inconsistent ! His object is to repudiate the idea that matter has no independent efficiency, and in order to this, he deprives both God and matter of all efficiency! — resolves that into a mere rela tion ! It will be granted that Dr. Brown makes the will of Deity but an ante cedent ; and we ask if that is efficiency ? Does it imply energy or power ? It is Jill the power we are warranted to believe in ! Then we are not warranted to believe in power at all ; and for Dr. Brown to claim for matter what he has even denied to God, as before he had denied it to matter, is either an unaccountable inconsistency, or palpable absurdity. There is either much error, or much danger, in the view which allows efficiency in matter, as well as in the Being who gave it that efficiency ; but tJtat that efficiency is only a relation, — a relation of invariable- ness, — a something, at least, which is not power! We are not to suppose that there
APPENDIX. 625
is not efficiency in matter, or in the Creator of matter, but efficiency is but a relation of antecedence !
We are the more surprised at this inconsistency, (if it is no more,) that it seems to have been gone into in recoil from what is alleged to be the foolish error of making the will of God all that is present in the operations of matter, and matter nothing more than a sign, or remembrancer, to indicate when and how God is to operate. It is against this that Dr. Brown strenuously contends. He says, — " The doctrine of universal spiritual efficiency, in the sequences of physical causes, seems to be only an awkward and complicated modification of the system of Berkeley ; for as, in this view of physical causes that are inefficient, the Deity, by His own immediate volition, or that of some delegated spirit, is the author of every effect which we ascribe to the presence of matter ; the only conceivable use of the inanimate masses, which cannot affect us more than if they were not in existence, must be as remembrancers, to Him who is Omniscience itself, at what particular moment He is to excite a feeling in the mind of some one of His sensitive crea tures, and of what particular species that feeling is to be ; — as if the Omniscient could stand in need of any memorial, to excite in our mind any feeling which it i.s His wish to excite, and which is to be traced to His own spiritual agency." — (Pp. 95, 96.) Again : — " What is that idle mass of matter, which cannot affect us, or be known to us, or to any other created being, more than if it were not ? If the Deity produces, in every case, by His own immediate operation, all those feelings which we term sensations or perceptions, he does not first create a multitude of inert and cumbrous worlds, invisible, and incapable of affecting anything wJiatever, that He may know when to operate, in the same manner as He would have operated, though they did not exist. This strange process may indeed have some resem blance to the ignorance and feebleness of human power, but it is not the awful simplicity of that Omnipotence,
Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect ;
Who calls forth things that are not,— and they come."
Now, it seems not to be taken into account in these passages, that all the powers and properties of matter, excepting what essentially belongs to it as such, must have been derived from God, and that it is not so absurd to suppose the will of God continually and universally operative, rather than any powers or efficiencies in matter itself, as these were both originally bestowed, and must be incessantly pre served by that will. We do not assert it to be so ; but we see nothing to hinder its being supposed, without the risk, or deserving the charge, of folly. The great point seems to have been overlooked, — What is the object for which matter was created ? What purpose does it serve in the universe of God ? Now, it will not be denied that, so far as respects all that was not essential to matter, all its second ary qualities, in other words, God could have effected His purposes without them, or by a different, even an opposite, arrangement, if He had willed, than He has actually chosen. We think this will be admitted. Did it not depend upon His will that matter possesses these qualities ? Can He not alter them at His plea sure ? remove them, and modify them, as He may think fit ? It was not for these that matter was created ; and if He has clothed nature in all the beauty, and con nected with it all the utilities and delights, which these qualities give it, or invest
2R
626 APPENDIX.
it with, we may be sure, as it was the will of God that bestowed them, if that will is not all their existence, their objects, at least, could have been served by that will alone ; and in every sensation of beauty or pleasure, and every effect of utility in the purposes of life, it might have been, after all, only the will of God that was at work. Such cannot be said of the primary qualities of matter, — what essentially belongs to it as such,' — what is involved in the very idea of it, and also, of all the modifications or results of these qualities. These necessarily belonging to matter, if the Creative Mind purposed to make use of them, to employ them for His own ends, matter must be created. And for this cause it was, we say, that matter was created, — that these worlds were called into existence, — that space was filled with a material frame-work, — that suns and stars were launched forth, — and that a structure so vast and complicated, of such mighty aggregates, yet descending to so minute and evanescent forms, was reared in space ! Matter was a thing which God could not do without, for the purposes of creation, and therefore He created it ;
" He called for things that were not, and they came !"
We say, then, it was not necessary, either for the vindication of Dr. Brown's own views of causation from the consequences to which we have shown they inevitably lead, — making the universe but a vast machinery, where all that is truly in opera tion is but the will of God, and the masses of matter, or its minuter forms, but re membrancers for Deity to operate ; or, in order to refute the doctrine of occasional causes, as held by the followers of Descartes ; it was not necessary, for these ends, to sacrifice all that had been previously laid down and contended for. These consequences of the doctrine of sequence, even involving the doctrine of occasional causes, without the reason for that doctrine, are not so absurd as may be thought, or as Dr. Brown pronounces them, if we leave to matter all the properties which necessarily belong to it as such. It is not so absurd to suppose, with reference to every other property, that the will of Deity is every thing, and that matter produces its effects, not from any possessed or inher ent powers or efficiencies, but by the will of God interposing, as occasion offers or requires, — at all times, and in every spot, pervading the vast mechanism, and working out the stupendous, the minutest, results. With this, it is still consistent to maintain, that matter was of some use, nay, was necessary, if it was to be cm- ployed by God at all in creation. It is obvious, as regards all the essential pro perties of matter, the purposes even of the Creator could not be accomplished without it. With respect to everything else, all may be arbitrary ; but as respects these properties, they may be pronounced independent of God himself. Matter, as matter, could not be brought into existence, but as a thing extended, divisible, possessing figure, solidity, &c., &c. ; and the purposes of a material creation could not be served without extension, figure, solidity, &c. They are essential to matter, not given to it ; matter is not matter without them ; and for these, if not for the secondary qualities, and all the varied properties which are not among the primary, it behoved that the material universe should exist. We think Dr. Brown, then, inconsistent with himself, as we regard him originally wrong in the doctrine of sequence which he holds ; and his inconsistency is the more remarkable, as the con- rlusions which it was so much his object to avert, might, with certain necessary restrictions as to the essential or primary qualities of matter, be fully admitted.
APPENDIX. 627
NOTE B.— (P. 97.)
Solidity, besides the sensation, and consequently the idea, of hardness, includes the idea of rest. Fluidity again, implies the idea of motion. Solidity is matter at rest : fluidity is matter in motion, or supposing motion.
NOTE C.— (P. 480.)
Dr. Chalmers has the following commentary on the words, " So God created man in his own image." — " Let me make this use of the information that God made man in His own image. Let it cure me of the scepticism which distrusts man's instinctive beliefs or perceptions. Let me recollect that in knowledge or understanding we are like unto God, and that in His light we see light. He would not practise a mockery upon us by«giving us constitutional beliefs at vari ance with the objective reality of things, and so as to distort all our views of Truth and of the Universe. We were formed in His image intellectually as well as morally ; nor would He give us the arbitrary structure that would lead us irresis tibly to believe a lie. When men deny the objective reality of space or time, I take refuge in the thought that my view of them must be the same in kind at least, though not so perfect in degree, as that of God, or of Him who sees all things as they are, and cannot possibly be the subject of any illusion."
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