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TEA 


ELEMENTS 


OF 


INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 


BY 


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PREFACE. 


The  following  pages  contain  the  substance  of  the  Lectjrea 
which,  for  several  years,  have  been  delivered  to  the  classes  in 
Intellectual  Philosophy,  in  Brown  University. 

Having  been  intended  for  oral  delivery,  they  were,  in  many 
respects,  modified  by  the  circumstances  of  their  origin.  Hence, 
illustrations  have  been  introduced  more  freely  than  would  other- 
wise have  seemed  necessary.  In  preparing  them  for  the  press, 
however.  I  was  led  to  consider  the  class  of  persons  for  whose 
use  they  were  principally  designed.  I  remembered  the  diffi- 
culty of  fixing  definitely  in  the  mind  of  the  pupil  the  nature 
and  limits  of  subjective  truth ;  and  therefore  allowed  my  instruc- 
tions to  retain  in  general  the  form  which  they  had  previously 
assumed.  Whether  I  have  in  this  respect  judged  wisely,  it  is 
not  for  me  to  determine. 

I  have  not  entered  upon  the  discussion  of  many  of  the  topics 
which  have  called  into  exercise  the  acumen  of  the  ablest  meta- 
physicians. Intended  to  serve  the  purposes  of  a  text-book,  it 
was  necessary  that  the  volume  should  be  compressed  within  a 
compass  adapted  to  the  time  usually  allotted  to  the  study  of 
this  science  in  the  colleges  of  our  country.  I  have,  therefore, 
attempted  to  present  and  illustrate  the  important  truths  in  intel- 
lectual philosophy,  rather  than  the  inferences  which  may  be 
drawn  from  them,  or  the  doctrines  which  they  may  presuppose. 
These  may  be  pursued  to  any  length,  at  the  option  of  the  teacher. 
If  I  have  not  entered  upon  these  discussions,  I  hope  that  I  have 
prepared  the  way  for  their  more  ample  and  truthful  develop- 
ment. 


IV  PREFACE. 

It  has  been  my  desire  to  render  this  work  an  aid  to  mentaJ 

improvement.  For  this  purpose,  I  have  added  practical  sug- 
gestions on  the  cultivation  of  the  several  faculties.  Earnest- 
minded  young  men  frequently  err  in  their  attempts  at  self-im- 
provement. It  has  seemed  to  me,  therefore,  that  a  work  of  this 
kind  would  be  manifestly  imperfect,  did  it  not,  directly  as  well 
as  indirectly,  aid  the  student  in  his  efforts  to  discipline .  and 
strengthen  his  intellectual  energies. 

In  order  to  encourage  more  extensive  reading  upon  the  sub- 
ject than  can  be  furnished  in  a  text-book,  I  have  added  refer- 
ences to  a  number  of  works  of  easy  access,  specifying  the  places 
in  which  the  topics  treated  of  were  discussed.  In  this  labor,  I 
have  availed  myself  of  the  assistance  of  my  former  pupils,  Mr. 
Samuel  Brooks,  now  instructor  in  Greek,  in  this  University, 
and  Mr.  Lucius  W.  Bancroft,  of  Worcester,  Mass.  To  these 
gentlemen  the  student  is  indebted  for  whatever  benefit  he  may 
derive  from  this  feature  of  the  work. 

For  the  many  imperfections  of  this  volume,  the  author  con- 
soles himself  with  the  reflection,  that  it  has  been  written  and 
prepared  for  the  press  under  the  pressure  of  other  important 
and  frequently  distracting  avocations.  In  the  humble  hope 
that  it  may,  nevertheless,  facilitate  the  study  of  this  interest, 
ing  department  of  human  knowledge,  it  is,  with  diffideiifle, 
submitted  to  the  judgment  of  the  public. 

Brown  University,  Sept  14;  1854. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 


It  was  my  design,  soon  after  this  volume  was  published, 
to  subject  it  to  a  thorough  revision,  and  make  such  cor- 
rections in  the  text  as  were  evidently  needed.  I  found 
myself,  however,  unable  at  the  time  to  accomplish  my 
intention,  in  consequence  of  several  other  unexpected  and 
imperative  obligations ;  and,  subsequently,  bj  reason  of  a 
long  period  of  imperfect  health.  I  have  devoted  to  this 
work  the  first  leisure  that  I  have  been  able  to  command ; 
and  have  corrected  the  text  with  all  the  attention  in  my 
power.     I  hope  that  I  have  improved  it. 

In  this  labor  I  have  been  greatly  assisted  by  the  aid  of 
another.  Some  time  since,  I  received  from  an  anonymous 
friend  a  copious  list  of  valuable  corrections,  of  which  I 
have  freely  availed  myself  I  take  this  method  of  express- 
ing my  sincere  gratitude,  to  my  unknown  benefactor ;  and 
I  beg  him  to  receive  my  thanks  for  his .  careful  reading  of 
the  text,  and  for  his  many  valuable  suggestions.  Most 
of  these  I  have  thankfully  adopted. 

F.  WAYLAND. 

Peotidbnce,  R.  I.,  May^  1865. 


CONTENTS. 


fNTRODUCTION  AND  DEFINITIONS, -.  .   .         9 

CHAPTEE    I. 

THE    PERCEPTIVE   EACULTIES. 

Section  I.  —  Of  our  Knowledge  of  Matter  and  IVIind, c    .  16 

Section  n.  —  The  Perceptive  Powers  in  general, 28 

Section  rH.  —  Of  our  Mode  of  Intercourse  with  the  External  Woild,  .  32 

Section  rV.—The  Sense  of  SmeU,    . 41 

Section  v.  — The  Sense  of  Taste, 46- 

Section  VI.  —  The  Sense  of  Hearing, 50 

Section  Vn.  —  The  Sense  of  Touch, 59 

Section  Vm.  — The  Sense  of  Sight, 63 

Section  IX.  —  Acquired  Perceptions, , 77 

Section  X.  —  The  Nature  of  the  Knowledge  which  we  acquire  by  the 

Perceptive  Powers, •   . 86 

Section  XI.  —  Conception, 103 

CHAPTER    II. 

CONSCIOUSNESS,    ATTENTION    AND   REFLECTION. 

Section  I. —  Consciousness, 110 

Section  n.— Attention  and  Reflection, .   .   .   .  119 

CHAPTER    III. 

ORIGINAL    SUGGESTION,    OR    THE   INTUITIONS    OF    THE   INTELLECT. 

Section  I.  —  The  Opinions  of  Locke,    ...,...' 18G 

Section  II.  —  The  Nature  of  Original  Suggestion, 136 

Section  HI.  —  Ideas  occasioned  by  Objects  in  a  State  of  Rest,     .    .   .  142 
Section  IV.  —  Suggested  Ideas  occasioned  by  Objects  in  the  Condi- 
tion ©f  Change, 150 

Section  V.  —  Suggested  laeas  accompanied  by  Emotion, 168 


VIII  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IV. 

ABSTBAGTIOM,    .    •    •    • 177 

CHAI^TER   V, 

MEMORY. 

SecjtionI.  —  Association,  of  Ideas, •• 202 

Bkction  n.  —  The  Nature  of  Memory, 223 

BrctionIIL — ^^  The  Importance  of  Memory,    . 246 

Section  IV.  —  The  Improvement  of  Memory,     • 254 

CHAPTER   Vr. 

REASONING. 

Section  I.  —  The  Nature  and  Object  of  Reasoning,  and  the  Manner 

in  which  it  proceeds, 279 

Section  IT.  —  The  different  Kinds  of  Certainty  at  "which  we  arrive 

by  Reasoning, 307 

Section  in.  —  Of  the  Evidence  of  Testimony,    .   .   .   . 317 

Section  IV.  —  Other  Forms  of  Reasoning, 338 

Section  V. ; —  The  Improvement  of  the  Reasoning  Powers, 34^. 

CHAPTER   VII. 

IMAGINATION. 

Section  I.  —  Nature  of  the  Imagination, 351 

Section  II.  —  Poi^ic  Imagination,    .   .   .' 367 

Section  III.  —  On  the  Improvement  of  Poetic  Imagination,     ....  370 
Section  IV.  —  Philosophical  Imagination,  ...  -  •    .  .  377 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

TASTE. 

Section  L  — The  Nature  of  Taste, 387 

Section  II.  —  Taste  considered  Objectively.     Material  Qualities  as 

Objects  of  Taste,  . 392  . 

Sfif^TiON  in.  — •  Immaterial  Qualities  as  Objects  of  Taste, 408 

Section  IV.  —  The  Emotion  of  Taste  ;  or  Taste  considered  Subjec- 
tively,           408 

APPENDIX. 

Note  to  pai     xtrl,  102, .421 

Note  to  page  115, I 425 


INTRODUCTION. 

DEFINITION  OF  THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS 

Intellectual  Philosophy  treats  of  the  faculties  of  the 
human  mind,  and  of  the  laws  by  which  they  are  governed. 

The  only  forms  of  existence  which,  in  our  present  state 
we  are  capable  of  knowing,  are  matter  and  mind.  It  is  the 
mind  alone  that  knows.  When,  therefore,  we  cognize 
matter,  the  otject  known,  and  the  subject  which  knows,  are 
numerically  distinct.  When,  on  the  other  hand,  we  cog- 
nize mind,  the  mind  which  knows  and  the  mind  which  ia 
known  are  numerically  the  same.  The  mind  knows,  and 
the  mind  is  the  object  of  knowledge. 

1.  The  mind  becomes  cognizant  of  the  existence  and  qual- 
ities of  matter,  that  is,  of  the  world  external  to  itself,  by 
means  of  the  Perceptive  faculties.  It  knows  not  what 
matter  is,  or  what  is  the  essence  of  matter,  but  only  its 
qualities ;  that  is,  its  power  of  affecting  us  in  this  or  that 
manner.  When  we  say,  '^  This  is  gold,"  we  do  not  pretend 
to  know  what  the  essence  of  gold  is,  but  merely  that  there 
is  something  possessed  of  certain  qualities,  or  powers  of  cre- 
ating in  us  certain  affections. 

2.  In  a  similar  manner  we  become  acquainted  with  the 
energies  of  our  own  mind.  We  are  not  cognizant  of  the 
mind  itself,  but  only  of  the  action  of  its  faculties  or  sensi- 
bilities.    When  we  th'«ik,  remember,  or  reason;  when  we 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

are  joyful  or  sad,  when  we  deliberate  or  resc  ve,  we  knoTf 
that  these  several  states  3f  the  mind  exist,  and  that  they  are 
predicated  of  the  being  whom  I  denominate  I,  or  myself. 
The  power  by  which  we  become  cognizant  to  ourselves  of 
these  mental  states  is  called  Consciousness,  When,  by  an 
act  of  volition,  a  particular  mental  state  is  made  the  object 
of  distinct  and  continuous  thought,  the  act  is  denominated 
Reflection. 

3.  An  idea  of  perception  or  of  consciousness  terminates  aa 
soon  as  another  idea  succeeds  it.  It  is  perfect  and  complete 
within  itself,  and  is  not  necessarily  connected  with  anything 
else.  I  see  a  ball  either  at  rest  or  in  motion ;  I  turn  my 
eyes  in  another  direction  and  perceive  a  tree  or  a  house ;  in 
a  moment  afterwards  they  are  both  violently  thrown  down. 
I  am  conscious  of  several  separate  perceptions,  which  follow 
each  other  in  succession.  Each  one  of  these  mental  acts  ia 
complete  within  itself,  and  might  have  been  connected  with 
no  other.  We  find,  however,  that  these  ideas  of  perception 
are  not  ^thus  disconnected.  They  do  not  terminate  in  them- 
selves, but' give  occasion  to  other  ideas  of  great  importance; 
ideas  which,  but  for  the  acts  of  perception,  could  never  have 
existed.  Thus,  we  saw  a  house  standing,  we  now  see  it 
fallen  :  there  at  once  arises  in  the  mind  the  idea  of  a  cause, 
or  of  something  which  has  occasioned  this  change.  Several 
ideas  following  in  succession,  occasion  the  idea  of  duration. 
The  existence  of  these  secondary  ideas  under  these  circum- 
stances is  owing  to  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind 
itself  It  suggests  to  us  these  ideas,  which,  when  once  con- 
ceived, are  original  and  independent.  This  power  of  the 
mind  is  termed  Original  Suggestion. 

4.  The  knowledge  acquired  both  by  our  perceptive  facul- 
ties and  by  consciousness,  as  well  as  much  that  is  given  us 
by  original  suggestion,  is  the  l^nowledge  of  things  or  acta 
as  individuals.     We  perceive  single  objects;  we  are   con 


DEFINITION    OF   THE   INTELLECTUAL   POWERS.  H 

Bcious  of  single  mental  states.  These  pass  away  and  become 
recollections.  The  recollections  are  like  their  originals, 
merely  recollections  of  individuals.  Had  we  no  othei 
power,  our  knowledge  would  consist  of  separate  isolated 
ideas,  without  either  cohesion  or  classification.  Our  knowl- 
edge would  be  all  either  of  single  individuals,  or  of  single 
acts  performed  by  particular  agents.  When,  however,  we 
reflect  upon  our  knowledge,  we  find  it  to.be  of  a  totally 
diflerent  character.  It  is  almost  all  of  classes.  With  the 
exception  of  proper  names,  all  the  nouns  of  a  language  des- 
ignate classes ;  that  is,  ideas  of  genera  and  species,  and  not 
ideas  of  individuals.  There  must,  therefore,  exist  a  power 
of  the  mind  by  which  we  transform  these  ideas  of  individuals 
into  ideas  of  generals.  We  give  to  this  complex  power  the 
name  of  Abstraction, 

5.  We  have  thus  far  considered  the  intellectual  faculties 
without  reference  to  the  element  of  time.  We,  however,  all 
know  that  the  ideas  obtained  in  the  past  remain  with  us  at 
this  present.  The  history  of  our  lives  from  infancy  is  con- 
tinually before  us,  or^  at  the  command  of  the  will,  it  may  be 
spread  out  before  our  consciousness.  We  know  that  the 
ideas  which  we  now  acquire  may  be  retained  forever.  Nay, 
more,  we  are  conscious  of  a  power  of  recalling  at  will  the 
knowledge  which  we  have  once  made  our  own.  The  faculty 
by  which  we  do  this  is  called  Memoi^y. 

6.  Possessed  of  these  powers,  we  might  obtain  all  the 
ideas  arising  from  perception,  consciousness  and  original 
suggestion  ;  we  might  modify  them  into  genera  and  species, 
we  might  treasure  them  up  in  our  memory  and  recall 
them  at  will.  But  we  could  proceed  no  further.  Our 
knowledge  would  consist  wholly  of  facts,  or  the  informa- 
tion which  we  have  derived  either  from  our  own  observa- 
tion or  the  observation  of  others.  But  this  manifestly  ia 
uot  our  condition.     We  are  able  to  make  use    if  the  knowl- 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

edge  acquired  by  the  powers  of  which  I  have  spoken,  w 
such  a  manner  as  to  -arrive  at  truth  before  unknown,  truth 
•  which  these  powers  could  never  have  revealed  to  us.  Ie 
this  manner  we  make  use  of  the  facts  in  geology  in  order  to 
determine  the  changes  which  have  taken  place  in  the  history 
of  our  globe.  Thus,  from  the  axioms  and  definitions  of 
geometry,  we  proceed  to  demonstrate  ^he  profoundest  truths 
of  that  science.  The  faculty  by  which  we  thus  proceed  m 
the  investigation  of  truth  is  termed  Reason, 

7.  Thus  far  we  have  treated  of  those  powers  which  give 
us  knowledge  of  things  and  relations  actually  existing,  oi 
which  modify  and  use  this  knowledge.  Were  we  limited  to 
these,  we  could  consider  no  conception  but  as  actually  true. 
We  could  conceive  of  nothing  except  that  which  we  had 
perceived,  or  which  some  one  had  perceived  for  us.  But  we 
find  ourselves  endowed  with  a  power  of  taking  the  elements 
of  our  knowledge  and  combining  them  together  at  will.  We 
thus  form  to  ourselves  pictures  of  things  that  never  existed, 
and  we  give  to  them  form  and  substance  by  the  various 
processes  of  the  fine  arts.  It  was  this  power  which  con- 
ceived the  group  of  Laocoon,  or  Milton's  Garden  of  Eden. 
We  give  to  this  power  the  name  of  hnagination. 

8.  The  exercise  of  all  our  faculties  is  generally  agreeable, 
and  sometimes  is  productive  of  exquisite  pleasure.  I  look  at 
a  rainbow,  I  pursue  a  demonstration,  I  behold  a  successful 
efibrt  in  the  fine  arts,  and  in  all  these  cases  I  am  conscious 
of  a  peculiar  emotion.  The  causes  producing  this  emotion 
are  unlike,  but  the  mental  feeling  produced  is  essentially 
the  same.  "  Every  one  recognizes  it  under  the  name  of  the 
beautiful ;  and  the  sensibility  by  which  we  become  capable 
of  this  emotion  is  called  Taste. 

The  faculties  which  will  be  treated  of  m  the  present  work 
toay ,  then,  be  briefly  defined  as  follows  : 

1.  The  Perceptive  faculties  are  those  by  which  we  riecome 


DEMNITION    OF   THE   INTELLECTUAL    POWERS.  IS 

acquainted  "with  the  existence  and  qualities  of  the  externa] 
world. 

2.  Consciousness  is  the  faculty  by  which  we  become 
cognizant  of  the  operations  of  our  own  minds. 

3.  Original  Suggestion  is  the  faculty  which  gives  rise 
to  original  ideas,  occasioned  by  the  perceptive  faculties  or 
consciousness. 

4.  Abstraction  is  the  faculty  by  which,  from  conceptions 
of  individuals,  we  form  conceptions  of  genera  and  species,  or, 
in  general,  of  classes. 

5.  Memory  is  the  faculty  by  which  we  retain  and  recall 
T>ur  knowledge  of  the  past. 

6.  Reason  is  that  faculty  by  which,  from  the  use  of  the 
knowledge  obtained  by  the  other  faculties,  we  are  enabled  to 
proceed  to  other  and  original  knowledge. 

7.  Imagination  is  that  faculty  by  which,  from  materials 
already  existing  in  the  mind,  we  form  complicated  concep- 
tions or  mental  images,  according  to  our  own  will. 

8*.  Taste  is  that  sensibility  by  which  we  recognize  the 
beauties  and  deformities  of  nature  or  art,  deriving  pleasure 
from  the  one,  and  suffering  pain  from  the  other. 

It  is  by  no  means  intended  to  assert  that  these  are  all  the 
powers  of  a  human  soul.  Besides  these,  it  is  endowed  with 
conscience,  or  that  faculty  by  which  we  are  capable  of 
moral  obligation  ;  with  will,  or  that  motive  force  by  which 
we  are  impelled  to  action ;  with  the  various  emotions,  in- 
stincts and  biases,  which,  as  observation  teaches  us,  are 
parts  of  a  human  soul.  These  are,  however,  the  most  im- 
portant of  those  that  are  purely  intellectual.  In  the  follow- 
ing pages  we  shall  consider  them  in  the  order  in  which  they 
have  been  named. 

2 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

REFERENCES 

to    PASSAGES  1-T   WHICH   ANALOGOCS   SUBJECTS   ARE    TREATED. 

Importance  of  Intellectual  Philosophy  —  Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  1,  sec.  1 

Difficulty  of  the  study  —  Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  1,  sec.  2. 

Cultivation  of  mind  distinguishes  us  from  brutes — Inquiry,  chap.  1. 
sec.  2. 

What  are  matter  and  mind  —  Reid's  Introduction  to  Essays  on  the  In- 
tellectual Powers. 

Matter  and  mind  relative  —  Stewart's  Introduction  to  vol.  i. ;  Reid's 
Essays  on  certain  powers,  Essay  1,  chap.  1. 

Origin  of  our  knowledge  —  Locke,  Book' 2d,  chap.  1,  sec.  2 — 5  and  24. 


CHAPTER  L 

:HE  PERCEPTIVE    FACULTIES 


6EC1I0N  I.  —  OF  OUR  KNOWLEDGE  OF  MATTER  AND  MIND. 
THERE  IS  NO  REASON  FOR  SUPPOSING  THE  ESSENCE  OB 
MATTER  AND  MIND  THE  SAME.  THE  RELATION  OF  MIND 
TO  MATTER  IN  OUR  PRESENT  STATE. 

Op  the  essence  of  mind,  as  I  have  remarked,  we  know 
nothing.  All  that  we  are  able  to  affirm  of  it  is,  that  it  ia 
something  which  perceives,  reflects,  remembers,  believeSj 
imagines,  and  wills ;  but  what  that  something  is^  which  ex 
erts  these  energies,  we  know  not.  It  is  only  as  we  are  con- 
scious of  the  action  of  these  energies  that  we  are  conscious 
of  the  existence  of  mind.  It  is  only  by  the  exertion  of  its 
own  powers  that  the  mind  becomes  cognizant  of  their  exis- 
tence. The*  cognizance  of  its  powers,  however,  gives  us  no 
knowledge  of  that  essence  of  which  they  are  predicated. 

In  these  respects,  our  knowledge  of  mind  is  precisely 
analogous  to  our  knowledge  of  matter.  When  we  attempt  to 
define  matter,  we  affirm  that  it  is  something  extended,  divis- 
ible, solid,  colored,  etc.  ;  that  is,  we  mention  those  of  ita 
qualities  which  are  cognizable  by  our  sense?5.  In  other 
words.  Wig  affirm  that  it  is  something  which  has  the  power 
of  aSecting  us  in  this  or  that  manner.  When,  however,  the 
question  is  asked,  what  is  this  something  of  which  these 
qualities  are  predicated,  we  are  silent.  The  knowledge  of 
the  qualities  gives  no  knowledge  of  the  essence  to  which 


16       •    INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

they  belong.  We  cognize  the  qualities  by  means  of  our 
perceptive  powers  ;  but  we  have  no  power  by  which  we  are 
able  to  cognize  essence,  or  absolute  substance. 

This  does  not  seem  to  be  the  fact  by  accident,  but  from 
necessity.  If  we  reflect  upon  the  nature  of  our  faculties, 
we  shall  readily  be  convinced  that,  by  our  perceptive -pow- 
ers, we  learn  that  a  particular  object  affects  us  in  a  particu- 
lar manner,  creates  in  us  a  certain  state  of  mind,  or,  m 
other  words,  gives  us  a  certain  form  of  knowledge.  I  look 
upon  snow,  and  there  is  created  in  my  mind  the  idea  of 
white.  I  look  upon  gold,  I  have  at  once  the  idea  of  yellow. 
Besides  this,  there  is  another  idea  created,  which  is,  that 
this  quality,  or  power  of  creating  in  me  this  notion,  belongs 
to  the  object  which  I  contemplate.  I  thus  not  only  gain 
the  idea  of  white  or  yellow,  but  the  additional  conviction 
that  snow  is  white  and  gold  is  yellow. 

The  same  remarks  apply  to  our  knowledge  of  mind.  I 
am  conscious  of  perception,  of  recollection,  of  pleasure,  or 
pain.  I  thus  acquire  a  notion  of  these  several  mental  acts, 
and  thus  a  certain  form  of  knowledge  is  given  to  me.  Be- 
sides this,  I  have  an  instinctive  belief  that  the  mental  en- 
ergy which  gives  rise  to  this  particular  form  of  knowledge 
is  predicated  of  the  thinking  being  whom  I  call  I,  or  myself. 
If  the  knowledge  which  we  derive  from  perception  and  con- 
sciousness be  analyzed,  I  think  it  will  be  found  to  go  thus 
far,  but  that,  from  the  constitution  of  our  nature,  it  can  go 
no  farther. 

But,  while  our  knowledge  of  mind  and  our  knowledge  of 
matter  agree  in  this  respect,  that  neither  of  them  gives  us 
any  information  concerning  essences,  these  two- forms  of 
knowledge  are  in  other  respects  quite  dissimilar. 

1.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  obvious  that  the  energies  of  the 
Dne  and  the  qualities  of  the  other  are  made  known  to  us  by 
iifferent  powers  of  the  mind.     The  qualities  of  matter  are 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  1^ 

revealed  to  us  by  our  perceptive  faculties,  in  Tvhich  our 
spiritual  and  material  natures  are  intimately  united.  The 
energies  of  mind  are  revealed  to  us  by  consciousness,  one  of 
the  elements  exclusively  of  our  spiritual  nature.  It  is 
almost  needless  to  remark,  here,  that  this  difference  in  the 
mode  in  which  these  forms  of  knowledge  are  revealed  to  us 
does  not  affect  the  evidence  of  the  truth  of  either.  Percep- 
tion and  consciousness  are  both  original  and  legitimate 
sources  of  belief.  We  cannot  philosophically  deny  the  ex- 
istence of  either.  The  world  without  us  and  the  world 
within  us,  the  me  and  the  not  me,  are  both  given  to  us  by 
the  principles  of  our  constitution  as  ultimate  facts,  which, 
whatever  may  be  his  theory,  every  man,  from  the  necessity 
of  his  constitution,  practically  admits. 

2.  We  always  express  the  attributes  of  matter  and  the 
energies  of  mind  by  terms  generically  dissimilar.  The 
qualities  of  matter  we  designate  by  adjectives,  or  terms 
aaeaning  something  added  to  a  substance,  and  wholly  inca- 
pable of  an  active  signification.  Thus,  we  say  of  a  ma- 
terial object,  it  is  hard,  soft,  white,  black,  warm  or  cold. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  designate  the  energies  of  mind  by 
active  verbs  or  participles,  terms  which  indicate  a  power 
residing  in  the  substance  itself.  We  say  of  mind,  it  thinks 
remembers,  wills,  imagines ;  or,  that  it  is  a  thinking,  will- 
ing, remembering,  imagining  substance.  This  difference 
in  our  mode  of  speech  is  aot  accidental,  but  of  necessity.  If 
any  one  will  make  the  experiment,  he  will  find  it  impossible 
to  express  his  conceptions  on  these  subjects  in  any  other 
manner.  We  are  unable  to  conceive  of  thinking,  reasoning, 
remembering,  as  qualities,  or  of  white,  black,  or  color,  as  ener- 
gies. We  are  so  made  that  we  are  obliged  to  think  of  these 
different  attributes  as  at  the  farthest  remove  from  each 
other. 

From  these  remarks  we  discover  the  limit  which  has  be'u: 
2* 


18  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPB 

fixed  by  our  Creator  to  our  investigations  on  these  suojects. 
We  perceive  in  the  objects  around  us  various  qualities,  and 
we  know  that  these  qualities  must  be  predicated  of  some- 
thing, —  for  nothing,  or  that  which  does  not  exist,  can  have 
no  qualities,  -  -but  what  that  something  ik  we  know  not.  So 
again,  we  are  conscious  of  the  energies  of  mind,  and  we 
know  that  these  energies  must  be  energies  of  something, 
while  of  the  essence  of  that  something  we  are  equally  igno- 
rant. Hence,  in  all  our  investigations  respecting  either 
matter  or  mind,  we  must  abandon  at  the  outset  all  inquiries 
respecting  essences  or  absolute  substance,  and  confine  our- 
selves to  the  observation  of  phenomena,  their  relations  tc 
each  other,  and  the  laws  to  which  they  are  subjected.  The 
progress  of  physical  science  within  the  last  two  centuries 
has  been  greatly  accelerated  by  the  practical  acknowledg- 
ment of  this  law  of  investigation.  Intellectual  science  can 
advance  in  no  other  direction. 

If,  then,  it  be  affirmed  that  the  soul  or  the  thinking  prin- 
ciple in  man  is  material,  or  that  its  essence  is  the  same  as  the 
essence  of  matter,  we  answer  : 

First,  that  the  assertion  is  unphilosophical,  inasmuch  as 
it  transgresses  the  limits  which  the  Creator  has  fixed  to 
human  inquiry.  We  have  been  endowed  with  no  powers  for 
cognizing  the  essence  of  anything,  and  therefore  we  pass 
beyond  our  legitimate  province  in  affirming  anything  on  the 
subject.  We  can  neither  prove  nor  disprove  it.  We  may 
show  that  no  evidence- can  be  adduced  in  favor  of  it:  that  all 
the  analogies  bearing  on  the  subject  would  lead  to  a  different 
conclusion  ;  and  thus  we  may  form  the  basis  of  an  opinion 
merely,  but  w.e  can  go  no  further.  The  nature  of  the  case 
excludes  all  positive  knowdedge. 

Secondly,  we  reply  that  the  assertion  is  nugatory.  It  is 
affirmed  that  the  essence  of  the  soul  is  the  same  as  the 
essence  of  matter.    But  what  is  the  essence  of  matter  ?    We  . 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  ^^ 

are  obliged  to  confess  that  we  do  not  know.  Wlnjnj  there- 
fore, we  assert  that  the  essence  of  the  soul  is  the  same  aa 
the  essence  of  matter,  we  merely  assert  that  it  is  the  same  aa 
something  of  which,  by  confession,  we  know  absolutely  noth-' 
ing.  Were  this  assertion  granted,  it  would  then  add  nothing 
whatever  to  the  sum  of  human  knowledge.  Would  it  not  be 
better  frankly  to  confess  our  ignorance  on  the  subject  ? 

Thirdly,  so  far  as  the  grounds  for  an  opinion  exist,  they 
favor  precisely  the  opposite  opinion. 

The  qualities  of  matter  and  the  energies  of  mind  are  as 
widely  as  possible  different  from  each  other.  In  all  lan- 
guages they  are  designated  by  different  classes  of  words 
We  recognize  them  by  different  powers  of  the  mind,  powers 
which  cannot  be  used  interchangeably.  Our  senses  cannot 
recognize  the  thoughts  of  the  mind,  nor  can  consciousness 
recognize  the  qualities  of  matte**.  To  assert,  then,  that  the 
essence  of  mind  and  of  matter  is  the  same,  is  to  assert,  with- 
out the  possibility  of  proof,  that  two  things  are  the  same^ 
which  not  only  have  no  attribute  in  common,  but  of  which 
the  attributes  are  as  unlike  as  we  are  able  to  conceive. 

It  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  enumerate  the  several  men- 
tal states  consequent  upon  the  enunciation  of  any  given 
proposition.  In  the  first  place,  the  assertion  is  made  with- 
out any  evidence  either  in  favor  of  or  against  it.  In  this 
case  (supposing  the  veracity  of  the  assertor  not  to  be  taken 
into  view)  my  mind  remains  precisely  as  it  was  before. 
The  assertion  goes  for  nothing.  I  have  no  opinion  either 
the  one  way  or  the  other.  I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve, 
nor  have  any  tendency  in  either  direction.  In  the  second 
case  the  assertion  is  made,  and  though  sufficient  proof  is  not 
^  presented  to  create  belief,  yet  considerations,  as,  for  instance, 
I  analogies,  are  shown  to  exist,  which  create  a  probability 
either  in  favor  of  or  against  the  thing  asserted.  Here, 
then,  is  ground  for  an  opinion,  and  the  state  of  mind  is 


20  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 


chansred.  We  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve,  but  we  hold 
an  opinion  either  in  favor  of,  or  contrary  to  the  assertion. 
In  the  third  case,  the  assertion  is  sustained  either  by  syllo- 
gistic reasoning,  or  by  testimony  conformed  to  the  laws 
of  evidence.  Here  a  different  state  of  mind  is  produced. 
I  believe  it.  I  rely  upon  it  as  I  would  upon  a  matter  which 
came  within  the  cognizance  of  my  own  perception  or  con- 
sciousness. To  illustrate  these  cases.  A  man  asserts  that 
the  moon  is  a  mass  of  silver.  His  assertion  leaves  my 
mind  where  it  was  before.  I  know  nothing  about  it. 
Another  man  asserts  that  the  planet  Jupiter  is  or  is  not 
inhabited.  He  cannot  prove  it,  but  he  presents  various 
analogical  facts  in  harmony  with  this  assertion.  I  form 
an  opinion  on  the  subject.  In  the  third  case,  a  man  asserts 
that  the  sun  is  so  many  millions  of  miles  from  the  earth, 
and  he  proves,  by  testimony,  that  the  observations  forming  1| 
the  data  were  made,  and  he  explains  the  mathematical  rea-  ' 
soning  by  which  this  result  is  obtained.  I  believe  it,  and 
in  my  mind  it  takes  its  place  with  other  established  facts. 
Any  one,  who  will  reflect  upon  the  evidence  presented  in 
favor  of  the  materiality  of  the  mind,  can  easily  determine 
which  of  these  mental  states  it  is  entitled  to  produce. 

But  it  has  been  sometimes  said  that  the  brain  itself  is  the 
mind,  and  that  thought  is  one  of  its  functions.  The  reason 
given  for  this  belief  is,  that  diseases  of  the  brain  and  nerves 
affect  the  condition  of  the  mind  ;  that  the  mind  declines  as 
they  become  di3bilitated  by  age,  and  that  the  mind  becomes 
deranged  when  the  brain  suffers  from  disease.' 

To  this  I  would  reply,  that,  so  far  as  I  have  observed, 
the  facts  are  hardly  stated  with  accuracy  when  this  course 
of  argument  is,  adopted,  and  a  large  class  of  facts  bearing 
in  an  opposite  direction  is  too  frequently  left  out  of  view. 

But,  granting  the  facts,  they  do  not  justify  the  conclu- 
ftion  that  is  drawn  from  them.     Suppose  the  brain  to  be 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  2\ 

Lne  instrument  which  the  mind  uses  in  its  intercourse  with 
the  external  world, —  as,  for  instance,  suppose  the  brain 
to  secrete  the  medium  by  which  the  mind  derives  impres- 
sions from  without,  and  sends  foith  volitions  from  within, — 
any  derangement  of  this  organ  would,  by  necessity,  create 
derangement  in  the  forms  of  mental  manifestation  connected 
with  that  derangement.  Disease  of  the  nerves  may  create 
false  impressions,  or  may  lead  to  acts  at  variance  with  the 
spiritual  volitions.  As  the  facts  may  be  thus  accounted  for 
on  the  supposition  that  the  brain  is  an  organ  used  by  the 
mind,  as  well  as  on  the  supposition  that  the  brain  is  itself 
the  organ  of  thought,  they  leave  the  question  precisely 
where  they  found  it. 

If,  then,  it  be  asked,  what  is  the  relation  which  the  mind 
holds  to  the  material  body?  our  answer  would  be  as  follows  : 
The  mind  seems  to  be  a  spiritual  essence,  endowed  with  a 
variety  of  capacities,  and  connected  with  the  body  by  the 
principle   of   life.     .These  capacities  are  first    called   into 
exercise  by  the  organs  of  sense.     So  far  as  I  can  discover, 
if  a  mind  existed  in  a  body  incapable  of  receiving  any  im- 
pression from  without,  it  would  never  think,  and  would,  of 
course,   be  unconscious   of  its   own   existence.     As   soon, 
however,  as  it  has  been  once  awakened  to  action  by  impres- 
I  sions  from  without,  all  its  various  faculties  in  succession  are 
I  called  into   exercise.     Consciousness,   original   suggestion, 
I  memory,   abstraction,   and   reason,   begin   at   once  to  act. 
I  These  various  powers  are  developed  and  cultivated  by  sub- 
|i  sequent  exercise,  until  this  congeries  of  capacities,  once  so 
blank  and  negative,  may  at  last  be  endowed  with  all  the 
energies  of  a  Newton  or  a  Milton. 

Locke  compares  the  mind   to  a  sheet  of  blank  paper ; 

:  Professor  Upham,  to  a  stringed  instrument,  which  is  silent 

until  the  hand. of  the  artist  sweeps  over  its  chords.     Both 

I  of  these  illustrations  convey  to  us  truth  in  respect  to  the 


22  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

relation  existing  between  the  mind  and  the  material  systeic 
which  it  inhabits.  The  mind  is  possessed  of  no  innate  ideas  ^ 
its  first  ideas  must  come  from  without.  In  this  respect  it 
resembles  a  sheet  of  blank  paper.  In  its  present  state  it 
can  originate  no  knowledge  until  called  into  action  by  im- 
pressions made  upon  the  senses.  In  this  respect  it  resembles 
a  stringed  instrument.  Here,  however,  the  resemblance 
ceases.  Were  the  paper  capable  not  only  of  receiving  the 
form  of  the  letters  written  upon  it,  but  also  of  combining 
them  at  will  into  a  drama  of  Shakspeare  or  the  epic  of 
Milton  ;  or,  were  the  instrument  capable  not  only  of  giving 
forth  a  scale  of  notes  when  it  was  struck,  but  also  of  com- 
bining them  by  its  own  power  into  the  Messiah  of  Handel, 
then  would  they  both  more  nearly  resemble  the  spiritual 
essence  which  we  call  mind.  It  is  in  the  power  of  com- 
bining, generalizing,  and  reasoning,  that  the  great  differ- 
ences of  intellectual  character  consist. .  All  men  open  their 
eyes  upon  the  same  world,  but  all  men  do  not  look  upon 
the  world  to  the  same  purpose. 

REFERENCES. 

Mind  first  called  into  action  by  the  perceptive  powers  —  Locke,  Book  2, 
chap.  1,  sec.  9  ;  chap.  9,  sections  2 — 4,  and  sec.  15. 

On  the  proper  mean^  of  knowing  the  operations  of  our  own  minds  — 
Reid,  Essay  1,  chap.  5. 

No  idea  of  substance  or  essence,  material  or  spiritual  • —  Locke,  Book  2 
chap.  23,  sections  4,  5,  16,  30. 

Energies  of  mind  expressed  by  active  verbs  —  Reid,  Essay  1,  chap.  1. 

Explanation  of  terms  —  Ibid. 

Affirmation  concerning  the  essence  of  mind  unphilosophical  —  Stewart, 
Introduction. 

As  much  reason  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  spirit  as  of  body  —  Locke, 
Book  2,  chap.  23,  secti:ns  5,  15,  22,  30,  31. 


THE   JfEKCEPTIVE   FACULTIES.  28 


BBCTIOX   II.  —  OF   THE    PERCEPTIVE    POWERS   IN   GENERAL, 

Before  entering  upon  the  consideration  of  the  individual 
senses,  it  may  be  of  use  to  offer  a  few  suggestions  respecting 
the  perceptive  powers  in  general,  i  propose  to  do  this  in 
the  present  section. 

1.  I  find  myself,  in  my  present  state,  in  intimate  con- 
nection with,  what  seems  to  me  to  be,  an  external  world.  I 
cannot  help  believing  that  I  am  in  my  study;  that,  looking 
out  of  the  window,  I  behold  in  one  direction  a  thronged 
city,  in  another  green  fields,  and  in  the  distance  beyond  a 
range  of  hills.  I  hear  the  sound  of  bells.  I  walk  abroad 
and  am  regaled  with  the  odor  of  flowers.  I  see  before  me 
fruit.  I  taste  it  and  am  refreshed.  I  am  warmed  by  the 
sun  and  cooled  by  the  breeze.  I  find  that  all  other  men  in 
a  normal  state  are  affected  in  the  same  manner.  I  conclude 
that  to  be  capable  of  being  thus  affected  is  an  attribute  of 
human  nature,  and  that  the  objects  which  thus  affect  me  are, 
like  myself,  positive  realities. 

I  cannot,  then,  escape  the  conviction  that  I  am  a  conscious 
existence,  numerically  distinct  from  every  other  created 
being,  and  that  I  am  surrounded  by  material  objects  pos- 
sessed of  the  qualities  which  I  recognize.  The  earth  and  the 
trees  seem  to  me  to  exist,  and  I  believe  that  they  do  exist. 
The  grass  seems  to  me  to  be  green,  and  I  believe  that  it  is 
green.  I  cannot  divest  myself  of  the  belief  that  the  world 
around  me  actually  is  what  I  perceive  it  to  be.  I  know  that 
it  is  something  absolutely  distinct  from  the  being  whom  I 
call  myself  I  am  conscious  that  there  is  a  me,  an  ego.  '  I 
perceive  that  there  is  a  not  me.  a  noii  ego.  I  observe  that 
lodl  men  hive  the  Bame  convictions,  and  that  in  all  their 


24  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY 

conversation   and  reasonings   they   take   these   things   foi 
granted. 

2.  I,  ?iowever,  observe  that  my  power  of  cognizing  the 
existence  and  qualities  of  the  objects  around  me  is  limited. 
There  are  but  five  classes  of  external  qualities  which  I  am 
able  to  discover ;  these  are  odorS;  tastes,  sounds,  tactual, 
and  visible  qualities.     For  the  special  purpose  of  cognizing 
each  of  these  qualities  I  find  myself  endowed  with  a  partic- 
ular organization,  which  is  called  a  sense.     These  are  the 
senses   of  smell,   taste,   hearing,   touch,  and  sight.     Each 
sense  is  limited  to  its  own  department  of  knowledge,  and 
has  no  connection  with  any  other.     We  cannot  see  with  our 
ears,  or  hear  with  our   fingers.     Each  sense  performs  its 
own  function,  irrespective  of  any  other.     That  matter  has  ' 
no  other  qualities  than  those  which  we  perceive,  it  is  not  ' 
necessary  to  assert ;  but    if  it  have  other  qualities,  inas-  j 
much  as  we    have  no  means  of  knowing  them,  we  must' 
be  forever,  in  our  present  state,  ignorant  of  their  existence. 

This  limitation,  however,  exists,  not  by  necessity,  but, by  1 
the  ordinance  of  the  greater.  He  might,  if  he  had  so  ^1 
pleased,  have  diminished  the  number  of  our  senses.  The 
deaf  and  the  blind  are  deprived  of  means  of  knowledge 
which  other  men  enjoy.  The  number  of  the  senses  in  many 
of  the  lower  animals  is  exceedingly  restricted.  We  might 
possibly  have  been  so  constituted  as  to  hold  intercourse  with 
the  world  around  us  without  the  intervention  of  the  senses. 
Wc  suppose  superior  beings  to  possess  more  perfect  means 
of  intelligence  than  ourselves  ;  but  no  one  imagines  them 
to  be  endowed  with  material  senses.  Our  Creator  might, 
probably,  have  increased  the  number  of  our  senses,  if  he  had 
seen  fit,  and  we  should  then  have  enjoyed  other  inlets  to  ' 
Knowledge  than  those  which  we  now  possess.  It  is  not  im- 
probable that  some  of  the  inferior  animals  possess  senses  of 
Ivhich  we  are   destitute.     Migratory  birds  and  fishes  are 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  2A 

endowed  with  a  faculty  by  which,  either  by  day  or  by  night, 
they  pursue  their  way,  with  inevitable  certainty,  through 
the  air  or  the  ocean.  May  not  this  power  be  given  them  by 
^neans  of  an  additional  sense  7 

3.  When  our  senses  are  brought  into  relation  to  their 
a])propriate  objects,  under  normal  conditions,  a  state  of 
mind  is  created  which  we  call  by  the  general  name  of 
thought,  or  knowledge.  If  a  harp  is  struck  within  a  few 
feet  of  me.  a  state  of  mind  is  produced  which  we  call  hear- 
ing. So,  if  I  open  my  eyes  upon  the  external  world,  a 
state  of  mind  is  produced  which  we  call  seeing.  This  men- 
tal state  is  of  two  kinds.  It  is  sometimes  nothi/ig  more  than 
a  simple  knowledge,  as  when  my  sense  of  smelling  ia 
excited  by  the  perfume  of  a  rose.  At  other  times  it  goes 
further  than  this,  and  we  not  only  have  a  knowledge  or  9 
new  consciousness,  but  also  the  belief  that  there  exists  some 
external  object  by  which  this  knowledge  is  produced. 

The  external  conditions  on  which  these  changes  depend 
are  as  numerous  as  the  senses  themselves.  Each  sense  has 
probably  its  own  media,  or  conditions,  through  which  alone 
its  impressions  are  received.  We  see  by  means  of  the 
medium  of  light.  We  hear  by  means  of  the  vibrations  of 
air.  None  of  these  media  can  be  used  interchangeably 
Each  medium  is  appropriated  to  its  peculiar  organ. 

4.  Physiologists  have  enabled  us  to  trace  with  consider- 
able accuracy  several  steps  of  the  process  by  which  the 
intercourse  between  the  spiritual  intellect  and  the  material 
world  is  maintained ;  by  which  impressions  on  our  material 
organization  result  in  knowledge,  and  the  volitions  of  the 
-•oul  manifest  themselves  in  action.  A  brief  reference  to 
our  organization  in  this  respect  is  here  indispensable. 

The  nervous  system  in  general  is  that  part  of  our  phys- 
ical organization  by  which  the  mind  holds  intercourse  with 
the  external  world,  and  through  which  it  obtains  the  ele- 
8 


26  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ments  of  knowledge.  The  nervous  system  is,  however,  of 
a  two-fold  character.  A  part  of  it  is  employed  in  giving 
energy  to  those  processes  by  which  life  is  sustained.  These 
have  their  appropriate  centres  either  in  the  spinal  marrow, 
or  in  the  different  ganglia.  Thus  the  heart,  arteries  and 
lungs,  have  their  appropriate  system  of  nerves,  with  the.r 
proper  centre.  The  digestive  apparatus  has  its  own  nervous 
system.  These  are  all  parts  of  the  general  arrangement  of 
brain,  spinal  marrow  and  nerves,  but  their  functions  are 
performed  without  volition  or  thought.  Hence  many  of  the 
lower  animals,  which  have  no  need  of  thought,  have  no  other 
nervous  apparatus.  The  brain  may  be  removed  from  some 
of  the  cold-blooded  animals  without,  for  a  considerable  pe- 
riod, producing  death.  In  such  cases  sensation  will  pro- 
duce motion,  the  arterial  and  digestive  processes  will  con- 
tinue for  a  while  uninterrupted.  Thus  a  common  tortoise  will 
live  for  several  days  after  its  head  has  been  cut  off.  Thus  we 
also  perform  these  various  functions  without  any  interven- 
tion of  the  will.  We  digest  our  food,  we  breathe,  our 
hearts  pulsate,  without  any  care  of  our  own;  and  these 
functions  are  performed  as  well  when  we  sleep  as  when  we 
wake,—  nay,  they  proceed  frequently  for  a  while  with  entire 
regularity. when  consciousness  has  been  suspended  by  in- 
jury of  the  brain. 

As  this  part  of  the  nervous  system  has  nothing  to  do  with 
thought  and  volition,  we  may  dismiss  it  from  our  considera- 
tion, and  proceed  to  consider  that  other  portion  of  it  which 
stands  in  so  intimate  connection  with  the  thinking  prin- 
ciple. 

The  organism  which  we  use  for  this-  purpose  consists  of 
the  brain  and  nerves.  The  part  of  the  brain  specially  con- 
cerned  in  thought  is  the  outer  portion,  called  the  cerebrum. 
From  the  brain  proceed  two  classes  of  nerves,  which  have 
Deen  appropriately  termed  afferent  and  efferent.     The  affe- 


1 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  27 

rent  nerves  connect  the  various  organs  of  sense  with  the 
brain,  and  thus  convey  to  it  impressions*  from  without. 
When  an  image  from  an  external  object  is  formed  on  the 
retina  of  the  eye,  a  change  is  produced  along  the  course  of 
the  optic  nerve,  which  terminates  in  the  brain,  and  the  re- 
sult is  a  change  in  the  state  of  the  mind  which  we  call  see- 
ing. When  the  vibrations  of  the  air  fall  upon  the  ear, 
another  change  is  produced  on  the  auditory  nerve  which  is 
continued  until  it  reaches  the  brain,  and  the  result  is  a 
change  in  the  state  of  the  mind  which  we  c^li  hearing.  The 
other,  or  the  efferent  class  of  nerves,  proceed  from  the  brain 
outwardly,  and  terminate  in  the  muscles.  By  these  the  vo- 
litions of  the  mind  are  conveyed  to  our  material  organs, 
and  the  will  of  the  mind  is  accomplished  in  action.  The 
process  just  now  mentioned  is  here  reversed.  The  volition 
of  the  mind  acts  upon  the  brain,  the  change  is  communi- 
cated through  thp  nerves  to  the  muscles,  and  terminates  in 
external  action.  Thus  the  brain  is  the  physical  centre  to 
which  all  impressions  producing  knowledge  tend,  and  from 
which  all  volitions  tending  to  action  proceed. 

The  proof  of  these  truths  is  very  simple.  If  the  connec- 
tion betwen  the  organ  of  sense  and  the  brain  be  interrupted 
by  cutting,  tying  or  injuring  the  nerve,  perception  imme- 
diately ceases.  If,  in  the  same  manner,  the  connection  be- 
tween the  brain  and  the  voluntary  muscles  be  interrupted, 
the  limbs  do  not  obey  the  will.  Sometimes,  by  disease,  the 
nerves  of  feeling  alone  are  paralyzed,  and  then,  while  the 
power  of  voluntary  motion  remains,  the  patient  loses  en- 
tirely the  sense  of  touch,  and  will  burn  or  scald  himself 
without  consciousness  of  injury.     At  other  times,  while  the 

*  I  of  course  use  the  word  impression  here,  in  a  general  sense,  to  convey 
the  idea  of  a  change  produced,  and  not  of  literal  impression  oi  change  of 
material  fbri£ 


INTELLECTLAL  PHILOSOPHY. 


nerves  of  sensation  are  unaffected,  the  nerves  of  volition  are 
paralyzed.  In  this  case,  feeling  and  the  other  senses  are  un- 
impaired, but  the  patient  loses  the  power  of  locomotion. 
Sometimes  an  effect  of  this  kind  is  produced  by  the  mere 
pressure  upon  a  nerve.  Sometimes,  after  sitting  for  a  long 
time  in  one  position,  on  attempting  to  rise  we  have  found 
one  of  our  feet  ''  asleep."  We  had  lost  the  power  of  mov- 
ing it,  and  all  sensation  for  the  time  had  ceased.  It  seemed  2 
more  like  a  foreign  body  than  a  part  of  ourselves.  Long- 
continued  pressure  on  the  nerve  had  interrupted  the  com- 
munication between  the  brain  and  the  extremities  of  the 
nerves.  As  soon  as  this  communication  was  reestablished, 
the  limb  resumed  its  ordinary  functions.^ 

These  remarks  respecting  the  nerves  apply  with  somewhat 
increased  emphasis  to  the  brain.  If  by  injury  to  the  skull 
the  brain  becomes  compressed,  all  intelligent  connection  be- 
tween us  and  the  external  world  ceases.  So  long  as  the 
cause  remains  unremoved,  the  patient  in  such  a  case  con- 
tinues in  a  state  of  entire  unconsciousness.  The  powers  of 
volition  and  sensation  are  suspended.  If  the  brain  becomes 
inflamed,  all  mental  action  becomes  intensely  painful,  the 


*  Sometimes  this  communication  is  so  entirely  suspended  that  a  limb  inl 
this  state,  when  touched  by  the  other  parts  of  the  body,  appears  like  a 
foreign  substance.  An  instance  of  this  kind,  which  many  years  since  oc- 
curred to  the  author  himself,  may  serve  to  iUustrate  this  subject  He 
awoke  one  night  after  a  sound  sleep,  and  was  not  agreeably  surprised  to 
find  a  cold  hand  lying  heavily  on  his  breast.  He  was  the  sole  occupant 
of  the  room,  and  he  knew  not  how  any  one  could  have  entered  it  It  was 
80  dark  that  he  could  perceive  nothmg.  He,  however,  kept  hold  of  the 
hand,  and,  as  it  did  not  move,  was  somewhat  relieved  by  tracing  it  up 
to  his  own  shoulder.  He  had  lain  in  an  awkward  position,  so  that  he 
had  pressed  upon  the  nerve  until  all  sensation  had  ceased.  Probably 
many  stories  of  apparitions  and  nightly  visitations  may  be  accounted  for 
by  supposing  a  similar  cause. 


f- 


I 


THE    PI.HCEPTIVE   FACULTIES.  29 

perceptions  are  false  or  exaggerated,  and  the  volitions  as- 
sume the  violence  of  frenzy.* 

It  may  illustrate  the  relation  which  the  nervous  system 
sustains  to  the  other  parts  of  our  material  structure,  to 
suppose  the  brain,  nerves  and  organs  of  sense  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  body,  and  to  exist  by  themselves,  with- 
out loss  of  life.  In  such  a  case,  all  our  intellectual  con- 
nections with  the  external  world  could  be  maintained.  We 
could  see,  and  hear,  and  feel,  and  taste,  and  smell,  and  re- 
member, and  imagine,  and  reason.  All  that  we  should  lose 
would  be  the  power  of  voluntary  motion,  and  the  con- 
veniences which  result  from  it.  If,  then,  we  should  put 
this  nervous  system  into  connection  with  the  bones,  muscles, 
and  those  viscera  which  are  necessary  for  their  sustentation, 
we  should  have  our  present  organization  just  as  we  actually 
find  it.  We  see,  then,  that  the  other  parts  of  our  system 
are  not  necessary  to  our  power  of  knowing,  but  mainly  to 
our  power  of  acting. 

5.  Of  sensation  and  perception. 

I  have  said  that  when  our  senses,  under  normal  condi- 
kions,  are  brought  into  relation  to  the  objects  around  us, 
the  result  is  a  state  or  act  of  the  mind  which  we  call  know- 
'ing.  A  new  idea  or  a  new  knowledge  is  given  to  the  mind. 
This  knowledge  is  of  two  kinds.     In  one  case  it  is  a  simple 

*  Sometimes,  however,  astonishing  lesions  of  the  brain  occur  without 
ither  causing  destruction  of  life  or  eyen  any  permanent  injury.  A  case 
fas  a  few  years  since  publishei  in  the  daily  papers,  under  the  authority 
)f  several  eminent  physicians,  more  remarkable  than  any  with  which  I 
lad  been  previously  acquainted.  A  man  was  engaged  in  blasting  rocks 
md  as  he  stood  over  his  work,  and  was,  I  think,  drawing  the  priming- 
fire,  the  charge  exploded,  and  drove  through  his  head  an  iron  rod  of  some 
:wo  or  three  feet  in  length.  The  rod  came  out  through  the  top  of  his 
lead,  and  was  found  covered  with  blood  and  brain.  He  nevertheless 
talked  home  without  assistance,  and  under  ordinary  medical  care  recov- 
ired  in  a  few  weeks. 

3* 


80  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


I 


knowledge,  connected  with  no  external  thing.  Thus,  sup^ 
pose  that  I  had  never  yet  received  any  impression  from  the 
external  world.  In  "profound  darkness  a  rose  is  brought 
near  to  me.  I  am  at  once  conscious  of  a  new  state  of  mind. 
I  have  a  knowledge^  something  which  I  can  reflect  upon, 
which  we  call  smell.  This  knowledge,  however,  exists  solely 
in  my  mind.  I  refer  it  to  nothing,  for  I  know  nothing  to 
which  I  can  refer  it.  This  simplest  form  of  knowledge  ia 
called  sensation. 

But  there  is  another  form  of  knowledge  given  us  through 
the  medium  of  our  senses.  In  some  cases  we  not  only  ob- 
tain a  new  idea,  or  a  knowledge  of  a  quality,  but  we  know, 
also,  that  this  quality  is  predicated  of  some  object  existing 
without  us.  We  know  that  there  is  a  not  me ^  and  that  thia 
is  one  of  its  attributes.  Suppose,  as  in  the  other  case,  I 
am  endowed  with  the  sense  of  sight,  and  in  daylight  the 
rose  is  placed  before  me.  I  know  that  there  is  an  ex- 
ternal object  numerically  distinct  from  myself,  and  that  it 
is  endowed  with  a  particular  form  and  color.  This  act  ia 
called  perception. 

These  two  forms  of  knowledge  are  united  in  the  sense  of 
touch,  and  may  be  clearly  distinguished  by  a  little  reflec- 
tion. The  illustration  of  Dr.  Eeid  is  as  follows :  ^^  If  a  man 
runs  his  head  with  violence  against  a  pillar,  the  attention  of 
the  mind  is  turned  entirely  to  the  painful  feeling,  and,  to 
speak  in  common  language,  he  feels  nothing  in  the  stone, 
but  he  feels  a  violent  pain  in  his  head."  "  When  he  leans 
his  head  gently  against  the  pillar,  he  will  tell  you  he 
feels  nothing  in  his  head,  but  feels  hardness  in  the 
stone."— Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  5,  sec.  2.  So  I  prick 
a  person  with  the  point  of  a  needle ;  a  new  knowledge  is 
created  in  his  mind,  which  he  denominates  pain.  I  draw 
the  needle  lightly  over  his  finger,  and  I  ask  him  what  it  is ; 
he  replies,  the  point  of  a  needle.     So,  if  I  place  my  f  ngera 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  31 

lightly  on  a  table  with  my  attention  strongly  directei  to  the 
feeling,  I  am  conscious  of  a  sensation.  If  I  move  my  hand 
slowly  over  the  table  in  order  to  ascertain  its  qualities,  I  am 
conscious  of  a  perception ;  that  is,  of  a  knowledge  that  the 
table  is  smooth,  hard,  cold,  etc.  The  smell  of  a  rose,  the 
feeling  of  cold,  the  pain  of  the  toothache,  are  sensations. 
The  knowledge  of  hardness,  of  form,  of  a  tree,  or  a  house, 
arc  perceptions. 

It  has  been  commonly  suppo  ed  that  every  perceptioii 
was  preceded  by  and  consequent  upon  a  sensation.  Hence 
the  question  has  frequently  ari^^n,  since  the  perception  is 
predicated  upon  the  sensation,  and  the  sensation  conveys  to 
us  no  knowledge  of  an  external  world,  whence  is  our  knowl- 
edge of  an  external  world  derived  ?  From  these  data  it  has 
seemed  difficult  to  answer  the  question  satisfactorily.  Dr. 
Brown  has  attempted  to  solve  the  difficulty  by  supposing 
the  existence  of  a  sixth  sense,  which  he  calls  the  sense  of 
muscular  resistance.  He  suggests  that  the  pressure  of  the 
hand  against  a  solid  body  produces  a  peculiar  sensation  in 
the  muscles  by  which  we  become  cognizant  of  the  existence 
of  an  external  world.  To  me  this  explanation  is  unsatisfac- 
tory. The  question  is,  how  does  sensation,  which  is  a  mere 
feeling,  and  gives  us  no  knowledge  of  the  external,  or  the 
not  me,  become  the  cause  of  perception,  which  is  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  external '?  Dr.  Brown  attempts  to  remove  the 
difficulty  by  suggesting  another  sensation,  which,  being  a 
mere  sensation  also,  has  no  more  necessary  connection  with 
the  knowledge  of  the  external  than  any  other. 

It  is  my  belief  that  the  idea  of  externality,  that  is,  of 
objects  numerically  distinct  from  ourselves,  is  given  to  us 
spontaneously  by  the  senses  of  touch  and  sight.  When  we 
feel  a  hard  substance,  the  notion  that  it  is  something  exter- 
nal to  us  is  a  part  of  the  knowledge  which  at  once  arises  in 
the  mind      When  I  look  upon  a  tree.  I  cannot  divest  my- 


82  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

self  of  the  instantaneous  belief  that  the  tree  and  myself  are 
distinct  existences,  and  that  :t  is  such  as  I  perceive  it  to  be. 
Unless  this  knowledge  were  thus  given  to  us  by  the  consti- 
tution of  our  minds,  I  know  not  how  we  should  ever  arrive 
at  it.  That  this  view  of  the  subject  is  correct,  is,  I  think, 
evident  from  what  we  observe  of  the  conduct  of  the  young 
of  all  animals.  The  lamb,  or  the  calf,  of  a  few  hours  old, 
seems  by  sight  to  have  formed  as  distinct  conceptions  of  ex- 
ternahty,  of  qualities,  of  position,  and  of  distance,  as  it  ever 
obtains.  We  cannot  suppose  that  its  knowledge  arises  from 
any  sense  of  muscular  resistance,  but  must  believe  that  it 
is  given  to  it  originally  with  the  sense  of  sight.  So  an  in- 
fant turns  to  the  light,  grasps  after  a  candle,  just  as  it  doea 
after  any  visible  object  in  later  life.  I  therefore  believe  that 
this  complex  knowledge  is  given  to  us  by  the  senses  of  sight 
and  touch,  just  as  the  simpler  knowledge  is  given  to  us  by 
the  senses  of  smell  and  taste. 

REFE  RENCES. 

Perception  in  general  —  Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  6,  sec.  20. 
Process  of  nature  in  perception  —  Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  6,  sec.  21. 
Mode  of  perception  — Essays  on  Intellectual  Powers,  Essay  2,  chap.  1. 
Perception  limited  by  the  senses  —  Essay  2,  chap.  2. 
The  evidence  of  perception  to  be  relied  on  —  Essay  2,  chap.  5. 
Sensation  and  perception  —  Abercrombie's  Intellectual  Powers,  Part  2, 
sec.  1. 


1 


SECTION   III.  —  OF  THE  MODE  OF  OUR  INTERCOURSE  WITH 
THE   EXTERiTAL   WORLD. 

In  the  preceding  sections  we  have  treated  of  both  the 
physical  and  spiritual  facts  concerned  in  the  act  of  percep- 
tion. We  have  seen  that  in  order  to  the  existence  of  per- 
ception, some  change  must  be  produced  in  the  organ  of 


I 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  8b 

sense ;  this  must  give  rise  to  a  change  transmitted  by  the 
nerves  to  the  brain,  and  the  brain  must  be  in  a  normal  state 
in  order  to  be  affected  by  the  change  communicated  by  the 
nerves.  If  either  of  these  conditions  be  violated,  neither 
sensation  nor  perception  can  exist.  When,  however,  these 
organs  are  all  in  a  normal  state,  and  its  appropriate  object 
is  presented  to  an  organ  of  sense,  the  result  is  a  knowledge 
or  an  affection  of  the  spiritual  soul.  The  first  part  of  the 
process  is  material — it  consists  of  changes  in  matter;  the  last 
part  is  thought,  an  affection  of  the  immaterial  spirit.  The 
question  is,  how  can  any  change  in  matter  produce  thought, 
or  knowledge,  an  affection  of  the  spirit  ?  Or,  still  more, 
how  can  this  modification  of  the  matter  of  the  brain  produce 
in  us  a  knowledge  of  the  external  world,  its  qualities  and 
relations  ?  The  lighting  of  effluvia  on  my  olfactory  nerve 
is  in  no  respect  like  the  state  of  my  mind  which  I  call  the 
sensation  of  smell.  The  vibrations  of  the  tympanum,  or 
the  undulations  of  the  auditory  nerve,  are  in  no  respect 
similar  to  the  state  of  my  mind  when  I  hear  an  oratorio  of 
Handel.  The  two  events  are  as  unlike  to  each  other  as 
any  that  can  be  conceived.  In  what  manner,  then,  does  the 
one  event  become  the  cause  of  the  other  ? 

A  variety  of  answers  has  been  given  to  these  questions. 
The  manner  in  which  the  subject  has  been  formerly  treated 
is  substantially  as  follows  :  It  was  taken  for  granted  that 
the  mind  was  a  spiritual  essence,  whose  seat  was  the  brain ; 
that  the  mind  could  only  act  or  be  acted  upon  in  the  place 
where  it  actually  resided,  and  that,  as  external  objects  were 
at  a  distance  from  the  mind,  it  was  necessary  for  images  of 
external  objects  to  be  present  to  it,  in  order  that  it  might 
obtain  a  knowledge  of  their  existence. 

Hence  arose  the  doctrine  of  what  has  been  called  repre- 
sentative images.  By  some  of  the  ancient  philosophers  it 
was  supposed  that  forms  or  species  rf  external  objects 


84  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

enter?!  the  organs  of  sense,  and  through  them  becam€ 
present  to  the  mind,  ii;  was  the  opinion  of  Locke,  so  far 
as  I  can  understand  him,  that,  in  every  act  of  perception, 
there  is  an  intermediate  image  of  the  external  object  pres- 
ent to  the  mind,  which  the  mind  cognizes  immediately,  in- 
stead of  the  object  itself.  I  am  aware  that  th«  language  of 
Locke  is,  on  this  subject,  exceedingly  unceitain  and  ambig- 
uous. Sometimes  he  seems  to  use  the  word  idea  to  express 
merely  an  act  of  the  mind,  and,  at  other .  times,  something 
present  to  the  mind,  but  numerically  distinct  from  it,  which 
is  the  immediate  object  of  knowledge.  That,  however,  he 
really  believed  that  in  perception  there  must  exist  something, 
a  positive  entity,  different  both  from  the  mind  and  its  per- 
ceptive act,  is  evident  from  such  passages  as  the  following  : 
'^  There  are  some  ideas  which  have  admittance  only 
through  one  sense  which  is  peculiarly  adapted  to  receive 
them." — ^'  And  if  these  organs,  or  the  nerves  which  are  the 
conduits  to  convey  them  from  without  to  their  audience  in 
the  brain,  the  mind's  presence-room  (as  I  may  so  call  it), 
are  any  of  them  so  disordered  as  not  to  perform  their  func- 
tions, they  have  no  postern  to  be  admitted  by,  no  other  way 
to  bring  themselves  into  view  and  be  perceived  by  the  un- 
derstanding."—  Book  II.,  chap.  3,  sec.  1. 

Again:  '^  If  these  external  objects  be  not  united  to  our 
minds  when  they  produce  ideas  therein,  and  yet  we  perceive 
their  original  qualities  in  such  of  them  as  singly  fall  under 
our  senses,  it  is  evident  that  some  motion  must  be  thence 
continued  by  our  nerves  or  animal  spirits,  by  some  parts  of 
our  bodies,  to  the  brain  or  seat  of  sensation,  there  to  produce 
the  particular  ideas  we  have  of  them.  And  since  the  ex- 
tension, figure,  number  and  motion,  of  bodies  of  an  observa- 
ble bigness,  may  be  perceived  at  a  distance  by  sight,  it  is 
evident  some  singly  impe7cejjtible  bodies  m>ust  come  from 
them   to  the  eyes,  and  thereby  convoy  to  the  brain  somi 


-  THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACLLTIES.  35 

motion  which  produces  these  ideas  which  we  have  of  them.^' 
—  Book  II.,  chap.  8,  sec.  12. 

Again :  ••  I  pretend  not  to  teach,  but  to  inquire,  and  there- 
fore cannot  but  confess  here,  again,  that  external  and  internal 
sensation  are  the  only  passages  that  I  can  find  of  knowledge  to 
the  understanding.  These  alone,  as  far  as  I  can  discover, 
are  the  windows  by  which  light  is  let  into  this  dark  room ; 
for,  methinks,  the  understanding  is  not  much  unlike  a  closet 
wholly  shut  from  the  light,  with  some  little  opening  left  to 
let  in  external  visible  resemblances  or  ideas  of  things 
without.  Would  the  pictures  coming  into  such  a  dark 
room  but  stay  there  and  lie  orderly,  so  as  to  be  found  upon 
occasion,  it  would  very  much  resemble  the  understanding  of 
a  man  in  reference  to  all  objects  of  sight  and  the  ideas  of 
them." — Book  ii.,  chap.  2,  sec.  17. 

From  these  quotations,  —  and  many  of  the  same  kind  might 
be  added,  —  two  things  are  evident :  first,  that  Locke  used 
the  word  idea  to  designate  both  the  act  of  the  mind  in  per- 
ception, a  mere  spiritual  aflection;  and  also  something  pro- 
ceeding from  the  external  object  which  was  the  cause  of  this 
state.  Secondly,  that  he  did  really  recognize  this  interme- 
diate something  as  a  positive  entity  which  the  soul  cognizes 
instead  of  the  outward  object.  He  speaks  of  the  nerves  as 
the  conduits  to  convey  these  ideas  to  their  presence- 
chainber^  the  brain  ;  of  im,perceptible  bodies  which  must 
come  from  them  (external  objects)  to  the  eyes,  and  be 
conveyed  to  the  brain.  These  expressions  are  too  definite 
to  be  used  figuratively,  and  we  must,  therefore,  accept  this 
explanation  of  the  phenomena  as  a  statement  of  the  belief 
of  our  illustrious  author.  This  belief,  however,  was  by  no 
means  peculiar  to  him.  It  was  a  common  belief  at  the  time, 
and  he  always  refers  to  it  as  a  matter  well  understood,  and 
received  without  question,  by  his  cotemporaries.  The  stu- 
dent who  wishes  to  pursue  this  subject  farther,  will   read 


S6  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

with  pleasure  the  passages  referred  to  at  the  close  of  the 
chapter. 

The  belief,  then,  prevalent  at  the  time  of  Locke,  may  be 
stated  briefly  thus  :  The  soul  is  located  in  the  brain.  It 
can  cognize  nothing  except  where  it  exists  in  space.  Exter- 
nal objects,  being  separated  from  it,  can  never  be  the  imme- 
diate objects  of  its  perception.  There  must,  therefore,  pro- 
ceed from  the  external  object  to  the  mind  some  images  or 
forms,  which,  entering  by  the  senses,  become  present  to  the 
mind,  and  are  there  the  objects  of  perception.  Hence  the 
mind  never  cognizes  external  objects ;  this  is,  from  the  na- 
ture of  the  case,  impossible.  It  only  cognizes  these  images 
m  the  brain,  and,  from  their  resemblance  to  external  objects, 
it  learns  the  existence  and  qualities  of  the  external  world. 

Dr.  Reid  for  a  while  believed  this  doctrine,  but,  startled 
at  the  conclusions  to  which  it  led,  was  induced  to  examine 
the  foundations  on  which  it  rested.  Upon  reflection,  he 
soon  arrived  at  the  following  conclusions  : 

1st.  The  existence  of  these  images  is  inconceivable.  We 
can  conceive  of  the  image  of  a  form,  but  how  can  we  con- 
ceive  of  the  image  of  a  color  as  existing  in  absolute  dark- 
ness ;  and  still  more  of  the  image  of  a  smell,  a  sound,  or  a 
taste  ?  Or  how  can  we  conceive  of  distinct  images  of  Lll  of 
these  various  qualities  forming  the  conception  of  a  sinde 
object  ?  ^ 

2d.  Were  this  theory  conceivable,  it  is  wholly  destitute 
of  proof^  It  IS  merely  the  conception  of  a  philosopher's 
bram.  Who  ever  saw  such  images?  Who,  bv  his  own 
consciousness,  was  ever  aware  of  their  existence?  What 
shadow  of  proof  of  their  existence  was  ever  given  to  the 
world  ^  Are  we,  then,  called  upon  to  believe  an  inconceiva- 
ble  hypothesis  on  no  other  evidence  than  merely  the  asser- 
tion 01  philosophers  ?  J         -    ^^ 

3d.  Were  the  existence  of  intermediate  images  proved,  it 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  37 

would  relieve  the  subject  of  no  essential  difficulty.  It  might 
reasonably  be  demanded,  is  it  easier  to  cognize  a  small 
object  than  a  large  one  ?  If  the  image  be  matter,  then  the 
question  still  remains  unanswered,  how  does  a  change  of 
matter  create  thought,  an  affection  of  the  soul  ?  Is  the  im- 
age spirit  ?  Then  it  cannot  resemble  the  external  object,  and 
can  give  us  no  notion  of  its  qualities.  And,  more  than  all, 
if  ¥re  never  cognize  the  object,  but  only  the  image,  how  can 
we  have  any  knowledge  whatever  either  of  the  external 
object  or  of  its  qualities  ? 

The  suggestion  of  these  considerations  abolished  at  once 
the  doctrine  of  a  representative  image.  Since  the  time  of  Dr. 
Reid,  it  has,  I  think,  been  conceded,  by  the  most  judicious 
writers  on  this  subject,  that  we  know  nothing  concerning  the 
mode  of  perception  beyond  a  statement  of  the  facts.  There  ^ 
is  a  series  of  physical  facts  which  can  be  proved  by  experi- 
ment to  exist.  When  these  terminate  there  arise  knowl- 
edges of  two  kinds :  the  one  a  simple  knowledge,  as  when  I 
am  conscious  of  a  smell  or  a  sound ;  the  other  a  compound 
knowledge,  embracing  a  simple  idea,  as  of  color  or  form, 
and  also  an  idea  of  an  external  object  of  which  these  quali- 
ties are  predicated.  Both  of  these  are  pure  and  ultimate 
cognitions.  We  are  as  perfectly  convinced  of  the  truth  of 
the  one  as  of  the  other.  I  as  fully  believe  that  I  see  a 
rose,  that  its  leaves  are  green  and  its  petals  red,  as  that  I 
smell  an  odor  which  I  have  learned  to  call  the  smell  of  a 
rose.  I  cognize  no  image,  I  cognize  the  rose  itself;  and  I 
am  as  sure  of  its  existence  as  I  am  of  my  own.  Such  seems 
to  be  the  law  of  perception  under  which  I  have  been  created. 
I  can  neither  change  these  perceptions,  nor  help  relying  with 
perfect  confidence  on  the  truths  which  they  reveal  to  me. 
If  I  am  asked  to  explain  it  any  farther,  I  confess  myself 
unable  to  do  so.  If  investigation  shall  enable  us  to  establish 
any  additional  facts  in  the  series  by  which  the  material 
4 


38  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPKY. 

change  terminates  in  thought,  we  will  accept  its  discoverh 
with  thankfulness.    Until  this  is  done,  it  is  far  better,  wheti 
we  have  reached  the  utmost  limit  of  our  knowledge,  humbly 
to  confess  our  ignorance  of  all  that  is  beyond. 

The  doctrine  of  a  representative  image  would  not,  at  the 
present  day,  deserve  even  a  passing  notice,  were  it  not  for 
the  consequences  which  were  deduced  from  it.  Some  of 
these  are  worthy  of  remark. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  difficult  to  conceive  how  the  soul 
cx)uld  be  affected  and  thought  produced  by  any  change  in 
matter.  It  was  supposed  that  this  difficulty  could  be  re- 
lieved by  the  hypothesis  of  representative  images.  But 
then  it  was  demanded,  are  these  images  matter  or  spirit  ? 
If  they  are  matter,  and  matter  cannot  act  but  upon  matter, 
since  they  act  on  the  mind,  the  mind  must  be  matter.  Hence 
was  deduced  the  doctrine  of  materialism.  Or,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  these  images  spirit  ?  In  this  case,  spirit  might 
act  upon  spirit;  but  then  how  could  spiritual  images  proceed 
from  matter,  and,  more  still,  how  could  they  resemble  mat- 
ter? If,  then,  we  cognize  nothing  but  these,  whence  ia 
the  evidence  of  any  material  world  ?  Hence  the  doctrine 
of  idealism. 

But  again.  It  is  granted  in  this  hypothesis  that  we  can 
cognize  in  itself  nothing  external.  We  cognize  nothing  but 
images,  and  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  cognize  anything  else. 
But  it  was  apparent  that  no  images,  which  could  by  possi- 
bility pass  through  the  nerves,  could  resemble  external  qual- 
ities ;  what  reason,  then,  have  we  to  believe  that  the  external 
quality  is,  in  any  respect,  like  the  image  which  alone  we 
are  able  to  contemplate?  Again:  in  order  to  know  that  the 
images  are  similar  to  the  objects  which  they  represent,  we 
must  know  both  the  object  and  its  representative.  But  by 
necessity  we  can  know  only  the  one ,  how  can  we  affirm  that 
It  resembles  the  other?    If  I  enter  a  gallery  of  paintings, 


THE  PERCEPTIVE  FACULTIES.  39 

how  can  I  determine  whether  the  pictures  are  likenesses  oi 
are  mere  productions  of  the  fancy;  if  neither  I  nor  any  other 
man  had  ever  seen  any  originals  of  which  they  could  be  the 
resemblances?  Hence  it  is  manifest  that  the  evidence  of  the 
existence  of  a  material  world,  or  of  anything  existing  out 
of  the  mindj  is  at  once  swept  away.  Keasoning  in  this 
manner,  Bishop  Berkeley  arrived  at  idealism.  He  denied  the 
existence  of  an  external  world,  and  concluded  that  nothing 
existed  but  spirit  and  the  affections  of  spirit. 

But  this  idea  was  generalized.  It  was  admitted  that  we 
could  not  cognize  external  objects  directly,  but  only  through 
the  medium  of  representative  images.  If  this  is  true  of 
material,  why  is  it  not  true  of  spiritual  objects, —  of  the 
cognitions  of  consciousness  ?  Why  do  we  not  cognize  them 
by  means  of  representations  1  But  if  we  cognize  them 
thus,  and  have  no  cognition  of  the  objects  themselves,  how 
do  we  know  that  there  is  any  such  existence  as  mind  or  its 
faculties  ?  In  short,  how  do  we  know  that  anything  exists 
but  ideas  and  impressions  '?  How  do  we  know  that  any  such 
realities  exist  as  time,  space,  eternity,  Deity  7  All  is  re- 
solved into  a  succession  of  ideas,  which  follow  each  other  by 
the  laws  of  association,  and  besides  these  there  is  nothing  in 
the  universe.  This  is  nihilism,  and  such  consequences  were 
actually  deduced  by  some  philosophers  from  this  doctrine. 
It  was  surely  important  to  examine  the  evidences  of  an  hy- 
pothesis which  led  to  such  results. 

This  imperfect  fragment  of  the  history  of  intellectual 
philosophy  is  not  without  its  value.  It  teaches  us  the  vast 
superiority  of  the  acknowledgment  of  ignorance,  to  the  gratu- 
itous assumption  of  knowledge.  When  we  have  reached  the 
limits  of  our  knowledge,  there  is  no  harm  in  confessing  that 
beyond  this  we  do  not  know.  But  to  look  out  into  the 
darkness,  and  dogmatically  to  affirm  what  exists  beyond  the 
rsach  of  our  vision,  may  exclude  invaluable  truth,  and  in- 


40  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

troduce  the  most  alarming  error.  Thus,  in  the  present  in 
stance,  a  hypothetical  explanation  of  a  fact,  which  in  our 
present  state  does  not  seem  to  admit  of  explanation,  when 
carried  out  to  its  legitimate  results  was  found  to  terminate 
in  universal  scepticism,  and  furnish  a  foundation  for  consis- 
tent atheism.  Philosophy  will  certainly  have  made  impor- 
tant progress  when  it  shall  have  been  able  accurately  to 
determine  the  limits  of  human  inquiry. 

REFERENCES. 

Representative  images  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  3,  sec.  1  ;  chap.  8,  sec. 
12  ;  chap.  11,  sec.  17.  Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  1,  sees.  3—7  ;  2d  Essay, 
chaps.  4,  7,  9,  14.  Stewart,  vol.  1,  chap.  1,  sec.  3.  Introduction,  Part 
1,  vol  2,  chap.  4,  sec.  1  ;  chap.  1,  sec.  3.  Cousin,  Psychology,  chaps.  6 
and  7. 

Knowledge  an  agreement  between  the  idea  and  object  —  Lock&  Book  4^ 
chap.  1,  sec.  2  ;  chap.  4,  sec.  3.     Cousin,  chap.  6. 

Consciousness  an  authority —  Chapter  1. 

Three  things  existent  in  perception  —  Reid,  2d  Essay,  chap.  5. 

Idealise:  and  Nihilism— Cousin,  chap.  6,  last  part,  and  chap  7     Rftid 
2d  Essay,  3hap«.  10l~12. 


THE  INDrVIDUAL  SENSES  SEPAKATELY  CONSIDERED 


SECTION   IV.  —  OF  THE   SENSE    OF   SMELL. 

Having,  in  the  preceding  chapter,  treated  of  our  percep- 
tive powers  in  general,  I  proceed  to  describe  the  particular 
senses  with  which  we  have  been  endowed.  Proceeding  from 
the  simpler  to  the  more  complex,  I  shall  examine,  in  order, 
smell,  taste,  hearing,  touch  and  sight. 

The  organ  of  smell  is  situated  in  the  back  part  of  the 
nostrils.  It  is  composed  of  thin  laminae  of  bone,  folded 
together  like  a  slip  of  parchment,  over  which  the  olfactory 
nerve  is  spread,  covered  by  the  ordinary  mucous  membrane 
which  lines  the  mouth  and  posterior  fauces.  It  is  so  situ- 
ated that  the  whole  surface  of  the  organ  is  exposed  to  the 
current  of  air  in  the  act  of  inspiration. 

In  those  animals  which  seek  their  prey  by  scent,  this  or- 
gan is  found  larger,  exposing  a  greater  amount  of  surface 
to  the  air,  than  in  those  which  pursue  their  prey  by  sight 
The  perfection  in  which  this  sense  is  enjoyed  by  some  of  the 
lower  animals  has  always  been  a  subject  of  remark.  A 
dog  will  track  the  footsteps  of  his  master  through  the  streets 
of  a  crowded  city,  and,  after  a  long  absence,  will  recognize 
him  by  smell  as  readily  as  by  sight  or  hearing. 

When  we  are  brought  near  to  an  odoriferous  body,  we 
immediately  become  sensible  of  a  knowledge,  a  feeling,  or  a 
4* 


42  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

particular  fetate  of  mind.  If  a  tuberose  is  brought  nc^  a 
person  who  has  never  smelled  it,  he  is  at  once  conscious  of 
a  form  of  knowledge  entirely  new  to  him.  If  we  do  not 
by  our  other  senses,  know  the  cause  of  the  sensation,  we 
have  no  name  for  it,  but  are  obliged  to  designate  it  by  re- 
ferring to  the  place  where  we  experienced  it.  If,  by  our 
other  senses,  we  have  learned  the  cause  of  the  sensation,  we 
designate  it  by  the  name  of  the  object  which  produces  it. 
Were  the  perfume  of  a  rose  present  to  me  for  the  first 
time,  and  did  I  not  see  the  flower,  I  could  give  to  it  no  name. 
As  soon  as  I  have  ascertained  that  the  perfume  proceeds 
from  the  rose,  I  call  it  the  smell  of  a  rose.  We  thus  seo 
clearly  that  from  this  sense  we  derive  nothing  but  a  sensation, 
a  simple  knowledge,  which  neither  gives  us  a  cognition  of 
anything  external,  nor  teaches  us  that  anything  exists  out 
of  ourselves. 

The  exercise  of  this  sensation  is  either  agreeable,  indif- 
ferent or  disagreeable.  The  perfume  of  flowers,  fruit,  aro- 
matic herbs,  &c.,  is  commonly  pleasant.  The  odor  of  ob- 
jects in  common  use  is  generally  indifferent.  The  odor  ot 
putrid  matter,  either  animal  or  vegetable,  is  excessively  dis- 
agreeable. In  general,  it  may  be  remarked  that  substances 
which  are  healthful  for  food  are  agreeable  to  the  smell ; 
while  those  which  are  deleterious  are  unpleasant.  The 
final  cause  of  this  general  law  is  evident,  and  the  reason 
why  the  organ  of  smell  in  all  animals  is  placed  directly  over 
the  mouth.  Odors  of  all  kinds,  however,  if  they  be  long 
continued,  lose  their  power  of  affecting  us.  We  soon 
become  insensible  to  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  of  a  garden ; 
and  men,  whose  vocation  requires  them  to  labor  in  the  midst 
of  carrion,  after  a  short  time  become  insensible  to  the  offen  - 
sive  effluvia  by  which  they  are  surrounded. 

Pleasant  odors  are  refreshing  and  invigorating,  and  re- 
store, for  the  time,  tie  exhausted  nervous  energy.     Offen- 


THE  INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  43 

ftive  odors,  oa  the  other  hand,  are  depressing  to  the  spirits, 
and  tend  to  glcom  and  despondency.  The  former  of  these 
effects  is  alluded  to  with  great  beauty  in  the  well-known 
lines  of  Miltran 

**  As  when  to  them  who  sail 
Beyond  the  Cape  of  Hope,  and  now  are  past 
Mozambique  ;  off  at  sea,  north-east  winds  blow 
Sabean  odars  from  the  spicy  shore 
Of  Araby  the  blest  ;  with  such  delay 
Well  pleased,  they  slack  their  course,  and  many  a  league. 
Cheered  with  the  grateful  smell,  old  Ocean  smiles." 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  4,  lines  169 — 165. 

Concerning  the  manner  in  which  this  sensation  is  pro- 
duced, I  believe  that  but  one  hypothesis  has  been  suggested. 
The  received  opinion  is  that  what  is  called  effluvia,  or  ex- 
tremely minute  particles,  are  given  off  by  the  odorous  body, 
that  these  are  dissolved  in  the  air,  and  brought  in  contact 
with  the  organ  of  this  sense  in  the  act  of  breathing.  That 
this  may  be  so  is  quite  probable.  It  is,  however,  destitute 
of  direct  proof,  and  is  liable  to  many  objections.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  conceive  how  a  single  grain  of  musk  can,  for  a  long 
time,  fill  the  area  of  a  large  room  with  ever  so  minute  par- 
ticles, without  visible  diminution  of  either  volume  or  weight 
Until,  however,  some  better  theory  shall  be  presented,  we 
seem  justified  in  receiving  that  which  even  imperfectly  ac- 
counts for  the  facts  in  the  case.  Still,  we  are  to  remember 
that  it  is  merely  a  hypothesis,  to  be  abandoned  as  soon  as 
any  better  explanation  is  established  by  observation. 

From  what  has  been  already  remarked,  it  must  be,  I 
think,  evident  that  the  sense  of  smell  gives  us  no  percep- 
tion. It  is  the  source  of  a  simple  knowledge  which  alone 
would  never  lead  us  out  of  ourselves.  This  sensation  clearly 
gives  us  no  notion  whatever  of  the  quality  which  produces 


44  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY- 

it,  noi  have  philosophers  ever  been  able  to  determine  what 
that  quality  is.  It  is  possible  that  the  suggestion  of  cause 
and  effect  might  indicate  to  us  the  probability  of  a  cause, 
but  the  sense  itself  would  neither  awaken  this  inquiry  nor 
furnish  us  with  the  means  of  answering  it. 

Does  the  sense  of  smell  furnish  us  with  any  conc-bption  ? 
By  conception,  I  mean  a  notion  of  a  thing,  such  as  will 
enable  us,  when  the  object  itself  is  absent,  to  make  it  a 
distinct  object  of  thought.     Thus  I  have  seen  a  lily ;  I  can 
form  a  distinct  notion  of  its  form  and  jcolor,  and  I  can  com- 
pare it  with  a  rose,  and  from  my  conceptions  point  out  the 
difference  between  them.     I  could  describe  this  lily,  from 
my  conception  of  it,  so  that  another  person  could  have  the 
same  notion  of  it  as  myself     Were  I  a  painter,  I  could  ex- 
press my  conception  on  canvas.     Now,  is  there  a  similar 
power  of  forming  a  conception  of  a  smell  ?     Can  I  form  a 
distinct  notion  of  the  smell  of  an  apple  or  a  peach,  and  can 
I  compare  them  together,  or  describe  them  by  language,  or 
in  any  other  manner  transfer  my  conception  to  another  ? 
So  far  as  I  can  discover,  from  observing  the  operation  of 
my  own  mind,  all  this  is  impossible.     After  having  smelled 
an  odorous  body,  I  know  that  I  should  be  able  to  reco-nize 
that  particular  odor  again.     I  cannot  form  a  conceptio^'n  of 
the  smell  of  a  rose,  but  I  know  that  I  could,  if  it  were 
present,  immediately  recognize  it  and  distinguish  it  from  all 
other  odors.      Beyond  this  I  am  conscious  of  no   power 
whatever. 

This,  however,  I  am  aware,  is  but  the  experience  of  a 
emgle  mdmdual.  Other  persons  may  be  more  richly  en- 
dowed  than  myself.  I  have  frequently  put  this  question  to 
th  classes  which  I  have  instructed,  and  I  find  the  testimony 
not  altogether  uniform.    Some  few  young  gentlemen  in  every 

of  a  smell  as  they  ha4  of  a  color  or  a  form.     The  greater 


THE   INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  45 

part,  however,  have  agreed  with  me  that  they  had  no  power 
to  form  the  conception  in  question. 

It  has,  very  probably,  occurred  to  the  reader  that  the 
words,  ^'the  smell  of  a  rose,"  convey  two  entirely  different 
meanings;  the  one  objective,  the  other  subjective.  The 
''smell  of  a  rose''  may  designate  a  peculiar  feeling  or 
knowledge  existing  in  my  mind,  or  it  may  designate  the  un- 
known cause  of  that  feeling.  Thus,  when  I  say  the  smell 
of  a  rose  is  sometimes  followed  by  fainting,  I  mean  the  sen- 
sation produced  in  the  mind.  I  say  the  apartment  is  filled 
with  the  smell  of  a  rose.  I  here  mean  the  unknown  quality 
existing  in  the  rose.  Both  of  these  expressions  I  suppose 
to  be  correct,  and  in  harmony  with  the  idiom  of  the  Eng- 
lish language.  The  same  ambiguity  exists  in  all  the  terms 
commonly  used  to  designate  sensations.  Thus,  the  taste  of 
an  apple,  heat,  cold,  sweet,  sour,  and  many  others,  admit  of 
a  similar  twofold  signification. 

Chemical  philosophers,  aware  of  this  ambiguity  in  lan- 
guage, have  wisely  introduced  a  new  terra,  by  which,  in  a 
particular  case,  this  difficulty  may  be  obviated.  Observing 
that  the  term  ''  heat "  may  signify  a  certain  feeling  in  my 
mind,  as  well  as  the  unknown  cause  of  that  feeling  existing 
in  a  burning  body,  and  as  they  were  continually  treating 
of  the  one,  and  almost  never  of  the  other,  they  have  desig- 
nated the  two  ideas  by  difierent  words.  Retaining  the  term 
heat  to  signify  the  sensation  of  a  sentient  being,  they  use 
the  word  "  caloric  "  to  designate  the  unknown  cause  of  the 
sensation.  Every  one  must  perceive  how  much  definitenesa 
the  use  of  this  term  has  added  to  this  branch  of  philosoph- 
ical inquiry. 

REFERENCE. 
Bud's  Inqiiry,  chapter  2,  the  whole  chapter. 


46  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOI  flr. 


SECTION    V. —  THE   SENSE   OF  TASTE. 

The  nerves  of  taste  are  spread  over  the  tongue  and  the 
back  part  of  the  fauces.  They  terminate  in  numerous 
papillae^  or  small  excrescences,  which  form  together  the  or- 
gan of  taste.  It  is  almost  needless  to  obsei  ve  that  the 
nerves  are  everywhere  covered  with  the  mersbrane  lining 
the  mouth,  and  never  come  in  immediate  contact  with  the 
sapid  substance.  These  papillae  are  most  nVimerous  on  the 
tip,  the  edges,  and  the  root  of  the  tongue^  leaving  many 
portions  of  the  intermediate  surface  almost  destitute  of  this 
'  sensation. 

The  sense  of  taste  is  never  excited  except  by  solutions. 
The  saliva,  which  is  copiously  furnished  by  the  glands  of  the 
mouth,  is  an  active  solvent.  By  mastication,  the  solid  food 
becomes  intimately  mixed  with  this  animal  fluid,  is  partially 
dissolved  by  it,  and,  in  this  condition,  is  brought  into  rela- 
tion to  the  papillae  which  constitute  the  organ  of  taste. 
Insoluble  substances  are,  therefore,  tasteless.  When  the 
papillae  of  the  tongue  either  become  dry,  or  are  covered 
with  the  thick  coating  produced  by  fever,  taste  becomes  im- 
perfect or  is  wholly  suspended. 

When  a  sapid  body,  under  normal  circumstances,  is 
brought  into  relation  with  the  organ  of  taste,  a  sensation  either 
pleasing  or  displeasing  immediately  ensues.  When  the  sen- 
sation  is  pleasant,  we  are  instinctively  impelled  to  swallow, 
and  with  the  act  of  swallowing  the  sensation  is  perfected 
and  ceases.  When  the  sensation  is  unpleasant,  we  are  on 
the  other  hand,  impelled  to  reject  whatever  may  be  the  cause 
ot  It,  and  frequently  it  requires  a  strong  effort  of  the  will 
to  control  this  impulse.  The  sensation  of  taste  is  not  con. 
Bummated  without  the  act  of  swaUowing.     It  would  seem 


THE   IimiVIDUAL   SENSES.  47 

probable  that  the  anterior  and  posterior  nerves  of  the  tongue 
were  designed  to  perform  different  offices,  the  former  giv- 
ing us  an  imperfect  sensation,  which  creates  the  disposition 
either  to  swallow  or  to  reject  the  sapid  substance ;  the  latter 
awakening  the  perfected  sensation  as  the  substance  passes 
over  it. 

As  in  the  case  of  smell,  so  in  that  of  taste,  I  think  that 
♦nth  the  sensation  no  perception  is  connected.  A  particular 
sensibility  is  excited  ;  a  feeling  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant 
IS  created ;  a  simple  knowledge  is  given  us ;  —  but  no  cog- 
nition of  anything  external  can  be  observed.  Whatever 
notions  of  externality  come  to  us,  by  means  of  this  sense, 
are  derived  from  other  sources  than  the  sense  itself  Thus, 
we  can  receive  nothing  into  the  mouth  except  by  bring- 
ing it  into  contact  with  the  lips.  The  sense  of  touch 
then  cognizes  it  as  something  external  to  ourselves.  The 
suggestion  of  cause  and  effect  might  lead  us  possibly  to  the 
same  conclusion.  These,  however,  are  no  parts  of  the  sense 
of  taste.  The  taste  in  the  mouth  which  frequently  accom- 
panies disease,  awakens  no  idea  of  anything  external. 
When,  however,  by  means  of  our  other  senses,  we  have 
learned  that  a  particular  flavor  is  produced  by  any  sub- 
stance, we  associate  the  flavor  with  the  substance,  and  give 
it  a  name  accordingly.  We  thus  speak  of  the  taste  of  an 
apple,  a  pear,  or  a  peach. 

So  far  as  I  am  able  to  discover,  the  remarks  made  in  the 
last  section,  respecting  conception  as  derived  from  smell, 
apply  with  equal  truth  to  the  sense  of  taste.  I  think  that 
men  generally  have  no  distinct  conception  of  an  absent  taste, 
but  only  a  conviction  that  they  should  easily  recognize  it  if 
it  were  again  presented  to  them.  This  form  of  recollection 
may  be  so  strong  as  to  create  a  longing  for  a  particular  fla- 
vor, but  still  there  is  no  conception  like  that  produced  by 
eiUier  sight  or  touch. 


48  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  same  ambiguity  may  be  observed  here  as  in  the 
analogous  sense.  The  taste  of  an  apple,  means  both  the 
quality  in  the  fruit  which  produces  the.  sensation  and  the 
affection  of  the  sentient  being  produced  by  it.  The  one  is 
objective,  belonging  exclusively  to  the  non  ego;  the  other  is 
subjective,  belonging  wholly  to  the  *.go.  Of  the  sensation 
we  have  a  very  definite  knowledge ;  it  can  be  nothing  but 
what  we  feel  it  to  be.  Of  the  cause  we  are,  as  in  the  sense 
of  smell,  wholly  ignorant. 

The  number  of  sensations  derived  from  taste  is,  I  think, 
much  greater  than  that  derived  from  smell.  An  epicure 
becomes  capable  of  multiplying  them,  and  distinguishing 
them  from  each  other  to  a  very  great  extent.  We  are  able, 
also,  to  classify  our  sensations  of  taste  much  more  definitely 
than  those  of  smell.  Thus,  we  speak  of  acid,  subacid, 
Bweet,  bitter,  astringent,  and  many  other  classes  of  tastes,  to 
which  we  refer  a  large  number  of  individuals.  In  this 
manner  we  designate  various  kinds  of  fruit,  medicines,  &c. 
While,  therefore,  these  two  senses  seem  to  be  governed 
by  the  same  general  laws,  I  think  that  in  man  the  knowl- 
edge derived  from  taste  is  more  definite  and  more  varied 
than  the  other.  By  means  of  the  sense  of  touch,  which  so 
completely  surrounds  the  sense  of  taste,  we  should,  in  the 
use  of  it,  also  arrive  at  the  idea  of  externality.  In  this 
respect  it  is  indirectly  the  source  of  knowledge  which  is  not 
given  us  by  the  sense  of  smell.  In  blind  mutes,  however, 
to  whom  the  sense  of  smell  becomes  much  more  important, 
in  all  probability  the  case  is  reversed,  and  smell  furnishes 
more  numerous  and  definite  cognitions  than  taste. 

1  have  said  above  that  the  sensation  of  taste  is  not  per- 
fectly experienced  unless  the  sapid  substance  is  swallowed. 
Whatever  is  swallowed  enters  the  stomach,  undergoes  the 
process  of  digestion,  and,  whether  nutritious  or  deleterious^ 
enters  the  circulation  and  becomes  assimilated  with  our  mar 


THK    INDIVIDUAL    SENSES.  49 

terial  system.  It  is  manifest,  therefore,  that  if  a  substance 
be  pleasing  to  the  taste,  we  may,  by  gratifying  this  sense, 
iw^ilow  either  what  is  in  itself  deleterious,  or  that  which 
ecomes  deleterious  by  being  partaken  of  in  excess.  It  is, 
.-ence,  evidently  important  that  the  gratification  of  the 
sense  be  made  subordinate  to  the  hio:her  desim :  that  of 
promoting  the  health  and  vigor,  physical  and  intellectual, 
of  the  whole  man. 

In  brutes,  for  the  most  part,  the  gratification  of  the  appe- 
tite is  controlled  by  instinct.  The  instances  are  very  rare 
in  which  one  of  the  lower  animals  has  any  desire  for  food 
which  is  not  nutritious,  or  desires  it  in  larger  quantity  than 
the  health  of  the  system  demands.  Man,  how^ever,  is  en- 
dowed with  no  such  instinct.  The  regulation  of  his  appe* 
tite  is  submitted  to  his  will,  directed  by  reason  and  con 
science.  Guided  by  these,  a  perfect  harmony  will  exist 
between  his  gustatory  desire  and  the  wants  of  his  material 
and  intellectual  organization. 

But  suppose  it  to  be  otherwise.  Suppose  the  human  be- 
ing to  swallow  neither  what  nor  as  much  as  his  health 
requires,  but  what  and  as  much  as  will  furnish  gratification 
to  his  palate.  He  will  eat  or  drink  much  that  is  delete- 
rious, and  much  which,  by  excess,  becomes  destructive  to 
health.  When,  by  frequent  indulgence,  this  subjection  to 
appetite  has  grown  into  a  habit,  the  control  of  the  spiritual 
over  the  sensual  is  lost,  and  the  man  becomes  either  a  glut- 
ton or  a  drunkard,  and  very  commonly  both. 

The  efiects  of  these  forms  of  indulgence  are  too  well 
known  to  require  specification.  Gluttony,  or  ihe  excessive 
love  of  food,  renders  the  intellect  sluggish,  torpid  and  inef- 
ficient, cultivates  the  most  degrading  forms  of  selfishness, 
exposes  the  body  to  painful  and  lingering  disease,  and  fre- 
'  quently  terminates  in  sudden  death. 
5 


50  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

«*  The  full-fed  glutton  apoplexy  knocks 
Down  to  the  ground  at  once,  as  butcher  felleth  ox.'* 

Thompson's  Castle  of  Indohnce. 

The  appetite  for  deleterious  drinks  leads  to  consequences 
still  more  appalling.  In  a  very  short  time  it  ruins  the 
health,  enfeebles  the  intellect,  maddens  the  passions,  de- 
stroys all  self-respect,  and,  in  the  most  disgusting  manner, 
brutiilizes  the  whole  being.  It  speedily  and  insensibly  grows 
into  a  habit  which  enslaves  the  nervous  organism,  sets  at 
defiance  the  power  of  the  will,  and  thus  renders  the  ruin  of 
the  being,  both  for  time  and  eternity,  inevitable.  We  hence 
perceive  the  importance  of  holding  our  appetites  in  strict 
subjection  to  the  dictates  of  reason  and  conscience,  and 
especially  of  excluding  the  possibility  of  our  ever  becoming 
the  victims  of  intemperance. 

RE  FERENCE. 
•     Reid's  Inquiry,  chapter  3. 


SECTION    VI.— THE   SENSE   OP  HEARING. 

The  organ  of  this  sense  is  the  ear.  It  is  composed  .of 
two  parts,  the  external  and  mternal  ear.  The  external  ear 
b  intended  merely  to  collect  and  concentrate  the  vibrations  of 
the  air,  and  conduct  them  to  the  membrana  tympani^ 
which  separates  the  two  portions  of  this  organ.  Tha 
external  ear  thus  performs  the  functions  of  an  ear-trumpet. 
The  membrana  tympani  is  a  thin  membrane  stretched 
across  the  lower  extremity  of  ttie  tube  in  which  the  outward 
ear  terminates.  The  vibrations  of  the  air,  thus  produced 
upon  the  tympanum,  are,  by  a  series  of  small  bones  occu- 
pying its  inner  chamber,  transmitted  to  certain  cells  filled 
with  fluid,  in  which  the  extremity  of  the  auditory  nerve 


THE   INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  51 

terminates.  From  these  cells  the  nerve  proceeds  directly  to 
the  brain. 

The  medium  by  which  the  auditory  nerve  is  affected,  is 
the  atmospheric  air.  Sonorous  bodies  of  all  kinds  produce 
vibrations  or  undulations  in  the  air,  which  strike  upon  the 
tympanum,  and  are,  by  the  apparatus  above  alluded  to,  con- 
veyed to  the  auditory  nerve.  The  effect  produced  upon  the 
nerve  is  simply  that  of  mechanical  vibration,  and  this  vibra- 
tion, so  far  as  we  can  discover,  is  the  cause  of  the  sensation 
of  sound.  A  mere  fluctuation  in  the  extremities  of  the 
nerve  is  the  occasion  of  all  the  ielight  which  we  experience 
in  listening  to  the  sublimest  compositions  of  a  Handel  or  a 
Mozart.  No  more  convincing  proof  can  be  afforded  that 
there  is  no  conceivable  resemblance  between  the  change  in 
the  organ  of  sense,  and  the  delightful  cognition  of  the  soul, 
which  it  occasions. 

The  number  of  sounds  which  the  human  ear  is  able  to 
distinguish  is  very  great.  Dr.  Keid  remarks  that  there  are 
five  hundred  tones  which  may  be  distinctly  recognized  by  a 
good  ear ;  and  that  each  tone  may  be  produced  with  five 
hundred  degrees  of  loudness.  This  would  give  us  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  different  sounds  which  could  be  per- 
ceived by  an  ear  of  ordinary  accuracy;  This  I  presume  is 
true ;  but  a  little  reflection  will  convince  us  that  the  number 
)f  sounds  which  we  are  able  to  distinguish  far  transcends 
ali  human  computation.  The  voice  of  every  human  bemg 
may  easily  be  distinguished  from  that  of  every  other,  >v'hile 
the  number  of  separate  sounds  which  every  individual  is 
able  to  produce,  including  tones,  loudness,  stress  and  eiQ- 
phasis,  is  absolutely  incalculable.  If  the  same  note  be 
struck  by  ever  so  many  different  -instruments,  the  -ound  of 
each  instrument  can  be  readily  recognized.  If  ten  thou- 
sand instruments  of  the  same  kind  were  collected,  it  is  prob- 
able that  no  two  could  be  found  whose  sounds  would  ba 


52  fNTELLECTDAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

identical.     Numbers  which  accumulate  by  such  masses  set 
all  computation  at  defiance. 

Although  our  power  of  distinguishing  the  smallest  varia- 
tion of  sound  is  so  remarkable,  it  has  been  observed  that 
^  there  are  some  sounds  which  are  inaudible  to  particular 
persons.  It  seems  probable  that  each  ear  is  endowed  with 
the  power  of  cognizing  sounds  within  a  particular  range, 
but  that  this  range  is  npt  the  same  in  every  individual. 
This  difierence  is,  I  think,  most  observable  in  the  shrillest 
sounds,  or  those  pitched  on  the  highest  key,  and  producer, 
by  the  most  rapid  vibrations.  I  have  known  some  persons 
who  were  unable  to  hear  the  sound  produced  by  a  species  of 
cricket,  while  to  other  persons  the  sound  was  so  loud  as  to  be 
unpleasant.  I  think  that  Dr.  Reid  remarks  the  same  pecu- 
liarity respecting  himself. 

We  all  possess,  to  a  considerable  degree,  the  power  of 
determining  the  direction  from  which  sounds  proceed.  We 
derive  this  power,  probably,  in  part,  from  the  fact  that  our 
ears  are  separated  at  some  distance  from  each  other,  on  op- 
posite sides  of  the  head,  and  hence  a  sound  must,  in  many 
cases,  affect  the  one  differently  from  the  other.  Persons 
who  have  lost  the  use  of  one  ear  much  less  easily  determine 
the  direction  of  sounds.  This  power,  moreover,  is  greatly 
improved  by  practice.  We  learn,  in  this  manner,  to  form  a 
judgment  of  the  distance  of  sounds,  and  to  associate  with 
them  much  other  knowledge  which  properly  belongs  to  the 
other  senses.  Thus,  it  is  said  that  Napoleon  was  never  de- 
ceived as  to  the  direction  or  distance  of  a  cannonade,  and 
the  remarkable  precision  of  his  judgment  always  excited  the 
wonder  of  his  friends. 

It  is  in  this  manner,  I  presume,  that  ventriloquism,  as  it 
is  termed,  is  to  be  explained.  We  have  learned  by  experi-' 
ence  to  determine  the  distance  and  direction  of  sounds. 
For  instance,  I  hear  a  person  speaking.     The  quality  of  the 


THE   INPIVID.AL   SENSED.  5S 

Bound,  its  degree  of  loudness  and  distinctness,  teach  me 
that  it  is  produced  by  some  one  on  mj  left  hand,  and  in  the 
street  which  passes  by  my  window.  If  a  person  in  the  room 
with  me  were  able  to  produce  a  sound  which  should  strike 
upon  my  ear  precisely  like  that  which  I  just  now  heard,  I 
should  suppose  that  it  proceeded  from  the  same  place  as 
before.  The  effect  would  be  more  remarkable,  if  he  should, 
by  some  ingenious  device,  direct  my  attention  to  the  window, 
and  create  in  me  the  impression  that  some  one  was  outside 
of  it.  In  order  to  accomplish  this  result,  it  is  necessary 
that  the  performer  be  endowed  with  an  ear  capable  of  de- 
tecting every  possible  variety  in  the  quality  of  sound,  and 
vocal  organs  of  such  extreme  delicacy  that  they  are  able 
perfectly  to  obey  the  slightest  intimation  of  the  will.  I 
have  never  witnessed  any  performance  of  this  kind,  but  I 
have  known  one  or  two  persons  who  possessed  this  power  in 
a  modified  degree,  and  this  is  the  account  which  they  have 
given  me  concerning  it.  I  am  told  that  those  who  perform 
these  feats  publicly  are  also  able  to. create  the  sounds  which 
we  hear,  without  moving,  in  the  least,  the  visible  organs  of 
speech.  How  ^ they  are  able,  in  this  manner,  to  produce 
articulate  sounds,  I  am  unable  to  explain. 

Is  hearing  a  sensation  or  a  perception  ?  That  is,  does  it 
furnish  us  with  a  simple  knowledge,  without  giving  us  any 
cognition  of  an  external  world ;  or  does  it  furnish  us  with  a 
complex  knowledge,  that  is,  a  knowledge  of  a  quality  and 
of  the  object  in  which  it  resides  ? 

The  knowledge  furnished  by  this  sense  seems  to  me  to  be 
of  the  following  character :  it  is  purely  a  sensation,  a  simple 
knowledge,  giving  us  no  intimation  of  anything  external. 
The  knowledge,  however,  derived  from  this  sense,  differs 
from  those  which  we  have  already  considered,  in  many 
particulars.     Some  of  these  are  worthy  of  attention. 

The  sensation  of  hearing  is  much  more  definite,  f^rWi, 
6^ 


54  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

and  intensely  pleasing,  than  that  derived  from  either  of  the 
preceding  senses.  It  bis,  moreover,  a  power  of  strongly 
affecting°the  tone  of  mind  of  the  hearer.  These  impressions 
being  made  upon  a  being  endowed  with  original  sugges- 
tion, would  naturally  occasion  an  inquiry  for  a  cause. 
While  hearing  a  strain  of  music,  it  would  at  once  occur  to  us 
that  we  did  not  produce  it,  that  we  could  not  prolong  it,  and, 
hence,  that  it  must  originate  from  something  external  to  our- 
selves. We  should  thus  learn  that  there  existed  something 
out  of  ourselves  ;  but  what  that  something  was,  the  sense  of 
hearing  would  furnish  us  with  no  means  of  determining. 
Let  a  man  hear  a  violin,  a  bugle,  or  a  piano,  and,  though  he 
would  readily  observe  a  diflference  between  them,  he  could 
by  this  sense  alone  form  no  conception  of  the  nature  of 
either  instrument,  or  of  the  medium  through -which  an  im- 
pression was  made  upon  his  auditory  nerve.  When  did  a 
peal  of  thunder  ever  suggest  to  man  the  nature  of  the  cause 
which  produced  it  ?  In  this  respect,  therefore,  the  sense  of 
hearing  differs  from  those  already  considered.  It  suggests 
to  us  the  idea  of  a  cause,  but  gives  us  no  knowledge  of  the 
nature  of  that  cause. 

In  another  respect,  however,  the  sensation  of  hearing  is 
peculiar.  It  enables  us  to  form  very  definite  conceptions. 
Smell  and  taste  possess  this  power,  if  at  all,  in  a  very  lim- 
ited degree.  By  no  power  of  language  can  we  convey  to 
another  the  knowledge  which  they  give  us.  The  sense  of 
hearing  enables  us  to  proceed  much  further.  We  hear  a 
Bound;  we  can  repeat  it.  We  hear  a  tune  ;  we  can  mentally 
recall  it  without  producing  any  sound  whatever,  and  wc  can 
derive  pleasure  from  this  silent  conception  of  it.  Still 
more,  we  are  able  to  designate  a  great  variety  of  articulate 
sounds  by  the  alphabet.  By  means  of  this  notation,  the 
sounds  of  a  speaker's  voice  can  be  so  recorded,  that  another 
person  wlio  has  not  heard  him,  and  who  may  not  even  under- 


THF   INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  '      55 

stand  the  langu  age  in  which  he  has  spoken,  may  he  able 
accurately  to  repeat  all  that  he  has  said.  The  case  is  still 
stronger  when  the  words  uttered  are  set  to  music.  Here 
it  is  not  only  possible  to  note  down  the  words,  but  also 
the  precise  musical  notes  in  which  they  were  expressed,  so 
that  the  song,  and  the  tune  in  which  it  was  sung,  may  be 
accurately  repeated  by  a  person  on  the  other  side  of  the 
globe. 

I  have  remarked  that  our  conception  of  musical  sounds 
may  give  us  pleasure  in  perfect  silence :  as  when  we  remem- 
ber a  strain  which  we  have  heard  on  a  former  occasion. 
This  is  yet  more  observable  when  sounds  are  described  by 
their  appropriate  notation.  A  skilful  musician  will  read 
the  notes  of  an  opera  or  oratorio,  form  the  conception  as  he 
proceeds,  and  derive  from  them  as  definite  a  pleasure  as  he 
who  reads  the  pages  of  a  romance  or  a  tragedy.  It  has 
frequently  happened  that  the  most  eminent  musicians  have 
been  afflicted  with  deafness.  It  is  delightful  to  observe  that 
this  infirmity  in  only  a  modified  degree  deprives  them  of 
their  accustomed  pleasure.  They  sit  at  an  instrument, 
touching  the  notes  as  usual,  and  become  as  much  excited 
with  their  own  conceptions  as  they  were  formerly  by  sounds. 
Under  these  circumstances,  some  of  them  have  composed 
their  most  elaborate  and  successful  productions.  These 
facts  establish  a  wide  difference  between  the  sense  of  hearing 
and  the  senses  of  taste  and  smell.  The  latter  produce  in 
us  no  definite  conceptions,  and  are  susceptible  of  being  formed 
into  no  such  language.  Hearing  is  evidently  a  much  more 
intellectual  sense  than  either  of  those  which  we  have  thus 
far  considered. 

Besides,  musical  sounds  have  an  acknowledged  power 
over  the  tone  of  the  human  mind.  By  the  tone  of  mind,  I 
mean  that  condition  of  our  emotional  nature  which  inclines 
us  to  be  grave  or  gay,  lively  or  sad,  kind  or  austere,  appre- 


56  INTELLE^rUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

hensive  or  reckless.  New,  it  is  well  known  that  music  has 
the  power  not  only  to  harmonize  with  any  of  these  tones  of 
mind,  and  thus  increase  it,  but  in  many  cases  to  alter  and 
control  it.  Every  one  knows  the  difference  between  a  sport- 
ive and  a  melancholy  air,  between  a  dirge  and  a  quickstep; 
and  every  one  also  knows  how  readily  his  tone  of  mind  as- 
similates with  the  character  of  the  music  which  he  chances 
to  hear.  Sacred  music,  well  performed,  renders  deeper  the 
spirit  of  devotion.  The  hilarity  of  a  ball-room  would  in- 
stantly cease  if  the  music  were  withdrawn.  I  question  if 
the  martial  spirit  of  a  nation  could  be  sustained  for  a  single 
year,  if  music  were  banished  from  its  armies ;  and  military 
evolutions,  whether  on  parade  or  in  combat,  were  performed 
under  no  other  excitement  than  the  mere  word  of  command. 
From  these  well-known  facts,  an  aesthetical  principle  may 
be  deduced  of  some  practical  importance.  The  design  of 
music  is  to  affect  the  tone  of  mind.  To  do  this,  it  must  be 
in  harmony  with  it.  No  one  would  think  a  psalm  tune 
adapted  to  a  charge  of  cavalry ;  and  every  one  would  be 
shocked  to  hear  a  devotional  hymn  sung  to  the  tune  of.  a 
martial  quickstep.  It  hence  follows,  that  what  may  be 
good  music  for  one  occasion,  may  be  very  bad  music  for 
another.  If  we  are  called  upon  to  judge  of  the  excellence 
of  any  piece  of  music,  it  is  not  enough  that  the  music  be 
good, —  the  question  yet  remains  to  be  decided,  is  it  good  for 
this  particular  occasion ;  that  is,  does  it  harmonize  with  the 
particular  tone  of  mind  which  the  words  employed  would 
naturally  awaken  7  If  it  do  not,  though  it  may  be  very] 
good  music  for  some  occasions,  it  is  bad  music  in  this  par- 
ticular case.  The  II  Penseroso  and  the  L' Allegro  of  Mil-  ^ 
ton  have,  I  believe,  been  set  to  music,  and,  if  the  music! 
were  adapted  to  the  thought,  the  effect  of  these  beautiful  po-^ 
ems  would  be  increased  by  it.  But  every  one  sees  that  the  ^| 
music  adapted  to  the  one  must  be  very  unlike  that  adapted^ 


I 


1 


THE   INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.         -  5]f 

to  the  other.  Let  the  music  be  transferred  from  the 
one  to  the  other,  and  the  incongruity  would  be  painful ; 
and  what  was  just  now  good  music  would  become  at  once 
intolerable.  Much  of  the  church,  music  at  present  in  vogue 
seems  to  me  to  partake  of  the  incongruity  of  such  a  trans- 
position. 

Here,  also,  the  question  may  be  asked,  whether  all  poetry 
is  adapted  to  music.  From  the  preceding  remarks  it  would 
seem  that  it  is  not,  unless  it  awaken  some  emotion.  And 
again,  the  emotion  in  some  cases  may  not  be  adapted  to 
music.  Terror,  horror,  the  deepest  impressions  of  awe,  are 
probably  not  adapted  to  musical  expression.  The  attempts 
which  have  been  made  to  convey  such  emotions  by  music 
have,  I  apprehend,  generally  failed.  They  may,  like  much 
other  music,  display  the  skill  of  the  composer  or  the  per 
former,  but  they  leave  the  audience  unmoved. 

Another  peculiarity  of  this  sense  deserves  to  be  mentioned 
By  it  we  are  capable  of  forming  a  natural  language  under- 
stood by  all  men.  Our  emotions  mstinctively  express  them- 
selves by  the  tones  of  the  voice,  and  these  are  easily  recog- 
nized by  those  to  whom  they  are  addressed.  Every  one 
understands  the  tones  indicative  of  kindness,  of  authority, 
of  pity,  of  rage,  of  sarcasm,  of  encouragement  and  contempt. 
Should  a  man  address  us  in  an  unknown  tongue,  we 
should  immediately  learn  his  temper  towards  us  by  the 
tones  of  his  voice.  The  knowledge  of  these  tones  is  common 
to  all  men,  under  all  circumstances.  Children  of  a  very 
tender  age  learn  to  interpret  them ;  nay,  even  brutes  seem 
to  understand  their  meaning  very  distinctly.  It  would  seem, 
then,  that  the  tones  of  the  voice  form  a  medium  of  communi- 
cation, not  only  between  man  and  man,  but  even  between 
man  and  some  of  the  inferior  animals. 

I  have  said  that  these  tones  of  the  voice  are  universally 
understood.     It  is  also  true  that  they  have  the  power  of 


b8  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHr. 

awakening  an  emotion,  similar  to  that  which  produced  them, 
in  the  mind  of  the  hearer.  A  shriek  of  terror  will  convulse 
a  whole  assembly.  It  is  said  that  Garrick  once  wxnt  to 
hear  Whitefield  preach,  jind  was  much  impressed  with  the 
power  of  that  remarkable  pulpit  orator.  Speaking  afterwards 
of  the  preacher's  eloquence,  he  is  reported  to  have  said,  *'I 
would  give  a  hundred  pounds  to  utter  the  word  Oh !  as  White- 
field  utters  it.'.'  It  is  probable  that  it  is  in  the  powder  of 
expressing  our  emotions  by  the  tones  of  the  voice,  more  than 
in  anything  else,  that  the  gift  of  eloquence  consists.  This 
was,  I  presume,  the  meaning  of  Demosthenes,  who,  when 
asked  what  was  the  first,  and  the  second,  and  the  third  ele- 
ment of  eloquence,  replied, successively,  ^'Delivery,  delivery, 
delivery  !  ''  This  is,  I  think,  illustrated  in  the  case  to  which 
I  have  alluded.  Whitefield's  printed  sermons  do  not  place 
him  high  on  the  hst  of  English  preachers ;  while,  as  they 
were  delivered  by  Whitefield  himself,  they  produced  efiects 
which  can  only  be  ascribed  to  the  very  highest  efibrts  of 
eloquence. 

The  relation  of  these  remarks  to  the  cultivation  of  elo- 
quence is  obvious.  Suppose  a  public  speaker  to  be  able  to 
construct  a  train  of  thought  which  shall  lead  the  minds 
of  men,  by  logical  induction,  to  a  given  result.  Suppose, 
moreover,  that  this  train  of  reasonmg  is  clothed  in  appro- 
priate diction,  so  that  it  is  adapted  not  only  to  convince, 
shut  to  please  an  audience.  It  is  now  to  be  delivered  in  the 
hearing  of  men.  It  may  be  delivered  in  so  monotonous 
tones  as  to  put  an  assembly  to  sleep,  or  in  tones  so  inappro- 
priate and  grotesque  as  to  provoke  them  to  laughter.  It  is 
now  necessary  that  the  orator  be  deeply  moved""  by  his  own 
conceptions,  and  that  he  be  able  to  give  utterance  to  his  own 
emotions  in  the  tones  of  his  voice.  His  organs  of  speech 
must  be  capable  of  every  variety  of  expression,  and  they 
must  so  instinctively  respond  to  every  emotion,  that  the 


THE   INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  59 

ttfought  which  the  speaker  enunciates  is  lodged  in  the  mind 
of  the  hearer,  animated  by  the  precise  feeling  of  him  who 
utters  it.  He  who  is  thus  endowed  can  hardly  fail  of 
becoming  an  orator.  Hence,  if  we  would  improve  in 
eloquence,  we  must  studiously  cultivate  the  natural  tones 
of  emotion;  in  the  first  place  by  feeling  truly  ourselves, 
and,  in  the  second,  by  learning  to  express  our  emotions  in 
this  language  which  all  men  understand. 

REFERENCE. 
Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  4,  sections  1,  2 


SECTION  VII. —  THE   SENSE   OF   TOUCH. 

The  nerves  of  feeling  are  situated  under  the  skin,  and 
are  plentifully  distributed  over  the  whole  external  surface, 
So  completely  does  the  network  which  they  form  cover  the 
whole  body,  that  the  point  of  the  finest  needle  cannot  punc- 
ture us  in  any  part  without  wounding  a  nerve,  and  giving  us 
acute  pain.  It  is  in  this  manner  that  we  are  guarded  from 
injury.  Were  any  portion  of  our  body  insensible,  we  might 
there  sufier  the  most  appalling  laceration  without  being 
aware  of  our  danger. 

The  chief  seat  of  the  nerves  of  touch  is,  however,  in  the 
palm  of  the  hand,  and  in  the  ends  of  the  fingers.  The 
other  parts  of  the  body  lender  us  sensible  of  injury  from 
external  sources,  but  they  are  incapable  of  furnishing  ua 
with  any  definite  perceptions.  The  hand,  on  the  contrary, 
conveys  to  us  very  exact  knowledge  of  the  tactual  qualities 
of  bodies.  For  this  purpose  it  is  admirably  adapted.  The 
separation  of  the  fingers  from  each  other,  their  complicated 
flexions,  the  extreme  delicacy  of  their  muscular  power,  all 


§0  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

combine  to  render  this  organ  susceptible  of  an  infinite  varietj 
of  definite  impressions. 

Though  the  fingers  are  separated,  yet  in  using  them 
toc^ether,  when  a  single  object  is  presented,  but  one  percep- 
tion is  conveyed  to  the  mind.  It  would  seem,  however, 
that,  in  order  to  produce  this  result,  corresponding  points  of 
the  fingers  must  be  applied  to  the  object.  If  we  change 
them  from  their  normal  position,  by  crossing  the  second  over 
the  fore-finger,  two  perceptions  will  be  produced,  and  a 
small  object,  as  a  pea,  will  seem  to  us  double. 

The  sensation  of  touch  is  of  two  kinds,  as  it  is  caused, 
first,  by  teTnperature^  and  secondly  by  contact. 

The  sensation  produced  by  temperature  is  that  of  cold  or 
heat.  It  is  awakened  by  any  body  whose  temperature  diftn 
from  that  of  our  external  surfiice.  When  we  place  OV 
hands  in  water  only  blood  warm,  we  are  not  conscious  rf 
this  sensation.  If  we  place  one  hand  in  hot,  and  the  other 
in  cold  water,  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  remove  them  both 
to  tepid  water,  we  experience  the  sensation  of  heat  in  the 
one  and  of  cold  in  the  other. 

The  efiect  produced  upon  us  by  temperature  is  a  simple 
knowledge,  a  pure  sensation.  It  gives  us  no  knowledge 
of  anything  external.  During  the  first  chill  of  a  fever  le 
are  unable  to  determine  whether  the  weather  is  cold,  or  OV 
system  diseased ;  that  is,  whether  the  sensation  proceede 
from  without  or  from  within.  And  when  the  sensation  pro- 
ceeds from  without,  it  gives  no  information  respecting  its 
cause,  or  the  manner  in  which  it  afiects  us. 

Heat  and  cold  are  merely  aficctions  of  a  sensitive  organ- 
ism. That  which  causes  them  is  called  by  choinista 
caloric.  This  quality  in  bodies  has  opene<l  a  wide  field  for 
philosophical  investigation,  which,  by  developing  the  laws 
of  steam,  has  modified  the  aspects  of  modem  civilia* 
tion. 


THE    INDIVID    AL   SENSES.  GJ 

Secondly,  the  sense  of  touch  is  excited  oy  contact.  I 
use  the  term  contact  here  in  its  common,  and  not  in  its 
strict  meaning.  The  nerves  are  alwavs  covered  with  the. 
skin,  and  when  by  accident  the  skin  is  abraded,  we  feel  pain, 
but  we  are  conscious  of  no  perception.  Nor,  in  fact,  is  the 
skin  itself  ever  in  absolute  contact  with  the  external  object. 
A  layer  of  air  always  interposes  between  them. 

When  the  hand  is  thus  brought  into  proximity  to  an 
external  body,  we  are  immediately  made  conscious  of  its 
existence.  In  this  act  there  may,  I  think,  be  discovered 
both  a  sensation  and  a  perception  I  have  referred  to  this 
fact  in  a  previous  section.  Nothing  further  will  here  be 
necessary  than  to  appeal  to  the  experience  of  every 
individual.  Let  any  one  place  his  hand  lightly  upon  a 
piece  of  marble,  or  any  external  object,  fixing  his  attention 
as  much  as  possible  upon  his  sensation,  and  he  will,  I  think, 
find  himself  conscious  of  a  feeling  into  which  the  idea  of 
oxtcmiility  does  not  enter,  and  which  gives  him  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  qualities  of  body.  Let  him  now  take  up  the 
marble,  and  attempt  to  cognize  its  several  qualities,  and  I 
think  he  will  be  conscious  of  a  very  difTcrent  knowledge, 
involving  the  notions  of  externality,  hanlncss,  smoothness, 
form,  and,  it  may  be,  some  others.  In  this  case  he  pays  no 
attention  to  his  sensations.  It  does  not  occur  to  him  that 
they  exist.  All  he  is  conscious  of  is  the  various  qualities 
of  tho  external  object,  and  of  these  he  obtains  a  very  dis- 
tinct cognition.  It  may  require  a  small  cfibrt  at  first  to 
distinguish  these  two  forms  of  knowledge  from  each  other, 
but  I  am  persuaded  that  any  one  may  do  it  who  will  be  at 
the  pains  for  a  few  times  to  make  the  experiment. 

The  perceptions  given  us  by  this  sense  are  exceedingly 

definite  and  perfect.    By  it  we  not  only  know  that  a  quality 

exists,  but  also  what  it  is.     We  have  the  knowledge,  and 

we  know  what  it  is  that  produces  it.     In   this   manner  the 

6 


62  INTELLBJTtAL   PHILOSOPHr. 

perceptions  by  touch  lie  at  the  foundation  of  all  our  knowl* 
edge  of  an  external  world.  We  rely  upon  them  with  more 
certainty  than  any  other.  Many  of  the  qualities  revealed 
•  10  us  by  touch  are  also  revealed  to  us  by  sight.  If,  how- 
ever, in  any  case,  we  have  reason  to  doubt  the  evidence  of 
sight,  we  instinctively  apply  to  the  sense  of  touch  in  order 
to  verify  our  visual  judgment. 

The  principal  qualities  cognized  by  touch,  besides  exter- 
nality, are  extension,  hardness,  softness,  form,  size,  motion, 
situation,  and  roughness  or  smoothness.  Besides  these, 
however,  there  are  various  sensations  of  pain  and  pleasure 
given  by  this  sense,  the  specific  efiect  of  particular  agents^ 
as  of  electricity  and  galvanism,  the  sensation  of  tickling, 
and  many  others  of  the  same  kind.  To  this  sense  have  also 
been  ascribed  the  sensation  of  hunger  and  thirst,  and  the 
various  affections  belonging  to  our  sensitive  organism. 

Confining  ourselves,  however,  to  ihQ  perceptions  of  touch, 
we  find  that  they  are  almost  exclusively  given  us  by  the 
hand.  In  this  manner  we  obtain  a  distinct  knowledc^e  of 
extension,  of  size,  of  hardness,  softness  and  form.  When 
the  body  is  small,  or  the  discrimination  delicate,  we  rely 
almost  wholly  on  the  perceptive  power  of  the  fingers.  In 
this  manner  we  obtain,  experimentally,  nearly  all  our  knowl- 
edge of  the  primary  quaHties  of  body. 

We  may  here  remark  the  difference  between  the  knowl- 
edge obtained  by  this  sense,  and  that  obtained  by  the  senses 
previously  considered.  The  others  give  us  each  a  particular 
class  of  sensations,  and  only  one  kind  of  knowledge.  By 
touch  we  are  conscious  of  heat  and  cold,  together  with  a 
great  variety  of  other  sensations,  and  also  of  the  various 
perceptions  of  primary  qualities  mentioned  above  Tho 
others  give  us  no  direct  knowledge  of  an  external  world. 
Ihis  gives  us  that  knowledge  directly  and  immediately. 
J  he  others,  when  the  existence  of  an  external  world  is  sag- 


THE    INDIVIDUAL    SENSES.  06 

gested,  give  us  no  knowledge  of  its  qualities.  This  givea 
us  a  positive  knowledge  of  several  of  the  most  essential  of 
them.  We  know,  for  instance,  that  form  is  precisely  what 
it  appears  to  be,  and  that  our  knowledge  of  it  exactly  con- 
forms to  the  reality.  We  know  that  it  must,  under  all 
circumstances,  be  exactly  what  we  perceive  it  to  be.  We 
thus  derive  from  it  a  distinct  conception ;  we  can  make  it 
an  object  of  thought,  and  can  form  concerning  it  the  most 
complicated  processes  of  reasoning.  When  we  see  a  blind 
person  read  with  his  fingers,  we  must  be  convinced  that  he 
has  as  definite  a  conception  of  the  forms  of  letters  as  we 
ourselves  have  by  sight.  We  thus  learn  that  not  only  does 
this  sense  enable  us  to  make  large  additions  to  our  knowl- 
edge, but  that  it  is  really  the  original  source  of  a  great  part 
of  our  knowledge  of  the  world  around  us.  Of  its  intrinsic 
importance  we  may  form  an  opinion  from  the  fiict  that  there 
is  no  case  on  record  in  which  a  human  being  has  been  bom 
without  it.  By  it  alone,  as  in  the  case  of  Laura  Bridgman, 
we  may  learn  our  relations  to  the  world  around  us ;  may 
be  taught  the  use  of  language,  and  may  even  acquire  the 
power  of  writing  it  with  considerable  accuracy.  This  sense 
is  lost  only  in  paralysis,  and  in  those  cases  in  which  the 
individual,  drawing  near  to  dissolution,  has  no  farther  need 
Qf  any  of  the  organs  of  sense. 

REFERENCE. 
Reid'a  Inquiry,  chap.  5,  sections  1,  2. 


SECTION  -VIII. —  THE  SENSE    OF   SIGHT. 

The  organ  of  vision  is  the  eye.     It  is  an  optical  mstru- 
Bient,  of  exquisite  construction,  adapted  in  the  most  perfect 


64  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

manner  to  accomplish  the  purposes  of  its  formation.  At 
will,  we  can  admit  the  light  or  surround  ourselves  with  total 
darkness.  As  we  frequently  pass  from  darkness  to  light, 
the  eye  is  provided  with  a  curtain,  by  means  of  wliich  the 
pupil  is  either  expanded  or  contracted,  so  that  no  more  light 
than  is  required  falls  upon  the  retina.  We  can  turn  the 
eyes  in  every  direction.  By  them  we  can  discern  objects 
either  gigantic  or  microscopic,  within  a  few  inches  of  us, 
or  at  the  distance  of  several  miles.  It  gives  us  instan- 
taneously a  knowledge  of  the  qualities  of  bodies,  which 
could  be  discovered  by  the  other  senses  only  after  a  long 
and  patient  investigation,  and  of  many  qualities  which,  with- 
out this  sense,  could  never  be  discovered  at  all.  Although 
capable  of  such  complicated  action,  and  always  in  use  ex- 
cept when  we  sleep,  the  eye  is  comparatively  seldom  liable 
to  accident  or  disease.  It  is  protected  from  ordinary  vio- 
lence by  the  overhanging  brows.  The  fine  particles  of  dust 
which  fall  upon  it  are  perpetually  washed  away  by  the  copi- 
bined  action  of  the  eyelids  and  the  lachrymal  gland.  Ite 
rapid  and  incessant  change  of  position,  by  calling  into  ac- 
tion different  portions  of  the  optic  nerve,  preserves  it  from 
severe  exhaustion.  Thus  it  happens  that  a  large  portion  of 
mankind  pass  through  life  without  ever  knowing  that  their 
eyes  are  even  liable  to  disease. 

The  manner  in  which  the  impression  is  produced  upon 
the  organ  of  vision  has  been  fully  explained  by  physiolo- 
gists. The  human  eye  is  a  small  globe,  so  constructed  that 
the  rays  of  light  coming  from  a  visible  body  which  fall  upon 
It,  are  formed  into  a  small  image  upon  its  inner  posterior 
surface.  This  image  is  inverted.  The  rays  of  light  first 
flill  upon  the  visible  object,  and  are  from  it  reflected  upon 
the  eye.  Of  course,  where  there  is  no  light,  that  is,  when 
no  rays  can  be  either  received  or  reflected,  there  can  be  no 
vision. 


THE    INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  65 

Ovei  the  back  part  of  the  eye  is  spread  out  an  expansioD 
of  the  optic  nerve,  called  the  retina.  Immediately  behind 
this,  is  a  thin  membrane,  on  which  is  laid  a  black  pigment 
for  the  absorption  of  the  light  producing  the  image.  In 
order  to  produce  distinct  vision,  this  image  must  be  accu- 
rately defined.  Hence,  in  twilight,  when  the  light  is  insuf- 
ficient, an  object  is  but  imperfectly  seen.  When,  owing  to 
slight  malformation  of  the  eye,  as  in  near-sighted  or  in  aged 
persons,  the  image  is  not  accurately  delineated  on  the  retina, 
mion  is  also  indistinct;  nor  can  the  infirmity  be  relieved 
until  by  artificial  means  we  cause  the  rays  of  light  to  form 
a  true  image  on  the  expansion  of  the  optic  nerve.  If  the 
nerve  become  paralyzed,  vision  ceases.  If  it  be  inflamed, 
vision  is  so  intensely  painful  that  the  patient  cannot,  with- 
out severe  sufiering,  bear  the  least  glimmer  of  light.  The 
nerves  of  vision  do  not  proceed  from  each  eye  directly  to  the 
brain,  but  first  meet  at  what  is  called  the  decussation  of  the 
optic  nerve,  where  their  fibres  intermingle,  after  which  they 
separate  and  enter  the  substance  of  the  brain.  What  pur- 
pose is  answered  by  an  arrangement  so  different  from  that 
.  observed  in  the  other  nerves  of  sense,  has  not  yet  been  dis- 
covered. 

When,  under  normal  circumstances,  the  visual  image  is 
formed  on  the  retina,  a  mental  state  succeeds  which  we  call 
vision.  What  this  is  we  all  know  by  experience.  The 
question,  however,  remains.  Is  sight  a  sensation  or  a  per- 
ception ?  and,  if  a  perception,  is  it  like  the  sense  of  touch 
preceded  by  a  sensation  ?  Before  proceeding  further,  let  us 
attempt  to  answer  these  questions. 

Is  sight  a  sensation  or  a  perception  ?  A  sensation  is  a 
simple,  knowledge,  a  state  of  mind  terminating  in  itself, 
and,  so  far  as  our  consciousness  is  concerned,  having  no 
original  connection  with  anything  external.  Now,  if  merely 
the  cof^nition  of  color  is  considered,  we  must  admit  that  it 
6* 


gg  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

resembles  in  many  respects,  the  cognition  of  hearmg.    The 
notion  or  knowledge  of  red,  for  instance,  is  an  affection  of 
the  mind,  and  wholly  unlike  the  cause  from  which  it  pre 
ceeds.     No  one  supposes  that  the  rose  has  the  simple  knowl 
edge  which  we  designate  by  the  word  red.     And,  moreover, 
this  simple  knowledge  gives  us  not  the  most  distant  idea  of 
its  cause.     Sight  gives  us  no  more  knowledge  of  that  qual« 
ity  in  bodies  which  produces  in  us  the  notion  of  color,  than 
hearing  designates  the  size  and  form  of  the  instrument 
which  produces  the  sound  to  which  we  are  listening,  or  the 
atmospheric  change  which  precedes  the  clap  of  thunder  at 
which  we  tremble.     In  this  respect  the  act  of  seeing  resem- 
bles a  mere  sensation. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that,  although 
the  knowledge  of  color  is  a  sensation,  a  subjective  affection, 
yet  we  are  so  made  as  to  refer  this  knowledge  directly  and 
immediately  to  the  external  object.  When  we  reflect  upon 
the  subject  we  know  that  the  notion  of  red  is  a  spiritual 
affection,  and  yet  that  affection  seems  to  be  a  part  of  the 
rose.  When  we  are  conscious  of  an  odor,  we  do  not,  so  far 
as  the  sense  of  smelling  is  concerned,  assign  it  to  any  ex- 
ternal location.  When  we  hear  a  sound,  so  far  as  this  sense 
is  concerned,  we  do  not  determine  the  place  of  its  origin. 
The  music  seems  to  float  around  and  envelop  us,  like  the 
atmosphere.  But  when  we  are  sensible  of  a  color,  we  see 
it  in  a  determined  locality,  we  see  it  now  and  there,  and  at 
once  fix  the  limit  of  its  existence. 

Here,  however,  it  may  be  said,  that  in  this  respect  the 
perception  by  sight  is  similar  to  that  of  touch ;  that  in 
touch  we  equally  transfer  our  notion  of  form  to  the  object 
which  we  perceive.  The  cases,  I  admit,  are  similar,,  but  I 
think  by  no  means  identical.  When  I  feel  of  a  cube,  and 
obtain  a  knowledge  of  its  form,  it  is  obvious  tlmt  the  thought 
of  my  mind  is  not  like  the  cube — ^that  is,  it  is  not  so]id, 


THE   INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  67 

equiangular  and  equilateral.  It  is,  nevertheless,  a  positive 
knowledge  that  such  are  the  qualities  of  the  cube.  I  know 
that  the  thought  of  my  mind  represents  to  me  these  quali- 
ties just  as  they  are.  They  are  the  sufficient  cause  of  that 
particular  idea,  and  nothing  else  could  have  been  the  cause 
of  it.  It  is  a  definite  know^ledge  of  a  mode  of  the  not  me, 
admitting  of  no  intermediate  question.  When,  however, 
I  see  a  color,  the  case  is  quite  dissimilar.  My  notion  of 
color  gives  me  no  knowledge  of  its  cause.  I  have  by  it  no 
knowledge  of  a  particular  mode  of  the  not  me,  which,  of 
necessity,  if  it  produce  in  me  any  knowledge,  must  produce 
precisely  that  of  which  I  am  conscious.  My  sense  of  sight 
does  not  inform  ma  at  all  what  color  (objective)  is.  That 
the  existence  of  light  is  necessary  to  it,  all  men  know ;  but 
what  light  is,  in  what  manner  it  produces  color,  whether  by 
rectilinear  rays  reflected  from  the  object,  or  by  a  succession 
of  waves  of  a  universal  medium,  is  yet  a  matter  of  dispute 
among  philosophers.  In  the  case  of  sight,  then,  if  the 
question  be  asked,  what  produces  this  knowledge,  we  can  give 
no  answer.  In  the  case  of  touch,  we  answer  at  once,  the 
form  of  a  cube, —  we  all  know  what  that  form  is, —  and  the 
subject  admits  of  no  farther  discussion. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  have  made  this  distinctly  ob- 
vious to  others,  or  whether  I  have  analyzed  the  act  of 
vdsion  accurately.  I  have,  however,  endeavored  as  well  as 
I  am  able  to  state  the  facts  in  the  case  as  they  appear  to  my 
own  consciousness. 

Is  there  in  sight,  as  in  touch,  a  sensation  antecedent  to 
perception,  or  a  sensation  which  it  is  in  our  power  to  dis- 
tinguish from  perception  ?  For  myself,  I  have  never  been 
able  to  discover  it.  I  place  my  hand,  under  differenf  con- 
ditions, on  a  cube,  and  I  am  able  to  distinguish  the  sensation 
from,  the  perception,  and  can  make  either  of  them,  sepa- 
.  rately,  a  matter  of  thought.     I  can  discover  no  such  dis- 


68  XNTliLLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

tinct  states  of  mind  in  the  act  of  vision.  I  open  my  eyes 
I  see  a  book.  The  first  thing  of  which  I  am  conscious  is 
the  cognition  of  an  external  object.  I  am  conscious  of  no 
intermediate  or  different  mental  state.  I  must,  therefore, 
believe  that  none  exists.  It  may  be  said  that  one  has  existed, 
but  that,  from  long  neglect,  we  have  lost  the  power  of  ob- 
serving it.  To  this  I  reply,  that  we  habitually  neglect  the 
sensation  in  the  perception  of  touch,  but,  when  it  is  pointed 
out  to  us,  we  easily  recognize  it.  If  it  existed  in  the  sense 
of  seeing,  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  not  as  easily  ob- 
serve it.  The  simple  fact  seems  to  be,  that,  as  soon  as  wo 
are  conscious  of  the  knowledge  of  color,  we  are,  at  the  same 
instant,  conscious  of  the  knowledge  of  the  object  in  which 
the  color  seems  to  reside.  We  cannot  separate  the  one 
from  the  other. 

The  perception  of  an  object  as  endowed  with  color  is, 
however,  in  some  respects,  unlike  the  perception  of  an  ob- 
ject as  endowed  with  form. 

The  perception  by  touch  is  fixed  and  definite,  in  all  posi- 
tions remaining  precisely  the  same.  The  perception  by 
sight  varies  by  every  change  of  position.  For  instance,  if 
a  small  cube  is  placed  in  my  hands,  I  turn  it  over  and  feel 
of  It  on  all  sides,  and  it  ever  presents  itself  to  me  as  the 
same  figure.  On  the  other  hand,  I  look  upon  it  with  one  of 
Its  faces  directly  before  me,  and  it  presents  one  appearance. 
1  turn  one  of  the  angles  towards  me,  and  it  presents  another. 
1  change  its  position  a  hundred  times,  and  at  every  time  it 
presents  a  different  appearance. 

Again,  the^perception  by  touch  is  unaffected  by  distance. 
I  feel  of  a  cube,  and  I  derive  a  clear  knowledge  of  its  form. 
I  extend  my  arms  to  their  utmost  length,  and  the  perception 

do  s  nir*         ?"'  ''  ''  '  "^^^  ^^'  -^  -y  -'--  ' f  i^ 

iTook.  ^'"^\       '  ''  ''  ""''  ^  ^^^^  '^'  P^^^^Pti<^-  of  sight. 
I  look  at  a  cube  at  a  distance  of  twelve  inches  from  my 


i 


THE    INDIVIDUAL    SENSES.  69 

eyes ,  it  has  one  magnitude.  I  remove  it  ten  feet  oflF,  and 
its  apparent  magnitude  is  ten  times  less.  Its  color  is  less 
vivid,  and  its  outline  less  distinct.  I  remove  it  to  the  dis- 
tance of  an  hundred  feet,  and  it  is  diminished  to '  an  indis- 
tinct speck.  If  I  would  represent  it  to  another  person,  T 
must  represent  it  thus  indistinctly.  Hence  the  distinction 
made  between  tactual  and  visual  form  and  magnitude. 

We  have  the  means  of  associating  these  two  ideas  together 
in  a  manner  hereafter  to  be  considered.  We  are  able  to 
translate  the  language  of  sight  into  the  language  of  touch. 
This,  however,  would  be  unnecessary,  were  there  not  this 
difference  in  the  two  perceptions  to  which  I  have  here  re- 
ferred. 

If  we  observe  the  relation  in  which  the  senses  stand  to 
each  other,  we  shall  at  once  perceive  the  importance  of 
sight.  Smell  and  taste  give  us  simple  knowledges,  without 
any  cognition  of  the  not  me,  and,  also,  I  think,  without  the 
power  of  forming  conceptions.  Hearing  suggests  the  not  me, 
and  gives  us  the  power  of  forming  conceptions ;  but  it  gives 
us  no  knowledge  of  any  of  the  attributes  of  the  sonorous 
body,  save  its  power  of  awakening  this  sensation.  Touch 
gives  us  an  immediate  and  positive  knowledge  of  the  not 
me,  and  of  all  its  primary  attributes,  and  leaves  upon  the 
mind  a  most  definite  conception.  Sight  enables  us  to  deter- 
mine most  of  the  qualities  revealed  to  us  by  touch,  not  only 
near  at  hand,  but  at  great  distances ;  by  the  delicacy  of  its 
language,  it  enables  us  to  discover  many  of  the  qualities  re- 
vealed by  the  other  senses ;  and,  while  performing  all  these 
functions,  it  is  a  source  of  most  exquisite  pleasure. 

That  the  conceptions  of  sight  are  more  definite  than  those 
received  by  our  sense  of  touch,  I  will  not  affirm.  It  is, 
however,  certain  that  they  are  much  more  easily  retained 
in  the  memory.  When  we  recollect  an  external  object,  I 
think  we  much  more  readily  recall  the  visual  conception 


70  INTELLBCTt'AL    PHILOSOPHY. 

thar.  any  other.  I  may  feel  of  a  sphere,  and  obtain  a 
knowledge  of  its  form  and  magnitude ;  but  when  I  think  of 
it,  the  visual  appearance  presents  itself  most  readily  to  my 
mind.  Almost  all  the  conceptions  of  figurative  language 
are  derived  from  sight.  The  power  of  originating  such  con- 
ceptions is  called  imagination,  or  the^ower  of  forming  im^ 
ages.  The  fine  arts,  with  the  exception  of  music,  address 
themselves  wholly  to  this  mode  of  perception.  Almost  all 
the  other  senses  are,  in  some  manner,  tributary  to  it,  and 
thus  enable  us  to  employ  it  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  most 
varied  and  distant  forms  of  knowledge. 

Let  us  now  propeed  to  inquire,  what  are  the  qualities  of 
the  external  world  which  are  cognized  by  means  of  this 
sense  ? 

1.  If  the  above  remark  be  true,  that  we  are  so  made  aa 
to  refer  our  visual  conception  to  the  external  object,  it  will 
follow  that  we  derive  our  cognition  of  externality  as  truly 
from  this  sense  as  from  touch.  Touch  gives  us  a  distinct 
and  immediate  notion*  of  the  existence  and  qualities  of  an 
external  object.  Sight  gives  us  a  conception  of  an  unknown 
cause  of  a  known  effect :  it  also  teaches  us  that  this  cause  is 
numerically  distinct  from  ourselves,  and  assigns  to  it  its 
position  in  space. 

The  existence  of  this  function  of  vision  has  frequently 
been  denied,  and  it  has  been  affirmed  that,  until  aided  by 
touch,  sight  gives  us  no  idea  of  externality,  any  more  than 
smell  or  hearing.  The  principal  ground  for  this  opinion  is 
the  authority  of  Cheselden,^  who,  long  since,  published  an 
account  of  a  young  man  whom  he  couched  for  cataract,  and 
who,  on  restoration  to  sight,  thought,  at  first,  that  every 
object  touched  his  eyes.  On  this  statement  I  would  observe, 
tbit,  on  the  first  admission  of  light  to  the  unnaturally  sensi* 

•  Philosophical  Transactions,  1778,  No.  402. 


THE    INDIVIDUAL    SENSES.  71 

Kve  retina,  a  sensation  unlike  to  sight  would  be  likely  to 
Eirise,  which  the  patient  might  very  probably  designate  by 
Baying  that  the  object  touched  his  eyes.  Every  one/  in 
passing  from  darkness  into  a  strong  light,  has  felt  a  sensa- 
tion of  this  kind,  and  he  may  remember  that  it  is  more 
nearly  akin  to  touch  than  to  sight.  If  we  had  before  known 
everything  by  touch,  we  should  naturally  use  this  language 
in  describing  it.  On  this  account,  I  think  the  case  does  not 
warrant  the  stress  that  has  been  laid  upon  it.  But,  secondly, 
if  it  were  so,  if  he  thought  that  the  objects  touched  his . 
eye,  then,  as  Sir  W.  Hamilton  has  happily  remarked,  "  still 
they  appeared  external  to  the  eye,"  for  it  is  evident  that 
two  things  cannot  'seem  to  touch  each  other,  unless,  at  the 
same  time,  also,  they  appear  numerically  distinct.  That 
which  is  numerically  distinct  from  the  eye  must  be  the  non 
ego.  Besides,  the  young  of  all  animals,  as  soon  as  they 
open  their  eyes,  recognize  external  objects  as  external,  and, 
with  evident  design,  move  either  towards  or  away  from 
them.  In  fact,  they  use  their  eyes  at  first  just  as  they  use 
them  afterwards.  A  new-born  infant  teaches  us  the  same 
truth.  Who  ever  saw  a  young  child  place  its  hand  on  its 
eyes  when  an  object  was  placed  before  it  ?  It  reaches  out 
its  hand  towards  the  object,  without,  it  is  true,  any  correct 
idea  of  distance,  but  with  a  correct  conception  of  external- 
ity and  direction.  I  think  that  all  our  observation  upon 
our  own  use  of  this  faculty  must  lead  us  to  the  same  con- 
clusion. 

2.  From  this  sense,  exclusively,  we  obtain  our  knowle^dge 
of  color.  Of  the  nature  of  this  cognition  I  have  already 
had  occasion  to  express  my  opinion.  It  is  a  simple  knowl- 
edge in  itself,  an  affection  of  the  sentient  being,  which,  how- 
ever,  we  naturally  and  immediately  refer  to  the  external 
object.  Of  this  quality,  thus  recognized,  the  varieties  are 
numerous;  and  they  are  indefinitely  multiplied  ty  the  cir 


J2  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

cuiDStances  of  light  and  shade,  distance  and  proximity, 
degree  of  illumination,  and.  many  others.  Hence  it  is  that 
external  nature  presents  to  us  an  exhaustless  and  ever- varied 
scene  of  beauty  and  sublimity.  Every  object  in  the  world 
around  us,  which  the  hand  of  God  has  formed,  is  made  to 
minister  to  our  happiness.  But  this  is  only  a  small  part  of 
the  benefit  which  we  derive  from  this  function  of  sight. 
Every  change  of  color,  and  every  variation  in  the  degree  of 
color,  is  indicative  of  some  change  which  is  originally  cog- 
nized by  some  other  sense.  Hence  it  is  that  sight,  which 
acts  instantaneously,  and  cognizes  its  objects  at  large  dis- 
tances, is  enabled,  by  changes  of  visual  appearance,  to  detect 
an  immense  number  of  qualities  which  vision  alone  could 
never  hsive  discovered.  All  the  senses  become  tributary  to 
it,  and  it  does  the  work  of  all.  Of  the  manner  in  which 
this  is  done,  we  shall  treat  more  particularly  in  the  follow- 
ing section. 

3.  To  the  qualities  of  external  bodies,  rendered  cognizable 
by  sight,  we  must  undoubtedly  add  extension.  If  we  refer 
our  notion  of  color  to  an  external  object,  I  do  not  see  how 
it  is  possible  to  exclude  from  our  minds  the  knowledge  that 
the  colored  object  is  extended.  If  we  look  upon  anything 
colored,  that  color  covers  a  definite  portion  of  space.  Let 
any  one  look  upon  a  surface  marked  alternately  by  different 
colors,  and  the  limitations  of  each  are  distinctly  defined. 
Hence^  also,  arises  the  idea  of  form  in  one  dimension.  We 
can  as  well  cognize  a  circle  or  square  by  sight  as  we  can 
do  it  by  touch.  We  read  as  rapidly  by  the  eye  as  the  bl:2id 
by  their  fingers. 

4.  Lastly,  we  must  now  add  solidity,  or  extension  in 
three  dimensions,  to  the  perceptions  given  us  by  sight. 
Until  quite  lately,  this  power  has  been  denied  to  the  faculty 
of  vision.  It  has  been  the  generally  received  opinion  that 
sight  gives  us  nothing  but  the  different  shades  of  color. 


THE    INDIVIDUAL    SENSES.  78 

represented  on  a  plane  surface,  as  we  perceive  them  in  a 
painting ;  but  that  by  touch  we  learn  to  associate  the 
shading  with  the  form,  and  thus  indirectly  learn  to  cognize 
solidity  by  the  eye.  This  view  was  universally  received, 
until  the  researches  of  Professor  Wheatstone,  of  King's  Col- 
lege, London,  threw  new  light  upon  the  whole  subject.  The 
brilliant  discoveries  of  this  philosopher  have  added  a  new 
function  to  the  organ  of  vision,  and  demonstrated  that,  by 
the  eye  alone,  we  are  enabled  to  cognize  solidity  as  well  as 
simple  extension.  He  has  shown  that,  in  consequence  of 
binocular  vision,  we  are  able  to  determine  the  form  of 
bodies  within  a  certain  distance.  The  manner  in  which  this 
is  accomplished  is  as  fallows :  It  must  be  obvious  to  every 
one,  that,  inasmuch  as  the  right  and  left  eye  occupy  different 
positions  in  space,  the  images  which  an  external  object  forms 
on  the  two  eyes  must  be  slightly  dissimilar.  I  look  upon 
an  inkstand  on  the  table  before  me,  closing  first  my  right 
eye  and  then  the  left.  I  can  clearly  discover  a  differ- 
ence between  the  right  and  left  image.  Now,  it  is  this 
difference  of  figure  in  the  two  images  that  gives  us  the 
notion  of  solidity.  This  is  proved  by  the  stereoscope,  an 
invention  of  Professor  Wheatstone.  This  instrument  is  so 
constructed  that  we  can  see  separately  the  image  of  an 
object  formed  on  the  right  eye,  and  then  that  formed  on  the 
left. 

When  seen  in  this  manner,  each  figure  appears  to  us  as  .a 
mere  drawing  on  a  plane  surface.  When  now  we  look  at 
them  with  both  eyes,  we  do  not  perceive  two  plane  drawings, 
but  a  distinct,  and,  I  had  almost  said,  palpable  solid.  It  is 
however  evident  that  this  effect  can  be  produced  only  when 
the  body  is  at  so  small  a  distance,  and  of  such  a  magnitude, 
that  two  images  can  be  formed.  If  it  be  far  off,  so  that 
the  rays  become  parallel,  and  thus  form  the  same  image  on 
both  eyes,  no  effect  from  binocular  vision  is  produced.  We 
7 


74  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

observe  the  truth  of  this  law  in  our  daily  experience.  When 
we  look  upon  a  well-executed  painting,  every  figure,  when 
viewed  from  a  proper  position,  appears  to  stand  out  from 
the  canvas.  It  seems  to  us  impossible  that  it  should  be  a 
plane  surface.  But  if  we  draw  near,  the  illusion  vanishes. 
Wlien  we  arrive  at  the  position  at  which  the  figures,  if  solid^ 
would  form  different  images  on  the  two  eyes,  and  no  such  i 
difference  exists,  we  know  at  once  that  the  surface  is  a  plane,  t 
If  it  be  objected  that  persons  with  one  eye  are  able  to  dis-  1 
tinguish  solidity,  it  is  replied  that  they  do  it  less  perfectly  / 
than  others ;  that  they  are  obliged  to  do  it  by  observing  ii 
the  shading  of  the  surface,  and  that  they  are  frequently  seen  t 
to  move  the  head  in  a  horizontal  direction  rapidly,  in  order  i 
to  form  the  different  images  on  the  same  eye.^ 

In  consequence  of  this  discovery,  a  very  beautiful  optical  i 
instrument  has  been  invented,  by  which  the  effect  of  » 
daguerreotype  pictures  has  been  much  improved.  A  picture  i 
is  taken  separately  for  each  eye.  When  these  are  looked  i 
at  together,  through  glasses  adapted  to  the  purpose,  we  per-  \ 
ceive  only  one  figure  ;  but  it  has  all  the  appearance  of 
solidity.  Daguerreotypes  of  statuary  have  thus  all  the 
effect  of  the  original  marble. 

The  question  has  frequently  been  asked,  How  do  we  see 
objects  single  with  two  eyes  ?  To  this  question  I  do  not 
know  that  any  more  satisfactory  answer  has  been  given  than 
the  plain  statement  of  the  fact  that  so  we  were  created.  It 
seems  to  me  not  half  so  strange  as  the  fact  that  we  see  at 
all.  But  I  would  inquire,  is  it  more  remarkable  that  we 
receive  a  single  impression  from  two  organs  of  sight,  than 
from  any  of  our  other  senses  ?  All  our  nerves  of  sense  are 
double.  Every  other  sense  has  a  right  and  a  left  nerve  ;  yet 
all  the  impressions  made  upon  us  from  a  single   object  are 

♦Transactions  of  the  Roya   Society,  yoI.  56,  p.  371.     June  21,  183^ 


THE   INDIVIDUAL   SENSES.  76 

single.  Each  ear  receives  an  auditory  irapulse.  yet  we  hear 
but  one  sound.  When  we  feel  of  an  object,  each  hand 
receives  a  distinct  impression,  yet  we  perceive  but  one 
object.  It  does  not  seem  strange  to  us  that  we  do  not  hear 
two  sounds  with  two  ears,  or  that  we  do  not  feel  two  cubes 
when  we  hold  one  with  our  two  hands..  The  case,  however, 
seems  to  me  precisely  similar  to  that  in  which  we  look  upon 
one  object  with  our  two  eyes.  The  sense  of  sight,  then, 
merely  conforms  to  the  general  law  by  which  all  our  senses 
are  governed.  It  would  seem,  then,  unnecessary  to  proceed 
farther  than  to  refer  the  case  of  sight  to  the  general  law 
of  the  senses.  The  question  thus  resolves  itself  into  the 
general  one.  How  are  single  impressions  made  vrith  double 
organs  ?  To  this  I  do  not  know  that  any  answer  has  been 
either  given  or  attempted. 

x\gain,  it  has  been  asked,  How  do  we  see  objects  erect, 
when  the  image  on  the  retina  is  inverted?  Dr.  Reid 
answers  this  question  by  stating  it  as  a  general  law  that  we 
see  every  object  in  the  direction  of  the  right  line  that 
passes  from  the  picture  of  the  object  on  the  retina  to  the 
centre  of  the  eye,  ••  as  the  rays  from  the  upper  part  of  the 
object  form  the  lower  part  of  the  image,  and,  vice  versa^ 
we  see  the  upper  part  of  the  object  with  the  lower  part  of 
the  retina,  and  the  contrary ;  and  thus  we  see  the  object  as 
it  is,  that  is,  we  see  it  erect."  In  how  far  this  relieves  the 
diflBculty,  or  carries  us  back  to  a  more  general  law,  I  will  not 
pretend  to  determine.  Tome  it  does  not  seem  to  throw  that 
light  on  the  subject  which  seems  obvious  to  others.  I  have 
thought  that,  possibly,  this  effect  was  in  some  way  connected 
with  the  decussation  of  the  optic  nerve.  No  nerves,  except 
those  of  sight,  unite  before  entering  the  brain,  and  in  no 
other  case  is  this  peculiarity  observed.  May  there  not  be 
some  connection  between  the  facts  ? 

Persons  who  have  been  couched  for  cataract  see  objects 


76  INIELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

erect  as  soon  as  their  power  of  vision  is  restored.  At  least, 
Cheselden  and  other  observers  have  never  stated  anything 
to  the  contrary.  This  could  hardly  have  been  the  case  if 
so  striking  a  phenomenon  had  passed  under  their  notice. 
To  this  there  seems  but  one  exception.  Sir  W,  Hamilton 
quotes  a  case  from  Professor  Leidenfrost,  of  Duisburg,  1793, 
in  which  the  fact  was  otherwise.  A  young  man.  blind 
from  birth,  had  reached  his  seventeenth  year,  when  his  sight 
was  restored  after  an  attack  of  ophthalmia.  When  he  first 
saw  men,  they  seemed  to  him  inverted ;  that  is,  their  heads 
were  towards  his  feet ;  and  trees  and  other  objects  seemed 
to  hold  the  same  position.  I  am  unable  to  account  for 
this  difference  from  ordinary  experience.  I  would  only 
remark,  that  we  are  always  liable  to  err  in  reasoning  from 
instances  of  this  kind,  because,  when  the  condition  of  an 
organ  is  decidedly  abnormal,  it  is  impossible  to  say  to  what 
extent  and  in  what  direction  the  abnormal  cause  has  been 
exerted. 

REFERENCES. 


Sense  of  siglit — Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  6. 

Sight  the  noblest  of  our  tsenses, 

No  sensation  in  sight, 

Relation  of  visual  to  real  figure. 

Color  a  quality  of  body, 

Parallel  motioi^  of  the  eyes, 

How  we  see  objects  erect. 

How  we  see  objects  single. 

We  know  not  how  the  image  on  the  retina  causes  vision,  section  12 

Carpentei  's  Physiology,  article  si^ht. 

Cheselden's  case— Phil.  Transactions,  1728,  No.  402. 

W^heatstone's  paper,  Phil.  Trans.,  vol.  56,  p.  371. 

Prof.  Lierlenfrost's  case.  Sir  W.  Hamilton  —  Reid,  p.  16a 


**  section  1. 

*'  section  8. 

"  sections  23  and  7. 

"  sections  4  and  5. 

"  section  10. 

•*  sections  11  and  12. 

**  section  13. 


ACQUIRED  PERCEPTIONS.  7? 


SECTION  IX.  —  OF  ACQUIRED  PERCEPTIONS,  OR  THE  INTER- 
CHANGE ABLE  USE  OF  THE  SENSES. 

It  has  been  already  remarked  that  each  of  our  senses 
furnishes  us  with  a  distinct  species  of  knowledge.  We 
cognize  odors  by  smell,  sounds  by  the  ear,  colors  by  the 
eye,  and  so  of  all  the  rest.  Neither  of  the  senses  can  be 
used  in  the  place  of  the  other.  We  can  neither  see  with 
our  ears,  hear  with  our  fincrers.  nor  smell  with  our  tongue. 
Such  is  manifestly  the  fact,  if  our  senses  be  considered 
separately. 

But  when  the  senses  are  considered  collectively,  we  find 
that  the  above  statement  does  not  convey  the  whole  truth. 
One  sense  seems  to  convey  to  us  knowledge  which  could 
have  been  gained  only  by  another.  A  single  perception 
will  frequently  furnish  us  with  knowledge,  which  we  find, 
upon  reflection,  to  have  been  originally  given  us  by  the 
action  of  another  sense^  or  oy  the  combined  action  of  several 
of  the  senses.  Considered  in  this  light,  our  whole  sensual 
organism  seems  to  be  one  complicated  system,  designed  in 
the  most  rapid  and  convenient  manner  to  make  us  ac- 
quainted with  the  external  world.  We  find  ourselves,  in  a 
thousand  cases,  using  one  sense  for  another,  whenever  we 
can  do  it  with  advantage ;  and  if  by  misfortune  we  are  de- 
prived of  any  particular  sense,  it  is  surprising  to  observe 
how  readily  the  remaining  senses  come  to  our  aid,  and  enable 
us  to  cognize  objects  in  a  manner  which,  at  first  view,  would 
seem  utterly  impossible. 

The  process  by  which  this  effect  is  produced  is  the  fol- 
lowing :  We  have  already  observed  that  the  variety  of 
impressions  which  may  be  received  by  several  of  our  senses 
is  beyond  the  power  of  computation.  Who  can  estimate  the 
infinite  number  of  sounds  which  we  are  capable  of  hearing  : 
7^ 


78  INTELLECIOJAL   PHILOjOPHY. 

or  of  color  and  shading  which  we  are  capable  of  seeing, 
and  of  distinguishing  from  each  other  ?  Now,  we  find  that 
a  quality  cognized  by  one  sense  is,  by  the  kind  provision  of 
our  Creator,  connected  with  some  modification  of  a  quality 
perceived  by  another  sense.  Observing  this  connection,  we 
learn  to  associate  the  original  with  the  secondary  quality, 
and,  from  the  observation  of  the  one,  to  infer  the  existence  of 
the  other.  For  example,  if  I  wish  to  learn  whether  a  body 
is  hard  or  soft,  I  employ  the  sense  of  touch.  This  is  the 
sense  originally  given  to  me  for  the  purpose  of  gaining 
this  knowledge.  I  see  before  me  a  piece  of  polished  marble, 
and  a  piece  of  velvet,  of  the  same  color.  I  feel  of  them 
both,  and  ascertain  that  the  one  is  hard,  and  the  other  soft. 
But  I  also  observe  that  the  visual  appearance  of  these  two 
substances  is  dissimilar.  I  carefully  note  this  difierence. 
When  I  see  the  same  objects  again,  I  shall  not  be  obliged 
to  feel  them  ;  I  know,  at  a  glance,  not  only  the  visual  but 
the  tactual  character  of  each.  I  go  farther ;  I  generalize 
this  diflference.  I  know  that  one  visual  appearance,  where- 
ever  it  is  seen,  indicates  hardness,  and  another  softness. 
Hence,  when  we,  for  the  first  time,  look  upon  a  substance, 
we  commonly  form  an  opinion  of  its  hardness  or  softness 
from  its  peculiarity  of  color.  Hence,  also,  we  frequently 
use  the  language  of  one  sense  for  that  of  another.  We  say 
of  a  surface  that  it  looks  hard  or  it  looks  soft.  So  paint- 
ers, having  observed  that  warm  weather  in  summer  is  accom- 
panied  by  a  particular  appearance  of  the  sky,  associate  the 
language  of  feeling  with  that  of  sight,  and  speak  of  a  warm 
sky,  of  warm  or  of  cold  coloring,  and  of  other  distinctioiis 
of  a  similar  character. 

Illustrations  of  acquired  perceptions  are  presenting  them- 
eelves  to  us  every  day,  in  the  ordinary  experience  of  life. 
The  apothecary  learns  how  to  distinguish  medicines  by  their 
imell  as  accurately  as  by  their  taste.     The  mineralogist  \j 


ACQUIRED    PERCEPTIONS.  7S 

breathing  upon  a  mineral,  and  observing  its  smell,  will  know 
in  an  instant  whether  it  is  or  is  not  argillaceous.  Or, 
.  again,  he  will  distinguish  a  calcareous  from  a  magnesian 
mineral  by  the  touch ;  or  he  will  determine  the  character 
of  another  by  its  fracture.  If  a  grocer  wishes  to  know 
whether  a  cask  is  full  or  empty  he  does  not  look  into  it, 
but  merely  strikes  upon  it,  and  ascertains  the  fact  in  an 
instant  by  sound.  A  mason  who  wishes  to  know  if  a  wall 
in  a  particular  spot  is  solid,  does  not  pull  it  down,  tut 
Btrikes  it  with  his  hammer.  In  the  same  way  we  determine 
whether  an  object  before  us  is  made  of  w^ood,  or  metal,  or 
stone.  When  these  indications  are  closely  observed,  the 
accuracy  of  the  judgments  to  which  they  lead  is  frequently 
very  remarkable.  It  is  said  that  an  Indian  hunter,  on  the 
prairies,  by  placing  his  ear  on  the  ground,  will  discover  the 
approach  of  an  enemy  long  before  he  can  be  recognized  by 
the  eye,  and  will  distinguish  a  herd  of  buffaloes  from  a  troop 
of  dragoons  with  unerring  certainty.  We  are  told  that  the 
Arabs  will  tell  the  tribe  to  which  a  passer-by  belongs,  by  the 
print  of  his  foot  in  the  sand,  and  by  the  track  of  a  hare 
will  know  whether  it  be  a  male  or  a  female. 

Inasmuch,  however,  as  our  visual  perceptions  are  more 
varied  and  more  rapid  than  those  of  our  other  senses,  and 
as  we,  by  the  eye,  cognize  objects  at  great  distances,  the 
greater  part  of  our  acquired  perceptions  are  referred  to  this 
sense.  We  judge  of  the  qualities  of  almost  all  the  sub- 
stances in  daily  use  by  the  eye  alone.  We  continually 
determine  distance  and  magnitude  by  the  eye.  The  manner 
in  which  this  is  done  is  worthy  of  special  notice.  It  is  well 
known  that,  as  an  object  recedes  from  us,  its  visual  appear- 
ance presents  several  observable  changes.  First,  its  magni- 
tude diminishes.  Secondly,  its  color  becomes,  dim  and  misty. 
Thirdly,  its  outline  becomes  indistinct;  and,  fourthly  as  its 
distance   increases,    the    number    of   intervening    objects 


80  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

becomes  greater.  It  is  by  the  observation  of  these  changes 
that  we  determine  whether  objects  are  receding  from,  or 
advancing  towards  us.  In  the  same  manner,  by  comparing 
these  indications,  we  judge  of  the  distance  and  magnitude 
of  any  object.  In  every  case  of  this  kind  we  go  through  a 
comphcated  act  of  judgment ;  yet,  from  habit,  Ave  do  it  so 
rapidly,  that  we  should  hardly  be  aware  of  it  but  from  the 
mistakes  which  we  occasionally  commit.  For  instance  ;  I 
see  an  object  presenting  a  certain  dimness  of  color,  of  a 
certain  indistinctness  of  outline,  and  of  a  given  visual  mag- 
nitude, and  observe  various  objects  intervening  between  it 
and  me.  This  is  all  that  the  sense  of  sight  gives  me.  I 
immediately  judge  it  to  be  a  man  of  ordinary  size,  half  a 
mile  off:  and  my  judgments  are  so  generally  accurate,  that 
I  am  surprised  if  I  find  myself  in  error. 

When,  however,  any  one  of  these  conditions  is  changed, 
we  are  liable  to  be  deceived.  This  is  commonly  the  case 
when  objects  are  seen  through  a  mist.  The  deception  here 
is  not  occasioned,  as  is  generally  supposed,  by  refraction 
of  the  rays  of  light,  causing  the  object  to  seem  larger. 
The  object  really  seems  to  us  of  the  proper  size.  The 
mist,  however,  renders  the  color  and  the  outline  indistinct, 
and  we  suppose  the  object  to  be  at  a  much  greater  distance 
than  it  is.  The  body  has  the  magnitude  belonging  to  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  distance,  with  the  indistinctness  of  half 
a  mile.  With  this  magnitude,  at  the  latter  distance,  it  would, 
of  course,  seem  to  us  much  larger  than  it  actually  is 
An  incident,  illustrative  of  this  fact,  once  occurred  to  the 
author.  He  was,  early  in  the  morning,  in  a  dense  fog, 
sailing  through  the  harbor  of  Newport,  and  passed  near  the 
wharf  of  Fort  Adams.  He  observed  on  the  wharf  some  very 
tall  men,  and  mentioned  their  remarkable  size  to  the  friends 
who  accompanied  him.  Presently  he  was  struck  with  their 
behavior.     They  were  jumping  and  playing  lik$  childreAi 


ACQUIRED    PERCEPT.  ONS.  8i 

in  a  manner  that  seemed  to  him  wholly  unaccountable 
Presently,  as  the  sun  dispersed  the  fog,  he  found  himself 
close  to  the  wharf,  and  these  gigantic  men  dwindled  down 
to  a  company  of  playful  little  boys,   who  were  amusing 
themselves  in  childish  gambols. 

In  the  same  manner  we  mistake  if  the  atmosphere  is 
more  transparent  than  that  to  which  we  are  accustomed. 
Bishop  Berkeley,  I  think,  remarks  that  English  travellers 
in  Italy,  unaccustomed  to  the  clear  sky  of  southern  Europe, 
were  liable  to  continual  misjudgment  respecting  the  distance 
of  objects  seen  in  the  horizon.  The  clearness  of  the  color, 
and  the  distinctness  of  the  outline,  led  them  to  suppose 
castles,  mountains,  &c.,  much  nearer  than  they  really  were. 
In  the  same  manner,  when  there  are  no  intervening  objects, 
we  frequently  find  our  judgments  at  fault.  Thus,  in  looking 
over  a  sheet  of  water,  we  always  underrate  the  distance. 
When  we  throw  a  stone  at  an  object  in  the  water,  we  always 
find  that  our  eye  has  deceived  us,  and  the  stone  falls  far 
short  of  the  mark.  For  the  same  reason,  objects  seen  on  the 
shore  from  the  water  seem  much  less  than  their  natural 
size.  The  fact  is,  they  appear  of  the  magnitude  which 
belongs  to  the  distance,  but  we  suppose  the  distance  less 
than  it  is  ;  and,  associating  this  magnitude  with  diminished 
distance,  they  appear  to  us  less  than  they  really  are. 

In  order  to  form  these  judgments  correctly,  one  of  these 
elements  must  be  fixed.  From  this  we  learn  to  institute  a 
comparison,  and  then  an  accurate  opinion  is  formed.  If  we 
have  the  magnitude  of  the  object,  the  change  in  its  color 
and  outline  teaches  us  its  distance.  If  we  know  its  distance, 
we  can  judge  of  its  magnitude.  Hence,  painters,  in  order 
to  give  us  a  correct  notion  of  an  object  which  they  repre- 
sent, always  place  in  its  vicinity  something  with  whose  real 
magnitude  we  are  familiar.  Thus,  if  I  drew  a  pyramid,  it 
might  be  difficult  to  determine  whether  I  intended  to  repre- 


82  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

sent  it  aa  large  or  small.  If,  however,  I  drew  an  Arab 
standing  by  his  camel  at  the  foot  of  it,  my  intention  would 
at  once  become  apparent.  Every  one  knows  the  size  of  a 
camel,  and  from  this  he  would  judge  of  the  magnitude  of 
tlie  pyramid. 

The  benefits  which  we  derive  from  this  interchangeable 
use  of  the  senses  are  innumerable.  We  are  thus  enabled 
to  transfer  to  one  sense  the  cognitions  which  belong  to 
another,  always  using  that  which  we  can  employ  with  the 
greatest  rapidity  and  convenience.  Our  whole  sensitive 
organism  is  thus  capable  of  being  used  for  almost  every 
form  of  cognition.  Very  much  of  our  early  education, 
especially  the  education  which  enables  us  to  perform  any 
art,  consists  in  the  acquisition  of  these  secondary  percep- 
tions. It  is  thus  that  the  physician,  from  symptoms,  or 
external  indications  which  another  person  would  not  observe, 
is  enabled  to  discover  the  locality,  the  nature,  and  the  pro- 
gress of  disease,  and  frequently  to  foretell  the  result  with 
unerring  accuracy. 

The  benefit  of  this  arrangement  is  specially  evident  when 
we  are  unfortunately  deprived  of  any  one  of  our  senses. 
Our  acquired  perceptions  are  then  almost  indefinitely  mul- 
tiplied, and  the  knowledge  which  we  derive  from  our  re- 
maining senses  is  sometimes  so  great  as  to  appear  almost 
incredible.  Thus,  the  blind,  by  paying  strict  attention  to 
the  indications  derived  from  touch  and  hearing,  acquire  an 
accuracy  of  judgment,  respecting  things  known  to  others  by 
sight  alone,  which  greatly  surprises  ug.  It  is  said  that  they 
can  learn  to  determine,  with  great  accuracy,  the  number  of 
persons  in  a  room  by  observing  the  sound  of  a  speaker's 
voice,  and  that,  by  striking  on  the  floor,  they  will  form  a 
very  correct  opinion  as  to  the  size  of  an  Apartment.  Dr. 
Abercrombie  mentions  two  blind  men  who  were .  remark^ 
ably  good  judges  of  horses.     One  of  then  discovered,  on 


ACQUIRED    PERCEPTIONS.  83 

ft  particular  occasion,  that  a  hor^e  was  blind  by  observing 
the  manner  in  which  he  placed  his  feet  upon  the  ground 
when  in  motion,  although  the  fact  had  not  been  noticed  by 
any  other  person  of  the  company.  Another  discovered  that 
a  horse  was  blind  of  one  eye,  by  observing  that  the  temper- 
ature of  the  eyes  was  different.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
deaf  acquire  great  skill  in  judging  of  the  qualities  of  bo<lie3 
by  touch  and  sight.  They  will  learn  to  understand  a 
speaker  by  the  motion  of  his  lips,  and  to  interpret  -the 
minutest  shades  of  emotion  by  the  changes  in  the  counte- 
nance. When  both  sio:ht  and  hearing  are  denied,  a  larcre 
amount  of  knowledge  may  be  acquired  by  smell  and  feeling. 
Persons  in  this  unfortunate  condition  have  been  known  to 
select  their  own  clothes,  out  of  a  pile  of  clean  linen,  by  smell. 
The  most  remarkable  instance  on  record  of  the  education  of 
a  person  under  these  circumstances,  is  found  in  the  case  of 
Laura  Bridgman,  who  has  been  for  several  years  under  the 
care  of  Dr.  Samuel  G.  Howe,  of  the  Massachusetts  Asylum 
for  the  Blind.  She  has  from  infancy  been  deprived  both  of 
hearino:  and  sio-ht.  She  has,  nevertheless,  been  tauo;ht  the 
alphabet  for  the  blind ;  she  converses  rapidly  with  her 
fingers,  writes  very  intelligibly,  and  uses  the  language 
which  designates  the  qualities  of  color  and  sound  with  con- 
siderable accuracy,  knows  her  friends  and  instructors,  and 
feels  for  them  every  sentiment  of  gratitude  and  affection. 

It' will  readily  occur  to  every  one  that  great  use  may  be 
made  of  acquired  perceptions  in  the  practice  of  the  various 
arts  and  professions.  We  thus  are  enabled  to  determine 
facts  and  form  judgments  which  would  otherwise  be  impos- 
sible. An  illustration  of  this  kind  presents  itself  in  the 
use  of  the  stethoscope,  a  small  ear-trumpet,  by  means  of 
which  physicians  listen  to  the  sound  made  by  the  lungs  in 
breathing,  and  by  the  heart  in  pulsation.  A  few  years 
eince.  it  was  observed  that  these  sounds  varied  with  the  con- 


84  INTELLECTUAL  PHILjSOPHY. 

Jition  of  these  organs  in  health  and  in  disease.  This  obser- 
vation led  to  a  very  important  result.  First,  the  sound 
made  by  the  lungs  in  health  was  distinctly  ascertained. 
Then  the  variations  from  it  were  noticed.  If  the  disease 
terininated  in  death,  the  condition  of  the  lungs  was  ascer- 
tained by  inspection.  The  sound  was  thus  associated  with 
tne  particular  disease  which  occasioned  it.  This  mode  of 
observation  was  continued  until  almost  every  form  of  disease 
in  the  chest  was  recognized  and  made  to  speak  an  audible 
language.  When  this  language  has  been  learned  by  one 
man,  it  can  be  taught  to  another ;  and  thus  this  important 
means  of  acquiring  knowledge  has  become  common  to  phy- 
siciims.  Practitioners,  who  have  paid  sufficient  attention  to 
this  subject,  and  who  are  endowed  with  great  delicacy  of 
hearing,  have  been  able  to  discover  with  remarkable  ac- 
curacy the  condition  of  the  organs  of  the  chest,  the  form  of 
disease  under  which  the  patient  has  been  laboring,  and  even 
to  mark  out  on  the  surface  the  precise  portion  of  the  lungs 
which  was  suflfering  from  inflammation. 

The  manner  in  which  our  acquired  perceptions  may  be 
improved  is  manifestly  as  follows.  In  the  first  place,  we 
learn  to  observe  with  the  greatest  accuracy  the  minutest 
differences  in  the  impressions  made  upon  our  organs  of 
sense.  We  are  thus  enabled  to  discover  the  slightest  change 
of  color  or  of  outline,  the  minutest  differences  in  hardness, 
smoothness  or  temperature,  and  the  almost  imperceptible 
variations  in  sound  and  interval.  Tbe  nicer  our  d^^ri mi- 
nation  in  these  respects  becomes,  the  wider  is  the  field  of 
observation  open  to  discovery.  In  this  respect,  much  must 
depend  upon  the  original  perfection  of  the  organs  themselves : 
but  that  more  depends  upon  careful  cultivation,  is  evident 
from  the  fact  that  whole  tribes  of  savages,  of  by  nc  means 
delicate  organization,  attain  to  remarkable  accuracy  in  the 
use  of  their  organs  of  sense. 


ACQUIRED    *>ERCEPTIONS,  85 

Secondly,  we  must  learn  to  associate  with  each  variation 
observed  by  one  sense,  the  quality  or  condition  discovered 
by  another  sense.  In  this  manner  we  acquire  the  language 
.  of  nature,  and  are  enabled  to  interpret  it  for  our  own  bene- 
fit and  the  benefit  of  others.  We  are  thus  able  to  form 
judgments  which,  to  the  uninitiated,  seem  like  the  result  of 
magic.  Thus,  distinctness  and  indistinctness  of  color  and 
outline  teach  us  the  magnitude  and  distance  of  objects  many 
miles  off.  Thus  the  Indian,  by  observing  minute  differ- 
ences of  sound,  will  form  an  accurate  judgment  undei 
circumstances  which  would  leave  other  men  wholly  in  dark- 
ness. 

The  physician,  by  placing  his  ear  on  the  chest  of  his 
patient,  can  tell  whether  the  organs  within  are  healthy  or 
diseased,  and  can  thus  the  better  employ  such  m'^ans  of 
cure  as  will  accomplish  the  result  which  he  proposes. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  remark  that  the  progress  of 
the  arts  enables  us  to  cultivate  our  acquired  perceptions 
with  greater  success.  The  microscope  and  the  telescope 
have  greatly  increased  our  power  in  this  respect.  Instru- 
ments for  observing  infinitesimal  changes  in  temperature 
will  probably  lead  to  similar  results.  The  tendency  of 
science  is  in  this  direction,  and  it  will,  without  doubt,  lead 
to  a  rich  harvest  of  discovery. 

Before  closing  this  section,  it  is  proper  to  remark  that 
in  the  usu  of  acquired  perceptions  we  are  liable  to  form 
false  judgments,  and  then  to  complain  that  our  senses  have 
deceived  us.  I  once  saw,  on  a  door-post,  the  painting  of 
a  key  hanging  on  a  nail,  and  it  was  so  well  executed  that 
I  was  not  aware  of  the  deception  until  I  attempted  to  take 
it  down.  Here  it  might  be  said  that  my  senses  deceived 
me,  but  such  was  not  the  fact.  My  eyos  testified  truly  to 
all  that  they  promised  to  make  known.  They  testified  to  a 
certain  color  and  shading.  This  <^v^deuco  was  in  its  nature 
8 


gft  IJlTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

ambiguous  lor  the  effect  might  be  produced  either  by  a 
painting  or  by  a  real  key.  Without  sufficient  attention,  I 
inferred  that  it  was  a  key,  when  I  ought  to  have  examined 
it  more  carefully.  But  mj  senses  did  not  deceive  me,  for 
the  eye  testified  truly,  and  when  I  applied  to  another  sense, 
it  enabled  mo  to  form  a  true  judgment.  I  was  misled  by 
my  own  negligence,  and  not  by  any  defect  in  my  senses.  I 
ought,  perhaps,  to  add  that  the  deception  in  this  case  was 
aided  by  my  companion,  who  directed  my  attention  to  the 
door,  and  asked  me  to  hand  him  the  key  that  he  might  open 
it.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  circumstance,  I  should  probably 
have  discovered  the  truth  from  the  effect  of  binocular  vision. 
It  will  be  found  that  all  the  cases  w^hich  are  commonly  as- 
cribed to  deception  of  the  senses  are  of  the  same  character 
as  that  to  which  I  have  here  referred.  Our  senses  alw^ays 
testify  truly,  but  we  sometimes  deceive  ourselves  by  the 
inference  which  we  draw  from  their  evidence.  The  defect 
resides  in  our  inference,  and  not  in  our  senses,  for  it  is  by 
the  use  of  our  senses,  alone,  that  we  are  enabled  to  correct 
the  error  into  which  we  have  fallen  by  our  own  inadver- 
tence. 

REFERENCES. 

Original  and  acquired  perceptions  —  Reid's  Inquiry,  chap.  6,  sec.  20— 
£3.     Abercrombie,  Partii.,  sec.  1. 

Improvement  of  the  senses  —  Reid,  Essays  on  the  InteUectual  Powers 
E^say  2,  sec.  21. 


SECTION  X.  —  OF   THE  NATURE  OF  THE  KNOWLEDGE  WHICH 
WE  ACQUIRE  BY  THE  PERCEPTIVE  POWERS. 

Having,  in  the  preceding  sections,  treated  of  the  manner 
m  which  our  knowledge  of  the  external  j^orld  is  acquired, 


QUALITIES    OF    BODIPJS.  87 

"1  propose,  in  the  present  section,  to  offer  some  suggestions 
on  the  nature  of  this  knowledge. 

1.  The  knowledge  which  we  acquire  by  perceptioi 
is  always  of  individuals.  If  we  see  several  trees,  we  see 
them  not  as  a  class,  but  as  separate  and  distinct  objects 
of  perception.  If  we  see  several  men,  as  John,  James, 
Edward,  we  see  each  one  as  a  distinct  individual.  The 
same  remark  applies  to  the  acts  which  we  observe.  We  see 
John  strike  James ;  that  is,  we  see  a  particular  individual 
perform  a  particular  act.  We  thus  see,  that  while,  from 
the  knowledge  gained  by  the  perceptive  faculties,  we  subse- 

.  quently  form  genera  and  species,  yet,  without  the  aid  of 
some  other  powers  of  the  mind,  to  form  genera  and  species 
would  be  impossible.  Our  several  items  of  knowledge 
would  be  like  separate  grains  of  sand,  without  cohesion  and 
without  affinity.  • 

2.  The  knowledge  derived  from  the  perceptive  powers 
is  always  knowledge  of  the  concrete.  When  Ave  perceive  a 
body,  we  do  not  cognize  the  color,  figure,  temperature,  etc., 
each  as  an  abstract  quality,  and  then  afterwards  unite  them 
in  one  conception  ;  but  we  perceive  a  body,  colored,  of  such 
a  figure  and  temperature  ;  that  is,  a  body  in  which  all  these 
qualities  are  united.  The  first  impression  made  upon  us  is 
the  cognition  of  an  external  object,  possessing  all  these 
qualities ;  or,  at  least,  so  many  as  are  cognizable  by 
the  senses  which  are  at  the  time  directed  towards  them. 
We  have  the  power  of  separating  these  qualities,  in  thought, 
the  one  from  the  other,  and  of  making  each  of  them  a  dis- 
tinct object  of  attention.  This,  however,  is  the  function  of 
fk  faculty  of  the  mind  to  be  treated  of  hereafter. 

3.  Of  primary  and  secondary  qualities. 

It  has  been  already  stated  that  our  knowledge  is  of  qual- 
ities, not  of  essences.  We  do  not  cognize  the  objects  around 
us  absolutely,  we  cognize  them  as  possessed  of  certain  means 


gg  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

of  affecting  us,  and  thus  giving  us  notice  of  the  modes  of 
their  existence. 

The  qualities  of  matter  have,  of  old,  been  divided  into 
two  cliisses,  which,  at  a  later  period,  have  been  denominated 
primary  and  secondary.  The  primary  qualities  are  those 
which,  by  necessity,  enter  into  our  notion  of  matter  ;  which 
we  must  conceive  of  as  belonging  to  body,  as  soon  as  we 
conceive  of  body  at  all.  Such  are  extension,  divisibility, 
magnitude,  figure,  solidity,  and  mobility.  We  cannot  think 
of  matter,  without  involving  these  qualities  in  our  very 
notion  of  it.  If  we  conceive  of  matter  as  the  only  thing 
created,  before  any  sentient  being  was  created  to  cognize  it, 
we  think  of  it  as  possessing  all  these  qualities  in  as  perfect 
a  manner  as  at  present. 

The  secondary  qualities  are  those  which  are  not  necessary 
to  our  conception  of  matter  as  matter,  yet  which  give  it 
the  power  of  variously  affecting  us  as  sentient  beings  pos- 
sessed of  such  or  such  an  organism.  Such  are  smell, 
tiste,  sound,  color,  hardness,  softness,  and  many  others. 
These  might  all  be  absent,  or  wholly  unrecognized,  and  yet 
our  idea  of  matter  as  matter  would  be  definite  and  precise. 
They  are  only  cognized  by  means  of  their  appropriate  media. 
If  the  media  had  not  been  created,  no  "conception  of  them 
could  ever  have  been  formed.  We  cognize  them  only  by 
means  of  our  peculiar  organism.  Had  this  organism  been 
created  of  a  different  character,  these  qualities  could  never 
have  been  known.  Of  the  primary  qualities  themselves  we 
form  a  definite  idea ;  we  know  that  they  are  what  they 
Beem  to  us  to  be.  Of  the  secondary  qualities,  in  themselves, 
>VG  know  nothing  more  than  this,  that  some  occult  cause 
j-jossesses  the  power  of  affecting  us  by  means  of  o.ur  senses  in 
this  or  that  manner,  or  of  creating  in  us  such  or  such] 
cognitions. 

These  secondary  qualities  have  been,  more  lately,  ve] 


QUALITIES   OF   BO  >IES.  89 

properly  divided  into  two  classes.  First,  those  wnich  we 
cognize  by  their  relation  to  our  own  organism  :  and,  sec- 
ondly, those  which  we  cognize  by  their  relations  to  other 
bodies.  Thus,  malleability,  ductility,  and  various  other 
qualities,  are  cognized  by  the  action  of  various  metals  on 
each  other.  Gold  and  steel  are,  to  our  organism,  equally 
unmalleable ;  that  is,  we  can  make  no  impression  upon  either 
by  voluntary  effort.  But  when  gold  is  brought  into  forcible 
contact  with  steel,  its  quality  becomes  manifest.  The  same 
is  true  of  brittleness,  and  various  other  qualities. 

Sir  William  Hamilton,  after  examining  this  subject  with 
unsurpassed  acuteness,  has  suggested  another  classification  of 
the  qualities  of  matter.  It  will  be  found,  treated  of  in  full 
in  note  D  to  his  edition  of  the  works  of  Dr.  Reid.  To  pur- 
sue the  subject  at  length,  would  be  impossible  within  the  limits 
that  must  be  assigned  to  the  present  work.  I  shall  attempt 
no  more  than  to  present  a  condensed  view  of  some  of  the 
most  important  elements  of  his  classification. 

Sir  William  Hamilton  divides  the  qualities  of  matter  into 
three  classes.  First,  primary  or  objective ;  second,  secundo- 
primary  or  subjecto-objective ;  and  third,  secondary  or  sub- 
jective qualities.  The  primary  are  objective,  not  subjective, 
percepts  proper,  not  sensations  proper  ;  the  secundo-primary 
are  both  objective  and  subjective,  percepts  proper  and  sensa- 
tions proper;  the  secondary  are  subjective,  not  objective, 
sensations  proper,  not  percepts  proper. 

1.  Of  the  primary  qualities. 

These  are  all  deducible  from  two  elementary  ideas.  We 
are  unable  to  conceive  of  a  body  except,  first,  aa  occupying 
space,  and  second,  as  contained  in  space.  Fron  the  first  of 
these  follow,  by  necessary  explication,  extension  divisibility, 
size,  density  or  rarity,  and  figure;  from  the  second  are 
explicated  incompressibility  absolute,  mobility,  situation. 

2.  The  secundo-primary. 

8* 


I 

90  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

These  have  two  phases,  both  immediately  apprehended 
*'  Ou  their  primary  or  objective  phasis,  they  manifest  them- 
selves as  degrees  of  resistance  opposed  to  our  locomotive 
energy ;  on  their  secondary  or  subjective  phasis,  as  modes 
of  resistance,  a  presence  affecting  our  sentient  organism." 
*'  Considered  physically,  or  in  an  objective  relation,  they,  are 
to  be  reduced  to  classes  corresponding  to  the  diflferent 
sources,  in  external  nature,  from  which  resistance  or  pressure 
springs.     These  sources  are  three. 

I.  Co-attraction.     11.  Repulsion.     III.  Inertia. 

From  co-attraction  result  gravity  and  cohesion. 

From  gravity  result  heavy  and  light. 

From  cohesion  follow,  1.  Hard  and  soft ;  2.  Firm  and 
fluid :  3.  Viscid  and  friable  :  4.  Tough  and  brittle ;  5. 
Rigid  and  flexible ;  6.  Fissile  and  infissile ;  7.  Ductile 
and  inductile ;  8.  Retractile  and  irretractile ;  9.  Rough 
and  smooth  ;  10.   Slippery  and  tenacious. 

From  repulsion  are  evolved,  1.  Compressible  and  incom- 
pressible ;  2.  Resilient  and  irresilient. 

From  inertia  are  evolved,  Movable  and  Immovable. 

3.  The  secondary  qualities. 

'^  These  are  not,  in  propriety,  qualities  of  bodies  at  all. 
As  apprehended,  they  are  only  subjective  affections,  and 
belong  only  to  bodies  in  so  far  as  these  are  supposed  fur- 
nished with  the  powers  capable  of  specifically  determining 
the  various  parts  of  our  nervous  apparatus  to  the  partic- 
ular action,  or  rather  passion,  of  which  they  are  susceptible; 
which  determined  action  or  passion  is  the  quality  of  which 
we  are  immediately  cognizant ;  the  external  concause  of 
that  internal  effect  remaining  to  the  perception  altogether 
unknown.-' 

''Of  the  secondary  qualities,"  that  is,  those  phenomenal 
affections  determined  in  our  sentient  organism  by  the  agency 
of  external  bodies,  '^ there  are  various  kinds;  the  variety 


QUALITIES   OF   BODIES.  91 

principally  depending  on  the  differences  of  the  different 
parts  of  our  nervous  apparatus.  Such  are  the  proper  sensi- 
sibles,  the  idiopathic  affections  of  our  several  organs  of  sense, 
as  color,  sound,  flavor,  savor,  and  tactual  sensation ;  such 
are  the  feelings  from  heat,  electricity,  galvanism,  etc.,  and 
the  muscular  and  cutaneous  sensations  which  accompany  the 
perception  of  the  secundo-primary  qualities.  Such,  though 
less  directly  the  result  of  foreign  causes,  are  titillation, 
sneezing,  horripilation,  shuddering,  the  feeling  of  what  is 
called  setting  the  teeth  on  edge,  etc.  etc.  Such,  in  fine, 
are  all  the  various  sensations  of  bodily  pleasure  and  pain, 
determined  by  the  action  of  external  stimuli." 
Concerning  these  in  general,  it  may  be  remarked, 

1.  ^^  The  primary  are  qualities,  only  as  we  conceive  them 
to  distinguish  body,  from  not-body  :  they  are  the  attributes 
of  body  as  body,  corjjoris  ut  corpus.  The  secondary  and 
secundo-primary  are  more  properly  denominated  qualities, 
for  they  discriminate  body  from  body.  They  are  the  attri- 
butes of  body,  as  this  or  that  kind  of  body,  corporis  ut  tale 
corpus  y 

2.  ^^  The  primary  arise  from  the  universal  relations  of 
body  to  itself;  the  secundo-primary,  from  the  general  rela- 
tions of  this  body  to  that ;  the  secondary,  from  the  special 
relations  of  this  kind  of  body  to  this  or  that  kind  of  sentient 
organism. 

3.  *' Under  the  primary  we  apprehend  the  modes  of  the 
non  ego ;  under  the  secundo-primary  we  apprehend  the 
modes  both  of  the  ego  and  the  non  ego ;  under  the  second- 
ary we  apprehend  modes  of  the  ego,  and  infer  modes  of  the 
non  ego. 

4.  '^  The  primary  are  apprehended  as  they  are  in  bodies ; 
the  secondary,  as  they  are  in  us ;  the  secundo-primary,  aa 
they  are  in  bodies  and  as  they  are  in  us.         "* 

5.  *'  The  terms  designating  primary  qualities  are  univocal, 


92  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

marking  out  one  quality ;  those  designating  the  secundo-pri 

mary  and  secondary  are  equivocal,  denoting  both  a  mode  of 

existence  in  bodies  and  a  mode  of  affection  in  our  organism." 

Of  these  qualities,  in  particular,  considered  as  in  bodies, 

1.  ^^  The  primary  are  the  qualities  of  a  body  in  relation 
to  our  organism  as  a  body  simply ;  the  secundo-primary  are 
the  qualities  of  a  body  in  relation  to  our  organism  as  a  pro- 
pelling, resisting,  cohesive  body ;  the  secondary  are  the 
t[ualities  of  body  in  relation  to  our  organism  as  an  idiopath- 
ically  excitable  and  sentient  body. 

2.  "  The  primary  are  known  immediately  in  themselves ; 
the  secundo-primary,  both  immediately  in  themselves  and 
mediately  in  their  effects  on  us  ;  the  secondary,  only  medi- 
ately in  their  effects  on  us. 

3.  ''  The  primary  are  apprehended  objects ;  the  secondary, 
inferred  powers ;  the  secundo-primary,  both  apprehended 
objects  and  inferred  powers. 

4.  "The  primary  are  conceived  as  necessary  and  perceived 
as  actual ;  the  secundo-primary  are  perceived  and  conceived 
as  actual ;  the  secondary  are  inferred  and  conceived  as  pos- 
sible. 

5.  ^'The  primary  may  be  roundly  characterized  as  mathe- 
matical ;  the  secundo-primary,  as  mechanical ;  the  secondary^ 
as  physiological.'' 

Of  these  qualities,  considered  as  cognitions, 

1.  *'  We  are  conscious  as  objects,  in  the  primary  qualities, 
of  the  modes  of  the  not-self;  in  the  secondary,  of  the  modes 
of  a  self;  in  the  secundo-primary,  of  the  modes  of  a  self  and 
a  not-self,  at  once. 

2.  "  Using  the  terms  strictly,  the  apprehensions  of  the 
primary  are  perceptions,  not  sensations ;  of  the  secondary, 
sensations,  not  perceptions ;  of  secundo-primary,  sensations 
and  perceptions  together. 

3.  ^*  In  the  primary  there  is  thus  no  concomitant  seconi- 


QUALITIES   OF   tfOi>IBS.  93 

ary  quality;  in  the  secondary,  no  conooi:*.it&n«»  primary 
quality ;  in  the  secundo-primary,  a  secondary  and  quasi- 
primary  quality  accompany  each  other. 

4.  ^'  In  the  apprehension  of  the  primary,  there  is  ^lO  :jub- 
ject-object  determined  by  the  object-object ;  in  the  secundo- 
primary,  there  is  a  subject-object  determined  by  the  object- 
object;  in  the  secondary,  the  subject-object  is  the  only 
object  of  immediate  cognition." 

I  have  not,  in  the  above  quotations,  inserted  all  the  acute 
and  valuable  distinctions  of  our  author.  I  have  selected 
those  only  which  seemed  to  me  the  most  important,  and 
which  discriminate  most  clearly  the  characteristic  elements 
of  these  modes  of  cognition.  For  a  more  extended  view  of 
the  subject  I  must  refer  the  reader  to  the  work  itself, 
where  he  will  find  every  distinction  wrought  out  with  a 
power  of  metaphysical  analysis  which  has  never  been  sur- 
passed. 

In  regard  to  Sir  William's  classification,  if  I  may  hazard 
an  opinion,  I  think  that  his  distinctions  are  rendered  obvi- 
ous and  beyond  dispute.  Whether  his  classification  includes 
all  the  secundo-primary  qualities,  I  am  by  no  means  certain. 
In  so  far  as  these  qualities  are  apprehended  by  their  efiects 
on  our  organism,  his  classification  appears  exhaustive.  But 
what  shall  we  say  of  that  class  of  qualities  which  arise  from 
the  relations  of  insentient  bodies  to  each  other,  as  malleabil- 
ity, chemical  affinity,  and  various  others?  These  are  not 
known  by  any  impression  on  our  organism,  as  a  propelling, 
resisting,  cohesive  body.  They  are  not  primary  qualities. 
They  are  not  cognized  by  our  idiopathic  sentient  organism. 
They  must  be  secundo-primary,  but  I  think  are  not  included 
in  our  author's  classification. 

4.  Leaving  now  the  subject  of  primary  and  secondary  qual- 
itieSj  I  proceed  to  remark;  that  the  knowledge  derived  firom 


94  INTELLECTUAi  PHILOSOPHY. 

{perception  is  truly  knowledge ;  that  is,  the  evidence  of  oui 
senses  is  worthy  of  belief 

Til  us,  I  open  ray  eyes,  and  I  perceive  before  me  a  book 
I  put  forth  my  hands,  and  feel  of  it.  My  perceptions  per- 
fectly coincide.  They  both  testify  to  the  existence  of  an 
extorniil  object,  numerically  distinct  from  myself,  of  such  a 
niii'Miitude,  form,  situation.  I  am  conscious  of  a  state  of" 
mind  which  I  call  perception;  and  of  that  state  of  mind  one 
of  the  elements  is  an  unalterable  conviction  that  the  object 
exists  now  and  here,  just  as  I  perceive  it.  This  conviction 
is  a  necessary  part  of  my  state  of  mind,  if,  indeed,  it  be 
not  the  state  of  mind  itself  This  conscious  perception  is 
to  me  the  know^ledge  that  this  book  exists.  If  I  am  asked 
why  I  believe  thus,  or  have  this  conviction,  I  can  give  no 
other  account  of  it  than  that  I  am  so  made  It  is  a  cogni- 
tion given  me  in  virtue  of  my  creation.  If  I  am  asked  to 
prove  it,  I  must  plead  my  inability  to  do  so.  I  can  prove 
no  proposition  except  by  some  other  proposition  of  higher 
authority.  But  there  is  no  proposition  of  higher  authority 
than  this  cognition  given  me  by  my  Creator,  who  made  me 
so  that,  under  certain  conditions,  I  cannot  choose  but  have 
it.  If  I  am  asked  to  prove  that  I  exist,  I  am  unable  to  do 
it  for  the  same  reason,  namely,  that  I  have  no  more  evident 
proposition  w^hich  can  be  used  as  a  medium  of  proof  I  am 
80  made  that  the  existence  of  an  external  world  is  revealed 
to  me  at  the  same  time  and  just  as  obtrusively  as  my  own 
existence.  By  the  constitution  of  my  mind,  the  one  fact 
is  as  clearly  revealed  to  me  as  the  other. 

But  this  subject  is  capable  of  more  extended  illustration 
and  explication. 

1.  *'Our  cognitions,  it  is  evident,  are  not  all  at  second 
hand."  Demonstration  must  at  last  rest  upon  propositions 
which  carfy  their  own  evidence,  and  necessitate  their  own 
admission.     Were  it  otherwise,  were  there  no  truths  which 


Validity  of  perception.  95 

revealed  themselves  to  the  human  mind,  all  proof  would 
be  nugatory ;  it  would  be  a  succession  of  arguments,  each 
one  resting  on  something  yet  to  be  proved.  Some  truth 
must  then  be  given  to  us  in  our  creation  as  intelligent  be- 
ings, on  which  we  may  found  our  reasoning,  and  from  which 
all  demonstration  must  proceed. 

If  it  be  asked,  how  do  these  primary  cognitions  assure  U3 
of  their  truth  and  certify  us  of  their  verity,  the  only  answer  ia 
that  they  are  results  of  our  mental  constitution.  As  soon 
as  a  human  mind  apprehends  them,  without  argument  or 
proof,  it  immediately  knows  them  to  be  true.  The  only 
answer  we  can  give  to  him  who  asks  us  a  reason  of  these 
beliefs  is,  that  we  are  so  made,  we  are  created  to  believe 
them.  To  suppose  their  falsehood,  is  to  suppose  that  we  are 
created  thus  simply  in  order  that  we  may  be  deceived. 
And  as,  besides  this,  it  is  upon  these  beliefs  that  all  subse- 
quent knowledge  is  founded,  if  we  deny  them,  all  knowl- 
edge is  a  delusion,  and  truth  and  falsehood  are  unmeaning 
terms.  This,  surely,  without  any  proof,  cannot  be  asserted  ; 
and,  hence,  I  think  it  must  be  conceded  that  we  must  in  the 
first  instance  receive  these  beliefs  as  true,  until  they  are 
shown  to  be  false,  and  just  in  so  far  as  they  are  shown  to  be 
false.  That  we  do  thus  by  the  constitution  of  our  nature 
believe  in  the  testimony  of  our  senses,  that  we  do  thus  uni- 
versally admit  it,  is,  I  think,  beyond  controversy.  It  is, 
therefore,  to  be  believed  until  it  is  shown  to  be  unfounded. 

But  it  may  possibly  be  denied  that  this  belief  is  one  of 
those  given  us  by  our  creation,  or  one  of  the  first  truths 
revealed  to  the  common  sense  of  man  by  virtue  of  his  intel- 
lectual constitution.  What,  then,  are  the  characteristics  by 
which  these  truths  may  be  known  ? 

Sir  W.  Hamilton  reduces  these  characteristics  to  the  foui 
following  : 

1.    They  are  incomprehensible.     ^^  A  conviction  is  m 


96  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

comprehensible  when  there  is  merely  given  us  in  conscious 
ness  that  its  object  is,  and  when  we  are  unable  to  compre- 
hend,  through  a  higher  notion  or  belief,  why  or  how  it  is. 
^'  When  \SQ  are  able  to  comprehend  why  or  how  a  thing  is, 
the  belief  of  the  existence  of  that  thing  is  not  a  primary 
datum  of  consciousness,  but  a  subsumption  under  the  condi- 
tion or  belief  which  affords  its  reason." 

2.  Thty  are  simple.  ''  It'  is  manifest  that  if  a  cogni- 
tion or  belief  be  made  up  of,  and  can  be  explicated  into,  a 
plurality  of  cognitions  or  beliefs,  that,  as  compound,  it  can- 
not be  original." 

3.  They  are  iiecessary  and  universal  ^'  If  necessary, 
they  must,  of  course,  be  universal.  The  necessity  here 
Bj)oken  of  is  of  two  kinds.  The  first  kind  is  when  we  can- 
not construe  it  to  our  minds  that  the  deliverance  of  con- 
sciousness is  not  true,  or  when  the  opposite  of  the  assertion 
is  unthinkable.  Thus  the  proposition  that  a  part  is  greater 
than  the  whole,  or  that  two  straight  lines  can  at  the  same 
time  be  parallel  and  at  right  angles  in  the  same  plane,  is 
unthinkable.  There  is  another  necessity,  however,  which 
is  not  unthinkable,  when  the  deliverance  of  consciousness 
may  be  false,  but  when,  at  the  same  time,  we  cannot  but 
admit  that  it  is  of  such  or  such  an  import.  This  is  the  case 
in  contingent  truths,  or  what  may  be  called  matters  of  fact. 
In  this  case,  the  thing  is  not  conceived  as  absolutely  impos- 
sible, but  impossible  under  the  present  constitution  of  things, 
or  we  being  as  we  are.  Thus,  I  can  theoretically  suppose 
that  the  external  object  of  which  I  am  conscious  in  percep- 
tion may  be  in  reality  nothing  but  a  mode  of  mind,  or  self. 
I  am  unable,  however,  to  think  that  consciousness  does  not 
compel  me  to  regard  it  as  external,  as  a  mode  of  matter  or 
not  self.  Such  being  the  case,  I  cannot  practically  believe 
the  supposition  which  I  am  able  speculatively  to  maintain ; 
for  I  cannot  believe  this  supposition  without  believing  that 


VALIDITY    OF    PEIICEI'TION.  97 

the  last  ground  of  all  belief  is  not  to  be  believed,  which  ia 
self-contradictory. 

4.  y  sir  compai^ative  evidence  and  certainly.  ''These 
truths  are  so  clear  and  obvious  that  nothing  more  clear  or 
obvious  can  be  conceived  by  which  to  prove  them."  Ac- 
cording to  BuiSBer,  they  "  are  so  clear,  that  if  we  attempt  to 
pr^ve  or  disprove  them,  this  can  be  done  only  by  proposi- 
tions which  are  manifestly  neither  more  evident  nor  more 
certain." 

Now,  so  far  as  I  can  perceive,  all  these  characteristics 
belong  to  the  deliverance  of  consciousness  in  perception. 
Tliey  are  incomprehensible,  simple,  practically  necessary, 
and  of  such  clearness  of  manifestation  that  they  can  neither 
be  proved  nor  disproved  by  anything  more  evident.  We  are 
then  entitled  to  consider  them  first  truths,  or  truths  revealed 
to  man  in  the  constitution  of  his  nature.  If  such  deliver- 
ances are  not  to  be  believed,  then  nothing  is  to  be  believed, 
and  all  knowledge  is  essentially  impossible. 

But  the  subject  may  be  finally  considered  from  another 
point  of  view. 

The  data  of  consciousness  may  be  considered  as  two-fold. 

1.  "As  apprehended  facts  or  actual  manifestations."  As 
when  I  say,  I  see  a  tree,  or  I  feel  a  cube,  there  is  an  actual 
manifestation  to  me  that  I  am  in  that  particular  state  of 
mind  described  by  these  words.  Consciousness  reveals  to 
me  that  fact  as  the  present  state  of  my  mind. 

2.  "  These  deliverances  of  consciousness  may  be  consid- 
ered as  testimonies  to  the  truth  of  facts  beyond  their  own 
phenomenal  reality."  These  acts  of  consciousness  are  the 
testimonies  to  the  fact  thai  that  tree  and  that  cube  are  now 
existing.  It  is,  however,  to  be  observed  that  the  testimony 
to  the  existence  of  this  state  of  mind,  and  to  the  existence 
of  the  tree  which  this  state  of  mind  cognizes,  is  given  ua 
in  the  same  act. 

9   . 


08  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

The  truth  of  this  first  testimony  of  consciousness  is  ad- 
mitted hy  all.  When  consciousness  testifies  that  I  am  now 
in  a  mental  state  which  I  call  perception,  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  such  is  the  fact.  The  doubt,  in  this  case,  ia 
clearly  suicidal.  The  state  of  mind  called  perception  is  at- 
U^sted  by  consciousness.  The  state  which  I  call  doubting 
ia  attested  by  the  same  consciousness.  If,  then,  conscious- 
ness is  not  to  be  believed  when  it  testifies  to  perception, 
neither  is  it  to  be  believed  when  it  testifies  to  doubting.  So 
tliat,  if  a  man  doubts  whether  he  is  really  in  the  state  of 
mind  called  perception,  he  must  equally  doubt  whether  he 
is  in  the  state  of  mind  which  he  calls  doubting.  He  must 
doubt  whether  he  doubts,  just  as  much  as  he  doubts  whether 
he  perceives,  meaning,  by  this  term,  a  mere  subjective  act, 
a  state  of  the  thinking  subject. 

There  may,  however,  be  without  absurdity  a  doubt  as  to  tiie 
other  part  of  the  act ;  that  is,  to  the  truth  of  this  testimony 
as  to  something  numerically  different  from  the  subject.  It 
may  be  said  that  this  is  merely  a  subjective  state  of  the  mind 
itself:  that  it  is  merely  a  form  of  the  ego  produced  by  the 
action  of  some  subjective  cause,  and  that  it  gives  us  no 
knowledge  of  anything  external. 

To  this  objection  it  may  be  answered, 

1.  "It  cannot  but  be  acknowledged  that  the  veracity  of 
consciousness  must,  at  least  in  the  first  instance,  be  conceded- 
Negantl  iiicumbit  probatio.  Nature  is  not  gratuitously  to 
be  assumed  to  work,  not  only  in  vain,  but  in  counteraction 
of  herself  Our  faculty  of  knowledge  is  not,  without  a 
ground,  to  be  supposed  an  instrument  of  illusion.  Man, 
unless  the  melancholy  fact  be  proved,  is  not  to  be  held 
organized  for  the  attainment  and  actuated  by  the  love  of 
truth,  only  to  become  the  dupe  and  victim  of  a  perfidious 
Creator." 

2.  ''But,  granting  that  these  convictions  are  at  the  be- 


VALIDITY    OF   PERCEPTION.  99 

ginning  to  be  received  as  true,  it  is  yet  competent  to  attempt 
to  prove  them  false,  and  thus  correct  an  error  into  which 
we  have  been  led  by  our  constitution.  But  how  shall  this 
be  done  ?  As  the  ultimate  grounds  of  knowledge,  these 
convictions  cannot  be  redargued  from  any  higher  knowledge ; 
and  as  derivative  beliefs  they  are  paramount  in  certainty  to 
every  derivative  knowledge.  They  cannot,  therefore,  be 
disproved  by  knowledge  derived  from  any  other  source,  for 
the  most  certain  knowledge  which  we  possess  must  rest  upon 
the  same  foundation  as  the  testimony  of  our  own  con- 
sciousness." 

3.  "If,  then,  these  convictions  be  disproved,  they  must 
be  disproved  by  themselves.  This  can  be  done  only  by  one 
of  two  methods.  First,  it  must  be  shown  that  these  pri- 
mary data  are  directly  and  immediately  contradictory  of 
themselves."  "They  are  many,  they  are  in  authority  co- 
ordinate, and  their  testimony  is  clear  and  precise.  '  Now, 
if  this  testimony  is  intellectually  or  in  fact,  at  variance,  then 
we  must  conclude  either  that  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  tes- 
timonies are  false.  Or,  secondly,  it  must  be  proved  ' '  that 
they  are  mediately  or  indirectly  contradictory,   inasmuch 

i  as  the  consequences  to  which  they  necessarily  lead,  and  for 
the  truth  or  falsehood  of  which  they  are  therefore  responsi- 
ble, are  repugnant.  In  no  other  way  can  the  veracity  of 
consciousness  be  assailed.  It  will  argue  nothing  to  show 
that  they  are  incomprehensible,  for  nothing  can  be  more 
absurd  than  to  make  the  comprehensibility  of  a  datum  of 
consciousness,  the  criterion  of  its  truth.  To  ask  how  an 
immediate  fact  of  consciousness  is  possible,  is  to  ask  how 
consciousness  is  possible  ;   and  to  ask  how  consciousness  is 

\  possible,  is  to  suppose  we  have  another  consciousness  above 
and  before  that  human  consciousness  concerning  whose  mode 
of  operation  we  inquire.  Could  we  answer  this,  verily  we 
should  be  as  gods."    Neither  of  these  attempts  has  ever  been 


100  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

made.  We  may,  therefore,  receive  the  testimony  of  con- 
Bciousness  as  true  beyond  the  reach  of  argument  or  contra- 
diction. 

4.  And,  lastly,  consciousness  testifies  to  two  things :  first 
that  there  is  now  existing  a  state  of  mind;  and,  secondly 
that  that  state  of  mind  is  an  actual  cognition  of  an  external 
world  possessing  such  or  such  qualities.  Suppose  we  admit 
the  first  testimony;  how,  then,  admitting  this,  can  we  reject 
the  other  testimony  of  which  it  forms  a  part  ?  What  dis- 
tinction can  we  take  between  the  two  items  of  the  same  tes- 
timony, by  which  we  can  receive  the  one  and  reject  the 
other.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  suppose  we  deny  the  testi- 
mony of  consciousness  to  the  truth  of  the  perception,  how 
can  we  admit  it  when  it  attests  to  an  existing  state  of  mind? 
If  the  one  is  false,  the  other  may  be  true,  but  it  is  surely 
not  to  be  credited.  Thus  the  very  facts  of  our  subjective 
existence  would  be  shown  to  be  unworthy  of  belief,  and  the 
evidence  of  the  existence  of  the  ego  and  the  non  ego  would 
be  swept  away  togetheir. 

In  this  and  the  preceding  article  I  have  used  the  thoughts, 
and,  for  the  most  part,  the  language  of  Sir  W.  Hamilton. 
It  gives  me  pleasure  to  acknowledge  my  obligations  to  a 
gentleman,  whose  boundless  learning  in  every  department  of 
human  knowledge,  united  with  unrivalled  acuteness  and 
rare  power  of  examining  with  perfect  distinctness  the  mi- 
nutest shades  of  thought,  have  long  since  given  him  a  posi- 
tion among  the  profoundest  philosophers  of  this  or  any  other 
age. 

5.  I  close  this  section  with  a  few  remarks  upon  the  law  of 
perception  in  its  relation  to  evidence.  This  law  may  be 
stated  in  few  words. 

1.  When  all  our  faculties  are  in  a  normal  state,  and  an  . 
appropriate  object  is  presented  to  an  organ  of  sense,  a  sen- 
sation or  a  perception  immediately  ensues.     We  cannot  by 


VALIDITY    OF    PERCEPTION.  101 

our  will  prevent  it.  If  I  open  my  eyes,  I  cannot  escape  the 
flight  of  the  object  before  me.  If  a  sound  is  made,  near  to 
me,  I  cannot  by  my  will  prevent  hearing  it ;  and  the  same 
is  true  of  all  other  senses. 

2.  On  the  other  hand,  my  faculties  being  in  their  normal 
condition,  if  no  object  is  presented  to  my  organs  of  sense, 
1  can  perceive  none.  I  cannot  perceive  what  I  will,  but 
only  what  is  presented  to  me.  I  cannot  see  a  tree,  unless  a 
tree  is  before  me.  I  cannot  hear  a  sound,  unless  a  sound  is 
produced  within  hearing;  and  so  of  the  rest. 

3.  Hence  it  follows  that  if,  under  normal  conditions,  I 
am  conscious  of  perceiving  an  external  object,  then  that 
object  exists  when  and  where  I  perceive  it.  The  conscious 
perception  could  exist  under  no  other  conditions.  It  is  a 
fact  which  admits  of  being  accounted  for  in  no  other  man- 
ner. And,  on  the  other  hand,  if,  under  normal  circum- 
stances, I  perceive  no  object,  then  no  object  exists  to  be 
perceived. 

These  simple  laws  lie  at  the  foundation  of  the  evidence 
of  testimony.  If  we  perceive  an  event,  we  know  that  that 
event  is  transpiring.  If  we  remember  that  we  perceived  it, 
we  know  that  it  has  transpired.  So,  if  we  are  satisfied 
that  credible  witnesses  were  conscious  of  perceiving  an  ob- 
ject, we  know  that  the  object  existed  as  perceived.  If  un- 
der circumstances,  such  that  if  it  were  present  they  must 
have  perceived  it,  and  they  were  conscious  of  no  percep- 
tion, then  we  know  that  the  object  was  not  present.  The 
further  consideration  of  the  conditions  by  which  these  laws 
are  limited  belongs  to  the  science  of  evidence.  The  state- 
ment of  the  law  itself  is  all  that  concerns  to  our  present 
inquiry. 

Within  a  few  years  past  various  statements  have  been 
made  which  seem  to  modify  the  above  laws.  It  has  been 
asserted  that  persons,  under  the  influence  of  what  is  called 
9* 


102  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

mesmerism  can  be  rendered  perfectly  unconscpus  of  what 
is  passing  around  them ;  that  they  are  able  to  cognize  per- 
sons and  events  without  the  intervention  of  the  appropriate 
meilia,  and  under  circumstances  which  render  it  certain 
tluit  such  cognitions  could  not  have  originated  in  the  ordi- 
nary use  of  the  organs  of  sense.  This  subject  has  attracted 
considerable  attention,  both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe. 
Sir  W.  Hamilton  remarks:  '^  However  astonishing,  it  is  now 
proved,  beyond  all  rational  doubt,  that,  in  certain  abnormal 
states  of  the  nervous  organismj  perceptions  are  possible 
through  other  than  the  ordinary  channels  of  the  senses.'' — 
Hamilton's  Reid,  page  246,  note  2,  Edinburgh  edition. 

It  has  been,  I  believe,  proved  beyond  dispute,  that  pa- 
tients under  this  influence  have  submitted  to  the  most  dis- 
tressing operations  without  consciousness  of  pain ;  that  other 
persons  have  cognized  events  at  a  great  distance,  and  have 
related  them  correctly  at  the  time ;  and  that  persons  totally 
blind,  when  in  the  state  of  mesmeric  consciousness  have 
enjoyed  for  the  time  the  power  of  perceiving  external  ob- 
jects. So  far  as  I  have  been  informed,  while  these  distant 
cognitions  are  sometimes  correct,  they  are  as  frequently 
wholly  erroneous,  and  the  person  is  totally  unable  to  distin- 
guish the  true  from  the  false.  The  subject  seems  to  me 
well  worthy  of  the  most  searching  and  candid  examination, 
The  facts  seem  to  indicate  some  more  general  laws  of  exter- 
nal cognition  than  have  yet  been  discovered.  The  matter 
is  by  no  means  deserving  of  ridicule,  but  demands  the  atten- 
tion of  the  most  philosophical  inquirers. 

REFERENCE  S. 

Knon  ledge  acquired  by  perception  is  of  individuals  —  Locke,  Book  4, 
chap.  7,  sec.  U  ;  Reid,  Essay  5,  chap.  1. 
The  knowledge  acquired  by  perception  is  real  — Reid,  Essay  2,  chaps.  5 


CONCEPTION.  103 

Primary  and  secondary  qualities  —  Locke,  book  2d,  chap.  8,  sec.  9,  10, 
W,  24  ;  Reid,  Essay  2d,  oh.  17  ;  Cousin,  ch.  6. 

Sir  W.  Hamilton,  Dissertation  supplementary  to  Reid  ;  note  D. 

Laws  of  Perception  —  Reid,  Essay  2d,  cli.  1,  2. 

The  credibility  of  the  evidence  of  perception  demonstrated  —  Sir  W 
Hamilton's  Dissertation  on  Common  Sense.     Note  A,  as  above. 


SECTION    XI.  —  OF    CONCEPTION. 

The  subject  of  conception  is,  in  its  origin,  so  intimately 
allied  to  perception,  that,  although  it  enters  as  a  constituent 
element  into  almost  every  act  of  the  mind,  there  seems  a 
propriety  in  treating  of  it  here. 

The  word  conception  has  already  frequently  occurred  in 
the  preceding  pages.  It  is  proper  that  it  should  be  more 
definitely  explained. 

Conception  has  been  defined  as  that  act  of  the  mind  in 
which  we  form  a  notion  or  thought  of  a  thing.  To  this, 
however,  it  has  been  objected,  that  the  word  notion  or 
thought  in  this  place  means  the  same  as  conception,  and 
that  we  might  with  the  same  propriety  reverse  the  defini- 
tion, and  say  that  the  having  a  notion  of  a  thing  was  the 
forming  a  conception  of  it.  There  seems  to  be  force  in  this 
objection.  The  fact  is,  that  a  simple  act  of  the  mind  is  in- 
capable of  definition.  We  can  do  no  more  than  present  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  arises,  and  our  own  conscious- 
ness at  once  teaches  us  what  is  meant. 

1.  To  proceed  in  this  manner,  then,  I  would  observe  that 
when  I  look  upon  a  book,  or  any  external  object,  I  instantly 
Torm  a  notion  of  it,  of  a  particular  kind.  I  know  it  as  an  ex- 
ternal body,  numerically  distinct  from  myself,  of  a  certain 
form  color  and  magnitude,  at  this  moment  and  in  this 
place  existiag  before  me.  When  I  handle  a  book,  I  have  the 


104  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

same   notion^  the   quality   of  color   only   excepted.     This 
knowledge  is  called  perception. 

2.  Secondly,  I  find  that  when  the  object  of  perception  ia 
removed,  and  the  act  of  perception  ceases,  a  knowledge  of 
the  object  is  still  present  to  my  mind.  This  is  called  a  con- 
ception. Thus,  the  book  which  I  just  now  perceived  is  re- 
moved, but  the  conception  of  it  is  still  an  object  of  con- 
sciousness. A  cube  which  I  saw  is  burned  to  ashes,  but  I 
have  a  distinct  conception  of  its  form  and  dimensions.  I  can 
recall  to  my  mind  the  cataract  which  I  saw  last  summer,  the 
house  in  which  I  slept,  or  particular  portions  of  the  road  over 
which  I  passed.  In  these  cases,  however,  the  conception  is 
not  simple  ;  it  is  combined  with  the  act  of  memory.  I  have 
not  only  the  conception,  but  the  assurance  or  belief,  that  at 
a  certain  time  these  objects  actually  existed  as  I  now  con- 
ceive of  them. 

3.  But  let  us  now  separate  this  act  of  conception  from 
the  act  of  memory.  We  can  conceive  of  a  tree  or  a  cataract 
without  connecting  it  with  the  idea  either  of  present  or 
past  existence.  We  are  doing  this  continually  in  the  course 
of  our  own  thoughts.  We  do  it  when  we  read  a  romance.  We 
are  here  continually  forming  images  of  things,  places,  and  • 
persons,  which  we  know  never  existed.  So,  in  a  geometri- 
cal demonstration,  we  form  for  ourselves  the  conception  of  a 
figure,  and  proceed  to  reason  upon  it,  though  we  have  never 
seen  it  represented   to  the  eye.^     A  concept  or  concep. 

•  The  word  conception  is  commonly  used  in  two  or  three  significations.  ' 
It  is  employed  to  designate  the  power  or  faculty,  the  individual  act  of  that 
ficulty,  and  that  act  considered  as  an  object  of  thought.  On  this  subject 
Bir  W.  Hamilton  remarks,  *'We  ought  to  distinguish  imagination  and 
imai;e,  conception  and  concept.  Imagination  and  conception  ought  to  be 
employed  in  speaking  of  the  mental  modification,  one  and  indivisiole,  cc«h 
Bidered  as  an  act;  image  and  concept,  in  speaking  of  it,  considerea  tm 
product  or  immediate  object  "  —  Note  to  page  263. 


CONCEPTION.  105 

lion  is,  therefore,  that  representation  or  cognition  of  a 
thing  which  we  form  in  the  mind  when  we  are  thinking  of 
jt. 

4.  Again,  when  we  think  of  an  act  of  the  mind  as  thmk- 
ing,  willing,  believing,  or  of  any  emotion,  as  joy  or  sorrow, 
we  form  a  conception  of  it.  We  cannot  think  it  unless  we 
can  do  this.  Hence,  when  a  state  of  mind  is  spoken  of  which 
we  cannot  represent  to  ourselves  in  thought,  we  say  we  can- 
not conceive  of  it ;  that  is,  the  words  spoken  do  not  awaken 
in  us  any  corresponding  conception. 

5.  Again,  by  the  faculty  of  abstraction  we  may  analyze 
the  elements  of  these  concrete  conceptions,  and  combine 
them  into  general  or  abstract  ideas.  Thus,  from  several  in- 
dividual horses  we  form  the  general  notion  of  a  horse,  mean- 
ing the  genus,  and  having  respect  to  no  individual  horse 
existing.  These  are  general  conceptions,  or  conceptions  of 
genera  or  species. 

6.  We  have  also  conceptions  of  general  intuitive  truths, 
such  as  the  axioms  of  mathematics.  We  conceive  of  the 
truth  that  the  whole  is  greater  than  its  part,  or  that  if 
equals  be  added  to  equals  the  wholes  are  equal.  So  we  form 
conceptions  of  general  relations,  as  of  cause  and  efifect_ 
power,  and  many  others. 

7.  Lastly,  we  are  able  to  form  images  by  combining  into 
one  whole,  elements  previously  existing  in  the  mind,  as  when 
a  painter  conceives  of  a  landscape,  or  of  a  historical  group. 
This  form  of  conception  is  more  properly  styled  imagination. 

In  all  cases  of  conception  where  the  act  is  completed,  if  I 
do  not  mistake^  we  form  something  of  the  nature  of  a  pic- 
ture, which  the  mind  contemplates  as  the  object  of  thought. 
I  am  aware  that,  in  speaking  and  writing,  when  the  terms 
are  perfectly  familiar,  we  do  not  pause  and  form  the  con- 
ception. Thus,  we  use  the  axioms,  in  demonstration,  without 
pausing  to  reflect  upon  the  words  we  employ,  and  yet  wo  - 


106  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

use  them  with  entire  accuracy.  Thus  we  speak  of  cause 
and  effect,  number,  and  various  other  ideas.  When,  how- 
ever, we  attempt  to  dwell  upon  any  one  of  these  ideas,  so 
far  as  I  can  observe,  we  form  a  concept  of  it  in  the  mind. 
Thus,  when  I  think  of  the  term  horse  as  a  genus,  and  dwell 
upon  it  in  thought,  there  is  before  me,  as  an  object,  a  con- 
cept of  such  an  animal.  So,  if  I  think  the  axiom  the  whole 
is  greater  than  its  part,  two  magnitudes  corresponding  to 
these  terms  present  themselves  before  me.  From  this 
remark,  however,  must  be  excepted  those  cases  in  which  we 
recognize  a  truth  as  a  necessary  condition  of  thought,  as 
duration,  space,  and  ideas  of  a  similar  character.  Even 
here,  however,  we  find  the  mind  from  its  natural  impulse 
striving  to  realize  something  which  shall  correspond  to  a 
concept. 

Of  conceptions  thus  explained  it  may  be  remarked  in 
general : 

1.  In  conception  there  is  nothing  numerically  distinct 
from  the  act  of  the  mind  itself  From  the  analogies  of  lan- 
guage we  are  liable  to  be  misled  in  thinking  of  this  subject. 
We  speak  of  forming  a  conception,  and  of  forming  a  machine ; 
of  separating  the  elements  of  a  conception,  and  of  separating 
the  parts  of  an  object  from  one  another.  As  in  the  one 
case  there  is  some  object  distinct  from  the  ego,  we  are  prone 
to  suppose  that  there  must  be  also  in  the  other.  There  is, 
however,  in  conception  nothing  but  the  act  of  the  mind 
itself  We  may,  nevertheless,  contemplate  th?s  act  from 
different  points  of  view ;  first,  as  an  act  of  the  mind,  or  as 
the  mind  in  this  particular  act,  and,  secondly,  as  a  product 
of  that-  act  which  we  use  in  thinking.  There  is,  however, 
numerically  nothing  but  the  act  of  the  mind  itself 

2.  Conception  enters  into  all  the  other  acts  of  the  mind. 
In  the  simplest  sensation  there  is,  for  the  time  being,  a 
knowledge  or  a  notion,  though  it  may  remain  with  us  not  a 


CONCEPTION.  107 

moment  after  the  object  producing  it  is  withdrawn.  We 
can  have  a  knowledge  of  our  own  powers  only  as  we  have 
conceptions  of  them.  We  can  remember,  or  judge,  or  rea- 
son, only  as  we  have  conceptions.  In  fact,  all  our  mental 
processes  are  about  conceptions.  Of  them,  all  our  knowl- 
edge consists. 

3.  Our  conceptions  are  to  us  the  measure  of  possibility. 
When  any  proposition  cannot  be  conceived,  that  is,  is  un- 
thinkable, we  declare  it  impossible  or  absurd.  Thus,  if  it 
be  said  that  a  part  is  greater  than  the  whole,  that  two 
straight  lines  can  enclose  space,  or  that  a  change  can  take 
place  in  a  body  while  all  the  conditions  of  its  existence  re- 
main absolutely  the  same,  I  understand  the  assertion ;  but 
when  I  attempt  to  form  a  conception  of  it,  that  is,  to  think 
it,  I  find  myself  unable  to  do  so.  I  affirm  it  to  be  impos- 
sible. On  the  other  hand,  I  may  think  of  a  communication 
between  the  earth  and  the  moon.  In  the  present  state  of 
science  it  is  impracticable,  but  it  is  within  the  limits  of 
thought, '  and  my  mind  is  not  so  organized  that  I  feel  it  to 
be  impossible.  This  case,  is,  however,  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  unconditional,  the  incomprehensible.  This,  from 
the  nature  of  our  intellect,  we  know  to  be  necessary ;  it  is 
not  contradictory  to  thought,  though  to  grasp  the  concep- 
tion is  impossible.  In  the  other  case  we  are  able  to  com- 
prehend the  terms,  but  we  are  unable  to  construe  them  in 
thought ;  in  other  words,  the  relation  which  is  affirmed  is 
unthinkable. 

4.  In  simple  conception,  or  where  it  is  unattended  by 
any  other  act  of  the  mind,  there  is  neither  truth  nor  false- 
hood. ^  I  may  conceive  of  a  red  mountain,  of  a  blue  rose,  of 
a  winged  horse,  but  the  conception  has  nothing  to  do  with 
my  belief  in  the  existence  of  either  of  these  objects.  If  the 
conception  is  united  with  an  act  of  judgment  or  memory, 
then  it  at  once  becomes  either  true   r  false.     In  the  concep- 


108  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

tion  itself,  however,  I  can  discover  neither.  Stewart,  I 
know,  advances  a  contrary  opinion  ;  but  I  must  confess  my- 
self  wholly  unconvinced  by  his  reasoning. 

5.  Conceptions  may  be  either  clear  and  distinct,  or  obscure 
and  indistinct.  We  easily  observe  the  difference  here  spoken 
of  in  the  effects  produced  on  us  by  different  descriptions. 
Some  authors  describe  a  scene  with  so  graphic  a  power  that  we 
at  once  form  a  conception  as  definite  as  though  we  had  our- 
selves beheld  it.  Others  use  emphatic  and  imposing  lau- 
gyage,  but  they  leave  on  us  no, distinct  impression.  We 
arc  deluged  by  a  shower  of  words,  but  no  conception  is 
imprinted  on  the  memory. 

6.  Conceptions  may  be  strong  and  vivid,  or  faint  and 
languid.  The  same  scene  may  with  equal  faithfulness  be 
described  to  us  by  two  persons.  The  one  deeply  affects  us, 
while  the  other  hardly  interests  us  suflSciently  to  command 
our  continued  attention.  We  observe  the  same  effect  in 
ourselves,  resulting  from  the  accidental  tone  of  our  own  minds. 
At  some  times  we  find  our  conceptions  much  stronger  than 
at  others,  under  precisely  the  same  external  circumstances. 

From  what  has  been  observed,  it  will  readily  appear  that 
the  power  of  forming  conceptions  differs  greatly  in  differ- 
ent individuals.  Every  teacher  must  have  remarked  this 
fact,  in  his  attempts  to  communicate  instruction.  Some  per- 
sons will  at  once  seize  upon  the  salient  points  of  a  concep- 
tion, discover  its  bearing  and  relations,  and  hold  it  steadily 
before  the  mind,  until  it  becomes  incorporated  with  their 
knowledge.  They  never  can  be  satisfied  until  they  have 
attained  to  this  result.  Others  require  repeated  explana- 
tions, and,  when  they  suppose  themselves  to  have  mastered 
a  conception,  we  are  surprised  to  observe  that  no  important 
point  seen\s  to  have  arrested  their  attention,  but  that  there 
rest  on  their  minds  only  considerations  of  inferior  impor- 
tance blended  together  in  dim  and  uncertain  confusion. 


CONCEPTION.  109 

The  differenoi^  in  chis  respect,  is  still  more  remarkable  in 
the  connection  of  conception  with  the  fine  arts,  though  per- 
haps this  exercise  of  the  power  belongs  rather  to  the  imagi- 
nation. A  portrait-painter  will  form  so  distinct  a  concep- 
tion of  a  countenance  that,  years  afterward,  he  will  repre- 
sent it  correctly  on  canvas.  The  same  power  of  forming 
distinct  conceptions  is  essential  to  the  poet  or  novelist.  No 
one  can  read  the  descriptions  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  without 
being  sensible  of  his  high  endowment  in  this  respect.  Nor 
was  this  power  limited  to  the  scenes  which  he  himself  had 
witnessed.  His  description  of  a  summer  day  in  the  deserts 
of  Syria  could  not  have  been  surpassed  by  the  most  gifted 
Bedouin  Arab.  It  was  to  this  power  that  he  owed  much 
of  that  brilliant  conversational  eminence,  which  rendered 
him  the  centre  of  attraction  in  every  circle  in  which  he 
chose  to  unbend  himself. 

REFERENCES. 

Conception  —  Reid,  Essay  1,  chap.  1 

Formed  at  will  —  Reid,  Essay  4,  chap.  1. 

Enter  into  every  other  act  of  the  mind  —  Reid,  Essay  4,  chap.  1. 

Neither  true  nor  false  —  Reid,  Essay  4,  chap.  1. 

Ingredients  derived  from  other  powers  —  Reid,  Essay  4,  chap.  1. 

Analogy  between  painting  and  conception  —  Reid,  Essay  4,  chap.  1 
Conception  in  general  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  3. 

Attended  with  belief — Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  3. 

Power  of  description  depends  on  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  3. 

Improved  by  habit  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  3. 
Conception  —  Abercrorabie,  Part  3,  sect.  1. 

Clear  or  obscure  —  Abercrombie,  Part  3,  sect.  1. 
In  conception  neither  truth  nor  falsehood  —  Locke,  Book  2d,  chap   22, 
•ects.  1—4,  19,  20. 

Clear  or  obscure  —  Locke,  Book  2,  <5h.  29,  sect  1 

10 


CHAPTER   II. 

OONSCIOJSNESS,  ATTENTION,  AND  REFLECTION. 


SECTION   I. —  CONSCIOUSNESS. 

Consciousness  is  that  condition  of  the  mind  in  which  it. 
is  cognizant  of  its  own  operations.  It  is  not  thinking  and 
feeling,  but  that  condition  in  which  we  know  that  we  think 
or  feel.  Thought,  however,  is  necessary  to  consciousness, 
for  unless  thought  existed,  we  could  not  be  conscious  of  it. 
We  may  nevertheless  suppose  a  mental  act  to  be  performed 
of  which  we  have  no  consciousness.  In  such  a  case  we 
should  have  no  knowledge  of  its  present  existence,  and 
should  only  know  that  it  had  existed  by  its  results. 

On  this  subject,  however,  a  considerable  diversity  of  opin- 
ion obtains.  Sir  W.  Hamilton  and  many  philosophers  of 
the  highest  authority  believe  that  consciousness  cannot  prop- 
erly be  separated  from  the  act  to  whose  existence  it  tes- 
tifies, and  that  to  make  a  distinction  between  the  assertions, 
'I  perceive"  and  '^I  am  conscious  of  perception,''  is  im« 
.possible.  They  hold  that  when  we,  are  not  conscious  of  an 
act,  the  act  is  not  performed  ;  and  that  when  consciousness 
does  not  testify  to  anything,  it  is  because  there  is  nothing 
concerning  which  it  can  testify. 

In  answer  to  this,  it  may  be  granted  that  when  it  is  said 
*'  I  perceive,"  the  meaning  is  the  same  as  when  I  say  '' ^ 
am  conscious  of  perceiving."     When  I  say  ''  I  perceive," 


CONSCIOUSNESS.  Ill 

there  is  involved,  by  necessity,  in  this  assertion,  the  evi- 
dence of  consciousness.  The  question  still  returns,  Is  there 
a  state  of  mind  which  involves  perception,  of  which  we  are 
not  conscious,  and  which  is  not  expressed  by  the  words  "  1 
am  conscious  that  I  perceive"  ? 

Let  us,  then,  proceed  to  examine  the  facts.  A  person  may 
be  engaged  in  reading,  or  in  earnest  thought,  and  a  clock 
may  strike  within  a  few  feet  of  him  without  arresting  hi^ 
attention.  He  will  not  know  that  it  has  struck.  Let,  now. 
another  person  ask  him,  within  a  few  seconds,  if  the  clock 
has  struck,  and  he  will  be  conscious  of  a  more  or  less  dis- 
tinct impression  that  he  has  just  heard  it ;  and,  turning  to 
observe  the  dial-plate,  finds  such  to  have  been  the  fact. 
What,  now,  was  his  state  of  mind  previous  to  the  question  ? 
Had  there  not  been  a  perception  of  which  he  was  not  con 
scions  ? 

But  we  may  take  a  much  stronger  case.  While  a  person 
is  reading  aloud  to  another,  some  train  of  thought  frequent- 
ly arrests  his  attention.  He,  however,  continues  to  read, 
until  his  opinion  is  requested  concerning  some  sentiment  of 
the  author.  He  is  unpleasantly  startled  by  the  reflection 
^hat  he  has  not  the  remotest  conception  of  what  he  has  been 
reading  about.  He  remembers  perfectly  well  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point,  but  beyond  this  point  he  is  as  ignorant  of  the 
book  as  if  he  had  never  seen  it.  What,  then,  was  the  state  of 
his  mind  while  he  was  reading  ?  He  looked  upon  the  page. 
He  must  have  seen  every  letter,  for  he  enunciated  every 
word,  and  observed  every  pause  correctly.  No  one  had  a 
suspicion  that  he  did  not  cognize  the  thoughts  which  he 
was  enunciating  to  others.  Yet,  the.  moment  afterwards,  he 
has  not  the  least  knowledge  either  of  the  words  or  the  ideas. 
Can  we  say  that  there  was  no  perception  here  ? .  Could  a 
man  read  a  sentence  aloud  without  perceiving  the  words  in 
which  it  was  written  ?  Yet,  so  far  as  we  can  discover,  this 
state  of  mind  was  unattended  by  consciousness. 


112  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY.  '■ 

Another  case,  of  a  very  striking  character,  was  related  to 
me  by  the  person  to  whom  it  refers.  A  few  years  sinc^5, 
while  in  London,  I  became  acquainted  with  a  gentleman 
who  had,  for  many  years,  held  the  responsible  office  of  short- 
liiind  writer  to  the  House  of  Lords.  In  conversation  one 
day,  he  mentioned  to  me  the  following  occurrence.  Some 
time  during  the  last  war  with  France,  he  was  engaged  in 
tiiking  minutes  of  evidence  in  a  court  of  inquiry  respecting 
the  Walcheren  expedition.  Li  this  duty  he  was  incessantly 
engaged  from  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  until  four  o'clock 
the  next  morning.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was 
aroused  from  a  state  of  unconsciousness  by  Sir  James  E.,  one 
of  the  members  of  the  court,  who  asked  him  to  read  the  min- 
utes of  the  evidence  of  the  last  witness.  It  was  the  testimony 
of  one  of  the  general  officers  who  had  described  the  fortifica- 
tions of  Flushing.  My  friend,  Mr.  G.,  replied,  with  some  em- 
barrassment, ' '  I  fear  I  have  not  got  it  all. "  ''  Never  mind, ' ' 
replied  the  officer,  ^'  begin,  and  we  will  help  you  out."  The 
evidence  consisted  of  tw^o  pages  of  short-hand,  and  Mr.  G. 
read  it  to  the  close.  He  remembered  it  all  perfectly  ex- 
cepting the  last  four  lines,  of  which  he  had  no  recollection 
whatever.  These  last  lines  were,  however,  written  as  legibly 
as  the  rest,  and  he  read  them  without  difficulty.  When  he 
came  to  the  end,  he  turned  to  General  E.,  saying,  '^  Sii 
James,  that  is  all  I  have."  ''  That,"  replied  the  other,  ''  is 
all  there  is  ;  you  have  the  whole  of  it  perfectly."  He  had 
rei)orted  the  evidence  with  entire  accuracy  up  to  the  very 
moment  when  he  was  called  upon  to  read,  and  yet  the  last 
four  lines  had  been  written,  and  written  in  short-hand,  so 
far  as  he  knew,  during  a  period  of  perfect  unconsciousness. 

The  condition  of  the  mind  which  we  term  derangement 
conveys  some  instruction  on  this  subject.  Here,  it  is  not 
uncommon  for  the  patient  to  suppose  that  he  is  not  the  per- 
son speaking  or  acting,  but  some  other,  and  that  some  other 


CONSCaCOUSNESS.  113 

mind  than  his  otm  is  occupying  his  body  and  performing 
the  intellectual  operations,  of  which  he  is  conscious.  Thug, 
Pinel  mentions  the  case  of  a  man  in  France  who  imagined 
that  he  had  been  sentenced  to  death  and  guillotined ;  but 
that,  after  his  execution,  the  judges  reversed  their  decision, 
and  ordered  his  head  to  be  replaced ;  the  executioner  re- 
placed the  wrong  head,  and  hence  he  was  ever  after  think- 
ing the  thoughts  of  another  man  instead  of  his  own.  We 
have  said  that  consciousness  is  that  condition  of  the  mind 
in  which  it  becomes  cognizant  of  its  own  operations ;  that 
is,  we  are  cognizant,  not  only  that  certain  intellectual  opera- 
tions are  carried  on,  but  that  they  are  our  own.  In  this 
case  of  deranged  consciousness,  the  individual  was  aware 
that  there  were  thoughts,  desires,  remembrances,  &c.,  going 
on  within  him,  but  he  could  not  recognize  them  as  the  opera* 
tions  of  his  own  mind. 

These  cases  would  seem  to  show  that  a  distinction  may 
fairly  be  made  between  consciousness  and  the  faculties  to  the 
operation  of  which  it  testifies.  Yet  it  would  scarcely  seem 
proper  to  denominate  it  a  faculty ;  I  prefer  to  call  it  a  con- 
dition of  the  mind. 

Such  being  the  nature  of  consciousness,  it  is  of  course 
unnecessary  to  specify  the  various  kinds  of  knowledge  which 
we  cognize  by  means  of  it.  If  it  be  the  condition  neces- 
sary to  the  cognition  of  our  mental  operations,  then  all 
forms  of  thought  are  made  known  to  us  through  this 
medium.  Hence,  as  I  have  before  suggested,  to  say  I 
know,  and  to  say  I  am  conscious  of  knowing,  mean  the  same 
thing  :  since  the  one  cannot  be  true  without  involving  the 
other. 

Consciousness  always  has  respect  to  the  state  of  the  mind 

•tself,  and  not  to  anything  external.     We  are  not  conscious 

of  a  tree,  but  conscious  that  we  perceive  the  tree.    We  may 

be  conscious  of  hearing  a  sound ;  we  are  not  conscious  of  a 

10* 


114  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

Bound.  Those  writers  who  deny  the  existence  of  conscious- 
ness as  a  condition  distinguishable  from  the  act  to  which  h 
testifies,  of  course,  adopt  a  different  form  of  expression. 
They  would  say  that  I  am  conscious  of  a  tree,  or  of  a 
Bound,  assuming  that  perception  in  all  its  varieties  is  but  so 
many  forms  of  consciousness.  I  have  no  desire  to  enter 
upon  a  further  discussion  of  this  subject.  So  far,  however, 
as  I  am  able  to  observe  the  operations  of  my  own  mind,  1 
am  constrained  to  believe  that  the  form  of  expression  which 
I  have  used  represents  my  act  in  perception  more  accurately 
than  the  other. 

Consciousness  has  respect  to  the  present,  never  to  the 
past.  We  can  be  conscious  of  nothing  that  does  not  exist 
now  and  here.  We  may  be  conscious  that  we  now  remem- 
ber the  sunset  of  yesterday,  but  we  cannot  now  be  conscious 
of  the  perception  of  the  sunset  of  yesterday.  We  may  be 
conscious  that  we  remember  the  appearance  of  an  absent 
friend,  but  we  cannot  be  conscious  of  the  appearance  of  an 
absent  friend. 

In  the  normal  condition  of  the  mind,  consciousness,  with- 
out any  effort  of  the  will,  is  always  in  exercise,  and  is 
always  bearing  witness  to  the  existence  of  our  own  mental 
acts.  It  may  be  turned  off  involuntarily  from  the  object 
directly  before  us  to  some  other,  but,  during  our  waking 
hours,  it  always  bears  witness  to  something.  Hence,  con- 
sciousness, united  with  memory,  gives  rise  to  the  conviction 
of  i)ersonal  identity.  We  know  by  means  of  this  faculty 
that  certain  thoughts  and  feelings  exist,  and  that  they  are 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  being  whom  I  denominate 
I,  myself  Memory  connects  these  various  testimonies  of 
consciousness  into  a  connected  series,  and  thus  we  know  that 
our  intellectual  acts,  from  our  earliest  recollecti(m,  proceed 
from  the  same  being,  and  not  another.  I  thus  know  that 
ilie  thoughts  and  feelings  which  I  remember  to  have  been 


CONSCIOUSNESS  115 

conscious  of  yesterday  are  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the 
same  being  who  is  conscious  of  other  intellectual  acts 
to-day ;  that  is,  that  through  all  the  changes  of  the  present 
state,  the  ego^  myself,  is  the  same  individual  and  continuous 
subject. 

There  have  been  observed  occasionally  abnormal  cases 
of  what  may  be  termed  double  consciousness.  In  such  a 
case,  the  present  existence  of  the  individual  is  at  one  time 
connected  with  one  period  of  his  life,  and  at  another  time 
with  another.  A  young  woman  in  Springfield,  Mass.,  some 
years  since,  was  affected  in  this  manner.  She  was  at  first 
subject  to  attacks  of  what  appeared  to  be  ordinary  somnam- 
bulism. These  were  then  transferred  from  the  night  to  the 
day-time,  and  during  their  continuance  her  powers  of  per- 
ception were  in  a  strange  manner  modified.  With  her  eyes 
thickly  bandaged,  in  a  dark  room,  she  could  read  the  finest 
print.  She  was  removed  to  the  hospital  for  the  insane  at 
Worcester,  in  order  to  be  under  the  care  of  the  late  Dr. 
Woodward.  Here  it  was  immediately  observed  that  her 
normal  and  abnormal  states  represented  two  conditions  of 
consciousness.  Whatever  she  learned  in  the  abnormal  state 
was  entirely  forgotten  as  soon  as  she  passed  from  this  state 
to  the  other,  but  was  perfectly  remembered  as  soon  as  the 
abnormal  state  returned.  Thus  she  was  taught  to  play 
backgammon  in  both  states.  What  she  learned  in  the  ab- 
normal state  was  entirely  disconnected  from  what  she  learned 
in  her  natural  state,  and  vice  versa.  The  acquisition  made 
in  one  state  was  lost  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  other :  and 
it  was  remarked  that  she  learned  more  rapidly  in  the  abnor- 
mal than  in  the  normal  state.  The  first  symptom  of  her 
recovery  was  the  blending  together  of  the  knowledge 
acquired  in  these  separate  conditions.  As  the  cure  ad- 
vanced, they  became  more  and  more  identified,  until  the 
•  testimony  of  consciousness  became  uninterrupted   and  then 


116  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

the  abnormal  state  vanished  altogether.  Several  cases  are 
also  on  record  in  which  persons  have  been  subject  to  this 
double  consciousness  without  any  manifestation  of  somnam- 
bulism. In  such  instances,  the  individual  has  suddenly 
awaked  to  a  recollection  of  his  former  life,  with  the  excep- 
'  tion  of  a  portion  immediately  preceding,  of  which  he  has  no 
recollection.  A  period  of  his  existence  seems  perfectly 
parenthetical,  and  h.s  present  consciousness  connects  itself 
only  with  that  portion  of  his  life  which  preceded  the  change 
in  his  condition.  This  peculiar  affection  will  be  best  illus- 
trated by  an  example.  A  few  years  since,  a  theokigical 
student,  represented  to  be  a  person  of  unexceptionable  char- 
acter, was  suddenly  missing  from  a  city  in  the  interior  of 
New  York.  All  search  for  him  was  fruitless,  and  he  was 
supposed  to  have  been  murdered.  A  few  months  afterwards, 
his  friends  received  a  letter  from  him,  dated  Liverpool, 
England.  He  stated  that  a  short  time  before,  he  had  found 
himself  on  board  of  a  vessel  bound  from  Montreal  to  Liver- 
pool, without  the  least  knowledge  of  the  manner  in  whfeh 
he  came  there.  He  recollected  nothing  from  the  time  of 
his  being  in  the  city  where  he  had  last  been  seen  by  his 
friends.  He  however  learned  from  his  fellow-passengers 
that  he  had  embarked  on  board  the  vessel  at  Montreal, —  and 
he  must  have  walked  about  two  hundred  miles  in  order  to 
arrive  there, —  that  he  sometimes  seemed  peculiar  on  the 
passage,  but  that  there  had  been  nothing  in  his  conduct  to 
excite  particular  remark. 

Consciousness  suggests  to  us  the  notion  of  existence. 
When  we  are  conscious  of  a  sensation  there  immediately 
springs  from  it  the  idea  of  self-existence.  The  conscious- 
ness of  a  perception  suggests  the  idea  of  the  existence  both 
of  the  object  perceived,  of  the  subject  perceiving,  and  fre- 
queutly  of  some  particular  condition  of  that  subject.  Thus, 
suppose  1  am  looking  upon  a  waterfall.     I  am  conscieis  of 


CONSCIOUSNESS.  117 

eogmzing  an  external  object ;  I  am  conscious  of  the  state 
of  mind  called  perception,  and  I  am  conscious  of  the  emotion 
of  beauty  or  sublimity  occasioned  by  the  object  which  I 
perceive. 

It  is  obviously  in  our  power  to  contemplate  at  will  either 
of  these  objects  of  thought.  I  may  direct  my  attention  to 
the  external  object,  or  to  the  internal  mental  act,  or  to  the 
emotion  which  the  object  occasions.  Thus,  in  the  instance 
just  mentioned,  I  may  direct  my  whole  power  of  thought  to 
the  observation  of  the  waterfall.  I  may  examine  it  so  care- 
fully and  minutely,  that  its  image  is  fixed  in  my  remem- 
brance forever.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  I  may  turn  my 
attention  to  my  own  intellectual  state,  and  analyze  the 
nature  of  the  act  of  perception.  Or,  still  more,  after 
having  become  deeply  impressed  with  the  external  object,  I 
may  contemplate  my  own  emotions,  and,  following  the  train 
of  thought  which  they  awaken,  may  lose  all  consciousness 
of  the  perception  of  the  object,  wholly  absorbed  in  the  sen- 
sibilities which  it  has  called  into  action.  We  may  do  either 
of  these  in  any  particular  instance.  We  may  from  natural 
bias,  or  from  the  circumstances  of  education,  form  the  habit 
of  pursuing  either  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  trains  of 
thought. 

Hence  arises  the  distinction  between  objective  and  sub- 
jective writers.  The  objective  writer  describes  with  graphic 
power  the  appearances  of  external  nature,  the  march  of 
pageants,  the  shock  of  battles,  and  whatever  addresses  itself 
to  the  perceptive  powers.  This  habit  of  mind  is  also  of 
special  importance  in  all  the  researches  of  physical  science 
The  subjective  writer  turns  his  thoughts  inward,  and  either 
as  a  metaphysician,  analyzes  his  own  mental  phenomena, 
or  pours  forth  in  the  language  of  poetry  the  emotions  of 
his  soul.  Thomson  and  Scott,  especially  the  latter,  are 
eminently  objective.     Young  and  Byron  are  equally  sub- 


118  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHf. 

jective  No  one  can  compare  a  canto  of  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake  with  a  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  or  with  one  of 
Youn^^'s  Night  Thoughts,  without  observing  the  difference 
which  I  am  here  attempting  to  illustrate. 

It  is,  however,  obvious  that  no  writer  can  be  either  wholly 
objective  or  wholly  subjective.  Were  two  writers  wholly 
objective,  their  representations  of  external  nature  would  be 
exactly  alike.  But  how  dissimilar  are  the  most  objective 
passages  of  Scott,  Thomson  and  Moore !  Each  one  tinges 
every  description  with  the  hues  of  his  own  subjectivity. 
Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  can  the  most  subjective  writer  be 
wholly  subjective.  He  needs  some  objective  starting-point, 
and  he  will  choose  it  in  conformity  w^ith  the,  peculiar  bias  of 
his  mind,  and  pursue  that  line  of  thought  which  best  har- 
monizes with  his  general  temperament.  Thus  Young  com- 
mences a  train  of  subjective  reflection  by  reference  to  an 
external  object. 

"  The  bell  strikes  one  !    We  take  no  note  of  time 
But  by  its  loss.     To  give  it  then  a  tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 
I  feel  the  solemn  sound  !     If  heard  aright, 
It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours." 

Minds  of  the  very  highest  endowment  have  the  objective 
and  the  subjective  equally  at  their  command.  Not  only  the 
descriptions  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,. but  their  delinea- 
tions of  human  emotion,  are  the  theme  of  universal  eulogy. 
And  we  may  also  remark  that  for  its  power  over  the  human 
heart  genius  depends  less  upon  the  circumstances  by  which 
It  is  surrounded,  than  upon  its  own  inherent  energies. 
Cowper  has  so  described  the  bogs  and  fens  of  Olney,  that 
v^e  seem  to  have  been  contemplating  a  picturesque*^  land- 
scape;  and  ^Hhe  turning  up  of  a  mouse's  nest  with  the 
I)lough  "  is  reflected  back  in  images  of  affecting  loveliness 
from  the  bosom  of  Burns, 


ATTENTION   AND    REFLECTION.  11& 


SECTION   11.  —  ATTENTION   AND    REFLECTION. 

I  HAVE  remarked  in  the  previous  section  that  conscious- 
ness, in  the  ordinary  states  of  the  mind,  is  involuntary.  We 
are  sensible  of  no  effort  of  the  will  when  we  either  observe 
the  objects  around  us,  or  are  conscious  of  the  mental  changes 
taking  place  within  us.  I  have  also  above  alluded  to  the 
fact  that  we  may  make  either  the  object  perceived,  or  the 
state  of  the  perceiving  subject,  an  object  of  thought. 

But,  besides  this,  our  consciousness  may  be  accompanied 
by  an  act  of  the  will.  We  may,  for  instance,  will  to  ex- 
amine, with  the  greatest  possible  care,  an  object  of  percep- 
tion, as  a  mineral,  or  a  flower,  or  some  particular  work  of 
art.  Excluding  every  other  object  of  thought,  the  effort  of 
the  mind  is  concentrated  upon  the  act  of  perception.  We 
thus  may  discover  qualities  which  we  never  before  perceived. 
But  in  what  respect  does  this  state  of  mind  differ  from  ordi- 
nary consciousness  ?  The  effort  of  the  Avill  cannot  change 
the  image  formed  on  the  retina  ;  for  it  can  exert  no  influence 
whatever  on  the  laws  of  light  to  which  this  image  is  sub- 
jected. It  must  consist  in  a  more  intense  consciousness,  by 
which  every,  impression  made  on  the  organ  of  sense  is 
brought  more  directly  before  the  mind.  Our  perception 
is  excited  and  directed  by  an  act  of  the  will.  This  condi- 
tion of  mind,  when  directed  to  an  external  object,  is  properly 
called  Attention. 

The  difference  between  consciousness  and  attention  may, 
I  think,  be  easily  illustrated.  In  jassing  through  a  street, 
Te  are  conscious  of  perceiving  every  house  within  the  range 
of  our  vision.  But  let  us  now  come  to  a  row  of  buildings, 
one  of  which  we  desire  to  find,  and  which  has  been  pre- 
viously described  to  us.  We  examine  every  one  of  these 
houses  earnestly  and  minutely.    We  can,  if  it  be  necessary 


£20  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

dcscrii)e  every  cne  of  them  with  accuracy,  while  of  the 
others  which  we  have  passed  in  our  walk  we  can  give  no 
account  whatever.  We  say  that  we  have  observed  every 
house  in  that  row  attentively,  but  that  on  the  others  we 
bestowed  no  attention.  Or,  to  take  a  too  common  instance ; 
we  read  a  book  carelessly,  we  see  every  letter  and  form  a 
conception  of  every  sentence  ;  but  all  is  done  listlessly,  and 
we  close  the  book  hardly  aware  of  a  single  idea  that  we 
have  gained  while  we  have  been  thus  occupied.  Let,  how- 
ever, our  whole  mental  effort  be  directed  to  the  subject  on 
which  we  are  reading,  and  we  fix  it  in  our  recollection,  and 
we  can,  at  will,  recall  it  and  make  it  a  matter  of  thought. 
We  say  of  ourselves,  that  in  the  former  case  we  read  with- 
out and  in  the  latter  case  with  attention. 

We  sometimes,  I  think,  speak  of  attention  as  practically 
distinguished  fi:-om  every  other  act  of  the  mind.  Thus, 
suppose  we  are  striving  to  catch  an  indistinct  sound  that  is 
occurring  at  intervals,  we  then  listen  with  attention.  We 
say  to  another  person,  ''  Give  all  your  attention  that  is  pos- 
sible, and  you  may  hear  it."  He  may  possibly  reply,  ^'I 
am  all  attention."  Here  we  seem  to  recognize  the  condition 
of  attention  directed  to  no  present  object  of  perception,  bu 
we  merely  place  ourselves  in  a  condition  to  perceive  any 
object  which  presents  itself 

Sometimes  the  object  to  which  our  thought  is  directed  is 
internal ;  that  is,  it  is  some  state  of  the  mind  itself.  Ordi- 
nary consciousness  testifies  to  the  existence  of  these  stater  ' 
without  any  act  of  the  will ;  nay,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of 
the  will  to  arrest  this  continuous  testimony.  But  we  some- 
times desire  to  consider  some  particular  mental  state,  as  the 
:t  of  perception  or  memory ;  or  some  emotion,  as  that  of 
Ae  beautiful  or  sublime.  It  is  in  the  power  of  the  will  to 
deUin  such  mental  state,  and  hold  it  up  before  us  as  aa 
•bjcct  of  thought.     When,  by  volition,  we  make  our  own 


ATTENTION    AND    REFLECTION.  12] 

mental  states  objects  of  observation,  we  denominate  this  act 
Reflection.  As  the  etymology  of  the  word  indicates,  we 
turn  the  mind  backwards  upon  itself,  so  that  it  contemplates 
its  own  states  and  operations,  very  much  as  in  the  case  of 
attention  it  concentrates  its  effort  upon  objects  of  percep- 
tion. 

I  do  not  pretend  that  the  words  attention  and  reflection 
are  always  used  in  this  restricted  sense.  Attention  is  fre- 
quently used  to  designate  voluntary  consciousness  both  ob- 
jective and  subjective.  Reflection  is  not  so  commonly  used 
to  denote  both* mental  states.  It  has,  however,  seemed  to 
me  that  these  mental  states  should  be  designated  by  different 
terms,  and  that  the  etymology  of  the  two  words,  as  well  as 
the  general  current  of  good  use,  tends  in  the  direction 
which  I  have  here  indicated. 

This  general  power  of  rendering  the  various  faculties  of 
the  mind  obedient  to  the  will  is  of  the  greatest  possible 
importance  to  the  student.  Without  it,  he  can  never  em- 
ploy any  power  of  the  mind  with  energy  or  effect.  Until 
it  be  acquired,  our  faculties,  however  brilliant,  remain 
undisciplined  and  comparatively  useless.  From  the  want  of 
it,  many  men,  who  in  youth  give,  as  is  supposed,  great 
promise  of  distinction,  with  advancing  years  sink  down  into 
hopeless  obscurity.  Endowed  with  fertility  of  imagination 
and  unusual  power  of  language,  they  are  able  to  follow  any 
train  of  thought  that  accident  may  suggest,  and  clothe  the 
ideas  of  others  with  imagery  which  seems  to  indicate  orig- 
.  inal  power  of  scientific  research.  But  the  time  soon  arrives 
when  the  exigences  of  life  require  accuracy  of  knowledge, 
soundness  of  judgment,  and  well-placed  reliance  on  the 
decisions  of  our  own  intellect.  The  time  for  display  has 
passed,  and  the  time  for  action  —  action  on  which  our  success 
or  failure  depends —  has  come.  Such  men,  then,  after  per^ 
haps  dazzling  the  circle  of  their  friends  with  a  few  wild  and 
11 


122  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ttiiiciful  schemes,  which  gleam  at  intervals  amid  the  ap^ 
proachiiig  darkness,  sink  below  the  horizon,  and  are  seen  no 
more  forever. 

One  of  the  greatest  advantages  derived  from  early  and 
systematic  education  is  found  in  the  necessity  which  it 
imposes  of  learning  thoroughly  and  at  stated  periods  certain 
a[)propriate  lessons.  We  are  thus  obliged  to  direct  our 
attention  for  a  time  to  the  earnest  pursuit  of  some  object. 
By  being  placed  under  this  necessity  for  a  few  years,  the 
power  of  the  will  over  the  faculties,  if  we. are  faithful  to 
ourselves,  becomes  habitual.  What  we  learn  is  of  impor- 
tance, but  this  importance  is  secondary  to  that  of  so  culti- 
vating and  disciplining  our  faculties  that  we  are  ever  after- 
wards able  to  use  them  in  enlarging  the  boundaries  of 
science,  or  directing  the  courses  of  human  thought  and 
action.  If  a  system  of  education,  besides  cultivating  the 
habit  of  attention,  cultivates  also  the  habit  of  reflection  and 
generalization,  so  that  the  student  learns  not  only  to  acquire 
but  from  his  acquisitions  to  rise  to  general  principles,  ob- 
serve the  operations  of  his  own  mind,  and  compare  what  be 
has  karned  with  the  instinctive  teachings  of  his  own  under- 
standing, the  great  object  of  the  instructor  will  be  success- 
fully accomplished. 

To  acquire  habits  of  earnest  and  continued  attention  and 
reflection,  is  one  of  the  most  diflScult  tasks  of  the  student. 
At  the  beginning,  he  finds  his  mind  wandering,  his  atten- 
tion easily  turned  aside  from  the  object  to  which  he  would 
direct  it,  and  disposed  to  yield  to  the  attraction  of  external 
objects,  or  to  seize  upon  every  fancy  that  the  memory  or 
the  imagination  may  present.  Much  of  that  time  is  thus 
spent  in  dreamy  idleness,  which  he  had  really  determined 
to  employ  in  laborious  study.  It  is  evident  that  his  success 
!nust  depend  wholly  on  the  correction  of  these  habits.  Our 
minds  are  comparatively  useless  to  us,  unless  we  can  render 


I 


ATTENTION    AND    REFLECTION.  123 

ihem  oiedient  servants  to  the  Trill,  so  that,  at  any  time  and 
under  any  circumstances,  we  can  oblige  them  to  think  of 
what  we. wish,  as  long  as  we  wish,  and  then  dismiss  it  and 
think  of  something  else.  We  should  strive  to  attain  such  a 
command  of  all  our  faculties  that  we  can  direct  our  whole 
mental  energies  upon  the  most  abstruse  proposition,  until 
we  have  either  solved  it,  or  ascertained  that,  with  our  pres- 
ent advantages,  a  solution  is  impossible. 

Perhaps  the  section  cannot  be  more  profitably  closed 
than  by  the  suggestion  of  some  means  by  w^hich  the  power 
of  cho  will  over  the  other  faculties  may  be  increased. 

1.  Much  depends  upon  the  condition  of  the  physical  sys- 
tem. Our  intellectual  faculties  are  in  more  perfect  exercise 
in  health  than  in  sickness,  and  as  the  condition  of  the  body 
tends  to  sickness  our  power  over  them  is  proportionally 
diminished.  Every  one  knows  how  difficult  it  is  to  command 
his  attention  during  a  paroxysm  of  fever.  In  recovering  from 
illness,  one  of  the  first  symptoms  of  convalescence  is  a  return 
of  the  power  over  the  mind,  and  a  disposition  to  employ  it  in 
its  accustomed  pursuits.  Now,  it  is  obvious  that  anything 
which  interferes  with  the  normal  condition  of  the  system, 
durmg  the  continuance  of  its  action,  produces  the  same 
effect,  as  temporary  indisposition.  Such  causes  are  over- 
feeding, either  occasionally  or  habitually,  the  use  of  indiges- 
tible food,  the  want  of  sleep,  or  of  exercise,  undue  mental 
excitement,  or  exce-siv^-  fatigue.  Every  one  in  the  least 
attentive  to  this  subject  must  have  observed  the  effect  of 
some  or  all  of  these  causes  upon  his  power  of  mental  con- 
ceritration.  A  large  portion  of  the  life  of  many  men  is 
spent  in  habitual  violation  of  the  laws  by  which  the  free  use 
of  the  mind  is  conditioned.  If,  by  accident,  they  for  a 
■  short  time  obey  the  laws  of  their  nature,  their  intellectual 
powers  recover  their  tone,  and  they  enjoy  what  they  call  a 
lucid  interval.     They  postpone  all  important  mental  labor 


124  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

until  this  favored  period  arrives,  without  ever  suspecting 
that  it  is  owing  to  their  own  folly  that  they  are  not  in  this 
condition  continually.  Our  Creator  manifestly  intended 
that  our  intellectual  light  should  shine  with  a  clear  and  steady 
brilliancy,  not  that  it  should  gleam  out  occasionally,  after 
loriir  j)oriods  of  mist  and  gloom  and  darkness.  But,  if  we 
would  obtain  the  power  of  using  our  intellect  to  the  greatest 
advantage,  we  must  habitually  obey  those  laws  which  have 
been  imposed  upon  us  by  our  Creator. 

The  diet  of  a  student  should  be  light,  and  rather  spare 
than  abundant.  A  laboring  man  needs  nutritious  and 
abundant  food,  to  supply  the  waste  caused  by  physical  exer- 
tion. The  diet  which  is  indispensable  to  the  one  is  exceed- 
ingly injurious  to  the  other.  A  student  also  requires  reg- 
uhir  and  sufficient  daily  exercise,  which  should  generally  be . 
carried  to  the  point  of  full  perspiration.  His  sleep  should . 
be  all  that  health  requires,  and  he  should  invariably  retire 
at  an  early  hour.  His  study  and  sleeping  room  should  be 
well  ventilated,  and  his  ablutions  should  be  daily  and 
abundant.  To  specify  more  minutely  in  detail  the  treat- 
ment of  the  physical  system,  would  be  out  of  place  here ; 
and,  besides,  no  rules  which  could  be  given  would  be  appli- 
cable to  every  case.  Every  man,  observing  the  laws  of  the 
human  constitution,  shouV  apply  them  honestly  to  his  own 
case.  All  that  is  required  is  that  the  student  form  all  his 
physical  habits  with  the  direct  and  earnest  purpose  of  giv- 
ing the  freest  scope  and  the  most  active  exercise  to  all  his 
ntellectual  faculties. 

It  is,  however,  the  fact  that  students  are  liable  to  err  in 
almost  all  of  these  particulars.  They  pay  no  attention 
either  to  the  quantity  or  quality  of  their  food.  Though, 
perhaps,  in  early  life,  accustomed  to  labor,  as  soon  as  they 
commence  a  course  of  study,  they  forsake,  not  only  labor, 
but  all  manner  of  exercise.     If  anxious  to  improve, -they 


ATTENTION   AND    REFLECTION.  12S 

Study  until  late  at  night,  thus  destroying  the  power  of  ap- 
plication for  the  following  day.  They  live  ii;i  heated  and 
ill- ventilated  rooms.  Measuring  their  progress  by  the  num- 
ber of  hours  employed  in  study,  they  remain  over  their 
books  until  the  power  of  attention  is  exhausted.  Much  of 
their  time  is  thus  spent  in  ineffectual  efforts  to  comprehend 
the  proposition  before  them,  or,  after  they  have  compre- 
hended it,  in  equally  ineffectual  attempts  to  fix  it  in  their 
recollection.  The  result  of  all  this  it  is  painful  to  contem- 
plate. Broken  down  in  health  and  enfeebled  in  mind,  the 
man  in  early  life  is  turned  out  upon  society  a  confirmed  and 
mediocre,  invalid,  equally  unfitted  for  the  habits  either  of 
active  or  sedentary  life.  This  is  surely  unfortunate.  There 
can  be  no  good  reason  why  a  student,  or  the  practitioner  of 
what  are  called  the  professions,  should  be  an  invalid.  Tc 
study,  violates  no  moral  or  physical  law.  A  student  may, 
then,  be  as  healthy  in  body  and  vigorous  in  mind  as  any 
other  man.  If  he  be  not,  his  misfortune  is  the  result,  not 
of  mere  mental  application,  but  of  the  violation  of  the  laws 
under  which  he  has  been  created. 

2.  I  have  already  intimated  that  the  power  of  prolonged 
and  earnest  attention  depends  upon  the  will.  But  we  find 
that  until  the  mind  becomes  in  some  manner  disciplined,  the 
influence  of  the  will  is  feeble  and  irregular.  Of  course, 
t)ur  first  attempt  must  be  to  increase  the  power  of  the  will 
over  the  other  intellectual  faculties. 

Here,  however,  I  am  aware  that  probably  great  differ- 
ences exist  in  mental  constitution.  The  will  in  some  men 
is  by  nature  stronger  than  in  others.  Some  men  surrender 
a  deliberately-formed  purpose  at  the  appearance  of  a  trifling 
obstacle ;  others  cling  to  it  with  a  tenacity  which  nothing 
but  death  can  overcome.  In  this  latter  case,  every  physical 
and  mental  energy  is  consecrated  to  the  accomplishment  of 
the  purpose  to  which  the  life  of  the  being  is  devoted.  Wheii 
11* 


126  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 


8U 


ch  a  >v'ill,  moved  by  high  moral  principle  4nd  guided  by 
sound  judgment,  is  directed  to  the  accomplishment  of  a 
great  enterprise,  it  wins  for  its  possessor  a  name  among  the 
benefactors  of  the  race.  John  Howard  was  an  illustrious 
cxiuni)lc  of  this  class  of  men.  The  most  masterly  delinea- 
tion of  this  form  of  character  found,  so  far  as  I  know,  in 
any  language,  is  contained  in  John  Foster's  Essays ;  a  book 
whicli  I  should  fail  in  my  duty  did  I  not  recommend  to  the 
thoughtful  perusal  of  every  young  man. 

Such  instances  of  energetic  will  are,  however,  rare,  and 
it  becomes  us  to  inquire  whether  the  control  over  our  facul- 
ties can  be  obtamed  by  those  who  are  less  happily  consti- 
tuted. The  most  important  means  of  cultivation,  if  we  . , 
desire  to  improve  ourselves,  lies  in  the  will  itself.  The  more 
constantly  we  exercise  it,  the  greater  does  its  power  become. 
The  more  habitually  we  do  what  we  resolve  to  do,  instead  of 
doing  what  we  are  sohcited  to  do  by  indolence,  or  appetite, 
or  passion,  or  the  love  of  trifles,  the  more  readily  will  our 
faculties  obey  us.  At  first  the  efibrt  may  yield  only  a  partial 
result,  but  perseverance  will  render  the  result  more  and 
more  apparent,  until  at  last  we  shall  find  ourselves  able  to 
employ  our  faculties  in  such  manner  as  we  desire.  If,  then, 
the  student  finds  his  mind  unstable,  ready  to  wander  in 
search  of  every  other  object  than  that  directly  before  him, 
let  him  never  yield  to  its  solicitations.  If  it  stray  fi:om  the 
subject,  let  him  recall  it,  resolutely  determining  that  it  shall 
do  the  work  that  he  bids  it.  He  who  will  thus  faithfully 
deal  with  his  mtellectual  faculties  will  soon  find  that  Ms 
labor  has  not  been  in  vain. 

But,  in  order  to  arrive  at  this  result,  we  must  be  thor- 
oughly in  earnest,  and  willing  to  pay  the  price  for  so  inval- 
uable an  acquisition.  We  must  forego  many  a  sensual 
pleasure,  that  the  action  of  our  faculties  may  be  free  and 
unembarrassed.     We  must  -esolutely  resist  all  tendencies 


ATTENTION   AND    REFLECTION.  127 

to  indolence,  both  physical  and  mental.  We  must  learn  to 
be  alone.  We  mast  put  away  from  us  all  reading  and  all 
conversation  that  would  encourage  the  tendencies  Avhich  we 
wish  to  suppress.  By,  doing  this,  and  exerting  to  the  full 
the  present  power  of  our  will,  we  cannot  fail  to  make  prog- 
ress in  mental  discipline. 

It  may  not  be  improper  to  add  a  remark  respecting  a  kind 
of  reading  in  which  a  student  is,  at  the  present  day,  strongly 
tempted  to  indulge.  I  have.no  disposition  here  to  discuss 
the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  the  reading  of  works 
of  fiction.  It  is  sufficient  for  my  purpose  to  observe,  first, 
that  this  kind  of  mental  occupation  evidently  requires  no 
efibrt  of  the  will  to  arrest  the  attention.  The  mind  follows 
pleasantly  and  unconsciously  the  train  of  conceptions  pre- 
sented by  the  author.  Disquisitions  requiring  mental  effort  are 
always  considered  blemishes  in  a  romance,  and  are,  I  believe, 
generally  passed  over  unread.  And,  secondly,  the  mind  be- 
comes filled  with  interesting  and  exciting  images,  which 
remain  with  us  long  after  the  reading  has  been  finished. 
From  these  causes,  reading  of  this  character  must  enfeeble 
the  will,  and  create  a  tendency  to  wander  from  a  course  of 
thought  which  follows  entirely  different  laws  of  association. 
These  reasons  seem  to  me  sufficient  for  advising  any  person 
desirous  of  cultivating  the  habit  of  attention,  either  to 
abandon  the  reading  of  fiction  altogether,  or,  at  least,  to  in- 
dulge in  it  with  such  severe  discretion  as  shall  prevent  it 
from  fostering  those  habits  which  we  desire  to  eradicate- 
After  we  have  accomplished  our  objeci,  and  the  victory  of 
the  will  over  our  other  powers  has  been  acknowledged,  we 
may  allow  ourselves  a  larger  liberty.  Until  this  is  done, 
the  stricter  the  discipline  which  we  enforce  upon  ourselves, 
the  more  rapid  will  be  our  attainment  in  the  habit  of 
self-government. 

3.  The  power  of   the  will  over  our  other  faculties  is 


128  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

greatly  assisted  by  punctuality ;  that  is,  by  doing  everything 
in  precisely  the  time  and  place  allotted  for  the  doing  of  it. 
If,  when  the  hour  for  study  has  arrived,  we  begin  to  waste 
our  time  in  frivolous  reading  or  idle  musing,  we  shall  find 
our  real  work  more  distasteful,  the  longer  we  procrastinate. 
If  on  the  contrary,  we  begin  at  once,  we  the  more  easily 
conquer  our  wandering  propensities,  and  our  minds  are  fully 
occupied  before  trifles  have  the  opportunity  of  alluring  us. 
The  men  who  have  accomplished  the  greatest  amount  of  in-  , 
tellectual  labor  have  generally  been  remarkable  for  punc- 
tuality ;  they  have  divided  their  time  accurately  between 
their  different  pursuits,  have  rigidly  adhered  to  the  plan 
which  they  have  adopted,  and  have  been  careful  to  improve 
every  moment  to  the  utmost  advantage. 

4.  The  control  of  the  will  over  our  faculties  is  much  as- 
sisted by  the  use  of  the  pen.  The  act  of  writing  out  our 
own  thoughts,  or  the  thoughts  of  others,  of  necessity  in- 
volves the  exercise  of  continuous  attention.  Every  one 
knows  that,  after  he  has  thought  over  a  subject  with  all  the 
care  in  his  power,  his  ideas  become  vastly  more  precise  by 
committing  them  to  paper.  The  maxim  of  the  schoolmen 
was  studivm  sine  calamo  somnium.  The  most  remark- 
able thinkers  have  generally  astonished  their  contemporaries 
by  the  vast  amount  of  manuscript  which  they  have  left  be- 
hind them.  I  think  that  universal  experience  testifies  to 
the  fact  that  no  one  can  attain  to  a  high  degree  of  mental 
cultivation,  without  devoting  a  large  portion  of  his  time  to 
the  labor  of  composition. 

It  is  a  very  valuable  habit  to  read  no  book  without  oblig- 
ing ourselves  to  write  a  brief  abstract  of  it,  with  the  opinions 
which  we  have  formed  concerning  it.  This  will  oblige  us  to 
read  with  attention,  and  will  give  the  results  of  that  atten- 
tion a  permanent  place  in  our  recollection.  We  should 
thus,  in  fact,  become  reviewers  of  every  book  that  we  read, 


ATTENTION   AND   REFLECTION.  129 

The  learned  and  indefatigable  Reinhardt  was  thus  able  to 
conduct  one  of  the  most  valuable  reviews  in  Germany,  by 
writing  his  opinions  on  every  work  which  came  under  his 
perusal.  The  late  Lord  Jeffrey  commenced  his  literary 
career  in  precisely  this  manner.  When  a  youthful  student 
at  the  university,  he  not  only  wrote  a  review  of  every  book 
which  he  read,  but  of  every  paper  which  he  himself  com- 
posed. His  strictures  were  even  more  severe  on  his  own 
writings  than  On  the  writings  of  others.  He  thus  laid  the 
foundation  of  his  immense  acquisitions,  and  attained  to  so 
great  a  power  .of  intellectual  analysis,  that  for  many  years 
he  was  acknowledged  to  be  the  most  accomplished  critic  of 
his  time. 

REFERENCES. 

Consciousness  —  Reid,  Essay  1,  chap.  1  ;  Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sect. 
2  ;  Locke,  book  2,  chap.  6,  sect.  2  ;  chap.  9,  sect.  1. 

Is  consciousness  distinguished  from  perception? — Stewart,  voL   i., 
chap.  2. 

Cases  of  Abnormal  Consciousness  —  Abercrombie,  Part  3,  sect.  4  ;  part  2. 

Attention  and   Reflection  —  Reid,  Essay  1,  chap.  5  ;  Essay  4,  chap.  4 
Stewart,  yoI  i.,  chap.  2.     Abercrombie,  Part  2,  chap.  1. 

Improvement  of  Attention  and  Reflection,  Part  2,  chap.  1. 

Consciousness  —  Cousin,  sect.  1,  p.  12,  8vo  :  Hartford,  1834.     Henry 
translation,  and  note  A,  by  J  Tof.  H. 


CHAPTER   m. 

ORIGINAL    SUGGESTION,   OR  THE  INTUITIONS   OF  THE 
INTELLECT. 


I 


SECTION   L  —  EXAMINATION   OF   THE   OPINIONS  OF  LOCKE. 

We  have  thus  far  considered  those  powers  of  the  human 
mind  by  which  it  obtains  a  knowledge  of  the  existence  and 
qualities  of  the  external  world,  and  of  the  existence  and 
energies  of  the  thinking  subject.  This  knowledge,  as  I 
have  said,  is  all  either  of  individual  existences  or  of  individ- 
ual acts,  or  states  of  the  subjective  mind.  It  is,  of  course, 
all  concrete,  and  the  conceptions  derived  from  it  are  of  the 
same  character.  This  knowledge  is  original,  direct  and  im- 
mediate. It  is  the  constitutional  testimony  of  our  faculties 
as  soon  as  they  are  brought  into  relation  to  their  appropri- 
ate objects.  It  always  contemplates  as  an  object  something 
now  existing,  or  something  which  at  some  time  did  exist. 
•  Let  us,  then,  for  a  moment  consider  what  would  be  the 
condition  of  a  human  being  possessed  of  no  other  powers 
than  those  of  which  we  have  thus  far  treated.  He  would  be 
cognizant  of  the  existence  and  qualities  of  the  objects  which 
he  perceived,  and  of  the  state  of  mind. which  these  objects 
called  into  exercise ;  and,  if  endowed  with  memory,  he  could 
retain  this  knowledge  in  recollection.  Here,  however,  his 
knowledge  would  terminate.  Each  fact  would  remain  dis- 
connected from  every  other,  and  each  separate  knowledge 
would  terminate  absolutely  in  itself     No  relation  between 


OPINIONS    OF    LOCKE.     •  131 

any  two  facts  would  be  either  discovered  or  sought  for. 
The  questions  why,  or  wherefore,  would  neither  be  asked 
nor  answered.  The  knowledge  acquired  would  be  perfectly 
barren,  leading  to  nothing  else,  and  destitute  of  all  tendency 
and  all  power  to  multiply  itself  into  other  forms  of  cognition. 
The  mind  would  be  a  perfect  living  daguerreotype,  on  which 
forms  were  indelibly  impressed,  remaining  lifeless  and  un- 
changeable forever. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Locke,  that  all  our  knowledge  either 
consisted  of  these  ideas  of  sense  or  consciousness,  or  wag 
derived  from  them  by  comparison  or  combination.  Thus, 
says  he,  ^^  First,  our  senses,  conversant  about  particular 
sensible  objects,  do  convey  to  the  mind  several  distinct  per- 
ceptions of  things,  according  to  those  various  ways  in  which 
those  objects  do  affect  them.  Thus  we  come  to  those  ideas 
we  have  of  yellow,  white,  heat,  cold,  soft,  bitter,  and  all 
those  which  we  call  sensible  qualities ;  which,  when  I  say 
the  senses  convey  to  the  mind,  I  mean  they  from  external 
objects  convey  into  the  mind  what  produces  these  sensations. 
Phis  source  I  cdl  Sensation,''^  —  Book  2,  chap.  1,  sec.  3. 

Secondly.  ^^  The  other  fountain  from  w^hich  experience 
furnisheth  the  understanding  with  ideas,  is  the  perception 
of  the  operations  of  our  own  minds  w^ithin  us,  as  it  is  em- 
ployed about  the  ideas  it  has  got ;  which  operations,  when 
the  soul  comes  to  reflect  on  and  consider,  do  furnish  the 
understanding  with  another  set  of  ideas,  which  could  not  be 
had  from  things  without.  Such  are  perception,  thinking, 
doubting,  believing,  reasoning,  knowing,  willing,  and  all 
those  different  acts  of  our  own  minds,  which,  we  being  con- 
scious of  and  observing  in  our  ownselves,  do  from  these 
receive  into  the  understanding  as  distinct  ideas  as  we  do 
from  bodies  affecting  our  senses.  I  call  this  Reflect ion,^^ 
—  Ibid.  sect.  4. 

"  The  understanding:  seems  to  me  not  tc  have  the  least 


132  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

glimmering  of  any  ideas  which  it  does  not  receive  from  one 
of  these  two.  External  objects  furnish  the  mind  with  the 
ideas  of  sensible  qualities,  which  are  all  these  different  per- 
ceptions they  produce  in  us,  and  the  mind  furnishes  the 
understanding  with  ideas  of  its  own  operations."  Again: 
"•  Let  any  one  examine  his  own  thoughts,  and  thoroughly 
search  into  his  understanding,  and  let  him  tell  me  whether 
all  the  original  ideas  he  has  there  are  any  other  than  of  the 
objects  of  his  senses,  or  of  the  operations  of  the  mind 
considered  as  objects  of  his  reflection,  and  how  great  a  mass 
of  knowledge  soever  he  imagines  to  be  lodged  there,  he  will, 
upon  taking  a  strict  view,  see  that  he  has  not  any  idea  in 
his  mind  but  what  one  of  these  two  have  imprinted,  though, 
perhaps,  with  infinite  variety,  compounded  and  enlarged  by 
the  understanding,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter." — Ibid.  Sec.  5. 

Again:  ^"If  we  trace  the  progress  of  our  minds,  and 
with  attention  observe  how  it  repeats,  adds  together,  and 
unites  its  simple  ideas  received  from  sensation  and  reflection, 
it  will  lead  us  further  than  perhaps  we  should  have  imagined. 
And  I  believe  we  shall  find,  if  we  warily  observe  the  orig- 
inals of  our  notions,  that  even  the  most  abstruse  ideas,  how 
remot(^  soever  they  may  seem  from  sense  or  from  any  oper- 
ations of  our  own  minds,  are  yet  only  such  as  the  under- 
standing frames  to  itself  by  repeating  and  joining  together 
those  ideas  that  it  had  from  objects  of  sense,  or  from  its 
own  operations  about  them."— Book  2d,  chap.  12,  sec.  8. 

From  these  extracts  it  appears  evident  that  Locke  be- 
lieved all  our  original  knowledge  to  proceed  from  perception, 
or,  as  he  calls  it,  sensation,  and  consciousness.  Whatever 
other  knowledge  we  have,  is  produced  secondarily  by  adding 
together,  repeating,  and  joining  together,  the  simple  ideas 
derived  from  these  original  sources.  I  have  before  re- 
marked that  these  ideas  are  of  individuals  and  are  concrete. 
If,  therefore,  the  theory  of  Locke  be  correct,  all  our  other 


OPINIONS    OF    LOCKE.  133 

knowledge  is   created  by  adding,   repeating,   and  joining 
together  these  individual  and  concrete  conceptions. 

Now,  if  this  be  so, — if  it  be  the  law  of  our  nature  that  the 
human  intellect  is  incapable  of  attaining  to  any  other  knowl- 
edge than  the  ideas  of  sensation  and  reflection,  that  is,  of 
perception  and  consciousness, —  in  other  words,  thart  the 
knowledge  of  the  qualities  of  matter  and  the  operations  of 
our  own  minds,  then  it  follows  that  all  our  notions  which 
cannot  be  reduced  to  one  or  the  other  of  these  classes,  is  a 
mere  fiction  of  the  imagination,  unworthy  of  confidence, 
and  is,  in  fact,  no  knowledge  at  all.  But  it  is  Obvious  that 
there  are  in  our  minds  many  ideas  which  belong  to  neither 
of  these  classes ;  such,  for  instance,  are  the  ideas  of  relation, 
power,  cause  and  efi*ect,  space,  duration,  infinity,  right  and 
wrong,  and  many  others.  Can  these  be  produced  by  the 
uniting,  joining,  or  adding  together  our  conceptions  of  the 
qualities  of  matter,  or  of  our  own  mental  acts  ?  Let  any 
one  try  the  experiment,  and  he  will  readily  be  convinced 
that  they  can  be  evolved  by  no  process  of  this  kind.  It 
will  follow  then,  if  the  theory  of  Locke  be  admitted,  that 
these  notions,  which  I  have  above  specified,  and  all  others 
like  them,  are  mere  fancies,  the  dreams  of  schoolmen  or  of 
fanatics,  having  no  real  foundation,  and  forming  no  sub- 
stantial basis  for  science,  or  even  valid  objects  for  inquiry. 
Nothing,  then,  can,  be  deemed  worthy  of  the  name  of  science 
or  knowledge,  except  the  primitive  data  either  of  perception 
or  consciousness,  or  what  is  formed  by  adding,  uniting,  join- 
ing together,  these  primitive  cognitions.  Hence,  the  ideas 
of  which  I  have  spoken,  such  as  those  of  space,  duration, 
infinity,  eternity,  cause  and  effect,  all  moral  ideas,  —  nay, 
the  idea  of  God  himself, — are  the  figments  of  a  dream,  and 
all  that  remains  to  us  is  merely  what  we  can  perceive  with- 
out and  be  conscious  of  within.  This  was  the  conclusion 
at  which  many  men  arrived  at  the  close  of  the  last  century. 
12 


134  INTELLECTUAL   PHIIOSOPHT. 

Inasmuch  as  t-ieir  principles  were  said  to  be  derived  from 
Locke,  he  has  sometimes  been  considered  the  foiAider  of 
the  sensual  school. 

It  is,  however,  to  be  observed,  that  Locke  did  not  perceive, 
much  less  would  he  have  admitted,  the  result  to  which  his 
doctrines  led.  He  speaks  of  the  ideas  to  which  I  have 
alluded,  such  as  space,  power,  &c.,  as  legitimate  objects  of 
human  thought,  and  gives  quite  a  correct  account  of  th.eir 
origin.  Thus,  speaking  of  power,  he  remarks  :  '^  The  mind 
being  every  day  informed  by  the  senses  of  the  alteration  of 
those  simple  ideas  it  observes  in  things  without,  and  taking 
notice  how  one  comes  to  an  end  and  ceases  to  be,  and  an- 
other begins  to  exist  which  w(is  not  before ;  reflecting,  also, 
on  what  passes  within  itself,  and  observing  a  constant  change 
in  its  ideas,  sometimes  by  the  impression  of  outward  objects 
on  the  senses,  and  sometimes  from  the  determination  of  its 
own  choice ;  and  concluding,  from  what  it  has  always  ob- 
served to  have  been,  that  like  changes  will  for  the  future 
be  made  in  the  same  things  by  the  same  agents,  and  by 
the  like  way  considers  in  the  one  thing  the  possibility  of 
having  any  of  its  simple  ideas  changed,  and  in  another  the 
possibility  of  making  that  change,  and  so  it  comes  .by  that 
idea  which  we  call  power.'' — Book  2,  chap.  21,  sec.  1. 

Here  we  perceive  that  Locke  acknowledges  the  existence 
of  ideas  or  knowledges  derived  neither  from  sensation  nor 
reflection,  and  gives  a  very  intelligible  account  of  their 
origin.  It  is  obvious  that  the  idea  of  power  is  not  derived 
from  the  senses ;  we  neither  see,  nor  feel,  nor  hear  it.  It 
is  not  an  operation  of  the  mind,  therefore  is  not  derived 
from  reflection.  And,  besides,  comparing,  adding  together, 
uniting,  are  acts  of  the  mind,  wholly  difierent  either  from 
perception  or  consciousness.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that 
Locke,  when  he  examined  the  ideas  in  his  own  mind,  ob- 
served among  them  many  which  neither  perception  n^  r  con- 


OPINIONS    OF   LOCKE.  135 

BCiousness  could  give ;  and  he,  perhaps  carelessly,  accounted 
for  their  origin  by  the  use  of  the  indefinite  expressions, 
•^  takes  notice  of,"  ''  concludes,"  ^' comes  to  the  idea,"  &c. 
We  see,  therefore,  that  Locke  went  beyond  his  own  theory, 
and  really  saw  what  his  theory  declared  could  not  be  seen. 
Had  he  pursued  a  difierent  method,  and  first  observed  the 
ideas  of  which  we  are  conscious,  and  afterwards  investigated 
their  origin,  his  system  would  probably  have  been  greatly 
modified.  He,  however,  pursued  the  opposite  course  :  first 
determining  the  origin  of  our  ideas,  and  then  limiting  our 
ideas  by  the  sources  which  he  supposed  himself  to  have 
exhausted. 

The  manner  in  which  Locke  was  led  into  this  error  is 
apparent.  He  had  been  at  great  pains  to  refute  the  doctrine 
of  innate  ideas,  and  to  show  that  the  human  mind  could 
have  no  thought  until  some  impression  was  made  upon  it 
from  without.  It  was  also  obvious  to  him  that  the  only 
objects  which  we  are  able  to  cognize  are  matter  and  mind. 
^  He  compared  the  mind  to  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  entirely 
blank  until  something  is  written  on  it  by  a  power  external 
to  itself  This,  however,  although  the  truth,  is  only  a  part 
of  the  truth.  As  I  have  before  remarked,  if  the  sheet  of 
paper  had  the  power  of  uniting  the  letters  written  upon  it 
into  words,  and  these  words  into  discourse,  and  of  proceed- 
ing forever  in  the  elimination  of  new  and  original  truth,  it 
would  much  more  accurately  represent  the  intellect  of  man. 
This  illustration  of  a  sheet  of  white  paper  evidently  misled 
our  philosopher,  and  prevented  him  from  giving  due  prom- 
inence to  the  originating  or  suggestive  power  of  the  mind. 

This  brief  notice  of  the  opinions  of  Locke  seemed  neces- 
sary, especially  since  so  great  and  important  conclusions 
.  Have  been  deduced  from  his  doctrine.  The  whole  subject 
has  been  treated  in  a  most  masterly  manner  by  Cousin,  in 


136  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPili.. 

his  Revie\T  of  the  Philosophy  of  Locke,  to  which  I  would 
specially  refer  the  student. 

But  tc  what  conclusion  are  we  led  by  this  brief  examina- 
tion of  the  theory  of  Locke?  We  have  seen  that,  on  the 
supposition  that  all  our  ideas  are  derived  from  perception 
and  consciousness,  a  large  portion  of  the  most  important 
ideas  of  which  the  human  soul  is  conscious  must  be  aban- 
doned as  the  groundless  fictions  of  the  imagination,  having 
no  foundation  in  the  true  processes  of  the  understanding. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  know  from  our  own  consciousness 
that  these  ideas  are  universally  developed  in  the  human  in- 
tellect as  soon  as  it  begins  to  exercise  independent  thought. 
We  must,  therefore,  conclude,  that  the  theory  of  Locke  is 
imperfect,  and  that  it  does  not  recognize  some  of  our  most 
important  sources  of  original  knowledge.  It  is,  then,  our  i 
business  to  inquire  for  some  other  sources  besides  those  I 
recognized  by  Locke.  • 

REFERENCES. 

Sources  of  our  knowledge— Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  1,  sec.  3,  sec.  4, 
Bee.  5  ;  Book  2,  chap.  12,  sec.  8,  chap.  22,  sec.  1,  2,  9. 

Suggestion  a  power  of  the  mind  — Reid,  Inquiry,  chap.  2,  sec.  7  ;  Int. 
Powers,  Essay  3,  chap.  5  ;  Essay  2,  chap.  10,  12. 

Examination  of  Locke's  Theory  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  1. 

Before  all  others.  —  Cousin's  Examination  of  Locke's  PhUosophy,  chap. 
li  1.,  3,  4. 


SECTION  II.  — THE  NATURE  OF  ORIGINAL   SUGGESTION,  OR 
THE   POWER   OP   INTUITIVE    COGNITION. 

Locke  has  truly  stated  that  all  the  substances  to  which 
in  our  present  state  we  are  related  are  matter  and  mind. 
By  perception  we  obtain  a  knowledge  of  the  qualities  of  the 
one,  and  by  consciousness  a  knowledge  of  the  operations  of 


ORIGINAL   SUGGESTION.  137 

jhe  other.     Each  is  distinct  and  complete  within  itself,  and 
each  terminates  definitely  at  its  own  appropriate  limit. 

The  thought,  however,  thus  awakened,  does  not  thus  ter- 
minate. The  mind  of  man  is  endowed  not  only  with  a 
receptive^  but  also  with  what  may  be  called  a  suggestive 
power.  When  the  ideas  of  perception  and  consciousness 
terminate,  or  even  while  they  are  present,  a  new  series  of 
mental  phenomena  arises  by  virtue  of  the  original  power 
of  the  intellect  itself.  These  phenomena  present  them- 
selves in  the  form  of  intuitive  cognitions,  occasioned  by  the 
ideas  of  consciousness  and  perception,  but  neither  produced 
by  them  nor  in  any  respect  similar  to  them.  They  may  be 
considered  acts  of  pure  intellection.  To  the  ideas  of  per- 
ception or  consciousness  there  by  necessity  belongs  an 
object  either  objective  or  subjective.  To  those  ideas  of  the 
intellect  I  think  no  such  object  belongs.  Hence  they  could 
not  be  cognized  originally  either  by  perception  or  conscious- 
ness. They  could  not  exist  within  us  except  we  were 
endowed  with  a  diflFerent  and  superior  intellectual  energy. 
We  can  give  but  little  account  of  these  intellections,  nor 
can  we  ofier  any  proof  of  their  verity.  As  soon  as  they 
arise  within  us,  they  are  to  us  the  unanswerable  evidence 
of  their  own  truth.  As  soon  as  we  are  conscious  of  them, 
we  know  that  they  are  true,  and  we  never  offer  any  evidence 
in  support  of  them.  So  far  as  our  powers  of  perception 
aa^d  consciousness  are  concerned,  the  mind  resembles  in 
many  respects  a  sheet  of  white  paper.  Here,  however,  the 
analogy  terminates.  There  is  nothing  in  the  paper  which 
in  any  respect  resembles  this  power  of  intuitive  knowledge 
of  which  we  here  speak. 

What  we  here  refer  to  may,  perhaps,  be  best  illustrated  by 

a  familiar  example.     A  child,  before  it  can  talk,  throws  a 

ball  and  knocks  down  a  nine-pin.     By  perception  aided  by 

memory,  it  derives  no  other  ideas  beside?  those  of  a  rolling 

12^ 


138  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ball  and  of  a  falling  ninepin.  This  is  all  that  the  senses 
could  give  it.  It  might  be  all  that  would  be  apparent  tc 
the  mind  of  a  brute.  But  is  this  the  case  with  the  child? 
Far  otherwise.  There  arises  in  his  mind,  by  virtue  of  its 
own  energy,  the  notion  of  cause  and  effect;  of  something  in 
the  ball  capable  of  producing  this  change,  and  of  something 
in  the  ninepin  which  renders  it  susceptible  of  this  change. 
He  instinctively  cognizes  a  most  important  relation  existing 
between  these  two  events.  Still  more,  he  has  an  intuitive 
belief  that  the  same  event  can  be  produced  again  in  the 
same  way.  Relying  on  this  belief,  he  sets  up  the  ninepin 
again,  and  throws  the  ball  in  the  confident  expectation  that 
it  will  produce  the  same  result  as  at  first.  There  has  thus 
been  created  in  his  mind,  not  only  the  relation  of  cause  and 
effect,  but  the  important  conviction  that  like  causes  wdll 
produce  like  effects.  In  consequence  of  the  relations  which 
have  thus  been  revealed  to  him,  he  sets  a  value  upon  his 
toys  which  he  did  not  before.  The  same  idea  is  developed 
as  soon  as  the  infant  puts  his  finger  in  the  candle.  He  will 
not  try  the  experiment  a  second  time.  He  immediately 
obtains  a  knowledge  of  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect,  and 
that  the  same  cause  will  again  produce  the  same  effect. 
He  does  not  see  this  relation  ;  it  is  not  an  object  of  percep- 
tion, nor  is  it  an  operation  of  the  mind.  He  does  not  feel 
it  when  he  is  burned.  As  soon,  however,  as  he  cognizes 
the  relative  ideas,  the  relation  in  which  they  stand  to  each 
other  presents  itself  to  him  as  an  intuitive  cognition. 

I  have  here  used  an  illustration  from  external  objects.  I. 
however,  by  no  means  assert  that  in  this  manner  we  first 
arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  cause  and  effect.  The  same  idea 
is  evidently  suggested  by  every  act  of  voluntary  motion. 
A  child  wishes  to  move  his  hand  ;  it  moves,  but  perhaps  not 
m  the  right  direction.  He  tries  again  with  better  success. 
At  last  he  accomplishes  his  object.     Heie  is,  perhaps,  tha  ! 


ORIGINAL    SUGGESTION.  139 

most  striking  instance  of  this  relation  which  he  ever  wit- 
nesses, and  it  is  brought  home  directly  to  his  own  conscious- 
ness. He  is  conscious  of  the  act  of  volition,  he  knows  tliat 
he  wills  ;  this  mental  act  is  followed  by  a  change  of  position 
in  his  hand,  and  by  motion  in  something  with  which  his 
hand  comes  into  contact.  This  succession  of  events,  the  for- 
mer of  which  is  within  the  cognition  of  his  own  conscious- 
ness, and  the  latter  of  his  perception,  would  be  suiBcient  to 
give  occasion  to  this  intuitive  knowledge  at  a  very  early 
period. 

It  may  be  proper  to  observe,  that  although  this  power  of 
original  suggestion  is  developed  and  perfected  with  advanc- 
ing years,  yet  it  commences  with  the  first  unfolding  of 
the  intellect.  Both  the  perceptive  and  the  suggestive 
powers  belong  to  the  essential  nature  .of  a  human  mind 
Were  a  child  destitute  of  the  power  of  intuitive  cognition, 
even  at  a  very  early  age,  we  should  know  that  it  was  an 
idiot.  If,  for  instance,  it  manifested  no  notion  of  cause  and 
effect,  but  would  as  soon  put  its  fingers  into  a  candle  the 
second  time  as  the  first,  we  should  be  convinced  that  it  was 
not  possessed  of  a  normal  understanding.  Nay,  we  form 
an  opinion  of  the  mental  capacity  of  a  child  rather  by  the 
activity  of  its  suggestive  than  of  its  perceptive  powers.  It 
may  be  blind  or  deaf,  or  may  suffer  both  of  these  aflSictiong 
together ;  that  is,  its  perceptive  powers  may  be  at  the  mini- 
mum, and  yet  we  may  discover  that  its  intellect  is  alert  and 
vigorous,  and  that  it  discovers  large  powers  of  acquisition 
and  combination.  Such  a  case  occurs  in  the  instance  of 
Laura  Bridgman,  a  bUnd  mute,  whose  suggestive  powers  are 
unusually  active,  and  who  has,  with  admirable  skill,  been 
taught  to  read  and  write,  so  that  she  is  at  present  able  to 
keep  a  journal,  and  correspond  with  her  friends  by  letter. 

With  respect  to  these  ideas  of  suggestion,  or  intuiticn,  twc 


140  INTELLKCTUAL     PHILOSOPHY. 

important  remarks  are  made  by  Cousin.     I  give  his  ideas 
here,  rather  than  his  words. 

1.  ^'  Unless  we  previously  obtained  the  idea  of  perception 
and  consciousness,  we  could  never  originate  the  suggested  or 
intuitive  cognitions.  If,  for  instance,  we  had  never  observed 
the  fact  of  a  succession,  we  could  never  have  obtained  the 
idea  of  duration.  If  we  had  never  perceived  an  external 
object,  we  should  never  have  obtained  the  idea  of  space.  If 
we  had  never  witnessed  an  instance  of  change,  we  should 
have  had  no  idea  of  cause  and  effect.  As  soon,  however,  as 
these  ideas  of  perception  and  consciousness  are  awakened, 
they  are  immediately  either  attended  or  followed  by  the 
ideas  of  suggestion.  We  perceive,  then,  that,  chronologi- 
cally considered,  the  ideas  of  perception  and  consciousness 
take  precedence.  They  appear  first  in  the  mind,  and,  until 
they  appear,  the  others  could  have  no  existence.  It  was 
this  fact  which  probably  gave  rise  to  the  error  of  Locke. 
Because  no  .other  ideas  could  be  originated  except  through 
means  of  the  ideas  of  perception  and  consciousness,  he  in- 
ferred that  our  knowledge  could  consist  of  nothing  but  these 
ideas,  either  in  their  original  form,  or  else  united  or  added 
to  each  other.  The  fact,  on  the  contrary,  seems  to  be,  that 
our  suggested  ideas  are  no  combination  or  modification  of 
our  receptive  ideas  ;  they  form  the  occasions  from  which  the 
mind  originates  them  by  virtue  of  its  own  energy.  We  are 
80  made,  that,  when  one  class  of  ideas  is  cognized,  the  other 
spontaneously  arises  within  us,  in  consequence  of  the  con- 
stitution of  the  human,  intellect. 

2.  ''But,  secondly,  when  we  have  thus  obtained  these 
ideas  of  suggestion,  we  find  that  their  existence  is  a  neces- 
sary condition  of  the  existence  of  the  very  ideas  by  which 
they  are  occasioned.  Thus,  as  I  have  said,  tne  notion  of 
an  external  world  is  the  occasion  in  us  of  the  idea  of  space 
but,  when  we  have  obtained  the  idea  of  space,  we  see  that 


ORIGINAL    SUGGESTION.  141 

it  is  a  necessary  condition  to  the  conception  of  an  external 
world  ;  for,  were  there  no  space,  there  could  be  no  external 
world.  If  we  had  never  witnessed  a  succession  of  events, 
we  should  never  have  obtained  a  conception  of  duration. 
Having,  however,  obtained  the  conception  of  duration,  we 
perceive  that  it  is  a  necessary  condition  of  succession ;  for, 
were  there  no  duration,  there  could  be  no  succession.  And 
again,  had  we  never  observed  an  instance  of  change,  we 
should  never  have  attained  the  conception  of  cause  and 
effect,  or  of  power.  But  the  conception  of  power  once 
gained,  we  become  immediately  sensible  that,  had  there  been 
no  power,  change  would  have  been  impossible.  We  thus 
learn  that,  logically  considered,  the  suggestive  idea  takes 
the  precedence,  inasmuch  as  it  is  the  necessary  condition  of 
the  idea  by  which  it  is  occasioned." 

With  these  remarks  of  this  most  acute  and  very  able  meta- 
physician I  fully  coincide,  so  far  as  they  apply  to  a  large  por- 
tion of  our  ideas  of  suggestion.  I  think,  however,  that  there 
is  a  large  class  of  our  intuitive  cognitions,  of  which  the  second 
of  these  laws  cannot  be  affirmed.  Take,  for  instance,  our 
ideas  of  relation  and  degree,  arising  from  the  contemplation 
of  two  or  more  single  objects.  I  do  not  see  how  it  is  true 
that  the  relation  is  a  necessary  condition  to  the  existence  of 
the  bodies  which  occasion  it,  or  that  the  idea  of  degree  is  a 
necessary  condition  to  the  existence  of  the  qualities  by  which 
it  is  occasioned.  I  dissent  with  diffidence  from  an  author 
so  justly  distinguished  ;  nevertheless,  in  treating  on  this,  as 
on  any  other  subject,  I  am  bound  to  state  fully  the  truth  aa 
it  presents  itself  to  my  individual  consciousness. 

In  order  the  more  fully  to  illustrate  this  subject,  I  have 
thought  it  desirable  to  present  a  number  of  instances  in 
which  these  original  suggestions  or  intuitions  are  occa- 
Bioned  by  the  ideas  of  perception  and  consciousness.  I  by 
uo  means  attempt  an  exhaustive  catalogue.     Jt  will  be  suffi- 


142  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

cicnt  for  my  purposes,  if  I  am  able  to  present  such  a  vkw  j 
of  the  subject  as  will  direct  more  definite  attention  than  haa 
generally  been  given  to  this  part  of  our  intellectual  consti- 
tution. 

It  has  seemed  to  me  that  these  intuitions  might  be  class- 
ified as  follows : 

I.  Those  unaccompanied  by  emotion. 

II.  Those  accompanied  by  emotion. 

I.  Those  unaccompanied  by  emotion  are, 

1.  Those  occasioned  by  objects  in  a  state  of  rest 

2.  Those  occasioned  by  objects  in  the  condition  of  change. 

II.  Those  accompanied  by  emotion  are, 

1.  iEsthetic  ideas. 

2.  Moral  ideas. 

REFERENCES. 
Cousin,  chaps.  2,  3,  and  4. 


SECTION  III.  —  IDEAS  OCCASIONED  BY  OBJECTS  IN  A  STATE 
or   REST. 

We  may  contemplate  objects  in  a  state  of  rest  either  as 
one  or  many.  Let  us,  in  the  first  place,  examine  a  single 
object. 

Suppose,  for  instance,  a  solid  cube  is  placed  before  me. 
I  look  at  it,  and  perceive  its  color  and  form  ;  I  handle  it,  and 
perceive  that  it  is  hard  and  smooth,  and  that  its  form  is  the 
same  as  I  have  discovered  by  sight:  I  strike  it,  and  it  gives 
forth  a  sound ;  I  attempt  to  smell  it  and  taste  of  it,  and 
thus  derive  all  the  knowledge  of  its  qualities  which  I  am 
able  to  discover.  I  reflect  on  •  these  various  acts  of  percep- 
tion, and  thus  obtain  a  knowledge  of  the  state  of  my  mind 
when  performing  these  mental  acts.     I  have  then  all  the 


ORIGINAL     SUGGESTION.  14^^ 

knowledge  which  I  can  derive  from  perception  and  con- 
sciousness. Had  I  no  other  mental  energies,  my  knowl- 
edge would  here  arrive  at  an  impassable  limit.  If,  however, 
we  reflect  upon  our  own  cognitions,  we  shall  be  conscious  of 
much  important  knowledge  occasioned  by  these  mental  acts, 
which  the  acts  themselves  do  not  give  us. 

I  look  upon  the  cube ;  I  perceive  it  to  be  extended ;  I  re- 
move it  to  another  place.  What  is  there  where  the  cube 
was  a  moment  since  ?  What  is  that  which  the  cube  occu- 
pies, and  in  which  it  is  contained ']  It  can  be  occupied  by 
matter,  or  left  vacant.  I  become  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
it  is  a  condition  necessary  to  the  existence  of  all  matter. 
Abolish  it,  and  I  abolish  the  possibility  of  an  external  uni- 
verse. I  call  it  space.  What  is  it  ?  It  has  no  qualities 
that  can  be  cognized  by  the  senses.  It  is  neither  an  act 
nor  an  aflection  of  the  mind.  It  is  not  matter ;  it  is  not 
spirit.  It  differs  from  both  in  every  conceivable  particu- 
lar. The  existence  of  matter  is  made  known  to  us  by  the 
senses.  Space  is  cognizable  by  none  of  them.  It  is  neither 
seen,  nor  felt,  nor  heard,  nor  smelled,  nor  tasted.  Matter 
is  a  contingent  existence  :  it  may  or  may  not  exist  here,  or 
it  may  not  have  existence  anywhere.  I  can  conceive  of  an 
era  in  duration  when  it  never  existed.  I  can  conceive  of 
another  era  when  it  will  cease  to  exist.  Not  so  of  space ; 
as  soon  as  I  form  a  notion  of  it,  I  perceive  it  to  be  neces- 
^ry.  I  cannot  conceive  of  its  non-existence  or  annihilation. 
This  cube  and  all  other  matt^er  is  limited,  and  is  so  from 
necessity  :  space  is  by  necessity  unlimited.  Matter,  being 
limited,  of  necessity  has  form ;  space  has  no  form,  for  it  has 
no  limitation.  The  conception  of  a  body,  however  vast, 
su^r^ests  an  image  ;  space  suggests  to  us  no  image.  We  find 
ourselves,  therefore,  in  possession  of  a  conception,  revei.led 
to  us  neither  by  perception  nor  consciousness,  which,  never- 
theless, is  cognized  by  the  mind,  from  the  necessity  of  ita 


144  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

own  nature.  Without  perception  it  would  never  have  been 
cot^nized.  Chronologically,  it  is,  therefore,  subsequent  to  it. 
As  soon,  however,  as  I  obtain  this  conception,  I  know  that 
it  is  a  necessary  condition  to  the  existence  of  that  which  is 
perceived.  It  is  necessary  physiologically;  for  without 
space  there  can  be  no  matter.  It  is  necessary  psychologi- 
civUy ;  for  we  cannot  in  our  minds  conceive  of  matter  with- 
out conceiving  of  space  as  a  necessary  condition  of  our 
conception. 

But  let  us  reflect  upon  this  idea  somewhat  more  atten- 
tively. We  all  have  a  knowledge  of  what  is  meant  by  space ; 
we  cannot  easily  confound  it  with  any  other  idea ;  yet  no 
one  can  describe  it.  It  has  no  qualities.  It  holds  no  rela- 
tion to  our  senses,  or  to  our  consciousness.  What  are  its 
limits  ?  As  I  have  before  said,  it  has  none.  The  house  in 
which  I  am  writing  occupies  space,  and  is  contained  in  space. 
The  earth  and  the  whole  planetary  system  move  in  space. 
The  whole  sidereal  system  either  moves  or  reposes  in  space 
We  pass  to  the  utmost  verge  of  the  material  universe — space 
fitill  stretches  beyond,  unmeasured,  immeasurable.  We  have 
approached  no  nearer  to  its  confines  than  at  first ;  for,  were 
such  creations  as  now  exist  to  be  multiplied  forever,  space 
would  be  yet  inexhaustible.  What  do  we  call  this  idea, 
which,  by  the  constitution  of  our  minds,  emerges  necessarily 
from  this  conception  ?  It  is  the  idea  of  the  boundless,  the 
immensurable,  the  infinite.  It  is  an  idea  which  we  cannot 
comprehend,  and  yet  from  which  we  cannot  escape.  We 
may,  perhaps,  remember  how,  in  childhood,  we  wearied  our 
feeble  understandings  in  the  attempt  to  grasp  it.  It  is  at 
present  as  far  beyond  the  power  of  our  comprehension  as  at 
first,  yet  we  find  the  mind  ever  tending  towards  it.  It  is  an 
idea  neither  of  perception  nor  consciousness,  nor  can  it  be 
evolved  from  any  union  or  combination  of  those  ideas.  It 
evolves  itself  at  once,  on  our  conception  of  space,  from  the 


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ORIGINAL    SUGGESTION.  145 

energies  of  the  mind  itself.  Having  been  once  formed,  it 
holds  its  place  independently  in  the  mind,  and  depencls  not 
for  its  existence  on  any  other  idea. 

Again  ;  I  canhot  be  conscious  of  my  own  existence  with- 
out being  conscious  at  the  same  time  that  I  am  an  individ- 
ual, separate  not  only  from  the  rest  of  the  material,  but 
from  the  other  individuals  of  the  spiritual  universe.  I  am, 
in  myself,  a  complete  form  of  existence,  distinct  from  every 
other  form  that  has  existed,  or  that  may  exist.  When  I 
obssrve  the  cube,  it  suggests  to  me  the  same  idea,  that  of 
unity.  I  retain  this  idea  of  oneness,  apart  from  any  object 
which  at  first  suggested  it.  It  cannot  be  called  a  quality. 
It  is  not  an  energy  of  the  mind ;  yet  it  is  an  idea  which 
immediately  arises  within  us,  on  such  occasions  as  I  have 
suggested.  * 

It  may,  however,  be  proper  to  remark,  that  this  idea  of 
unity  is  always  relative.  It  always  has  respect  to  the 
relation  in  which  we  contemplate  an  object.  An  individual 
human  being  is  one ;  yet  it  possesses  one  body  and  one 
spirit,  and  without  both  of  these,  in  our  present  stat^,  it 
would  not  be  a  human  being.  A  human  soul  is  one ;  but,  in 
order  to  be  a  human  soul,  it  must  be  possessed  of  various 
faculties,  each  one  of  which  may  be  considered  distinctly. 
A  regiment  is  one,  and  yet  it  could  not  be  a  regiment,  un- 
less it  were  composed  of  several  distinct  companies  united 
under  a  single  commander.  A  company  is  one ;  but  it  is 
made  up  of  single  individuals,  as  privates,  subalterns,  cap- 
tain, etc.  We  thus  see  that,  in  speaking  of  unity,  the  rela- 
tion in  which  we  contemplate  the  object  is  always  to  be 
taten  into  view ;  and  that  there  is  no  absurdity  or  contra- 
diction in  saying,  that  it  is  one  in  one  relation,  d^nAmany  in 
another  relation. 

Let  us  look  once  more  upon  our  cube.  We  perceive  in  it 
form,  solidit]^,  divisibility,  color,  etc.  These  we  call  quali- 
13 


146  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ties  of  matter,  or  the  powers  which  it  possesses  of  affecting 
us  in  a  particular  manner.  But  is  either  of  these  qualities 
matter  ?  Are  all  of  them  combined  matter  ?  Were  we  to 
say  that  color  and  form  and  divisibility,  etc.,  are  matter,  or 
substance,  would  this  assertion  exf  ress  the  idea  of  which  we 
are  conscious  when  we  reflect  upon  this  subject  ?  So  far  is 
this  from  the  fact,  that  the  assertion  would  seem  to  involve 
an  absurdity.  We  always  say  of  a  material  object,  it  is 
something  divisible,  solid,  colored,  etc. ;  plainly  distinguish- 
ing, in  our  conceptions,  the  something  in  which  the  qualities 
reside,  from  the  qualities  which  reside  in  the  something.  We 
thus  find  ourselves  possessed  of  the  two  ideas,  essence  and 
attribute,  substance  and  quality.  We  know  that  there  must 
be  one,  whenever  we  perceive  the  other.  But  where  does 
this  idea  of  substance  come  from  ?  Surely  neither  from  the 
senses  nor  from  consciousness  ;  yet  we  all  have  attained  it. 
It  must  have  originated  in  the  mind  itself  We  perceive 
the  quality.  The  mind  affirms  the  existence  of  the  sub- 
stance, and  affirms  it  not  as  a  contingent,  but  as  a  necessary 
truth. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  remark,  that  we  arrive  at  the 
ssLine  idea  from  consciousness.  Consciousness  testifies  to  the 
existence  of  mental  energies.  From  this  knowledge,  the 
mind  at  once  asserts  the  existence  of  an  essence  to  which 
these  energies  pertain.  Were  there  no  mental  energies,  we 
could  never  become  cognizant  of  a  spiritual  substance  ;  but, 
having  been  cognizant  of  it,  we  know  that  it  is  a  necessary 
condition  to  the  existence  of  the  energies  of  which  we  are 
conscious. 

2.  These  instances  are  sufficient  to  illustrate  the  nature  of 

the  cognitions  which  are  suggested  by  the  energies   of  the 

mind  itself,  when  we  contemplate  a  single  object.     Let  ua 

now  suppose  several  objects,  seme  of  similar  and  others  of 

f' 


ORIGINAL    SUGGESTION.  147 

dissimilar  qualities,  to  be  present  before  us.  Suppose  ^liciri, 
for  instance,  cubes,  pyramids,  cylinders,  etc. 

If  I  observe  them  singly,  each  will  furnish  me  with  all 
the  primary  and  suggested  ideas  to  which  I  have  just  now 
referred.  I  observe  several  to  be  of  one  form.  I  compare 
their  aggregate  with  unity,  and  there  arises  in  my  mind  the 
idea  of  number.  As  soon  as  I  have  formed  this  notion,  I 
find  myself  abstracting  it  from  the  cubes,  and  from  every 
other  object,  and  treat  it  as  a  conception  by  itself,  capable 
of  enlargement  or  diminution  at  my  will.  So  readily  does 
this  conception  separate  itself  from  the  objects  which  gave 
occasion  to  its  existence,  that,  in  the  rudest  conditions  of 
society,  men  give  names  to  the  several  ideas  of  number,  and 
very  soon  form  a  symbolical  language  to  represent  them. 
Every  one  knows  that  his  ideas  of  number  were  originally 
derived  from  the  observation  of  a  plurality  of  objects ;  and 
yet  no  one,  thinking  of  ten,  twenty,  thirty,  to  say  nothing 
of  thousands  and  millions,  ever  associates  these  ideas  with 
any  actual  existences.  We  always  consider  them  as  abstract 
ideas,  yet  ideas  of  the  most  fixed  and  determinate  character. 
But  these  ideas  are  not  objects  of  perception.  We  neither 
see  nor  feel  nor  taste  number;  yet  perception  occasions 
these  ideas.  We  know-  number  as  soon  as  the  occasions 
which  suggest  it  present  themselves. 

In  enumeration,  we  always  proceed  by  unity.  We  re- 
peat unity  until  we  arrive  at  a  certain  aggregate,  which  we 
then  consider  as  a  unit.  Thus,  in  our  enumeration,  we 
repeat  unity,  giving  a  different  name  to  every  increasing 
aggregate,  until  we  arrive  at  ten.  We  then  make  this  our 
unit,  and  add  to  it  other  similar  uniis,  until  we  arrive  at  a 
hundred ;  in  the  same  manner,  we  make  this  our  unit  until 
we  arrive  at  a  thousand,  then  to  a  million,  etc.  Suppose, 
aow,  I  carry  on  this  process  to  any  assignable  limit,  can  I 
exhaust  my  idea  of  number  ?     Suppose  I  proceed  until  mj 


148  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

powers  of  computation  fail,  have  I  yet  .proceeded  so  far  that 
I  cannot  add  to  the  sum  millions  upon  millions  ?  Can  I 
conceive  of  any  number  so  vast  that  I  cannot  add  to  it  aa 
many  as  I  choose?  We  perceive  this  to  be  impossible. 
Here,  again,  we  recognize  the  same  idea  which  lately 
evolved  from  our  notion  of  space.  It  is  the  idea  of  infinity. 
We  see  that  it  springs  at  once,  by  the  operation  of  oui 
minds,  from  every  conception  capable  of  giving  occasion 
to  it. 

Again;  we  cannot  observe  a  number  of  objects  at  the  same 
time,  without  recognizing  various  relations  which  exist  be- 
tween them.  I  see  two  cubes  possessing  in  every  respect 
the  same  qualities.  Hence  arises  the  relation  of  identity 
of  form,  color,  etc.  Others  possess  different  qualities ;  hence 
the  relation  of  diversity.  When  the  forms  are  precisely  the 
same,  or  when  they  occupy  exactly  the  same  space,  there 
arises  relation  of  equality.  When  they  occupy  different 
measures  of  space,  there  arises  the  relation  of  inequality. 
These  latter  relations  are  specially  used  in  all  our  reason- 
ings in  the  mathematics.  All  our  demonstrations  in  this 
science  are  designed  to  show  that  two  quantities  are  either 
equal  or  unequal  to  each  other. 

Still  further,  I  perceive  that  two  or  more  objects  are  not 
in  contact.  Space  intervenes  between  them,  and  we  recog- 
nize the  relation  of  distance.  Each  one  has  a  definite  rela- 
tion in  space  to  all  the  others.  Hence  arises  the  relation 
of  place.  Place  always  refers  to  the  position  which  a  body 
holds  in  respect  to  other  bodies.  Were  there  but  one  body 
in  space,  we  could  not  from  it  form  any  notion  of  place. 
As  soon  as  other  bodies  are  perceived,  and  their  relation  to 
it  recognized,  we  obtain  this  idea  respecting  it.  Thus,  I 
say  tliis  paper  lies  where  it  did  ten  minutes  since.  Here  I 
refer  to  the  table  and  the  objects  upon  it,  whose  position  in 
relation  to  the  paper  is  the  same  as  it  was  before,  leaving 


ORIGINAL    SUGGESTION.  149 

out  of  account  altogether  the  fact  that  the  table  has  moved 
with  the  diurnal  and  annual  revolution  of  the  earth.  A 
man  in  a  railroad  car  will  say  that  he  has  not  changed  his 
place  for  half  a  day,  when  he  knows  that  he  has  been 
moving  at  the  rate  of  thirty  or  forty  miles  an  hour. 

Again ;  we  perceive  that,  of  several  cubes,  the  first  occu- 
pies a  larger  portion  of  space  than  the  second,  and  the 
second  a  larger  portion  than  the  third.  All  of  them  are 
red,  but  the  tinge  of  one  is  deeper  than  that  of  another. 
Hence  arises  the  relation  of  degree.  This  idea  is  so  univer- 
sally recognized,  that,  in  all  languages,  it  is  designated  by 
a  special  form,  entitled  degrees  of  comparison. 

But  it  is  not  necessary  that  I  pursue  this  subject  further. 
I  think  that  every  one  must  recognize  in  his  own  mind  a 
power  of  originating  such  knowledges  as  these,  as  soon  as 
the  occasion  presents  itself  They  are  not  ideas  of  percep- 
tion or  of  consciousness,  but  ideas  arising  in  the  mind,  by  its 
own  energies,  as  soon  as  we  cognize  the  appropriate  objects 
which  occasion  them.  Having  once  obtained  them,  they 
immediately  sever  themselves  from  the  objects  which  occa- 
sion them,  and  become  ideas  of  simple  intellection,  which 
we  use  as  abstract  terms  in  all  oi;ir  reasonings. 

REFERENCES. 

Space  — Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  13  ;  Cousin,  chap.  2  ;  Reid,  Essay  2, 
chap.  19. 

Space  and  body  not  the  same  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  18;  Cousin, 
chap.  2. 

Infinity  from  spa<je  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  13  ;  Cousin,  chap.  3  ;  Reid< 
Essay  2,  chap.  19. 

Unity  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  7. 

Substance  and  solidity  —  Locke,  Book  2,  «hap.  4  ;  Cousin,  coap  8 

Number  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  1L6,  17  ;  Cousin,  chap.  3. 

Relation —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  25. 

Identity  and  Diversity  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap  27^ 

Place  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  13.  / 

13*  h 


150  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 


BECTION  IV. —  SUGGESTED  IDEAS  OCCASIONED  BY  IHB 
CONSIDERATION  OF  OBJECTS  IN  THE  CONDITION  OF 
CHANGE. 

Every  one  must  be  aware  that  motion,  change,  progress, 
and  decay,  are  written  upon  everything  within  us,  and 
upon  everything  without  us.  It  is  natural  to  suppose  that 
a  variety  of  suggestions,  or  intuitive  cognitions,  would  be 
occasioned  by  the  development  of  this  universal  law. 

Our  thoughts  are  in  a  condition  of  perpetual  change. 
Thought  succeeds  thought ;  one  conception  follows  another 
without  a  moment's  cessation,  at  least,  during  our  waking 
hours,  from  the  commencement  to  the  close  of  our  present 
existence.  The  idea  of  incessant  change  is  essential  to 
our  notion  of  life.  Abolish  it,  and  the  result  is  universal 
death. 

Destitute  of  memory,  we  should  be  unconscious  of  these 
changes,  and  cognizant  only  of  the  thought  or  emotion  of 
the  present  moment.  Endowed  with  memory,  however,  we 
become  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  thought  of  which  we  are 
now  conscious  is  not  the  thought  of  which  we  were  con- 
scious a  few  moments  since;  and  that  the  thoughts  ol 
yesterday,  or  of  boyhood,  are  very  different  from  the 
thoughts  of  to-day. 

The  same  knowledge  is  also  derived  from  the  acts  of  per- 
ception in  connection  vith  memory.  We  perceive  a  cloud 
overspreading  the  heavens.  When  last  we  looked  upward 
all  was  clear ;  now  all  is  lurid.  Again,  the  cloud  is  dissi- 
pated, and  all  is  sunshine.  We  arise  in  the  morning,  and 
light  is  gradually  stealing  over  the  heavens.  Soon,  the  sun 
arises,  and  all  nature  is  aroused  to  life.  In  a  few  hours  it  is 
mid-day,  and  animal  and  vegetable  droop  wfth  the  ex- 
C5e88ive  heat.     Soon,  the  sun  declines ;  it  sinks  beneata  the 


DURATION.     .  151 

horizon  ;  we  are  fanned  by  the  breezes  of  the  evening,  and 
behold  the  blue  expanse  above  us  dotted  with  innumerable 
Btars.  Had  we  no  memory,  we  should  be  cognizant  of  the 
existence  of  but  one  phenomenon, —  that  which  presented 
itself  to  us  at  a  particular  moment.  Our  existence  in  con- 
sciousness would  be  limited  to  the  smallest  conceivable  por- 
tion of  duration.  Constituted  as  we  are,  we  become  aware 
that  one  event  succeeds  another ;  and  we  hold  the  fact  of 
this  succession  distinctly  within  our  knowledge. 

From  both  consciousness  and  perception,  then,  united  with 
memory,  we  acquire  a  knowledge  of  succession;  that  is, 
that  some  other  event  or  events  preceded  that  of  which  we 
are  now  cognizant.  But  another  idea  is  immediately  occa- 
sioned in  a  human  mind  by  the  idea  of  succession,  different 
from  it,  and  from  any  which  we  have  thus  far  considered 
It  is  the  idea  of  duration.  I  cannot  define  it.  I  cannot 
explain  it.  Yet  it  belongs  to  the  very  elements  of  human 
thought.  We  can  neither  think  nor  act  without  taking  it 
for  granted.  It  is  a  condition  of  existence :  for,  were  there 
no  duration,  nothing  could  exist.  It  is  neither  an  idea  of 
perception  nor  of  consciousness.  We  cannot  cognize  it  by 
our  senses,  nor  is  it  an  operation  of  the  mind.  The  intel- 
lect seizes  upon  it  as  soon  as  we  recognize  the  fact  of 
succession.  Ko  one  can  give  any  further  account  of  its 
origin.  No  one  can  enumerate  its  qualities,  for  it  has  no 
qualities.  Yet,  every  one  has  the  idea,  and  no  one  can  con- 
ceive of  its  non-existence. 

We   perceive,  in   th:s   case,   the   difference   between  the 
chronoloorical    and  the  loo-ical    order    of  these    two    ideas. 

O  CD 

Chronologically,  the  idea  of  succession  takes  the  precedence; 
for,  unless  we  had  first  cognized  the  fact  of  succession,  we 
should  never  have  obtained  the  idea  of  duration.  But  when 
both  have  been  acquired,  we  immediately  perceive  that  dura- 
tion is  the  necessary  condition  to  succession ;  f.u,  without 


152  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

duration,  succession  would  be  impossible.  Logically,  there- 
fore, duration  takes  the  precedence. 

The  first  measure  of  duration  seems  naturally  to  be  the 
succession  of  our  own  thoughts.  A  portion  of  duration 
seems  long  or  short,  in  retrospect,  according  to  the  number 
of  events  to  which  we  have  attended,  and  the  tone  of  mind 
or  the  deojree  of  earnestness  with  which  we  have  observed 
them.  But  it  is  obvious  that  these  elements  vary  greatly 
with  the  same  individual  at  difierent  times^  and  with  dif- 
ferent individuals  at  the  same  time.  We,  therefore,  seek  for 
some  definite  portion  of  duration,  as  the  unit  by  which  we 
may  measure  with  accuracy  any  other  limited  portion. 
Such  natural  unit  is  found  in  the  revolution  of  the  heavenly 
bodies ;  and  hence  we  come  to  measure  duration  by  days,  and 
months,  and  years,  or  by  some  definite  portion  of  these 
units.  Duration  measured  in  this  manner  we  call  time. 
If  I  do  not  mistake,  we  mean,  by  time,  that  portion  of  dura- 
tion which  commences*  with  the  creation  of  our  race,  and 
which  will  terminate  when  '^  the  earth  and  the  things  therein 
shall  be  dissolved." 

But  let  us  take  a  year,  and  add  to  it  by  unity.  We  soon 
arrive  at  a  century.  Taking  this  as  our  unit,  we  add  again, 
until  we  arrive  at  the  era  of  the  creation.  We  go  backward 
still,  until  we  even  find  ourselves  in  imagination  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  sidereal  system.  Duration  is  still  unex- 
hausted; it  is  yet  an  unfathomable  abyss.  We  conceive 
ot  ages  upon  ages,  each  as  interminable  as  the  past  duration 
of  the  material  universe,  and  cast  them  into  the  mighty 
void ;  they  sink  in  darkness,  and  the  chasm  is  still  unfathom- 
able. We  go  forward  again,  and  add  century  to  century, 
without  finding  any  limit.  We  pass  on  until. the  present 
system  is  dissolved,  and  duration  is  still  immeasurable.  We 
add  together  the  past  and  the  future  term  of  the  existence 
of  the  universe,  and  multiply  it  by  millions  of  millions,  and 


DURATION.  153 

we  have  approached  no  nearer  than  at  first  to  the  hmits  of 
duration.  We  are  conscious  that  it  sustains  no  relations 
either  to  measure  or  limit.  It  is  beyond  all  computation 
made  by  addition  of  the  finite.  It  is  thus,  from  the  contem- 
plation of  duration,  that  the  idea  of  the  infinite  arises  in  a 
human  intellect  from  the  necessity  of  its  nature. 

This  idea  of  the  infinite,  to  which  the  mind  so  necessarily 
tends,  and  which  it  derives  from  so  many  conceptions,  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  any  of  which  we.  are  cogni- 
zant. It  belongs  to  the  human  intelligence,  for  it  arises 
within  us  unbidden  on  various  occasions,  and  we  cannot 
escape  it.  Yet  it  is  cognized  by  none  of  the  powers  either 
of  perception  or  of  consciousness.  It  is  occasioned  by 
them ;  yet  it  differs  from  them  as  widely  as  the  human  mind 
can  conceive.  The  knowledge  derived  from  these  sources 
is  by  necessity  limited  and  finite.  This  idea  has  no  rela- 
tions whatever  to  anything  finite.  It  has  no  qualities, 
yet  we  all  have  a  necessary  knowledge  of  what  it  means. 
Is  there  not  in  this  idea  some  dim  foreshadowing  of  the  rela- 
tion which  we,  as  finite  beings,  sustain  to  the  Infinite  One, 
and  of  those  conceptions  which  will  burst  upon  us  in  that 
unchanging  state  to  which  we  are  all  so  rapidly  tending  ? 

Of  cause  and  effect^  and  of  power. 

I  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  this  important  subject. 
I  have  no  expectation  of  adding  anything  new  to  a  discus- 
sion, which,  from  the  earliest  history  of  philosophy,  has 
engaged  the  earnest  thought  of  the  ablest  men.  I  shall  not 
enter  upon  the  consideration  of  many  of  those  questions 
which  emerge  out  of  it.  Were  I  to  attempt  to  present 
them  ever  so  briefly,  I  should  transcend  the  limits  to  which  a 
work  of  this  kind  must  be  restricted.  I  shall  content  my- 
self with  stating  the  views  which,  after  some  reflection,  have 
presented  themselves  to  my  own  mind. 

Let  us,  then,  commence  with  the  observation  of  a  single 


154  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

phenomenon ;  that  is,  a  case  of  change.  Suppose,  for  in- 
stance,  I  observe  that  water,  which  a  few  minutes  since  wa3 
fluid,  has  now  become  solid.  I  find  myself  unable  to  think 
of  this  change  as  an  isolated  fact,  or  as  the  commencement 
of  a  series.  It  must  have  had  antecedents.  Nor  is  this 
all.  The  antecedents  must  have  stood  in  a  certain  relation 
to  it.  Suppose  I  attempt  to  think  of  this  change  as  occur- 
rinor  while  all  the  conditions  of  the  existence  of  the  fluid 
remained  throughout  just  as  they  were  at  the  beginning.  I 
cannot  think  it.  There  is  a  book  on  one  end  of  my  table. 
I  leave  the  room  for  a  moment,  and,  on  my  return,  I  find  it 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  I  ask  what  moved  it.  I  am 
answered,  nothing.  I  am  told  that  all  the  conditions  of  the 
existence  of  that  book  had  been  absolutely  the  same  during 
its  change  of  place  ;  that  no  agency  of  any  kind  had  been 
exerted  upon  it,  and  yet  the  book  had  been  removed  from 
one  place  to  another.  I  am  obliged  to  reply  I  cannot  think 
it.  It  is  as  unthinkable  as  the  proposition  that  two  straight 
lines  can  at  the  same  time  be  parallel  and  at  right  angles 
with  each  other,  or  that  two  circles  can  cut  each  other  in 
moVe  than  two  points.  I  intuitively  know  that  there  must 
have  been  a  cause  which  rendered  the  water  hard,  which  an 
hour  ago  was  fluid ;  and  a  cause  which  removed  the  book 
from  one  place  to  another.  If  I  am  asked  why  I  think  in 
this  manner,  I  can  give  no  account  of  it.  I  am  obliged  to 
say  I  am  so  made.  To  think  in  this  manner  seems  to  me 
necessary  to  the  normal  condition  of  a  human  intellect. 

This,  however,  is  but  one  form  of  causation ;  the  case  in 
which  the  antecedent  and  consequent,  the  cause  and  effect, 
are  both  brute  matter.  A  variety  of  other  cases  deserves  to 
be  considered.  • 

2.  Brute  matter  may  be  the  cause  of  change  in  spirit. 
Thus,  I  open  my  eyes  and  see  a  tree.  A  sonorous  body  is 
struck,  and  I  hear  a  sound.     Here  brute  matter  produces  in 


POWER,   CAUSE    AND    EFFECT.  155 

me  a  change.  A  new  condition  of  mind  is  produced  within 
me,  which  I  denominate  a  knowledge.  This  could  not  have 
existed  but  for  the  presence  of  the  material  objects  which 
have  caused  it.  Under  some  circumstances,  the  effect  is  as 
inevitable  as  when  both  cause  and  effect  are  n^terial.  The 
effect,  however,  is  here  modified  by  conditions  unknown  in 
the  former  case.  For  instance,  a  considerable  pcrtiou  of 
my  life  is  spent  in  sleep,  during  which  time  the  effect  of 
ordinary  agents  upon  my  mind  is  suspended.  Again ;  no 
know^ledge  is  created  in  my  mind  except  through  the  medium 
of  consciousness.  But  consciousness  is  indirectly  subject  to 
the  will.  If,  by  the  effort  of  the  will,  it  is  earnestly  directed 
to  another  object,  the  tree  may  be  present,  or  the  sonorous 
body  may  be  struck,  and  no  appropriate  knowledge  is  created 
in  my  mind.  Here,  w^e  see  that  a  new  element  enters  into 
the  conditions  of  cause  and  effect,  by  which  the  universal 
relation  of  the  one  to  the  other  is  considerably  modified. 

3.  Spirit  or  mind  may  be  the  cause  of  change  in  matter. 
The  simplest  instance  of  this  mode  of  cause  and  effect  is  in 
the  movement  of  the  limbs.  I  put  forth  my  hand  and  take 
a  pen  between  my  fingers.  I  dip  it  in  the  ink  and  proceed 
to  write  a  sentence.  Here,  I  am  conscious  of  an  effort  of 
the  will.  I  perceive  the  movement  of  my  hand,  and  I 
observe  on  the  paper  precisely  the  words  which  I  intended 
to  write.  In  the  normal  condition  of  my  spiritual  and  mate- 
rial faculties,  this  effect  is  universal.  But  I  observe  here 
another  peculiarity.  The  event  to  be  produced  is  foreseen 
by  the  mind,  and  it  takes  place  precisely  according  to  its 
predetermination.  I  ought,  however,  to  add  that,  though 
this  event  is  always  foreseen  and  intended,  yet,  by  education, 
the  connection  between  the  volition  and  the  material  result 
is  rendered  more  perfect.  Thus,  when  I  began  to  write,  I 
at  first  made  nothing  but  straight  lines.,  and  could  net  for 
some  time  make  them  as  correctly  as  I  intended.     By  prac- 


156  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

tice,  however,  I  rendered  the  connection  between  the  voli- 
tion and  the  physical  act  more  and  more  perfect,  so  that 
they  camd  at  last  to  correspond  with  considerable  accuracy 
to  each  other. 

4.  Spirit  may  be  the  cause  of  change  in  spirit.  Thig 
Includes  two  cases :  First,  when  we  effect  changes  in  the 
condition  of  our  own  minds ;  and,  secondly,  when  we  effect 
changes  in  the  minds  of  others. 

1.  When  we  effect  changes  in  our  own  minds.  For  in- 
stance, I  am  thinking  of  some  subject ;  I  resolve  to  banish 
it,  and  think  of  something  else ;  I  succeed.  The  first  thought 
is  displaced;  it  is  to  me,  for  the  time,  as  if  it  had  never 
existed,  and  I  now  think  of  something  entirely  different. 
Here,  however,  we  may  observe  a  considerable  range  in  the 
conditions  of  the  phenomena.  In  the  first  place,  much  de- 
pends on  the  general,  and,  also,  on  the  particular  energy  of 
my  will.  It  may  be  constitutionally  feeble,  or,  by  neglect, 
I  may  have  lost  the  power  of  self-control.  I  try  to  banish 
the  present  thought,  and  it  will  not  leave  me,  or,  if  it  leaves 
me  for  the  moment,  it  immediately  returns.  Again,  I  may 
know  that  I  ought  to  banish  the  thought  Avhich  now  occupies 
me,  and  I  resolve  to  do  it ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
thought  is  pleasant  to  me,  and  I  am  unwilling  to  relinquish 
it.  Either  no  result,  or  a  very  imperfect  one,  is  accom- 
plished. Or,  again,  some  peculiar  thought  has  seized  upon 
me  with  overwhelming  power,  and,  under  my  present  cir- 
cumstances, I  cannot  displace  it  by  any  effort  of  my  will. 
For  instance,  suppose  I  am  a  miser.  I  have  cultivated 
within  myself  the  habit  of  esteeming  wealth  the  greatest  of 
earthly  blessings,  and  have  given  it  the  first  place  in  my 
affections.  By  a  sudden  calamity,  a  large  portion  of  my 
property  is  destroyed.  Thinking  of  it  will  not  restore  it.  I 
desire  to  banish  the  subject  from  my  mind.  I  cannot ;  it  ia 
present  with  me  by  day  and  by  nighb,  tormenting  me,  and  I 


POWER,   CAUSE    AND    EFFECT.  167 

rannot  help  it.  Here  the  pcwer  of  the  will  is  conditioned 
by  the  present  state  of  the  mind  itself,  which  state  is  the 
result  of  successive  previous  volitions.  We  hence  perceive 
that  the  act  of  the  will  here  is  subject  to  conditions  ^vholly 
unknown  in  the  third  case  considered ;  that  is^  where  the 
mind  acts  on  material  substances. 

2.  The  mind  may  produce  change  in  other  minds.  Here 
the  conditions  become  more  complicated.  I  will  suppose 
myself  in  the  possession  of  some  truth,  which  is,  in  its  na- 
ture, adapted  to  effect  a  change  in  the  mind  of  another ;  for 
instance,  a  change  in  his  course  of  action.  Now,  the  effect 
produced  will  depend  both  on  the  state  of  my  own  mind  and 
the  state  of  mind  in  those  whom  I  address.  Thus,  I  may  con- 
ceive the  truth  imperfectly,  feebly,  so  as  to  leave  an  indefinite 
impression  on  others.  I  may  conceive  of  it  adequately,  but 
I  may  be  unaffected  by  it  myself,  and  may  have  no  particu- 
lar desire  to  affect  others.  Or,  again,  having  a  clear  con- 
ception of  it  myself,  I  may  have  an  all-absorbing  desire  to 
cause  others  to  be  affected  as  I  am  affected  myself.  Each 
of  these  conditions  will  probably  vary  the  effect  produced 
on  the  minds  of  others.  Or,  in  this  last  case,  supposing 
myself  to  be  ever  so  much  in  earnest,  the  effect  of  my  com- 
munication may  be  different  in  the  case  of  each  auditor. 
The  effect  will,  in  each  case,  be  determined  by  the  state  of 
every  man's  mind.  In  one  I  may  create  joy,  in  another  sor- 
r:w ;  one  may  be  pleased,  another  displeased ;  one  may  re- 
solve to  take  the  course  which  I  recommend,  and  another  to 
resist  it  to  the  uttermost.  Here,  the  same  cause  produces 
diametrically  opposite  effects ;  the  effect  in  each  individual 
case  being  determined  by  the  present  condition  of  the  mind, 
and  its  relation  to  the  truth  which  I  exhibit. 

Now,  concerning  these  various  cases,  I  would  offer  a  few 
suggestions. 

1.  So  far  as  I  am  able  to  discover,  these  are  all  leg;ti- 
14      ' 


158  INTELLECTUAL     PHILOSOPIIT 

mate  instances  of  cause  and  effect.  Whether  I  hare  included 
them  all,  I  pretend  not  to  determine,  but  I  think  no  exhaust- 
ive classification  can  be  formed  without  including  those 
which  I  have  mentioned. 

2.  The  link  which  binds  together  the  cause  and  the  effect 
is,  in  all  cases,  hidden.  This  is,  I  believe,  universally 
gi-anted.  We  may  observe  the  cause  and  then  the  effect, 
but  a  veil  is  in  all  cases  spread  over  the  nexus  between 
them,  which  it  has  not  been  given  to  the  human  mind  to 
penetrate. 

3.  When  I  examine  these  several  cases,  they  seem  to  me 
very  unlike.  The  matter  affecting  and  affected  is,  in  the 
different  instances,  exceedingly  dissimilar,  and  the  results 
produced  are  very  widely  different.  What  can  be  more 
unlike  than  the  freezing  of  water  by  cold  and  the  change 
of  the  moral  character  of  a  human  being  by  the  presenta- 
tion of  truth  ? 

4.  Hence,  I  would  ask,  may  there  not  be  different  kinds 
of  causation  ?  May  not  causation  in  matter  be  a  totally  dif- 
ferent nexus  from  causation  in  mind  ?  Were  we  endowed 
with  faculties  capable  of  knowing  perfectly  all  the  phenom- 
ena, might  we  not  find  them  as  dissimilar  in  themselves  as 
they  are  in  their  effects  ? 

5.  Such  being  the  possibility,  can  it  be  legitimate  to  rea- 
son from  causation  in  the  one  case  to  causation  in  the  other; 
that  is,  to  conclude  that  because  causation  in  matter  is  one 
thing,  therefore  causation  in  spirit  is  the  same  thing?  Is 
not  the  argument  for  fatalism  deduced  from  a  view  of  the 
indissoluble  nature  of  cause  and  effect  founded  on  this  as- 
sumption ? 

6.  Granting,  what  is  evidently  true,  that,  under  precisely 
the  present  conditions,  any  given  cause  must  mevitably 
produce,  whether  in  matter  or  spirit,  a  definite   ind  certain 


POWER,    CAUSE    AND    EFFECT.  159 

eflfect;  are  there  not  many  things  predicable  of  the  inevita- 
bleness  in  the  one  case  which  cannot  be  predicated  of  it 
in  the  other  ?  For  instance,  I  present  to  a  miser  a  case  of 
distress,  precisely  calculated,  in  its  nature,  to  awaken  benevo- 
lent emotions  in  the  mind  of  an  intellectual  and  moral  being 
in  a  normal  condition.  But,  by  a  course  of  previous  volun- 
tary action,  he  has  so  changed  his  mind  from  its  normal 
condition,  that  the  recital  serves  no  other  purpose  than  to 
harden  his  heart  against  suffering.  In  his  present  condition, 
this  result  as  inevitably  follows  from  my  appeal,  as  his 
death  would  follow  from  plunging  a  knife  into  his  bosom. 
Now,  granting  the  inevitableness  in  both  these  cases  to  be 
the  same,  is  the  nexus  between  the  two  events  of  the  same 
character?  Suppose  me  to  know  the  inevitableness  to  bo 
the  same,  is  the  moral  character  of  the  two  actions  equal  ? 

If,  then,  finally,  the  nature  of  causation  in  matter  and 
causation  in  mind  be  so  unlike,  when  finite  beings  alone  are 
concerned,  that  we  cannot  reason  from  the  one  to  the  other ; 
how  much  greater  must  be  the  disparity  when  the  cause  is 
infinite,  and  the  effect  produced  is  on  the  finite !  How,  es- 
pecially from  causation  in  matter,  can  we  reason  respecting 
the  acts  of  the  Infinite  Spirit,  whose  thoughts  are  not  as  our 

, thoughts?  It  would  surely  be  a  humbler  and  wiser  philos- 
ophy, if  we  believe  in  a  Universal  Cause  of  perfect  holiness 
and  perfect  love,  to  receive  the  facts  of  his  government  as 
he  has  revealed  them,  assured  that  in  the  abysses  of  his 
wisdom,  far  past  our  finding  out,  mercy  and  truth  go  before 
his  face,  and  justice  and  judgment  are  the  habitation  of  his 
throne. 

The  notion  of  cause,  by  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind, 

^  involves  the  idea  of  power.  It  is  the  logical  condition  to 
this  idea ;  without  it,  the  idea  of  cause  could  not  exist.  It 
j8  that  in  the  cause  by  virtue  of  which  it  produces  its  efteet 


160  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

It  is  a  cause  simply,  and  for  no  other  reason,  than  that  in 
it  resides  the  power. 

The  notion  of  power  is  always  fixed  and  invariable.  We 
cannot  conceive  of  it  as,  under  the  same  circumstances, 
sometimes  producing  an  effect  and  at  other  times  produc- 
\n(^  none.  When  we  find  such  an  antecedent,  we  at  once 
determine  that  it  is  destitute  of  power,  and  that  it  is  not,  in 
this  case,  a  cause.  It  is  essential  to  our  conception  of 
power,  that  under  the  same  conditions  it  shall  invariably 
produce  the  same  change. 

Hence,  we  perceive  the  difference  between  invariable  suc- 
cession and  cause.  Cause  is  invariable  succession  with  the 
additional  idea  of  power.  Cousin's  illustration  here  is  ap- 
posite. ^'I  sit  in  my  room,"  he  observes,  '^  and  wish 
that  I  could  hear  a  certain  air.  Some  one  in  another  room 
plays  it.  I  wish  for  it  again,  and  it  is  played  again.  But 
this  is  a  very  different  thing  from  taking  up  an  instrument 
and  playing  it  myself  The  one  is  a  case  of  succession,  the 
other  of  cause  and  effect.  In  the  latter,  I  recognize  my 
own  volition,  not  merely  as  the  antecedent,  but  the  cause  of 
the  sounds.''  And  we  may  observe,  still  further,  that  the 
power,  by  reason  of  its  in  variableness,  is  the  sole  reason  of 
the  invariableness  of  the  succession.  Were  not  power  such 
as  I  have  suggested,  the  succession  might  intermit,  vary, 
and  fluctuate,  indefinitely. 

This  idea  of  cause  and  effect,  and  power,  is  not  derived  from 
experience,  as  some  philosophers  have  asserted.  It  springs  by 
necessity  from  the  original  constitution  of  the  human  mind. 
When  we  observe  a  change  we  cannot  do  otherwise  than 
think  of  the  cause.  The  change  furnishes  the  occasion  for 
the  creation  of  this  idea ;  but,  as  soon  as  we  have  arrived  at 
It,  we  know  that  the  existence  of  the  power  residing  in  the 
cause  was  the  necessary  condition  to  the  existence  of  the 
effect.    It  arises  as  truly  on  the  first  observation  of  a  change, 


POWER.    CAUSE    AND    EFFECT.  161 

as  on  the  thousandth.  It  is  as  obvious  to  the  apprehension 
of  children  as  of  adults.  If  it  was  not  apparent  in  the  first 
instance,  it  could  not  be  in  the  thousandth.  If,  in  the  first 
instance,  we  recognize  nothing  but  succession,  and  had  no 
idea  of  cause  and  of  power,  the  second  instance  would  be 
precisely  like  it,  and  the  third,  and  thus  indefinitely. 
Every  one  remembers  the  case  reported  of  Dr.  Beattie.  He 
wrote,  on  the  prepared  soil  of  his  garden,  the  name  of  his  son, 
a  very  young  child,  and  sowed  some  delicate  seeds  in  the 
lines  which  he  had  thus  traced.  In  a  few  days  the  child 
came  running  to  inform  him  of  the  wonder  which  he  had 
discovered  —  his  own  name  plainly  growing  in  the  flower- 
bed. The  father,  for  a  while,  pretended  to  believe  that  there 
Was  no  cause  for  the  phenomenon,  but  that  the  letters  had 
grown  in  their  present  form  of  themselves,  and  he  attempted 
to  create  this  belief  in  his  son.  It  was  all  in  vain  ;  the  child 
could  not  believe  it.  The  necessary  relation  of  cause  and 
eflfect  was  as  deeply  fixed  in  his  mind  as  in  the  mind  of  his 
father.  Dr.  Beattie  then  made  use  of  this  illustration  to 
teach  him  the  necessary  existence  of  a  First  Cause.  The 
same  incident,  I  observe,  has  been  related  of  the  father  of 
Gen.  Washington. 

But,  it  may  be  asked,  has  experience  nothing  to  do  with 
our  investigation  of  the  laws  of  cause  and  eflect  ?  I  answer, 
nothing  whatever  with  our  original  idea  of  cause  and  of 
power.  This  is  given  us  in  the  very  constitution  of  our 
intellectual  nature.  If  it  were  not  so  given,  we  should  have 
no  conception  of  a  cause,  and  should,  of  course,  have  nc 
occasion  to  institute  any  inquiries  concerning  it. 

But,  although  experience,  or  more  properly  experiment, 
furnishes  us  with  no  original  ideas  of  causation,  yet,  when  this 
idea  has  been  given  us,  and  we  know  that  by  necessity  the 
sause  of  a  certain  phenomenon  must  exist,  it  is  by  experiment 
alone  that  we  are  able  to  discover  what  :hat  cause  is.  Ex- 
14* 


162  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

periment,  therefore,  follows  directly  upon  the  suggestion  of 
causation  in  any  particular  instance.  This  may  be  clearly 
illustrated  by  observing  the  principles  which  govern  us  in 
carrying  forward  a  case  of  philosophical  investigation.  The 
steps  in  such  a  process  are,  I  think,  the  following  : 

1.  We  observe  an  instance  of  obvious  and  manifest  change, 
or,  in  the  language  of  philosophers,  a  phenomenon.  We  are 
80  made  that  we  cannot  think  of  this  change  without  also 
thinking  of  the  cause  which  produced  it.  Every  one  knows 
that  to  speak  of  a  change  producing  itself,  or  of  a  change 
occurring  with  no  relation  whate\er  to  any  other  event,  is 
not  only  to  speak  nonsense,  but  to  utter  what  is  unthink- 
able. 

2.  This  notion  of  cause,  which,  in  these  circumstances, 
has  arisen  within  us,  involves  the  idea  of  power.  It  is,  in 
fact,  this  power  which  makes  it  a  cause.  But,  since  power 
is  a  fixed  and  unchangeable  idea,  we  cannot  conceive  of  it 
without  conceiving  of  it  as  always  acting  in  the  same  way 
under  the  same  circumstances.  Hence,  we  know  that  in 
whatever  antecedent  the  power  resides,  that  antecedent 
must  be  the  cause  of  the  phenomenon.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  when  we  observe  any  antecedent  to  be  fixed  and  in- 
variable, in  that  we  suppose  the  power  to  reside  ;  that  is, 
wc  afiirm  this  antecedent  to  be  the  cause  of  the  consequent 
effect. 

3.  In  order,  then,  to  ascertain  the  fixed  and  invariable 
antecedent,  we  institute  our  experiments.  We  place  the 
phenomenon  under  every  variety  of  antecedents.  When  we 
find  an  antecedent  which,  under  all  circumstances,  invaria- 
bly precedes  the  change,  we  assume  this  to  be  the  cause. 
Henceforth,  these  two  events  hold  this  relation  to  each 
other. 

4.  Hence,  we  perceive  that  if  two  distinct  and  separate 
Invents  were  the  stated  and  invariable  antecedents  of  another 


POWER,    CAUSE    AND    EFFECT.  1(53 

event,  it  would  be  impossible  to  determine  which  of  the  twr 
was  the  cause.  One  would  fulfil  the  conditions  of  the  prob 
lem  as  well  as  the  other.  Hence  we  see  that  our  knowl- 
edge of  causation  is  never  abs3lute,  being  always  conditioned 
by  the  actual  progress  of  human  knowledge.  Thus,  so  far 
as  human  observation  has  gone,  the  event  A  has  always 
been  the  invariable  antecedent  of  the  event  B.  But  subse- 
quent investigations  may  reveal  the  fact  that  A  is  not  the 
invariable  antecedent,  or  that  the  antecedency  of  A  is  condi- 
tioned by  some  other  event  with  which  it  must  be  combined 
in  order  to  produce  the  effect.  Thus,  it  was  observed  that 
water  boiled  at  212°  of  Fahrenheit,  and  it  was,  for  a  long 
time,  supposed  that  this  law  was  universal.  It  was,  how- 
ever, subsequently  ascertained  that  it  boiled  on  the  tops 
of  high  mountains  at  a  lower  temperature.  Hence  it  was 
necessary  to  condition  the  former  law  by  the  pressure  of  the 
atmosphere,  and  say  that  water  boils  at  212°  at  the  level 
of  the  sea.  If  it  should  be  found  that  the  electrical  condi- 
tion of  the  atmosphere  had  any  power  to  modify  the  result, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  add  this  new  condition  to  the  origi- 
nal law. 

It  may  be  useful  to  illustrate  these  remarks  by  observing 
the  manner  in  which  we  proceed  in  determining  any  particu- 
lar cause.     I  will- take,  for  example,  the  freezing  of  water. 

I  perceive,  on  some  occasion,  for  the  first  time,  that 
water,  which  I  left  fluid  at  sunset  last  evening,  is  solid  this 
morning.  I,  first  of  all,  inquire  whether  it  be  the  identical 
substance  w^hich  was  a  short  time  since  fluid.  I  examine 
the  vesse!  in  which  it  is  contained ;  I  ascertain  that  no  human 
being  has  approached  it ;  that  all  the  other  water  in  the  siime 
vicinity  has  undergone  the  same  transformation.  I  am 
satisfied  that  here  is  a  case  of  legitimate  change. 

i^'rom  the  constitution  of  my  mind,  I  am  unable  to  conceivo 
that  this  change  could  have  been  produced  without  an  ade- 


164  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

quale  cause.  Had  the  water  remained  through  the  night, 
with  all  its  relations  to  all  other  things  unchanged,  it  must 
by  necessity  have  continued  in  its  original  condition.  This 
is  to  me  as  obvious  as  that  if  a  body  be  at  rest,  it  must  forever 
remain  at  rest,  unless  some  power  from  without  compel  it  to 
assume  the  condition  of  motion.  There  must,  therefore,  be 
some  cause  for  this  event.  The  instinctive  impulses  of  my 
nature  lead  me  to  inquire  for  this  cause.  This  inquiry  I  con- 
duct by  experiment  or  trial.  In  what  manner  shall  I  proceed? 
I  first  observe  all  the  antecedent  events  which  I  am  able 
to  discover.  For  instance,  the  water  was  fluid  in  daylight  ; 
it  became  solid  in  darkness.  Darkness  may  have  been  the 
cause  of  its  solidity.  It  became  solid  in  the  open  air  ;  it 
returned  to  its  former  fluidity  as  soon  as  it  was  brought  into 
the  house.  Change  of  place  may  have  been  the  cause  of 
the  phenomenon.  Or,  again,  I  observe  that  there  was  a 
sudden  change  of  temperature  during  the  night,  and  that 
the  mercury  in  the  thermometer  fell  from  40°  to  20°.  This 
change  of  temperature  may  be  the  cause  of  which  I  am  in 
search.  I  proceed  to  institute  a  series  of  experiments  for 
the  purpose  of  determining  which  of  these  is  the  invariable 
antecedent  of  the  phenomenon.  I  find  that  water,  in  various 
instances,  becomes  solid  in  light  as  well  as  in  darkness,  and 
that  again  it  becomes  fluid  in  darkness  when  it  had  become 
solid  in  daylight.  Darkness  cannot,  then,  have  been  the 
cause.  I  examine  the  other  hypothesis.  Was  change  of 
place  the  cause  ?  I  find  that,  without  any  change  of  place, 
the  water  which  was  solid  at  sunrise  becomes  fluid  at  noon. 
Change  of  place  will  not,  therefore,  account  for  the  phenom- 
enon. Was  the  cause,  then,  the  change  of  temperature  ? 
I  subject  water  to  this  trial.  I  find  that  everywhere, 
and  under  all  circumstances,  when  the  temperature  falls 
below  32°  Fahrenheit,  water  becomes  solid,  whether  by 
day  or  by  night,  and  without  any  regard  to  locality.     * 


POiVER,    CAUSE    AND    EFFECT.  165 

therefore  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  the  temperature  of 
32°  is  the  cause  of  the  freezing  of  water,  and  that  water 
has  the  susceptibility  of  being  frozen  at  this  temperature 
The  two  events  thus  stand  to  each  other  in  the  relation  of 
cause  and  effect.  I  have  discovered  the  cause  of  the  event, 
or,  in  other  language,  I  have  accounted  for  a  phenomenon. 
It  is  on  these  principles,  and  in  this  manner,  that  we  proceed 
in  any  legitimate  case  of  philosophical  investigation. 

Having  thus  obtained  the  idea  of  causation  and  of  power, 
and  having  learned  how  to  determine  the  cause  in  any  par- 
ticular case,  the  necessity  of  our  intellect  obliges  us  to  pro- 
ceed a  step  further.  As  we  look  about  us,  we  observe  that 
everything  bears  witness  to  the  exertion  of  power.  The 
universe  is  subject  to  perpetual  change,  and  change  without 
the  idea  of  power  is  unthinkable.  Day  and  night,  sun- 
shine and  storm,  summer  and  winter,  spring  and  autumn, 
are  names  indicative  of  changes  and  classes  of  changes 
^nore  numerous  and  more  complicated  than  the  human  mind 
can  comprehend.  Power  is,  then,  one  of  the  most  univer- 
sal ideas  of  which  we  are  able  to  conceive.  But  let  us  look 
at  the  case  a  little  more  carefully.  We  say  that  atmospheric 
air,  moisture,  and  sunlight,  are  the  causes  of  vegetation. 
Let  us,  then,  examine  the  growth  of  a  vegetable,  from  the 
putting  forth  of  its  first  leaf,  through  all  the  changes  of  its 
development,  to  its  beautiful  flower  and  its  ripened  fruit. 
Let  us  examine  a  single  leaf,  and  investigate  all  its  func- 
tions, and  their  exquisite  adaptation  to  cooperate  in  the 
general  design.  Let  us  generalize  this  case,  and  we  find 
the  surface  of  our  globe  to  be  thickly  covered  with  just 
Buch  instances.  We  cannot  fail  to  obserye  that  the  beauty 
and  adaptations  of  the  effect  infinitely  transcend  any  attri- 
bute possessed  by  the  physical  cause.  We  cannot  conceive  of 
the  gases  of  the  atmosphere,  the  drops  of  water,  and  the  rays 
of  the  sun,  as  adequate  causes  of  all  these  wonderful  results. 


166  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

We  conceive  by  necessity  of  some  cause  or  causes  unseen^ 
beyond,  directing,  controlling,  energizing,  those  perceived 
causes,  in  which,  at  first  view,  this  power  seemed  to  reside. 

To  ascend  thus  from  apparent  to  unseen  causes,  from 
physical  to  supernatural  power,  seems  to  be  the  necessary 
tendency  of  our  intellectual  nature.  The  human  mind  is 
hardly  capable  of  so  intense  degradation  as  not  to  recognize 
the  existence  of  some  power  unseen,  by  which  all  that  is 
seen  is  governed  and  sustained.  Hence  have  arisen  the 
innumerable  systems  of  idolatry  wnich  have  prevailed  among 
men.  Every  nation  recognizes  some  invisible  powers  as  the 
causes  of  visible  changes,  and  hence  as  objects  of  worship. 
The  very  absurdity  of  many  of  these  systems  teaches  us 
this  tendency  in  the  clearest  possible  manner.  The  more 
absurd  the  object  of  worship,  the  stronger  is  the  proof  that 
the  necessities  of  the  human  intellect  demand  some  cause 
to  which  the  changes  of  visible  nature  can  be  referred  ;  and 
that  it  will  accept  the  most  preposterous  notion  of  an  ulti 
mate  cause,  sooner  than  believe  that  no  such  cause  exists. 

But  the  human  mind,  having  advanced  thus  far,  proceeds 
by  necessity  a  step  further.  As  we  contemplate  the  vari- 
ous phenomena  of  the  universe,  we.  observe  that  no  class  of 
facts,  nor  any  single  fact,  is  isolated.  All  are  parts  of  one 
plan,  the  development  of  one  idea.  The  vegetable  and 
animal  kingdoms,  the  laws  which  govern  organic  and  inor- 
ganic nature,  and  the  relations  which  subsist  between  them, 
all  represent  portions  of  one  idea,  which  must  have  been 
ODnceived  by  a  single  intelligence  before  anything  visible 
waa  created.  Hence  we  are  called  upon  to  account  for  this 
perfect  harmony  in  this  infinite  variety  of  parts,  the  perfect 
order  which  exists  among  beings  in  themselves  so  diverse 
from  each  other.  We  can  account  for  it  only  on  the  sup- 
position that  the  cause  of  causes  is  not  many,  but  one,  in- 
finite in  power  and  -fisdom,  the  sufficient  reason  why  every 


■  POWER,    CAUSE   AND    EFFECT.  167 

thing  IS,  and  why  it  is  as  we  now  behold  it.  That  tliia 
opinion  has  universally  prevailed  among  men  who  liavo 
addicted  themselves  to  thinking,  is  manifest.  The  philoso- 
phers who  paid  an  outward  respect  to  the  classic  mythology 
acknowledged  and  reverenced  the  Supreme  Divinity.  And 
everywhere,  among  men  of  reflection,  it  has  been  acknowl- 
edged that,  if  there  are  causes  beyond  those  which  we  per- 
ceive, there  must  be  one  universal  Cause,  all-powerful,  all- 
wise,  all-good,  self-existent,  and,  of  course,  eternal. 

But,  supposing  this  to  be  granted,  other  questions  emerge 
from  this  belief.  If  there  be  a  universal,  all-pervading  Cause, 
what  is  the  nature  of  his  agency  ?  In  material  causation,  is 
Jie  the  sole  operator  in  every  change,  so  that  every  event  is 
an  immediate  act  of  the  Deity,  or  the  result  of  such  an 
act  7  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  has  he  constituted  matter  with 
such  attributes  and  relations  that  all  which  w^e  see  is  the 
necessary  consequence  of  the  original  creation,  from  which 
the  Creator  has  withdrawn,  and  over  which  he  now^  exerts  no 
agency?  And,  again,  in  spiritual  changes,  similar  questions 
arise.  Does  the  free  will  of  man  act  independently  of  any 
controlling  agency  of  the  Deity,  or  is  the  Deity  the  cause 
of  spiritual  change,  as  in  the  first  supposition  above  in 
regard  to  matter  ?  Or  has  he  so  created  spirits  that  the 
chanj;L's  of  which  w^e  are  conscious  proceed  by  necessity 
from  the  elements  of  our  original  creation  'I  These  ques- 
tions, and  many  more,  arise  from  the  conception  of  an  uni- 
versal, all-pervading,  and  all-pow^erful  Cause. 

With  respect  to  these  inquiries,  I  w^ould  remark,  in  gen- 
eral, that  I  believe  the  most  opposite  answers  to  either  of 
them  can  probably  be  proved  to  be  true,  by  arguments 
which  it  would  be  diflScult  to  confute  ;  and  that  the  clearest 
reasoning  may  lead  us  to  results  at  variance  with  the  sim- 
plest dictates  of  our  moral  and  intellectual  nature.  To  what 
conclusion,  then,  shall  we  arrive  ?     I  arewer,  to  the  belief 


168  INTELLECTUAL   THILOSOPHY. 

that  the  subject  is  clearly  beyond  the  reach  of  our  under- 
standinf'.  The  point  in  which  the  infinite  and  the  finite 
come  in  contact  has  been,  and  must  ever  be,  hidden  from 
mortjil  eyes.  It  is  the  dictate  of  reason  and  religion  that 
tlie  Deity  is  all-wise,  all-good,  and  all-powerful,  and  there- 
fore that  he  is  the  only  being  capable  of  governing  the  uni- 
verse which  he  has  made.  It  is  not  possible  that  such  a 
being  shoald  govern  it  too  much.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
have  the  evidence  of  our  own  consciousness  that  we  are  per- 
fectly free.  We  know  that  such  a  being  as  the  Deity  must 
carry  on  his  wise  and  just  and  merciful  intentions,  and  that 
he  must  carry  them  on  through  the  agency  of  his  intelli- 
gent creatures ;  we  know,  also,  that  we  are  perfectly  free 
to  act  as  we  choose,  and  that  this  freedom  is  an  essential 
element  of  our  moral  responsibility.  Of  the  manner  in 
which  these  agencies  cooperate,  I  think  we  must  be  content 
to  remain  in  ignorance. 

REPERENCES. 

Idea  of  power  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  7,  sec.  8. 
Power,  active  and  passive  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  21,  sec.  2. 
Cause  and  effect  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  26. 
Idea  of  a  God  —  Locke,  Book  4,  chap.  10,  sec  1 — 8. 
Cause  and  effect  —  Reid,  Essays  on  In.  Powers,  Essay  6,  chap.  6. 
Power,  cause  and  effect  —  Reid,  Essays  on  Active  Powers,  Essay  1. 
Locke's  idea  of  power  examined  —  Cousin,  chap.  4. 
Notion  of  power  derived  either  from  the  objective  or  subjective  — 
Cousin,  chap.  4. 


SECTION  V. —  SUGGESTED  IDEAS  ACCOMPANIED  BY  EMOTION* 

We  have  thus  far  considered  those  ideas  which  are  sug- 
gested to  us  by  the  contemplation  of  oojects  which  produce 
In  us  no  emotion.     They  are  purely  intellectual,  and  have 


SUGGESTED    EMOTIONS.  169 

no  other  effect  upon  us  than  to  increase  our  knowledge. 
Thus,  the  ideas  of  duration,  cause  and  effect,  space,  and  a 
variety  of  others,  are  simple  knowledges,  and  produce  in  ua 
no  ulterior  state  of  mind. 

Were  we  merely  intellectual  beings,  these  would  be  all 
the  suggestive  ideas  of  which  we  need  be  conscious.  But 
we  find  the  case  to  be  otherwise.  We  are  made  not  only  to 
knou\  but  io  fep-L  As  we  look  abroad  upon  the  world,  we 
find  ourselves  not  only  capable  of  knowing  that  things  are  or 
are  not,  but  also  of  deriving  pleasure  or  pain  from  the  con- 
templation of  them.  Who  does  not  know  with  whaji  eager 
gaze  the  eyes  of  the  child  are  turned  towards  the  rainbow  7 
Who  has  not  been  deeply  moved  at  beholding  the  glory  of  a 
summer's  sunset?  Again,  it  is  undeniable  that  we  are 
variously  affected  by  our  observation  of  the  actions  of  our 
fellow-men.  Some  of  them  awaken  in  us  admiration,  re- 
spect, gratitude  and  love ;  others  fill  us  with  disapprobation, 
disgust  and  abhorrence.  These  various  cognitions,  and  the 
emotions  which  they  create,  belong,  I  suppose,  to  the  class 
of  original  suggestions.  They  may  be  divided  into  two 
classes  :  1,  Ideas  of  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime,  or  ideas 
of  taste ;  and,  2,  Moral  ideas. 

1.  Ideas  of  the  beautiful  and  sublime. 

Let  us  commence  the  exposition  of  this  subject  by  an 
example.  Suppose  there  were  placed  before  us  an  antique 
marble  vase  of  exquisite  workmanship.  We  look  at  it,  and 
observe  its  color,  and  form,  and  proportions.  We  feel  of  it.  and 
discover  that  it  is  solid;  smooth  and  heavy.  We  test  it  by 
our  other  senses,  and  ascertain  whether  or  not  it  possesses 
-any  qualities  which  they  can  recognize.  When  we  have 
done  this,  we  have  obtained  all  the  knowledge  concerning  it 
which  our  perceptive  faculties  can  give. 

Let  us  now  place  by  the  side  of  it  a  rough  block  of  mar- 
ble, of  a  similar  magnitude.  The  senses  give  us,  as  before, 
15 


170  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

a  knowleuge  of  its  color,  form,  solidity,  roughness  or  smooth- 
ness, sonorousness,  taste  and  smell.  This  knowledge  is  all 
that  our  perceptive  faculties  can  give  us  in  either  case. 
Were  we  merely  intellectual,  that  is,  unemotional  beings, 
no  other  impression  besides  that  of  knowledge  would  be 
produced  upon  us.  Both  of  these  objects  would  be  con- 
temphited  with  equal  indifference  ;  nay,  the  rough  block 
might  be  preferred,  if  we  could  devote  it  to  a  purpose  of 
utility  of  which  the  other  was  not  susceptible.  Thus,  we 
are  told  that,  not  unfrequently,  the  remains  of  a  beautiful 
statue  are  found  imbedded  in  mortar,  in  the  wall  of  a  peas- 
ant's hovel,  in  the  neighborhood  of  an  ancient  city  on  the 
plains  of  Asia  Minor. 

Let  us  now  observe  these  objects  together,  and  remark 
the  feelings  which  they  awaken  within  us.  We  cannot  fail 
to  observe  that  the  one  has  a  power  of  affecting  us  very  dif- 
ferently from  the  other.  As  we  look  upon  the  one,  we  are 
conscious  of  an  emotion  of  exquisite  pleasure.  We  attach 
to  it  a  value  such  as  wealth  can  scarcely  estimate.  We  look 
upon  the  other  with  total  indifference,  or,  it  may  be,  with 
disgust,  and  cast  it  aw^ay  as  an  incumbrance.  To  the  one 
we  are  powerfully  attracted,  while  from  the  other  we  are 
repelled.  We  recognize  in  the  one  the  quality  of  beauty, 
cf  which  we  perceive  the  other  to  be  destitute.  A  child  at 
an  early  age  would  make  this  distinction.  Every  one 
knows  how  strongly  even  very  young  persons  are  attracted 
by  brilliant  colors  and  agreeable  forms.  Yet  this  emotion 
liannot  be  defined.  It  arises  unbidden  at  the  contemplation 
of  outward  objects  of  a  particular  character,  under  such 
circumstances  as  have  been  appointed  by  the  Creator  to  " 
occasion  it  within  us.  , 

This  idea  is  not,  however,  cognizable  directly  by  the 
Benses.  We  neither  see.  nor  hear,  nor  feel,  nor  taste  beauty; 
nor  is  it  an  energy  of  our  minds.     Yet,  whenever    we  per- 


EMOTIONAL   ST/GGESTIONS.  171 

ceive  certain  external  objects,  there  arises  within  us  the 
knowledge  that  thej  are  beautiful,  and  we  are  conscious  ot* 
the  subjective  emotion  which  this  quality  occasions.  In 
this  respect  it  resembles  the  other  suggested  ideas.  They, 
as  we  have  seen,  are  not  cognized  by  the  senses,  but  the 
cognitions  derived  from  the  senses  are  the  occasion  of 
their  existence.  So,  in  this  case,  as  soon  as  we  are  con- 
scious of  the  perceptions,  we  are  conscious  of  the  cogni- 
tion of  this  quality,,  and  of  the  emotion  which  this  quality 
produces. 

The  emotion  of  the  beautiful  is  suggested  by  an  infinite 
variety  of  objects  in  the  external  w^orld.  It  arises  from  the 
contemplation  of  form,  of  color,  of  motion,  of  proportion, 
and,  in  fact,  from  almost  every  object  in  nature.  I  shall 
not  here  enter  into  an  illustration  of  these  obvious  facts. 
'It  is  sufficient  merely  to  allude  to  them,  reserving  the  more 
extended  discussion  to  another  place. 

If  we  observe  the  various  objects  which  give  occasion  to 
this  emotion,  we  shall  observe  them  to  be  exceedingly  dis- 
similar. The  objects  are  unlike,  but  the  emotion  is  the 
same.  We  thus  learn  to  distinguish  the  emotion  produced, 
from  the  causes  which  produce  it.  Having  done  this,  we 
ascribe  to  any  object  this  quality,  if  it  produces  in  us  this 
paiticular  emotion.  Thus,  the  mathematician  speaks  of 
the  beauty  of  a  demonstration ;  the  critic,  of  the  beauty  of 
a  metaphor ;  the  moralist,  of  the  beauty  of  a  social  relation  ; 
and  the  mechanic  of  the  beauty  of  a  machine.  In  each 
■  case,  the  emotion  of  the  beautiful  is  awakened  in  the  mind 
of  the  speaker,  and  he  ascribes  the  quality  of  beauty  to 
that  which  produces  it. 

There  is  also  another  emotion,  suggested  by  the  contem- 

'  plation  of  material  and  immaterial  objects,  in  many  respecta 

similar  to  the  emotion  of  beauty.     The  mode  of  its  origin 

is  the  same.    It  is  suggested,  in  the  first  instance,  by  objects 


172  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

in  nature  ,  it  is  a  source  of  exquisite  pleasure ;  it  arise?5  on 
a  oreat  variety  of  occasions ;  but  yet  the  emotion  itself  is 
always  the  same.  Its  character  may  perhaps  be  best  illus- 
trated by  an  example.  He  who  has  stood  by  the  sea-side  in 
a  storm  may  perhaps  remember  the  ceaseless  roar  of  the 
waves,  the  rude  shock  of  the  surge,  which,  heaving  itself 
a^^ainst  the  cliff,  made  the  solid  rock  to  tremble  beneath 
him,  and  the  tossing  of  the  white  foam  as  it  flew  from  the 
crest  of  the  billow.  All  this  might  have  been  equally  well 
perceived  by  the  dog  at  his  feet,  or  the  wild  sea-bird,  as, 
screaming  in  gladness,  it  dashed  into  the  thickest  of  the 
spray.  But  these  are  not  all  the  ideas  that  arise  within  the 
bosom  of  the  man.  Besides  all  these,  he  feels  an  emotion 
of  awe,  and  yet  of  exultation ;  of  solemnity,  and  yet  of 
excitement ;  of  humility  when  he  thinks  of  his  own  little- 
ness, and  yet  of  greatness  when  he  yields  himself  up  to  the 
conceptions  which  crowd  upon  him.  His  imagination  roams 
over  the  ocean ;  he  muses  upon  its  matchless  power,  its  vast 
extent,  its  deceitful  smiles,  and  its  sudden  wrath,  until  he  is 
bewildered  in  the  throng  of  his  thick-coming  fancies.  Every 
one  recognizes  in  this  the  emotion  of  sublimity. 

Here,  as  before,  we  perceive  that  this  idea,  and  the  emo- 
tion which  accompanies  it,  are  entirely  different  from  the 
simple  perceptions  by  which  they  are  occasioned.  They 
could  not  arise  without  the  perceptions,  and  the  perceptions 
would  be  perfect  without  them.  They  are  called  forth  un- 
der peculiar  circumstances  in  obedience  to  the  principles 
of  our  constitution,  and,  having  once  arisen,  they  remain 
with  us,  irrespective  of  the  circumstances  that  gave  them 
birth. 

Having,  howBver,  obtained  this  idea,  with  its  correspond- 
ing emotion,  we  find  that  it  is  excited  by  a  variety  of  spirit- 
ual conceptions,  as  well  as  external  perceptions.  The  infi- 
nite in  space  and  duration,  immaculate  justice,  heroic  self 


MORAL   SUGGESTIONS.  17? 

denial,  self-sacrificing  love,  and  a  large  variety  of  the  more 
majestic  moral  qualities,  excite  this  emotion  in  a  very  high 
degree.  How  dissimilar  soever  they  may  be  .in  themselves, 
if  they  awaken  this  emotion  we  class  them  under  the  same 
designation,  and  call  them  all  sublime.  Hence  we  speak 
of  the  sublime  in  nature  and  in  art,  of  the  sublime  in  elo- 
quence, in  poetry,  and  in  action.  The  external  objects 
which  awaken  this  emotion  are  dissimilar,  but,  producing 
a  similar  effect,  we  comprehend  them  all  under  the  same 
classification. 

Of  moral  ideas  derived  from  suggestion. 

Thus  far  we  have  observed  chiefly  those  suggested  ideas 
which  may  be  derived  from  irrational  objects.  It  would  be 
natural  to  expect  that  suggestions  of  a  peculiar  character 
would  be  occasioned  by  observing  the  actions  of  our  fellow- 
men,  intelligent  and  accountable  agents. 

Thus,  for  instance,  I  find  myself  in  possession  of  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  power.  I  can  move  my  limbs  in  any  direc- 
tion. I  know,  however,  that  these  motions  are  not  uncaused ; 
they  are  consequent  upon,  and  caused  by,  the  energy  of  my 
own  will.  I  look  further,  and  find  that  my  will  does  not 
act  at  random.  I  will  to.  perform  an  action,  in  order  to  ac- 
complish a  certain  purpose.  So  long  as  I  am  sane,  that  is, 
governed  by  the  established  laws  of  my  being,  I  find  these 
two  antecedents,  will  and  motive,  always  preceding  every 
act  of  power  which  I  exert. 

K  I  observe  the  acts  of  others,  I  come  to  the  same  con- 
clusion. I  cannot  conceive  of  an  act  of  a  man  in  a  normal 
condition,  without  considering  it  as  emanating  from  his  will ; 
nor  can  I  conceive  of  an  act  of  the  will  uninfluenced  by  any 
motive.  Hence,  when  we  contemplate  the  act  of  an  intelli- 
gent being,  we  always  involve  in  our  conceptions  not  mercJy 
the  outward  chancre,  but  also  the  will  in  which  it  originated 
and  the  motive  by  which  the  will  was  governed 
15* 


174  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

But  c  ir  acts  commonly  influence  the  happiness,  or  affect 
the  riglits  of  our  fellow-men.  Whenever  we  observe  such 
an  act,  there  arises  in  the  mind  a  wholly  new  idea,  unlike 
any  which  we  have  thus  far  examiiied ;  it  is  the  idea  of 
right  or  wrong.  A  particular  quality  in  that  action  is  im- 
mediately recognized.  Perception  gives  us  nothing  but  the 
external  act ;  but  by  virtue  of  our  constitution  there  is  sug- 
gested to  us  a  moral  quality,  something  very  different  from 
the  external  action  itself;  and  the  cognition  of  this  quality 
is  always  attended  by  certain  subjective  affections.  These 
subjective  affections  are  the  most  important  of  any  of  which 
we  are  susceptible.  The  faculty  of  the  mind  which  gives 
rise  to  these  objective  cognitions  and  subjective  affections 
is  called  conscience.  It  belongs  to  moral  philosophy  to 
treat  of  this  subject  at  large. 

I  might  mention  various  Other  instances  of  original  sug- 
gestion, but  the  above  will  suflSce  to  illustrate  my  meaning. 
It  will,  I  think,  be  obvious,  from  what  I  have  said,  that,  by 
virtue  of  this  power,  we  possess  a  distinct  and  most  impor- 
tant source  of  knowledge.  The  ideas  which  we  derive  in 
this  manner  are  unlike  those  either  of  perception  or  con- 
sciousness, yet  they  are  no  less  truly  clear  and  definite, 
and  really  lie  at  the  foundation  of  all  our  subsequent 
knowledge.  They  seem,  more  than  any  other  of  our  ideas, 
to  result  from  the  exertion  of  the  pure  intellect.  We 
know  them  to  be  true,  without  the  intervention  of  any 
media.  The  intellect  with  which  we  are  created  vouches 
for  their  truth,  and  we  cannot  conceive  them  to  be  false. 

If  it  be  asked  how  we  may  improve  this  faculty,  I  answer 
that  m  a  matter  so  simple,  when  our  knowledge  is  intuitive, 
rules  seem  almost  useless,  i  few  suggestions  may,  how- 
ever, not  be  wholly  without  advantage. 

It  must  be  obvious  to  every  one,  that  our  train  of 
thought  may  follow  in  the  line  of  our  perceptions,  or  of  our 


ORIGINAL    SUQGESTIONS.  175 

BQggestions  We  may  pass  from  perception  to  perception 
without  heeding  the  suggestions  to  which  they  give  occasion; 
or.  detaining  every  perception,  we  may  follow  out  to  their 
utmost  extent  the  suggestions  which  spring  from  it.  The 
former  is  the  habit  of  the  superficial,  the  latter  of  the  re- 
flective mind.  The  one  cognizes  only  th'e  facts  which  are 
visible  on  the  surface ;  the  other  arrives  at  a  knowledf'-e  of 
the  hidden  relations  by  which  all  that  is  seen  is  united  • 
together  and  directed.  Millions  of  men,  before  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  had  seen  an  apple  fall  to  the  ground,  but  the  sight 
awakened  no  suggestion ;  or,  if  it  did,  the  suggestion  was 
neither  retained  nor  developed.  He  seized  upon  it  at  once, 
followed  it  to  its  results,  -and  .found  that  he  had  caught  hold 
of  the  thread  which  could  guide  him  through  the  labyrinth 
of  the  universe. 

If,  then,  we  would  cultivate  the  faculty  of  original  sug- 
gestion, we  must  exercise  it  by  patient  thought.  Sugges- 
tions will  arise  in  our  minds,  if  we  will  only  heed  them, 
'■  and  they  will  arise  the  more  abundantly  the  more  carefully 
we  heed  them.  We  should  attend  to  our  own  intuitions, 
examine  their  character,  determine  their  validity,  and  follow 
them  CO  their  results.  We  should  have  due  respect  for  the 
teachino's  of  our  own  individual  intellio:ence.  What  other 
men  have  thought  is  valuable,  but  its  chief  value  is,  not  to 
save  us  from  the  labor  of  thinking,  but  to  enable  us  to 
think  the  better  for  ourselves.  If,  with  patient  earnestness, 
we  thus  follow  out  the  suggestions  of  our  own  minds,  we 
Bhall  find  them  enriched  and  invigorated.  Instead  of  drink- 
ing forever  at  the  fountains  of  other  men,  the  mind  will 
thus  discover  a  fountain  within  itself  "If,"  said  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  "  I  am  in  any  respect  different  from  other  men,  it 
is  in  the  pov-er  of  patient  thought." 


176  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


REFERENCES. 

Origin  of  moral  ideas  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  2,  sees.  1,  2  ;  book  % 
chap.  21,  sec.  42  ;  book  2,  chap.  28,  sec.  5. 

Cousin,  chap.  5. 

Necessity  of  patient;  thought  in  cultivating  original  suggestion  —  Locln 
Book  4,  chap.  3,  sec.  22—30. 

Abercrombie,  Part  4,  9M.  I 


, 


CHAPTER    IV. 

ABSTRACTION. 

Iisr  order  the  more  definitely  to  understand  the  nature  of 
Abstraction,  let  us  review  the  ground  which  we  have  passed 
over,  that  we  may  the  more  distinctly  perceive  the  point 
from  which  we  are  about  to  proceed. 

We  have  seen  that  by  perception  we  cognize  externa] 
objects,  and  that  by  consciousness  we  cognize  our  internal 
energies.  Our  knowledge,  however,  derived  from  both  of 
these  sources,  is  individual  and  concrete.  I  perceive  a  tree ; 
it  is  an  individual  tree.  I  perceive  fifty  trees ;  they  are  all 
individuals,  difiering  in  various  respects  from  each  other 
but  each  a  distinct  and  unique  object  of  perception.  So, 
also,  I  am  conscious  of  an  act  of  memory,  that  is,  of  remem- 
bering a  particular  object.  I  am  conscious  of  remembering 
another.  Each  act  is  numerically,  and  as  I  think  of  it,  dis- 
tinct from  every  other  act.  Our  conceptions  of  these  acts 
are  of  the  same  character  as  the  acts  themselves,  and,  with 
these  powers  alone,  every  idea  would  be  as  distinct  from  every 
other  idea  as  the  grains  of  sand  on  the  sea-shore,  without 
either  cohesion  or  fusibility. 

The  same  remark  applies  in  substance  to  the  ideas  derived 
from  original  suggestion.  Of  these  ideas  some  I  know  are 
general,  and  can  be  referred  to  no  particular  object.  Such 
are  the  ideas  of  space,  duration,  infinity,  and  perhaps  some 
others.     These  are  cognized  as  universal  and  necessary  iin 


178  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

Booii  as  the  mind  begins  to  think ;  and,  as  they  are  at  the 
beginning,  so  they  remain  forever,  unsusceptible  of  either 
change  or  modification.  Another  class  of  our  suggestive 
ideas  is,  however,  of  a  different  character.  I  perceive,  for 
instance,  a  case  of  change,  as  the  rolling  of  a  ball,  or  the 
falling  of  a  pin.  The  idea  of  cause  and  power  at  once  sug- 
gests itself,  but  it  is  of  the  power  requisite  to  produce  this 
effect,  and  this  only.  It  is  the  idea,  not  of  causation  jn 
general,  but  of  causation  in  this  individual  instance.  Should 
I  see  another  case  of  change,  the  same  notion  of  causation 
would  arise,  but  it  w^ould  again  be  of  an  individual  change, 
and  would  be  wholly  disconnected  from  that  which  I  ob- 
served before.  That  is,  every  idea  of  causation  would-  be 
indissolubly  connected  with  that  change  by  which  it  was  oc- 
casioned, and  thus  our  knowledge  of  causation  would  be 
nothing  moTe  than  the  remembrance  of  these  several  isolated 
and  separate  facts. 

If,  then,  our  intellectual  powers  were  limited  to  those 
which  we  have  already  considered,  it  is  easy  to  imagine 
what  must  be  our  condition.  We  could  perceive  individual 
objects,  and  be  conscious  of  the  exertion  of  individual  ener- 
gies, or  of  the  putting  forth  of  certain  intellectual  acts. 
Every  object  of  perception  would  be  distinct  and  discon- 
nected, and  equally  so  the  conceptions  which  it  originated. 
Our  knowledge  would  be  all  of  individuals,  and  every  object 
must  have  its  own  proper  name,  or  that  which  is  equivalent 
to  it.  When  we  speak  of  different  men,  we  call  them  John, 
James,  William,  meaning  by  each  of  these  terms  to  desig- 
nate an  individual  unlike  every  other  in  existence.  Such 
would  be  our  knowledge  if  we  had  no  other  faculties  than 
those  already  examined. 

But,  if  we  look  into  our  own  minds,  and  ol^serve  the  minds 
of  other  men,  we  find  our  condition  to  be  the  reverse  of  all 
this.     Proper  names,  or  those  used  to  designate  individuals, 


I 


ABSTRACTION.  179 

are  the  rarest  words  in  a  language.  We  use  them  only  to 
point  out  persons  and  places,  and  when  these  are  not  alluded 
to  such  words  are  never  employed.  In  works  of  science 
they  have  no  place  whatever,  unless  we  find  it  necessary  to 
refer  to  some  historical  fact.  Language  is  made  up  alto- 
gether of  words  designating  classes  of  things,  as  book,  house, 
tree,  idea :  or  of  qualities,  as  red,  white,  blue,  warm,  cold  ; 
or  of  actions,  as  walk,  ride,  think,  give,  take ;  or  of  relations, 
as  by,  to,  upon,  &c.  When  we  use  these  words  we  have 
no  reference  to  individuals,  and  desire  merely  to  indicate 
classes  of  things,  actions,  qualities  or  relations,  signified  by 
these  terms.  So  universally  is  this  the  case,  that,  when  we 
wish  to  individualize  a  particular  object,  we  are  obliged  tc 
use  several  descriptive  terms,  in  order  to  distinguish  it  from 
its  class.  Thus,  if  I  wish  to  direct  attention  to  a  particular 
table,  I  am  obliged  to  refer  to  it  as  my  table,  of  such  a 
color  and  size,  or  standing  in  such  a  place,  or  bought  of 
such  a  person.  In  this  manner  we  select  an  individual 
from  a  class,  in  order  to  make  it  an  object  of  particular 
attention. 

We  observe,  then,  what  our  conceptions  would  be,  were 
we  endowed  with  no  other  powers  than  those  which  we  have 
thus  far  considered.  We  see,  on  the  other  hand,  what  our 
conceptions  actually  are.  With  no  other  powers  than  those 
of  perception,  consciousness,  and  original  suggestion,  our 
ideas  would  be  all  of  individuals.  But  we  find,  in  fact,  that 
they  are  the  reverse  of  this  —  that  they  are  all  of  classes. 
We  naturally  inquire.  How  does  :his  change  take  place  7  How 
do  we  pass  from  the  conception  of  individuals  to  the  concep- 
tion of  generals  ?  How,  from  single,  isolated,  concrete  facts, 
do  we  form  notions  of  classes,  or  of  genera  and  species'; 
It  is  to  this  subject  that  we  are  now  to  direct  our  attention 

Abstraction  is  that  faculty  of  the  mind  by  \vhich  frou 


180  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

individual,  concrete  conceptions,  we  form  general  and  ab- 
stract ideaa. 

Though  I  spej|k  of  abstraction  as  a  faculty  of  the  mind, 
1  am  aware  that  it  is,  in  many  respects,  unlike  those  of 
which  I  have  thus  far  treated.  It  gives  us  no  new  knowl- 
edge, like  perception,  consciousness  and  original  suggestion  ; 
it  only  modifies  the  knowledge  which  we  have  acquired  by 
these  faculties.  It  does  not,  like  them,  perform  its  office 
by  a  single  act.  On  the  contrary,  it  accomplishes  its  object 
by  a  succession  of  acts,  each  one  different  from  both  the 
others.  Yet^  as  it  performs  a  function  which  could  be  per- 
formed by  no  other  power, —  as  it  actually  does  something, 
and  as  a  faculty  is  the  power  of  doing  something, —  I  think 
we  cannot  err  in  designating  it  by  the  same  general  name 
which  is  given  to  the  other  intellectual  energies. 

In  the  mental  process  by  which  we  pass  from  individuals 
to  generals,  three  separate  acts  can  be  distinctly  perceived ; 
these  are  analysis^  generalization  and  combination. 

1.  Analysis,  I  have  remarked,  when  treating  of  concep- 
tion, that  we  have  the  power  of  retaining  a  notion  of  any 
object  of  perception  after  the  object  is  removed,  precisely 
similar  to  that  which  we  formed  when  we  were  perceiving 
it.  For  instance,  I  saw  a  rose  yesterday.  I  cognized  it 
then  as  present,  and  observed  its  color,  form,  magnitude, 
as  a  distinct  and  concrete  object,  uniting  in  itself  these 
various  and  dissimilar  qualities.  I  retain  to-day  a  notion 
of  it  as  an  object  absent,  uniting  in  itself  all  the  various 
qualities  which  I  cognized  in  it  as  present.  The  difference, 
subjectively,  is  merely  between  the  notion  of  the  object 
as  present  and  the  notion  of  it  as  absent.  Now,  when  I 
make  the  conception  of  this  rose  an  object  of  reflection,  1 
am  able  to  separate,  in  thought,  these  qualities  from  each 
other ;  tliat  is,  to  think  of  each  quality  separately,  without 
thinking  of  the  others.     Thus,  I  may  think,  exclusively,  of 


ABSTRACTION.  181 

its  color,  then  of  its  form,  its  weight,  &^.  ;  at  each  time 
banishing  from  my  mind  the  conception  of  all  the  other 
qualities.  I  look  upon  a  lily  ;  I  form  a  conception  of  it  in 
the  same  manner,  and  in  the  same  manner  can  I,  in  thought, 
separate  its  qualities  one  from  the  other,  making  each  one 
of  them  the  exclusive  object  of  attention.  I  behold  a  moun- 
tain as  present.  I  form  a  conception  of  it  as  absent.  I  can 
think  exclusively  of  its  form,  or  its  magnitude,  or  its  color, 
or  its  trees,  or  of  the  strata  of  which  it  is  formed.  The  act  by 
which  we  thus,  in  thought,  separate  the  elements  of  a  con- 
crete conception  from  each  other,  and  consider  each  one  by 
itself  as  a  distinct  object  of  thought,  is  commonly  termed 
abstraction.  I  prefer  to  call  it  analysis,  as  this  word  suf- 
ficiently designates  its  character,  and  distinguishes  it  from 
the  other  acts  which  with  it  go  to  make  up  the  process  of 
abstraction. 

I  wish  it,  however,  to  be  distinctly  remembered,  that  this 
act,  in  every  case,  has  for  its  object  an  individual  conception. 
I  have  analyzed  my  conception  of  a  rose,  and  considered  its 
qualities  separately.  But  they  are  the  qualities  of  this 
particular  rose,  and  nothing  more.  The  case  is  the  same 
when  I  analyze  a  lily,  or  a  mountain  ;  it  is  not  the  analysis 
of  any  and  every  lily,  or  mountain,  but  only  of  that  one 
which  I  saw,  and  of  which  I  now  form  a  conception.  The 
color  is  not  the  color  of  roses,  or  lilies,  but  only  of  this  par- 
ticular rose,  or  of  that  particular  lily.  The  same  remark 
applies  to  the  form,  fragrance,  or  any  other  of  its  qualities. 
It  is  just  the  same  as  if  I,  for  the  first  time,  saw  one  of 
these  objects,  and  were  never  to  see  it  again.  In  thought,  I 
separate  each  one  of  its  qualities  from  the  other,  and  then 
the  mental  a^ct  terminates. 

2.  Generalization.  By  analysis  I  have  separated  the 
qualities  of  an  individual  rose.  Suppose  I  were  called  upon 
to  give  to  each  of  them  a  name ;  I  could  do  it  in  no  other 
16 


1S2  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

manner  than  by  designating  each  of  them  by  the  name  oi 
tlie  object  from  which  the  concrete  conception  was  deri\eA 
1  must  call  them,  for  instance,  the  color,  the  form,  the  fra- 
grance, the  weight,  of  the  rose  A.  But  suppose,  now,  anothei 
rose  is  presented  to  me.  I  analyze  the  conception  which  I 
Lave  formed  of  it  as  before,  and  find  it  made  up  of  color, 
form,  fragrance,  etc.  These  qualities  now  cease  to  be  the 
qualities  of  the  rose  A ;  they  become  the  qualities  of  tlio 
roses  A  and  B.  I  see  a  hundred  roses.  I  analyze  the  con 
ceptions  which  I  form  of  them,  and  'find  the  same  qualities 
in  each.  These  qualities  cease,  then,  to  be  the  qualities  of 
the  roses  A  and  B,  but  become  the  qualities  of  roses. 

But  I  proceed  further,  and  analyze  the  conception  I  have 
formed  of  other  objects,  as,  for  instance,  of  a  carnation,  a 
peo^y ;  and  I  find  that  the  color  of  the  rose  is  also  the 
color  of  these  flowers.  I  observe  again,  and  find  that 
cherries  and  other  fruits  present  the  same  color.  It  ceases, 
then,  to  be  the  color  of  roses,  or  flowers,  or  fruits  ;  and,  by 
necessity,  separating  it  from  every  object  in  which  I  per- 
ceived it,  I  designate  it  by  a  particular  name,  and  call  it 
red.  Again  ;  I  observe  a  violet ;  I  analyze  the  conception 
which  I  f3rm  of  it,  and  call  the  color,  the  color  of  this  par- 
ticular violet.  I  see  several  violetSj  all  having  the  same  color, 
and  then  this  color  becomes  to  me  the  color  of  violets,  I 
observe  monks-hood,  and  various  other  flowers,  different 
kinds  of  fruit,  the  heavens  above  me,  and  many  other  objects 
clothed  in  the  same  color ;  and  it  is  no  longer  the  color  of 
a  violet,  or  of  violets.  I  give  it  a  name  to  designate  this 
particular  quality,  and  call  it  blue.  Henceforward  I  think 
of  it  by  itself,  without  any  reference  to  all,  or  any,  of  the 
objects  in  which  I  at  first  detected  it.  It  forms,  in  my  mind, 
a  distinct  conception.  Again;  I  find  that  every  object 
which  I  perceive  has  a  particular  mode  of  addressmg  the 
eye      Some  are  red,  some  are  blue  some  are  brown.     I 


ABSTRACTION.  182 

^3nsider  thi?  impression,  aside  from  the  various  objects  which 
j  produce  it,  and  give  it  a  general  name,  color. 
j    .  In  this  manner  we  form  simple  abstract  ideas  of  the 
'  several  qualities  which  we  observe-     We  derive  them  origi- 
nally from  individuals,  in  the  manner  above  stated ;  but  we 
conceive  of  them  without  respect  to  any  individuals  what- 
ever. 

When  these  simple  abstract  ideas  are  thus  formed,  tliey 
constitute  the  alphabet  which  we  use  in  thinking.  As  we  unite 
the  letters  of  the  alphabet  into  syllables,  syllables  into 
*  words,  and  words  into  sentences  and  discourse,  so  these  sim- 
ple abstract  ideas,  combined  into  the  various  forms  of  com- 
plex conceptions,  form  the  matter  which  we  use  in  the  exer- 
cise of  the  powers  of  reasoning  and  imagination. 

3.  Combination.  The  process  in  this  case  is  exceedingly 
obvious.  Having  obtained  these  simple  abstract  ideas,  dis- 
connected from  any  subject  in  which  they  originally  existed,  it 
'  is  manifestly  in  our  power  to  unite  them  together  so  as  to  form 
any  complex  conceptions  that  we  may  desire.  Thus,  to 
refer  to  the  previous  instances,  I  have  formed  simple  abstract 
ideas  of  red,  blue,  the  form  and  the  fragrance  of  a  rose,  the 
color,  form,  and  fragrance  of  a  lily,  or  violet,  the  magnitude 
and  form  of  a  mountain.  It  is  evident  that  I  may  recom- 
^  bine  these  different  simple  ideas  just  as  I  choose.  I  can.  in 
conception,  unite  the  form  of  a  rose  with  the  color  of  a  lilyj 
and  the  fragrance  of  a  violet.  I  should,  then,  have  the 
conception  of  a  white  rose  with  the  perfum.e  of  a  violet.  I 
can  unite  the  idea  of  the  form  of  a  mountain  with  the  color 
red.  and  I  then  have  a  red  mountain.  I  may  combine  the 
notion  of  red  with  the  leaves  and  green  with  the  petals  of  a 
rose,  and  I  have  a  green  rose  with  red  leaves,  &c. 

In  this  manner  we  are  every  moment  forming  conceptiong 
by  means  of  language,  either  written  or  spoken.  A  few 
days  since  I  read  in  a  newspaper  an  account  of  a  new  variety 


184  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY.  jMM 

of  roses  which  had  been  discovered  in  North  Carolina ;  iti 
peculiarity  consisting  in  this,  that  the  petals  of  the  flower 
were  green.  I  unite  together  the  simple  abstract  ideas  in- 
dicated by  the  words,  and  I  have  almost  as  definite  concep-  • 
tion  of  it  as  if  I  had  seen  it.  So,  when  any  new  plant, 
or  animal,  or  work  of  art,  is  described  to  us,  we  immediately 
unite  the  several  simple  ideas  in  the  manner  indicated  by 
our  informer,  and  the  conception  stands  before  -our  minds  I 
like  a  reality. 

From  this  view  of  the  subject,  we  see  that  abstraction  — 
meaning  by  this  term  the  three  several  acts  entering  into 
this  process  —  is  indispensable  to  the  formation  of  language. 
To  make  the  most  simple  affirmation  by  the  use  of  proper 
names,   or  individual  concrete   conceptions,  such  as  they 
are  delivered  to  us  by  perception,  consciousness,  and  orig- 
inal suggestion,  is  manifestly  impossible.     We  must,  by  such 
combinations  as  I  have  mentioned,  form  ideas  designating 
classes ;   or   language   could    not   exist.      K  we   examine 
the  words  of  a  language,  we  shall  find  that,  except  such  as 
designate  simple  ideas,  they  are  all  used  to  express  a  group 
of  ideas  united  under  a  single  term.      The  definition  of  a  I 
word  analyzes  it,  and  shows  the  various  simple  ideas  of  i 
which  it  is  composed.     Thus,  if  we  take  any  words  at  ran-  « 
dom,  as  debtor,  creditor,   father,  brother,  iEriend,  country 
patriotism,  treachery,  murder,  robbery,  fee,   we  shall  find 
that  each  of  them  is  composed  of  several  distinct  ideas.     A  J 
correct  definition  gives  us  every  element  that  essentially  | 
belongs  to  the  compound  conception.  ,  I 

We  thus  learn  the  manner  in  which  the  communication 
of  thought  is  rendered  practicable.  A  single  word  is  made 
the  vehicle  of  ever  so  large  a  group  of  conceptions.  If,  in- 
stead of  using  such  words,  we  were  obliged  at  length  to 
enumerate  all  the  ideas  which  they  designate,  human  inter- 
course by  language  must  cease.    The  thought  now  expressed 


ABSTRACTION.  185 

OL  a  single  sentence  would  require  pages  iuv  its  develop- 
ment, and  the  multitude  of  apparently  disconnected  ideas 
would  render  the  comprehension  of  an  ordinary  statement 
almost  impossible. 

From  these  illustrations  of  the  nature  of  abstraction,  it 
appears  that  the  exercise  of  this  faculty  may  give  rise  to 
two  different  classes  of  conceptions.  The  first  class  is 
formed  entirely  in  obedience  to  our  own  will.  Having 
formed  simple  abstract  ideas,  we  have  the  power  to  unite 
them  together  in  just  such  compound  conceptions  as  we 
please.  We  may  conceive  of  the  magnitude  of  a  mountain 
with  the  form  and  color  of  a  rose;  we  have  then  a  concep- 
tion of  a  rose  as  great  as  a  mountain.  We  may  unite  the 
form  of  wings  with  that  of  a  horse,  and  we  have  the  concep- 
tion of  a  winged  horse.  We  may  go  further,  and  unite  in 
one  complex  conception  various  distinct  images  of  beauty. 
Thus,  Milton,  from  various  scenes  which  he  had  beheld, 
selected  those  portions  best  adapted  to  his  purpose,  and 
formed  the  complex  conception  of  the  Garden  of  Eden.  So 
the  sculptor,  from  several  specimens  of  the  human  form, 
selects  those  features  which  seem  best  suited  to  his  purpose, 
and  unites  them  in  one  conception  more  perfect  than  any 
which  he  has  seen  in  actual  existence.  Wheni  we  use  this 
faculty  for  these  purposes,  we  call  it  Imagination. 

But  we  use  this  faculty  for  another  purpose.  By  means 
of  it  we  form  all  our  classifications  of  the  objects  of  nature, 
and  hence  it  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all  natural  science. 
Here,  however,  we  find  it  acting  under  different  condi- 
tions from  those  which  we  have  last  considered.  The  ele- 
ments of  our  complex  conceptions  were  then  subject  to 
nothing  but  the  will.  Our  object  was  to  please,  and,  if  this 
was  accomplished,  our  whole  end  was  attained.  Here,  our 
object  is  to  instruct.  We  desire  our  classifications  to  coin- 
cide with  objects  in  nature,  and  if  they  do  not  our  labor  m 
16* 


186  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

worse  than  th:own  away.  We  are,  therefore,  restricted 
in  our  materials  to  the  matters  of  fact  before  us.  In  form- 
ing a  complex  conception  from  nature,  we  must  combine 
precisely  those  elements  which  nature  herself  has  combined, 
and  neither  more  nor  less.  In  just  so  far  as  my  conception 
departs  from  the  fact  in  nature,  it  is  imperfect,  superfluous, 
or  monstrous.  If  I  am  forming  a  scientific  conception  of  a 
lion,  I  must  admit  into  it  precisely  those  elements  w^hich 
nature  has  united  in  this  class  of  animals.  If  I  form  a  con- 
ception of  a  lion  at  will,  I  may  add  to  it  wings,  any  color 
that  pleases  me,  and  any  magnitude  that  will  answer  my 
purpose.  In  the  one  case,  we  have  the  conception  of  a  phys- 
iologist; in  the  other,  of  an  imaginative  sculptor,  such  as 
designed  the  winged  lions  in  the  temples  of  Nineveh. 

The  manner  in  which  we  form  the  classifications  of  sci- 
ence may,  then,  be  easily  illustrated.  Suppose  a  physiol- 
ogist wishes  to  form  a  scientific  conception  of  a  horse.  A 
specimen  is  presented  to  him ;  he  examines  the  outward 
appearance  of  the  animal,  its  form,  color,  motion ;  he  dis- 
sects it,  and  examines  its  internal  structure,  the  peculiarities 
of  its  skeleton,  the  number  of  its  bones,  their  position  and 
relations  to  each  other.  He  takes  note  of  these  elements 
with  all  the  cafe  in  his  power.  These  various  simple  ideas 
belong  to  nothing  but  this  individual  specimen,  the  horse 
A.  Let  another  specimen  be  in  a  similar  manner  exam- 
uied.  He  notes,  as  before,  all  its  elementary  ideas,  and  pro- 
ceeds until  he  has  satisfied  himself  that  further  investigation 
is  useless.  But  these  various  elements  have  now  ceased  to 
be  the  elements  of  any  particular  horse ;  they  are  the  ele- 
ments of  the  class  of  animals  whose  character  he  is  investi- 
gating. 

He  k  now  desirous  of  uniting  these  several  ideas'  into  a 
conception  that  shall  apply  not  to  one  or  another  horse, 
but  to  all  horses.    He  compares  these  elementary  ideas,  and 


ABSTRACTION.  187 

finds  some  of  ^chem  constant ;  that  is,  belonging  to  all  the 
horses  he  has  seen.  Others  of  them  are  inconstant ;  that  is, 
they  belong  to  some,  and  not  to  others.  He  separates  the 
one  from  the  other,  uniting  in  one  complex  conception  all 
the  constant  elements,  and  leaving  out  of  his  conception  all 
that  are  variable.  For  instance,  the  form  of  the  skeleton, 
the  number  of  vertebrie,  the  structure  a,nd  number  of  the 
teeth,  the  organs  of  digestion,  etc.,  are  constant.  These  are 
found  to  be  the  same  in  all.  On  the  other  hand,  color,  size, 
and  many  other  elements,  are  variable.  It  is  by  the  union 
of  these  constant  qualities  that  he  forms  his  general  abstract 
idea  of  a  horse,  referring  to  no  horse  in  particular,  but  being 
the  conception  which  answers  in  his  mind  to  that  word  when 
it  is  used  either  by  himself  or  others.  In  this  manner  all 
our  general  conceptions,  that  is,  conceptions  comprehending 
a  number  of  similar  objects,  are  formed.  That  we  are 
always  conscious  of  every  step  of  the  process,  I  do  not  affirm. 
We  are  so  continually  performing  this  mental  operation,  that 
we  give  no  heed  to  the  manner  in  which  we  proceed.  If, 
however,  any  one  will  pause,  and  observe  his  own  mental 
operations,  I  think  he  will  find  them  such  as  I  have 
attempted  to  describe., 

I  have  spoken  of  the  mode  in  which  our  general  abstract 
conceptions  are  formed  in  matters  of  science.  It  isi  proper 
to  remark  thgft  all  men,  whether  learned  or  unlearned,  pro- 
ceed precisely  in  the  same  manner.  A  common  man.  in 
forming  his  notion  of  a  horse,  acts  just  like  a  physiologist. 
The  only  difference  is,  that  the  one  is  able  to  detect  a 
greater  number  of  elementary  ideas,  and  is  the  better  able 
to  distinoruish  the  constant  from  the  variable.  The  one  ob- 
serves  merely  the  elements  which  are  obvious  to  the  senses ; 
the  other,  by  dissection,  examines  the  organs  which  perform 
:he  functions  necessary  to  the  existence  of  the  animal.  The 
difference,  then,  is,  that  the  observation  of  the  one  covers  a 


188  INTELLtOTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

larger  field,  and  is  made  with  more  minute  accuracy,  than 
the  other.  Both,  howev:)r,  depend  on  the  same  principles, 
and  obey  the  same  intellectual  impulses. 

It  will  be  readily  seen,  from  what  has  been  remarked,  that 
abstraction,  or  the  faculty  by  which  we  form  classes,  is  indis- 
pensable to  enumeration.  Whenever  we  speak  of  any  num- 
ber of  objects,  we  must  first  reduce  them  to  a  class.  Thus, 
if  I  were  asked  how  many  are  there  in  this  room,  how 
would  it  be  possible  to  reply  ?  I  ask  how  many  what  7  — 
how  many  persons,  or  books,  or  chairs,  or  tables,  or  things  ? ' 
Until  I  know  the  class  to  which  the  objects  to  be  enumer- 
ated belong,  I  can  never  reply  to  the  question.    • 

I  have  thus  explained  the  manner  in  which  we  form 
general  abstract  conceptions,  or  conceptions  of  classes.  Let 
us  examine  the  manner  in  which  we  proceed  when  we  form 
our  conceptions  of  genera  and  species. 

Let  us  take,  for  instance,  our  conception  of  horse ;  it  is  a 
conception  formed  by  the  union  of  all  the  constant  elements 
which  we  have  found  existing  in  that  animal.  Suppose  I 
proceed,  and  examine  a  zebra,  an  ass,  an  elephant.  ,  I  form 
general  conceptions  of  these,  as  I  did  of  the  horse.  I  now 
compare  these  several  conceptions  together,  and  find  that 
there  are  certain  elements  in  which  they  all  agree,  while 
each  one  has  additional  elements  peculiar  to  itself  I  com- 
bine in  one  conception  the  elements  which  they  all  possess  in 
common,  and  gave  to  it  the  name  pachydermata,  which  in- 
cludes all  these  several  classes.  This  gener9;l  name  distin- 
guishes the  genus,  while  the  additional  elements,  by  which 
these  subordinate  classes  difier  from  each  other,  mark  the 
species.  Thus  it  may  be  said  that  these  several  classes  of 
animals  form  species,  included  in  the  genus  pachydermata. 

As  we  proceed  in  our  investigations,  we  observe  various 
other  classes  of  animals,  as  carnivora,  rodontia,  and  a  mul- 
titude of  others.     We  compare  these  genera  together,  and 


ABSTRACTION,  189 

'find  that  in  certain  elements,  gradually  grow  jng  less  numer- 
ous, they  all  agree,  I  form  a  larger  class  by  uniting  those 
less  numerous  elements  into  a  simple  conception,  and  give 
to  that  conception  the  name  mammalia.  Pursuing  my 
examination  further,  I  find  other  classes  of  animals,  as 
numerous  as  mammalia,  difiering  from  them  in  many  im- 
portant respects,  yet  having  one  or  more  elements  in  com- 
mon :  for  instance,  they  all  have  vertebrae.  I  then  form  a 
generic  class,  by  uniting  in  one  conception  the  few  and  sim- 
ple elements  which  they  all  hold  in  common.  This  forma 
my  widest  and  most  comprehensive  generalization. 

We  see,  then,  that  vertebrate  comprehends  under  it  an 
immense  number  of  individuals ;  that  is,  every  one  endowed 
with  this  form.  Under  this  are  several  subordinate  classes, 
each  one  possessing  this  element,  and  also  something  addi- 
tional peculiar  to  itself,  as  mammalia,  fishes,  etc.  If  I  now 
take  one  of  these  second  classes,  I  find  that  under  it  are 
several  sub-genera,  each  one  possessing  all  the  elements  of 
the  genus,  and  also  some  other  elements  by  which  it  differs 
from  every  other  sub-genus.  In  this  manner  I  descend,  un- 
til I  come  to  the  lowest  species  or  variety,  in  which  all  the 
individuals  are,  in  all  constant  elements,  similar  to  each 
other.  In  this  manner  we  form  the  genera  and  species  of 
science.  We  of  course  find  that,  the  greater  the  number  of 
elements  which  enter  into  the  idea  of  a  class,  the  smaller  is 
the  number  of  individuals  under  it ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  smaller  the  number  of  elements  in  the  idea  of  a  class, 
the  greater  the  number  of  individuals  which  it  comore- 
hends.  • 

From  what  we  have  here  observed,  we  perceive  the 
difference  betw^een  the  process  of  investigation  and  of  in- 
struction. In  in\estigat^on,  we  proceed  from  particulars  to 
generals ;  we  discover  particular  facts  and  reduce  thorn  to 
classes,  and  then,    going   still   further,  comprehend  these 


190  INTELLECTI3  IL   PHILOSOPHY. 


I 


classes  under  more  general  classes,  until  we  have  arrived  ar 
the  widest  generalizations  in  our  power.  But,  when  we 
wish  to  instruct,  or  communicate  knowledge  to  others,  thia 
process  is  reversed.  We  then  begin  with  the  simplest  and 
most  universal  principles,  comprehending  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  individuals  under  them.  From  these  we  proceed  to 
the  largest  subordinate  genera,  from  these  to  sub-genera  or 
species,  until  we  have  mastered  the  whole  class  of  objects 
which  our  most  generic  classification  comprehends.  At 
each  step,  aa  Ave  proceed  downwards  from  the  more  to  the 
less  general,  we  add  some  new  elements,  until  we  at  last 
.arrive  at  the  conception  of  the  individuals,  with  which,  in 
the  labor  of  investigation,  we  commenced. 

And  hence  we  learn  the  nature  of  a  definition  in  science. 

When  we  define  any  scientific  conception,  we  first  men- 
tion the  geftus  to  which  it  belongs,  and  then  the  specific 
difference,  or  those  other  elements,  which,  being  added  to 
the  conception  of  the  genus,  designate  its  peculiar  species. 
Thus,  in  geometry,  we  define  a  figure  as  ''  any  combination 
of  lines  which  encloses  space. ' '  Here  ' '  combination  of  lines ' ' 
is  the  generic  idea,  and  ''enclosing  space"  is  the  specific 
difference,  or  the  element  added  to  the  generic  idea  which 
makes  out  our  conception  of  a  figure.  Again;  ''a  plane 
triangle  is  a  figure  bounded  by  three  straight  lines." 
Here,  again,  ''figure"  denotes  the  genus,  and  "bounded 
by  three  straight  lines "  is  the  specific  difference,  or  the 
element  added  to  the  conception  of  figure  which  gives  us 
the  conception  of  the  species,  triangle.  So,  again,  "a 
right-angled  triangle  is  a  triangle  one  of  whose,  angles  is  a 
right  angle."  Here,  again,  "triangle"  is  the  genus,  and 
'one  of  whose  angles  is  a  rig\t  angle"  is  the  specific  dif- 
fererrce,  or  the  element  added  to  the  idea  of  triangle  which 
creates  the  conception  of  a  right-anojled  triano-le.* 

Hence,  we  see  that  simple  objects,  or  those  which  have 


ABSTRACTION  llM 

no  parts,  or  into  the  conception  of  Avlii.cli  no  plurality  of  (;le* 
ments  enters,  can  never  be  defined.  They  can  furnish  no 
specific  difference,  nor  can  they,  by  analysis  of  elements, 
be  classed  within  any  genus.  In  such  cases,  we  are  obli;^cd 
merely  to  describe  the  circumstances  under  which  the  oljject 
is  presented  to  our  cognition,  or  else  place  the  subject  him- 
self under  these  circumstances.  Thus,  if  we  wish  to  make 
known  to  any  man  a  simple  energy  of  the  mind,  we  mention 
the  circumstances  under  which  it  arises;  he  refers  to  li is 
own  experience,  and  instantly  recognizes  our  meaning.  If 
he  has  had  no  such  experience,  he  can  never  arrive  at  the 
knowledge.  Thus,  I  cannot  define  seeing  to  a  blind  man, 
for  it  is  a  simple  act.  I  describe  to  him  the  circumstances 
under  w^hich  it  occurs  to  me,  but  under  the  same  circum- 
stances he  receives  no  impression.  There  is^  therefore,  an 
impassable  gulf  between  us,  so  far  as  this  cognition  is  con- 
cerned.    The  case  is  similar  in  all  our  simple  cognitions. 

The  question  has  arisen,  and  formerly  it  was  argued  with 
great  bitterness,  what  is  the  object  of  our  thought  when  we 
form  a  general  conception  ?  Thus,  I  think  of  animal,  quad- 
ruped, mammal,  man,  tree,  etc.  There  is  nothing  in  nature 
ans^yering  to  this  conception,  for  every  individual  possesses 
all  the  elements  which  enter  into  my  conception,  and  also 
many  more.  What,  then,  is  the  object  of  thought,  when 
we  think  any  of  these  ideas  ?  Some  philosophers  asserted 
that  there  was  an  actual  object  corresponding  to  this  concep- 
tion ;  and  others,  that,  when  we  formed  a  general  concep- 
tion, the  only  object  was  the  word  which  designated  it.  The 
one  class  was  called  realists,  the  other  nominalisty.  It  ia 
needless  to  enter  into  this  discussion  at  present.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  conception  is  a  mode  of  thought,  and  that  there  i3 
in  this  act  nothing  numerically  distinct  from  the  mental 
d,ct  itself.  It  is  true,  as  Sir  W.  Hamilton  has  observed. 
that  we  mav  in  thou<2:ht  make  a  distinction  between  the  fac- 


192  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

ulty  or  state  of  the  mind  in  conception,  and  the  concept  or  no- 
tion in  which  this  act  exhibits  itself.  But  there  is  no  exist- 
ing thing  numerically  diflferent  from  the  act,  and,  therefore, 
it  seems  evident  that  both  nominalists  and  realists  were 
equally  wide  of  the  truth. 

From  these  illustrations,  I  hope  that  the  manner  in  which 
we  form  tlasses  and  general  conceptions  will  be  sufficiently 
understood.  It  is,  however,  'evident  that  this  process  may 
be  employed  in  a  great  variety  of  ways.  Abstraction  ena- 
bles us  to  classify,  but  we  may  classify  for  different  pur- 
poses, and  thus,  under  different  circumstances,  select  differ- 
ent elements  as  the  basis  of  our  classification. 

It  may  be  useful  to  mention  some  of  the  more  common 
and  obvious  principles  by  which  our  classifications  are  deter- 
mined. 

1.  We  very  frequently  form  classes  from  our  observation 
of  the  external  appearance,  the  form,  color,  magnitude,  etc., 
or  from  an  examination  of  the  internal  structure.  Thus,  as 
I  have  before  remarked,  men  classify  the  objects  which  they 
behold,  as  animals,  birds,  etc.,  according  to  their  external 
appearance  ;  the  physiologist  classifies  them  by  an  examina- 
tion of  their  internal  structure,  and  the  manner  in  which 
they  perform  the  various  functions  necessary  to  life.  Such 
are,  in  general,  the  classifications  in  the  various  departments 
of  natural  history. 

Here  it  is  proper  to  remark  that,  having  once  formed  our 
classification,  we  naturally  refer  a  new  specimen  to  some  one 
of  the  classes  which  we  have  found  already  existing.  It  seems, 
however,  strange,  that,  while  knowledge  is  ever  advancing, 
men  are  disposed  to  believe,  at  every  successive  step,  that 
they  have  arrived  at  its  ultimate  limits.  Yet  such  is  mani- 
festly the  infirmity  of  man.  Hence  it  is  that  our  classifi- 
cations are  frequently  incorrect.  Supposing,  incautiously, 
that  the  classes  which  we  have    -ecognized  include  all  the 


ABSTRACTION.  VS^ 

specimens  or  all  the  facts  that  can  exist,  we  arc  liable  to 
refer  a  new  specimen  or  a  new  fact  to  a  class  to  which  it 
does  not  belong.  Thus  the  islanders  of  the  Pacific,  who 
had  never  seen  any  other  quadrupeds  than  hogs  and  goats, 
upon  seeing  a  cow,  declared  that  it  must  be  either  a  hn-'^e 
goat  or  a  horned  hog.  These  being  the  only  classes  they 
had  ever  observed,  they  naturally  supposed  that  this  new 
specimen  must  be  referred  to  either  the  one  or  the  other. 
This  was  the  error  of  savages,  but  the  same  error  is  liable 
to  occur  among  philosophers.  What  is  called  accounting  for 
a  phenomenon  is  nothing  more  than  referring  it  to  some 
law,  or  general  classification,  under  w^hich  it  is  compre- 
hended. Thus,  if  I  am  asked  why  a  stone  falls  to  the 
earth,  I  account  for  it  by  replying  that  all  matter  is  recipro- 
cally attractive ;  that  is,  I  refer  this  individual  fact  to  a 
general  law,  or  the  expression  of  a  more  general  fact. 
From  the  disposition  to  refer  a  new  phenomenon  to  some 
established  law,  philosophers  as  well  as  savages  are  exposed 
to  error.  In  the  case  of  philosophers,  however,  the  error  is 
liable  to  be  carried  a  step  further.  When  they  cannot 
account  for  a  phenomenon, —  that  is,  when  they  know  of  no 
class  to  which  to  refer  it, —  they  not  unfrequently  deny  its 
existence  ;  taking  it  for  granted  that  if  they  cannot  account 
for  a  phenomenon,  it  could  not  have  occurred.  It  is  for 
this  cause  that  every  new  discovery  is  obliged  to  fight  its 
way  to  a  place  in  science,  against  the  whole  influence  of  phi- 
losophic incredulity.  So  far  as  this  leads  to  a  more  thorough 
investigation  of  whatever  claims  to  be  a  discovery,  it  is  well 
and  reasonable ;  but  so  far  as  it  rejects  whatever  cannot  be 
accounted  for  as  unworthy  of  examination  and  deserving 
only  of  ridicule,  it  is  neither  well  nor  reasonable,  and  is 
directly  opposed  to  all  true  progress  in  science.  Philoso- 
phers would  frequently  be  wise  would  they  bear  in  mind  the 
instruction  of  the  poet : 
17 


194  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

•*  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy." 

2.  Individuals  may  be  classified  by  similarity  of  cause 
Here  we  neglect  entirely  all  consideration  of  external  ap* 
pearance  or  of  internal  structure,  and,  forming  the  concep- 
tion of  a  particular  cause,  combine  into  one  class  every  indi- 
vidual to  which  that  cause  gives  origin.  Thus,  the  geologist 
may  arrange  rocks  into  two  classes,  the  one  of  which  has 
resulted  from  the  action  of  fire,  and  the  other  from  the 
action  of  water.  The  physician  may  arrange  diseases 
according  to  the  causes  which  have  produced  them,  one  class 
resulting  from  the  affection  of  the  nerves,  another  from  the 
afiections  of  the  lungs,  the  stomach,  etc. 

3.  We  may  classify  individuals  from  similarity  of  efiects. 
Here,  omitting  all  consideration  of  appearance, "  structure, 
and  origin,  we  form  a  conception  of  a  particular  effect. 
Having  formed  this  conception,  we  comprehend  under  it 
every  individual  which  will  produce  the  effects  in  question. 
The  {)hysician  arranges  all  the  substances  in  the  materia 
medica  on  this  principle.  It  matters  not  to  him  whether 
the  articles  which  he  is  examining  belong  to  the  animal, 
vegetable  or  mineral  kingdom.  We  classify  them  as  nar- 
cotics, stimulants,  sudorifics,  emetics,  etc.,  according,  solely, 
to  the  effects  which  they  are  known  to  produce  upon  the 
human  organism.  Thus,  the  critic  classes  objects  in  nature 
or  art  according  to  the  effect  which  they  are  known  to  pro- 
duce upon  the  human  mind.  He  calls  a  landscape,  a  meta- 
phor, a  picture,  beautiful,  graceful  or  sublime,  as  he  observes 
it  to  produce  tL^se  particular  emotions  on  the  mind  of  man. 

It  will  appear,  from  these  few  illustrations,  that  the  vari- 
eties of  classification  are  as  numerous  as  the  principles  on 
which  classifications  may  be  formed.  Every  art  has  its 
own  principles,  on  which  it  classifies  the  substances  on 
which  its  labor  is  exerted.     The  same  individual  may  thus 


ABSTRACTION.  195 

be  compreheiided  under  as  many  different  classes  ixs  there 
are  different  conceptions  formed  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
contemplate  it.  The  physician,  the  botanist,  and  the  poet, 
may  all  examine  the  same  plant,  and  each  will  assign  it  to 
a  different  class,  according  to  the  controlling  ideas  by  which 
his  classification  is  governed. 

It  is  obvious  that  a  faculty,  which  enters  so  •  essentially 
into  all  the  modes  of  thought,  must  greatly  influence  our 
intellectual  character.  This  will  be  rendered  the  more  evi- 
dent if  we  consider  the  separate  acts  which  form  the  process 
of  abstraction,  and  observe  the  manner  in  which  the  pre- 
dominance of  either  affects  the  elements  of  our  intellectual 
constitution. 

1.  Analysis.  This  power  to  detect  and  distinguish  from 
each  other  all  the  various  qualities  of  an  external  object, 
and  all  the  various  changes  of  a  material  or  a  spiritual  phe- 
nomenon, is  frequently  denominated  acuteness  of  observa- 
tion. It  is  essentially  what  we  have  spoken  of  under  the 
name  of  analysis.  Its  importance  to  a  thinker  or  discoverer 
is  manifest.  As  every  variety  of  external  appearance  indi- 
cates a  modification  of  internal  quality,  and  as  every  varia- 
tion in  the  process  of  a  change  indicates  some  alteration 
in  the  condition  of  the  cause,  it  is  obvious  that  this  power 
must  be  of  prime  importance  to  a  philosopher.  He  who 
is  best  able  to  analyze  the  constituent  elements  of  the  ob- 
jects to  which  his  attention  is  directed,  whether  in  the  world 
within  or  the  world  without,  is  the  most  richly  provided 
with  the  materials  for  accurate  judgment.  It  is  thus  that 
an  accurate  observer  frequently  detects  facts  which  result  in 
important  discoveries,  that  ha  e  always  been  within  the 
reach  of  his  contemporaries,  but  which  had  never  before 
attracted  their  attention.  From  the  want  of  this  power,  the 
effects  of  one  cause  are  sometimes  ascribed  to  another ;  im- 
portant causes  are  undetected ;   cause  and  effect,  antecedent 


196  INTELLECTUAL   PHI- 0  SO  PHY. 

and  consequent,  are  blended  together;  and,  in  general, 
research  becomes  vague,  unsatisfactory,  and  unworthy  of 
reliance.  He,  then,  who  desires  to  attain  to  accuracy  of 
philosophical  inquiry,  should  strive  to  cultivate  this  power 
to  the  greatest  perfection.  Nor  is  this  all.  By  this  instru- 
ment we  are  able  to  detect  sophistry,  and  lay  "bare  the 
insufficient  foundations  of  all  false  reasoning.  It  was  from 
want  of  acuteness  of  observation  that  Locke  fell  into  many 
of  his  most  important  errors.  The  value  of  this  endow- 
ment is  also  conspicuously  seen  in  the  review  of  his  Philos- 
ophy, by  Cousin,  an  author  of  surpassing  mental  acuteness. 
This  power  has  always  been  largely  developed  in  those  fa- 
vored individuals  who  have  made  the  most  important  addi- 
tions to  our  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  nature. 

2.  Of  different,  but  not  inferior,  importance  to  a  culti- 
vated mind,  is  the  power  of  generalization.  Acuteness  of 
observation  will  discover  new  facts,  and  observe  changes 
heretofore  unknown ;  it  will  analyze  what  is  concrete,  and 
unravel  what  is  complicated  ;  but  it  will  do  no  more.  If 
we  possess  only  this  power,  we  may  do  important  service  to 
science  by  collecting  valuable  materials ;  but  we  shall  col- 
lect them  only  that  they  may  be  wrought  into  philosophical 
laws  by  the  genius  of  others.  Besides  this,  therefore,  an 
inquirer  after  truth  needs  a  power  which,  having  discovered 
an  important  relation,  shall  enable  him  to  detect  it  under 
whatsoever  changes  of  condition  it  may  be  hidden.  He  will 
thus  be  able  to  arrange  under  each  class  those  individuals 
which  the  Creator  himself  has  arranged  under  it,  and  trace 
out  a  given  cause  through  all  the  diversities  of  time  and 
place  to  which  its  influence  may  have  extended.  Probably 
no  power  of  the  human  mind  has  been  so  fertile  in  discov- 
ery as  this.  From  a  single  observation  of  an  hitherto  un- 
noticed phenomenon,  or  from  the  minute  and  almost  micro- 
ocopic   experiments   of  the  laboratory,    the  philosopher  is 


ABSTRACTION.  197 

able  frequently  to  enunciate  a  law  which  controls  the  most 
important  changes  of  the  universe.  It  was  thus  that  Sir 
Isaac  Newton,  having  accurately  determined  the  hiw  which 
governed  the  fall  of  an  app^e,  at  once  began  to  generalize 
this  idea.  If  this  law  governs  bodies  at  small  distances 
from  the  earth,  why  should  it  not  govern  bodies  at  great 
distances  ?  If  it  governs  bodies  at  great  distances  from  the 
earth,  why  may  it  not  reach  to  the  moon,  and  govern  her  mo- 
tion in  her  orbit  7  and  if  the  moon  in  relation  to  the  earth, 
why  not  the  earth  and  planets  in  relation  to  the  sun  ?  Thus, 
by  following  out  this  elementary  law,  the  germ  was  evolved 
^  of  the  greatest  discovery  recorded  in  the  annals  of  science. 
In  a  similar  manner,  Dr.  Franklin  made  himself  acquainted, 
by  experiment,  with  the  laws  of  the  electric  fluid.  He  observed 
the  phenomena  of  lightning  in  the  thunder-cloud.  Compar- 
ing them  together,  and  making  due  allowance  for  the  differ- 
ence between  the  vastness  of  nature  and  the  littleness  of 
man,  he  detected  the  same  elementary  phenomena  in  both, 
and  the  question  at  once  occurred  to  him.  Are  they  not 
identical  1  A  simple  experiment  decided  the  question  in 
the  affirmative,  and  added  a  wide  domain  to  the  empire  of 
human  knowledge.  It  was  also  a  rare  combination  of  these  two 
powers  of  observation  and  generalization  that  gave  to  Cu- 
vier  the  first  place  among  the  naturalists  of  his  own,  and, 
perhaps,  of  every  age. 

3.  Intellectual  character  is  also  affected  by  the  degree  in 
which  we  are  endowed  with  the  power  of  combination. 

I  have  already  remarked  that  the  power  of  combination 
I  may  be  either  poetic  or  scientific ;  that  is,  that  we  may 
form  our  combinations  at  will,  or  they  may  be  limited  by 
the  objects  in  nature  from  which  they  are  derived.  This 
difference  of  endowment  distinguishes  the  class  of  Milton 
and  Shakspeare  from  that  of  Newton  and  Franklin. 

But,  passing  this  general  distinction,  it  is  evident  that 


VJ8  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

the  power  oi  a.ientific  combination  is  possessed  by  min  iii 
very  unequal  degrees.  Suppose  a  philpsopher  to  have  ob- 
served with  accuracy  a  series  of  phenomena.  He  has  them 
before  him, —  the  facts  and  the  order  of  their  succession. 
He  knows  that  under  the  same  conditions  the  same  succes- 
sion will  be  repeated.  But  this  is  not  enough.  What  are 
the  unseen  changes  of  which  these  phenomena  are  the  man- 
ifestations ;  and  what  are  the  relations  which  they  sustain 
to  each  other  ?  In  a  word,  what  is  the  rationale  of  these 
several  changes  ?  As,  for  instance,  he  places  a  piece  of  wood 
on  the  fire;  it  inflames  and  burns  to  ashes.  The  facts  are 
visible  and  common,  and  he  knows  that  another  piece  of 
wood,  under  the  same  conditions,  will  be  subject  to  the  same 
changes.  But  what  is  the  rationale  of  these  changes  ? 
What  is  combustion?  What  is  flame?  What  is  ashes? 
What  are  the  combinations  formed  and  dissolved  during  the 
change  of  wood  to  a  substance  so  utterly  unlike  itself? 
Here,  then,  is  a  demand  for  philosophical  combination. 
The  next  step  is  to  form  a  conception  of  such  unseen  causes 
as  will  be  sufficient  to  account  for  the  phenomena. 

The  power  of  forming  such  conceptions  exists  in  very 
different  degrees.  Some  men  merely  observe  the  facts,  and 
give  themselves  no  trouble  to  ascertain  the  cause.  Others, 
in  seeking  for  a  cause,  form  conceptions  after  the  manner  of 
the  poets,  which  have  no  relation  to  established  laws,  and 
can  never  be  verified  by  observation  or  experiment.  He 
who  is  endowed  with  true  philosophical  genius  seems 
instinctively  to  originate  combinations  analogous  to  truth, 
which  become  the  immediate  precursors  to  discovery.  I  do 
not  say  that  there  is  anything  of  the  nature  of  proof  in  a 
conception  of  this  kind,  only  that  it  serves  to  direct  the 
inquiries  of  the  original  investigator.  Having  formed  his 
conception,  his  next  business  is  to  prove  it  to  be  true. 
When  he  has  done  this,  his  discovery  is  made.     Without 


ABSTRACTION.  109 

proof,  nothing  has  yet  been  determined :  but  without  some 
conception  to  direct  investigation,  there  coukl  be  no  prooC 
for  there  would  be  nothing  to  prove.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and 
Sh'  Humphrey  Davy  seem  to  me  to  have  been  richly  en- 
dowed with  the  power  of  scientific  combination.  On  the 
other  hand,  Dr.  Priestley,  though  an  eminent  philosopher, 
seems  to  have  possessed  it  in  a  very  imperfect  degree. 
Though  his  discoveries  were  numerous,  and  of  the  highest 
importance,  yet  all  his  theories  of  the  changes  which  he 
observed  have  long  since  been  exploded. 

The  powder  of  philosophical  combination,  of  necessity, 
improves  with  the  progress  of  science.  As  the  laws  of 
nature  and  her  modes  of  operation  are  better  understood,  we 
form  conceptions  more  and  more  analogous  to  truth.  We 
learn  to  think  more  and  more  in  harmony  with  the  ideas  of 
the  Creator  ;  and,  from  a  larger  and  more  accurate  acquaint- 
ance with  the  known,  we  are  the  better  able  to  unravel  the 
mysteries  of  the  unknown.  When  it  was  observed  that 
water  would  rise  in  a  pump,  the  solution  of  the  phenomenon 
'  at  first  said  to  be  given  was  that  nature  abhorred  a 
vacuum.  When  it  was  found  that  it  w^ould  not  rise  more 
than  thirty-two  feet,  this  fact  was  explained  by  the  theory 
that  nature  did  not  abhor  a  vacuum  for  more  th.in  thirty- 
two  feet.  Can  it  be  that  any  of  the  hypotheses  of  the  present 
day  will  seem  as  strange  to  our  successors  as  this  theory 
does  to  us  ? 

With  regard  to  the  improvement  of  this  faculty,  a  few 
words  nay  be  added  at  the  close  of  this  chapter.  Let  u3 
refer  to  each  of  the  three  acts  into  which  abstraction  lias 
been  divided. 

Analysis,  or  the  power  of  distinguishing  and  separating 
from  each  other  things  which  differ,  may  be  eniployed 
either  objectively  or  subjectively,  as  we  are  inquiring  into 


200  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

the  qualities  and  relations  of  the  world  without  us,  or  the 
energies  and  relations  of  the  world  within  us. 

So  far  as  the  accurate  observation  of  the  external  world 
is  concerned,  much  depends  upon  the  delicacy  of  our  senses. 
but  probably  no  less  upon  the  earnest  attention  with  which 
we  use  them.  A  listless,  careless  observer  never  discovers 
anything.  It  is  only  by  an  intense  direction  of  tho  mind  to 
the  objects  of  our  inquiry,  that  we  are  able  to  detect  changes 
and  relations  which  have  been  hidden  from  preceding 
observers.  Truth  reveals  herself  not  to  those  who  pay  her 
mere  formal  and  perfunctory  service,  but  to  those  who 
render  to  her  the  earnest  and  heartfelt  homage  of  the  whole 
«3oul. 

Acuteness  in  the  analysis  of  mental  phenomena  requires 
an  equal  earnestness,  though  it  is  differently  directed.  We 
here  find  it  necessary  to  cultivate  the  habit  of  withdrawing 
from  all  external  objects,  and  fixing  our  attention  on  the 
revelations  of  our  own  consciousness.  Few  men  can  do  this 
without  long-continued  and  patient  effort.  With  such 
effort,  however,  most  men  can  attain  to  it.  We  must  learn 
to  look  calmly  and  steadily  upon  a  mental  phenomenon.  If 
there  appear  in  it  the  slightest  indications  of  complexity ; 
if,  when  examining  it  from  different  points  of  view,  the  least 
shade  of  difference  be  cognizable  in  our  consciousness  ;  or, 
if,  on  comparing  .two  forms  of  thought,  which  seemed  to  us 
identical,  there  arises  within  us  the  intellectual  feeling  of 
dissimilarity,  we  must  pause  until  we  are  thoroughly  satis- 
fied on  the  subjects  of  our  inquiry.  It  is  by  listening  to 
the  first  suggestion  of  a  difference,  thut  we  learn  to  deter- 
mine the  character  and  relations  of  our  mental  phenomena. 

If  we  would  enlarge  our  power  of  generalization,  I  know 
of  no  better  method  than  to  study  the  generalizations  of 
nature.  Admirable  lessons  of  this  sort  are  found  in  the 
natural  sciences, —  chemistry,  physiology,  geology,  etc.    No 


ABSTRACTION.  201 

finer  exercise  for  the  power  of  generalization  can  bi  desired, 
than  to  take  a  single  important  chemical  law,  and  trace  out 
its  operations  on  the  vast  and  the  minute  throughout  the 
kingdom  of  nature.  Having  become  familiar  with  these 
wide-spreading  classifications,  we  shall  be  the  better  able  to 
pursue  the  generalizations  of  the  subjective.  We  may  then 
take  an  intellectual  or  moral  law,  and,  ha\nng  clearly  marked 
out  its  nature  aiid  limitations,  follow  out  its  efiects  on  the 
character  of  individual  and  social  man.  The  light  which 
will  thus  dawn  on  the  mind  will  frequently  astonish  the 
student  himself.  Patient  thought  in.  this  direction  will 
furnish  explanations  of  phenomena,  and  suggest  rules  of 
conduct,  which  would  hardly  reveal  themselves  to  any  other 
mode  of  investigation. 

To  improve  the  power  of  philosophical  combination,  we 
need,  most  of  all,  to  study  the  actual  combinations  of  nature. 
The  more  familiar  we  become  with  them,  the  clearer  will  be 
the  light  shed  upon  the  unknown.  Much  may  also  be 
learned  from  the  lives  of  those  who  have  been  so  fortunate 
as  to  extend  the  limits  of  human  knowledge.  By  observing 
the  manner  in  which  they  have  labored,  we  may  hope  to  be 
able  to  follow  their  example.  This  subject  will,  however, 
come  again  under  consideration,  when,  in  a  subsequent 
chapter,  we  treat  of  scientific  imagination. 

REFERENCES. 

Abstraction  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  11,  sections  9,  6,  10,  11  ;  chapter 
12,  section  1  ;  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chapter  4  ;  Reid,  Essay  5,  etapters  2,  3, 
and  4. 

Why  most  words  general  —  Locke,  Book  3,  chap.  3,  aeotions  1— 10 
Reid,  Essay  5,  chap.  1. 

Simple  words  not  definable  —Locke,  Book  3,  chap.  4,  soctions  4—11. 

Nominalism  and  Realism  —  Cousin,  sect.  5,  last  part  ;  Stewart,  yoL  l, 
ohap.  2,  sections  2  and  3 


CHAPTER   V. 

MEMORY. 


BECTION     I. —  ASSOCIATION    OF    IDEAS,    OR     A    TRAIN     Of 
THOUGHT   IN   THE   MIND. 

The  next  faculty  which  we  shall  consider  is  Memory- 
As,  however,  its  nature  cannot  be  unfolded  without  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  laws  which  govern  the  succession  of  thought  in 
the  mind,  we  shall  devote  to  this  subject  a  preliminary 
section. 

Every  person  is  conscious  of  the  fact  that,  during  his 
waking  hours,  his  mind  is  continually  engaged  in  thinking. 
Were  any  one  to  ascertain  that  an  hour,  or  even  a  few 
minutes,  had  elapsed,  in  which  he  had  been  conscious  of  no 
thought,  he  would  know  that,  unless  he  had  fallen  asleep,  he 
must  have  been  aflfected  with  some  disease  which  had  for  the 
time  paralyzed  his  intellectual  powers. 

And  yet  more ;  we  are  all  conscious  that  it  is  impossible, 
without  severe  and  long-continued  effort,  to  fix  the  mind 
continuously  upon  any  particular  thought.  It  naturally, 
and  without  effort,  passes  from  one  idea  to  another,  and  it 
requires  a  determination  of  the  will  to  detain  it  upon  any  one 
subject.  No  interval  seems  to  intervene  between  one 
thought  and  another.  They  succeed  each  other  without  any 
volition  on  our  part,  and  frequently  take  a  direction  whicL 
we  strive  in  vain  to  control.     A  train  of  thought  will  some- 


ASSOCIATION    OF    IDEAS.  203 

times  seize  upon  the  mind,  and  we  are  unable  to  disenga;^o 
it.  We  strive  to  turn  our  attention  to  other  objects,  aiid^ 
after  repeated  and  strenuous  eiforts,  succeed  but  imperfectly. 
And  in  general  it  may  be  remarked,  that  he  has  attamcd 
to  uncommon  intellectual  self-discipline  who  is  able  to  think 
at  will,  and  for  any  considerable  length  of  time,  upon  any 
subject  that  he  chooses. 

But,  while  all  this  is  true,  it  is,  on  the  other  hand,  triio 
that  our  thoughts  do  not  follow  each  other  at  random.  Tlicre 
are  what  may  be  called  laws  ^f  connection,  by  which  their 
succession  is  governed.  Whenever  an  unusual  idea  occurs 
to  us,  nothing  is  more  common  than  to  inquire  for  the  reason 
of  its  appearance  at  that  particular  time  and  place.  ^  We 
take  it  for  granted  that  it  pould  not  have  occurred  to  us 
without  being  related  to  some  other  idea  previously  existing 
in  the  mind.  We,  therefore,  refer  back  to  the  thoughts  which 
were  just  before  present  to  our  consciousness,  and  endeavor 
to  trace  some  connection  between  them  and  that  for  whose 
origin  we  are  inquiring. 

This  fact  may  be  abundantly  illustrated  by  our  own  expe- 
rience. The  following  examples  will  recall  other  instances 
to  our  recollection.  Mr.  Hobbes  relates,  in  his  Leviathan, 
that,  upon  some  occasion,  several  gentlemen  were  engaged 
in  a  conversation  respecting  the  civil  war.  One  of  them 
abruptly  inquired  the  value  of  a  Roman  denarius.  The 
question  sounded  oddly,  and  strangely  at  variance  with  the 
subject  under  discussion.  Mr.  Hobbes  relates  that,  on  a  little 
reflection,  he  was  led  to  trace  the  train  of  thought  which  led 
to  the  inquiry.  The  subject  of  conversation,  the  civil  war, 
naturally  led  the  mind  to  the  history  of  Charles  T.  The 
remembrance  of  the  king  suggested  the  treachery  of  those 
who  delivered  him  up.  The  treachery  in  this  case  intro- 
duced the  treachery  of  Judas  Iscariot.  The  crime  of  Judas 
was  at  once  associated  with  the  price  for  which  it  was  com- 


•204  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

mitted,  and  hence  the  question  what  was  the  value  of  « 
Roman  denarius.  • 

Stewart  gives  an  illustration  from  the  voyage  of  Captain 
King,  the  companion  of  Cook,  of  the  power  of  a  single 
object  to  awaken  a  train  of  reflection.  ''  While  we  were  at 
dinner  in  this  miserable  hut,  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
Awatska,  the  guests  of  a  people  with  whose  existence  we 
had  before  been  scarcely  acquainted,  and  at  the  extremity 
of  the  habitable  globe,  a  solitary  half-worn  pewter  spoon, 
whose  shape  was  familiar  to  us,  attracted  our  attention; 
and,  on  examination,  we  found  it  stamped  on  the  back  with 
the  word  London.  I  cannot  pass  over  this  circumstance 
in  silence,  out  of  gratitude  for  the  many  pleasant  thoughts, 
the  anxious  hopes,  and  tender  remembrances,  it  excited 
in  us.  Those  who  have  experienced  the  eSects  that  long 
absence  and  extreme  distance  from  their  native  country  pro- 
duce on  the  mind,  will  readily  conceive  the  pleasure  such 
a  trifling  incident  can  give." 

A  touching  incident,  illustrative  of  the  same  principle,  is 
related  by  Mrs.  Judson  in  her  reminiscences  of  her  late  hus- 
band. During  Dr.  Judson' s  long  captivity,  in  the  death 
prison  at  Ava,  his  heroic  wife,  intending  to  create  an  agree- 
able surprise,  had  taken  great  pains  to  prepare  an  article 
of  food  that  might  cheer  his  spirits  by  reminding  him  of 
home.  "  In  this  simple,  homelike  act,  this  little  unpretend- 
ing eSusion  of  a  loving  heart,  there  was  something  so  touch- 
ing, so  illustrative  of  what  she  really  was,  that  he  bowed  his 
head  upon  his  knees,  and  the  tears  flowed  down  to  the  chains 
about  his  ankles.  Presently  the  scene  changed,  and  there 
came  over  him  a  vision  of  the  past.  He  saw  again  the  home 
of  his  boyhood.  His  stern,  strongly  revered  father,  his 
f^entle  mother,  his  rosy,  curly-haired  sister  a.nd  pale  young 
brother,  were  gathered  for  the  noonday  meal,  and  he  waa 
once  more  among  them.     And  so  his  fancy  revelled  thero- 


ASSOCIATION    OF   IDEAS.  20S 

Finally,  he  lifted  his  head,  and  0  the  misery  that  sur- 
rounded him  !  He  moved  his  feet,  and  the  rattling  of  the 
heavy  chains  was  as  a  death-knell.  He  thrust  the  care- 
fully prepared  dinner  into  the  hands  of  his  associate,  and, 
as  fast  as  his  fetters  would  permit,  hurried  to  his  aim  little 
shed."— Vol.  i.,  pp.  378-9. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  illustrate  more  fully  the  general  fact 
that  our  ideas  thus  follow  in  succession  independently  of  our 
will.  We  may  remark,  still  further,  that  when  thought  fol- 
lows thought  without  any  connection,  we  recognize  it  imme- 
diately as  a  proof  of  insanity.  To  say  of  another  that  he 
talks  incohereiitly,  is  to  say  that  he  is  not  in  his  right  mind. 
Without  any  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  mental  association, 
we,  in  this  manner,  intuitively  distinguish  a  normal  from  an 
abnormal  state  of  the  intellect.  Thus,  in  the  annual  report 
of  the  Massachusetts  General  Hospital  for  1853,  one  of  the 
patients  is  referred  to  as  continually  talking  after  the  fol- 
lowing manner  :  *'  I  have  a  commission  as  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  and  an  asparagus  bed.  I  like  lightning  best  at  a  dis- 
tance. Whoever  puts  his  name  on  paper  in  the  Wiscasset 
Bank,  has  a  mark  on  his  forehead,  and  is  worse  off  than  if 
he  was  dining  with  one  of  the  selectmen.     Look  out." 

It  is  obvious,  then,  that  our  thoughts  follow  each  other 
in  a  train  subjected  to  certain  general  laws,  and  that  they 
only  move  at  variance  with  these  laws  when  the  mind  is  in 
an  abnormal  state. 

The  laws  by  which  the  train  of  thought  is  governed,  or,, 
as  they  are  called,  »the  laws  of  association,  are  of  two  kinds, 
objective  and  subjective.  The  objective  laws  are  those  arising 
from  the  relations  which  our  thoughts  sustain  to  each  other  ; 
the  subjective  arise  from  the  relations  which  our  thoughts 
sustain  to  the  thinking  subject.  Among  the  objective  lawa 
are  numbered  resemblance,  contrast,  contiguity,  and  cause 
and  erTect ;  am«  ng  the  subjective  are,  interval  of  time,  fro- 
18 


206  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

fjuency  of  repetition,  coexistent  emotion,  and  the  menta* 
condition  of  the  particular  individuaL 

I.    Of  the  objective  laws  of  association. 

1.  Resemblance,  Every  one  knows  that  when  we  are 
thinking  of  any  interesting  object  or  event,  other  objects  or 
events  in  any  respects  similar  to  it,  naturally  present  them- 
selves. If  we  look,  for  the  first  time,  upon  a  river  in  a 
foreign  land,  we  instantly  recall  some  river  in  our  own  ccun- 
try  which  it  resembles  ;  and  we  are  never  as  well  satisfied 
as  when  we  find  a  marked  similarity  between  them.  We 
never  pass  over  ridges  of  snow-clad  mountains  without  be  - 
ing  reminded  of  the  Alps.  When  we  visit  a  battle-ground^ 
we  find  rising  up  within  us  the  recollection  of  other  battles 
which  may  have  resembled  it  in  the  fierceness  of  the  con- 
test, the  number  of  the  slain,  the  principles  which  nerved 
the  different  combatants,  or  the  results  which  flowed  from 
the  action  over  the  destinies  of  humanity.  This  universal 
tendency  is  seen  in  the  manner  in  which  we  designate 
remarkable  events  by  giving  to  them  the  name  of  some  re- 
markable event  of  a  similar  character.  Thus  any  battle  in 
which  a  small  number  of  patriots  have  resisted  a  host 
of  invaders  is  called  a  Thermopylae  or  a  Marathon.  A 
distinguished  general  is  called  an  Alexander  or  ■  a  Julius 
C^sar,  a  patriot  is  a  Washington.  These  instances  all  illus- 
trate the  facility  with  which  one  event  suggests  to  us  an- 
other which  resembles  it. 

If  however,  we  examine  the  cases  which  we  associate 
b;  resemblance,  we  shall  find  them  to -be  of  two  kinds. 
Sometimes  we  associate  objects  by  resemblance  in  their  ex- 
ternal qualities.  Thus,  when  we  see  a  v^st  mountain,  we 
think  of  Mont  Blanc,  Chimborazo,  or  the  Himalayas.  We 
rompare  a  vast  river  to  the  Mississippi  or  the  Amazon.  So, 
when  distinguished  men  are  mentioned,  we  are  continually 
comparing  them  together,  if,  in  their  character  or  circum 


ASSOCIATION    OF    T1>KAS.  207 

Stances,  there  b.  any  elements  of  similarity.    Hence  Crom- 
well and  Napoleon,  Charles  I.  and  Louis  XVI.,  Pitt  and 
Fox,  Scott  and  Byi'on,  are  so  commonly  spoken  of  in  con 
nection.     In  fact,  a  large  portion  of  our  conversation  con- 
sists of  comparisons  of  this  character. 

Another  mode  of  association  belonging  to  the  same  class, 
but  a  source  of  far  greater  pleasure,  is  that  in  which  objects 
and  events  are  connected,  not  by  resemblance  in  their  ex- 
ternal appearances,  but  by  their  effects.  Here  the  mind 
is  delighted,  not  simply  by  the  addition  of  another  image  in 
itself  beautiful,  but  by  the  peculiar  effect  of  novelty  and 
unexpectedness.  Thus  Ossian  describes  the  music  of  his 
..minstrel  by  saying,  ••  The  music  of  Caryl,  like  the  memory 
of  joys  that  are  past,  was  pleasant  yet  mournful  to  the  soul." 
Here  the  objects  themselves,  music  and  a  recollection,  are 
entirely  unlike  ;  but,  agreeing  in  the  effect  which  they  pro- 
duce, we  derive  a  peculiar  pleasure  from  associating  them 
together,  and  we  are  conscious  that  the  pleasure  is  greater 
from  the  fact  that  the  resemblance  is  unexpected.  Thus 
Job  compares  his  friends  to  a  brook  in  the  desert,  which,  in 
summer,  when  it  is  most  needed,  is  dried  up,  and  disappoints 
the  hope  of  those  who  relied  upon  it  for  succor.  There  is 
no  similarity  here  in  the  objects  themselves.  A  man  can- 
not resemble  a  brook.  In  one  thing,  however,  they  are 
alike  :  they  disappoint  hope.  Hence  the  beauty  of  the  figure. 
It  is  on  this  circumstance  that  the  success  of  metaphorical 
language  depends.  Hence  the  rule  of  rhetoricians,  that 
those  metaphors  are  most  beautiful  in  which  the  objects 
themselves  are  most  dissimilar,  while  in  the  effects  which 
they  produce,  or  the  point  in  which  they  are  compared,  they 
are  the  most  alike.  Hence  the  beauty  of  the  passage  in 
Longmus,  in  which  he  compares  the  Iliad  of  Homer  to  tlie 
meridian  sun,  and  the  Odyssey  to  the  sun  at  his  setting, 
when  the  magnitude  is  increased,  but  the  effulgence  is  di- 
minished. 


208  INrELLECTUAL    IfilLOSOPHT. 

2.  Contrast.  We  find  ourselves  frequently  associating 
ideas  on  the  principle  of  contrast ;  that  is  to  say,  one  idea 
at  one  time  suggests  to  us  another  which  resembles  it ;  at 
another,  an  idea  exactly  opposite  to  it.  Thus,  happiness 
frequently  recalls  to  our  mind  the  idea  of  misery,  as  in  the 
verse  of  Young :  "  How  sad  a  sight  is  human  happiness  ! '' 
Height  and  depth,  power  and  weakness,  greatness  and  little- 
ness, poverty  and  riches,  the  palace  and  the  hovel,  the  cra- 
dle and  the  grave,  are  mutually  suggested  by  each  other. 
Hence  in  rhetoric  the  frequent  use  of  antithesis. 

As  I  remarked  respecting  resemblance,  that  it  may  be 
either  in  external  appearance  or  in  effect,  the  same  is  true 
of  contrast.  We  here  derive  pleasure  from  contemplating 
similarity  of  external  appearance,  while  the  effects  are 
exceedingly  unlike.  Thus,  in  the  beautiful  passage  from 
Milton's  Comus : 

**  I  have  often  heard 
My  mother  Circe,  with  the  sirens  three. 
Amidst  the  flowery  kirtled  naiades, 
Culling  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs, 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned  soul 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium.     Scylla  wept 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention. 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmured  soft  applause. 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense, 
And,  in  sweet  madness,  robbed  it  of  itself ; 
But  such  a  sacred  and  homefelt  delight. 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now." 

Comus,  254—262. 

3.   Contiguity.     This  may  be  either  of  time  or  place. 

1.  Of  time.     When  we  reflect  upon  any  event,  we  natur- 
ally find  our  attention  called  to  other  events  which  occurred 
at  the  same  period.    When  we  think  of  a  distinguished  man, . 
we  always  recall  his  cotemporaries.     Whoever  thinks  of 
Johnson  without  finding  him  surrounded,  in  our  conception 


ASSOCIATION    OF   IDEAS.  209 

by  Boswell,  Goldsmith,  Garrick,  Burke,  and  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  ?  When  we  think  of  Napoleon,  we  surround  liiin 
with  his  marshals,  and  the  sovereigns  whose  destinies  he  so 
greatly  changed.  An  event  of  historical  importance  sug- 
gests the  events  contiguous  to  it  in  time.  The  advent  of 
our  Saviour  could  hardly  be  thought  of  wi'-Jiout  leading  ug 
to  reflect  upon  the  condition  of  Rome,  and  of  the  then  civ- 
ilized world.  Hence  we  learn  the  appropriateness  of  the 
rule,  in  the  study  of  history,  to  fix  definitely  in  our  minds 
the  culminating  events  in  each  particular  era,  and  then  the 
contemporaneous  occurrences  will  easily  group  themselves  in 
their  proper  places. 

2.  Contiguity  in  place.  When  any  important  place  is 
visited  or  thought  of,  it  at  once  suggests  to  us  the  other  places 
in  its  vicinity.  Who  can  think  of  Jerusalem,  and  not  think 
of  the  hills  of  Calvary,  the  mount  of  Olives,  the  garden  of 
Gethsemane  ?  Who  can  think  of  Waterloo  without  thinking 
of  Brussels,  and  Quatre  Bras,  and  the  localities  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, on  the  possession  of  which  the  issue  of  the  contest 
so  frequently  turned  ?  It  is  on  this  account  that  we  survey 
with  such  impassioned  interest  any  spot  from  which,  at  an 
earlier  age,  have  emanated  influences  which  have  been  deeply 
felt  in  the  history  of  our  race.  The  sentiments  of  Johnson 
at  lona  find  a  response  in  the  bosom  of  every  cultivated 
mind.  'VWe  were  now  treading  that  illustrious  island 
which  was  once*  the  luminary  of  the  Caledonian  regions, 
whencv  savage  clans  and  roving  barbarians  derived  the  ben- 
efits of  knowledge  and  the  blessings  of  religion.  To  abstract 
the  mind  from  all  local  emotions  would  be  impossible  if  it 
were  endeavored,  and  would  be  foolish  if  it  were  possible. 
Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  the  senses,  what- 
ever 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  fiiends  be  .^uch  frigid 
18* 


210  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

philosophy  as  may  conduct  us  indifferent  and  unmoved  over 
any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom,  bravery, 
or  virtue.  That  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."  — 
Journey  to  the  Western  Islands. 

Hence  we  perceive  the  reason  why  names  of  places,  per- 
sons, etc.,  frequently  add  so  much  vivacity  to  style.  In- 
stead of  an  abstract  and  it  may  be  disconnected  idea,  they 
present  us  with  a  visible  image,  surrounded  by  a  multitude 
of  associate  ideas.  Thus,  when  we  wish  to  render  impress- 
ive the  idea  of  successful  resistance  to  oppression,  wx  refer 
to  particular  localities,  as  Runnymede,  Naseby,  Lexington, 
Bunker  Hill,  or  Yorktown.  And  hence  w^e  learn  that  the 
study  of  history  should  always  be  connected  with  that  of 
geography ;  that  is,  we  should  study  history  with  the  map 
before  us.  We  thus  associate  events  with  localities,  and 
rememb.er  them  more  perfectly,  as  well  as  comprehend  them 
more  accurately. 

4.  Cause  and  effect,  I  have  already,  when  treating  of 
original  suggestion,  referred  to  the  fact  that  the  observation 
of  a  change  always  leads  us  to  ask  for  the  cause.  In  the 
same  manner,  when  we  observe  the  manifestation  of  power, 
we  instinctively  ask  for  the  results  which  have  followed  it. 
We  associate  in  obedience  to  this  universal  tendency.  If  we 
think  upon  the  reformation  by  Luther,  we  naturally  think 
of  the  causes  which  led  to  it,  and  strive  to  trace  out  its  con- 
sequences. If  we  think  of  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  we 
ask  ourselves  what  causes  could  have  led  them  to  forsake  the 
comforts  of  a  civilized  home,  and  plant  themselves,  in  mid- 
winter, upon  a  continent  inhabited  only  by  savages ;  and, 
before  we  have  answered  this  inquiry,  w^e  find  ourselves 
turning  to  the  changes  which  this  event  has  wrought  upon 
the  destinies  of  the  world.     So,  when,  for  the  first  time,  I 


ASSOCIATION    OF    IDEAS.  211 

observe  a  philosop\iical  experiment,  I  am  wholly  unsatisfied 
until  I  understand  the  rationale  of  the  changes  which  it  pre- 
stents.  I  see,  for  instance,  a  taper  lighted,  when  placed  in 
the  focus  of  one  concave  mirror,  if  a  heated  cannon-i)all  is 
placed  in  the  other,  though  the  taper  is  carefully  protected 
from  the  direct  rays  of  the  ball.  It  is  a  disagreeable  puzzle 
until  the  doctrine  of  the  radiation  of  caloric  is  explained  to 
me.  As  soon  as  this  is  done,  my  mind  is  at  ease,  and  I 
proceed  at  once  to  explain  other  phenomena  by  the  applica- 
tion of  the  same  principle.  Now,  it  is  obvious  that,  this 
connection  having  been  thus  established,  either  one  of  these 
ideas  will  almost  infallibly  suggest  the  other.  The  law  of 
caloric  radiation  will  suggest  the  effect  which  has  been  men- 
tioned, and  the  effect  will  suggest  to  us  the  law.  So.  hav- 
ing examined  the  causes  which  led  to  the  first  settlement  of 
this  country,  and  the  consequences  which  have  flowed  from 
it,  either  one  will  bring  to  our  mind  the  other,  almost  as  a 
matter  of  necessity.  It  will  readily  occur  that,  as  this  is  a 
permanent  relation,  like  causes  always  producing  like  effects, 
this  mode  of  association  must  be  one  of  the  most  important 
means  of  enlarging  and  retaining  our  knowledge. 

It  will  be  easily  perceived  that  these  various  forms  of 
objective  association  intermix  with  and  modify  each  other. 
Thus,  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect  would  naturally  asso- 
ciate two  events  together;  the  association  l)y  resemblance 
would  recall  similar  causes,  and  that  by  contrast,  causes  and 
effects  of  a  dissimilar  character ;  while  events  connected  by 
the  relation  of  contiguity  of  time  and  place  w^ould  be  more 
likely  to  occur  to  us  than  events  remote  and  long  sfnce 
passed  away.  Thus,  were  I  thinking  of  the  landing  of  the 
Pilgrims,  I  would  naturally  think  of  the  causes  which  led 
to  this  event;  resemblance  would  lead  me  to  think  of  simi- 
lar cases  of  colonization,  and  contrast  would  bring  to  my 
recollection  other  instances  in  which  men  had  left  their  na- 


212  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY 

tive  country,  for  love  of  adventure  or  thirst  for  gold.  As  I 
traced  the  results,  I  would  naturally  compare  those  which 
resembled  the  enterprise  of  the  Pilgrims  with  those  origin- 
ating in  a  dissimilar  cause  ;  and,  as  the  most  contiguous  in 
lime  and  place,  I  wouU  naturally  turn  to  the  states  of 
South  America,  and  contrast  the  causes  and  eflfects  of  these 
two  modes  of  colonization  together.  In  this  manner,  by  the 
blending  of  these  various  forms  of  association,  a  vast  range 
of  thought  is  opened  before  us ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  it 
is  always  under  the  control  of  established  and  recognized 
laws. 

II.    Of  the  subjective  laws  of  association. 

The  laws  commonly  comprehended  under  this  class  are, 
as  I  have  remarked,  interval  of  time,  frequency  of  repetition, 
coexistent  emotion,  and  the  mental  state  of  the  particular 
individual. 

1.  Interval  of  time. 

Every  one  knows  that  if  two  ideas  are  associated  together 
from  any  cause  whatever,  the  one  readily  recalls  the  other, 
if  only  a  short  interval  of  time  have  elapsed.  But,  if  both 
of  the  ideas  have  been  for  a  long  time  absent  from  our 
recollection,  the  association  becomes  indistinct,  and  the  sug- 
gestion occurs  less  readily.  To  the  truth  of  this  remark 
every  one's  experience  bears  testimony.  The  events  of  a 
journey,  by  the  relations  of  contiguity  of  time  and  place, 
readily  suggest  each  other  in  regular  succession,  immedi- 
ately after  our  return.  But,  if  we  enter  upon  our  usual 
avocations,  and  have  no  occasion,  either  by  writing  or  con- 
vei'sation,  to  recall  the  scenes  which  we  witnessed,  all  but 
the  most  prominent  events  fade  from  our  recollection.  We 
forget  most  of  the  localities,  and  those  which  we  remem- 
ber cease  to  suggest  the  events  connected  with  them.  All 
becomes  blended  together  in  one  confused  remembrance  ;  we 
A)rget  both  when  and  where  we  saw  particular  persons  or 


ASSOCIATION    OF   IDEAS.  218 

things,  and  nothing  n^mains  to  us  but  a  rccollecti.jn  of  tho 
most  important  events,  and  a  general  impression  made  by 
the  facts,  which  are  themselves  fast  sinking  into  oblivion. 
The  same  truth  is  illustrated  by  the  reading  of  a  book,  and 
in  a  thousand  other  instances. 

2.  Repetition, 

It  is  obvious  that  an  association  which  has  been  frequently 
recalled  presents  itself  to  us  much  more  readily  than  anoth 
er  which  has  only  once  or  twice,  and  at  long  intervals,  passed 
through  the  mind.  By  every  successive  act  of  repetition, 
the  connecting  link  between  the  two  ideas  is  strengthened, 
until,  at  length,  the  association  between  the  two  becomes 
indissoluble.  Hence  it  is  that  the  beliefs  of  childhood  are 
with  so  great  ^  difficulty  eradicated,  and  that,  even  after  the 
belief  has  passed  away,  the  association  still  remains.  Thus, 
many  persons  who  in  youth  have  been  taught  the  belief  in 
goblins,  aild  night  after  night  have  listened  to  the  recital  of 
ghost  stories  and  spectral  appearances,  although  now  per- 
fectly convinced  of  the  groundlessness  of  their  former  belief, 
never  pass  by  a  grave-yard,  in  darkness,  without  a  tremor. 
They  have  so  firmly  associated  a  grave-yard  with  ghosts, 
that,  in  spite  of  the  most  deliberate  conviction,  the  one  idea 
recalls  the  other  with  its  former  unpleasant  emotions. 

The  value  of  this  power  of  rendering  associations  perma- 
nent by  repetition  is  seen  in  the  acquisition  of  practical  skill 
He  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of  performing  the  most  com- 
plicated operations  never  finds  himself  at  a  loss ;  each  step 
in  the  process  instantly  suggesting  that  which  is  immediately 
to  succeed  it,  and  each  successive  emergency  calling  to  mind 
the  means  by  which  it  has  been  previously  encountered. 
Hence,  we  see  the  difference  between  theory  and  practice, 
and  the  peculiar  advantages  of  each.  He  who  is  only  ac- 
quainted with  the  theory  is  obliged  to  pursue  a  course  of 
reasoning  in  order  to  arrive  at  a  result;   while,  to  a  practical 


214  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

man,  th^  result  is  suggested  by  the  principle  of  reiterated 
association.  A  man  may  have  studied  thoroughly  the  theory 
of  navigation,  and  may  understand  the  laws  by  which  a  vessel 
is  <^overned  in  moving  through  the  water,  both  in  fair  weather 
and  foul.  But  let  him  be  called  on  to  reduce  his  knowledge 
to  practice  in  any  trying  emergency,  and  he  will  be  obliged 
to  compare  and  reason,  and  form  a  judgment  from  various 
conflicting  elements,  so  that  he  will  probably  not  arrive  at  a 
result  until  the  time  of  action  is  past.  He,  however,*  who  has 
been  long  in  the  practice  of  navigation,  who  has  witnessed 
storms  in  all  their  variety,  and  has  frequently  been  called 
upon  to  employ  the  means  necessary  to  escape  their  violence, 
finds  that  at  the  critical  moment  the  course  proper  to  be 
pursued  suggests  itself  spontaneously.  He  will,  therefore, 
have  taken  all  the  measures  necessary  for  safety,  before  the 
theoretical  navigator  .  has  determined  what  they  are.  The 
extent  to  which  practical  skill  may  be  carried,  without  any 
knowledge  of  principles,  is  often  I'emarkable.  A  very  intel- 
ligent captain  of  a  steamer  once  told  me  that  he  had,  for 
several  years,  employed  an  engineer,  in  whom  he  reposed 
entire  confidence,  and  whom  he  had  found,  on  every  occa- 
sion, perfectly  competent  to  the  discharge  of  his  duties.  It 
happened  that  on  one  occasion  the  engineer  made  some 
remark  which  led  him  to  ask  the  question,  what  makes  an 
engine  go.  The  man  replied,  at  once,  that  he  never  knew, 
and  he  never  could  understand  it,  although  he  knew  the 
several  parts  perfectly,  and  could,  by  the  sound  of  the  ma- 
cliinery,  tell  in  an  instant  the  nature  and  place  of  any  irreg- 
ularity, and  the  manner  in  which  it  should  be  rectified. 

By  these  remarks,  hoAvever,  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be  under- 
stood that  I  consider  practical  skill  preferable  to  theoretical 
knowledge.  Were  events  always  to  follow  each  other  in 
the  same  succession,  and  always  to  require  the  same  mode  of 
treatment,,  practice  would  seem  nearly  all  that  was  neces- 


ASSOCIATION    OF   IDEA3.  21ft 

Bary  i.i  education.  But  the  reverse  is  the  fact.  Cases  are 
continually  occurring  which  can  only  be  provided  for  by  a 
knowledge  of  general  laws :  and  here,  if  we  have  no  guide 
but  practical  skill,  we  must  be  inevitably  disconcerted. 
\Yhen  a  new  emergency  arises,  nothing  but  general  laws 
will  enable  us  either  to  understand  or  to  provide  for  it. 
The  perfection  of  education  requires  that  both  of  these  ele- 
ments be  combined, —  that  is,  that  we  learn  the  laws  by 
which  changes  are  governed,  and  acquire  so  thorough  a 
knowledge  of  the  modes  of  their  application,  and,  by  repeated 
practice,  associate  so  strongly  the  steps  of  the  process  we 
perform,  that,  while  we  act  with  the  promptitude  of  the 
practised  artisan,  we  may  comprehend  the  reasons  of  our 
action,  and  be  able,  on  the  instant,  to  form  a  correct  judg- 
ment under  the  pressure  of  an  untried  emergency.  Thus 
the  affairs  of  a  government,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
may  be  sufficiently  well  conducted  by  a  mere  official,  guided 
Bolely  by  precedent,  provided  he  be  familiar  with  the  rou- 
tine of  daily  administration.  But  when  new  combinations 
arise,  and  events  transpire,  for  which  official  rules  furnish" 
no  direction,  there  is  demanded,  besides  a  knowledge  of  the 
forms  of  proceeding,  a  comprehensive  acquaintance  with 
general  prmciples,  which  shall  unfold  the  true  relations  of 
things,  under  what  conditions  soever  they  may  present  tbem- 
Belves.  Thus  says  Mr.  Burke,  in  his  speech  ^n  American 
taxation :  "It  may  truly  be  said  that  men  too  much  con- 
versant with  office  are  rarely  minds  of  remarkable  enlarge- 
ment Their  habits  of  office  are  apt  to  gjve  them  a  turn  to 
think  the  substance  of  business  not  to  be  more  important 
than  the  forms  in  which  it  is  conducted.  These  forms  are 
adapted  to  ordinary  occasions,  and  therefore  persons  who 
are  nurtured  in  office  do  admirably  well  so  long  as  things 
go  on  in  their  common  order ;  but  when  the  liigli  roads  are 
broken   up,   and  the  waters   are  out, —  when  a  new  and 


216  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

troubled  scene  is  opened,  and  the  file  afibrds  no  precedent 
—  then  it  is  that  a  greater  knowledge  of  mankind,  and  a  far 
more  extensive  comprehension  of  things,  is  requisite  than 
ever  office  gave,  or  than  ever  office  can  give." 

Ic  i!is  frequently  been  observed  that  niilitary  commanders 
have  generally  succeeded  remarkably  well  in  the  adminis- 
tration of  civil  affairs.  As  examples  of  this,  the  founders 
of  dynasties  may  be  referred  to  ;  or,  if  particular  instances 
need  be  given,  we  may  mention  the  names  of  Frederick  the 
Great.  Washington,  Napoleon,  Wellington,  General  Jack- 
son, and  a  multitude  of  others.  The  reason  of  this  may  be 
found  in  the  remark  made  above,  that  the  perfection  of  edu- 
cation consists  in  the  combination  of  theoretical  knowledge 
with  practical  skill.  The  duties  of  a  military  commander 
give  him  this  education.  He  is  obliged  to  form  for  himself 
the  plans  which  must  be  carried  out  upon  his  own  responsi- 
bility. Hence,  he  must  study  them  thoroughly  for  himself, 
understand  their  bearings,  and  take  no  step  which  he  has 
not  decided  upon  after  the  most  mature  reflection.  He 
must  then  execute  his  decisions  himself,  and  thus  the  rela- 
tion of  theory  and  practice,  of  the  conception  and  the  execu- 
tion of  it,  must  be  constantly  present  to  his  reflection.  The 
advantage  which  this  habit  of  mind  must  confer,  over  that 
of  theorists  who  never  practise  and  practical  men  who  never 
reason,  must  be  apparent.  India  has  been  called  the  cradle 
of  great  men,  and  for  this  same  reason.  In  the  immense 
empire  of  Great  Britain  in  the  East,  the  government  of  so 
many  provinces  must  create  a  vast  number  of  situations  in 
which  almost  the  sole  authority  must  reside  in  the  chief 
administrative  officer  of  the  district.  He  must  learn  to 
decide  for  himself,  and  decide  wisely,  and  also  provide  the 
means  for  carrying  his  decisions  into  eSect.  In  such  a 
school  as  this,  talent  is  rapidly  developed,  and  thus  not 
>infrequently  a  man  of  thirty-five  attains  the  clearness  of 


ASSOCIATION    OF    IDKAS.  217 

mind,  fertility  of  resources,  and  promi)tncss  of  action,  of  a 
man.  under  ordinary  circumstanceSj  of  fifty. 

3.  Co'existerit  emotion  is  tnc  third  law  of  subjective 
association. 

By  the  law  of  coexistent  emotion,  it  is  ijieant  that  when- 
ever an  event  awakens  in  us  strong  emotion,  it  becomes 
deeply  fixed  in  the  memory,  and  is  more  readily  associated 
with  any  other  event  to  w^hich  it  is  related. 

Of  the  existence  of  such  a  law  in  our  mental  constitution 
our  own  experience  will  furnish  us  with  innumerable  exam- 
ples. The  events  of  several  days  will  frequently  pass  away, 
without  leaving  more  than  a  dim  and  shadowy  trace  of  their 
occurrence.  But  if  on  any  particular  day  a  fact  has  been 
communicated  to  us  by  which  we  were  strongly  excited,  as 
the  death  of  a  friend,  the  unexpected  arrival  of  a  relative, 
or  an  event  of  great  importance  to  our  country,  that  day 
will  long  stand  out  vividly  before  us.  The  place  where  and 
the  time  when  we  first  received  the  intelligence  are  indis- 
solubly  associated  with  the  event  itself,  and  the  fact,  with 
all  its  attendant  circumstances,  is  engraven  on  the  mind  for- 
ever. So,  in  travelling  over  a  country  for  the  first  time,  its 
ordinary  features,  awakening  no  emotion,  are  soon  forgotten ; 
but  if  we  chance  to  pass  by  a  celebrated  river,  an  overhang- 
ing precipice,  a  magnificent  waterfall,  or  any  other  object 
that  awakens  the  emotion  of  novelty,  beauty,  or  sublimity, 
we  find  it  indelibly  fixed  in  our  recollection,  with  all  its  at- 
tendant circumstances ;  and  it  is  ever  afterwards  ready  to  be 
associated  with  similar  scene;s  which  we  witness  ourselves,  or 
which  are  described  to  us  by  others.  The  power  of  emotion 
is  here  two-fold ;  —  in  the  first  place,  it  rivets  the  event  on 
the  memory,  -and,  in  the  second,  it  recalls  it  whenever,  on  a 
Bubsequent  occasion,  the  same  emotion  is  awakened. 

It  is  on  this  principle  that  felicity  of  st^le,  splendor  of 
imagery  and  power  of  description,  become  important  aids  in 
19 


218  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

all  our  efibrts  to  convince  men  by  argumeLt.  When  we 
desire  to  change  the  opinions  of  men,  it  is  necessary  that  our 
reasonings  be  retained  in  their  recollection^  and  frequently 
dwelt  upon  in  reflection.  When  an  argument  is  associated 
with  emotion  it  is  more  easily  retained;  and  when  the  em^ 
tion  is  pleasant  it  is  more  readily  recalled,  and  more 
earnestly  considered.  Under  these  circumstances  it  will 
produce  a  more  distinct  impression  on  the  judgment,  and 
the  judgment  itself  is  associated  with  agreeable  emotions. 
Every  one  will  remember,  after  hearing  a  discourse,  that 
different  passages  present  themselves  to  his  recollection  with 
different  degrees  of  distinctness ;  and  he  always  finds  that 
those  which  affected  him  most  strongly  during  delivery  are 
those  which  fix  themselves,  afterwards,  most  firmly  on  his 
momorv.  Of  the  thousands  who  have  read  Burke's  speech 
on  the  nabob  of  Arcot's  debts,  probably  very  few  have  any 
distinct  conception  of  the  argument,  while  all  remember  his 
magnificent  description  of  the  descent  of  Hyder  Ali  upon 
the  Carnatic,  commencing,  '^When,  at  lipngth  Hyder  Ali 
found,"  etc.  The  facts  and  the  reasonings  may  have  long 
since  passed  away,  but  we  remember  the  scene  of  devasta- 
tion which  the  orator  describes,  and,  whether  justly  or 
unjustly,  hold  in  abhorrence  the  men  whom  he  stigmatizes 
as  the  authors  of  the  calamity. 

4.  Peculiarities  of  mental  character.  Some  of  these 
are  permanent,  and  some  accidental. 

Men  differ  very  greatly  in  mental  constitution.  In  seme 
the  reasoning  element  predominates,  in  others  the  imagin- 
ative, and  in  others  the  practical.  These  intellectual  biase? 
must  modify  very  materially  the  train  of  thought.  Let. 
for  instance,  a  poet  and  a  philosopher,  on  a  clear  night, 
go  out  to  survey  the  vault  of  heaven,  studded  with  in- 
numerable stars.  The  trains  of  thought  which  will  arise  in 
the   minds  of  the  two  men  will   be  exceedingly  unlike. 


ASSOCIATION    OF    ID  1^] AS.  219 

The  one  would  associate  all  thtit  he  saw  with  various  ideas 
of  moral  sublimity  with  which  he  is  tauiiliar,  and  would  per- 
haps express  his  emotions  in  a  hymn  of  praise,  or  an  ode  to  a 
planet.  The  astronomer  would  think  of  the  distances,  mag- 
nitudes and  revolutions,  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  and  would 
find  himself  striving  to  solve  some  problem  which  their  pres- 
ent position  suggested.  A  devout  man,  on  the  other  hand, 
would  probably  give  utterance  to  his  emotions  in  the  words 
of  David :  ''  When  I  consider  the  heavens  the  work  of  thy 
fingers,  the  moon  and  the  stars  which  thou  hast  ordained, 
what  is  man,  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him,  or  the  son  of 
man,  that  thou  visitest  him?"  To  a  mind  like  that  of 
Newton  the  fall  of  an  apple  might  give  rise  to  a  train  of 
thought  which  would  lead  to  the  most  magnificent  dis- 
coveries ;  to  a  boy  it  might  suggest  no  other  idea  than  the 
desire  of  eating  it ;  while  to  the  botanist  it  would  recall  the 
class  and  order  of  plants  to  which  the  tree  belonged.  Agas- 
siz  and  Coleridge  would  be  very  differently  affected  by  a  view 
from  the  vale  of  Chamouni.  On  the  other  hand,  in  an  un- 
cultivated mind,  none  of  these  trains  of  thought  would  be 
awakened.  Thus,  the  poet,  describing  a  mind  of  this  order, 
tells  us, 

**  A  cowslip,  by  the  river's  brim, 
A  yellow  cowslip  was  to  him  ; 
And  it  was  nothing  more. ' ' 

Besides  these  intellectual  differences,  there  are  permanent 
varieties  of  character  depending  on  the  tone  of  mind  of  the 
individual.  Some  men  are  always  cheerful,  the  present  and 
the  future  being  always  tinged  with  the  roseate  hue  of  hope. 
Every  change  seems  to  them  indicative  of  prosperity.  Such 
is,  more  commonly,  the  character  of  youth.  To  others  the 
present,  but  more  especially  the  future,  seems  clothed  with 
gloom ;  and  the  prospect  of  change  awakens  no  other  emo- 
tion than  apprehensiveness.     Such  is  the  character  of  the 


220  INTELLECTUAL  PHILO&jPHY. 

melancholy  man,  and  such  is  apt  to  be  the  tendency  of  age 
Milton,  in  his  L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso,  has,  with  strik- 
ing beauty,  illustrated  these  two  forms  of  character. 

These  are  permanent  varieties  ;  but  there  are  accidental 
varieties,  dependihg  on  the  circumstances  of  the  individual 
The  mind,  deeply  affected  by  any  train  of  reflection,  will 
pursue  it  for  some  time,  though  at  variance  with  its 
natural  bias.  Thus,  an  astronomer,  fresh  from  the  reading 
of  Milton,  might  look  upon  the  heavens  for  a  time  with  the 
emotions  of  a  poet ;  and  a  poet,  rising  from  the  study  of 
the  Principia,  might  look  upon  them  with  the  eye  of  an  as- 
tronomer. And  then,  again,  our  tone  of -mind  frequently 
varies  from  its  accustomed  bias.  A  cheerful  man  is  some- 
times sad,  and  a  melancholy  man  is  sometimes  mirthful. 
Images  exquisitely  ludicrous  occasionally  flitted  across  the 
gloom  which  habitually  shrouded  the  mind  of  Cowper.  We 
all  know  how  different  are  the  trains  of  thought  which  press 
upon  him  who  walks  abroad  for  the  first  time  after  the 
death  of  a  friend,  and  him  who,  after  confinement  by  sick- 
ness, rejoices  in  the  freshness  of  invigorated  health. 

These  subjective  laws  again  modify  each  other.  Thus, 
for  instance,  lapse  of  time  is  modified  by  coexistent  emotion ; 
that  is  to  say,  an  event  which  has  strongly  interested  us  will 
much  more  readily  be  associated  with  surrounding  circum- 
stances, even  after  a  long  interval,  than  an  event  which 
awakened  no  emotion,  though  of  more  recent  occurrence. 
Or,  again,  the.  objective  and  subjective  laws  may  modify 
each  Dther.  Thus,  we  know  that  we  associate  ideas  in 
obedience  to  the  laws  of  resemblance  or  contrast,  but  whether 
we  shall  associate  by  the  one,  or  the  other,  may  depend 
upon  the  permanent  or  accidental  tone  of  mind  of  the  indi- 
vidual. Thus,  if  a  cheerful  scene  be  presented  to  a  happy 
man,  he  associates  by  resemblance,  a  melancholy  man  by 
i/Ontrast.     The  loveliness  of  spring  to  a  mourner  suggests 


ASSOCIATION    OF   IDEAS.  221 

»nly   images  of  disappointed  hope  and  speedy  dissulutioa 
To  tne  cheerful  man  even  the  gloom  of  winter  awakens  the 
anticipations  of  returning  spring,  and  he  thinks  only  of  the 
contrast  which,  in  a  few  months,  will  renew  the  whole  face 
of  nature. 

It  is,  in  this  manner,  by  the  combination  of  these  several 
laws,  that  the  train  of  thought  is  directed.  As  these  vari- 
ous causes  operate  with  unequal  power  at  different  times, 
and  are  modified  by  edit  other,  and  by  the  present  circum- 
stances of  each  individual,  there  arises  an  infinite  variety  in 
the  modes  of  mental  association.  Hence  we  should  consider 
it  almost  miraculous  if  two  men  should  be  affected  in  exactly 
the  same  manner  in  precisely  the  same  circumstances,  so  that 
they  should  give  utterance  to  their  sentiments  in  the  same 
language.  Yet,  while  all  this  diversity  is  known  to  exist, 
we  are  conscious  that  it  is  still  governed  by  laws ;  for  we 
recognize  in  an  instant  an  abnormal  or  incoherent  associa- 
tion, and  attribute  it  at  once  either  to  idiocy  or  insanity.  So 
delicate  are  our  mental  instincts,  that  he  who  knows  nothing 
of  the  laws  of  association  is  intuitively  aware  when  they 
are  violated. 

It  is  on  the  perfection  of  this  delicate  instinct,  which  spon- 
taneously recognizes  all  the  laws  of  association,  that  the 
power  of  the  dramatist  essentially  depends.  He  forms  con- 
ceptions of  a  variety  of  characters,  and  places  them  in  cir- 
cumstances desimed  to  call  forth  the  intensest  emotion. 
But  these  circumstances  will  affect  each  individual  according 
to  his  peculiar  idiosyncrasy.  The  dramatic  poet  has  the 
power  of  throwing  himself  into  each  character,  and  of  feeling 
instinctively  the  emotions  to  which  such  a  human  being, 
under  such  circumstances,  would  give  utterance.  This  19 
.tie  of  the  rarest  gifts  with  which  genius  is  ever  endowed. 
It  is  to  this  power  that  Shakspeare  owes  his  preeminence. 
Considered  simply  as  a  poet,  there  are  other  men  of  geniuj 
19* 


222  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

with  whom  he  may  come  into  comparison ;  but  in  dramatic 

exhibition  of  character  he  stands,  by  confession,  without  a 

rival. 

**  Our  Shakspeare's  magic  could  not  copied  be; 
Within  that  circle  none  dare  walk  but  he." 

It  may  seem,  from  what  I  have  said,  that  associatior 
evinces  a  power  beyond  our,  control,  and  that  hence  we  arc 
not  responsible  for  our  trains  of  thought,  or  the  conse- 
quences to  which  they  lead.  This  inference,  it  is  almost  un- 
necessary to  add,  is  unwarranted.  By  association  ideas  are 
suggested,  but  it  still  depends  on  our  own  volition  to  deter- 
mine whether  the  suggestion  shall  be  heeded.  A  thought 
is  presented  by  the  law  of  association ;  we  may  accept  or 
reject  it.  Two  dissimilar  thoughts  are  suggested,  and  we 
may  select  either  of  them  at  our  option.  When  a  particu- 
lar association  is  followed  repeatedly,  we  form  the  habit  of 
thinking  in  that  particular  train ;  but  the  formation  of  that 
habit  depended,  at  each  successive  step,  upon  our  own  will. 
It  is,  then,  evident  that  the  formation  of  our  characters, 
whether  intellectual  or  moral,  is  dependent  on  ourselves. 
Hence  it  is  that  circumstances  are  said  to  form  men  ;  that  is, 
the  conditions  in  which  we  are  placed  accustom  us  to  cer- 
tain modes  of  thinking,  which,  becoming  habitual,  render 
our  character  fixed  and  determinate.  Hence,  also,  we  see 
how  much  character  depends  upon  energy  of  will,  by  which 
the  development  of  our  own  powers  ceases  to  be  the  result 
of  accident,  and  follows  in  the  line  marked  out  for  it  by 
reasonable  and  predetermined  choice. 

It  has  been  truly  remarked,  that  our  associations  are  fre- 
quently the  cause  of  great  errors  in  judgment.  When  w^e 
repeatedly  associate  two  ideas  together,  we  are  prone,  with- 
out examination,  to  consider  the  connection  by  its  nature 
indissoluble.     Thus,  in  youth,  having  observed  many  good 


NATURE    OF   MEMORY.  '2'23 

mer  members  of  our  own  religious  sect,  we  associate  the 
idei  of  goodness  with  that  sect,  and.  going  furtlier,  consider 
piety  exclusively  coniSned  within  its  limits.  Ilavin*'',  agam. 
experienced  innumerable  benefits  arising  from  a  republican 
government,  we  not  only  associate  the  idea  of  freedom  and 
intelligence  with  our  own  institutions,  but  suppose  tliat 
these  advantages  can  be  enjoyed  under  no  other  conditions 
of  humanity.  A  multitude  of  cases  of  a  similar  kind  will 
readily  suggest  themselves.  These  errors  are  manifestly 
to  be  removed  bv  a  larg-er  knowledo;e  of  the  world,  and  a 
more  careful  and  frequent  examination  of  the  reasons  of 
our  opinions.  This  subject  is  treated  with  great  beauty 
and  sound  discrimination  in  Stewart's  chapter  on  Associa- 
tion. 

REFERENCES. 

Stewart  —  Vol.  i.,  chap.  5  ;  Locke  —  Book  11,  chap.  33  ;  Reid  —  Essay 
4,  chap.  4. 


SECTION    II.  —  THE   NATURE    OF   MEMORY. 

Memory  is  that  faculty  by  which  we  retain  and  recall 
•our  knowledge  of  the  past.  I  saw  a  tree  yesterday.  I 
know  now  that  I  saw  it  then  and  there.  I  have  a  concep- 
tion of  a  tree,  with  a  certain  knowledge  that  I  saw  the  tree 
which  corresponds  to  this  conception,  at  some  previous  time. 
How  I  know  this  I  cannot  tell,  but  my  consciousness  reveals 
it  to  me  as  positive  and  reliable  knowledge. 

I  have,  in  the  above  definition,  ascribed  but  two  func- 
tions to  memory, —  the  power  by  which  we  retain,  and  that 
by  which  we  recall,  our  knowledge  of  the  past.  The  distinc- 
tion between  these  powers  is  easily  observed,  for  they  are 
not  always  bestowed  in  equal  degrees.  Some  men  retain 
^Jieir  knowledge  more  perfectly  than  they  recall  it.     Othera 


224  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHT. 

have  their  knowledge  always  at  command,  and  make  even 
Bmall  acquisitions  eminently  available. 

Stewart  divides  the  first  of  these  functions  into  suscepti- 
bility and  retentiveness.  A  foundation  for  this  distinction 
evidently  exists.  Some  men  acquire  with  great  rapidity, 
but  they  very  soon  forget  whatever  they  have  learned. 
Others  acquire  with  difficulty,  but  retain  tenaciously  the 
knowledge  which  they  have  once  made  their  own.  Others, 
again,  as  I  have  just  remarked,  have  a  remarkable  command 
of  their  knowledge  on  all  occasions.  It  must  be  evident 
that  memory  is  perfect  in  the  degree  in  which  it  is  endowed 
with  all  these  attributes.  Men  of  the  highest  order  of  in- 
tellect are  often  preeminently  gifted  in  all  these  respects. 
It  will  be  sufficient  to  mention  the  names  of  Leibnitz. 
Milton,  Johnson,  Scott,  Napoleon,  Cuvier,  Goethe,  Sir  W. 
Hamilton,  in  order  to  confirm  the  truth  of  this  remark. 
Such  men  acquire  with  incredible  facility,  rarely  forget  any- 
thing which  they  have  learned,  and,  at  will,  with  remarkable 
accuracy,  concentrate  all  their  knowledge  upon  the  point 
which  they  are  at  the  moment  discussing. 

The  knowledge  which  we  obtain  by  memory  may  prop- 
erly be  called,  in  the  words  of  Sir  W.  Hamilton,  represen- 
tative and  mediate,  in  distinction  from  presentative  and 
immediate  knowledge.  When  I  see  a  tree,  I  am  conscious 
of  an  immediate  knowledge,  the  object  being  presented 
directly  before  my  mind.  When  I  remember  a  tree,  there 
is  no  external  object  presented.  The  tree  is  represented  by 
the  act  of  the  mind  itself.  I  know  the  tree  throuo-h  the 
medium  of  this  representation.  The  immediate  object  of 
my  thought  is  this  conce|  tion  of  the  thing,  while,  by  a  power 
inherent  in  my  intellect,  I  connect  this  image  with  the  idea 
of  past  reality.  That  this  is  true,  is  evident  from  the  fact 
that  the  mental  state  is  precisely  the  same,  whether  the 
•bject  at  present  is  or  is  not  existing.     I  remember  a  hous« 


NATURE    OF   MEMORY.  225 

which  I  saw  a  year  ago.  The  image  of  it  is  distinctly  be- 
fore my  mind.  I  am  told  that  the  house  has  been  burned 
down,  and  that  nothing  remains  where  it  stood  but  a  heap 
of  smouldering  ruins.  This  does  not  at  all  affect  the  iinairo 
I  have  in  my  mind.  The  only  difference  in  the  two  cases 
is,  that  before  I  contemplated  it  as  the  representation  of 
something  existing,  now  only  of  something  that  did  exist. 

Concerning  this  faculty,  as  thus  defined,  several  important 
facts  may  be  observed. 

1.  I  have  before  remarked,  when  treating  of  the  percep- 
'  live  faculties,  that  our  knowledge  derived  from  this  source 
is  of  two  kinds,  simple  and  complex.  Simple  knowledge  is 
merely  a  state  of  mind,  a  consciousness  of  a  peculiar  impres- 
sion made  upon  our  sensitive  organism,  without  giving  us  an 
intimation  of  anything  external;  a  mere  affection  of  the 
me,  without  any  relation  to  the  not  me.  The  other  kind 
of  knowledge  is  complex ;  that  is,  together  with  this  affection 
of  the  me,  there  is  communicated  to  us  a  knowledge  of  the 
7iot  me,  in  some  of  its  modifications.  In  this  latter  case, 
we  form  a  notion  of  the  not  me  as  something  numerically 
distinct  from  the  me. 

Whenever  our  knowledge  is  of  the  latter  character,  our 
recollection  of  it  is  always  attended  by  a  conception,  and 
this  conception  forms  a  part  of  the  act  of  memory.  Sir 
W.  Hamilton,  on  this  account,  happily  describes  memory  as 
a  recoUective  imagination.  We  have  before  us  an  image  of 
the  object  remembered,  and  are  conscious  that  it  represents 
some  past  existence.  Thus,  when  we  remember  a  visible 
object,  we  form  for  ourselves' a  distinct  conception  of  its  ap- 
pearance. We  never  consider  an  act  of  memory  complete 
until  this  conception  is  created  Thub,  if  I  am  asked 
whether  I  remember  a  village  Arhich  I  passed  through 
some  years  since,  if  I  can  rerr^U  the  conception  of  the 
locality,  I  answer  in  the  aflarmative ;  if  I  only  know  iliat 


226  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY^ 

from  the  route  which  I  took  I  must  have  passed  through  it, 
but  have  no  conception  of  its  appearance,  I  answer  in  the 
negative.  If,  however,  after  an  interval,  I  am  able  to  recall 
it  as  I  perceived  it,  I  reply  that  now  I  recollect  it. 

With  respect  to  simple  knowledge,  or  that  which  is 
limited  to  sensations,  the  case  is  different.  We  here  form 
no  conception,  and  the  act  of  memory  is  imperfect  I  re- 
member^ for  instance,  the  visible  appearance  of  a  peach,  its 
color,  magnitude,  form,  etc.,  and  I  represent  it  to  myself 
in  thought.  I  have,  however,  no  such  recollection  either  of 
the  smell  or  taste  of  the  peach.  I  form  no  representation 
of  these  qualities,  nor,  so  far  as  I  know,  am  I  able  to  do  it. 
My  recollection  amounts  to  no  more  than  this  :  I  know 
that  I  have,  at  various  times,  both  smelled  and  tasted  of 
peaches,  and  that  I  should  instantly  recognize  these  qualities 
were  they  present ;  but  I  can  do  no  more.  An  exception 
to  this  remark  is,  however,  to  be  made  in  the  case  of  hearing. 
Here,  though  the  knowledge  is  simple,  that  is,  merely  an 
affection  oi  our  sensitive  organism,  it  is,  however,  capable 
of  forming  a  conception.  Hence,  our  recollection  of  it  is 
remarkably  perfect.  After  once  hearing  a  tune,  we  can, 
if  skilled  in  music,  recall  it  with  perfect  accuracy,  and  can 
do  it  in  perfect  silence,  merely  forming  a  conception  of  the 
Bounds  by  the  memory. 

2.  A' complete  act  of  the  memory  is  always  attended  by 
belief.  He  who  remembers,  is  conscious  of  an  original  con- 
nction  that  the  conception  which  he  forms  is  the  true  repre 
ijcntativo  of  some  preexisting  knowledge.  He  knows  it  to 
lie,  as  has  been  said,  a  recollective  imagination.  How  we 
know  this,  how  we  are  able  to  distinguish  a  simple  imagina- 
tion from  a  recollective  imagination,  we  are  unable  to  ex- 
plain. Consciousness  reveals  to  us  the  difference,  and  we  can 
discover  nothing  beyond  the  simple  fact.  It  has  been  said 
that  we  learn  to  rely  upon  the  testimony  of  memory  by  ex 


NATURE    OF    MEMORY.  227 

perience.  This,  however,  must  be  inc(^TQct,  for  \\\)  evidently 
rely  upon  it  anterior  to  experience.  And,  besides,  the  very 
experience  on  which  we  are  here  said  to  depen<l.  presupposes 
the  validity  of  the  testimony  of  memory.  Unless  I  rely  on 
mem(.ry  to  give  me  a  knowledge  of  the  past,  I  can  gain  no 
experience  respecting  the  character  of  memory  itself 
•  I  am,  however,  aware  that  there  are  frequent  cases  in 
which,  while  we  have  a  clear  conception  of  an  act,  our  recol- 
lection is  imperfect,  so  that  we  doubt  whether  the  state  of 
mind  be  merely  a  conception  or  a  recollection.  Thus.  I 
intended  several  days  since  to  write  a  letter,  and  formed  a 
purpose  to  write  it  at  a  particular  time.  The  question  now 
occurs  to  me,  did  I  write  it  or  not?  When  I  think  of  the 
act,  is  my  mental  state  that  of  recollection,  or  only  of  con- 
ception ;  in  other  words,  did  I  actually  do  it,  or  did  I  oidy 
resolve  to  do  it  ?  Here  our  consciousness  enables  us  to 
distinguish  between  certainty  and  doubt,  though  it  does  not 
enable  us  to  resolve  the  doubt.  So  far,  however,  as  I  have 
observed,  it  is  generally  the  fact  that  when  we  doubt  the 
doubt  is  entitled  to  precedence,  and  we  find  on  inquiry  that 
the  thing  was  not  done.  When,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
testimony  of  consciousness  to  our  recollection  is  perfect,  we 
rely  upon  it  with  as  much  certainty  as  on  the  present  evi- 
dence of  our  senses.  I  am  as  sure  that  I  saw  a  certain  tree 
yesterday,  as  I  was  sure  yesterday  that  I  was  then  seeing 
it.  It  is  upon  this  attribute  of  memory  that  all  our  belief 
of  the  existence  of  the  past  and  the  distant  depends.  Wo 
repose  the  same  confidence  in  the  memory  of  competent 
witnesses  as  in  our  own.  I  just  as  fully  and  perfectly  be- 
lieve in  the  existence  of  Constantinople  as  of  London,  though 
the  one  I  have  seen  •  and  the  other  I  have  not.  seen.  On 
this  belief  in  the  veracity  of  memory,  all  the  evidence  of 
testimony  depends ;  and  hence,  with  entire  confidence  in  itj 


228  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

validity,  we  proceed  to  decide  questions  involving  pmperty, 
reputation,  and  life  itself. 

It  is  proper  here  to  remark,  that  this  consciousness,  by 
which  Ave  determine  a  representation  in  our  minds  to  be  a 
recollection  and  not  an  imagination,  is  liable  to  be  greatly 
impaired.  He  who  forms  the  habit  of  deliberate  lying,  or 
of  affirming  that  his  conceptions  are  recollections,  will  grad- 
ually lose  the  power  of  distinguishing  the  one  from  the  other. 
By  passing  from  truth  to  falsehood  and  from  falsehood  to 
truth,  without  moral  consciousness,  the  line  which  separates 
them  from  each  other  becomes  more  and  more  indistinct, 
until  it  is  at  last  obliterated.  I  have  known  men  who 
would  utter  the  most  absurd  falsehoods,  without  seeming  to 
be  conscious  either  that  they  were  lying  or  that  their  hear- 
ers knew  them  to  be  liars.  A  more  just  retribution  for 
the  abuse  of  our  moral  faculties  cannot  be  conceived. 

Another  peculiarity  connected  with  this  part  of  our  sub- 
ject deserves  to  be  remarked.  We  are  sometimes  led  into 
innocent  mistakes  concerning  our  recollection.  If  we  hear 
an  event  frequently  related,  until  every  minute  incident  is 
engraven  on  our  recollection,  we  may,  after  a  considerable 
period  has  elapsed,  seem  to  ourselves  to  have  witnessed  it. 
I  think  it  is  Burke  who  says,  '^  Never  let  a  man  repeat  to 
you  a  lie.  If  he  tell  you  a  story  every  day  which  you  know 
to  be  false,  at  the  end  of  a  year  you  will  believe  it  to  be 
true."  A  distinguished  justice  of  the  Supreme  Judicial 
Court  of  Massachusetts  once  related  to  me  a  case  which 
pertinently  illustrates  this  remark.  He  was  once  trying  a 
cause  relating  to  a  will,  and  a  lady  testified  most  distinctly 
to  some  occurrences  which  she  had  witnessed  when  she  was 
a  child.  Her  evidence  was  distinct  and  minute  as  to  all 
the  circumstances  of  person,  time,  and  place.  She  was  a 
person  of  mature  age,  of  a  character  above  suspicion,  and 
incapable  of  testifying  to  what  she  did  not  believe  to  be 


NATURE    OF   MEMORY.  229 

true.  It  aowever  appeared,  in  the  course  *f  the  trial,  from 
incontestable  documentary  evidence,  that  the  events  had 
transpired  several  years  before  she  was  born.  When  a  girl 
dhe  had  heard  the  occurrence  so  frequently  related,  with 
great  particularity,  that  in  mature  years  it  presented  itself 
to  her  as  a  matter  of  personal  knowledge  rather  than  of 
recollection  of  the  narrative  of  others. 

Lastly ;  the  act  of  memory  involves  two  subordinate  be- 
liefs. First,  it  presupposes  a  belief  in  the  past  existence  of 
the  object  recollected ;  and,  secondly,  in  the  past  and  present 
existence,  of  the  subject  recollecting.  From  both  of  these 
we  derive  the  idea  of  duration,  for  were  there  no  duration, 
there  could  be  no  past  existence  ;  that  is,  the  idea  of  dura- 
tion logically  precedes  the  idea  of  memory.  From  the 
second  of  these  beliefs  we  derive  the  idea  of  personal 
identity.  The  belief  that  we,  who  are  now  existing,  cog- 
nized an  object  at  any  previous  point  in  duration,  su})pose3 
both  the  cognitions  to  appertain  to  the  same  subject ;  that  is, 
that  the  eso  in  both  these  cocrnitions  is  one  and  the  same. 

3.  The  power  of  recollection  in  different  individuals 
differs  greatly,  both  in  degree  and  in  kind. 

Some  men  are  so  remarkably  gifted  in  this  respect,  that 
without  apparent  effort  they  seem  to  remember  whatever  they 
have  read,  and  every  person  whom  they  have  even  casually 
seen.  Others,  though  possessing  many  eminent  qualities 
of  intellect,  find  difficulty  in  recollecting  the  persons  and 
things  which  daily  surround  them.  Cyrus  is  reported  to 
have  been  able  to  call  by  name  every  soldier  in  his  army, 
and  Themistocles  to  have  known  individually  every  citizen 
of  Athens.  I  have  been  told  that  General  Washington 
never  found  it  necessary  to  be  twice  intraluced  to  the  same 
person.  Boswell  records  of  Dr.  Johnson,  that  once,  when 
riding  in  a  stage-coach,  he  repeated  with  verbal  accuracy 
a  number  of  the  Rambler,  some  ten  or  twelve  years  after 
20 


230  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

its  p»;blication ;  at  the  same  time  stating  that  he  had  not 
Been  it  since  he  corrected  the  original  proof-sheets.  In  his 
life  of  Rowe  he  criticizes  the  poet's  works  with  a  -very  accu- 
rate conception  of  their  merits,  frequently  quoting  whole  pas- 
sages as  though  he  were  transcribing  them  from  the  printed 
page.  When  he  had  finished  it,  he  said  to  a  friend,  "I 
think  this  is  pretty  well  done,  considering  that  I  have  not 
read  a  play  of  Rowe's  for  thirty  years."  On  the  contrary, 
Montaigne,  though  a  man  of  original  genius,  and  one  of  the 
marked  men  of  his  age,  was  always  complaining  of  the  bad- 
ness of  his  memory.  ^'  I  am  forced,"  says  he,  '^  to  call  my 
servants  by  the  names  of  their  employments,  or  of  the  coun- 
tries where  they  were  born,  for  I  can  hardly  remember  their 
proper  names,  and  if  I  should  live  long,  I  question  whether 
I  should  remember  my  own  name."  In  this  case  there  seems 
to  be  some  peculiar  idiosyncrasy;  for  while  he  forgot  so 
readily  the  individual,  he  was  able  to  remember  the  class  to 
which  he  belonged. 

Differences  of  memory  exist  hot  only  in  degree,  but  Id 
kind. 

I  have  already  observed  that  some  men  are  more  remark- 
able for  susceptibility,  others  for  retentiveness,  and  others 
for  readiness  of  memory.  Every  one  who  has  observed  the 
minds  of  young  persons,  must  have  seen  frequent  illustra- 
tions of  the  truth  of  this  remark.  But  these  differences  do 
not  terminate  here.  There  exist  what  may  not  inappropri- 
ately be  termed  objective  differences  of  memory ;  that  is,  this 
power  seems,  in  different  individuals  to  manifest  an  affinity 
for  different  classes  of  objects.  Some  men  remember  num- 
bers and  dates  with  remarkable  accuracy,  and  easily  retain 
not  only  figures,  but  even  long  and  complicated  algebraic 
formulae.  Other  men  remember  permanently  and  without 
effort,  localities,  the  faces  of  persons,  and  every  form  of 
external  nature.     Some  have  great  facility  in  recollecting 


NATURE    OF   MEMORY.  231 

words  and  their  relations  to  each  other ;  and  hence  at  an 
early  age  manifest  a  fondness  for  the  study  of  laiigua;^e  and 
the  pursuits  of  philology.  Otliera  again,  ^vlio  are  pos- 
sessed of  none  of  these  powers  in  a  remarivable  degree, 
acquire  principles  and  general  laws  without  efibrt,  and  will 
frequently  remember  the  law\  while  they  forget  the  facts  by 
which  it  is  established.  It  is  said  that  the  late  Dr.  Gall 
was  first  led  to  the  investigations  which  terminated  in  his 
system  of  phrenology,  by  observing  that  some  boys  possessed 
peculiar  skill  in  finding  their  way  out  of  a  forest,  while 
others,  under  the  same  circumstances,  would  be  completely 
bewildered.  He  remarked,  that  those  of  the  first  class  were 
marked  with  a  protuberance  in  the  forehead  just  above  the 
eye.  He  also  observed  that  those  who  displayed  a  remark- 
able aptitude  for  languages  were  formed  with  a  depression 
'of  the  roof  of  the  orbit  of  the  eye,  which  gave  to  the  eye 
the  appearance  of  unusual  fulness.  Generalizing  these  ob- 
servations, he  was  led  to  conclude  that  every  modificatiun 
of  mental  character  was  accompanied  by  some  corresponding 
peculiarity  in  the  form  of  the  brain.  Whether  there  be  the 
connection  between  the  mental  and  physical  organization 
which  phrenologists  assert,  I  will  not  determine ;  but  that  they 
have  aided  us  in  remarking  with  greater  exactness  many 
peculiarities  of  mental  constitution,  may,  I  think,  be  fairly 
admitted. 

That  these  diiferences  may  be  accounted  for,  in  some 
degree,  by  education,  I  have  no  doubt.  In  the  most  re- 
markable instances,  however,  they  seem  to  depend  chiefly 
on  natural  endowment.  I  have  known  several  persons  who 
have  been  o;ifted  with  some  of  these  forais  of  recollection  in 
a  very  uncommon  degree,  and  they  have  uniformly  told  me 
^  that  the  things  w^hich  they  remembered  cost  them  no  more 
pains  than  those  which  they  forgot.  All  the  account 
which  they  couH  give  of  the  matter  was,  that  some  classes 


232  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

of  facts,  without  any  special  effort,  remained  permanentlj 
fixed  in  their  recollection,  while  others  were  as  readily  for 
gotten  by  them  as  by  other  men.  A  highly-esteemed  cler- 
gyman of  Massachusetts,  lately  deceased,  who  could  tell  the 
year  of  the  graduation  of  every  alumnus  of  his  university 
and  the  minutest  incidents  relating  to  every  ordination  in 
his  vicinity  for  the  last  half-century,  assured  me  that  it  cost 
him  no  labor,  but  that  it  was,  so  far  as  he  knew,  a  mental 
peculiarity. 

The  large  development  of  any  particular  form  of  memory 
is  not,  of  necessity,  accompanied  by  any  other  remarkable 
intellectual  endowments.  Instances  have  frequently  been 
noticed  of  men,  with  prodigious  powers  of  recollection, 
whose  abilities  in  other  respects  were  even  below  medi- 
ocrity. Very  remarkable  memory  has  even  been  observed 
in  persons  of  so  infirm  an  understanding  that  they  did 
not  even  comprehend  what  they  accurately  repeated.  In  this 
case,  probably,  the  power  was  mere  susceptibility  of  memory ; 
that  is,  the  power  of  acquiring  on  the  instant,  without  the 
ability  of  permanent  recollection.  A  very  remarkable  case 
of  this  one-sided  power  is  mentioned  in  the  life  of  the  late 
Mr.  Roscoe,  of  Liverpool.  A  young  Welsh  fisherman,  of 
about  the  age  of  eighteen,  was  found  to  have  made  most  re- 
markable progress  in  the  study  of  languages.  He  was  not 
only  familiar  with  Latin  and  Greek,  but  also  with  Hebrew, 
Arabic,  and  other  oriental  dialects.  Some  benevolent  gen- 
tlemen, in  that  city,  provided  means  for  giving  him  every 
literary  advantage,  in  the  hope  that  his  vast  acquisitiona 
might  be  made  useful  to  society,  and  also  that  he  might  un- 
fold the  processes  by  which  his  singular  attainments  had 
been  made.  The  attempt  was,  however,  unsuccessful.  He 
seemed  not  to  be  peculiarly  capable  of  education,  but,  witt 
the  exception  of  this  peculiar  gift,  his  mind  partook  entirelj 


NATURE    OF   MEMORY,  238 

of  the  character  of  the  class  with  ^yhich  he  had  been  asso- 
ciated. 

4.  The  character  of  memory  changes  materially  with 
age. 

Memory  is  one  of  our  faculties  which  is  developed  at  a 
very  early  age,  specially  in  the  characteristics  of  suscepti- 
bility and  retentiveness.  Of  this  any  one  will  be  convinced 
who  will  observe  the  prodigious  number  of  particulars  which 
a  human  being  acquires  almost  in  infancy.  A  child  of  four 
or  five  years  old  has  already  learned  the  names  and  uses 
of  the  ordinary  objects  which  he  sees  around  him;  and  has 
acquired  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  his  native  language.  A 
boy,  before  he  goes  to  school,  is  better  acquainted  with  his 
mother  tongue,  than  he  will  be  with  Latin  and  Greek  after 
ten  or  twelve  years  of  study.  Nor  is  this  all.  Children 
educated  in  a  family  in  which  several  languages  are  spoken, 
learn  them  all  with  equal  facility. 

As  might,  however,  be  expected,  this  faculty,  which  first 
comes  to  maturity,  is  also  the  first  to  decline.  The  first  intel- 
lectual indication  of  advancing  years  is  a  conscious  failure  in 
the  power  of  recollection.  When  the  memory  becomes  im- 
paired from  this  cause,  we  do  not  forget  so  much  the 
knowledge  acquired  in  youth,  as  that  acquired  at  a  later 
period.  Hence,  old  men  recite  the  deeds  of  their  youth, 
not  those  of  maturer  years.  Horace  describes  an  old  man 
as  laudator  temporis  acti.  The  heroes  of  our  revolution 
are  never  so  well  pleased  as  when  relating  the  events  of  that 
illustrious  struggle,  and  the  reminiscences  whicli  they  have 
treasured  up  of  the  career  of  Washington.  The  reason 
for  this  is  two-fold.  An  event  which  transpires  in  youth 
awakens  in  us  a  deeper  coexistent  emotion  than  in  age  :  and, 
secondly,  the  social  character  of  youth  leads  us  frequentl.^ 
to  relate  the  incidents  which  please  us,  and  hence  every  in 
teresting  event  becomes  more  deeply  engraved  on  the  mem 
20* 


234  INTELLECTUAL   PHII.JSOPHY. 

ory.  To  an  old  man,  the  later  period  of  his  life  resembles  a 
dream  ;  the  period  of  youth  and  early  manhood  alone  seems 
like  reality. 

As  old  men  are  naturally  inclined  to  recite  the  events  of 
their  youth,  so  this  very  recital  is  most  pleasing  to  the 
young.  A  child  wearies  his  parents  with  the  request  that 
they  will  tell  him  what  they  saw  and  did  when  they  were 
young.  We  are  all  conscious  of  the  eagerness  with  which 
we  listen  to  the  relation,  by  eye-witnesses,  of  occurrences 
which  transpired  sixty  or  seventy  years  since.  The  final 
cause  of  this  arrangement  is  as  obvious  as  it  is  beautiful. 
These  corresponding  dispositions  were  conferred  upon  us  for 
the  sake  of  binding  together  the  young  and  the  old  by  the 
tie  of  mutual  sympathy.  The  tedium  and  infirmity  of  age 
is  beguiled  and  alleviated  by  the  society  of  youth ;  and  the 
young  are  taught  those  lessons  of  experience,  which  they 
would  seek  for  in  vain  from  those  who,  like  themselves,  are 
just  commencing  the  warfare  of  life. 

From  these  facts,  we  learn  the  more  correctly  to  appre- 
ciate the  importance  of  a  diligent  and  well-spent  youth.  If 
the  spring-time  of  life  is  consumed  in  frivolity  and  sin,  the 
mind,  in  the  winter  of  age,  must  sink  into  decrepitude ;  and 
nothing  will  present  itself  to  the  memory,  but  the  recollec- 
tion of  deeds  which  tinge  the  cheek  with  shame,  and  goad 
the  conscience  with  remorse.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
memory  is  stored  in  youth  with  valuable  knowledge,  and  the 
faculties  are  disciplined  by  strenuous  exertion,  we  sow  the 
seeds  of  a  green  old  age ;  that  condition  in  which,  without 
the  vigor  and  elasticity  of  youth,  there  exist  the  accumu- 
lated knowledge  of  a  laborious  life,  and  the  calm,  ripe  wis- 
dom of  a  large  experience.  If  to  these  be  added  the  con- 
sciousness of  purity  of  motive,  and  the  beautiful  simplicity 
which  results  from  a  virtuous  life,  old  age  becomes  one  of 
the  most  favored  periods  of  our  present  state.     It  may  then 


NATURE    OF   MEMORY.  285 

be  worth  while  for  the  young  to  remember,  that  while  dili^ 
gence  and  mental  discipline  afford  the  only  reasonable  hope 
for  success  in  manhood,  they  present  the  only  security 
against  the  evils  of  an  imbecile,  unhappy,  and  neglected  old 
age. 

It  is  to  be  remarked,  further,  that  the  memory  of  youth 
differs  in  kind,  as  well  as  in  degree,  from  that  of  maturer 
life.  In  youth,  as  might  be  expected,  we  remember  fiicts  ; 
as  we  advance  in  age,  we  observe,  appreciate,  and  remem- 
ber laws  and  their  relations.  In  the  early  period  of  life,  we 
collect  the  materials ;  as  we  grow  older,  we  learn  to  use 
them.  In  youth  our  tendency  is  to  the  objective  and  con- 
crete ;  in  maturer  years  we  tend  to  the  subjective  and  the 
abstract.  If  we  were  to  be  more  particular,  we  might 
aflBnn,  that  in  childhood  susceptibility  seems  more  active  ; 
in  youth,  retentiveness ;  ard  in  manhood  readiness.  In 
childhood,  as  I  have  said,  we  learn  a  multitude  of  things 
which  we  soon  forget.  The  ordinary  events  of  the  first 
four  or  five  years  of  our  lives  soon  pass  into  oblivion.  In 
advancing  youth,  while  we  lose  in  some  degree  the  power 
of  committing  to  memory,  we  retain  what  we  have  learned 
much  more  tenaciously.  I  have  remarked  on  the  facility 
with  which  young  persons  will  learn  several  languages  at 
the  same  time,  and,  what  is  scarcely  possible  for  an.  adult, 
they  will  learn  them  idiomatically.^  It  is,  however,  a  singu- 

*  A  singular  confirmation  of  this  remark  is  found  in  the  life  of  Dr. 
Carey,  the  pioneer  Protestant  missionary  in  India.  Dr.  Carey  had  a  de- 
cide«l  ':alent  for  languages,  and  acquired  them  with  great  facility  before  h« 
left  England.  When  he  arrived  in  Bengal  with  his  family,  he  commenced 
the  study  of  the  native  tongues  with  his  usual  perseverance,  a.«*sisted  hy 
the  best  helps,  both  printed  and  oral,  which  the  country  tlien  atforded. 
His  children,  without  any  instruction,  were  left  to  amuse  themselves  with 
natives  of  their  own  age.  It  was  not  long  before  the  f  ither  wjis  obliged 
to  call  in  his  children  to  explain  to  him  phrases  and  idioms  which  he  wm 
unable  to  unlerstand.  They  had  learned,  by  playing  with  their  folic  wa, 
more  rapidly  than  he  by  tH  combined  aid  of  books  and  pundits. 


236  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

lar  fact,  that  if  a  young  person  studies  an  ancient  language^ 
as  Latin  or  Greek,  and,  from  change  of  residence,  forgets  hia 
native  tongue,  he  will  remember  the  language  which  he  ac- 
quired by  grammatical  study,  longer  than  his  vernacular. 
This  difference  may  arise  either  from  the  fact  that  reten- 
tiveness  of  memory  increases  with  age,  or  because  whatever 
is  learned  by  a  protracted  effort  is  more  indelibly  fixed  in 
the  recollection. 

5.  Memory  may  be  improved  in  a  shorter  time,  and  tv  a 
greater  extent,  than  any  of  our  other  faculties. 

The  change  that  may  be  produced  in  this  respect  is  i  3- 
quently  remarkable.  Pupils  in  a  school  may,  in  a  fjw 
months,  be  taught  to  commit  to  memory  an  amount  which,  at 
first,  would  have  seemed  incredible.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
teach  a  class  to  recite  from  beginning  to  end  the  acquisitions 
of  a  whole  term,  without  any  aid  from  the  instructor.  A 
gentleman  with  whom  I  am  well  acquainted,  informed  me 
that  he  once  determined  to  ascertain  the  extent  to  whicli  the 
improvement  of  his  memory  could  be  carried.  Hf  soon 
found  himself  able  to  repeat  verbatim,  two  or  three  p?  ^es  of 
any  book  after  it  had  been  read  to  him  only  once.  IJe  was 
able  to  go  into  a  legislative  assembly,  and  write  dow«i  from 
recollection,  after  its  adjournment,  the  proceedings  of  the 
day,  with  as  much  accuracy  as  they  were  reporteck  by  the 
stenographers. 

While,  however,  it  is  generally  true,  that  the  memory  may 
be  greatly  and  permanently  improved  by  judiciou?  practice, 
't  is  probable  that  the  rapid  improvement,  of  whick  we  have 
frequent  instances,  has  respect  more  to  susceptibility,  than 
either  to  retentiveness  or  readiness.  What  we  acquire  so 
suddenly  is  learned  only  for  a  particular  occasion ;  and 
when  the  occasion  has  passed  away,  all  we  have  learned  has 
passed  away  with  it.  Clergymen,  who  with  tase  commit 
their  sermons  by  once  or  twice  reading  them  over,  are  obliged 


NATURE    OF   MEMORY.  237 

to  commit  them  anew  as  often  as  they  arc  called  to  deliver 
them.  When  we  desire  to  cultivate  the  memory  in  general, 
and  render  our  knowledge  permanently  available,  greater 
care  is  necessary.  The  process  is  more  difficult,  and  must 
be  conducted  on  principles  which  depend  on  the  general  laws 
of  the  human  mind. 

The  following  case,  related  by  Dr.  Abercrombie,  illua- 
trates  the  extent  to  which  the  susceptibility  of  memory  may 
be  increased  by  the  pressure  of  circumstances.  "  A  distin- 
guished theatrical  performer,  in  consequence  of  the  sudden 
illness  of  another  actor,  had  occasion  to  prepare  himself,  on 
very  short  notice,  for  a  part  which  was  entirely  new  to  him  ; 
and  the  part  was  long,  and  rather  difficult.  He  acquired  it 
in  a  very  short  time,  and  went  through  it  with  perfect  accu- 
racy, but,  immediately  after  the  performance,  forgot  every 
word  of  it.  Characters  which  he  has  acquired  in  a  more 
deliberate  manner  he  never  forgets,  and  can  perform  them 
at  any  time  without  a  moment's  preparation ;  but,  in  regard 
to  the  character  now  mentioned,  there  was  the  further  and 
very  singular  fact,  that,  though  he  has  repeatedly  performed 
it  since  that  time,  he  has  been  obliged  each  time  to  prepare 
it  anew,  and  has  never  acquired  in  regard  to  it  that  facility 
which  is  familiar  to  him  in  other  instances.  When  ques- 
tioned respecting  the  mental  process  which  he  employed  the 
first  time  he  performed  this  part,  he  says  that  he  lost  sight 
entirely  of  the  audience,  and  seemed  to  have  nothing  before 
him  but  the  pages  of  the  book  from  which  he  had  learned 
it ;  and  that,  if  anything  had  occurred  to  interrupt  thisillu- 
81  :n,  he  should  have  stopped  instantly." — Abercrombie, 
Part  3,  section  1. 

6.  The  power  of  recollection  depends  much  .  n  the  man- 
ner in  which  our  knowledge  has  been  acquired. 

Knowledge  acquired  by  the  assistance  of  our  perceptive 
feculties,  is  much  longer  remembered  than  that  acquired  by 


238  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY 

conception  through  the  medium  of  language.  Ani,  further, 
a  proposition  which  can  in  any  manner  be  represented  by  an 
imao'c  is  more  easily  remembered  than  a  purely  abstract 
proposition,  of  which  no  image  can  be  formed.  We  remem- 
ber a  landscape  far  better  by  having  seen  it,  than  by  the 
most  elaborate  description.  Every  one  knows  that  the 
scenery  depicted  in  the  writings  of  travellers  and  novelists 
leaves  scarcely  a  trace  on  the  recollection.  A  machine  may 
be  described  to  us  with  the  most  careful  particularity,  and 
we  may  be  able  distinctly  to  comprehend  it ;  yet,  if  we  see 
neither  it  nor  a  model  of  it,  we  soon  find  that  our  recollec- 
tion has  become  exceedingly  shadow}'"  and  vague.  The  use 
which  may  be  made  of  this  fact  is  evident.  It  teaches  us 
the  importance  of  illustrating,  by  figures,  diagrams,  or  ex- 
periments, whatever  we  desire  to  communicate  to  others, 
wherever  the  subject  admits  of  it.  Hence  the  use  of  a 
black-board  in  a  class-room ;  and  hence  the  value  of  skill 
in  drawing,  to  an  instructor,  in  every  branch  of  physical 
science. 

7.  It  is,  however,  the  fact,  that,  in  our  present  state,  time 
gradually  obliterates  the  impressions  made  upon  the  memory. 
What  we  learned  yesterday,  may  be  fresh  in  our  recollection 
to-day,  but  we  shall  remember  it  much  less  perfectly  in  a 
month.  If  a  year  elapse  without  having  had  occasion  to 
recall  it,  it  will  in  a  great  degree  have  faded  away  from  our 
recollection.  I  say,  in  a  great  degree;  for,  although  the 
principle  which  it  involves,  or  the  conclusion  which  it  estab- 
lishes, may  remain,  the  sharp  and  definite  outline  of  the 
facts  will  have  dissolved  into  forgetfulness.  In  this  respect, 
we  are  all  the  victims  of  a  perpetually  recurring  delusion. 
It  seems  to  us  that  what  we  .remember  so  perfectly,  and 
understand  so  clearly,  to-day,  can  never  be  forgotten. 
Though  repeated  trials,  and  lamentable  ignorance  of  what 
we  have  once  known,  might  seem  sufficient  to  convince  us  of  . 


NATURE   OF   MEMORY.  2.H9 

our  error,  we  press  blindly  onward,  ever  Icarninii;,  and  yv{ 
ever  failing  permanently  to  treasure  up  what  we  have 
already  acquired. 

While  this,  however,  is  the  general  fact,  it  is  subject  to 
several  modifications.     Some  of  these  are  the  followin<^ : 

o 

1.  Exact  and  definite  knowledge  is  much  longer  remem- 
bered than  vague  and  indefinite  conceptions.  A  proposition 
but  half  known,  and  indistinctly  conceived,  is  almost  imme- 
diately forgotten ;  while  that  which  we  have  thoroughly 
thought,  and  adequately  comprehended,  does  not  easily 
escape  us.  Hence  we  see  that  our  progress  in  knowledge 
does  not  so  much  depend  upon  the  amount  which  we  read 
as  upon  the  manner  in  which  we  study.  He  who  reviews 
his  past  history  will  observe  that  his  present  acquisitions  are 
the  sum  of  all  that  he  has  at  some  time  thoroughly  learned. 
That  which  was  only  imiperfectly  understood  is  lost  in  the 
mass  of  confused  and  useless  reminiscences. 

2.  An  isolated  proposition  is  soon  forgotten,  while  one 
of  which  we  perceive  the  connections  and  relations  is  more 
easily  remembered.  A  single  number,  as  the  height  of  a 
mountain,  the  area  of  a  field,  the  page  of  a  book,  a  law  of 

,  mechanics  expressed  in  abstract  terms,  or  any  truth  viewed 
without  relation  to  any  other  truth,  easily  eludes  our  recol- 
lection. We  obviate  this  diflSculty,  if  we  can  establish  any 
relation,  even  though  it  be  but  fanciful,  between  the  fact 
which  we  desire  to  remember,  and  some  other  truth  perma- 
nently known.  Thus,  if  we  wish  to  remember  the  lieiglit 
of  a  mountain,  we  associate  it  with  the  height  of  some  well- 
known  object,  and  we  find  our  power  of  recollection 
increased.  If  we  associate  a  law  with  the  facts  for  which 
it  accounts,  the  same  effect  is  produced.  It  is  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  associating  something  to  be  remembered,  with  some- 
thing else  well  known,  that  the  systems  of  artifici:il  memory 
are  construc'ied. 


•240  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

3.  Knowledge  which  is  beginning  to  vanish  from  our 
recollection  is  rendered  more  permanent  by  even  a  cursory 
review.  By  occasionally  repeating  this  review,  the  truth 
Decomes  incorporated  with  our  permanent  knowledge.  It  is 
a  good  rule  never  to  commence  the  reading  of  to-day,  until 
we  have  carefully  reviewed  the  reading  of  yesterday ;  and 
never  to  lay  aside  a  book  until  we  have  leisurely  imprinted 
on  our  minds  its  most  important  truths.  Conversation  on 
what  we  have  read  is  of  great  service  in  this  respect.  I 
think  it  is  Johnson  who  mentions  that  it  was  his  custom,  in 
youth,  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  a  book,  to  find  some  one 
to  whom  he  could  explain  its  principles.  Full  and  free 
discussion  upon  the  truths  which  we  have  acquired,  gives  not 
only  permanency  but  definiteness  to  our  knowledge.  It  is 
on  this  account  that  studious  men  derive  so  much  advantage 
from  associating  together,  and  communicating  the  result  of 
their  researches  for  the  benefit  of  each  other. 

8.  From  remarkable  and  well- authenticated  facts,  it  ap- 
pears that,  probably  from  some  unexplained  condition  of  the 
material  organs,  the  recollection  of  knowledge  long  since 
obliterated  may  be  suddenly  revived.  These  cases  have  been 
observed  to  occur  most  frequently  in  extreme  sickness,  and 
on  the  near  approach  of  death.  May  it  not  be  that,  in  our 
present  state,  the  material  and  immaterial  part  of  man  being 
intimately  united,  our  failure  of  recollection  is  caused  by 
some  condition  of  the  material  organism ;  and  that,  as  this 
union  approaches  dissolution,  the  power  of  the  material  over 
the  immaterial  is  weakened,  and  the  knowledge  which  we 
have  once  acquired  is  more  fully  revealed  to  our  conscious- 
ness, mdicating  that  when  the  separation  is  complete  it  will 
remain  with  us  forever  ? 

A  variety  of  cases  are  mentioned  by  writers  on  this  sub- 
ject, a  few  of  which  are  here  inserted  : 

An  instance  is  mentioned  by  Coleridge  of  a  servant-girl 


NATURE    OF    iMEMOKY.  241 

JD  Germany,  who,  in  extreme  sickness,  >vas  observed  to 
repeat  passages  of  Greek,  Latin  and  Hebrew,  though  she 
was  known  to  have  no  acquaintance  with  these  hiU'^uafT^cs. 
Upon  inquiry  into  her  history,  it  was  found  that,  many  years 
before,  she  had  been  a  domestic  in  the  flimily  of  a  learned 
professor,  who  was  in  the.  habit  of  repeating  aloud  passages 
from  his  favorite  authors  while  walking  in  his  study,  which 
adjoined  the  apartment  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  labor. 
This  case  is  the  more  remarkable,  inasiir-icli  as  the  person 
had  never  been  conscious  herself  of  having  acquired  the 
knowledge  which  she,  under  these  circumstances,  exhibited. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Flint,  a  very  intelligent  gentleman,  who,  in 
a  series  of  interesting  letters,  has  related  his  experiences  in 
the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  informs  us  that,  under  a  des- 
perate attack  of  typhus  fever,  as  his  attendants  afterwards 
told  him,  he  repeated  whole  pages  from  Virgil  and  Homer, 
which  he  had  never  committed  to  memory,  and  of  which, 
after  his  recovery,  he  could  not  recollect  a  line. 

Dr.  Abercrombie,  in  his  work  on  intellectual  philosophy, 
mentions  a  variety  of  cases  in  which  persons  in  extreme  sick- 
ness, and  under  operations  for  injuries  of  the  head,  con- 
•  versed  in  languages  which  they  had  known  in  youth,  but  had 
for  many  years  entirely  forgotten. 

Dr.  Rush  mentions  the  case  of  an  Italian  gentleman,  who 
died  of  yellow  fever  in  New  York,  who,  in  the  beginning  of 
his  sickness,  spoke  English :  in  the  middle  of  it,  French ; 
but  on  the  day  of  his  death,  nothing  but  Italian.  A  Lu- 
theran clergyman  informed  Dr.  Rush  that  the  Germans  and 
Swedes  of  his  congregation  in  Philadelphia,  when  near 
death,  always  prayed  in  their  native  languages,  though  some 
of  them,  he  was  confident,  had  not  spoken  them  for  fifty  or 
sixty  years. 

Dr.  Abercrombie  mentions  another  case,  of  a  boy,  who,  at 
the  age  of  four,  received  a  fracture  of  the  skull,  for  which 
21 


242  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

he  underwent  the  operation  of  the  trepan.  He  was  at  the 
time  in  a  state  of  perfect  stupor ;  and,  after  his  recovery, 
retained  no  recollection  either  of  the  accident  or  of  the  opera- 
tion. At  the  age  of  fifteen,  during  the  delirium  of  a  fever, 
he  gave  his  mother  a  correct  description  of  the  operation, 
and  the  persons  who  were  present  at  it,  with  their  dress  and 
other  minute  particulars.  He  had  never  been  observed  to 
allude  to  it  before,  and  no  means  were  known  by  which  he 
could  have  acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  circumstances  which 
he  related. 

What  conclusion  we  are  authorized  to  draw  from  these 
facts,  it  is  difficult  to  determine.  They,  however,  indicate 
that  what  we  seem  to  forget,  can  never  be  irretrievably  lost 
to  the  percipient  soul.  The  means  for  recalling  it  in  some 
inexplicable  manner  appear  to  exist,  and  when,  under  some 
unknown  conditions,  they  are  called  into  action,  all  or  any 
part  of  our  knowledge  may,  on  the  instant,  be  brought  to 
our  recollection. 

The  moral  lesson  which  these  facts  inculcate  is  obvious. 
If  every  impression  made  upon  the  mind  is  to  remain 
upon  it  forever,  if  the  soul  be  a  tablet  from  which  nothing 
that  is  written  is  ever  erased,  how  great  is  the  importance 
of  imbuing  it  with  that  knowledge  which  shall  be  a  source 
of  joy  to  us  as  long  as  we  exist !  And,  again  ;  since  knowl- 
edge which  lies  so  long  dormant  may  be  revived  unex- 
pectedly, under  conditions  which  we  cannot  foresee,  and  at 
times  when  it  may  have  the  most  important  bearing  upon 
our  decisions  and  our  destiny,  it  is  of  the  greatest  conse- 
quence to  us  to  store  the  mind  with  such  knowledge  as  shall 
invigorate  our  principles  and  confirm  our  virtue.  He  who 
reads  a  corrupting  book  for  pastime  may  thoughtlessly  lay 
it  down,  and  suppose  that  in  a  few  days  all  the  images  which 
it  has  created. will  have  passed  from  his  remembrance  for- 
ever.   But  these  latent  ideas  may  be  recalled  by  some  casual 


NATURE    OF   MEMOllY.  248 

association  or  some  physical  condition  of  the  i)rain,  and  'Mvo 
that  bias  to  his  mind,  in  the  hour  of  temptation,  wliich  will 
determine  him  to  a  course  that  shall  tend  to  his  final 
undoing. 

It  may  not  be  inappropriate  here  to  suggest  the  harmony 
between  this  condition  of  memory  and  the  scripture  doctrine 
of  a  general  judgment.  The  teaching  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment on  this  subject  is,  that  the  whole  race  of  man  will  bo 
summoned  before  God,  to  be  judged  according  to  the  deeds 
done  in  the  body.  We  can  easily  perceive  how  all  this  may 
be  done,  if  the  view  which  we  have  taken  on  this  subject  be 
correct.  Suppose  every  being  to  be  perfectly  conscious  of 
all  the  events  of  his  past  life,  and  of  all  the  obligations 
which  he  has  violated,  and  his  character  in  a  spiritual  world 
to  be  as  manifest  to  others  as  it  is  to  himself;  and  the  judg- 
ment concerning  every  individual  must  be  immediately 
formed  by  the  whole  universe.  No  examination  is  neede\l, 
for  the  facts  which  in  each  case  form  the  basis  of  the  con 
demnation  are  apparent  to  all.  Like  choosing  its  like,  the 
good  would  be  separated  from  the  bad  :  and  the  decision  pro- 
nounced by  the  Judge  would  be  reechoed  back  from  the 
conscience  of  every  individual,  with  the  assent  of  every 
moral  intelligence. 

It  may  be  well,  in  closing  this  section,  to  refer  to  some 
singular  effects  produced  on  memory  by  disease.  They 
do  not  come  under  any  law  with  which  I  am  acquainted^ 
yet  they  deserve  to  be  recorded  for  the  purpose  of  directing 
attention  to  the  subject.  It  is  by  the  observation  of  anom- 
alous cases  in  science,  that  we  are  led  to  the  discovery  of 
new  and  important  laws. 

Sometimes,  in  consequence  pf  injury  or  disease,  the  mem- 
ory of  a  particular  period  is  lost  altogether,  while  what 
occurred  both  before  and  after  that  period  is  rememlxjred 
with  accuracy.     Dr.  Beattie  mentions  the  case  of  a  clergy- 


244  INTELLECTUAL    MILOSOPHY. 

man  who,  in  consequence  of  an  apoplectic  attack,  lost  the 
recollection  of  precisely  four  years. 

Sometimes  the  loss  of  memory  relates  to  particular  per- 
sons. Dr.  Abercrombie  mentions  the  case  of  a  surgeon  who 
was  thrown  from  his  horse  and  carried  into  a  neighboring 
house  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  From  this  he  soon  recov- 
ered, and  gave  minute  and  correct  directions  respecting  his 
own  treatment.  In  the  evening  he  was  so  much  relieved, 
that  he  was  removed  to  his  own  house.  The  medical  friend 
who  accompanied  him  in  the  carriage  made  some  observa- 
tion respecting  the  precautions  necessary  to  be  observed  to 
prevent  unnecessary  alarm  to  his  family,  when,  to  his  as- 
tonishment, he  discovered  that  his  friend  had  lost  all  idea 
of  having  either  a  wife  or  children.  It  was  not  until  the 
third  day  that  the  circumstances  of  his  past  life  began  to 
recur  to  his  mind. 

Cases  have  occurred  in  which,  from  an  injury  to  the  head, 
the  knowledge  of  a  particular  language  has  been  lost.  In 
other  cases,  not  a  language  but  a  particular  class  of  words 
has  been  dropped  from  the  recollection.  A  case  is  men- 
tioned, in  Avhich  a  patient  suflFered  from  an  attack  of  apo- 
plexy. On  his  recovery,  he  had  lost  the  power  of  pronounc- 
ing or  writing  either  proper  names  or  any  substantive 
while  his  memory  supplied  adjectives  in  profusion.  He 
would  speak  of  any  one  whom  he  wished  to  designate,  by 
calling  him  after  the  shape  or  color  for  which  he  was  dis- 
tinguished ;  calling  one  man  ^^red,"  from  the  color  of  his 
bair,  and  another  ''tail,"  from  his  stature;  asking  for  his 
hat  as  "  black,"  and  his  coat  as  ''  brown."  As  he  was  a 
good  botanist,  he  was  acquainted  with  a  Vast  number  of 
plants,  but  he  could  never  call  them  by  their  names.  A 
similar  instance  occurred,  lately,  in  Livingston  county,  New 
York. 

A  remarkable  case  is  mentioned  in  the  life  of  Rev.  Wn 


NATURE   OF  MEMORY.  245 

Tennent,  a  distinguished  clergyman  of  New  Jersey,  about 
the  middle  of  the  last  century.  While  prosecuting  hig 
studies  preparatory  to  the  ministry,  he  was  taken  ill  and 
apparently  died.  After  lying  for  some  days  without  man- 
ifesting any  signs  of  life,  he  was  resuscitated  and  recov- 
ered. When  he  regained  his  health,  it  was  found  that  ho 
had  lost  all  knowledge  of  the  past,  and  was  obliged  to  com- 
mence his  studies  anew,  beginning  at  the  alphabet.  He  had 
proceeded  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  and  had  advanced 
as  far  as  the  Latin  grammar,  when,  on  a  sudden,  he  placed 
his  hand  on  his  head,  complaining  of  violent  pain,  and,  on 
the  instant,,  his  former  knowledge  had  returned  to  him  just 
as  it  existed  previous  to  his  illness.  The  wliolc  account  is 
very  remarkable,  but  I  believe  its  authenticity  to  be  above 
suspicion. 

Of  these,  and  a  vast  number  of  similar  facts,  I  believe  our 
present  knowledge  is  unable  to  furnish  us  with  any  expla- 
nation. They  deserve  to  be  recorded  as  material  for  future 
investigation.  Subsequent  inquirers  may  be  enabled  to  use 
them  so  as  to  point  out  more  clearly  the  connection  between 
the  mind  and  the  material  organism,  and  thus  enlarge  our 
knowledge  of  our  intellectual  faculties  and  the  conditions  of 
their  exercise. 

REFERENCES. 

Nature  of  memory  — Reid,  Essay  3,  chap.  1;  Stewart,  vol.  i.,chap.  G. 

Implies  the  power  of  retaining  and  recalling  — Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6, 
Bee.  1.     Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  10,  sec.  1,  2,  8  ;  chap.  19,  sec.  1. 

Includes  susceptibility,  retentiveness  and  readiness— Stewart,  vol.  i., 
chap.  6,  sec.  2. 

An  original  faculty  — Reid,  Essay  3,  chap.  2. 

Involves  conception—  Reid,  Essay  3,  chap.  1;  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6, 
sec.  1. 

Attended  with  belief  of  past  existence  and  personal  identity  — Reid, 

Essay  3,  chaps.  1,  4,  6. 

Varies  in  different  individuals—  Abercrombie,  Part  3,  sec.  i ,  Stewart, 
voL  L,  chap.  6,  sec.  1,  2. 

21* 


2-16  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

Local  and  pliiloEophical  memory  —  Abercrombie,  Part  3,  sec.  1. 
Greatly  improvable  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6. 

Objects  which  awaken  emotion  easily  remembered  — Stewart,  vol  i 
chap.  6,  sec.  1. 

Ideas  fade  from  memory  —  Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  10,  sees.  4,  5. 

Reviewing  fixes  knowledge  —  Abercrombie,  Part  4. 

Effect  of  disease  on  memory — Abercrombie,  Part  3,  sec.  1. 


SECTION  III.  —  THE   IMPORTANCE   OF   MEMORY. 

In  treating  of  this  subject,  I  shall  consider,  first,  the  re- 
lation of  memory  to  our  other  faculties ;  and,  secondly,  the 
importance  of  a  cultivated  memory  to  professional  success. 

I.  The  relation  between  memory  and  our  other  intel- 
lectual faculties. 

Memory  is  not  necessary  either  to  perception  or  con- 
sciousness. We  could  see,  and  hear,  and  feel,  and  be  con- 
scious of  all  the  operations  of  our  faculties,  as*  well  without 
memory  as  with  it.  It  is  not  necessary  to  some  acts  of  orig- 
inal suggestion.  Without  it  we  might  have  a  notion  of 
existence,  both  objective  and  subjective.  We  could  not, 
however,  without  it,  form  those  original  suggestions  which 
involve  the  idea  of  succession.  Thus,  without  it,  we  could 
have  no  notion  either  of  duration  or  of  cause  and  effect. 

Memory,  on  the  other  hand,  is  essential  to  the  existence 
of  all  those  ideas  into  which  the  element  of  time  enters. 
Without  it  our  whole  knowledge  would  consist  of  the  im- 
pressions made  upon  us  now  and  here.  Our  intellectual 
existence  would  thus  be  reduced  to  a  single  point.  Whatever 
we  had  known  previously  to  the  present  moment,  whatever 
ideas  had  occupied  our  minds  before  the  one  Avhich  now 
occupies  them,  would  be  blotted  out  forever.  Hence,  though 
we  could  form  a  notion  of  that  which  was  immediately  be- 
fore us,  we  could  not  retain  that  notion,  or  anything  corre* 


IMPORTANCE    OF    MEMORY.  247 

spending  to  it,  after  it  was  withdrawn.  Being  una})le  to 
form  conceptions,  we  could  perform  no  acts  either  of  analy- 
sis, generalization,  or  combination.  We  could  form  no 
notion  of  classes,  and  could  have  no  general  ideiis.  Wo 
could  exercise  no  power  of  association,  for  there  would  bo 
nothing  within  the  scope  of  our  mental  vision,  except  the 
single  idea  with  which  we  were  at  the  moment  occupie  1. 
Equally  impossible  would  it  be  for  us  to  reason.  We  reason 
by  the  comparison  of  propositions  ;  but  every  proposition  in- 
volves two  ideas,  and  one  of  these  must  designate  a  class ; 
and  without  memory,  as  I  have  remarked,  the  notion  of 
classes  would  be  impossible.  But  if  this  be  true  of  the  sin- 
gle propositions  which  form  a  syllogism,  how  much  stronger 
is  the  case  when  we  consider  the  syllogism  itself,  and,  still 
more,  the  series  of  syllogisms  which  form  an  argument. 

Thus,  memory  holds  an  intermediate  place  between  those 
mental  acts  into  which  time  does  and  those  into  which  it  doea 
not  enter.  It  originates  nothing ;  it  gives  us  no  new  ideas ; 
it  merely  retains  the  ideas  given  us  by  the  originating  fac- 
ulties, and  presents  them  to  those  other  faculties  whose 
office  it  is,  by  modifying,  comparing,  and  combining,  to 
enlarge  our  knowledge,  and  extend  indefinitely  the  range 
of  human  intelligence.  Thus,  though  memory  originates 
nothing,  yet,  without  it,  the  faculties  which  originate  would 
be  useless.  Though  it  neither  analyzes  nor  compares,  yet, 
without  it,  the  powers  by  which  we  analyze  and  compare 
might  as  well  not  exist.  Were  we  possessed  of  this  alone, 
our  existence  would  be  an  absolute  blank  ;  yet,  possessed 
of  every  other  but  this,  our  existence  would  be  reduced  to 
a  single  point.  If  this  be  the  relation  which  memory  sus- 
tains to  our  other  faculties,  it  must  evidently  be  one  of  the 
most  invaluable  of  our  intellectual  endowments.  The  greater 
the  perfection  in  which  it  exists,  the  broader  foundation  is 
laid  hr  the  exercise  of  our  powers  of  analysis,  combination. 


248  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

and  reasoning  The  more  accurately  we  retain  and  the 
more  promptly  we  recall  our  knowledge  of  the  past,  the 
richer  is  our  supply  of  material  for  every  form  of  intellectual 
exercise. 

II.  The  importance  of  a  cultivated  memory  to  pro- 
fessional success. 

By  a  cultivated  memory,  I  mean  a  memory  so  improved 
by  eaucation  that  it  can  treasure  up  with  ease,  retain  with 
firmness,  and  recall  with  promptitude,  the  knowledge  ac- 
quired by  the  other  faculties. 

1.  Without  such  a  memory  it  is  evident  that  reading 
must  be,  to  a  great  degree,  useless.  Without  it,  a  man  may 
be  what  Horace  calls  a  ^'helluo  librorum^,^^  a  devourer  of 
books ;  but  he  will  rarely  be  anything  more.  We  some- 
times meet  with  men  of  this  class,  omnivorous  readers,  who 
seize  upon  books  with  avidity,  with  no  other  object  than, 
either  present  enjoyment,  or  the  reputation  of  vast  general 
knowledge.  They  are  pleased  with  the  images  spread  be- 
fore them.  These  pass  away  to  be  succeeded  by  others^ 
until  the  labor  is  completed,  and  nothing  remains  bu*^  a 
confused  recollection  of  pleasant  or  painful  emotions,  and 
the  consciousness  that  another  unit  has  been  added  to  the 
number  of  books  which  they  have  read.  It  is  evident  that 
a  man  may  read,  in  this  manner,  forever,  without  any  in- 
crease of  mental  energy,  or  any  real  addition  to  the  amount 
of  his  knowledge. 

2.  A  cultivated  memory  is  also  indispensable  to  a  vigor- 
ous imagination..  Imagination  is  the  power  of  forming  com- 
plex conceptions  out  of  materials  already  existing  in  the 
mind.  But  it  is  evidently  impossible  to  combine  into  im- 
ages elements  which  we  have  never  collected,  or  which,  if  we 
have  previously  collected,  we  are  unable  to  recall.  Hence^ 
we  find  that  those  authors  who  have  been  remarked  foi 
boundless  fertility  of  imagination  have  always  been  endowed 


IMPORTANCE   OF   MEMORY.  249 

with  the  highest  gifts  of  memory.  Scott,  Goethe,  Coleridge, 
Milton,  Macauley,  might  be  easily  referred  to  as  illustrations. 
A  distinguished  poet  must  be  an  intense  and  accurate  ob- 
server of  nature,  and  the  conceptions  formed  from  actual 
observation  must  be  the  materials  from  ^vhich  be  creates 
the  images  of  beauty  or  sublimity  which  please  or  subdue 
us.  The  case  is  similar  in  philosophical  imagination.  Un- 
less we  are  possessed  of  all  the  facts  in  a  phenomenon  or  a 
series  of  phenomena,  we  can  never  form  any  adequate  con- 
ception of  the  rationale  which  binds  them  together  in  one 
scientific  idea.  Without  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  facts 
in  astronomy,  Copernicus  could  never  have  formed  his  idea 
of  the  solar  system. 

3.  The  importance  of  a  cultivated  memory  to  reasoning 
is  equally  obvious.  Reasoning  is  a  series  of  mental  acts  by 
which  we  pass  from  the  known  to  the  unknown.  Whenever 
a  proposition  is  capable  of  being  proved,  there  exist  certain 
other  propositions,  which  connect  it  indissolubly  with  truths 
already  known.  These  intermediate  propositions  are  called 
the  argument  or  proof.  Suppose,  now,  that  we  desire  to 
demonstrate  a  particular  proposition ;  if  we  can  summon  at 
will  all  that  we  have  ever  known  on  the  subject,  we  can 
easily  determine  whether  we  possess  the  required  media 
of  proof.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  our  knowledge  is  vague 
and  undetermined,  and  we  are  unable  to  recall  it  to  our 
recollection,  we  weary  ourselves  and  perplex  others  by  mul- 
tiplying irrelevant  truths  by  which  nothing  is  determined. 
The  value  of  this  power  is  specially  illustrated  in  the  ciise  of 
forensic  or  legislative  orators.  They  are  frequently  obliged  to 
construct  an  argument,  or  reply  to  an  opponent,  when  there 
is  neither  opportunity  for  consulting  authorities  nor  examin- 
ing digests.  All  that  can  possibly  avail  a  man  is  the  knowl- 
edge which  he  has  previously  acquired,  and  he  must  be  abla 
to  bring  it  to  bear  ^t  once  on  the  point  at  issue,  or  the  op 


250  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

portunity  is  lost  forever.  On  this  power  must,  therefore^ 
frequently  depend  the  skill  of  a  debater,  or  the  success  of 
an  advocate.  . 

4.  A  cultivated  memory  is  necessary  to  the  attainment 
of  accuracy  of  practical  judgment. 

By  practical  judgment  I  mean  an  ability  to  predict  the 
future  from  a  knowledge  of  the  past,  and  to  form  an  opinion 
of  the  doubtful  from  a  knowledge  of  the  true.  This  talent, 
more  than  almost  any  other,  gives  us  influence  among  men ; 
and  sometimes  seems,  in  the  most  favored  individuals,  to  at- 
tain almost  to  the  certainty  of  prescience.  Burke,  in  his 
'writings  on  the  French  Revolution,  predicted  the  course  of 
events  almost  precisely  as  they  subsequently  occurred. 
Other  skilful  statesmen  have  been  able,  from  the  present 
aspect  of  affairs,  to  anticipate  the  changes  which  were  ap- 
proaching in  the  distance.  Several  of  Napoleon's  predic- 
tions of  the  course  of  events  in  Europe,  have  been,  in  a  re- 
markable manner,  verified  by  the  political  revolutions  that 
have  occurred  since  his  death. 

The  dependence  of  this  talent  upon  memory  is  easily  per- 
ceived. As  our  judgments  respecting  the  future  must  pro- 
ceed upon  the  supposition  that  the  course  of  nature  is  uni- 
form, how  can  we  predict  the  future  without  a  knowledge 
of  the  past  ?  But  mere  general  and  indefinite  knowledge 
will  not  here  suffice.  He  who  would  attain  to  soundness  of 
judgment  must  possess  himself  of  facts  in  particular,  with 
the  circumstances  by  which  they  were  surrounded,  the  limi- 
tations by  which  they  were  fixed,  and  the  conditions  under 
which  they  existed.  This,  of  course,  supposes  an  accurate 
and  comprehensive  memory.  We  shall  find  that  the  most 
eminently  sagacious  men  have  been  favored  with  a  memory 
of  this  character.  Of  this  type  of  mind  Dr.  Franklin 
seems  to  preseit  a  remarkable  instance. 

But  this,  of  itself,  wiU  not  confer  that  eminence  of  prac- 


IMPORTANCE    OF    MEMORY.  251 

tical  judgment  to  which  we  here  refer.  We  frccjuentl^ 
observe  men  capable  of  amassing  a  vast  collecticui  of  facts, 
but  they  are  all  thrown  together  at  random,  and  ever  remain 
in  a  state  of  chaotic  confusion.  Their  knowledge  has  neither 
been  associated  by  scientific  relations,  nor  chissified  accord- 
ing to  established  principles  ;  hence  it  is  useless  for  the  pir- 
poses  of  investigation,  and  can  form  the  basis  of  no  prac- 
tical judgment.  It  consists  of  merely  isolated  facts,  from 
which  no  general  principles  have  been  deduced,  and  hence  it 
furnishes  no  rules  for  future  conduct.  Such  a  man,  thouirh 
ever  so  extensively  read,  will  ever  be  incapable  of  the  wise 
conduct  of  affairs.  Men  are  frequently  pointed  out  as  walk- 
ing libraries,  to  whom  every  one  applies  for  the  knowledge 
of  a  fact,  but  to  whose  opinion  no  one  would  defer  in  any 
case  of  practical  importance.  Thus,  we  see  that  those 
powers  by  which  knowledge  is  rendered  available  must  be 
cultivated,  as  well  as  those  by  which  it  is  acquired,  if  we 
would  attain  to  soundness  of  judgment  in  the  practical  af- 
fairs of  life. 

I  am,  however,  aware  that,  to  these,  other  elements  must 
be  added,  in  order  to  form  the  character  of  which  we  are 
treating.  To  a  cultivated  understanding,  a  retentive  and 
ready  memory,  must  be  united  great  freedom  from  preju- 
dices, invincible  love  of  truth,  decided  moral  courage,  and 
firm  reliance  on  the  decisions  of  the  human  intellect,  if  we 
would  realize  that  conception  of  practical  wisdom  which 
Locke  somewhere  happily  denominates  ''large  round-about 
common  sense."  Without  freedom  from  prejudice  we  shall 
look  upon  the  plainest  facts  through  a  distorted  medium. 
If  we  have  no  real  love  of  truth  we  shall  never  take  the 
pains  necessary  to  arrive  at  it.  If  we  are  deficient  in  reli- 
ance on  the  decisions  of  our  own  intellect,  no  matter  how 
clearly  we  may  comprehend  our  position,  we  shall  never 
reach  a  deliberate  conclusion.     And  without  moral  courage^ 


252  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

whatever  be  our  conclusions,  we  shall  never  dare  to  carry 
them  into  practice.  In  this,  as  in  every  other  case,  we  per- 
ceive that  moral  qualities  form,  the  most  important  elements 
of  human  character.  Hence  we  see  that,  actual  ability 
depends  greatly  upon  the  cultivation  of  our  own  nature  ; 
and  is  placed  mi3re  within  our  own  reach  than  might  at  first 
be  supposed. 

The  distinction  between  mere  learning  and  that  practical 
wisdom  by  which  all  learning  is  made  available  to  the  pur- 
poses of  science,  or  the  exigences  of  practical  life,  is  well 
illustrated  by  Cowper  in  his  Task,  one  of  the  most  delightful 
poems  in  the  English  language. 

**  Knowledge  and  Wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 
Have  ofttimes  no  connection.    Knowledge  dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men  ; 
Wisdom,  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 
Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 
The  inere  material  with  which  Wisdom  builds. 
Till  smoothed,  and  squared,  and  fitted  to  its  place. 
Does  but  encumber  what  it  seemed  to  enrich. 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so  much. 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 
Books  are,  not  seldom,  talismans  and  spells, 
By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 
Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthralled. 
Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 
Surrender  judgment  hood-winked.     Some  the  style 
Infatuates,  and,  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 
Of  error,  leads  them  by  a  tune  entranced. 
While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 
The  unsupportable  fatigue  of  thought. 
And  swallowing,  therefore,  without  pause  or  choice. 
The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all." 

Winter  Walk  at  Noow. 

If  these  remarks  be  true,  it  seems  remarkable  that  tho 
question   should   ever   have   arisen,    whether   a    powerful 


IMPORTANCE    3F    MEMORY.  *z5E 

t 

memory  is  compatible  with  great  soundness  of  judgment. 
We  see,  from  the  above  considerations,  tliat  soundness  of 
judgment,  without  a  fair  development  of  memory,  is  impos- 
sible. The  mistake  on  this  subject  has  probably  arisen 
from  two  misconceptions.  In  the  first  place,  a  cultivated 
and  disciplined  memory  has  been  confounded  with  a  miscel- 
laneous and  unclassified  collection  of  facts.  In  the  second 
place,  the  abuse  of  memory  has  been  confounded  with  tho 
use  of  it.  Memory  is  properly  used  when  it  is  employed 
to  recall  our  previous  knowledge,  in  order  to  deduce  from  it 
laws  which  shall  govern  our  future  conduct.  It  is  abused 
when  we  employ  it  merely  for  the  purpose  of  recalling 
precedents  which  shall  enable  us  blindly  to  follow  our  file- 
leader.  Here  it  usurps  the  place  of  judgment,  and  renders 
us  servile  copyists  and  imbecile  imitators.  When  we  use  it 
to  furnish  facts,  which,  by  comparison  and  generalization, 
shall  enable  us  to  form  judgments,  we  derive  from  it  the 
benefit  which  the  Creator  intended. 

That  remarkable  powers  of  memory  are  commonly  asso- 
ciated with  other  distinguished  endowments,  might  be  easily 
shown  by  instances.  I  have  already  alluded  to  several  men 
of  genius,  who  possessed  unusual  retentiveness  and  readiness 
of  memory.  I  do  not,  however,  remember  any  individual 
in  whom  this  coKibination  was  so  remarkable  as  the  late 
Emperor  Napoleon.  He  used  to  say  of  himself,  that  his 
knowkdge  was  all  laid  away  in  drawers,  and  that  he  had 
only  to  open  the  proper  drawer,  and  all  that  he  had 
acquired  on  that  particular  subject  was  at  once  presented 
before  him.  It  was,  I  think,  at  the  Congress  of  Erfurt, 
that  he  astonished  the  sovereigns  of  Europe  by  the  minute- 
ness of  his  knowledge  of  historic  dates.  When  they  ex- 
pressed their  surprise  that  he  should  have  been  able  to  attain 
such  extraordinary  accuracy  amidst  the  pressure  of  business 
with  which  he  had  been  so  long  overwhelmed,  he  replied, 
22 


254  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

that  his  acquisitions  of  this  kind  were  made  when  he  was  a 
lieutenant  of  artillery,  and  was  for  a  considerable  perio(? 
quartered  in  the  house  of  a  bookseller  ;  besides,  added  he,  ] 
had  always  great  facility  in  the  recollection  of  numbers. 
The  diligent  improvement  of  time,  in  youth,  thus  laid  the 
foundation  for  the  success  of  the  future  arbiter  of  Europe. 

I  have  pursued  this  subject  to  a  greater  extent  than 
might  have  seemed  necessary,  did  I  not  suppose  that  the  im- 
portance of  this  faculty  is  frequently  underrated,  especially 
by  young  men.  If  a  man  succeed  in  almost  any  depart- 
ment of  intellectual  labor,  it  is  often  said,  by  way  of  dispar- 
agement, that  his  effort  is  nothing  but  the  result  of  unusual  i 
memory.  Were  this  the  fact,  it  would  still  be  true,  that  the 
cultivation  of  memory  to  high  perfection,  so  that  our  past- 
knowledge  is  always  available  in  every  emergency,  is  neither 
an*  ordinary  nor  a  contemptible  attainment.  But  the  asser- 
tion is  commonly  unfounded.  While  distinguished  success, 
in  any  department,  can  rarely  be  attained  by  the  exercise  of 
memory  alone,  it  is  equally  true  that  the  noblest  powers 
would  be  continually  liable  to  mortifying  failure  without  it. 
Let  us,  then,  labor  to  cultivate  this  faculty  by  every  means 
in  our  power,  always  remembering  that  we  shall  derive  from 
it  the  greatest  advantage,  not  by  allowing  it  to  supersede 
the  use  of  the  other  faculties,  but  by  training  it  to  act  in 
subordination  to  them.  He  who  reasons  without  facts  must 
always  proceed  in  the  dark  ;  while  he  who  relies  on  isolated 
facts,  neither  using  his  powers  of  generalization  nor  reason- 
ing, must  be  willing  to  remain  always  a  child. 


SECTION   IV.  —  THE    IMPROVEMENT    OF   MEMORY. 

From  the  preceding  remarks,   it  is  evidently  of  great 
importance  to  every  educated  man  to  be  able  to  acquire 


IMPROVEMENT    OF   MEMORY.  265 

kno\! ledge  rapidly,  to  retain  it  permanently,  and  to  recall 
it  with  ease.  To  confer  upon  us  this  power,  or,  at  loiist, 
to  improve  it,  is  one  important  object  of  intellectual  disci- 
pline. I  shall  proceed  to  illustrate  some  of  the  general 
principles  on  which  the  improvement  of  memory  depends. 
My  object  is  purely  practical.  I  desire  merely  to  present 
such  views  of  the  subject  as  will  enable  us  to  give  increased 
efficiency  to  this  important  faculty.  The  facts  which  we 
have  to  present  are  all  within  the  range  of  every  man's 
consciousness.  But  though  nothing  be  added  to  our  stock 
of  knowledge,  something  naay,  perhaps,  be  gained,  if  what 
we  already  know  can  be  directed  more  clearly  to  a  valuable 
end. 

1.  Memory,  whether  we  consider  its  susceptibility,  reten- 
tiveness,  or  readiness,  is  strengthened  only  by  habitual  and 
earnest  use.  If  unemployed,  or  not  employed  in  diligent 
study,  its  power  will  gradually  diminish.  This  may  be 
illustrated  in  a  variety  of  particulars. 

Let  a  man  find  it  necessary,  for  any  particular  purpose, 
to  remember  an  event,  a  conversation,  or  some  passage  in  a 
discourse,  and  he  will  find  that  the  effort  which  he  makes 
confers  upon  him  in  some  degree  the  power  which  he  needs. 
Let  him  be  placed  under  the  necessity  of  doing  the  same 
thing  frequently,  and  statedly,  and  he  soon  becomes  con- 
scious that  his  power  rapidly  increases.  It  matters  not 
what  may  be  the  class  of  objects  which  we  are  called  upon 
to  recollect,  we  recollect  with  ease  what  we  find  it  necessary 
to  recollect  habitually.  The  civil  engineer  remembers,  with- 
out effort,  localities,  the  outline  of  a  country,  heights,  dis- 
tances, levels,  water-courses,  and  whatever  facts  are  impor- 
tant in  the  practice  of  his  profession.  The  merchant 
remembers  prices  in  different  countries,  the  amount  of  pro- 
duction in  each  for  a  great  number  of  years,  the  consump- 
tion  under  various  circumstances,   and  the  conditions  b^ 


256  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

which  it  is  affected,  the  rates  of  exchange,  and  the  fluctu 
ations  of  markets.  The  lawyer  remembers,  in  the  sam€ 
manner,  decisions,  arguments,  analogies,  precedents,  and 
cases.  Neither  of  these  could  do  more  than  very  imper- 
fectly what  the  other  does  with  facility.  The  memory, 
strengthened  by  exercise  in  one  particular  department  of 
knowledge,  is  left  in  other  respects  almost  in  its  natural 
condition. 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  power  of  recalling  our  knowledge  is 
materially  affected  by  the  circumstances  under  which  the 
habit  is  cultivated.  He  who  is  accustomed  to  extemporary 
speaking  will  find  his  recollection  more  active  when  in  the 
presence  of  an  audience  than  in  the  retirement  of  his  study. 
He  has  made  that  most  valuable  acquisition,  the  power  of 
thinking  upon  his  legs ;  and  he  will  perceive  truth  more 
clearly,  he  will  illustrate  it  more  forcibly,  and  find  all  his 
knowledge  more  perfectly  under  his  control,  in  these  circum- 
stances, than  in  any  other.  Another  man,  who  has  accus- 
tomed himself  solely  to  writing,  finds  his  power  of  recollec- 
tion much  more  active  when  surrounded  by  his  books  and 
papers.  The  pen  has  become  to  him  an  almost  indispensa- 
ble instrument  of  thought,  and,  without  it,  he  i&  frequently 
and  strangely  at  a  loss.  Neither  of  these  men  could  do  the 
work  of  the  other.  Hence  it  is  that  so  few  men  have  been 
successful  in  both  written  and  extempore  discourse.  Hence 
it  is  that,  frequently,  orations  which  have  produced  the 
deepest  impression  during  delivery,  have  appeared  so  tame 
and  lifeless  when  they  have  been  committed  to  paper.  The 
excitement  of  delivery,  which  enabled  the  speaker  to  asso- 
ciate so  many  images  of  beauty  and  sublimity  with  the  sub- 
ject-matter of  his  discourse,  passed  away  when  the  orator  ha 
attempted  to  write,  and  little  remains  but  the  plain  appeal " 
to  the  understanding.  Cicero  somewhere  alludes  to  the 
difficulty  of  attaining  tc  great  perfection  in  both  written  and 


IMPROVEMENT   OF    MEMORY.  2h7 

spoken  discourse,  and  justly,  if  not  wisely,  compliments  him* 
self  on  having  been  successful  where  most  other  emi/ient 
men  had  failed. 

The  eflfect  of  society  upon  the  character  of  our  recollection 
has  frequently  been  remarked.  He  who  associates  habitually 
with  men  of  distinguished  colloquial  ability,  is  placed  under 
the  necessity  of  recalling  his  knowledge  on  the  instant,  and 
of  recalling  it  on  any  subject  that  the  occasion  may  demand. 
The  peculiar  kind  of  recollection  is  also  greatly  modified  by 
the  company  with  which  we  associate.  If  our  companions 
are  men  of  humor,  we  find  ourselves  involuntarily  recalling 
humorous  events  and  droll  associations.  If  we  consort  with 
men  of  science,  the  mind  takes  a  bias  in  a  contrary  direction 
Thus  a  n.an  of  great  colloquial  excellence  transforms  into  his 
own  intellectual  likeness  those  who  are  much  in  his  society. 
An  illustration  of  this  remark  is  found  in  BoswelPs  Life  of 
Johnson.  The  associates  of  this  great  converser  were  re- 
markable for  their  colloquial  talent,  and  every  individual 
was  more  or  less  tinged  with  the  peculiarities,  whether 
good  or  bad,  of  their  master.  Men  of  quite  opposite  ele- 
ments of  character  were  assimilated  in  their  modes  of 
thought  to  him  whom  they  all  admired ;  and  they  thus 
formed  a  school,  of  which  the  lineaments  were  recognized 
throughout  the  contemporary  literary  world. 

Instances  of  the  power  of  recalhng  all  our  knowledge 
upon  a  given  subject,  are  found  in  the  lives  of  men  who 
have  been  successfully  employed  in  the  conduct  of  affairs. 
We  see  them  forming  plans  for  the  future,  embracing  a 
complicated  variety  of  contingencies,  for  all  of  which  provis- 
ion must  be  made  in  advance.  The  motives  of  men  must 
be  weighed,  the  efiect  of  measures  upon  difierent  govern- 
ments  estimated ;  action  and  reaction  must  be  subjected  to 
deliberate  calculation,  and  all  the  elements  which  would 
advance  or  retard  the  design  must  be  distinctly  present  to 
22* 


258  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

the  mind.  The  intellectual  eflfort  required  in  a  great  military 
commander  is  essentially  the  same.  It  is  said  that  beforo 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  took  the  command  of  the  army  of 
the  Peninsula,  the  plan  of  operations  which  he  subsequently 
carried  into  effect  had  been  thoroughly  matured  and  re- 
solved upon.  Every  one  must  perceive  the  vast  knowledge 
of  facts,  and  the  wonderful  accuracy  of  judgment,  which  were 
required  in  order  to  perfect  a  plan  which  could  be  carried 
into  effect  in  the  midst  of  so  many  and  so  complicated  con- 
tingencies. Dumas  also  relates,  that,  when  the  Emperor 
Napoleon  '-decided  to  abandon  the  invasion  of  England,  and 
attack  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  it  was  necessary  to  confide 
to  the  chief  of  his  staff  not  only  the  idea  of  the  plan  of  the 
campaign  which  he  meditated,  but,  likewise,  to  develop  all 
the  details.  He  dictated  to  M.  Daru,  off-hand,  and  without 
once  stopping,  those  memorable  instructions,  that  admirable 
plan  of  the  campaign,  which  we  saw  executed  precisely  as 
he  had  fixed  it,  doubtless  after  profound  meditation.  In 
these  instructions,  the  march  of  every  day,  the  places  at 
which  the  army  should  arrive  at  successive  periods,  and  the 
place  and  almost  the  day  on  which  the  great  battle  should 
be  fought,  were  minutely  specified.  With  these  previous , 
instructions  the  actual  result  corresponded  with  astonishing  - 
accuracy.  Every  one  must  be  amazed  at  the  amount  and 
the  minuteness  of  the  knowledge  which  could  foresee  and 
provide  for  every  emergency  that  might  arise  in  so  extended 
and  vast  operations." 

I  have  pursued  these  illustrations  beyond  the  limit  which 
the  importance  of  the  subject  would  seem  to  demand.  The 
object  which  I  have  in  view  must  plead  my  apology.  I 
have  desired  to  give  prominence  to  the  fact  that  the  memory 
is  readily  improved  by  exercise,  and  that  it  improves  in  the 
precise  manner  in  which  it  is  earnestly  and  habitually  em- 
ployed.    Every  one  must  see  that  such  command  of  knowl- 


IMPROVEMENT    OF   MEAIORY.  259 

edge  as  I  have  exemplified  could  be  the  result  of  nothing 
but  assiduous  and  thorough  cultivation.  A  lesson  of  practi- 
cal value  to  the  young  may  be  learned  from  these  consider- 
ations. We  are  thus  taught  that  we  may,  by  diligent  and 
earnest  effort,  become  equal  to  the  discharge  of  duties 
which  now  seem  out  of  our  power.  The  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, in  ear'y  life,  gave  no  indications  of  eminent  abihty. 
We  are  liable  to  error  in  supposing  that  because  we  do  not 
now  possess  the  practical  skill  which  a  particular  situation 
demaads,  it  would  therefore  be  presumption  in  us  to  under- 
take it.  It  is  generally  safe  to  believe  that  what  other  men, 
in.  the  same  circumstances,  do,  we,  if  the  duty  be  imposed 
upon  us,  can  do  also.  But,  while  we  adopt  this  rule,  we 
shall  greatly  err  if  we  suppose  that  we  shall  be  qualified  for 
any  situation  merely  by  being  placed  in  it  Place  confers 
no  talent,  and  it  communicates  no  knowledge  ^  while,  there- 
fore, we  may  hope  to  do  what  other  men  have  done,  it  must 
be  under  the  conditions  in  which  other  men  have  done  it. 
Unless  we  take  the  same  pains,  and  subject  ourselves  to  the 
same  discipline,  as  those  who  have  succeeded,  we  shall  un- 
questionably fail.  Inspiration  is,  at  least,  as  rare  now  as  it 
has  been  in  past  ages ;  and,  if  we  would  attain  to  success, 
we  must  form  our  rules  of  conduct,  not  on  exceptions,  but 
on  general  laws.  To  subject  ourselves  to  the  discipline 
necessary  to  success,  will  not  interfere  with  the  inspirations  of 
genius ;  while,  should  it  happen  that  we  are  not  inspired, 
without  such  discipline  our  failure  will  be  inevitable. 

2.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  power  of  recollection 
depends  greatly  on  attention. 

The  condition  of  mind  which  we  denominate  attention  is 
that  in  which  we  direct  our  whole  mental  energies  exclusively 
to  one  particular  object.  It  may  proceed  cither  from  with- 
out or  from  within :  from  an  objective  or  a  subjective  cause. 
In  tlie  former  case,  the  occurrence  itself  so  entirely  engrosses 


260  INTELLECTLAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

our  thcughts  that,  without  any  volition,  everything  else  il 
excluded  from  the  mind.  Let  a  traveller  in  £;irope  ride 
over  a  field  rising  and  falling,  now  in  regular  and  again  in 
irregular  slopes,  with  here  and  there  a  clump  of  trees,  on 
one  side  a  windmill,  and  on  the  other  an  old  stone  house,  and 
it  will  leave  no  definite  impression  on  his  mind.  He  can 
look  upon  just  such  scenes  anywhere,  and  he  has  seen  just 
as  impressive  landscapes  every  day  of  his  life.  His  thoughts 
may  wander  in  the  direction  of  home,  and  his  conversation 
turn  to  such  subjects  as  the  humor  of  the  moment  may  sug- 
gest. But  let  him  be  informed  that  this  is  the  field  of  Wa-j 
terloo,  that  this  eminence  is  Mount  St.  Jean,  that  yonder  is' 
the  farm-house  of  La  Haye  Sainte,  that  there  is  the  thicket^ 
and  villa  of  Hougomont,  and  near  him  the  tree  under  which 
Wellington  remained  during  the  greater  part  of  the  action;' 
that  on  the  slopes  beyond  the  French  were  posted,. and  there' 
in  the  vale  is  the  spot  where,  for  the  first  time,  the  Imperial' 
Guard  faltered,  mowed  down  in  ranks,  as  they  advanced  to! 
the  charge ;  every  other  thought  now  vanishes  from  his 
mind,  and  it  is  not  possible  for  him  to  think  of  anything' 
but  that  terrible  battle,  on  which  the  course  of  empire  in' 
Europe  depended.  Such  an  impression  is  engraven  on  th^' 
memory  forever. 

In  these  cases,  as  I  have  said,  the  occasion  of  attention  is 
from  without.  It  is  arrested  by  objects  around  us,  wS  are 
conscious  of  no  special  mental  efibrt  when  it  is  excited,  and' 
we  could  not  control  it  if  we  would.  There  is  another  and 
very  different  form  of  attention,  which  depends  upon  the 
exercise  of  our  will.  In  this  case,  by  an  act  of  volition,  we 
dismiss  all  thought  irrelevant  to  the  subject  before  us,  and 
concentrate  upon  it  all  the  mental  energy  of  which  we  are  ca- 
pable. The  more  perfectly  we  do  this,  the  greater  will  be  our' 
power  of  recollection;  we  shall  thus  acquire  knowledge  in 
the  shortest  time,  and  retain  it  with  the  greatest  success.    The! 


IMPROVEMENT    OF    ME\  DRY.  261 

men  v^ho  have  been  remarkable  for  great  powers  of  memory 
have  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  the  power  of  abstract 
attention.  The  biographer  of  Johnson  observes  that  whilo 
he  was  reading  the  appearance  of  mental  effort  which  ho 
exhibited  was  painful  even  to  his  companions.  He  seemed 
wholly  unconscious  of  the  existence  of  anything  around  him; 
his  countenance  was  flushed,  the  veins  of  his  forehead  became 
distended,  and  his  whole  appearance  betokened  the  intensest 
mental  concentration.  A  portrait,  by  Sir  J.  Reynolds,  pre- 
sents him  in  precisely  this  attitude. 

Of  the  nature  of  attention,  and  the  means  by  which  it 
may  be  cultivated,  I  have  before  treated ;  I  need  not,  there- 
fore, repeat  what  I  have  said  on  this  subject.  It  will  be  suf- 
ficient to  observe  that,  if  we  desire  to  improve  the  power  of 
memory,  it  is  here  that  we  must  always  commence.  Until 
we  have  learned  to  dismiss  from  our  minds  wandering  and 
irrelevant  thought,  and  fix  our  intellectual  energies  on  the 
subject  directly  before  us,  we  shall  always  suffer  the  evils 
of  imperfect  and  feeble  recollection.  Attention,  as  we  have 
before  observed,  obeys  the  commands  of  a  determined  will.  It 
is  thus  in  our  own  power  to  enlarge  and  strengthen  our  intel- 
lectual faculties.  A  weak  memory  maybe  rendered  strong, 
md  a  fleeting  recollection  permanent,  by  resolutely  laboring 
[Q  improve  it.  The  remedy,  however,  resides  in  ourselves, 
ind  it  is  the  same  for  all.  If  we  are  willing  to  make  the 
sacrifices  necessary  to  insure  success,  observing  the  laws  by 
-vhich  the  improvement  of  our  faculties  is  governed,  there  is 
10  one  of  our  intellectual  powers  which  may  not  be  improved 
*ar  beyond  what  at  the  commencement  we  should  have  be- 
ieved  possible.  The  men  who  earnestly  labor  to  improve 
hemselves  generally  go  beyond  expectation  ;  those  who  rely 
►n  their  undisciplined  powers  almost  always  fall  short  of  it. 

i^ut,  Deyond  this,  we  should  labor  to  acquire,  not  men'ly 
he  power  of  o",casional  attention^  but  the  habit  of  consUnt 


262  INTELLECTUAL    PHILC30PHY. 

and  wakeful  mental  earnestness.  In  this  manner,  alone^ 
does  our  exrstenoB  become  in  the  highest  degree  valuable, 
since  every  portion  of  it  brings  forth  the  richest  and  most 
abundant  fruit,  and  no  hour  and  no  occasion  is  suffered  to 
run  to  waste  An  oasis  in  the  desert  is,  by  contrast,  ex- 
ceedingly beautiful  and  picturesque  ;  but  how  valueless  i: 
appears  when  compared  with  the  broad  acres  of  a  cultivated 
land,  clothed  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  with  exhaustless 
fertility,  the  hills  covered  with  flocks,  the  valleys  loaded 
with  corn,  supplying  with  prodigal  liberality  the  wants  of 
every  living  thing  that  finds  a  home  upon  its  bosom  !  So 
the  transient  efforts  of  genius  may  delight  and  surprise  us ; 
but  it  is  the  steady  labor  of  earnest  minds  that  works  out 
those  changes  in  public  opinion,  by  which  error  is  dissipated, 
truth  discovered  and  promulgated,  and  a  new  impulse 
given  to  the  progress  of  humanity  in  wisdom  and  virtue. 

It  is  by  acquiring  this  habit  of  constant  and  earnest 
attention,  and  the  power  of  transferring  at  will  our  whole 
energy  from  one  subject  to  another,  that  some  men  are  en- 
abled to  perform  an  amount  of  intellectual  labor  which 
seems  almost  incredible.  The  duties  of  the  Chancellor  of 
Great  Britain,  in  his  judicial  office  the  most  important  in 
the  kingdom,  as  speaker  and  a  leading  member  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  frequently  an  active  member  of  the 
cabinet,  could  be  successfully  discharged  by  no  one  whose 
intellect  was  not  disciplined  to  incessant  and  intense  exer- 
tion. The  same  remark  is  applicable  to  every  man  who 
stands  in  the  front  rank  of  any  profession.  The  demand  for 
eminent  service  is  incessant ;  and  nothing  can  meet  this 
demand  but  a  mind  capable  of  putting  forth  its  best  efforts 
without  either  cessation  or  weariness. 

3.  In  the  third  place,  readiness,  or  facility  in  recalling  our 
knowledge,  depends  mainly  upon  the  principles  by  which  it 
is  associ-ited.     The  thought  which  we  at  this  moment  need 


IMPROVEMENT    OF   MEMORY.  20U 

18  brought  to  our  recollection,  because  it  has  been  eounectuiL 
by  some  li\v  of  association,  with  a  thought  now  present. 

Our  associations  are  of  two  kinds,  those  by  casual,  and 
those  by  permanent  relations.  The  associations  which  wo 
form  from  contiguity  of  time  and  place,  or  from  nieie  exter- 
nal appearance,  as  color,  size,  etc.,  are  casual;  those  from 
cause  and  effect  are  permanent.  When  we  see  an  event  oc- 
curring at  a  particular  time  and  place^  it  by  no  means  fol- 
lows that  a  similar  event  will  recur  at  the  same  place  at  a 
corresponding  time ;  nor  are  similar  events,  by  any  tie 
whatever,  connected  with,  or  related  to,  that  time  and  place. 
Hence,  if  we  associate  an  event  by  these  relations,  there  is 
nothing  whatever  to  recall  our  analogous  knowledge.  If.  on 
the  other  hand,  we  observe  an  event,  and  associate  it  with 
its  causes  and  effects,  we  know  that  the  same  cause,  under 
similar  circumstances,  will  produce  the  same  effect,  and, 
under  modified  circumstances,  will  produce  modified  effects. 
Hence,  this  form  of  association  connects  with  the  event 
which  we  wish  to  remember  a  multitude  of  other  events, 
any  one  of  which,  if  present  to  the  mind,  may  recall  any 
one  or  all  of  the  others. 

Inasmuch,  then,  as  casual  associations  furnish  no  bond  of 
connection  by  which  facts  are  associated  together,  they  can 
furnish  little  aid  to  the  memory,  and  can  assist  us  but  feebly 
in  the  investigation  of  truth.  If  a  lawyer  associated  cases 
merely  with  the  court-rooms  in  which  they  happened  to  ho 
decided,  his  knowledge  would  lender  but  little  service  in 
the,  practice  of  his  profession.  He  must  remember  tlicm  hy 
their  connection  with  the  principles  of  equity,  if  he  wishes 
to  recall  them  whenever  an  analogous  case  occurs  in  the 
course  of  his  pleadings.  Were  they  associated  merely  by 
time  and  place,  the  most  dissimilar  decisions  would  1)0 
grouped  together,  so  that  he  could  rarely  call  to  mind  those 
adapted  to  his  purpose.     If  he  associate  them   by  tlie  pria- 


264  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ciples  to  which  thej  are  allied,  each  case  would  recall  tne 
principle,  and  the  principle  the  cases  which  it  controlled 
Knowledge,  in  this  manner,  becomes  linked  together.  A 
sino^le  fact  brino;s  with  it  the  recollection  of  a  multitude  of 
other  facts,  and  these  form  the  basis  of  important  generaliza- 
tions, or  the  materials  for  apt  and  ample  illustration. 

Or,  again,  suppose  we  witness  a  philosophical  experiment. 
By  casual  association,  we  should  connect  it  with  nothing 
but  the  place  in  which  it  was  performed ;  and  the  various 
steps  of  the  process  would  be  thought  of  only  in  the  order 
of  their  succession.  All  that  would  remain  to  us  would  be 
the  naked  facts,  that,  at  such  a  time  and  place,  in  such  a 
lecture-room,  the  first  event  w^as  followed  by  the  second, 
and  the  second  by  the  third,  and  so  on  to  the  end.  If,  on 
the  contrary,  the  relations  of  cause  and  efiect  were  clearly 
explained,  and  every  change  referred  to  its  appropriate  law, 
we  should  know  not  only  the  succession  of  changes,  but 
the  law  which  governed  each  succession.  Hence,  each  event 
will  be  associated  with  the  others  by  a  definite  and  un- 
changing connection.  Ever  afterwards,  any  event  in  the 
series  will  readily  call  to  recollection  those  thus  associated 
with  it,  and  also  the  law  on  which  the  succession  depended  ; 
and  any  one  of  these  laws  will  also  recall  not  only  these 
effects,  but  many  others  which  at  any  time  we  may  have 
had  occasion  to  observe. 

From  these  illustrations  it  is  evident  that  readiness,  or 
the  power  of  recalling  our  knowledge,  depends  greatly  upon 
philosophical  association  In  order  to  associate  in  this  man- 
ner, we  must  form  the  habit  of  referring  facts  to  the  laws 
on  which  they  depend,  and  of  tracing  out  laws  to  the  facts  by 
which  they  are  exemplified.  If  we  observe  a  phenomenon, 
we  should,  if  possible,  ascertain  its  cause.  If  we  examine 
a  specimen,  we  should  refer  it  to  its  cla.ss.  If  we  study  an 
event,  we  should  observe  its  necessary  relations  to  the  events 


IMPROVEMENT    OF    MKMORY.  265 

which  preceded  and  which  have  succeeded  it.  So,  on  the 
other  hand,  if  we  have  comprehended  an  abstract  principle, 
we  should  not  be  satisfied  until  we  have  transformed  it  into 
a  concrete  expression,  observed  the  foots  by  which  it  is  illus- 
trated, and  the  results  to  which  it  leads.  If,  for  instance, 
we  comprehend  a  general  law  in  mechanics,  we  should  work 
out  problems  which  illustrate  its  mode  of  operation,  until 
the  law  and  the  facts  which  depend  upon  it  are  so  thoroughly 
associated  together  that  they  form  one  clearly  defined  and 
well  digested  conception.  So,  in  political  economy,  if  wo 
are  satisfied  that  a  law  is  true,  we  should  not  rest  until,  if 
possible,  we  have  exhausted  the  results  to  which  it  will,  of 
necessity,  lead ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  observe  a  new 
fact  in  the  movements  of  commerce,  or  the  operations  of 
finance,  w^e  should  trace  it  back  to  its  legitimate  cause,  and 
determine  the  law  to  which  it  owes  its  existence. 

In  this  respect,  our  systems  of  education  are  probably 
defective.  We  determine,  in  the  first  place,  that  a  certain 
number  of  sciences  must  be  learned  in  a  given  time.  In 
the  time  allotted  to  each,  it  may  be  possible  either  to  com- 
municate to  the  pupil  some  of  the  facts  without  the  general 
principles,  or  some  of  the  principles  without  the  facts  ;  but 
not  to  associate  the  principles  with  the  facts  by  the  patient 
labor  of  tracing  out  their  connections  with  each  other.  It 
is  by  this  latter  mode  of  acquisition  that  the  mind  attains 
power  and  alertness.  He  who  has  thus  mastered  a  single 
science  has  gained  far  better  mental  discipline  than  by 
cursory  attention  to  several.  He  who  has  learned  one  thing 
thoioughly  knows  how  other  things  also  are  to  be  learned  ; 
and  he  who  has  proceeded  as  far  as  this  has  made  no  con- 
temptible progress  m  his  education. 

But,  though  a  system  of  education  does  not  accomplish  all 
that  might  be  desired,  it  may  yet  be  of  great  value.     We 
may  derive  important  advantage  from  a  distinct  knowledge 
23 


266  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

of  general  principles,  although  we  have  but  little  power 
of  carrying  them  into  practice.  If  we  have  gained  only  sc 
much  knowledge  that  we  are  able,  in  subsequent  life,  to  refer 
common  facts  to  general  laws,  or  even  to  understand  the 
reference  when  it  is  made  by  others,  we  have  laid  the  foun- 
dations of  philosophical  association.  The  observations  occur- 
ring in  our  daily  occupations  will,  from  time  to  time,  revive 
and  enlarge  our  knowledge.  Every  general  law  acquired 
in  youth  thus  becomes  a  nucleus,  on  which  our  additional 
attainments  crystallize,  and  the  mass  increases  by  continued 
aggregation.  Hence  it  is  often  observed  that  young  men, 
who  are  well  grounded  in  the  severe^'  studies,  attain,  in  the 
end,  to  a  larger  intellectual  growth,  and  succeed  much  bet- 
ter in  professional  life,  than  those  of  greater  brilliancy,  who 
aim  at  more  general  attainments,  and  devote  their  time  tc 
what  is  called  universal  reading. 

From  these  remarks  we  learn  the  value  of  hypotheses  in 
philosophy.  An  hypothesis  is  a  conception  of  the  causes 
of  a  phenomenon  which  has  not  yet  been  established  by 
proof  Since  it  is  not  established,  it  is  of  no  positive  valid- 
ity, and  can  neither  be  received  as  a  truth,  nor  made  the 
basis  of  scientific  reasoning.  Yet  it  is  not,  therefore,  value- 
less. It  offers  to  our  consideration  a  conjectural  law.  If 
to  this  law  we  can  refer  a  number  of  phenomena  which 
were  before  isolated,  we  are  the  better  able  to  retain  them 
in  the  memory.  Suppose,  for  instance,  several  isolated  facts 
have  been  observed  in  geology,  for  which  no  cause  has  been 
discovered.  A  theory  is  proposed  which,  if  it  be  allowed, 
will  account  for  the  whole,  or  a  considerable  part  of  them. 
This  is  an  hypothesis.  By  grouping  them  together  as  the 
result  of  this  supposed  cause,  an  important  aid  is  rendered 
to  our  recollection.  Burke,  I  believe,  remarks  that  an  hy- 
pothesis is  good  for  as  much  as  it  will  explain.  An  hypoih- 
esis,  moreover,  presents  a  definite  subject  for  investigation- 


IMPROVEMENT    OF   MEMO.  Y.  2G7 

If  it  be  proved  false,  science  is  the  gainer  ])y  the  research 
which  it  has  occasioned  ;  if  it  be  proved  true,  an  addiiKni  is 
made  to  the  knowledge  of  man. 

4.  Readiness  of  memory  is  materially  assisted  by  method- 
ical arrangement. 

Every  one  knows  the  difficulty  of  remembering  isohited 
and  disconnected  items,  such  as  a  number  of  words  selected 
at  random,  or  a  column  of  miscellaneous  figures.  Tliis 
difficulty  is  greatly  diminished  by  arranging  these  several 
items  according  to  some  general  conception,  as,  for  instance, 
by  placing  the  words  in  alphabetical  order,  or  grouping 
them  according  to  the  subjects  to  which  they  relate.  By 
such  an  adjustment  some  principle  of  connection  is  imme- 
diately established,  and,  as  one  suggests  the  following,  we 
easily  commit  them  to  memory,  and  more  readily  recall 
them  afterwards. 

It  is  obvious  that  all  sciences,  from  the  necessity  of  tl:o 
case,  are  susceptible  of  a  natural  arrangement.  In  the  dis 
covery  of  knowledge,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  we  pro- 
ceed from  individuals  to  generals,  and  from  less  to  more 
general,  until  we  arrive  at  the  most  comprehensive  genus 
which  the  present  state  of  knowledge  admits.  In  the  com- 
munication of  knowledge,  this  process  is  exactly  reversed; 
w^e  commence  with  the  most  comprehensive  genus,  and  pro- 
ceed step  by  step  to  the  less  comprehensive,  until  we  arrive 
at  varieties  and  individuals.  So,  when,  ii.  any  case,  we 
desire  to  communicate  truths,  by  patient  reflection  we  shall 
be  able  to  discover  the  general  principle  on  which  the  whole 
essentially  depends  When  this  is  clearly  displayed,  it  sug- 
gests in  natural  succession  whatever  is  to  follow.  The  order 
in  which  science  thus  arranges  itself,  confers  important  as- 
sistance on  the  memory.  When  knowledge  has  no  relation 
to  time,  we  proceed  from  more  to  less  genera  truth.  When 
time  enters  into  the  development  of  a  subjec    the  order  of 


2G8  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

cause  and  effect  is  to  be  preferred.  Thus,  in  natural  his- 
tory, we  proceed  from  genera  to  species ;  in  history,  we  follow 
the  order  of  time,  which  here  is  also  the  order  of  cause  and 
effect.  In  political  economy,  we  treat,  in  succession,  of  pro- 
duction, exchange,  distribution,  and  consumption ;  because 
this  is  the  order  of  the  dependence  of  one  class  of  actions 
upon  another,  and  this  is  the  order  of  changes  through 
A-hich  any  object  passes  that  is  modified  by  the  industry 
of  man.  It  is  easy  to  perceive  that  our  power  of  recalling 
our  knowledge  of  any  subject,  must  be  greatly  increased  by 
the  simplicity  and  clearness  with  which  it  was  arranged, 
when  it  was  treasured  up  in  the  memory. 

When  any  branch  of  knowledge  is  thus  reduced  to  method, 
we  can  readily  commence  with  its  more  general  and  element- 
ary principles,  and  trace  them  through  their  subsidiary 
ramifications,  each  genus  suggesting  the  several  species 
which  it  includes,  until  all  our  acquisitions  on  this  subject 
are  spread  in  one  view  before  the  mind.  The  want  of  such 
an  arrangement  is,  not  unfrequently,  a  serious  embarrass- 
ment to  a  student.  He  sometimes  finds  important  truths 
carelessly  thrown  together  —  principles  and  results,  causes 
and  effects,  in  a  condition  of  hopeless  dislocation ;  so  that  to 
treasure  them  up  as  available  knowledge  in  their  present 
form  is  almost  impossible.  In  this  case,  if  the  knowledge  is 
worth  the  trouble,  our  best  method  is  to  think  the  subject 
out  and  rearrange  it  for  ourselves.  This  will  require  time, 
but  it  is  the  only  way  in  which  knowledge  so  inartistically 
presented  can  be  rendered  useful  to  the  student.  The  great 
work  of  iVdam  Smith,  which  has  wrought  so  wonderful 
changes  in  the  policy  of  nations,  would  have  "achieved  its 
triumph  at  a  much  earlier  period  if  its  effects  had  not  been 
weakened  by  great  want  of  systematic  arrangemert. 

The  power  of  clear  and  well-digested  method  is  of  great 


I 


IMPROVEMENT    OF   MEMORY.  2G9 

value,  not  only  to  the  student  himself,  but  also  to  those 
tx)  whom  he  communicates  knowledge.  The  preacher,  who 
will  take  the  trouble  to  acquire  it,  will  not  so  often  complain 
that  his  teachings  are  forgotten,  or  that  his  audience  is  in- 
attentive. The  lawyer  will  thus  be  enabled  greatly  to 
abridge  his  proceedings,  and  at  the  same  time  leave  a 
stronger  and  more  durable  impression  on  the  court  and  the 
jury.  In  our  addresses  to  our  fellow-men,  I  hardly  know 
of  an  acquisition  of  greater  importance  than  this,  or  one 
that  aids  more  powerfully  our  efforts  to  produce  conviction. 
From  what  has  been  said,  we  perceive  the  incorrectness  of 
the  opinion,  that  the  memory  resembles  a  store-house,  which 
may  be  filled  to  overflowing,  or  so  filled  as  to  render  further 
acquisitions  more  and  more  difficult.  If  the  student  have 
used  his  memory  aright,  the  greater  his  acquisitions  the 
easier  will  subsequent  acquisitions  become.  If  he  have 
formed  the  habit  of  concentrated  thought,  the  less  effort  will 
be  required  to  fix  his  attention.  If  he  habitually  refer  his 
facts  to  principles,  he  will  successively  arise  to  higher  and 
higher  generalizations,  and  the  knowledge  which  he  acquires 
will  connect  itself  by  more  and  more  numerous  associations. 
We  are  never  embarrassed  by  the  amount  of  our  knowledge, 
but  only  by  its  miscellaneous  and  disorderly  variety.  If 
reflection  upon  a  subject  presents  us  with  nothing  but  a 
multitude  of  irrelevant  and  disconnected  facts,  without  gen- 
eralization or  arrangement,  we  may  well  complain  of  being 
overburdened  with  knowledge.  But,  when  reflection  yields 
the  fruit  of  app<^ite  principles  and  illustrative  facts,  the 
wider  the  range  of  our  acquisitions  the  greater  will  be  our 
intellectual  power.  It  is  in  consequence  of  the  formation 
of  such  habits  that  an  accomplished  public  speaker  fre- 
quently astonishes  us,  by  discoursing  with  ample  fulness,  and 
with  the  clearest  method,  upon  occasions  which  allowed  no 
opportunity  for  previous  preparation.  The  attainment  of 
23* 


270  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

fiuch  a  power  is  certainly  worth  all  the  labor  which  it  can 
possibly  demand. 

Of  artificial  memory. 

Besides  the  means  for  the  cultivation  of  memory  which  I 
have  suggested  above,  others,  depending  upon  artificial  as- 
sociation, have  been  frequently  recommended.  Cicero  some- 
where mentictis  the  systems  of  this  kind  which  were  in  use 
in  his  time.  It  may  be  well  to  indicate  the  principles  on 
which  such  systems  are  founded. 

When  we  wish  to  remember  a  particular  fact,  we  fre- 
quently associate  it  with  something  which  we  cannot  easily 
forget.  We  sometimes  see  men  desiring  to  recollect  an 
engaorement  tie  a  knot  in  their  handkerchief,  or  bind  a 
string  around  one  of  their  fingers.  In  artificial  memory,  a 
regular  system  of  signs  is  employed  for  a  similar  purpose. 
I  remember  a  lecturer  on  mnemonics,  who  used  for  this  pur- 
pose a  sheet  or  two  of  paper,  divided  into  a  large  number 
of  compartments,  in  each-  of  which  was  engraved  a  figure  of 
some  well-known  object.  When  a  number  of  items,  as  a 
column  of  words,  was  to  be  remembered,  the  pupil  was 
taught  to  associate  each  word  with  an  object  in  one  of  these 
compartments.  In  this  manner  a  large  number  of  partic- 
ulars might  be  remembered  for  a  short  time.  The  system, 
however,  which  has  maintained  the  most  permanent  reputa 
tion,  is  that  of  Gray,  in  his  Memoria  Technica,  a  work  of 
which  Dr.  Johnson  speaks  somewhere  with  great  respect. 
The  nature  of  this  system  may  be  known  from  a  single 
example.  Suppose  the  object  is  to  remember  numbers. 
The  vowels,  diphthongs,  and  the  most  important  consonants, 
are  so  arranged  as  to  correspond  with  the  nine  digits  and 
ciplier,  in  the  following  manner : 

a     e     * 

1    2 

b     d 


1 

0 

u 

au 

01 

ei 

ou 

y 

3 

4 

5 

6 

7 

8 

9 

0 

t 

f 

1 

a 

h 

J£ 

n 

X. 

ARTIFICIAL    MP]MOllY.  27j 

This  table  maj  bo  used  thus :  Suppose  that  I  wIsIumI  to  remem- 
ber the  fact  that  Julius  Cnesar  arrived  at  the  supreme  powci 
in  the  year  46,  B.  C.  I  observe  that  the  letter  o  is  above 
4,  and  the  letter  s  under  6.  Forty-six  is  then  represented 
by  the  syllable  os.  I  write  Julio^  for  Julius,  and  thus 
recall  this  date  to  my  recollection.  Or,  again  :  Alexander 
founded  his  empire  in  331,  B.  C.  The  number  331,  as 
before  explained,  may  be  expressed  by  the  letters  Ua.  I 
then  write  Alexiia  instead  of  Alexander,  and  am  thus  re- 
minded of  the  date  in  question.  Various  other  systems 
have  been  devised,  but  they  all  depend  upon  similar  prin- 
ciples. 

Of  the  utility  of  this  method  of  aiding  the  memory,  I 
am  unable  to  speak  from  experience.  I  have,  however,  ob- 
served, that,  whatever  may  be  the  immediate  effect  of  these 
systems,  they  are  generally  soon  laid  aside.  It  seems  as 
difficult  to  remember  the  system  as  to  remember  the  knowl- 
edge which  it  would  enable  us  to  retain.  Whatever  be  its 
virtue,  it  can  confer  upon  us  no  valuable  mental  discipline. 
It  would  seem  better,  therefore,  to  cultivate  the  memory  by 
chose  methods  which  give  increased  vigor  to  all  our  other 
intellectual  faculties.  When  a  subject  is  capable  of  philo- 
sophical association,  it  is  surely  better  to  fix  it  in  our  recol- 
lection by  philosophical  arrangement.  When  the  matter  to 
be  remembered  is  names,  dates,  or  other  isolated  fiicts,  it  is 
better  to  refer  to  tables  and  books,  where  such  knowledge  is 
to  be  found,  than  to  trust  to  our  memory,  unless  we  are 
endowed  with  special  facility  for  this  sort  of  acquisition. 

There  is,  however,  one  mode  of  rendering  our  knowle  Ige 
available,  which  seems  to  me  of  great  value.  It  is  a  well- 
arranged  common-place  book,  or  a  book  made  for  the  pur- 
pose of  recording  any  important  items  of  knowledge  in  such 
manner  as  to  be  easily  accessible.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Todd,  of 
Pittsfield,  Mass.,   has   prepared   a  work   exceedingly  well 


272  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

adapted  to  this  purpose.  It  is  called  an  ^^  Index  Rerum." 
It  consists  of  blank  leaves  ruled  and  paged,  with  the  letters 
of  the  alphabet,  so  that  a  student  can  readily  insert  a  word 
designating  a  particular  subject,  and  under  this  word  record 
all  the  places  in  which  he  finds  this  subject  treated.  A 
student,  by  the  use  of  such  a  book,  would  be  able  to  refer  to 
all  the  works  which  he  had  read  on  any  particular  subject, 
by  glancing  at  a  single  entry  in  his  index.  His  common- 
place book  would  thus  be  an  index  to  his  whole  library ; 
enabling  him,  in  the  shortest  time,  and  with  the  least  trouble, 
to  render  all  his  past  reading  available  for  immediate  use 
whenever  he  should  require  it. 

At  the  risk  of  some  repetition,  I  shall  close  this  part  of 
the  subject  with  a  few  directions  for  study,  deduced  from  the 
preceding  remarks : 

1.  We  should  employ  our  minds  as  little  as  possible  in 
those  occupations  which  require  no  effort  of  attention. 
He  who  spends  much  of  his  time  in  reading  that  which  hie 
does  not  wish  to  remember,  will  find  his  power  of  acquisi- 
tion rapidly  to'  diminish.  Light  reading  is  entitled  to'  its 
place,  and  need  not  be  proscribed  altogether.  But  light 
reading  need  not  be  useless  reading.  Facts  of  all  kind^i,  to 
him  who  is  able  to  make  a  proper  use  of  them,  are  always 
of  inestimable  value.  But  much  that  is  called  light  read- 
ing tends  to  no  result  whatever  except  present  amusement ; 
and  nothing  is  more  destructive  of  every  manly  energy  than 
amusement  pursued  as  a  business.  Nor  let  it  be  supposed 
that  the  vigorous  employment  of  our  faculties  is  destitute 
of  its  appropriate  enjoyment.  Here,  as  everywhere  else, 
happiness  is  found,  not  when  we  seek  for  it  directly,  but 
when,  thoughtless  of  ourselves,  we  are  honestly  doing  our 
duty.  The  weariness  caused  by  labor  is  relieved  either  by 
rest  or  by  a  change  of  pursuits,  and  the  mind  returns  with 
-enewed  relish  to  its  appointed  labors.     But  what  changa 


IMPROVEMENT   OF   MEMOR*!  27J 

can  relieve  an  intellect  jaded  and  worn  down  by  excessive 
excitement,  and  vexed  with  the  incessant  craving  of  unsat- 
isfied desires  ? 

2.  We  should  strive  to  observe  accurately  every  fact,  and 
comprehend  clearly  every  truth  to  which  our  attention  may 
be  directed.  In  this  manner  alone  can  we  attain  to  precis- 
ion of  thought  and  distinctness  of  conception.  We  sliall 
thus  learn  the  diiference  between  what  we  know  and  wliat 
we  do  not  know  :  an  attainment  of  more  value  than  mi<^ht 
at  first  seem  manifest.  He  whose  mind  habitually  rejects 
crude  and  undigested  conceptions,  and  vague  and  intangible 
theories,  has  made  no  inconsiderable  progress  in  intellectual 
cultivation.  Nor  is  it  enough  that  a  man  can  comprehend 
what  an  author  has  written  while  the  book  is  under  his  eye. 
He  should  attain  to  such  a  knowledge  of  the  subject  that  he 
can  think  it  out  for  himself  in  his  own  language,  and  trace 
its  connections  and  dependencies  by  means  of  illustrations 
of  his  own.  In  this  manner  he  will  be  able  to  understand 
what  he  reads,  to  remember  what  he .  understands,  and  to 
recall  what  he  has  remembered  whenever  the  occasion  ren- 
ders it  necessary. 

I  am  aware  that  this  method  of  study  will  seem  to  require 
a  much  longer  time,  and  restrict  us  to  a  much  slower 
progress,  than  the  course  commonly  pursued.  A  man  will 
be  obliged  to  select  his  books  with  greater  care,  and  devote 
to  his  reading  a  more  vigorous  and  protracted  effort,  than  is 
generally  thought  necessary.  He  may  thus  lose,  if  he  ever 
possessed  it,  the  reputation  of  genius;  but,  what  is  more 
important,  he  may  find  the  reality.  By  forming  the  habit 
of  earnest  and  habitual  attention,  he  may  thus  acquire  that 
power  which  is  the  very  element  of  genius.  At  first,  the 
mind  laboring  in  this  manner  may  seem  to  act  slowly  ;  but, 
as  soon  as  efibrt  becomes  its  natural  condition,  vigorous 
action  will  be  as  rapid  as  any  other.     Those  who   think 


274  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

inteiisely,  if  they  do  it  habitually,  require  less  time  than 
other  men  to  perfect  their  mental  operations.  It  is  thus  that 
the  powers  of  the  mind  are  carried  to  their  highest  perfection, 
and  those  intellectual  labors  are  performed  which  to  other 
men  seem  almost  miraculous. 

3.  Our  knowledge  should,  as  far  as  possible,  be  philosoph- 
ically arranged.  Facts  should  be  accounted  for,  that  is, 
referred  to  their  appropriate  laws ;  and  laws  should  be  ex- 
emplified until  the  use  of  them  becomes  perfectly  familiar. 
In  this  respect  students  are  very  prone  to  err.  I  have  fre- 
quently seen  young  men,  who  could  pass  a  creditable  exam- 
ination in  the  rules  of  rhetoric,  who  could  not  successfully  ■ 
construct  a  discourse  on  the  simplest  subject,  and  who  were 
unable  to  write  three  consecutive  sentences  without  a  blun- 
der. Every  one  perceives  that  knowledge  of  this  kind  is 
useless,  and  must  soon  be  forgotten.  It  is  this  habit  of  com- 
bining theory  with  practice  which,  most  of  all,  confers  pro- 
fessional ability. 

The  importance  of  arranging  our  knowledge  methodically, 
that  is,  in  its  relations  to  the  general  principles  on  which  it 
depends,  need  not  again  be  insisted  on.  I  will,  therefore, 
only  add  that,  in  all  our  efforts  to  improve  our  minds,  we 
should  be  patient  with  ourselves.  Bad  habits  cannot  be 
corrected  except  by  the  formation  of  good  ones ;  and  to  form 
habits  of  any  kind  is  a  work  of  time.  Strenuous  effort,  if 
we  give  it  time  enough,  will  accomplish  all  that  we  could 
desire.  We  must  not,  however,  be  disconcerted  at  the 
imperfect  success  of  our  incipient  efforts.  Each  one  will 
accomplish  something ;  and  every  effort  accomplished,  though 
but  imperfectly,  will  render  less  difficult  that  which  succeeds. 
•  Those  who  have  been  the  most  successful  in  the  end  have 
frequently  confessed  that  their  first  attempts  were  marked 
by  mortifying  failure.  It  was  thus  with  Demosthenes ;  and 
if  more  men  were  blessed  with  his  determination  to  succeed, 


I 


IMPROVEMENT    OF    MEMORY.  276 

the  world  would  not  so  often  have  complained  of  the  small 
number  of  great  orators. 

The  application  of  the  preceding  remarks  to  the  duties  of 
an  instructor  is  apparent. 

The  object  of  a  teacher  is  to  communicate  knowledge  and 
BO  to  communicate  it  as  to  develop  and  strengtlien  the 
powers  of  the  mind.  Hence,  in  order  to  succeed,  he  umst 
observe  the  laws  to  which  the  mind  is  subjected.  The  mind 
of  the  pupil  is  similar  to  the  mind  of  the  teacher,  age  only 
excepted.  The  course  which  has  proved  most  successful  with 
the  one,  will  prove  the  most  successful  with  the  other.  If 
we  bear  this  in  mind,  we  shall  perceive  the  importance  of 
the  following  suggestions : 

1.  I  have  remarked  that  our  power  of  recollection  depends 
greatly  upon  the  clearness  of  our  conceptions.  Now,  the 
ability  of  young  persons  to  comprehend  complicated  rela- 
tions is,  of  course,  much  less  than  of  adults.  It  is,  there- 
fore, the  duty  of  the  instructor  to  analyze  what  is  complex 
and  simplify  what  is  intricate,  or  else  so  to  direct  the  mind 
of  the  pupil  that  he  can  do  it  for  himself  In  this  manner 
every  kind  of  knowledge  adapted  to  the  age  of  the  pupil 
may  be  brought  within  his  intellectual  grasp.  The  in- 
structor should  not  merely  hold  forth  to  the  pupil  what  is 
laid  down  in  the  books,  but  think  it  out  for  himself,  observe 
its  elements,  and  separate  them  from  each  other,  so  that  he 
may  place  them  in  the  clearest  light  before  the  conception 
of  the  pupil.  In  these  respects  instructors  frequently  fail. 
Sometimes  they  have  no  clear  idea  of  a  subject  themselves, 
and,  of  course,  can  convey  none  to  others.  They  merely 
inculcate  by  rote  what  they  have  learned  by  rote  themselves. 
Sometimes  an  instructor,  who  understands  a  subject  himself, 
forgets  the  labor  by  which  his  knowledge  was  acijuired,  and 
becomes  unconscious  of  the  difference  between  himself  and 
his  pupil.     What  is  very  smiple  to  him  now,  appears  to  him, 


276  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

of  course,  simple  to  every  one.  What  became  familiar  to 
him  only  by  severe  and  protracted  effort,  seems  capable  of 
being  learned  by  his  pupil  in  a  shorter  time  than  is  actually 
possible.  In  these  respects  it  becomes  an  instructor  to  be  on 
his  guard.  He  should  consider,  not  what  he  can  do  now,  but 
what  he  could  have  done  when  under  the  circumstances  of 
his  pupils.  He  should,  therefore,  be  careful  to  assure  him- 
self that  what  he  teaches  is  understood.  He  who  will  bear 
these  things  in  mind  will  not  often  have  to  complain  of  the 
stupidity  of  his  pupils.  When  an  instructor  finds  all  his 
pupils  blockheads,  the  indication  is  certainly  ambiguous; 
there  is  a  blockhead  somewhere,  but  whether  it  be  either 
the  teacher  or  the  pupil  becomes  a  proper  subject  of 
inquiry. 

2.  What  has  been  rendered  simple  may  be  easily  illus- 
trated. Skill,  in  illustration,  therefore,  is  of  great  impor- 
tance to  a  teacher.  He  perhaps  presents  to  a  pupil  a  new 
idea  which  is  not  readily  comprehended.  The  conception 
of  the  one  is  not  grasped  by  the  other ;  or,  if  it  is,  the  pupil 
does  not  certainly  know  that  the  idea  in  his  mind  is  that 
which  the  teacher  means  to  communicate.  The  teacher 
must,  therefore,  call  up  some  analogous  idea  with  which  the 
pupil  is  familiar,  so  that,  from  ground  common  to  both,  he 
may  pass  by  easy  gradation  to  that  which  is  new  and 
uncomprehended.  Things  dissimilar  in  themselves  fre- 
quently stand  to  each  other  in  similar  relations,  thus 
affording  wide  range  for  analogies.  In  this  manner  the 
known  is  made  to  teach  the  unknown.  Nor  is  this  all. 
The  illustration  associates  a  new*  with  a  familiar  idea. 
An  mteresting  and  apposite  image  is  presented,  and  thus 
whatever  is  learned  is  more  easily  remembered.  An  illus- 
tration addressed  to  the  eye  is  always  the  most  successful. 
Hence,  maps,  diagrams,  experiments,  are  among  the  mosi 
indispensable  aids  of  an  instructor. 


IMPROVEMENT    OF    MEMORY.  277 

3.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  the  pi  ogress 
of  the  pupil  will  be  greatly  accelerated  by  reducing  hia 
knowledge,  as  far  as  possible,  to  practice.  From  tlie  neces- 
sity of  the  case,  it  is  evident  that  much  of  the  pupil's  time 
must  be  occupied  in  learning  rules.  If,  however,  the  teach- 
ing is  confined  to  these  alone,  it  becomes  intolerably  irksome. 
The  mind  struggles  against  it,  and  is  willing  quickly  to  forget 
what  is  associated  with  nothing  but  pain.  These  difficulties, 
however,  may  in  a  great  degree  be  removed,  by  teaching  the 
pupil,  as  soon  as  he  has  learned  a  rule,  to  put  it  into  prac-  * 
tice.  He  then  aiscovers  that  the  knowledge  of  rules  is  a 
means  of  power,  for  it  enables  him  to  do  what  he  could  not 
do  before,  and  he  becomes  conscious  of  progress  and 
increased  ability.  Every  step  in  advance  brings  with  it 
an  inunediate  reward,  and  he  proceeds  to  the  next  step  with 
new  consciousness  of  power,  and  more  earnest  desire  f^r 
other  acquisitions.  It  was  formerly  the  practice  to  carry  a 
boy  through  the  Latin  grammar  before  he  began  to  trans- 
late a  word ;  and  months  were  consumed  in  this  dry  and 
repulsive  labor.  It  would  be  no  wonder  if,  under  such  a 
discipline,  he  learned  to  abominate  the  grammar,  the  lan- 
guage, and  the  instructor,  together.  But  if,  as  soon  as  he 
has  learned  a  single  rule,  or  mastered  a  single  inflexion,  ho 
is  taught  to  use  it  in  the  construction  of  easy  phrases,  and 
when,  with  the  knowledge  thus  gained,  he  proceeds  to  the 
next  rule,  and  finds  the  increased  power  derived  from  adding 
these  knowledges  together,  further  progress  becomes  desira- 
ble in  itself,  and  learning  is  no  longer  a  drudgery.  While  it 
would  be  absurd  to  say  that,  in  all  respects,  our  modes  of 
teaching  are  preferable  to  those  of  our  fathers,  it  is  delight- 
ful to  a  benevolent  mind  to  contemplate  the  improvements 
which  have  been  introduced  in  the  modes  of  instructing  the 
young.  The  labor  required  is  better  adapted  to  the  faculties 
of  the  learner,  though  here,  it  must  be  confessed,  we  yet 
24 


278  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

need  improveraent.  Study  ministers  more  to  iAe  growth  d{ 
the  mind,  instead  of  being  a  barren  exercise  of  memory  ;  and 
a  vast  amount  of  misery  has  been  lifted  oflF  from  the  human 
race  —  certainly  no  trifling  consideration. 

REFERENCES. 

Relation  of  memory  to  philosophical  genius  —  Stewart,  voL  L,  chap  b« 
section  8. 

Improvement  of  memory  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6,  section  8. 

Effect  of  practice  in  formation  of  habits  ■ —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  2. 

Theory  and  practice  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  4,  section  7. 

Attention  connected  with  memory  —  Locke,  Book  2 j  chap.  10,  section  3  : 
Abercrombie,  Part  3,  section  1. 

Connected  knowledge  easily  retained  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6,  section 
8  ;  sections  1,  2,  4  ;  Abercrombie,  Part  8,  section  1. 

Memory  aided  by  method  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6,  section  8  ;  Abw- 
crombie,  Part  8,  section  1.  ♦ 

Nature  and  use  of  hypothesis  —  Locke,  Book  4,  chap.  12,  sections  12, 
18  ;  Abercrombie,  Part  3,  section  4  ;  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6,  section  7. 

ArtiMal  memory — Stewart,  vol.  L,  chap.  6,  section  6. 

Rules  for  study  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6,  section  5. 

Effects  of  writing  on  memory  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6,  section  6. 

Visible  objects  easily  renembered — Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  6,  ee:^OB  2. 

Memory  a  storehomse  —  Reid,  Essaj  3,  chap.  7. 


CHAPTER    VI 

REASONING. 


8KCTI0N   I.  —  THE     NATURE   AND     OBJECT   OF   REASONING, 
AND   THE   MANNER   IN   WHICH   IT   PROCEEDS. 

We  now  come  to  the  consideration  of  that  series  of  men- 
tal acts  denominated  reasoning.  Before,  however,  we  enter 
upon  this  branch  of  our  subject,  it  may  be  useful  to  review 
again,  very  briefly,  the  ground  which  we  have  gone  over, 
that  we  may  distinctly  perceive  the  point  from  which  we 
proceed,  and  learn  the  relation  which  this  form  of  mental 
action  holds  to  the  other  acts  of  the  mind. 

By  our  perceptive  powers,  we  become  acquainted  with  the 
qualities  of  external  objects,  and,  in  general,  with  the  facta 
in  the  external  world.  By  our  consciousness,  we  learn  the 
facts  existing  in  the  world  within  us.  By  original  sugges- 
tion, various  intuitive  truths  and  relations  become  objects 
of  cognition.  By  abstraction,  conceptions  of  individuals 
assume  the  form  of  general  ideas ;  and  by  memory,  all  thia 
knowledge  is  retained  and  recalled  to  our  consciousness  a* 
the  command  of  the  will. 

Were  we  endowed  with  no  other  powers  than  these,  we 
might  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  knowledge.  Whatever  we  had 
observed  or  experienced,  and  whatever  had  been  observed 
and  experienced  by  others,  might  be  retained,  generalized 
and  combined,  and  thus  our  acquisitions  might  be  both  ex- 


280  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

tensive  and  valuable.  But,  with  no  other  faculties,  we  could 
only  know  what  we  or  other  men  had  actually  observed  or 
experienced.  We  could  never  make  use  of  this  knowledge  to 
penetrate  into  the  unknown.  In  a  word,  we  could  observe, 
and  feel,  and  generalize,  and  classify,  and  remember,  but 
we  could  not  reason. 

But  such  is  not  the  condition  of  the  human  mind.  As 
Boon  as  we  acquire  any  knowledge  whatever,  we  are  prompted 
to  use  it  for  the  purpose  of  acquiring  other  knowledge.  We 
are  continually  saying  to  ourselves^  if  this  be  thus,  then 
this  other  must  be  so ;  or  this  must  be  so,  because  this  and 
that  are  so.  If  this  be  so,  what  must  of  necessity  follow  7 
This  is  the  language  of  human  beings,  young  and  old,  sav- 
age and  civilized,  learned  and  ignora-nt.  It  is  the  impulse 
of  our  common  nature,  and  one  of  the  endowments  with 
which  we  hav^  been  blessed  by  a  merciful  Creator.  He  has 
enabled  us  to  cognize  relations  existing  between  certain 
truths,  from  which  emanate  other  truths  different  from  the 
preceding,  but  which,  without  a  knowledge  of  them,  could 
never  have  been  discovered. 

The  results  of  the  exercise  of  this  faculty  have  been  most 
astonishing.  Unlike  our  other  endowments,  every  one  of 
its  acts  provides  a  wider  field  for  its  future  employment,  and 
thus  its  range  is  absolutely  illimitable.  The  perception  of 
one  color  gives  me  no  additional  power  to  perceive  another 
color.  A  fact  remembered  furnishes  only  accidentally  a 
basis  or  an  aid  to  wider  recollection.  But  every  truth  dis- 
covered by  the  reasoning  power,  and,  in  fact,  every  truth, 
however  acquired,  becomes,  by  use  of  this  power,  the  means 
for  proceeding  to  further  discovery.  Through  the  element- 
ary cognitions  in  geometry,  our  reason  at  first  discovers 
certain  truths  concerning  lines,  angles  and  triangles. 
Using  these  increased  means  of  knowledge,  it  proceeds  to  dis- 
cover truths  concerning  circles  and  squares    and,   using 


REASONING.  281 

these  again,  it  discovers  those  concerning  solids,  spheres  and 
spherical  triangles ;  and,  using  these  again,  it  has  been  able 
to  reveal  to  us  the  magnitude,  distances  and  motions,  of  the 
heavenly  bodies,  and  thus  unfold  the  wonders  of  modern 
astronomy.  The  knowledge  which  we  thus  obtain  is  ori- 
ginal knowledge ;  that  is,  it  is  given  us  specially  by  this 
faculty,  and  could  be  given  us  by  no  other.  How  could  we 
ever  learn  the  distance  or  magnitude  or  motion  of  the  plan- 
ets, either  by  perception,  or  consciousness,  or  original  sug- 
gestion, or  abstraction,  or  memory  ?  The  same  remark  is 
true  respecting  the  other  sciences.  Every  science  which 
presents  to  us  knowledge  which  could  not  be  attained  by  the 
powers  above  mentioned,  must  rely  for  its  discoveries  wholly 
on  reasoning. 

We  see,  then,  the  nature  of  this  faculty.  It  cognizes 
nothing  directly  and  immediately.  It  neither  perceives  the 
facts  of  the  outward  nor  is  conscious  of  the  facts  of  the 
inward  world;  it  furnishes  no  original  suggestions,  and 
neither  abstracts  nor  remembers ;  but  it  receives  these  data 
as  they  are  delivered  to  it  by  these  preceding  faculties,  and, 
by  a  process  of  its  own,  uses  them  to  discover  new  truths, 
to  which  none  of  them  could  ever  have  attained.  The  man- 
ner in  which  this  is  done,  we  shall  attempt  to  explain. 

Reasoning  consists  in  a  series  of  mental .  acts,  by  which 
we  show  such  a  relation  to  exist  between  the  known  and  the 
unknown,  that  if  the  former  be  true,  the  latter  must  also  be 
equally  true.  Thus,  in  geometry,  the  known  with  which 
we  commence  is  the  definitions  and  axioms.  Our  fii*st  dem- 
onstration shows  such  relations  to  exist  between  them  and 
the  first  proposition,  that  if  those  be  true  this  must  be  true 
also.  This  first  proposition  is  thus  added  to  the  known, 
and  becomes  as  firm  a  ground  from  which  to  reason  as  the 
definitions  and  axioms  from  which  we  at  first  proceeded.  In 
our  next  step  we  again  show,  by  mt  reasoning  powers,  that 
24* 


282  INTELLUCTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

if  this  increased  known  be  true,  the  second  proposition  mnst 
be  true  also.  We  then  add  our  second  proposition  to  the 
known,  and  with  this  increased  material  of  knowledge  pro- 
ceed to  the  third  proposition ;  and  so  on  continually.  In 
each  act  of  reasoning,  we  observe  first  the  known,  reaching 
to  a  definite  limit,  beyond  which  all  is  uncertainty.  We 
observe,  secondly,  a  proposition  in  the  unknown  which  may 
be  true  or  may  be  false,  of  which  nothing  can  with  certainty 
be  affirmed,  separated  from  the  known  by  a  chasm,  so  to 
speak,  of  thus  far  impassable  ignorance.  The  reasoning 
power  projects  a  bridge  across  this  chasm,  uniting  them 
indissolubly  together,  transforming  the  unknown  into  tht 
known,  adding  a  new  domain  to  science,  and  enlarging  bj 
every  such  act  the  area  of  human  knowledge. 

If  such  be  the  nature  of  the  mental  {)rocess  which  we 
denominate  reasoning,  it  suggests  to  us  three  distinct  topics 
for  consideration : 

First,  the  nature  of  the  truths  from  which  we  proceed. 

Secondly,  the  validity  of  the  results  at  which  we  arrive. 

Thirdly,  the  nature  of  the  process  by  which  we  pass 
from  the  one  to  the  other. 

To  the  consideration  of  these  subjects  the  remainder  of 
this  section  will  be  devoted. 

I.  TIte  nature  of  the  truths  from  which  we  pro- 
ceed. 

I  have  already  said  that,  in  reasoning,  we  design  to  show  : 
that  if  certain  things  are  true,  certain  other  things,  whose 
truth  is  now  unknown,  must  be  true  also.  We  then  must, 
of  necessity,  proceed  from  the  true  to  the  doubtful,  from  the 
known  to  the  unknown.  The  premises  are  always,  at  the 
commencement,  better  known  than  the  conclusion  at  which  we 
propose  to  arrive.  From  this  it  is  evident  that  we  can  never 
reason  unless  from  what  is  either  known  or  conceded ;  and, 
further,  that  we  can  never  prove  any  proposition  unless  we 


FIRST  TRUTHS.  283 

can  find  some  other  proposition  better  known  by  wliieh  tc 
prove  it.  If  any  proposition  is  to  be  proved,  all  other  pos- 
Bible  propositions  must  stand  to  it  in  one  of  three  rehitions, 
either  less  known^  equally  known^  or  better  knowji.  To 
attempt  to  prove  what  we  know  by  what  we  do  not  know, 
or  to  prove  what  we  know  by  what  we  do  not  know  as  wdl, 
is  absurd.  Inasmuch  as  proof  brings  the  conclusion  to  pre- 
cisely the  level  of  the  premises,  a  process  of  this  kind  would 
diminish  instead  of  increasing  the  certainty  of  our  conclu- 
sion. That  an  error  of  this  kind  cannot  be  committed.  I 
would  not,  however,  assert.  We  not  unfrequently  hear 
men  attempt  to  prove,  what  every  one  at  the  beginning  al- 
lows, but  which,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  argument,  every 
one  is  disposed  to  doubt.  Such  must  always  be  the  result 
when  we  attempt  to  prove  self-evident  truths.  Secondly :  to 
attempt  to  prove  either  what  we  know  or  what  we  do  not 
know,  by  what  we  only  know  equally  well^  is  nugatory. 
We  of  course  know  no  better  at  the  end  than  at  the  begin- 
ning of  our  argument,  and  all  our  labor  is  by  necessity 
thrown  away.  We  could  not,  by  a  life's  labor  in  this  man- 
ner, advance  a  single  step  in  knowledge.  Hence  we  can 
never  prove  any  proposition,  unless  we  can  find  some  prop- 
ositions better  known  than  that  which  we  desire  to  prove. 
Hence  it  follows,  that,  when  we  find  a  proposition  so  evident 
that  no  proposition  more  evident  can  be  discovered,  the 
truth  of  such  a  proposition  cannot  be  established  by  the 
reasoning  faculty.  If  it  be  true,  its  truth  must  be  deter- 
mined by  some  other  power  of  the  mind.  Hence,  all  rea- 
soning must  commence  from  truths  not  made  known  by  the 
ason,  that  is,  which  the  intellection  perceives  to  be  true 
previous  to  all  reasoning,  and  from  which  all  the  deductiona 
of  reason  proceed.  Let  us  consider  the  aature  of  some  of 
these  elementary  beliefs,  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  all 
reasoning.' 


284  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

Were  nothing  more  required  than  that  a  man  should  con- 
vince himself  of  the  truth  of  any  proposition,  nothing  more 
would  be  necessary  than  that  he  himself  was  satisfied  that 
his  premises  were  true.  I  do  not,  of  course,  say  that  he 
would  thus,  of  necessity,  arrive  at  truth,  but  he  would  be 
able  to  convince  himself  of  the  truth  of  the  proposition  in 
question.  But,  if  we  reason  for  the  purpose  of  convincing 
another  man,  it  is  obvious  that  he  also  must  admit  with  us 
the  truth  of  our  premises,  or  the  propositions  from  which  we 
proceed.  Unless  the  two  can  agree  in  the  premises,  argue  • 
as  long  as  they  may,  they  can  make  no  progress  towards  a ' 
conclusion.  The  argument  which  convinces  the  one  has  no 
effect  on  the  other,  since  he  denies  the  premises  on  which  it 
is  founded.  No  argument,  then,  can  have  any  power  over 
the  mind  of  another,  unless  both  equally  admit  the  truth  of 
the  premises  on  which  the  conclusion  rests.  But  what  is  '■ 
>ue  of  any  two  men,  is  true  of  all  men  collectively.  We 
'an  never  convince  the  human  mind  of  the  truth  of  our 
conclusions,  unless  there  be  some  truths  from  which  we 
proceed,  which  all  men  equally  with  ourselves  admit  prior 
to  all  argument.  If  such  truths  did  not  exist,  all  reasoning 
addressed  to  the  human  race  would  be  nugatory  and  use- 
less. When  men  reason  at  great  length,  without  coming  to 
a  conclusion,  the  cause  of  their  difficulty  generally  is,  that 
they  have  no  principles  in  common.  Hence,  when  we  find 
ourselves  in  this  condition,  the  proper  course  to  be  pursued 
is  to  refer  back  to  the  premises  from  which  we  proceed,  and 
deter -.nine  whether  they  be  the  same.  When  men  agree  in 
premises,  and  reason  logically  from  them,  it  cannot  be  long 
before  some  conclusion  is  reached. 

But  it  is  evident  that  in  all  matters  of  science,  and,  in 
fact,  in  all  our  reasonings  (those  only  excepted  which  are 
technically  termed  ad  hortmiem)^  we  address  ourselves  not  to 
one  man,  or  one  class  of  men,  but  to  the  whole  human  race. 


FIRST   TRUTHS.  285 

We  proceed  upon  the  belief  that  what  convinces  one  man, 
of  fair  understanding  and  in  a  normal  condition  of  the  intel- 
lect, will  convince  all  men  under  the  same  circumstances 
that  iSj  that  there  are  common  truths  which  all  men  admit, 
and  thatj  reasoning  from  them,  they  must  all  arrive  at  the 
same  result  as  soon  as  the  argument  is  fairly  presented 
And  this  anticipation  is  justified  by  universal  experience. 
The  conclusions  of  mathematics,  astronomy,  mechanics,  of 
geology,  chemistry,  magnetism,  of  political  economy,  and 
social  philosophy,  from  the  time  of  their  first  promulgation, 
have  established  themselves  gradually  in  the  mind  of  man, 
until,  by  the  force  of  their  own  evidence,  they  are  admitted 
as  acknowledged  truths.  Every  man  who  has  been  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  the  reasoning  on  which  their  con- 
clusions depend,  feels  assured  that  every  other  man  who 
contemplates  them  without  prejudice  will  be  convinced  also. 
Hence  the  universal  confidence  that  is  felt  in  the  maxim  of 
Bacon,  '^ Magna  est  Veritas  et  'prevalebitP  Such  unani- 
mous consent  to  conclusions  could  not  be  predicted,  and 
could  not  exist,  unless  there  were  principles  lying  at  the 
foundation  of  the  reasonings,  which  all  men  admit,  and  from 
which  conclusions  follow,  by  irresistible  sequence,  which  all 
men  must  allow.  Such  truths,  made  known  to  all  men  by 
the  original  constitution  of  the  human  understanding,  must 
lie  at  the  foundation  of  all  science,  and  of  all  knowledge 
established  by  reasoning.  They  have  been  called,  by  Buffier 
and  Dr.  Reid,  first  truths,  and  they  are  said  by  the-^e  phi- 
losophers  to  emanate  from  the  common  sense  of  mankind. 

It  may  reasonably  be  demanded  whether  there  is  any 
mode  by  which  we  may  determine  whether  or  not  any 
proposition  is  a  first  truth.  Is  there  any  test  by  which 
they  may  be  practically  distinguished  from  mere  propositions 
that  are  inferred  from  them  ?     To  this  I  answer, 

First,  they  are  incomprehensible. 


286  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 


i 


Secondly,  t/iei/  ai^e  si?nple. 

Thirdly,  t/ief/  are  necessary  and  universal. 

Fourthly,  theij  are  so  evident  that  nothing  7nore  evi* 
dent  can  he  discovered  by  luhich  to  prove  them. 

This  subject  has,  however,  been  already  considered  undei 
the  head  of  the  Reality  of  our  Knowledge,  pages  95 — 97. 
to  which  pages  the  reader  is  referred. 

The  axioms  of  geometry  are  acknowledged  to  be  the  foun- 
dation truths  of  that  science ;  but  other  self-evident  truths 
lie  equally  at  the  foundation  of  all  other  knowledge  estab- 
lished by  reasoning.  For  instance  :  that  I  exist ;  that  an 
external  universe  exists ;  that  the  testimony  of  my  percep- 
tive and  my  reasoning  powers  is  to  be  received ;  that  a 
change  presupposes  a  cause ;  that  the  course  of  nature  is 
uniform,  or  that  the  same  causes  under  the  same  conditions 
will  produce  the  same  efiects ;  that  rational  beings  act  from 
motives,  and  that  a  change  of  action  must  proceed  from  a 
change  of  motives,  and  a  multitude  of  others,  may  be  placed 
in  the  number  of  first  truths. 

Between  the  truths  that  are  acknowledged  by  all  as  self- 
evident,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  a  distinction  may  be 
observed.  The  first  truths  of  geometry,  for  instance,  are 
perceived  to  be  such  unconditionally.  Thus,  we  could  not 
conceive  of  any  circumstances  in  which  the  whole  of  any- 
thing would  not  be  greater  than  its  part,  the  reverse  of  this 
truth  being  manifestly  unthinkable.  This,  as  we  perceive, 
must  be  true  semper  et  ubiqiie.  But  that  I  exist,  that  an 
external  world  exists,  is  only  a  conditional  first  truth. 
Neither  I  nor  the  external  world  have  always  existed,  aud- 
it is  not  impossible  to  suppose  them  to  cease  to  exist.  It  is 
not,  however,  possible  to  conceive  them  not  to  exist,  things 
being  as  they  are  ;  that  is,  I  being  conscious  of  the  acta 
of  thinking,  perceiving,  etc.  Thus  also,  things  being  as 
they  are,  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  an  intelligent  being 


FIRST   TRUTHS.  287 

as  acting  witliout  motive,  but  it  is  not  impossible  t)  suppose 
beings  constituted  so  differently  from  us  as  to  act  in  this 
manner,  or  to  suppose  that  no  intelligent  beings  had  ever 
been  created.  But^  things  being  as  they  arc^  the  opposite 
of  these  truths  is  utterly  inconceivable. 

On  these  first  truths  all  our  reasonings  ultimately  depend. 
They  are  rarely  stated  in  language,  because  every  m;in 
instinctively  takes  them  for  granted,  and  he  knows  that  all 
other  men  do  the  same.  It  would,  however,  be  a  very  valu- 
able service  to  science,  if  the  first  truths  of  all  knowledge 
in  general,  and  of  the  separate  sciences  in  particular,  could 
be  plainly  stated  and  accurately  classified.  In  this  manner 
a  large  amount  of  useless  discussion  would  be  prevented, 
and  truth  arrived  at  with  much  greater  facility.  Dr.  Reid, 
in  the  sixth  chapter  of  his  sixth  Essay  on  the  intellectual 
powers,  has  stated  several  of  the  necessary  truths  in  gram- 
mar, logic,  mathematics,  in  taste,  in  morals  and  meta- 
physics, together  with  many  contingent  truths  which  are 
admitted  in  all  our  efforts  after  knowledge.  The  subject, 
however,  demands  a  more  extended  and  minute  examination. 
Whenever  it  shall  have  been  done,  the  labor  of  intellectual 
research  will  be  greatly  diminished,  and  its  results  moi'o 
easily  verified. 

2.  I  have  stated  above  that  the  end  to  be  accomplished 
by  the  reasoning  faculty  is  to  render  the  conclusion  at  wliich 
we  arrive,  of  precisely  the  same  validity  as  the  premises. 
From  this  it  is  evident  that  whatever  the  reasoning  fa(!ultj 
has  logically  deduced  from  first  truths  is  just  as  valid  mat- 
ter from  Avhich  to  proceed  as  the  first  truths  themselves. 
Thus,  in  geometry,  from  the  axioms  and  definitions  we  prove 
a  proposition ;  that  proposition,  when  logically  proved,  is  aa 
certainly  true  as  the  axioms  from  which  wo  at  first  pro- 
ceeded. The  proposition  that  the  angles  at  the  base  of  an 
feoscehs  triangle  are  equal,  is  just  as  valid  a  premise,  in  % 


288  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

geometrical  demonstration,  as  the  truth  that  things  equal  to 
the  same  are  equal  to  one  another.  And,  still  further,  what- 
ever is  by  logical  process  pnoved  from  this  proposition  is 
just  as  valid  matter  as  the  proposition  itself.  And  this  will 
be  the  case  to  any  extent  whatever. 

The  only  abatement  to  be  made  to  this  statement  is  the 
uncertainty  arising  from  the  imperfection  of  our  faculties 
Ws  may,  from  this  imperfection,  reason  illogically  without 
perceiving  it.  If  there  be  this  liability,  the  greater  the 
number  of  arguments,  the  greater  the  probability  that  in 
some  one  there  will  be  error.  And  this  liability  increases 
with  the  complication  of  the  relations  which  we  are  called 
to  consider.  This  liability  is  reduced  to  the  smallest  prac- 
tical value  when  the  various  steps  of  an  argument  have 
been  examined  by  men  skilled  in  the  discovery  of  truth, 
and  their  validity  has  been  allowed  by  all  succeeding  phi- 
losophers. 

3.  Besides  these  truths  given  us  in  the  original  constitu- 
tion of  our  intellect,  and  the  truths  following  from  them 
by  logical  deduction,  other  truths  are  valid  matter  in  our 
reasonings.  Such  are  the  acknowledged  laws  of  nature, 
established  by  incontestable  observation.  Thus,  it  has  been 
ascertained  that  the  sensation  of  hearing,  under  normal  con- 
ditions, is  caused  by  the  vibration  of  the  air ;  the  perception 
of  external  objects,  by  the  formation  of  an  image  on  the 
retina ;  that  water  boils  at  212°  and  freezes  at  32°  Fahren- 
heit, under  ordinary  conditions  of  barometrical  pressure; 
that  the  atmosphere  is  a  mixture  of  oxygen  and  nitrogen 
gases,  and  water  a  compound  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen,  both 
always  in  definite  proportions ;  that  atmospheric  air  is  neces- 
sary to  animal  life.  These,  and  all  other  laws  and  general 
facts,  which  at  any  time  have  been  discovered  by  experiment 
or  observation,  whether  in  matter  or  mind,  are  valid  matter 
from  which  to  proceed  in  our  reasonings.    We  thus  see  the 


FIRST    TRUTHS.  289 

connection  between  those  powers  of  the  mind  which  we  havo 
previously  considered  and  the  reasoning  faculty.  The  former 
observe  and  retain  and  generalize,  and  thus  change  individ- 
ual facts  into  general  laws.  These  become  the  premises 
from  which,  by  our  reasoning  power,  conclusions  are  drawn  ; 
and  thus  knowledge  is  increased,  and  the  dominion  of  man 
over  nature  extended. 

4.  I  have  thus  far  treated  of  premises,  or  propositions 
from  which  we  proceed  in  reasoning,  of  which  the  truth  is 
incontestable.  Wherever  such  propositions  can  be  discovered 
we  always  are  bound  to  use  them,  for  thus  alone  can  we 
arrive  at  pure  truth,  and  enlarge  our  positive  knowledge. 
Frequently,  however,  in  our  practical  conduct,  such  propo- 
sitions cannot  be  discovered,  and  we  are  obliged  to  form 
our  reasonings  on  mere  probability.  In  this  case  we  can 
arrive  at  nothing  higher  than  probability,  but  this  proba- 
bility is  in  many  cases  far  preferable  to  ignorance,  and  may 
furnish  a  valuable  guide  for  our  conduct.  Thus,  we  say, 
concerninor  a  comino:  event,  men  under  certain  circumstances 
generally  act  thus  or  so.  A,  is  under  these  circumstances, 
therefore  he  will  probably  act  thus  or  so.  Under  such  or 
such  conditions  of  the  atmosphere  it  generally  rains ;  such 
are  the  conditions  this  morning,  therefore  it  will  probably 
rain  to-day.  Or,  again  :  if  there  be  a  war  in  Europe,  there 
will  be  a  demand  for  American  grain ;  there  will  probably 
be  a  war  in  Europe,  therefore  probably  there  will  be  such 
a  demand.  It  is  obvious  that  much  of  our  reasoning  con- 
cerning future  events  is  of  this  character.  It  does  not 
furnish  us  with  certain  knowledge,  but  yet  with  knowledge 
which  may  be  of  gi'eat  value  in  the  practical  business  of 
life,  and  the  management  of  affairs. 

n.  Such  are  some  of  the  truths  from  which  we  proceed 
in  the  use  of  our  reasoning  powers.     I  proceed  to  inquire, 
Becondly,  what  is  the  state  of  mind  at  which  we  arrive 
25 


290  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

provided  the  reasoning  faculty  has  been  employed  in  ooedi 
once  to  the  laws  to  which  it  has  been  subjected. 

The  states  of  mind  of  which  we  may  be  conscious  in  regard 
to  any  proposition,  are,  I  think,  the  following : 

1.  We  may  be  in  perfect  ignorance  concerning  it,  neither 
believing  nor  disbelieving  it  in  the  slightest  degree.  Thus, 
were  it  affirmed  that  the  sun  is  inhabited,  I  must  say,  I 
know  nothing  about  it.  I  have  no  facts  from  which  to 
reason,  and  am  therefore  in  absolute  ignorance ;  I  have  not 
even  an  opinion  either  in  favor  of,  or  in  opposition  to,  the 
proposition.  It  is  to  me  precisely  the  same  as  if  the  affirm- 
ation had  not  been  made. 

2.  I  may  know  that  a  proposition  is  true.  Here  1 
express  my  state  of  mind  by  saying  that  I  believe  it,  or  I 
know  it.  Thus,  I  know  that  the  exterior  angle  of  a  triangle 
is  equal  to  the  two  interior  and  opposite  angles.  I  believe 
that  there  are  such  cities  as  London,  Paris,  and  Wash- 
ington. 

3.  I  may  know  a  proposition  to  be  false.  Here  my  sta,te 
of  mind  is  expressed  by  the  words,  I  disbelieve  it.  Thus,  if 
the  proposition  were  presented  to  me,  that  the  angles  at  the 
base  of  an  isosceles  triangle  are  unequal,  I  know  it  to  be 
false,  and  I  say  I  disbelieve  it. 

4.  Without  being  able  to  arrive  at  either  belief  or  disbe- 
lief, I  am  capable  of  forming  an  opinion  concerning  the 
truth  or  falsehood  of  a  proposition.  I  weigh  the  several  con- 
siderations presented,  and  I  find  my  mind  inclined  in  one 
direction  or  the  other ;  though  I  am  fully  aware  that  this 
inclination  may  be  reversed  by  subsequent  and  more  accu- 
rate knowledge.  Thus,  in  the  present  state  of  knowledge, 
I  am  unable  either  to  believe  or  disbelieve  that  the  planets 
are  inhabited,  yet  1  may  have  an  opinion  on  tl  e  subject  in- 
clining either  to  the  one  view  or  the  other.     I  therefore 


PROPOSITIONS.  2^1 

wait  for  furilier  information,  prepared  to  change  my  opinion 
witli  the  progress  of  knowledge. 

The  object  of  reasoning  is  to  advance  our  certainty,  and 
to  move  the  mind  onward  from  the  extreme  of  ignorance  on 
the  one  hand,  to  the  opposite  extreme  of  belief  on  the  other. 
Hence  it  may  change  our  mental  state  from  ignorance  to 
opinion,  from  opinion  to  more  confident  opinion,  or  from 
either  of  these  to  certainty  or  confident  belief  Its  move- 
ment is  all  in  one  direction,  from  a  lower  to  a  higher  degree 
of  certainty. 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  is  evident  that,  when  our 
premises  are  indubitable,  we  arrive,  by  reasoning,  at  absolute 
belief  or  indubitable  truth.  When  our  premises  are  merely 
matters  of  opinion  we  arrive  only  at  opinion.  In  every 
case  we  raise  the  conclusion  to  precisely  the  same  degree  of 
certainty  as  the  premises  from  which  we  proceed :  we  make 
what  was  before  unknown,  or  less  known,  exactly  equal  to 
what  was  before  more  known.  Our  conclusion  can  never 
be  more  certain  than  our  premises,  but  if  our  process  be 
logical,  it  can  never  be  less  certain. 

III.  We  now  come,  in  the  third  place,  to  inquire  what  is 
the  process  by  which  this  relation  between  the  known  and 
the  unknown  is  rendered  apparent,  so  that  we  are  enabled 
to  raise  the  one  to  the  certainty  of  the  other. 

We  do  this  by  syllogism.  A  syllogism  is  a  series  of 
judgments  or  propositions,  the  last  of  which  affirms  the  con- 
clusion at  which  we  have  arrived.  Before  considering  syllo- 
gisms, it  will  be  proper  to  consider  the  nature  of  jud.Lniients, 
or  the  propositions  of  which  they  are  composed. 

Judf^ment  is  an  act  of  the  mind  in  which  we  affirm  one 
thing  of  another  ;  that  is,  we  affirm  a  predicate  of  a  .sul)|ect, 
or  judge  that  a  particular  individual  or  species  is  included 
in  a  particular  genus  or  class.  Thus,  I  judge  snow  to  be 
white,  grass  to  be  green,  avarice  to  be  contemptible ;  thai 


292  IISTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

is,  I  judge  these  particular  individuals  to  be  comprenended 
within  the  class  which  I  predicate  of  them. 

Our  judgment  may  be  either  clear  and  distinct,  or  obscure 
and  confused. 

A  judgment  is  formed  from  two  conceptions,  and  it 
affirms  that  one  of  these  may  be  predicated  of  the  other. 
Now,  if  we  have  a  complete  comprehension  of  both  these 
conceptions,  our  judgment  must  be  clear  and  distinct.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  my  knowledge  of  the  conceptions  involved 
be  imperfect,  vague,  and  obscure,  my  judgment  must  be  of 
a  similar  character.  Thus,  when  the  proposition  is  an- 
nounced that  the  three  angles  of  a  triangle  are  equal  to  two 
right  angles,  I  comprehend  the  terms  employed  both  in  the 
subject  and  predicate,  and  my  judgment  is  definite  and  un- 
ambiguous. If  it  be  said  that  the  rings  of  Saturn  are  chaos, 
I  find  myself  to  have  a  very  incomplete  idea  of  the  rings  of 
Saturn,  and  a  very  indistinct  idea  of  chaos.  Hence,  I  am 
unable  to  form  anything  more  than  a  very  indistinct  idea  of 
the  proposition. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  remark  that  judgment  enters  as 
an  element  into  almost  all  our  mental  acts.  We  think  in 
judgments ;  that  is,  we  are  always  affirming  one  thing  of 
another,  and  we  do  not  consider  anything  else  to  be  thinking. 
To  conceive  of  things  without  forming  judgments,  is  to  make 
no  progress.  We  can  only  be  said  to  think  when  we  form 
a  judgment,  respecting  two  conceptions,  in  which  one  is 
affirmed  of  the  other. 

The  expression  of  a  judgment  in  words,  is  called  a  propo^ 
sition.  A  proposition,  therefore,  must  consist  of  a  subject^ 
or  that  of  which  we  affirm,  a  predicate^  or  that  which  we 
affirm  of  it,  and  a  copula^  or  that  which  affirms  the  relation 
existing  between  them.  Thus,  if  I  say,  man  is  a  vertebrate, 
here  man  is  the  subject,  vertebrate  is  the  predicate,  and  is 
Is  the  copula,  or  that  which  affirms  the  one  of  the  other, 


PROPOSITIONS.  20% 

The  subject  is  that  of  which  we  discourse,  the  predicate  ia 
the  class  to  which  we  aflSrm  that  it  belongs,  or  under  which 
it  is  comprehended,  and  the  copula  is  that  which  affirms  the 
existence  of  this  relation. 

When  we  thus  affirm  a  predicate  of  a  subject,  we  afiirin  that 
all  the  qualities  of  the  predicate  are  possessed  by  the  subject. 
When  I  say,  man  is  a  vertebrate,  I  affirm  that  all  which  is  com- 
prehended by  the  predicate  vertebrate  is  possessed  by  ?nan. 

In  every  proposition  it  is  obvious  there  must  be  two 
conceptions.  Of  these  one  must  be  a  general  idea,  or  one 
designating  a  class.  To  affii^m  of  two  individuals  is  either 
nugatory  or  false.  To  say  John  is  John  is  nugatory,  for 
the  proposition  does  not  advance  our  knowledge.  To  say 
John  is  Peter  is  false,  for  it  affirms  something  to  be  different 
from  what  it  is. 

The  subject  may  be  either  an  individual  or  a  species  :  the 
predicate  must  be  a  genus ;  that  is,  it  must  designate  a  larger 
class  than  the  subject.  In  a  proposition,  we  therefore  affirm 
that  a  particular  individual  is  included  within  a  particular 
class.  Hence,  every  proposition  must  be  either  true  or  false. 
The  subject  is  either  included  within  the  class  designated  by 
the  predicate,  or  it  is  not.  It  cannot  be  neither  within  noi 
without  it.  Thus,  if  I  say  horse  is  a  vertebrate,  it  is  eithei 
true  or  false^  for  horse  is  either  included  within  this  class, 
or  it  is  not. 

We  may  now  proceed  to  the  subject  of  syllogism. 

A  syllogism,  in  the  language  of  Aristotle,  is  a  speech  in 
which  certain  things  (the  premises)  being  supposed,  some- 
thing different  from  what  is  supposed  (the  tonclusion) 
follows  of  necessity,  and  this  solely  in  virtue  of  he  suppo- 
sitions themselves. 

The  principle  on  which  a  syllogism  depends  is  the  follow- 
ing :  Whatever  is  affirmed  or  denied  of  a  class  is  affirmed 
or  denied  of  every  individual  urfder  that  class.  Thus,  when 
25* 


294  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

I  say  snow  is  white,  I  mean  that  snow  is  comprc  nended  un^ 
der  the  class  white,  and  I  affirm  this  also  of  all  snow  what- 
ever.    When  I  say  snow  is  not  black,  I  exclude  snow  from 
the  class  black,  and  I  exclude  all  snow  from  this  class :  that. 
is,  I  deny  black  of  snow. 

It  will  be  seen,  from  what  has  been  said,  that  logic,  or  the 
science  of  syllogisms,  is  formal ;  that  is,  it  must  proceed 
from  premises  conceded.  It  of  itself  takes  no  cognizance 
of  either  their  truth  or  falsehood.  Supposing  them  to 
be  true,  it  governs  the  forms  of  propositions,  and  their  rela- 
tions to  each  other,  and  merely  assures  us  that  the  conclu- 
sion which  we  infer  in  obedience  to  its  rules  is  as  true  as  our 
premises.  It  renders  us  no  other  aid  than  this,  but  this  it 
renders  most  effectually. 

It  has  sometimes  been  supposed  that  syllogism  was  a 
mode  of  reasoning,  and  a  mode  of  reasoning  employed  by 
philosophers,  while  other  men  reasoned  in  some  other  and 
simpler  manner.  It  has  even  been  said,  that,  much  as  philos- 
ophers talk  about  syllogism,  when  'they  come  to  reason, 
they  neglect  it  all,  and  reason  like  common  men.  To  this 
it  may  be  replied,  that  syllogism  is  not  a  mode,  it  is  the 
mode  of  reasoning.  It  is  the  peculiar  process  of  the  reason- 
ing faculty.  The  reasoning  power  forms  syllogisms  just  as 
the  imagination  forms  pictures,  each  being  the  purpose  for 
which  these  different  powers  were  respectively  designed 
Philosophers  and  other  men  must,  therefore,  if  they  reason 
at  all,  reason  in  the  same  way,  for  they  have  no  other 
nethod  by  which  to  proceed.  I  do  not,  of  course,  pretend 
that  either  of  them  draws  out  every  argument  in  the  form 
of  a  syllogism.  One  or  both  of  the  premises  are  frequently 
so  well  known  as  to  be  taken  for  granted,  and  we  need  only 
state  the  conclusion  which  must  follow  from  what  is  con- 
ceded by  all.  But,  in  this  case,  our  reasoning,  though  ever 
BO  much  abridged,  may  always  be  reduced  to  the  form  of  a 


SYLLOGISM.  295 

gyllogisin,  and  we  always  so  reduce  it,  if  we  desire  to  test 
its  truth  and  examine  it  with  accuracy. 

In  forming  a  syllogism  in  the  first  proposition  we  affirm 
that  a  species  is  included  under  a  genus.  By  the  second 
proposition  we  affirm  that  an  individual  or  a  sub-species  ia 
included  under  this  species.  In  the  third  proposition,  or  the 
conclusion,  we  affirm  the  proposition  which,  of  necessity, 
follows  from  the  conjunction  of  the  two  first  propositions  or 
premises. 

Thus,  for  example,  I  affirm, 

1.  All  tyrants  are  detestable. 

2.  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

3.  Caesar  was  detestable. 

Here,  by  the  first  proposition,  I  affirm  that  the  species 
tyrant  is  included  under  the  genus  detestable ;  by  the 
second  proposition,  I  affirm  that  the  individual  Caesar  was 
included  under  the  species  tyrant ;  and,  by  the  third  propo- 
sition, I  affirm  the  conclusion  which  of  necessity  follows, 
namely,  that  Caesar  is  included  under  the  class  detestable. 

In  order  to  illustrate  this  subject,  let  us  suppose  that  the 
proposition  to  be  proved  is,  Caesar  was  detestable.  The 
predicate  is  called  the  major  term,  the  subject  the  minor 
term.  When  we  make  this  assertion,  it  is  denied  by  an  op- 
ponent ;  that  is,  he  asserts,  on  the  contrary,  that  this  predi- 
cate, detestable,  cannot  be  affirmed  of  the  subject,  Caesar. 
In  what  manner  is  it  given  us  to  proceed?  Assertion  is 
confronted  by  assertion  equally  decided.  In  what  manner 
shall  we  arrive  at  the  truth,  so  as  to  convince  an  opponent, 
or  mankind  in  general,  of  the  validity  of  our  proposition  ? 

We  do  this  by  seeking  for  what  is  called  a  middle  term, 
or  for  some  class  which  is  included  in  the  class  detestable, 
and  which  also  includes  the  subject  Oaesar.  Suppose  1 
choose  the  term  dictator,  and  say, 

1.  All  dictators  are  detestable. 


296  INTELLECrUAL   PHILOSOPHr. 

2.  Caesar  was  a  dictator. 

3.  Caesar  was  detestable. 

My  opponent  refers  to  Fabius,  and  other  dictators,  who 
were  not  detestable.  I  am,  therefore,  obliged  to  change 
the  first  premise,  and  say,  some  dictators  are  detestable.  But, 
as  all  dictators  are  not  included  in  the  class  detestable,  the 
conclusion  will  not  by  necessity  follow,  and  this  argument 
must  be  relinquished. 

I  seek  for  another  middle  term,  and  select  that  mentioned 
above,  the  term  tyrant.  I  show  by  facts  that  Caesar  was 
comprehended  under  this  class.  I  then  proceed  as  before, 
and  the  conclusion  follows  by  necessity,  in  virtue  of  the 
suppositions  themselves. 

The  above  is  an  affirmative  syllogism.  In  a  negative 
syllogism  the  process  is  modified  as  follows  :  We  first 
affirm  that  a  certain  species  is  wholly  excluded  from  a  par- 
ticular genus.  In  the  second  place,  we  affirm  that  the  in- 
dividual or  sub-species  is  included  in  this  excluded  species. 
The  conclusion  follows,  by  necessity,  that  the  individual  or 
species  is  excluded  from  the  first  mentioned  genus. 

For  example,  suppose  it  were  to  be  proved  that  Caesar 
was  not  detestable.  This  is  denied,  and  we  must  seek  for  a 
middle  term  which  shall  include  Caesar,  and  be  excluded 
from  the  class  detestable.  I  choose  the  term  dictator,  and 
then  say, 

1.  No  dictator  is  detestable. 

2.  Caesar  was  a  dictator ;  therefore^ 

3.  Caesar  was  not  detestable. 

Here,  however,  I  am  met  by  the  fact  that  some  dictators 
were  detestable,  and  for  this  reason  my  argument  fails, 
since  some  dictators  are  not  excluded  from  this  class. 

I  must,  therefore,  select  another  middle  term.      I  say 
therefore 

1.  Nc  brave  and  generous  man  is  detestable. 


STLLOGISM.  297 

2.  Caesar  was  a  brave  and  generous  man. 

8.  Caesar  was  not  detestable. 

If  these  premises  are  granted,  the  conclusion,  as  before, 
follows  by  necessity.  If  any  of  our  premises  is  denied,  we 
are  obliged  to  form  a  syllogism  in  the  same  manner,  and 
prove  our  premise  before  we  can  proceed.  But,  having  es- 
tablished the  premises,  the  conclusion  cannot  be  evaded.    • 

The  above  instances  will  illustrate  the  general  nature  of 
syllogisms.  Sophisms  are  arguments  purporting  to  be  syl- 
logisms, in  which  the  essential  laws  of  syllogism  are  vio- 
lated.   Thus, 

1.  All  quadrupeds  are  animals. 

2.  Birds  are  animals ;  therefore, 

3.  Birds  are  quadrupeds. 

Here  it  is  seen  at  once  that  the  class  quadrupeds,  which 
is  included  in  animals,  does  not  include  birds.  Therefore, 
nothing  is  concluded.     So  again, 

1.  Black  is  a  color. 

2.  White  is  a  color ;  therefore, 

3.  White  is  black. 

Here,  as  before,  both  white  and  black  are  included  in  the 
same  genus,  but  there  is  no  species  included  in  the  class 
color,  which  also  includes  the  subject  of  the  conclusion. 

I  have  thought  that  this  subject  might  be  illustrated  by  a 
few  simple  diagrams.  I,  therefore,  add  them  in  this  "place, 
for  the  sake  of  representing  the  doctrine  of  syllogism  to  the 
eye.  To  those  learned  in  logic,  they  will,  I  know,  he 
deemed  superfluous ;  but,  as  this  work  is  designed  for  those 
who  are  entering  upon  this  study,  they  may  not  be  wholly 
without  advantage. 

The  affirmative  syllogism  may  be  represented  by  tlie  tbl- 
lowing  diagram.     For  instance. 

All  vertebrates  are  animals. 

Horse  is  a  vertebrate  ;  therefore, 


I 


298  INTELLECTUAI  PHILOSOPHY. 

Horse  is  an  animal. 


< 


o 

-4^ 

OS 

U 

,0 

3 

u 

S 

> 

0 

■ 

That  is,  vertebrate  is  included  in  animal,  horse  is  included 
in  vertebrate ;  therefore,  horse  is  included  in  animal. 
Take,  again,  a  negative  syllogism ;  for  instance, 
No  predaceous  animals  are  ruminant. 
Lion  is  a  predaceous  animal ;  therefore, 
Lion  is  not  ruminant. 
This  may  be  represented  by  the  following  diagram : 


I 

I 


That  is,  predaceous  is  excluded  from  ruminant,  and  lion 
is  included  in  predaceous  ;  therefore,  lion  is  excluded  from 
ruminant. 

This  is  the  regular  form  of  syllogism.  The  nature  of 
sophisms  or  false  syllogisms  may  be  illustrated  by  similar 
diagrams.     For  instance, 


SYLLOGISM. 


209 


All  quadrupeds  are  animals. 
Birds  are  animals  ;  therefore, 
Birds  are  quadrupeds. 


a 


g 


That  is,  quadrupeds  are  included  in  animals ;  birds  are 
included  in  animals,  but  are  not  included  in  quadrupeds ; 
therefore,  nothing  is  concluded.     Again, 

Food  is  necessary  to  life. 

Corn  is  food  ;  therefore, 

Com  is  necessary  to  life. 


I 


'6 

<  o 

6 


That  is,  necessary  to  life  includes  some  food,  'mi  riot  all 


300  TXTELLECTUAL     PHILOSOPHY. 

food  includes  corn  but,  as  necessary  to  life  does  not  include 
all  food,  so  corn  is  not  of  necessity  included  in  necessary  to 
life.     So,  again, 

Black  is  a  color. 

White  is  a  color  ;  therefore, 

Black  is  white. 


5 


Here  color  includes  black  and  also  includes  white.  Both 
are  colors,  but  we  see  at  a  glance  that  nothing  is  concluded. 

In  this  manner  we  may  represent  various  forms  of  syl- 
logisms and  sophisms.  The  above  examples  will,  however, 
sufficiently  illustrate  the  nature  of  both. 

In  some  cases  we  are  able  to  discover  a  middle  term  which 
is  intuitively  true  and  fulfils  all  the  conditions  of  proof. 
Here  our  course  is  plain.  But  suppose  we  are  unable  to  do 
this,  what  course  remains  for  us  ?  We  are  then  obliged  to 
construct  a  conjectural  syllogism,  which  will  prove  our 
proposition,  provided  we  can  show  its  premises  to  be  true. 
We  then  take  the  conjectural  premise,  and  construct  a  syllo- 
gism by  which  it  can  be  proved.  If  here  one  of  our  prem- 
ises is  conjectural,  we  construct  another  syllogism,  until 
we  have  arrived  at  some  proposition  lyhigh  we  are  able  to 
prove.  In  this  manner  the  premise  in  question  is  estab- 
lislisd.     When  both  the  original  premises  are  proved,  the 


REASONING. 


80i 


work  is  done,  and  the  original  conjectural  syllogism  ia 
shown  to  be  true.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  if,  attempting  to 
prove  either  of  our  premises,  we  find  the  foundation  on  which 
it  rests  to  be  false,  we  abandon  it  altogether,  and  seek  for 
some  other  media  of  proof 

This  process  may,  I  think,  be  illustrated  by  the  prop- 
osition commonly  known  as  the  4Tth  of  the  first  bwk 
of  Euclid's  elements,  or  that  which  proves  that  in  any 
right-angled  triangle,  the  square  of  the  side  subtending  the 
right  angle  is  equal  to  the  sum  of  the  squares  of  the  sides 
containing  the  right  angle.  I  presume  every  reader  to  be 
familiar  with  the  proposition,  and,  therefore,  I  need  only 
indicate  briefly  the  illustration  which  I  have  to  offer. 


2 


a 

1^ 

N     ^ 

1 

I 

i' 

/ 

y 

r 

/ 

< 

The  proposition  to  be  proved  is  that  the  squares  a  and  A 
are  together  equal  to  the  larger  square  x. 

Here  I  can  find  no  middle  terra  of  acknowledged  truth 
by  which  to  prove  this  proposition.  I  proceed,  therefore, 
and  construct  an  argument  which  will  prove  it  provided  the 
premises  can  be  shown  to  be  true.  Having  divided  the 
larger  square,  x,  into  two  parts,  by  the  line  6,  7,  I  say, 
26 


302  INTELLECTUAL    PiilLOSOPHY. 

Things  equal  to  the  same  are  equal  to  each  other. 

The  square  x^  and  the  sum  of  the  squares  a  and  6,  are 
equal  to  the  parallelograms  a'  and  b\ 

Therefore,  the  square  x  is  equal  to  the  sum  of  the  squares 
a  and  b. 

Now  this  syllogism  will  prove  the  proposition  if  I  can 
show  the  premises  to  be  time.  But  it  is  not  proved  that  the 
squares  a  and  b  are  respectively  equal  to  the  parallelograms 
a  and  b\     This  is,  in  the  next  place,  to  be  proved. 

I  say,  then,  again. 

The  doubles  of  equals  are  equal. 

The  parallelogram  a  and  the  square  a  are  each  double 
of  the  equal  triangles,  1,  2,  3,  and  6,  2,  5. 

Therefore,  the  parallelogram  a'  and  the  square  a  are 
equal. 

But  it  is  yet  to  be  proved  that  these  two  triangles  are 
equal.     This  has  been  taken  for  granted. 

I  proceed  again. 

Triangles  having  two  sides  equal,  and  the  angle  contained 
by  these  two  sides  equal,  are  themselves  equal. 

These  triangles  have  these  sides  and  angles  equal ; 

Therefore,  these  two  triangles  are  equal. 

The  equality  of  the  triangles  proves  the  square  and 
parallelogram  to  be  equal,  and  thus  my  conjectural  syllo- 
gism is  proved  to  be  true. 

The  conjectural  syllogism  with  which  I  commenced, 
proved  the  proposition,  provided  its  premises  could  be 
proved.  I  have  proved  the  premises,  and,  therefore,  the 
proposition  is  proved. 

But,  having  discovered  this  truth,  suppose  I  wish  to  com- 
municate it  to  another.  I  then  reverse  the  process,  and 
commence  with  the  proposition  with  which  I  just  now  con- 
cluded. 

I  first  show  that  the  triangles  are  equal ; 


REASONING.  {QS 

Then,  that  a  rectangle  and  a  triangle  being  on  the  same 
base  and  between  the  same  parallels,  the  rectangle  is  doul)le 
of  the  triangle ; 

Hence,  the  triangles  being  equal,  the  rectangle  and  the 
square  must  be  equivalent. 

And,  hence,  the  two  smaller  squares  and  the  greater 
square  being  both  equal  to  the  two  parallelograms,  the  two 
smaller,  and  the  greater  square   are  equal  to  each  other. 

In  this  instance  the  example  is  taken  from  the  mathe- 
matics. But  the  case  is  essentially  the  same  in  all  cases 
where  we  attempt  to  prove  a  proposition.  We  first  con- 
struct a  syllogism,  which,  if  true,  will  prove  it.  But  one 
or  both  the  premises  may  be  doubtful.  We  take  the  doubt- 
ful premise  and  form  a  syllogism,  which,  if  true,  will  prove 
it.  If,  here,  one  of  our  premises  is  conjectural,  we  make  a 
third  proposition,  which,  in  like  manner,  we  attempt  to  prove, 
until  we  arrive  at  some  acknowledged  truth  from  which  it 
proceeds.  We  then  construct  our  argument,  beginning  with 
the  fundamental  truth  at  which  we  last  arrived,  and  proceed 
outwards,  reversing  our  process,  until  we  show  that  our  orig- 
inal proposition  depends  upon  truth  which  all  must  ac- 
knowledge. 

Thus,  when  one  of  our  premises  is  denied,  we  must  prove 
our  premise.  If  the  premise  of  this  proof  is  denied,  we 
must  prove  this  premise.  Going  backward,  in  this  manner, 
we  at  last  arrive  at  first  truths,  or  those  which  every  mind, 
in  a  normal  condition,  perceives  by  intuition  to  be  true. 
Thus,  in  the  proposition  just  taken  for  an  example,  if  our 
premises  were  continually  denied,  we  should  at  last  arrive 
at  the  definitions  and  axioms  of  geometry.  And  thus,  in  any 
other  reasoning,  we  arrive,  by  the  same  process,  at  truths 
equally  obvious  to  a  sound  understanding.  When  we  have 
arrived  at  these,  reason  can  go  no  fiu'ther.  If  these  are 
denied,  the  party  denying  must  be  wanting  in  ordinary 


304  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

intellect,  or  we  must  have  taken  as  true  what  is  obviously 
false.     Whichever  be  the  case,  there  is  an  end  of  argument. 

We  hear  it  frequently  said  that  all  mathematical  reason- 
mg  depends  upon  definitions  and  axioms.  This  is  true ;  but 
their  importance  depends  upon  difierent  principles.  It  may 
be  well  to  consider  briefly  the  nature  of  each. 

A  definition  is  a  conception  expressed  in  language. 
Thus,  if  I  am  about  to  prove  to  another  person  a  proposi- 
tion in  which  I  use  the  conception  of  lines,  angles,  trian- 
gles, squares  and  circles,  it  is  evident  that  my  argument 
will  be  useless  to  him,  unless,  when  I  use  these  words,  he 
have  the  same  conceptions  as  myself  If,  when  I  say 
*'  line,"  he  has  the  same  conception  that  I  have  when  I  say 
'^triangle,"  we  could  never  understand  each  other.  It  is 
necessary,  therefore,  that  I  explain,  as  clearly  as  possible, 
the  conception  which  I  form  when  I  use  these  terms.  Hav- 
ing done  this,  and  it  being  certain  that  we  have  the  same 
conception  when  we  use  the  same  words,  we  are  prepared 
to  proceed  in  our  argument. 

An  axiom  expresses  an  intuitively  perceived  relation  be- 
tween our  conceptions.  Thus,  having  defined  what  we  mean 
by  lines,  angles,  and  other  elements  of  quantity,  we  say 
^'  Two  straight  lines  cannot  enclose  space."  ^^  Things  equal 
to  the  same  are  equal  to  one  another."  These  relations 
being  conceded  by  both  parties,  and  the  same  conceptions 
being  common  to  both,  we  have  the  elements  necessary  for 
reasoning. 

When  it  is  said,  therefore,  that  we  cannot  reason  without 
definitions  and  axioms,  the  impossibility  arises  from  difier- 
ent causes.  We  cannot  reason  without  definitions,  because 
we  cannot  reason  together  unless  the  terms  wh^ch  we  em- 
ploy create  in  the  minds  of  each  other  the  same  conceptions. 
But  this  cannot  be  known  unless  the  terms  which  we  use 
we  adequately  explained ;  that  is,  unless  they  are  defined. 


AXIOMS   AND    DEFINITIONS.  806 

The  reason  for  the  necessity  of  axioms  is  difTerent.  Wo 
must  agree  as  to  the  laws  to  which  these  conceptions  are 
subjected,  or  else  we  can  never  arrive  at  a  common  conclu- 
sion. If  I  show  that  what  I  assert  is  true,  for  otherwise 
two  straight  lines  must  enclose  space,  or  that  the  whole  be 
less  than  its  part,  1  can  proceed  no  further.  But,  if  my 
opponent  does  not  admit  these  axioms  or  laws  of  quantity  to 
be  true,  he  will  never  feel  the  force  of  my  reasoning,  and 
will,  of  course,  not  be  convinced. 

This  is  manifestly  true  in  the  mathematics.  But  it  is 
obvious  that  the  same  principles  must  govern  all  our  rea- 
sonings. Unless  men  attach  the  same  meaning  to  the  same 
term,  that  is,  unless  a  term  awakens  in  each  the  same  con- 
ception, they  can  no  more  reason  together  than  they  could 
if  each  spoke  a  language  unknown  to  the  other.  In  ordi- 
nary discourse,  the  meaning  of  terms  is  sufficiently  estab- 
lished by  usage  to  prevent  any  serious  diflBculty.  It  is  found, 
however,  necessary,  when  accuracy  of  reasoning  is  attempted, 
to  proceed  further,  and  define  our  terms  with  the  greatest 
precision.  Were  this  more  frequently  done,  much  valuable 
labor  would  be  saved,  and  diflferences  of  opinion  among  hon- 
est men  would  be  found  less  important  than  they  seem  to  be. 
And  so  of  axioms.  Unless  the  relations  which  exist  between 
these  conceptions  are  admitted,  men  may  reason  together 
forever  without  coming  to  any  conclusion.  Thus,  were  two 
men  arguing  together  on  the  nature  of  human  rights,  they 
might  define  man  as  accurately  as  they  pleased,  but,  unless 
they  agreed  upon  the  relation  which  man  sustains  to  indi- 
vidual man  and  to  society,  they  could  never  come  to  any  con- 
clusion. Neither  would  be  pressed  by  the  arguments  of 
the  other,  and  what  seemed  to  the  one  perfectly  conclusive, 
would  to  the  other  seem  destitute  of  all  show  of  reason.  It 
is  to  be  regretted  that  much  of  our  reasoning  is  apt  to  l>e  of 
this  character. 

26* 


80t)  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

The  whole  subject  of  syllogisms,  their  nature  and  classi- 
fication, the  rules  to  which  they  are  subjected,  and  the  dis- 
tinction between  true  and  false  syllogisms,  is  treated  of  in 
the  science  of  logic.  To  these  the  reader  is  referred  for  a 
further  development  of  the  doctrines  here  briefly  alluded 
to.  I  ask  leave  to  commend  this  study  to  all  persons  who 
aim  at  the  attainment  of  mental  acuteness,  and  the  thorough 
cultivation  of  their  reasoning  power. 

REFERENCES. 

Reasoning,  its  nature  —  Reid,  Essay  7,  chap.  1. 

Reasoning,  instinctive  —  Reid,  Essay  7,  chap.  1. 

Reasoning  rests  on  first  truths  —  Reid,  Essay  1,  chap.  2  ;  Essay  6, 
chap.  2. 

This  denied  —  Locke,  Book  4,  chap.  2,  sees.  7,  8  ;  chap.  7,  sees.  8,  10, 
19,  20. 

Cousin's  Review  of  Locke  —  chap.  9. 

Buffier,  first  truths. 

Test  of  first  truths  —  Reid,  Essay  6,  chap.  4. 

Classification  of  first  truths  —  Reid,  Essay  1,  chap.  2  ;  Essay  6,  chaps. 
5,6. 

Judgment,  its  nature  —  Reid,  Essay  6,  chap.  1. 

Judgment  distinguished  from  testimony  and  conceptions  —  Reid,  Essay 
6,  chap.  1. 

Judgments  necessary  and  contingent  —  Reid,  Essay  6,  chap.  1. 

Common  Sense,  Reid,  Essay  6,  chap.  2. 

Syllogism  not  the  great  instrument  of  reasoning  —  Locke,  Book  4, 
chap.  17,  sees.  4 — 7  ;  Cousin,  chap.  9. 

Aristotle's  logic  examined  —  Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  3,  sec.  1. 

Effects  of  study  of  logic  on  intellectual  habits  —  Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chapi 
P,  sec.  2. 

Use  of  definitions  —  Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  2,  sec.  3. 

Nugatory  propositions  —  Locke,  Book  4,  chap.  8,  sec.  4. 

Propositions  true  or  false  — Locke,  Book  2,  chap.  32,  sees.  1—4. 


KINDS    OF    CERTAINTY.  801 


SECTION  II. —  3F  THE    DIFFERENT   KINDS  OF  CERTAINTY  AT 
WHICH    WE    ARRIVE    BY    REASONING. 

I  HAVE  remarked  that  by  the  process  of  reiisoning,  if 
properly  conducted,  we  always  render  the  conclusion  iis 
certain  as  the  premises.  This  is  the  sole  object  of  syllo- 
gism, and  this  it  invariably  accomplishes.  I  have  also 
observed  that  our  conclusions  may  be  either  certain,  or  only 
probable,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  premises  from 
which  they,  proceed. 

Dismissing  the  consideration  of  the  cases  in  which  wo 
establish  probability,  and  confining  our  attention  to  that  in 
which  we  arrive  at  certainty,  we  perceive  that  this  certainty 
is  of  two  kinds.  We  may  arrive,  first,  at  metaphysical  or 
absolute,  or,  secondly,  at  practical  certainty.  Let  us  attempt 
to  distinguish  these  from  each  other,  and  show  the  pecu- 
liarities of  each. 

I.    Of  metaphysical  and  absohite  certainty. 

When  we  arrive  at  this  kind  of  certainty,  the  matter  of 
our  reasoning  is  wholly  conceptions,  or  the  notions  which 
we  form  in  our  own  minds,  representing  no  actual  reality. 
These  are,  of  course,  precisely  what  we  make  them,  neither 
greater  nor  less,  nor  in  any  possible  respect  different  from 
our  thoughts ;  for  they  are  our  thoughts  themselves,  and 
nothing  else.  Hence,  when  they  are  distinctly  compre- 
hend3d,  and  formed  into  syllogism  according  to  the  rules  of 
logic,  they  must  lead  to  a  conception  of  the  same  chanicter 
as  the  premises,  and  be  inevitably  as  true.  Tliere  is  no  lia- 
bility for  misconception  or  ambiguity.  The  result  must  bo 
v^  true  as  our  thoughts  themselves. 

The  most  remarkable  example  of  this  mode  of  reasoning 
is  found  in  the  pure  mathematics.  Here  the  matter  alx)ut 
which  we  reason  is  pure  conceptions.     We  demonstrate  truth 


808  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

about  lines,  angles,  triangles,  circles,  etc.,  not  as  actual  ex- 
istences^ but  merely  as  conceptions.  By  our  definitions,  we 
announce  distinctly  the  ideas  intended  by  the  terms  which 
we  employ.  These  ideas  we  continue  to  use  without  change 
throughout  our  reasonings,  and  the  results  at  which  w^ 
arrive  are  concerning  these  alone. 

I  have  said  that  in  this  mode  of  reasoning  we  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  actual  existences.  This  is  evident  from  the 
fact  that  the  pure  mathematics  might  have  been  carried  to 
any  conceivable  degree  of  perfection,  had  a  material  uni- 
verse never  been  created.  All  that  is  required  for  this 
mode  of  reasoning  is  a  thinking  mind.  Hence  we  never, 
in  geometry,  attempt  to  prove  anything  respecting  an  exist- 
ing figure.  We  may  use  a  diagram  for  the  sake  of  concen- 
trating our  attention,  but  our  reasoning  is  not  concerning  it, 
or  any  other  thing  visible  or  tangible.  No  actual  figure 
exactly  corresponds  with  our  definitions,  and,  if  it  did,  we 
have  no  faculties  by  which  to  ascertain  the  correspondence. 
We  say  the  angles  at  the  base  of  an  isosceles  triangle  are 
equal.  This  we  show  to  be  unconditionally  true.  But  it  is 
true  of  our  conceptions  only,  and  not  of  the  diagram  on  the 
blackboard.  We  do  not  know  that  the  lines  of  that  triangle 
are  perfectly  straight,  or  the  sides  equal;  nay,  we  know 
that  it  is  beyond  our  power  to  make  them  so.  But  this  in 
no  manner  afiects  our  demonstration.  If  any  one  should 
attempt  to  convict  us  of  error,  by  measuring  the  triangle 
and  showing  that  one  angle  was  greater  than  the  other,  we 
should  smile  at  his  ignorance.  We  know  that  our  proposi- 
tion is  true  concerning  the  conception  existing  in  our  minds, 
and  this  is  all  we  ever  attempted  to  prove. 

I  have  said  that  the  most  striking  example  of  this  species 
of  reasoning  is  observed  in  the  case  of  the  pure  mathe- 
matics. I  know  of  no  reason,  however,  why  it  should  not 
exist  in  anv  other  case  in  which  the  matter    ;f  our  argu- 


KINDS   OF   CERTAINTY.  309 

merit  is  pure  conception.  All  that  is  necessary  is  that  our 
terms  be  accurately  defined  and  clearly  apprehended,  and 
that  they  be  subjected  to  the  laws  of  syllogistic  reasonin«^. 
The  result  must  be  as  purely  truth  in  the  one  case  as  the 
other.     Thus, 

1.  All  accountable  beings  are  entitled  to  freedom. 

2.  Sylphs  and  gnomes  are  accountable  beings. 

3.  Sylphs  and  gnomes  are  entitled  to  freedom. 
Suppose  the  first  proposition  clearly  understood. 
Sylphs  and   gnomes  are  imaginary  beings,  of  which  I 

form  a  conception  just  as  I  please.  The  conclusion  must 
follow  as  clearly  and  inevitably  as  in  mathematical  demon- 
stration. 

It  must,  however,  be  manifest  that  the  range  of  subjects  of 
this  character  is  extremely  limited,  and,  therefore,  its  utility 
by  no  means  extensive.  We  live  in  a  matter-of-fact  worll. 
We  desire  to  enlarge  our  knowledge,  not  of  mere  cbnceptions 
but  of  realities.  We  wish  to  know  the  laws  of  things  actually 
existing,  and  so  to  use  them  as  to  ascertain  other  laws  of 
which  we  are  ignorant.  In  order  to  do  this,  we  must 
come  forth  from  the  region  of  conceptions  into  that  of  real- 
ities. Thus,  the  pure  mathematics  themselves  would  bo 
utterly  useless,  except  as  a  discipline,  unless  we  combined 
them  with  existing  facts,  when  they  assume  the  form  of 
mixed  mathematics.  Here,  however,  we  arrive  not  at  abso- 
lute, but  practical  certainty.  Let  us  observe  the  manner 
in  which  II.  Practical  certainty  is  attained. 

In  this  kind  of  reasoning,  either  one  or  both  of  our  prem- 
ises is  some  general  law,  or  particular  fact,  establishcil  i»y 
observation  or  experiment.  Our  conclusion,  then,  approaches 
no  nearer  to  absolute  truth,  than  our  fiict  or  observation 
represents  the  pure  and  absolute  verity.  But  no  one  pre- 
tends that  our  faculties  are  capable  of  arriving  at  pure  and 
absolute  truth.     It  has  often  been  remarked  that  a  perfect 


310  INTELLECTU  iL  PHILOSOPHY. 

circle,  or  triangle,  or  square,  never  was  constructed,  and 
that  no  instrument  ever  made,  could  claim  to  be  absolutely 
accurate.  Our  processes  may  be  as  perfect  as  the  present 
condition  of  the  arts  will  allow,  but  we  can  go  no  further. 
Progress  in  the  arts  may  enable  us  to  exclude  additional 
causes  of  error,  and  thus  arrive  at  greater  accuracy.  But 
when  we  have  done  all,  our  powers  are  limited  and  imper- 
fect ;  and,  to  use  the  words  of  Johnson,  ' '  a  fallible  being 
must  fail  somewhere."  The  eye  is  incapable  of  discerning 
objects  below  a  certain  magnitude,  or  differences  which  do 
not  exceed  a  certain  degree.  The  sensation  of  touch  can 
only  detect  impressions  when  their  impulse  attains  to  a  cer- 
tain force.  Our  nerves  are  easily  fatigued,  and  fatigue  im- 
pairs their  accuracy  of  observation,  and  their  control  over 
our  muscles.  The  various  passions  to  which  we  are  subject 
influence  our  whole  sentient  organism,  and  frequently  unfit 
us  for  observation  at  a  time  when  their  perfect  accuracy  is 
the  most  needed.  It  is  said  that  when  Sir  I.  Newton  had 
arrived  very  nearly  at  the  close  of  that  calculation  which 
has  made  his  name  immortal,  and  saw  the  result  to  which 
he  was  tending,  he  was  seized  with  so  violent  a  fit  of  trem- 
bling, that,  unable  to  complete  the  work,  he  surrendered  his 
papers  to  a  friend,  by  whom  it  was  finished.  It  is  told  of 
one  of  the  observers  sent  many  years  ago  to  the  Pacific 
Ocean  to  observe  the  transit  of  Venus,  that,  at  the  precise 
moment  when  the  transit  occurred,  he  fainted  from  excess 
of  excitement.  Perfect  a^ccuracy  can,  therefore,  never  be 
predicated  of  a  being  in  whose  organization  are  involved  so 
many  liabilities  to  error. 

Thus,  for  instance,  in  the  mixed  mathematics  we  arrive? 
it  only  practical  certainty.  Here  we  first  establish  the 
relations  existing  between  the  lines  of  a  fio-ure  of  which  we 
have  conceived.  This  is  pure  mathematics,  and  our  result 
is  absolute  truth.     We  then  apply  these  relations  to  a  figure 


KINDS    OF    CERTAINTY.  811 

actually  existing,  and  as  nearly  identical  with  the  ti;4ure 
which  we  have  conceived,  as  We  are  able  to  make  it,  and 
proceed  to  our  result.  This  result  is  ohviuusly  not  ai>- 
solute  truth;  it  is  only  proximate  ;  that  is,  just  us  near  to 
absolute  truth  as  the  actual  figure  is  near  to  the  perfect 
conception  which  forms  the  basis  of  our  reasonings. 

Let  us  take  an  example.  I  demonstrate  by  pure  math- 
ematics that  the  homologous  sides  of  simihir  triangles  are 
proportional.  Availing  myself  of  this  law,  I  proceed  to 
ascertain  the  height  of  a  steeple.  I  measure  a  base  line, 
and  observe  the  angle  formed  betw^een  the  extremity  of  this 
line  and  the  highest  point  of  the  object.  I  find  a  corre- 
sponding tabular  triangle  in  the  tables,  and  by  a  single  pro- 
portion arrive  at  the  result.  But  is  this  a  perfect  result  7 
Its  accuracy  depends  upon  the  accuracy  of  my  measure- 
ments of  the  base  line  and  the  angle.  But  are  these  infallible  ] 
Was  my  chain  perfectly  true  ?  Was  the  temperature  such  as 
to  have  efiected  no  change  upon  it  ?  Was  the  surface  perfectly 
level,  and  was  my  muscular  tension  precisely  such  as  to 
ensure  perfect  accuracy,  and,  at  every  movement  of  the  chain, 
was  that  tension  precisely  the  same  7  Was  the  instrument 
with  which  I  measured  the  angle,  of  perfect  construction 
and  in  perfect  order  ?  Was  there  no  tremor  in  my  muscles, 
and  was  my  sight  of  the  object  absolutely  true  .^  No  one 
of  these  things  can  be  asserted,  and,  unless  they  can  all  be 
asserted,  perfect  accuracy  is  impossible.  But  what  then  / 
Are  our  results  valueless  ?  By  no  means.  They  are  per- 
fect for  any  and  every  practical  purpose.  If  we  have  tiikcn 
every  precaution  in  our  power  to  exclude  the  liability  of  error, 
we  have  arrived  at  all  the  certainty  which  the  present  con- 
dition of  knowledge  admits.  We  know  that  our  result  can- 
not,  except  by  accident,  be  perfectly  accurate ;  bu^  it  is  so 
accurate  that  neither  ourselves  nor  any  one  else  can  detect 
any  error      This  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  precisely 


312  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

as  good  to  us  as  absolute  certainty.  In  the  one  case  we 
know  that  there  is  no  error ;  and.  in  the  other,  although  we 
admit  there  may  be  error,  yet  neither  we  nor  any  one  else 
is  able  to  detect  it. 

The  case  is  illustrated  in  the  study  of  astronomy.  We 
here  first  conceive  of  spherical  triangles,  and  determine,  by 
demonstration,  the  relations  between  them.  Here  we  arrive 
at  absolute  truth.  We  then  measure  degrees  on  the  earth's 
surface,  we  take  the  measure  of  angles,  we  make  observa- 
tions on  the  times  and  places  of  planetary  bodies,  and,  by 
constructing  triangles  as  far  as  possible  identical  with  those 
which  we  have  before  conceived,  we  determine  the  distance 
of  the  sun,  and  the  diameter  of  the  orbit  of  the  earth.  But 
does  any  one  pretend  that  these  calculations  are  absolutely  cor- 
rect ?  Their  accuracy  depends  wholly  on  the  perfection  of 
the  observations,  which,  of  necessity,  enter  as  elements  into 
our  calculations.  Were  our  measurements  of  lines  and 
angles  absolutely  perfect?  Were  our  observations  abso- 
lutely infallible  ?  This,  from  the  nature  of  our  faculties 
and  the  imperfection  of  instruments,  is  manifestly  impossible. 
Our  conclusions  must,  therefore,  share  in,  or  must  greatly 
magnify,  these  imperfections.  We  say  the  sun  is  so  many 
millions  of  miles  from  the  earth ;  but,  thus  speaking,  do  we 
intend  to  be  understood  as  enunciating  an  absolute  truth  ? 
Do  we  mean  that  it  may  not  be  a  hundred  or  a  thousand 
miles  either  nearer  or  more  distant  ?  All  we  know  is  that 
we  are  unable  to  discover  any  error ;  that  we  have  arrived 
at  as  near  an  approximation  to  truth  as  is  possible  m  the 
present  condition  of  science.  We  can  do  no  more,  and  we 
pretend  to  do  no  more.  This  is  as  far  as  our  Creator  has 
permitted  us,  in  our  present  state,  to  proceed,  and  with 
this  we  must  be  content.  When  we  have  approached  so 
near  to  the  truth  that  we  can  discover  no  error,  we  have 
Arrived  at  practical  certainty,  and  we  need  ask  for  no  more. 


KINDS   OF    CEKTAINTY.    *  ^1*1 

Now,  if  I  do  not  mistake,  this  is  precisely  the  luethud'it' 
our  reasoning  respecting  any  matters  of  fact.  We  reason 
by  conceptions.  If  our  premises,  matters  of  fact,  the  result 
of  observation,  precisely  correspond  with  these  conceptions, 
our  reasonings  are  true  absolutely.  But  we  cannot  be  sure 
that  there  is  this  perfect  correspondence.  We  may,  how- 
ever, be  convinced  that  this  correspondence  is  so  nearly 
exact  that  the  human  faculties  can  discover  no  error,  and 
here,  as  before,  we  arrive  at  practical  certainty,  or  the  limit 
marked  out  for  us  by  our  intellectual  constitution.  When 
our  premises  have  been  established  with  all  the  accuracy  of 
which  our  Maker  has  made  us  capable,  and  our  conclusion 
from  them  follows  by  the  laws  of  reasoning,  we  have  arrived 
at  as  near  an  approximation  to  truth  as  is  possible  in  our  pres- 
ent state.  If  neither  we  nor  any  one  else  can  point  out 
any  error,  we  may  well  be  satisfied ;  for  we  may  know  that 
the  error  can  never  be  appreciated  by  the  faculties  which 
God  has  given  us  ;  and,  therefore,  to  us  it  is  precisely  the 
Bame  as  if  it  were  absolutely  true. 

Thus,  suppose  we  say, 

When  men  can  have  no  motive  for  testifying  falsely, 
their  testimony  is  worthy  of  belief 

A  and  B  can  have  no  motive  for  testifying  falsely ;  there- 
fore the  testimony  of  A  and  B  is  worthy  of  belief 

The  truth  of  the  first  of  these  propositions  would,  I  pre- 
sume, be  admitted ;  it  being  one  of  the  acknowledged  lawd 
of  human  action,  since  no  man  acts  without  a  motive.  The 
second  only  can  admit  of  doubt.  We,  therefore,  make  it 
the  object  of  special  examination.  We  survey  all  the  mo- 
tives by  which  men  are  known  to  be  influenced.  We  in- 
quire whether  any  of  these  motives  could  have  induced 
them  to  speak  falsely.  We  are  unable  to  discover  any.  Wo 
then  rely  with  firmness  on  the  conclusion  that  they  have 
testified  truly.  It  may  be  said  that  motives  for  falsehood 
27 


314  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

may  exist  which  have  never  been  discovered.  Be  it  so.  But^ 
inasmuch  as  we  have  been  unable  to  discover  them,  we  have 
arrived  at  the  nearest  approximation  to  truth  which  our 
faculties  admit,  and  we  must  rely  on  such  faculties  as  we 
possess.  When,  in  the  full  and  free  exercise  of  our  intel- 
lectual powers,  we  can  discover  no  error  in  our  premises, 
and  no  error  in  our  reasoning,  we  must  receive  as  true  the 
conclusions  which  they  necessitate.  We  have  no  other  re- 
source. If  we  deny  this,  there  is  an  end  to  all  reasoning, 
and  everything  beyond  our  own  observation  is  a  delusion. 

If  we  now  compare  these  two  kinds  of  reasoning,  we  ob- 
serve the  following  facts : 

1.  The  process  which  we  employ  is,  in  both  cases,  precisely 
the  same.  When  we  attempt  to  discover  tr^ith  by  reason- 
ing, we  use  syllogism ;  for  this  is  the  ipode  of  action  im- 
posed upon  our  reasoning  faculty.  We  U3e  this,  for  we 
have  no  other  to  use. 

2.  The  one  kind  of  reasoning  treats  onl^-  of  conceptions 
both  in  its  premises  and  its  conclusions.  With  actual  exist- 
ences, 7^es  gestcB^  it  has  nothing  to  do.  Of  course,  it  is 
excluded  from  all  cases  which  involve  matters  of  fact.  The 
other  has  to  do  with  actual  existences,  and  to  them  its  con- 
clusions refer.  Hence,  this  is  the  mode  of  reasoning  which 
we  must,  of  necessity,  employ  in  all  the  business  of  life, 
and  in  all  those  investigations  of  science  which  contemplate 
things  as  actual  existences. 

3.  By  the  one  we  arrive  at  absolute  certainty  respecting 
things  not  existing  except  in  our  conceptions.  By  the  other 
we  arrive  at  practical  certainty  respecting  things  as  exist- 
ing wholly  distinct  and  separate  from  ourselves.  In  the 
one  case  we  arrive  at  absolute  truth ;  in  the  other,  we  ap- 
proach as  near  to  absolute  truth  as  the  limited  and  imper- 
fect nature  of  our  faculties  admits.  We  approach  so  d^p^ 
to  it  that  WG  are  unable  to  detect  any  error.  ! 


r  KINDS    or    CERTAINTY.  bl5 

It  will  be  observed  that  these  two  kinds  of  rc.isonin«'  cor- 
respond  in  general  to  those  commonly  termed  demonstnitivo 
and  moral  reasoning.  I  have  used  different  terms  frcm  tliodo 
commonly  employed,  because  I  suppose  them  better  adapted 
to  the  subject.  It  will  be  seen,  if  what  I  have  said  be 
true,  that  the  difference  between  these  two  kinds  of  reason- 
ing is  much  less  than  has  frequently  been  supposed,  both  as 
to  the  mode  in  which  they  are  conducted,  and  the  results  at 
which  they  arrive. 

From  what  has  been  said,  I  think  it  will  appear  that  but 
little  ground  exists  for  the  superiority  which  has  been  claimed 
for  demonstrative  reasoning,  or  that  which  treats  purely  of 
conceptions.  It  is  granted  that  in  this  species  of  reasoning 
we  arrive  at  absolute  truth ;  but  then,  from  its  condition.s, 
it  excludes  all  actual  existences,  and  can,  therefore,  furnish  no 
guide  to  conduct.  As  soon  as  demonstrative  reasoning  has 
to  do  with  matters  of  fact,  it  reposes,  by  necessity,  upon 
moral  reasoning,  and,  specially,  on  the  evidence  of  testimony. 
Thus,  suppose  I  have  demonstrated  the  distance  of  the  sun 
from  the  earth.  It  is  evident  that  the  facts  which  form  the 
elements  of  my  reasoning  must  be  established  by  what  is 
called  moral  evidence.  I  am  told  that  such  and  such  obser- 
vations have  been  made  by  different  men,  through  a  succes- 
sion of  years.  Now,  here  is  a  two-fold  liability  of  error. 
In  the  first  place,  how  do  I  know  that  these  observations 
were  ever  made  at  all  7  I  have  nothing  here  to  rely  on  but 
the  testimony  of  men,  which  is  said  to  be  so  vastly  inferior 
in  certainty  to  demonstration.  In  the  second  place,  what 
assurance  have  I  that  these  observations  were  correctly 
made?  How  shall  I  be  sure  that  all  the  instruments  were 
perfect,  or  that  proper  skill  was  employed  in  the  use  of 
them  I  Important  errors  have  frequently  been  made  by  sci- 
3ntific  men.  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  discoveries  were  for  several 
jrears  postponed  by  an  error  in  measuring  a  degree  of  the 


316  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

earth^s  surface.  What  shall  guard  us  against  similar  erior  1 
Now,  if  these  are  not  reliable  grounds  of  belief,  all  our  dem- 
onstration is  useless ;  for,  on  the  facts  which  they  deliver 
to  us,  all  our  calculations  rely.  Our  demonstrations,  then, 
as  soon  as  they  affect  any  matter  of  fact,  are  limited  in  their 
certainty  by  moral  evidence,  and  they  attain  to  no  higher 
certainty  than  moral  evidence  confers.  By  the  evidence  of 
testimony,  however,  we  are  assured  that  these  observations 
were  made.  From  the  known  characters  of  the  observers, 
we  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  they  were  made  cor- 
rectly. On  these  assurances  our  calculations  proceed,  and 
they  arrive  at  a  degree  of  accuracy  so  great  that  neither  we 
nor  any  one  else  can  discover  any  error. 

From  these  remarks  we  perceive  the  absurdity  of  demand- 
ing what  is  called  demonstrative  evidence  to  substantiate  a 
matter  of  fact.  Men  sometimes  tell  us,  for  instance,  that  a 
revelation  from  God,  being  a  matter  of  so  great  importance, 
should  have  been  attested  by  mathematical  demonstration. 
We  see  that  to  ask  this  is  to  demand  what  is  absolutely 
impossible.  Being  a  matter  of  fact,  it  must  come  under  the 
laws  of  evidence  which  belong  to  matters  of  fact.  To 
attempt  to  prove  a  fact  by  mathematical  demonstration  is  as 
absurd  as  to  attempt  to  prove  a  mathematical  proposition  by 
testimony. 

REFERENCES. 

Conclusions  either  certain  or  probable  —  Reid,  Essay  6,  chapter  4  ; 
Essay  7,  chap.  1. 

Metaphysical  and  mathematical  reasoning  —  Reid,  Essay  7,  chapter  1 ; 
Locke,  Book  4,  chapter  4,  section  6. 

Nature  of  demonstrative  evidence  —  Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  2,  sees.  3,  4. 

Superiority  of  mathematical  reasoning  —  Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chapter  2, 
section  3  ;    Reid,  Essay  7,  chap,  2. 

Morality  capable  of  demonstration  —  Locke,  Book  4,  chap.  2,  sections 
16,  18  ;  chap.  3,  section  18  ;  chap.  4,  section  7. 

Conclusions  in  mixed  mathematics  as  sure  as  data  —  Stewart,  vol.  ii  , 
chap.  2,  section  4. 


EVIDENCE   OF   TESTIMONY.  817 


SECTION   III.  —  OF   THE    EVIDENCE    OF   TESTlMo.M. 

In  demonstrative  reasoning  our  premises  rest  upon  truths 
intuitively  perceived  by  every  intellect  in  a  normal  condi- 
tion, or  else  upon  truths  proceeding  from  these  by  necessity. 
In  reasoning  concerning  matters  of  fact,  many  of  our 
premises  are  general  laws,  established  by  observation  and 
experience.  But  this  observation  and  experience  must  be 
established  by  many  witnesses.  A  single  individual  can 
observe  but  little.  We  must  all  rely  upon  the  labors  of 
others.  But  how  shall  we  distinguish  true  from  false 
testimony  ?  Many  things  have  been  recorded  as  true, 
which  have  subsequently  been  found  to  be  false.  Wo 
need,  therefore,  to  ascertain  the  laws  by  which  testimony 
may  be  established,  so  that  we  may  be  able  to  proceed  with 
certainty  in  our  reasonings.  It  is,  therefore,  proper  to  ex- 
amine this  part  of  our  subject,  and  determine,  if  possible, 
the  principles  on  which  the  evidence  of  testimony  rests. 

Testimony  is  of  two  kinds,  direct  and  indirect. 

I.    Of  direct  testimony. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  testimony  of  man  is  a  source 
of  as  certain  knowledge  as  any  that  we  possess.  If  we  refer 
to  our  own  consciousness,  we  find  no  difference  between  the 
streno"th  of  our  belief  in  matters  of  fact  and  matters  of 
demonstration.  We  as  perfectly  believe  that  such  persona 
as  Julius  Cgesar,  Cicero,  Alexander,  Martin  Luther,  Wash- 
ington, and  Xapoleon,  existed :   that  the  battles  of  Mara- 

jn,  Bunker  Hill,  Austerlitz  and  Waterloo,  were  fought ; 
and  that  there  are  now  standing  the  cities  of  London,  Pans, 
and  Vienna,  as  we  believe  that  the  three  angles  of  a  triangle 
are  equal  to  two  right  angles.  If  we  ask  ourselves  which 
do  we  most  confidently  believe,  we  can  discover  no  shade  of 
difference.     In  any  practical  matter  we  should  proceed  upon 


318  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

the  belief  of  one  as  readily  a«  upon  that  of  the  other.  This 
is  true  of  mankind  universally.  If  this  be  so,  then  both  of 
these  grounds  of  belief  must  rest  equally  upon  the  laws  of 
human  thought.  There  must  exist  elementary  first  truths, 
acknowledged  by  all  men,  on  which  our  confidence  ulti- 
mately reposes.  That  this  is  true  of  mathematical  reason- 
ing is  universally  admitted.  It  must,  however,  be  equally 
true  of  any  other  mode  of  proof  which  produces  the  same 
results. 

Let  us  take  another  case.  We  are  told  that,  a  few  years 
since,  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  occurred  on  a  Sunday,  a  little 
after  noon.  It  had  been  predicted  by  astronomers,  and  their 
predictions  concerning  it  had  been  extensively  published. 
Men  in  every  place  on  this  continent  declared  that  they  wit- 
nessed it.  The  daily  newspapers,  immediately  after  it  is  said 
to  have  occurred,  were  filled  with  accounts  of  the  phenomena 
that  were  said  to  have  been  observed.  Every  fact  respect- 
ing it  was  minutely  recorded,  and  the  statements  of  its 
various  phases  were  inserted  in  the  transactions  of  learned 
societies  throughout  the  world.  Now,  granting  these  facts 
to  be  so,  could  we  any  more  doubt  that  an  eclipse  really 
occurred,  at  the  time  and  in  the  manner  specified,  than  .we 
could  doubt  a  proposition  in  geometry  ?  Suppose  that  one 
man,  under  these  circumstances,  should  doubt  the  fact  of 
the  eclipse,  and  another  should  doubt  a  demonstration  in 
mathematics,  should  we  not  decide  that  the  mind  of  the  one 
was  in.  as  abnormal  a  state  as  that  of  the  other  ? 

Yet  I  am  aware  that  there  are  difierences  in  the  belief 
in  the  two  cases.  In  the  one  case  our  belief  is  in  the  truth 
as  universal,  as  true  at  all  times  and  in  all  places.  In  the 
other,  it  is  particular ;  that  is,  it  is  not  true  of  every  time 
and  every  place,  but  only  of  this  time  and  this  place.  In  the 
one  case  our  knowledge  is  perfect  and  complete ;  thq,t  is,  we 
know  the  whole  df  the  truth  affirmed,  and  nothing  can  be 


EVIDENCE    OF   TESTIMONY.  81* 

added  to  render  our  knowledge  more  adequate.  When  I  am 
convinced  that  the  three  angles  of  a  triangle  are  e(iual  lo 
two  right  angles,  nothing  can  be  added  to  the  proposition  by 
which  my  knowledge  can  be  increased.  If  I  fully  compre- 
hend the  terms,  I  have  precisely  the  same  knowledge  of  the 
truth  as  Newton  himself.  He  might  have  seen  conse(|uence8 
derivable  from  it  which  I  do  not  see;  but  our  knowledge  of 
the  proposition  itself  is  entirely  the  same.  In  the  case  of 
the  other  proposition,  that  at  a  given  time  and  place  there 
was  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  it  is  not  so.  We  all  may  l)e  equally 
confident  of  the  main  fact;  but  of  various  circumstances 
respecting  it,  our  knowledge  may  be  dissimilar  and  unequal. 
Men  who  observed  the  eclipse  may  have  been  more  or  less 
influenced  by  their  imaginations ;  they  may  have  dissimilar 
appreciations  of  the  temperature,  of  the  degree  of  darkness, 
of  the  time  and  duration  of  the  event.  Hence  their  narra- 
tives may  in  these  respects  differ;  and  it  may  require  much 
labor  to  obtain  a  complete  idea  of  the  eclipse; and  there  may, 
after  all,  remain  many  circumstances  which  we  know  but 
imperfectly.  All  this  may  be  granted,  and  yet  it  does  not 
in  the  least  affect,  our  belief  of  the  main  fact.  Nay,  all 
these  variations  must  exist  if  the  main  fact  be  true.  They 
follow  from  the  differences  in  the  subjective  nature  of  man. 
Hence  the  rule  in  testimony  is  that  the  best  evidence  to 
any  fact  is,  agreement  of  witnesses  as  to  the  main  event,  and 
difference  as  to  the  minor  particulars. 

The  followino;  strikino;  illustration  of  these  remarks  is 
worthy  of  notice.  I  presume  that  no  one  can  doui)t  that 
the  battle  of  Waterloo  was  fought  on  the  eighteenth  of  June, 
1815,  between  the  French  and  the  allies,  under  the  com- 
mand respectively  of  Napoleon  and  Wellington.  It  may 
certainly  be  taken  for  granted  that  men  believe  this  fact  as 
undoubtingly  as  they  do  any  proposition  in  geometry.  Yet 
the  time  of  the  commencement  of  the  battle  cannot  even  now 


320  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

be  settled  with  precision.  In  Maxwell's  life  cf  Wellington, 
I  find  the  following  statement : 

*'  The  time  when  the  battle  began  has  been  stated  with 
marked  contrariety.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  says  it  com- 
menced about  ten  o'clock,  and  further  observes  that  when 
his  troops  discontinued  the  pursuit,  at  night,  they  had  been 
engaged  twelve  hours.  In  this  General  Gneisenau  concurs, 
but,  of  course,  only  from  information  he  had  received. 
General  Alava,  who  was  by  the  side  of  the  duke  the 
whole  day,  fixes  it  at  half-past  eleven.  Napoleon  and  Gen- 
eral Drouet  state  twelve  as  the  hour ;  while  Marshal  Ney 
names  one  o'clock.  Without  tracing  minuter  contradictions, 
this  may  suffice  to  show  the  difficulty  of  attaining  exact 
knowledge  when  it  might  have  been  presumed  no  difficulty 
could  exist.  With  one  exception,  which  I  think  ought  to 
be  decisive,  I  was  equally  bewildered  by  the  intelligence  I 
received  from  officers  whom  I  had  an  opportunity  of  con- 
sulting. By  one  I, was  told  that  the  battle  began  soon  after 
mid-day,  by  another  exactly  twenty  minutes  past  eleven,  and 
by  a  third  at  ten  o  clock.  B-ut  Sir  George  Wood  —  and  his 
information  is  what  I  conceive  cannot  be  disputed  —  gave 
me  the  following  statement.  The  action  commenced  about 
half-past  ten  or  a  quarter  to  eleven.  There  had  been  skir- 
mishing, before,  all  the  morning.  A  column  of  the  enemy 
was  advancing  against  Hougomont,  and  the  first  gun  that 
was  fired  was  from  our  lines  against  that  column.  I  gave 
the  order  by  the  command  of  the  duke.  The  gun  did  imme- 
diate execution,  and  killed  six  or  eight.  This  column  then 
retired,  and  went  round  the  wood."— Maxwell's  Life  of 
Wellington,  vol.  3,  note  to  page  479. 

We  perceive,  from  this  incident,  how  dissimilar  is  the 
adequcteness  of  our  knowledge  in  a  matter  of  fact,  from 
that  in  an  abstract  geometrical  proposition;  and  yet  our 


EVIDENCE   Oi    TESTIMONY.  821 

eonfideiiee  In  the  truth  of  the  main  fact  is  as  great  in  the 
one  case  as  in  the  other. 

But,  it  may  be  very  properly  demanded,  is  testimony  of 
all  kinds  equally  worthy  of  behef '?  Are  we  not  very  often 
the  dupes  of  false  evidence  7  We  reply,  that  in  this  resj)oct 
we  are  all  very  liable  to  be  deceived.  But  the  case  is  the 
same  with  mathematical  evidence  or  demonstration.  How 
often  has  it  been  announced  that  men  have  demonstrated 
the  quadrature  of  the  circle ;  but,  upon  examination,  it  lias 
been  discovered  that  either  they  have  been  deceived,  or  that 
they  desired  to  deceive  others.  Either  they  had  commenced 
with  false  principles,  or  they  had  reasoned  incorrectly  from 
true  ones.  So  in  the  mixed  mathematics,  innumerable  errors 
have  from  time  to  time  been  discovered  and  corrected.  This, 
however,  presents  no  objection  to  the  validity  or  reliability  of 
mathematical  reasoning.  It  only  teaches  us  the  necessity  of 
examining  our  arguments  with  care,  and  assuring  ourselves 
that  our  reasonings  are  conducted  strictly  according  to  the 
laws  of  mathematical  proof  When  they  are  so  conducted, 
they  never  did  and  they  never  can  lead  to  error.  So  in  the 
case  of  evidence.  It  is  granted  that  we  are  liable  to  be  de- 
ceived by  reliance  upon  testimony.  But  this  by  no  means 
proves  that  testimony  is  worthless ;  or  that  testimony,  when 
given  strictly  according  to  the  laws  of  evidence,  is  not  as 
reliable  as  demonstration.  It  only  teaches  us  the  necessity 
of  subjecting  testimony  to  its  own  appropriate  laws,  that  we 
may  thus  separate  the  true  from  the  false.  If,  therefore, 
we  can  establish  the  elementary  laws  of  evidence,  and  *pply 
them  strictly  to  any  case  of  testimony,  we  receive  the  'esult 
to  which  they  lead  us  with  unquestioning  confidence. 

The  essential  and  self-evident  truths  on  which  t  .e  evi- 
dence of  testimony  rests,  seem  to  be  t;>'0.  The  first  is 
the  law  of  perception,  to  which  allusion  has  bc^n  made 
when  treating  of  that  subject.     It  may  be  expressed  at 


lr!!2  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

follows :  Whenever,  in  the  normal  condition  of  our  facul* 
ties,  we  are  conscious  of  a  perception,  then  there  exists  an 
object,  such  as  we  perceive,  as  the  cause  of  that  perception. 
1  cannot  perceive  what  I  will.  The  consciousness  of  per- 
ception must  be  excited  from  without,  and  it  cannot  exist 
under  normal  conditions,  unless  a  corresponding  object  from 
without  give  occasion  to  it,  I  am  conscious  that  I  per- 
ceive the  paper  on  which  I  now  write,  and  the  table  at 
which  I  am  seated.  I  could  not,  by  the  laws  of  my  being, 
be  thus  conscious,  unless  there  existed  here  and  now  these 
objects  which  give  rise  to  it. 

Under  the  term  normal  conditions,  as  here  used,  several 
things  are  to  be  supposed.  For  instance,  the  external  cir- 
cumstances must  be  such  as  to  admit  of  no  liability  to  error. 
If  I  testify  to  an  object  of  sight,  the  light  must  be  suffi- 
cient to  allow  me  to  see  correctly.  If  I  testify  to  an  object 
of  sound,  I  must  be  near  enough  to  hear  it  distinctly.  The 
same  remark  applies  to  the  other  senses. 

The  mind  must  be  in  a  normal  condition.  The  witness 
must  be  sane.  He  must  be  free  from  any  violence  of  pas- 
sion or  excitement  of  imagination,  which  would  lead  to  erro- 
neous observation.  Thus,  if  a  man  were  habitually  terrified 
in  passing  by  a  grave-yard,  we  should  receive  with  great 
suspicion  his  testimony  respecting  a  ghost  which  he  believed 
he  had  seen  seated  on  a  tomb-stone.  Intense  prejudice, 
which  affected  the  matter  in  question,  would  lead  to  similar 
suspicions. 

The  senses  must  be  in  a  normal  condition.  No  one  would 
repose  perfect  confidence  in  the  testimony  of  a  man  to  a 
visual  fact,  whose  eyes  were  either  partly  blind  or  subject 
to  optical  illusions. 

Here,  however,  two  remarks  deserve  attention.  First, 
we  always  take  it  for  granted  that  men  are  in  a  normal 
audition  unless  there  is  evidence  to  the  contrary.      Nc 


EVIDENCE    OF    TESTIMONY.  828 

man  is  ever  called  upon  to  prove  his  sanity.  The  very  fact 
that  he  is  thus  called  upon,  must  proceed  upon  the  suppo- 
sition that  he  is  able  to  construct  a  proof :  that  is.  that  ho 
is  sane.  He  who  affirms  that  another  is  insane,  must  him- 
self furnish  the  evidence;  and,  in  the  absence  of  such  evi- 
dence, the  contrary  is  to  be  taken  for  granted. 

Secondly,  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  abnormal  cases  are 
extremely  rare.  We  may  meet  a  thousand  individuals, 
without  finding  one  among  them  whose  condition  is.  in  any 
respect,  so  abnormal  as  to  affect  his  testimony.  And  hence, 
when  a  number  of  persons  agree  in  testifying  to  the  same 
fact,  the  supposition  of  abnormal  action  is  excluded.  Thus, 
if  only  one  person  had  testified  that  he  saw  an  eclipse,  we 
might  suppose-  that  his  mind  or  his  organs  were  diseased. 
But  to  suppose  that  so  large  a  number  of  persons,  in  differ- 
ent places,  were  in  an  abnormal  condition,  and  in  precisely 
the  same  condition,  at  the  same  time,  is  manifestly  al)surd. 

The  second  general  law  is  derived  from  the  nuturc 
of  the  active  powers  of  man.  It  may  be  stated  as  fol- 
lows : 

1.  Every  human  action  is  the  residt  of  motive.  That 
is  to  say,  when  there  is  no  motive  there  is  no  action. 

2.  When  there  is  no  motive  for  speaking  fdsehj^ 
men  always  speak  the  truth.  The  motive  which  leads 
men  to  speak  falsely  may  be  very  unreasonable  or  insuffi- 
cient. They  will  sometimes  speak  falsely  against  their  own 
permanent  interest ;  but  they  always  speak  from  a  present 
motive,  as  fear,  vanity,  desire  of  applause,  etc. 

3.  When  no  motive  can  be  conceived  why  men  should 
testify  as  they  do,  but  the  love  of  truth  ;  and  every  other 
conceivable  motive  woidd  impel  them  to  testify  differ- 
ently, then  they  testify  from  the  love  of  truth;  that  is, 
they  affirm  what  they  believe  to  be  true.  To  suppose  the 
contrary  is  absurd.     For,  if  no  motive  but  the  love  '/  truth 


K24  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

could  impel  them  to  their  present  testimony,  to  suppose  the 
love,  of  truth  removed, —  that  is,  suppose  them  to  testify 
falsely, —  is  to  suppose  men  to  act  without  any  motive, 
and  in  opposition  to  every  conceivable  motive.  This  is 
diametrically  opposed  to  the  laws  of  human  action.  To 
suppose  any  one  to  act  in  this  manner,  is  to  suppose  him 
not  to  be  endowed  with  proper  human  faculties. 

But  it  may  be  said  that  motives  for  speaking  falsely  may 
exist,  though  we  cannot  conceive  of  them.  Granted.  But 
then  we  have  arrived  at  the  point  previously  mentioned ; 
that  is,  we  have  come  so  near  the  truth  that  we  can  discover 
no  source  of  error.  We  have,  therefore,  attained  to  that 
practical  certainty  which  is  all  that  is  given  to  us  in  estab- 
lishing any  matter  of  fact.  When  we  have  gone  so  far,  we 
have  reached  the  limit  which  the  Creator  has  assigned  to  our 
faculties,  and  we  can  proceed  no  further. 

Again ;  in  the  case  supposed,  when  many  witnesses  tes- 
tify, this  motive  which  no  one  can  assign,  which  no  one 
ventures  to  announce,  and  which  no  one  has  yet  discovered, 
must  have  influenced  a  number  of  persons,  against  every 
conceivable  interest,  to  testify  to  the  same  thing.  To  make 
such  a  supposition  the  ground  either  of  belief  or  disbelief, 
is  manifestly  absurd ;  but  to  make  it  the  ground  of  either, 
in  opposition  to  testimony  established  by  the  laws  of  evi- 
dence, exhibits  a  state  of  mind  for  which  it  is  difficult  to 
find  a  name. 

But  suppose  that  on  such  ground  as  this  the  evidence  of 
testimony  is  to  be  disregarded,  what  is  the  result  ?  Evi- 
dently, that  no  fact  in  history  or  science  could  be  believed, 
unless  we  had  seen  it  with  our  own  eyes.  The  past  would 
be  a  universal  blank.  Books  would  be  useless,  and  the 
whole  of  human  knowledge  must  be  limited  to  our  own 
individual  experiences.  There  is  here  no  middle  path. 
Either  we  must  receive  everything  established  by  the  strict 


EVIDENCE   OF   TESTIMONY.  825 

laws  of  evidence,  or  we  must  receive  nothing.  Which  is 
the  alternative  to  be  chosen  by  a  reasonable  intelligence,  it 
is  not  difficult  to  discover.  He  who  desires  to  see  this  sub- 
ject treated  with  great  acuteness  and  admirable  humor, 
should  read  Archbishop  Whately's  '^  Historical  Doubts 
relative  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte." 

At  some  risk  of  prolixity,  I  will  illustrate  this  subject  by 
an  example  to  which  I  have  before  referred. 

It  is  granted  that  a  great  number  of  persons,  of  difierent 
ages  and  pursuits,  and  in  various  places  throughout  this 
country,  testified  that  on  a  particular  day  they  witnessed  a 
total  eclipse  of  the  sun.  In  what  manner  shall  we  examine 
this  evidence,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  their  testimony 
is  worthy  of  belief? 

In  the  first  place,  we  appeal  to  the  law  of  perception. 
Was  this  an  event  which  they  were  all  capable  of  observ- 
ing ?  Could  they  have  been  conscious  of  perceiving  it,  un- 
less the  event  had  actually  occurred  ?  On  this  subject  there 
cannot  exist  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  Every  one  will  ad- 
mit that  if  these  persons  were  all  conscious  that  they  per- 
ceived the  eclipse,  the  eclipse  must  have  taken  place. 

Secondly,  were  they  really  conscious  that  they  perceived 
it ;   that  is,  did  they  testify  truly  ? 

Here  we  turn  to  the  law  of  human  motive.  We  say  no 
motive  but  the  love  of  truth  could  have  impelled  all  these 
persons,  of  different  ages,  habits,  culture  and  prejudices,  in 
many  different  places,  to  unite  in  this  testimony.  Take 
away  the  love  of  truth,—  that  is,  suppose  them  to  8p<':ik 
falsely,—  and  we  must  suppose  them  to  act  individually  with- 
out any  motive  ;  and,  still  more,  that  without  any  motive 
they  all,  and  without  concert,  united  in  giving  the  .^une 
testimony.     The  absurdity  of  this  supposition  is,  I  think. 

obvious. 

Thi3  testimony  would  be  still   more   irresistible,  if  the 

28 


326  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

persons  who  testified  were,  in  consequence  of  their  evidence 
exposed  to  contempt,  obloquy,  persecution,  loss  of  property 
and  of  life.  In  this  case,  to  suppose  them  to  testify  falsely, 
would  be  to  suppose  them  to  act  not  only  without  any  mo- 
tive, but  in  opposition  to  every  motive.  It  is  impossible  to 
suppose  an  intelligent  being  with  a  human  constitution  to 
act  in  this  manner. 

In  such  a  case  as  this,  we  show  that  what  is  testified  to 
is  true,  or  else  an  intuitive  law  of  perception,  or  an  intui- 
tive law  of  human  action  is  violated.  When  we  have  done 
this,  we  have  done  all  that  reasoning  can  do.  This  is  all 
we  do  in  demonstrative  or  mathematical  reasoning.  We 
there  show  that  unless  a  proposition  be  true,  an  axiom,  or  an 
intuitive  law  of  quantity,  is  violated.  We  can  go  no  further. 
In  either  case,  where  we  have  shown  this,  the  proposition  in 
question  has  been  proved.  Facts  thus  established  have 
never  been  shown  to  be  false.  Indeed,  they  never  could 
be  disproved,  for  we  can  never  be  more  certain  of  anything 
than  of  the  intuitive  laws  of  our  own  nature.  Suppose  that 
the  opposite  of  what  we  have  thus  proved  was  also  proved, 
it  could  not  show  the  first  proposition  to  be  false.  It  would 
only  establish  an  opposite  proposition  on  equivalent  evidence, 
and  we  should  be  perfectly  unable  to  choose  between  two 
contradictory  propositions,  both  being  perfectly  entitled  to 
belief 

From  these  remarks  it  will  appear,  that,  in  establishing 
any  fact  by  testimony,  two  points,  and  but  two,  are  of  neces- 
sity to  be  made  evident.  First,  that  if  the  witnesses  were 
conscious  of  perceiving  it,  it  re^illy  must  have  occurred. 
Here  we  show  that  the  event  was  one  properly  cognizable 
by  the  senses,  that  the  witnesses  were  in  proper  conditions, 
objective  and  subjective,  for  observing  it ;  that  is,  that  the 
impression  on  their  senses  must  have  been  made  under  the 
ordinary  laws  of  perception.     In  the  second  placp,  we  show 


I 


EVIDENCE    OF   TESTIMONY.  327 

that  the  witnesses  testify  to  what  they  really  believe  to  }po 
true ;  that  is,  they  really  believe  themselves  to  have  been 
conscious  of  the  perception  in  question.  We  here  show  tliat 
there  can  be  no  motive  for  testifying  falsely;  that  is,  to 
suppose  them  to  testify  falsely,  is  to  suppose  them  to  act 
without  motive.  If  we  can  proceed  further,  and  show  that 
if  they  testify  falsely,  they  not  only  act  without  any  motive, 
but  in  opposition  to  every  motive,  we  have  then  the  same 
evidence  as  if  every  witness  was  on  oath. 

In  this  manner  we  prove  any  fact  in  history ;  as  the  death 
of  Caesar  in  the  senate-house,  his  conquest  of  Britain,  or 
any  other  event.  On  these  principles  trials  are  conducted 
every  day  in  our  courts  of  law.  I  do  not  know  of  any 
method  by  which  a  student  will  improve  his  knowledge  of 
the  science  of  evidence  more  advantageously,  than  by  an- 
alyzing carefully  the  evidence  in  important  trials,  when  the 
decision  depends  upon  the  establishment  of  matters  of  fact. 
If  the  above  remarks  be  correct,  they  will  enable  hira  to 
carry  on  this  examination  and  analysis  with  some  degree  of 
success. 

IL    Of  indirect  or  circumstantial  evidence. 

In  the  preceding  remarks  I  have  considered  the  case  in 
which  the  witnesses  testify  directly  to  the  fact  in  question ; 
that  is,  they  declare  that  they  themselves  perceived  the 
fact  which  they  relate. 

But  cases  are  continually  occurring  in  which  it  is  impor- 
tant to  establish  a  fact  to  which  there  were  no  witnesses. 
How,  in  the  absence  of  witnesses,  shall  such  a  fact  be 
proved  7  This  is  done  by  indirect  or  circumstantial  evi- 
dence. The  principles  on  which  we  here  proceed  are  as 
follows : 

It  is  obvious,  from  the  regular  succession  of  cause  and 
effect,  to  which  all  the  changes  in  the  universe  are  sub- 
jected, that  no  event  can  occur  isolate^   w\  alone.     I  do 


328  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

not  know  that,  as  we  are  constituted,  it  is  possible  for  us  to 
conceive  of  such  an  event.  Every  phenomenon  is  indissolu- 
bly  connected  with  other  phenomena,  to  which  it  stands  in 
permanent  relations.  When  we  see  water  changed  into  ice 
we  know  that  it  must  have  been  exposed  to  a  temperature 
as  low  as  32''.  When  water  boils,  we  know  that  its  tempera- 
ture has  been  raised  to  212°.  If  a  body  at  rest  begins  to 
move,  or  if,  when  moving,  it  changes  suddenly  its  direction^ 
we  know  that  some  force  must  have  been  applied  to  it. 
These  changes  could  not  have  produced  themselves ;  they 
are  the  result  of  some  stated  antecedent.  Now,  if  we  can 
show  the  existence  of  a  train  of  facts,  so  related  to  the  fact 
in  question,  that  unless  this  fact  occurred  the  laws  of  cause 
and  effect  must  have  been  violated,  then  we  have  proved  the 
main  fact  by  indirect,  or  circumstantial  evidence. 

The  rules  which  govern  us  in  this  kind  of  evidence  are 
the  following : 

1.  When  we  are  not  inquiring  for  a  fact,  but  for  the 
cause  of  it,  the  fact  itself  must  first  be  established.  Thus,  if 
it  be  required  to  prove  that  A  murdered  B,  we  must  first 
prove  that  B  was  murdered,  and  prove  it  by  direct  evidence. 

2.  In  the  second  place,  all  the  facts,  on  which  we  rely  to 
prove  the  fact  in  question,  must  be  established  by  direct 
evidence.  Thus,  if  we  rely  on  the  facts  A,  B,  D,  to  prove 
the  fact  0, — that  is,  these  facts  being  proved,  that  the  fact 
C  must  have  existed, —  we  must  prove  the  facts  A,  B,  and 
D,  by  the  personal  knowledge  of  witnesses  themselves. 

3.  We  must  show  that  the  facts  A,  B,  and  B,  could  not 
have  existed  unless  the  fact  C  had  existed.  WTien  we  have 
established  these  facts,  and  shown  that  they  can  be  accounted 
for  on  no  other  supposition  than  the  existence  of  the  fact  0, 
—  that  is,  that  unless  the  fact  C  occurred,  a  law  of  nature 
has  been  violated, — then  we  have  proved  this  feet  by  indi* 
rect  evidence. 


INDIRECT    EVIDENCE.  829 

This,  however,  will  be  rendered  more  eviden  by  an  ex- 
ample. Take  the  following  case.  B  is  found  alone  in  a 
room,  dead,  stabbed  in  the  back,  and  his  skull  fractured  })y 
the  stroke  of  a  bludgeon.  The  first  thing  to  be  established 
is  that  the  man  is  dead ;  and,  secondly,  that  his  death  waa 
occasioned  by  the  wounds  upon  his  person ;  and,  thirdly,  that 
the  wounds  could  not  have  been  inflicted  by  himself:  that 
is,  that  he  died  by  the  hands  of  another,  and  not  by  his  own. 
These  facts  must  be  proved  by  direct  evidence.  It  is  thus 
shown  that  the  man  was  murdered.  The  question  next  to 
be  answered  is,  who  was  the  murderer  ? 

Here  it  is  shown  that  A  and  B  unlocked  the  door  and 
entered  the  room  together.  A  noise,  as  of  altercation,  was 
heard.  No  one  entered  the  room  until  A  left  it,  and  the 
first  person  who  entered  it  after  his  departure  found  B  dead 
in  the  manner  described.  Now,  these  facts  having  been 
established,  it  is  proved  that  A  is  the  murderer.  The  man 
is  dead.  He  died  of  these  wounds.  They  could  have  been 
inflicted  by  no  person  except  A  or  B  himself  They  are  so 
situated  that  B  could  not  have  inflicted  them  on  himself; 
they  must,  therefore,  have  been  inflicted  by  A. 

But,  besides  these,  other  antecedent  and  subsequent  facts 
may  confirm  the  supposition  of  the  guilt  of  A.  For  instance, 
men  do  not  commonly  commit  such  a  crime  without  a  vio- 
lent motive.  If  such  a  motive  existed,  it  gives  confirmation 
to  the  supposition  of  his  guilt.  And,  again,  when  a  man 
has  committed  so  atrocious  a  crime,  he  is  commonly  appre- 
hensive, and  takes  means  to  escape  the  consequences.  If 
B  was  known  to  enter  the  room  with  a  purse  of  gold  and 
was  found  with  his  pockets  rifled,  and  if  this  purso  waa 
found  in  the  possession  of  A,  this  will  furnish  a  motive  for 
the  deed.  If  A  immediately  afterwards  changed  his  name, 
disguised  his  person,  and  was  preparing  immediately  to 
escape  from  the  vicinity,  and  no  reason  but  his  guilt  can  be 
28* 


880  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

assigned  for  his  conduct,  this  is  a  strong  confirmatory  cir< 
cumstance.  The  supposition  that  he  was  the  murderer  can 
alone  account  for  all  his  subsequent  conduct. 

Hence,  we  see  the  points  which  are  to  be  made  out  by 
the  prosecution  in  any  trial  where  the  evidence  is  circum- 
stantial. First,  the  crime  must  have  been  committed.  For 
instance,  if  it  be  a  case  of  murder,  the  body  must  be  found, 
and  it  must  be  proved  that  the  death  was  caused  by  violence. 
Second,  the  facts  must  be  such  as  can  be  accounted  for  on 
no  oth-er  supposition  than  that  the  accused  was  the  murderer. 
If  they  can  be  accounted  for  on  any  other  reasonable  suppo- 
sition, then  the  case  is  not  proved.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  ground  of  the  defence  is,  first,  that  the  deceased 
did  not  die  by  violence ;  or,  in  general,  that  he  was  not  mur- 
dered ;  or  that,  if  murdered,  the  facts  can  be  accounted  for 
on  some  other  supposition.  The  facts  in  all  cases  must  be 
established,  as  I  have  said,  by  direct  testimony. 

In  every  trial,  where  the  evidence  is  circumstantial,  we 
hear  much  said  about  the  uncertainty  of  this  kind  of  evi- 
dence, and  various  cases  are  mentioned  in  which  the  lives 
of  innocent  men  have  been  sacrificed  in  consequence  of  this 
uncertainty.  This  may  have  been  the  case  when  the  prin- 
ciples of  evidence  were  less  perfectly  understood  than  at 
present.  But,  if  a  trial  is  conducted  according  to  the  rules 
of  evidence  as  at  present  established,  circumstantial  proof 
may  be  relied  on  with  as  much  certainty  as  direct.  Men 
may  be  mistaken  as  to  a  fact,  or  they  may  swear  falsely ; 
but  a  well-connected  chain  of  circumstances  can  rarely  de- 
ceive us.  It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that,  in  a  late  trial 
for  murder  in  Boston,  where  the  evidence  was  circum- 
stantial, the  circumstances  proved,  all  led  to  the  true  result ; 
while  the  direct  evidence,  intended  to  prove  an  aliH,  was 
absolutely,  though  innocently,  erroneous. 

This  kind  of  evidence  is  frequently  resorted  to  m  scientifio  * 


INDIRECT   EVIDENCE.  881 

investigations.  Certain  facts  are  observed.  In  what  man- 
ner are  they  to  be  accounted  for?  that  is,  what  must  have 
been  the  nature  and  the  order  of  the  changes  hy  wliicli  these 
appearances  were  produced  ?  When  we  have  conceived  of 
a  cause,  or  succession  of  causes,  which  will  account  for  all 
the  facts,  and  which  alone  can  account  for  them,  we  may 
consider  such  cause  or  causes  as  matter  of  esUiblished"  truth. 
Thus,  a  geologist  observes  that  a  river  has  cut  its  way 
through  banks  a  hundred  feet  high.  Some  thirty  feet  be- 
low the  surface  of  the  soil  a  layer  of  vegetable  matter  is 
discovered,  the  stumps  of  trees,  standing  upright,  imbedded 
in  the  soil  where  they  grew,  and  the  trees  broken  off  lying 
upon  and  by  the  side  of  them.  Some  thirty  feet  lower, 
another  stratum  of  a  similar  character  is  observed.  From 
the  position  of  these  trees  it  is  evident  that  they  also  must 
have  grown  on  the  spot  where  they  are  found,  and,  of  course, 
that  each  of  these  layers  must  have  been,  at  the  time  of  its 
growth,  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.  There  is  but  one  way 
in  which  these  facts  can  be  accounted  for.  After  the  lower 
layer  of  trees  had  grown  to  its  present  size,  the  surface  of 
the  earth  must  have  subsided  until  they  were  covered  with 
drift  for  thirty  or  more  feet.  The  subsidence  was  then  ar- 
rested until  another  forest  grew  up.  Another  subsidence 
must  have  occurred  until  the  drift  covered  the  timber  again 
to  a  similar  depth.  Then  the  whole  surflice  miist  have  been 
upheaved  to  its  present  position,  and,  afterwards,  the  river 
must  have  cut  its  way  through  the  mass,  thus  laying  bare  the 
mode  of  its  formation.  As  no  other  cause  can  be  assi-no«l 
for  these  effects,  we  are  warranted  in  believing  that  such 
events  as  these  actually  existed. 

It  will  be  seen  that  direct  and  circumstantial  evidence 
may  frequently  be  found  corroborating  each  other,  and  they 
then  present  the  strongest  possi])le  ground  of  belief  If  any 
marked  event  occur,  not  only  will  it  be  seen  by  witnesses. 


332  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

but  it  will  be  preceded  by  its  appropriate  causes,  and  fol- 
lowed by  its  appropriate  effects.  Thus,  the  death  of  Caesar 
is  proved  by  the  testimony  of  eye-witnesses,  and  contem- 
porary writers.  But,  besides  this,  the  civil  wars  in  the 
Roman  empire,  and  the  character  of  the  parties  that  were 
formed  immediately  after  that  event  is  said  to  have  taken 
place,  can  be  accounted  for  on  no  other  supposition  than 
that  of  his  violent  death.  So  the  invasion  and  occupation 
of  Britain  by  the  Romans  is  proved  by  the  testimony  of 
historians.  But  if  such  an  event  had  occurred,  we  should 
naturally  expect  that  some  traces  of  their  occupation  would 
be  observed  in  that  island.  Hence,  we  examine,  and  find 
there  the  remains  of  Roman  encampments,  walls,  roads, 
Roman  coins  of  that  age,  and  inscriptions  which  could  have 
been  made  by  no  other  people.  These  facts  can  be  ac- 
counted for  on  no  other  supposition  than  that  of  the  conquest 
and  permanent  occupation  of  Britain  by  the  former  con- 
querors of  the  world.  This  coincidence  of  direct  and  indi- 
rect evidence  furnishes  the  most  perfect  ground  of  belief 
which  we  can  conceive  to  any  matter  of  fact. 

REFERENCES. 

Evidence  of  testimony — Reid,  Essay  7,  sec.  8  ;  Stewart,  voL  ii,  chap 
2,  sec.  4  ;  Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  3. 

Different  kinds  of  evidence  —  Reid,  Essay  2,  chap.  20. 

Testimony  of  others  a  source  of  knowledge  —  Locke,  Book  4,  chap.  16, 
«ecs.  6 — 8  ;  Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  3. 

Law^  of  testimony  —  Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  3. 

Natural  bias  to  truth — Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  3  ;  Reid's  Inquiry, 
chap.  6,  sec.  24. 

Hume's  argument  against  miracles  —  Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  3 

Case  when  witnesses  are  numerous  — Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  ^ 

Circumstantial  evidence  —  Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  3. 


PROBABLE    REASONING.  884 


SECTION    IV. — OTHER   FORMS   OF   REASONING. 

I.    Of  probible  evidence. 

Thus  far  I  have  treated  of  those  modes  of  reasoning'  iu 
which  our  premises  are  acknowledged  to  be  true,  and  our 
conclusion  is  equally,  that  is,  absolutely  true.  But  all  of 
our  reasoning  is  not  of  this  character.  It  fre([ueiitly  hap- 
pens that  our  premises  rise  no  higher  than  probability,  and 
our  conclusions  can  only  reach  the  same  level.  Our  process 
is,  however,  precisely  the  same,  the  only  difference  consists 
in  the  degree  of  certainty  to  which  we  arrive. 

When  the  reasons  for  believing  a  proposition  to  be  true 
are  not  such  as  to  establish  belief,  but  only  to  show  that  it 
is  more  likely  to  happen  than  not,  we  say  that  such  a  propo- 
sition is  probable.  Thus,  if  the  wind  is  in  a  certain  quarter. 
I  say  that  it  probably  will  rain.  I  examine  the  evidence 
that  may  be  adduced  in  favor  of  the  proposition  that  the 
planets  are  inhabited,  and  I  say  that  it  is  or  is  not  probable. 
It  may  require  the  cooperation  of  several  causes  to  render 
an  event  certain.  If,  however,  only  a  part  of  these  causes 
unite  in  a  particular  case,  the  event  may  occur,  though  we 
cannot  expect  it  with  confidence.  So,  if  an  intelligent  being 
has  several  times,  under  given  circumstances,  acted  in  a  par- 
ticular manner,  we  form  a  distinct  anticipation  that  he  will 
act  in  the  same  manner  under  similar  circumstances.  But 
here  our  anticipation  only  amounts  to  a  probability,  for  wo 
know  not  what  changes  may  have  taken  place  in  his  charac- 
ter since  we  last  observed  him ;  and  there  may  have  arisen 
circumstances  which  affect  him  '>f  which  we  are  ignorant. 
When,  in  this  manner,  we  attain  to  mere  probability,  weaill 
our  state  of  mind  opinion ;  that  is,  we  judge  a  proposition 
more  likely  to  be  true  than  false. 

We  take  such  opinions  as  the  grounds  of  our  reasonings 


i34  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

m.  a  large  number  of  cases  in  practical  life.  Thus,  w« 
say, 

It  is  probable  that  the  character  of  a  human  being  will  be 
improved  by  affliction. 

A.  B.  has  suflfered  affliction ;  therefore, 

A.  B.  is  probably  improved  in  character. 

Or,  again : 

If  there  be  war  in  Europe,  the  price  of  breadstuffs  will  rise. 

There  will  probably  be  a  war  in  Europe ;  therefore. 

It  is  probable  that  the  price  of  breadstuffs  will  rise. 

When  only  one  of  our  premises  is  a  doubtful  and  the 
other  a  certain  proposition,  the  probability  of  our  conclusion 
is  equal  to  that  of  our  doubtful  premise.  Thus,  it  being 
granted  that  if  there  be  war  in  Europe  prices  will  rise,  the 
probability  of  our  conclusion  is  precisely  as  great  as  the 
probability  of  a  war.  When,  however,  both  of  our  premises 
are  mere  probabilities,  the  probability  of  our  conclusion  is 
greatly  reduced,  and  can  rarely  furnish  a  ground  for  an 
opinion.     Thus, 

If  the  south  wind  blow  to-morrow,  it  will  probably  rain. 

The  south  wind  will  probably  blow  to-morrow ;  therefore, 

It  is  (very  slightly)  probable  that  it  will  rain. 

When  so  slight  an  indication  of  an  event  is  given,  it  is 
manifestly  of  very  little  use  in  forming  a  judgment. 

Erom  the  fact  that  we  reason  from  probabilities,  very 
commonly,  in  the  practical  business  of  life,  it  has  happened 
that  this  mode  of  reasoning  has  sometimes  been  confounded 
with  that  by  which  we  arrive  at  practical  certainty.  It  haa 
sometimes  been  said  that  moral  reasoning,  or  reasoning 
concerning  matters  of  fact,  is  nothing  else  than  a  succession 
of  probable  arguments,  each  one  reducing  the  liabilities  of 
error,  until  they  become  so  small  as  to  be  inappreciable. 
The  cases,  however,  are  dissimilar.  In  the  one  case,  we  pro- 
ceed from   an  approximation  to  truth  so  near  that  neither 


PROBABLE    REASONING.  83»> 

we  nor  other  men  can  discover  any  error,  and  the  result  id 
of  the  same  character.  In  the  other  case,  we  proceed  from 
an  approximation  to  truth,  but  so  distant  that  we  can  appre- 
ciate our  liability  to  error ;  we  know  the  uncertainty  of  our 
premises,  and  the  result  is  a  mere  approximation  similar 
to  them,  producing  not  belief,  but  merely  opinion.  For  in- 
stance, suppose  we  endeavor  to  ascertain  whether  the  l)attle 
of  Waterloo  was  fought  on  the  18th  of  June,  1815  We 
proceed  according  to  the  laAvs  of  evidence  as  before  stato<l. 
We  apply  the  rule  of  perception,  and  the  rule  of  human 
motive.  We  can  discover  no  error,  and  no  other  man  can 
discover  any.  I  rely  upon  the  result  at  which  I  have 
arrived  with  perfect  confidence,  and  the  state  of  mind  of 
which  I  am  conscious  is  belief,  full,  entire,  and  unquestion- 
able. Again ;  the  question  is  asked,  when  did  the  battle 
commence?  I  find  that  here  the  accounts  vary.  The  best 
authorities  differ,  some  placing  it  as  early  as  ten  o'clock, 
and  others  as  late  as  one.  I  form  an  opinion,  by  comparing 
the  accounts,  and  balancing  the  probable  motives  which 
would  lead  men  into  error.  I  form  an  opinion  as  to  the 
time,  but  it  is  not  belief.  I  am  conscious  of  a  state  of  mind 
very  dissimilar  to  that  in  the  preceding  case. 

Or,  again;  from  the  data  established  by  ol).servatiun  a.s 
accurate  as  the  faculties  of  men  will  permit,  we  determine 
the  distance  and  magnitude  of  the  planet  Jupiter.  No  error 
can  be  discovered  either  in  our  data  or  our  reasoning.  Wo 
know  that  there  may  be  error,  but  that  it  cannot  exceed  a 
certain  amount,  and  we  rely  on  the  result  under  thi.s  con- 
dition with  absolute  certainty.  But  when  it  is  said  the 
planet  Jupiter  is  inhabited,  we  collect  our  data,  and  they 
give  us  nothing  but  a  probability  to  reason  from,  and  we 
arrive  at  nothing  but  an  opinion.  The  states  of  mind  dif- 
fer not  in  degree  but  in  kind.  The  one  proceeds  from  data 
in  which  no  error  can  be  discovered  by  the  faculties  which 


336  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

God  has  given  us.  The  other  proceeds  from  data  which  we 
know  to  be  uncertain,  and  the  uncertainty  of  which  we  are 
able  to  appreciate.  They,  of  course,  lead  to  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent subjective  result,  and  a  line  of  distinct  demarcation 
must  ever  separate  the  one  from  the  other. 

II.  Reasoning  from  induction. 

The  object  of  this  mode  of  reasoning  is  to  establish  a 
general  law,  from  the  observation  of  particular  instances. 
The  principle  on  which  it  depends  has  been  already  ex- 
plained, when  treating  of  cause  and  effect.  See  pages  153 
-158. 

It  is  in  conformity  with  our  intuitive  beliefs,  that,  from 
observing  a  change,  we  proceed  to  ascertain  its  cause.  We 
know  that,  wherever  the  cause  exists,  the  effect  must  neces- 
sarily follow,  and  that  wherever  an  event  always  follows  a 
given  antecedent,  this  antecedent  must  be  the  cause.  We 
therefore  observe  all  the  various  phenomena  which  pre- 
cede a  change.  We  ascertain,  so  far  as  possible,  which  of 
them  is  the  invariable  antecedent ;  in  other  words,  that  which 
being  present  the  effect  exists,  and  which  being  removed  the 
effect  ceases.  When  this  has  been  done,  we  consider  our- 
selves to  have  ascertained  the  cause. 

Having  thus  determined,  by  experiment,  the  cause  in  this 
particular  case,  we  proceed  as  follows : 

What  is  the  cause  of  this  effect  in  one  case  must  be  the 
cause  in  all  cases. 

The  event  A  is  the  cause  in  this  case ;  therefore, 

The  event  A  is  the  cause  in  all  cases. 

It  frequently  happens  that  there  are  several  antecedents, 
and  the  greatest  skill  and  the  most  persevering  sagacity  are 
requisite  in  order  to  determine  which  of  them  is  invariable. 
We  are  obliged  to  try  every  variety  of  combinations,  in  order 
to  ascertain  with  perfect  precision  the  cause,  and  to  sever 
It  from  every  occasional  and  variable  antecedent.     When, 


I 


ANALOGY.  887 


)r,  this  is  done,  we  generalize  with  entire  confidence, 
and  (consider  the  law  as  established. 

The  manner  in  which  we  proceed,  in  such  a  case,  is  illus- 
trated most  happily  in  the  process  employed  by  Sir  Isa^ic 
Newton  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  solar  spectrum.  The 
full  account  may  be  found  in  the  third  cliapter  of  Sir  David 
Brewster's  life  of  this  great  philosopher. 

in.    Of  reasoning  from  analogy. 

In  this  form  of  reasoning,  we  do  not  attempt  to  prove  a 
proposition  true,  and  we  may  not  even  attempt  to  prove  it 
probable.  All  that  we  generally  desire  is  to  prove  it  not 
improbable. 

In  the  other  cases  of  which  we  have  treated,  we  proceed 
upon  the  supposition  that  the  same  cause,  under  the  same 
conditions,  will  produce  the  same  effects.  Here  we  proceed 
upon  the  supposition,  not  that  the  same  cause  will  produce 
the  same  effect,  but  merely  that  similar  causes  may  produce 
similar  effects,  in  the  absence  of  evidence  to  the  contrary. 

If  this  mode  of  reasoning  were  reduced  to  a  syllogism  it 
would  take  substantially  the  following  form : 

1.  Similar  causes  may  produce  similar  effects. 

2.  The  cause  A  is  similar  to  the  cause  B  ; 

3.  Therefore  the  cause  A  and  B  may  produce  similar 
effects. 

Tlie  principal  uses  of  analogical  reasoning  are  the  follow- 
ing: 

1.  It  is  frequently  employed  with  success  in  answering 
an  a  priori  objection.  It  is  thus  used  with  great  acuteness 
and  unanswerable  force,  by  Bishop  Butler,  in  his  Analogy. 
Thus,  if  men  deny  the  existence  of  God,  and  hence  infer 
that  there  can  be  no  future  state  of  rewards  and  punish- 
ments, his  answer  is  as  follows  :  It  is  granted,  even  by 
atheists  themselves,  that  in  the  present  state  we  are  rewarded 
for  some  actions  and  punished  for  others ;  that  is,  that  wo 
29 


338  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

find  ourselves  under  a  moral  government.  But,  if  we  ex.et 
under  such  conditions  now,  when,  by  the  supposition,  there 
is  no  God,  there  can  be  no  reason  assigned  why  we  may  not 
continue  to  exist  after  death,  and  exist  under  the  same  con- 
ditions as  at  present ;  that  is,  under  a  moral  government,  in 
which  we  shall  be  rewarded  and  punished  according  to  the 
character  of  our  actions.  The  whole  of  this  admirable 
treatise,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  that  any  language  can 
produce,  is  intended  to  show  that  the  principles  of  moral 
government  taught  in  the  Scriptures  are  strictly  analogous 
to  those  everywhere  exhibited  in  the  government  of  the 
world,  as  seen  by  natural  religion.  Hence,  it  is  evident 
that  if  God  has  adopted  these  principles  for  our  government 
in  one  case,  there  can  be  no  a  priori  reason  why  he  should 
not  adopt  them  in  another  case.  "•  It  will  here  be  found," 
says  he,  *•  not  taken  for  granted,  but  proved,  that  any  rea- 
sonable man,  who  will  thoroughly  consider  the  matter,  may 
be  as  much  assured  as  he  is  of  his  own  being,  that  it  is  not 
so  clear  a  case  that  there  is  nothing  in  it." 

While,  however,  analogy  claims  to  do  no  more  than  this, 
it,  in  many  cases,  in  fact,  does  much  more.  It  is  evident 
that  the  greater  the  similarity  of  cause  the  greater  is  the 
probability  of  the  similarity  of  effects.  It  may  thus,  in 
some  cases,  approximate  to  proof;  at  the  least,  it  furnishes 
grounds  for  a  decided  opinion.  Thus,  the  similarity  of 
many  of  the  effects  of  electricity  and  galvanism  created  the 
opinion  that  they  were  the  same  agent,  before  their  identity 
was  discovered. 

2.  It  will  readily  appear  that  an  iniportant  use  of  analo- 
gy is  to  aid  us  in  scientific  investigation.  Suppose,  for  in 
stance,  that  we  have  discovered  the  cause  for  a  well-known 
effect.  We  observe  anotlier  effect  of  a  similar  character, 
and  we  instinctively  are  led  to  inquire,  may  it  not  arise  froiu 
the  same  or  a  similar  cause  ?    Hence,  in  our  search  aftei 


ANALOGY.  389 

causes,  we  are  greatly  aided,  and  much  uselcodlahor  is  saved, 
by  such  an  indication.  Thus,  Sir  11.  Davy  discovered  tho 
metallic  basis  of  potash.  But  there  are  other  alkalies  in 
many  of  their  sensible  properties  nearly  j?llied  to  potash. 
How  natural  was  it  for  him  to  expect  that  the  same  hiws 
governed  them  all,  and  that  they  all  were  formed  in  tlic  same 
manner  from  metallic  bases  ! 

3.  Analogy  is  frequently  used  by  the  orator  with  great 
eftect.  Thus,  if  it  is  admitted  that  a  man  has  acted  in  one 
way  at  one  time,  there  is  no  reason  why  he  might  not  he 
expected  to  act  in  the  same  way  at  another  time.  Or,  if  it 
is  honorable  for  one  man  to  act  in  a  particular  manner  in 
one  case,  there  can  be  no  reason  why  it  is  not  honorable  for 
another  man,  in  a  case  essentially  alike,  to  act  in  a  similar 
manner.  This  mode  of  reasoning  is  used  with  the  haj)piest 
success  by  Erskine,  in  the  introduction  of  his  argument  for 
Stockdale.  He  commences  by  alluding  to  the  fact  that,  though 
connected  by  ties  of  the  closest '  intimacy  with  the  poHtical 
party  who  had  directed  the  prosecution,  yet,  Mr.  Stockdale 
had  not  hesitated  to  entrust  him  with  his  defence.  He  adds, 
^'  This,  however,  is  a  matter  of  daily  occurrence.  So  unsul- 
lied is  the  character  of  the  English  bar,  that  no  political 
bias  ever  interferes  with  the  discharge  of  the  duty  of  an  ad- 
vocate ;  that,  whatever  may  be  our  public  principles,  or  tho 
pi-ivate  habits  of  our  lives,  they  never  cast  even  a  shade 
across  the  path  of  our  professional  duties.  If  this  be  char- 
acteristic of  the  bar  of  an  English  court  of  justice,  what 
sacred  impartiality  may  not  every  man  expect  from  its  ju- 
lors  and  its  bench."  Many  similar  instances  may  be  found 
in  the  speeches  of  this  eminent  orator,  perhaps  the  most 
consummate  advocate  of  modern  times. 

It  is,  however,  obvious,  that  this  mode  of  reasoning  is  lia- 
ble to  great  abuse.  The  whole  force  of  the  argument  de- 
pends  on  the  similarity  of  the  cases.     But  if  an  advocaU 


340  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

can  present  cai^es  seeming  to  be  similar,  while,  in  fact,  they 
are  widely  diverse,  he  may  draw  from  them  the  most  erro- 
neous conclusions.  It  is,  therefore,  the  business  of  an  oppo- 
nent, or  of  an  inquirer  after  truth,  to  examine  reasoning  of 
this  kind  with  the  closest  scrutiny  ;  and,  when  it  is  defective, 
point  out  the  dissimilarity  of  the  cases,  and  show  the  result 
to  which  such  analogies  would  lead,  if  we  allowed  them  to 
form  the  foundation  of  our  judgment. 

REFERENCES. 

Probable  evidence — Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  2,  sec.  4  ;  Locke,  Book  4, 
chap.  15  ;  Abercrombie,  Part  2,  sec.  8. 

Induction  —  Reid,  chap.  6,  sec.  24;  Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  4,  sec.  1,' 
Cousin,  chap.  9. 

Analogy — Reid's  Inquiry,  Essay  1,  chap.  4;  Stewart,  vol.  ii.,  chap.  2, 
sec.  4,  chap.  4,  sec.  4  ;  Locke,  Book  6,  chap.  16,  sec.  12;  Abercrombie, 
Part  3,  sec.  4. 

Herschel's  Discourse  on  the  Study  of  Natural  Philosophy. 

Remarks  on  Analogical  Reasoning  in  Whately's  Rhetoric.  • 

Bacon's  Novum  Organon. 


SECTION   V. — ON   THE   IMPROVEMENT   OF   THE   REASONING 

POWERS. 

It  is  appropriate  to  close  this  chapter  with  a  few  sugges- 
tions on  the  manner  of  improving  the  reasoning  powers. 

If  the  remarks  in  the  preceding  pages  are  correct,  it  will 
appear  that  the  process  which  we  employ  in  reasoning  is,  in 
all  cases,  essentially  the  same.  Our  object  is  to  show  such 
a  relation  between  the  known  and  the  unknown,  that,  if  one 
DC  true,  the  other  is  equally  true ;  or,  if  one  be  only  prob- 
ible.  the  other  is  equally  probable.  If  our  premises  are 
ienied,  we  proceed  to  show  their  relation  to  something  bet- 
ter known  and  more  universally  admitted,  and  thus  fall 
back,  step  by  step,  until  we  rest  upon  those  elementary 
truths  which  are  given  us  in  the  constitution  of  the  human 


t 


IMPROVEMENT   OF   IlEASONINQ.  841 


intellect.     From  these,  m  the  first  place,  all  our  knowledge 
proceeds. 

The  manner  in  which  we  accomplish  this  is  by  syllo<;i8m. 
We  show  that  what  is  true  of  a  chiss  is  true  of  every  indi- 
vidual under  that  class  By  making  it  evident  that  indi- 
viduals or  species  are  included  under  classes  to  which  they 
were  not  supposed  to  belong,  or  that  a  predicate  can  be 
affirmed  of  a  subject  which  could  not  have  been  affiimed  of 
it  before,  new  knowledge  is  evolved,  and  the  domain  of 
science  is  enlarged. 

To  proceed  in  this  manner  is,  I  suppose,  the  instinct  of 
our  nature.  A  human  being  begins  to  reason  almost  as 
soon  as  he  begins  to  think;  and  were  he  incapable  of 
reasoning,  that  is,  of  inferring  a  conclusion  from  premises, 
we  should  at  once  perceive  that  he  was  destitute  of  a  ra- 
tional soul,  or  deficient  in  an  important  element  of  our  in- 
tellectual nature.  Logicians  unfold  the  process  and  develop 
the  laws  by  which  reasoning  is  performed,  and  thus  enable 
us  the  better  to  distinguish  between  valid  a^-guments  and 
sophisms.  To  be  able  to  do  this  is  of  great  utility  in  the 
work  of  mental  cultivation.  We  thus  are  rendered  capable 
of  determining  whether  our  reasonings  are,  or  are  not,  in 
accordance  with  the  laws  of  the  human  mind.  When  this 
attainment  has  been  made,  we  can  rely  with  confidence  upon 
the  decisions  of  our  own  understanding.  This  is  an  impor- 
tant condition  of  all  intellectual  progress.  We  can  never 
proceed  boldly  in  the  work  of  investigation,  until  we  can 
say,  with  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  ^' When  I  see  a  thing  to  be 
true,  I  know  it  is  true.'' 

If,  then,  we  would  cultivate  our  reasoning  power  with 
luccess,  it  is  important  to  understand  the  nature  of  the 
human  mind,  and  especially  the  process  by  which  it  estab- 
lishes truth  by  reasoning.  The  first  of  these  is  treateil  of 
in  works  on  intellectual  philosophy.  This,  however,  is  not 
29* 


342  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

alone  suf^sient  for  our  purpose  The  whole  subject  of 
reasonin;  ^  in  all  its  ramificationSj  is  unfolded  in  the  science 
of  logi^ .  By  a  diligent  study  of  this  science,  our  acute- 
ness  "  /ill  be  greatly  sharpened,  and,  what  is  probably  of 
greater  consequence,  the  mind  not  only  becomes  accustomed 
to  all  the  forms  of  reasoning,  but  learns  instinctively  to 
reject  every  conclusion  not  warranted  by  logical  principles. 

I  lately  met  with  the  following  curious  illustration  of 
the  utility  of  the  study  of  logic  in  cultivating  the  power 
)f  the  mind^: 

^^  The  Asiatic  Journal,  1827,  records  the  following 
instance  of  acuteness  in  a  young  brahmin.  After  the 
introduction  of  juries  into  Ceylon,  a  wealthy  brahmin, 
whose  unpopular  character  had  rendered  him  obnoxious  to 
many,  was  accused  of  murdering  his  nephew,  and  put  upon 
trial.  He  chose  a  jury  of  his  own  caste  ;  but  so  strong  was 
the  evidence  against  him,  that  twelve  out  of  thirteen  of  the 
jury  were  thoroughly  convinced  of  his  guilt.  The  dissen- 
tient juror,  a  young  brahmin  of  Camisseram,  stood  up,  de- 
clared his  conviction  that  the  prisoner  was  the  victim  of  a 
conspiracy,  and  desired  that  all  the  witnesses  should  be 
recalled.  He  examined  them  with  extraordinary  dexterity 
and  acuteness,  and  succeeded  in  extorting  from  them  such 
proofs  of  their  perjury,  that  the  jury,  instead  of  consigning 
the  prisoner  to  an  ignominious  death,  pronounced  him  inno- 
cent. The  affair  made  much  noise  in  the  island,  and  the 
chief  justice,  Sir  Alexander  Johnston,  sent  for  the  juror  who 
had  so  distinguished  himself,  and  complimented  him  on  the 
talents  he  had  displayed.  The  brahmin  attributed  his  skill 
to  the  study  of  a  book  which  he  called  ^  The  Strengthener 
of  the  Mind.'  He  had  obtained  it  from  Persia,  and  had 
translated  it  from  the  Sanscrit,  into  which  it  had  been  ren- 
dered from  the  Persian.  Sir  Alexander  Johnston  express- 
ing a  curiosity  to  see  the  book,  the  brahmin  brought  a  Tamil 


imphjvement  or  reasoning.  343 

manuscript,  on  palm  leaves,  which  Sir  Alexander  found,  to 
his  infinite  surprise,  to  be  the. '  Dialectics  of  Aristotle  I 
regret  that  I  am  not  able  to  verify  this  anecdote  by  a  refer- 
ence to  the  original  work.  I  give  it  as  I  found  it  m  t% 
periodical  on  education. 

The  study  of  rules  and  the  comprehension  of  prirciplea 
will,  however,  be  of  very  little  value,  unless  our  knowledge, 
as  we  have  before  recommended,  be  reduced  to  practice. 
By  the  habitual  practice  of  earnest  investigation,  without 
any  knowledge  of  the  rules  of  logic,  a  man  will  become  an 
able  reasoner ;  while,  without  this  practice,  no  matter  what 
be  his  understanding  of  the  rules,  he  will  never  ac(|uire  the 
power  of  convincing  others. 

2.  I,  therefore,  remark  that  the  power  of  ratiocination 
may  be  improved  by  the  study  of  works  of  a  syllogistic 
character.  Among  these,  it  is  common  to  assign  the  first 
place  to  the  pure  mathematics.  A  geometrical  demonstra- 
tion is  composed  of  a  succession  of  pure  syllogisms,  free 
from  any  admixture  of  contingent  truth,  and  receiving  as 
premises  only  what  every  human  mind  must  necessarily 
admit.  The  appeal  is  made  exclusively  to  the  understand- 
ing ;  the  conceptions  are  definite  and  precise,  and  the  con- 
clusions follow  from  their  own  intuitive  evidence.  This, 
then,  would  seem  to  present  the  simplest  and  purest  exercise 
of  the  reasoning  power.  For  this  cause,  the  mathematics 
have  always  formed  an  important  branch  of  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. They  give  exercise  to  the  reasoning  power,  and  they 
may  be  pursued  at  an  early  period  of  life,  when  other 
reasoning  could  not  be  so  easily  comprehended. 

On  the  use  of  the  mathematics  for  the  purpose  of  intel- 
lectual cultivation,  however,  the  highest  authorities  on  the 
subject  of  education  differ.     Sir  W.  Hamilton  ^   contends, 

*  On  the  Study  of  the  Mathematics  as  an  Exercise  of  the  Mind.—  DiBCUi 
lions  on  Philosophy,  etc.     London,  18-32  :  pp.  2oG — i3*J7. 


344  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

with  great  power  and  exuberance  of  learning,  that  they  are, 
of  all  intellectual  pursuits,  the  least  adapted  to  produce  the 
effect  so  commonly  ascribed  to  them.  It  must  be  admitted 
that  they  discuss  the  relations  of  nothing  but  quantity,  and 
the  simplest  of  these  relatiDns  ;  and  that  the  matter  of  which 
they  treat,  and  the  mode  in  which  they  treat  it,  are  entirely 
unlike  those  which  must  be  employed  in  the  affairs  of  life 
and  the  mvestigations  of  the  other  sciences-.  Whoever  will 
read  this  very  able  discussion  will  at  least  be  convinced 
that  the  ordinary  opinion  on  the  universal  adaptedness  of  the 
mathematics  to  mental  discipline  requires  a  thorough  reex- 
amination. It  is  also  a  duty  manifestly  imposed  upon 
teachers  to  consider  this  question  with  a  mind  unbiased  by 
preconceived  opinions,  and  observe  carefully  the  effect  of 
this  study  on  the  reasoning  powers  of  their  pupils.  In  all 
our  institutions  of  learning  we  require  that  every  candidate 
for  a  literary  degree  shall  devote  a  considerable  portion  of 
his  time  to  the  mathematics,  not  for  any  practical  purpose, 
but  purely  as  a  means  of  special  intellectual  culture.  It 
sur.ely  cannot  be  inappropriate  to  inquire  whether  it  actually 
produces  the  anticipated  results. 

3.  In  the  mathematics,  our  reasoning  concerns  nothing 
but  the  necessary  relations  of  quantity,  and,  therefore,  we 
arrive  at  absolute  truth.  A  very  small  part  of  our  practi- 
cal reasoning  is,  however,  of  that  character.  We  desire  to 
have  the  truth,  not  concerning  abstract  conceptions,  but 
concerning  matters  of  fact,  or  that  into  which  fact  enters  as 
a  necessary  element.  Hence,  were  we  to  confine  our  reason- 
ing to  the  mathematics,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  we 
should  increase  our  power  of  general  ratiocination.  It  has 
been  frequently  remarked  that  persons  who  have  addicted 
themselves  exclusively  to  this  science,  have  been  singularly 
deficient  in  the  reasoning  power  which  is  required  in  the 
several  professions,  and  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life.     I 


IMPROVEMENT   OF   REASON.  845 

have  not  perceived  that  original  ability  in  young  men  waa 
at  all  measured  by  proficiency  in  the  mathematics.  Mm 
of  decided  talent  generally  succeed  well  iu  anytliing.  an.l, 
of  course,  in  abstract  science.  The  general  reasoning  power 
is  not  more  closely  connected  with  special  talent  for  mathe- 
matics, than  with  special  talent  for  philology,  pliih>sophy, 
physics,  or  any  other  branch  of  learning. 

It  will,  therefore,  be  necessary  for  us  to  accustom  our- 
selves to  reasonings  concerning  matters  of  fiict,  or,  as  it  is 
called,  moral  reasoning.  In  order  to  do  this,  it  will  be  use- 
ful to  examine  argumentative  treatises,  discourses,  sermons, 
pleas  at  the  bar,  or  anything  which,  by  consecutive  proof, 
professes  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion.  I  hardly  know  of  any 
work  better  adapted  to  such  a  purpose  than  Butler's  Anal- 
ogy. It  will  aid  us  in  this  labor,  first,  carefully  to  read 
the  work  which  we  attempt  to  examine,  taking  notes  of 
every  step  of  the  argument,  and  thus,  in  the  briefest  manner, 
forming  for  ourselves  an  analysis  of  the  whole.  Then,  fix- 
ing our  minds  distinctly  upon  the  thing  to  be  proved,  we 
should  examine  the  general  syllogism  by  which  it  is  es- 
tablished, and  the  proofs  on  which  the  several  propositions 
!  rest.  Where  an  argument  is  abbreviated,  we  should  supply 
i  the  propositions  that  are  suppressed,  and  the  conclusions  that 
are  omitted.  In  this  manner  we  shall  be  able  fully  to  ap- 
preciate the  value  of  the  whole  argument,  yielding  an  intel- 
ligent conviction  to  its  proofs,  and  rejecting  whatever  is 
sophistical.  A  practice  of  this  kind  will  have  a  marked 
effect  upon  our  power  of  ratiocination. 

By  pursuing  the  course  here  indicated,  we  may  be  enabled 
to  understand,  appreciate  and  verify,  the  various  forms  of 
.argument.  We  thus  become  skilful  in  detecting  sophistry, 
and  distinguishing  truth  from  falsehood.  This  may  l>e  lonne^l 
passive  syllogistic  power.  It  is  an  important  preparation 
for  further  progress,  but  is  in  itself  only  a  partial  develop- 


346  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ment  of  tho  reasoning  faculty.  We  need  the  aoility,  not 
only  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  arguments  of  others, 
but  also  to  originate  and  construct  arguments  for  ourselves. 
This  is  the  great  purpose  which  this  power  was  intended  to 
accomplish. 

4.  We  may  improve  ourselves  in  this  respect  by  mathe- 
matical study.  As  soon  as  we  have  acquired  the  command 
of  a  few  theorems  in  geometry,  we  should  attempt  to  demon- 
strate for  ourselves.  Problems  for  this  purpose  should  be 
provided  in  our  text-books.  It  would  be  well  if  the  student 
should  never  make  use  of  the  demonstration  in  the  book, 
until  he  had  exhausted  his  ability  to  originate  one  for  him- 
self In  this  manner,  thouo;h  he  mio^ht  seem  at  first  to 
make  but  slow  progress,  his  real  mathematical  power  would 
rapidly  increase.  If  mathematical  studies  are  to  be  used  as 
a  means  for  mental  discipline,  the  practice  of  original  demon- 
stration must  be  invaluable.  Were  it  more  frequently 
adopted,  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  would  add  materially  to 
vigor  and  alertness  of  mind.  In  this  respect,  algebraical 
problems  possess  a  peculiar  advantage.  I  know  of  no  ex- 
ercise that  calls  into  more  active  use  the  power  of  grasping 
firmly  a  particular  conception,  and  tracing  it  out  unchanged 
through  various  and  complicated  relations,  than  thenefibrt  to 
form  a  difficult  algebraical  equation. 

5.  If  we  would  educate  our  reasoning  powers,  we  must 
pursue  the  same  course  in  subjects  not  mathematical.  We 
must  learn  to  form  arguments  for  ourselves  on  all  matters 
of  investigation  that  come  under  our  notice.  When  a  doubt- 
ful question  Jirises,  instead  of  avoiding  it,  we  should  earnestly 
bend  ourselves  to  the  labor  of  solving  it.  We  should  be  in 
the  habit  of  forming  logical  plans  of  thought  on  every  sub- 
ject of  study.  Whether  we  write  or  speak,  we  should  always 
have  an  end  in  view,  towards  which  every  thought  tends  by  a 
natural  succession,  and  a  logical  arrangement.     If  a  lawyer 


IMPROVEMENT    OF    IlEASOV.  347 

makes  a  plea,  he  should  not  be  satisfied  with  merely  pre- 
senting a  variety  of  considerations  that  have  a  bearing;  qq 
the  subject;  his  argument  should  be  direct  and  conchisive. 
If  a  pre?.cher  construct  a  discourse,  he  should  have  in  view 
a  particular  moral  condition  to  which  he  desires  to  lead  liis 
audience,  and  every  paragraph  and  every  sentence  should 
tend  to  lead  them  to  this  condition. 

If,  however,  we  desire  to  cultivate  our  intellect  to  the 
best  advantage,  two  cautions  are  here  to  be  observed.  The 
first  respects  reliance  on  authority.  Many  men,  when  a 
proposition  is  to  be  proved,  spend  their  time  in  hunting  up 
authorities,  and  collecting  the  opinions  of  others.  By  these 
they  expect  men  to  be  convinced,  without  once  asking  the 
question  whether  they  are  convinced  themselves.  I  would 
by  no  means  speak  lightly  of  the  learning  of  the  past,  or 
of  the  opinions  of  eminent  men ;  but  it  must  still  be  apparent 
that  an  opinion,  whether  of  an  ancient  or  a  contemporary, 
is  worth  just  as  much  as  the  reason  on  which  it  is  founded. 
No  matter  how  high  the  authority,  we  should  never  attempt 
to  convince  another  by  an  argument  the  force  of  which  we 
have  not  ourselves  acknowledged.  We  may  embarrass  and 
confound  men  by  an  array  of  learned  authorities,  but  we 
shall  rarely  convince  them  unless  we  have  first  convinced 
ourselves. 

But  it  is  hardly  enough  that  we  ourselves  be  convinced 
by  the  teaching  of  others.  We  should,  if  possible,  convince 
ourselves  by  reasons  drawn  from  the  fountain  of  our  own 
reflections.  A  student  who  desires  to  develop  fully  his  o^\'n 
powers,  must  make  his  own  mind  his  chief  reliance  in  all 
his  intellectual  labor.  If  he  cultivate  this  habit,  he  will 
frequently  find  it  less  laborious  to  think  out  an  argument 
for  himself  than  to  seek  for  it  in  books.  A  man  endowed 
with  a  ready  memory  and  sufficient  command  of  language, 
may,  without  any  active  use  of  his  reasomng  powers,  speak 


34S  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY 

or  write  upon  a  subject  with  fluency  and  elegance.  Such 
men  in  youth  create  great  expectation,  but  when  the  hour^ 
arrives  for  decided  intellectual  trial,  they  fail.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  who  thinks  for  himself  and  relies  on  his  own 
resources,  may  at  first  seem  slow  of  apprehension  and  want- 
ing in  richness  of  thought,  but  his  powers  are  invigorated 
by  every  effort.  The  exercise  of  his  faculties  yields  con- 
tinually a  richer  and  more  abundant  product,  and  thus  con- 
firms his  confidence  in  his  own  intellectual  power.  We 
should,  therefore,  resolve  in  the  beginning  that  whatever  we 
produce  shall  be,  as  far  as  possible,  our  own ;  at  least,  that 
it  shall  have  passed  through  the  processes  of  our  own  think- 
ing, and  thus  become  assimilated  with  the  working  of  cur 
own  intellect.  No  habit  is  so  fatal  as  plagiarism  to  all 
vigor  of  the  understanding.  It  inevitably  induces  indolence, 
mental  imbecility,  and  utter  inability  to  carry  on  a  train 
of  original  thought. 

6.  In  order  to  improve  the  reasoning  powers,  it  is  im- 
portant that  we  always  labor  for  truth.  Many  persons,  in 
order  to  acquire  skill  in  debate,  are  in  the  habit  of  defend- 
ing the  true  or  false  indiscriminately,  believing  that  they 
can  cultivate  their  own  understanding  by  misleading  the 
understanding  of  others.  A  man  may  learn  thus  to  embar- 
rass and  confound  an  antagonist,  but  he  does  it  at  great 
sacrifice.  By  earnestly  seeking  for  truth,  and  rejecting  all 
sophistry,  the  mind  acquires  a  tendency  to  move  in  the  right 
direction.  Chemists  speak  much  of  the  affinities  of  various 
substances  for  each  other.  There  is  a  natural  affinity  in 
the  human  mind  for  truth,  and  this  affinity  is  strengthened 
by  seeking  for  it  with  an  honest  and  earnest  purpose.  If 
we  in  our  investigations  inquire  for  nothing  but  truth,  it 
ipontaneously  reveals  itself  to  us.  The  whole  history  of 
philosophical  discovery  illustrates  this  remark.  Hence 
nothing  can  be  more  unwise  than  to  destroy  the  original 


IMPROVEMENT    OF    REASON.  849 

delicacy  of  the  faculty  of  reason  by  employing  u  uui\^ 
criminately  in  the  support  of  truth  or  falsohiHKl.  Wc  may 
thus  gain  the  praise  of  acuteness  or  readiness  in  debate ; 
but  we  lose  what  is  of  incomparably  greater  consecpicnco, 
the  instinctive  love  of  truth,  and  the  delicate  discrimina- 
tion between  truth  and  error. 

.  And,  lastly;  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  reason  well,  or 
BO  to  reason  as  to  increase  the  sum  of  human  knowledge, 
without  the  possession  of  large  and  accurate  knowledge. 
Reasoning  is  the  process  by  which  we  pass  from  the 
known  to  the  unknown.  The  known,  then,  lies  at  the 
foundation  of  our  process.  Unless  there  be  something 
known,  we  cannot  begin  to  reason ;  and  the  greater  the 
amount  of  our  knowledge,  the  larger  is  the  material 
with  which  we  labor.  The  more  exact  our  knowledge  is, 
the  more  successfully  can  we  use  it  in  the  discovery  of 
truth. 

AWe  men,  of  marked  independence  of  mind,  and  strong 
tendency  for  investigation,  by  failing  to  know  what  other 
men  have  discovered,  are  liable  to  waste  their  energies  in 
search  of  that  which  has  been  already  discovered.  Hence, 
after  arriving  at  valuable  truth,  they  find  themselves 
in  the  rear  of  their  age.  Though  the  cases  are  rare, 
able  men  sometimes  fall  into  this  error.  If  this  be  the 
case  with  men  of  unusual  endowments,  how  much  more 
does  it  deserve  the  attention  of  those  who  can  boast  of 
no  extraordinary  talent !  He  who  would  enlarge  the  field 
of  human  knowledge,  must  stand  upon  the  limits  of  the 
known,  before  he  can  expect  to  enter  the  field  of  the 
unknown. 

REFERENCES. 

Cultivation  of  the  reasoning  faculties-^  Abcrcrombic.  Part  3,  »ection  4 
Mathematicians  not  good  reasoners  — Abercrombie.  Part  U,  Bcction  4 

30 


350  rr^TEL^ECTUAL    PHI.  OSOPHY. 

Difference  between  sound  judgment  and  ingenious  disputation  —  Aber. 
crombie.  Part  3,  section  4. 

Power  of  reasoning  depends  on  extent  of  knowledge — Abercrombie, 
Part  3,  section  4. 

Use  of  authorities  —  Locke,  Book  4,  chap.  20,  section  17. 

Advantage  of  clearness  and  exactitude  of  knowledge  —  Locke,  Book  4 
ehap.  12»  seotido  14» 


CHAPTER   VII. 

LVIAGEnATION. 


SECTION     I. —  THE    NATURE    OF   THIS   FACULTY 

The  next  faculty  of  which  we  propose  to  treat  13  the 
Imagination-  It  is  the  power  by  which,  from  simple  con- 
ceptions already  existing  in  the  mind,  we  form  complex 
wholes  or  images.  Thus,  the  painter,  selecting  several  beau- 
tiful views  from  various  landscapes  which  he  has  observed, 
forms  them  into  a  smgle  picture.  The  novelist  unites  the 
elements  of  several  characters  which  he  has  observed  in  the 
conception  of  his  hero. 

It  is  manifest  that  some  form  of  abstraction  must,  by 
necessity,  precede  the  exercise  of  imagination.  Were  we 
not  able  to  analyze  the  concrete,  and  contemplate  its  several 
parts  separate  from  each  other,  we  could  never  unite  them 
at  will,  so  as  to  form  an  original  image.  The  parts  must 
be  mentally  severed  before  they  can  be  reunited  in  a  new 
conception.  It  is  this  power  of  reuniting  the  several 
elements  of  a  conception  at  will,  that  is,  properly,  imagina- 
tion. Imagination  may  then  be  designated  as  the  power  of 
combination. 

There  is,  however,  a  difference  in  the  m:inner  in  which 
the  power  of  combination  receives  and  mcxlifies  the  materials 
derived  from  abstraction.  In  treating  of  abstraction  I 
attempted  to  show  that  it  included  three  acts ;  first,  anal/ 


352  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

sis,  by  which  the  qualities  of  a  concrete  obje<;t  are  separated 
from  each  other ;  second,  generalization,  by  which  these 
simple  elements  of  an  individual  become  a  general  abstract^ 
idea  ;  and,  third,  combination,  by  which  these  last  are  united 
in  a  complex  conception,  representing  not  an  individual 
but  a  class.  The  act  by  which  we  form  classes,  may, 
perhaps,  more  properly  be  called  conception  than  imagina* 
tion. 

The  act  of  imagination  proper,  differs  from  that  act  by 
which  we  form  classes.  In  the  first  place,  the  mode  of 
abstraction  in  the  two  cases  is  unlike.  In  forming  concep- 
tions of  classes  we  first  separate  qualities  from  each  other. 
In  collecting  the  elements  for  a  picture  in  the  imagination, 
we  separate  not  qualities  so  much  as  parts.  Again  ;  before 
we  can  proceed  to  form  classes,  we  must  first  generalize  our 
individual  abstractions,  and  thus  form  general  abstract  ideas. 
In  imagination  proper  we  do  not  generalize,  but  at  once 
unite  the  ideas  of  individual  parts  which  we  have  previously 
separated  from  each  other.  In  the  third  place,  the  result 
is  dissimilar.  In  the  one  case  we  form  a  notion  of  a  class, 
meaning  no  particular  individual ;  in  the  other,  we  form  a 
notion  of  an  individual,  which  is  the  more  perfect  in  pro- 
portion to  its  distinct  individuality. 

The  difference  between  these  cases  may  be  illustrated  by 
a  familiar  example.  Suppose  that  a  physiologist  wer^ 
attempting  to  form  a  scientific  conception  of  an  animal,  say, 
for  instance,  of  a  horse.  He  would  examine  the  first  speci- 
men with  all  the  accuracy  in  his  power,  taking  note 
specially  of  all  the  qualities  of  its  external  appearance  and 
internal  structure.  He  would,  in  the  second  place,  examine 
other  specimens,  taking  note  of  each  particular  quality  as 
before.  These  qualities  would  then  not  belong  to  one  speci- 
men, but  to  them  all,  or  would  become  general  abstract 
ideas.     Ho  would  next  distinguish  those  that  were  constant 


IMAGINATION.  853 

•m  those  which  were  variable,  uniting  the  constant  into 
a  single  conception,  and  rejecting  the  others  as  valuers. 
This  conception  thus  formed  would  represent  the  class,  and 
would  correspond  to  the  word  horse,  whenever  he  or  other 
physiologists  used  it. 

But,  were  an  artist  required  to  paint  the  charger  of  a  com- 
mander-in-chief on  a  battle-field,  he  would  proceed  in  a  very 
.  different  manner.  Observing  several  horses,  he  would  jkt- 
eeive  one  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  its  head.  The  Ixxly 
of  another,  and  the  neck  of  a  third  are  distinguished  for 
elegance  of  form  and  symmetry  of  proportions.  Without 
any  act  of  generalization,  he  would  unite  such  of  these  sev- 
eral parts  as  he  chose  into  one  image,  which  he  would 
transfer  to  the  canvas.  This  picture  would  not  be  the 
representation  of  a  class,  but  of  an  individual.  The  object 
of  the  painter  would  be,  not  to  form  an  image  which  should 
stand  for  all  horses,  but  a  picture  of  a  more  beautiful  horse 
than  had  ever  existed,  thus  making  this  representation  to 
stand  out  by  itself,  distinguished  from  every  other  that  had 
ever  been  conceived. 

Imagination  proper  is,  therefore,  the  power  of  forming 
not  general  conceptions,  designating  classes,  but  particular 
images  representing  individuals.  It  is  the  power  by  which 
•  we  form  pictures  in  the  mind,  of  some  object  or  event. 
Hence,  it  would  seem  that  those  writers  have  erred  who 
state  that  this  act  of  the  mind  closely  resembles  the  process 
of  reasoning.  The  two  acts  are  really  remarkably  unlike. 
The  materials  used  in  the  reasoning  process  are  always 
propositions,  that  is,  affirmations  respecting  genera  and 
species.  The  imagination,  on  the  contrary,  employs  con- 
ceptions of  separate  parts,  which  it  combines  into  an  indi- 
vidual whole.  The  process  which  they  employ  is  dissimilar , 
the  one  forming  syllogisms,  the  other  uniting  elements.  The 
result  at  which  they  arrive  is  different.  The  one  ends  ia 
30* 


S54  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

a  proposition  affirming  a  predicate  of  a  subject;  fce  other  snda 
in  a  picture  affirming  nothing.  The  one  asserts  a  tiuth, 
the  other  presents  a  conception.  That  the  most  gifted  men 
are  frequently  endowed  with  both  of  these  powers  in  a  high 
degree,  and  that  the  possession  of  both  is  necessary  to  great 
intellectual  effi^rts,  is  granted;  but  this  no  more  proves 
them  to  be  either  identical  or  similar,  than  the  necessity  of 
reason  and  memory  to  intellectual  effiDrt  proves  these  faculties 
identical. 

If  we  examine  the  several  acts  of  this  faculty,  we  may, 
I  think,  observe  a  difference  between  them.  We  have  the 
power  to  originate  images  or  pictures  for  ourselves,  and  we 
have  the  power  to  form  them  as  they  are  presented  to  us  in 
language.  The  former  may  be  called  active,  and  the  latter 
passive  imagination.  The  active  I  believe  always  includes 
the  passive  power,  but  the  passive  does  not  always  include 
the  active.  Thus  we  frequently  observe  persons,  who  delight 
in  poetry  and  romance,  who  are  utterly  incapable  of  creat- 
ing a  scene  or  composing  a  stanza.  They  can  form  the  pic- 
tures dictated  by  language,  but  are  destitute  of  the  power 
of  original  combination.  Even  this  secondary  and  inferior 
form  of  imagination  is  possessed  in  different  degrees.  Every 
one  in  the  habit  of  giving  instruction,  especially  when  de- 
scription is  necessary,  must  have  been  convinced  of  the  great 
difference  of  individuals  in  this  respect.  Some  persons 
create  a  picture  for  themselves  as  soon  as  it  is  presented  in 
language.  Others  form  it  with  difficulty,  after  repeated 
trials ;  and  at  last  we  are  uncertain  whether  the  conception 
in  our  own  mind  is  the  same  as  that  awakened  in  the  mind 
of  another.  It  is  on  this  power,  chiefly,  that  the  love  of 
poetry  and  fiction  depends.  Hence,  we  frequently  find  per- 
sons of  good  sense  and  strong  judgment,  who  never  manifest 
any  taste  for  imaginative  writing.  This  type  of  character 
is  most  frequently  observed  in  those  who  have  not  com- 


I 


IMAGINATION.  855 


menced  their  education  until  late  in  life.  The  imagitiation 
is  most  active  in  youth,  and  if  it  remain  undeveloped  until 
the  period  of  youth  be  past,  it  rarely  attains  its  full  power 
or  its  natural  proportions. 

The  active  power  of  imagining  is  bestowed  with  still 
greater  diversity.  Some  men  are  poets  by  nature.  Ilenco 
the  maxim,  looeta  nascitiir  non  Jit^ —  a  poet  is  formed  by 
nature,  not  by  education.  Men  endowed  with  a  creative 
imagination  are  continually  perceiving  analogies,  forming 
comparisons,  and  originating  scenes  of  beauty  or  grandeur, 
out  of  all  that  they  observe  and  all  that  they  rcmeuiber. 
Johnson  was  sitting  one  evening  by  the  side  of  a  table,  on 
which  two  candles  were  burning.  The  conversation  turned 
on  Thomson.  ^^ Thomson,"  said  he,  /'could  not  see 
those  two  candles  without  forming  a  poetical  image  out  of 
them."  On  the  other  hand,  we  are  told  of  a  celebrated 
mathematician,  who,  after  reading  the  Paradise  Lost,  laid 
down  the  book  in  disgust,  with  the  significant  question, 
'•What  does  it  prove ?  "  In  the  one  case,  the  imagination 
had  been  exclusively  cultivated ;  in  the  other,  the  reasoning 
power.  The  one  had  been  accustomed  to  form  pictures,  the 
other  demonstrations.  Neither  could  have  been  interested 
in  the  labors  of  the  other.  Both  would  probably  have 
derived  advantages  from  a  more  generous  and  universal  cul- 
tivation of  their  intellectual  powers. 

This  distinction  leads  us  to  observe  a  mistake,  frequently 
made,  respecting  the  mode  of  cultivating  the  imagination. 
Young  persons  sometimes  spend  their  time  in  reading  works 
of  fiction,  and  tell  us  that  their  object  is  to  improve  tlii.s 
power  of  the  mind.  This  kind  of  reading  produces  an  effect, 
but  not  the  efi'ect  intended.  It  improves  nothing  but  the 
passive  power  of  the  imagination  :  that  is,  it  enables  us  the 
more  readily  to  conceive  of  scenes  presented  to  us  by  Ian- 
guage.     It  cannot  enable  us  to  create  scenes  for  ourselves. 


C56  INTELLECTUAL   PHILuSOPHT. 

If  this  passive  imaginative  power  is  exclusively  cultivated, 
it  is  even  liabb  to  paralyze  the  power  of  creation  by  con- 
demning it  to  perpetual  inaction.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was, 
from  boyhood,  a  vast  reader  of  romances,  but  he  was  also 
an  indefatigable  story-teller,  and  would  detain  his  school- 
fellows, by  the  half-day  together,  with  fictions  of  his  own 
creation,  wrought  out  on  the  instant  from  the  stores  of  his 
inexhaustible  fancy.. 

Again ;  a  distinction  may  be  observed  in  the  nature  of  the 
active  power  of  the  imagination.  Some  men  instinctively 
employ  this  faculty  in  the  creation  of  images  of  beauty  or 
sublimity.  They  address  themselves  to  the  taste,  and  their 
object  is  merely  to  please.  Such  men  are  by  nature  poets. 
Whatever  they  see  or  hear  becomes  at  once  materials  for  the 
exercise  of  the  fancy.  Analogies  between  the  seen  and  the 
unseen,  the  relations  of  matter  and  the  relations  of  mind, 
the  objective  and  the  subjective,  are  continually  revealing 
themselves,  and  thus  giving  birth  to  comparisons,  meta- 
phors, similes  and  pictures.  No  one  can  read  the  poetry  of 
Milton,  Shakspeare,  Burns,.  Cowper  and  Thomson,  with- 
out observing  this  wonderful  power  of  creating  at  will 
images  of  transcendent  loveliness,  from  either  the  lowliest 
or  the  loftiest  object  that  the  eye  rests  upon. 

But  there  is  another  and  a  smaller  class  of  persons,  richly 
endowed  with  imagination,  in  whom  this  faculty  acts  on 
somewhat  different  principles,  and  tends  to  a  very  different 
result.  The  materials  which  they  employ  are  not  scenes, 
or  images  of  individual  beauty,  but  laws  of  nature.  They 
address  not  the  taste,  but  the  reason.  Their  object  is  not 
to  please,  but  to  instruct.  The  result  at  which  they  arrive 
is  not  a  picture  that  can  be  painted  on  canvas,  but  a  complex 
conception  of  truth  united  in  one  idea,  and  tending  to  a  par- 
ticular conclusion.  Such  men  no  sooner  observe  a  phenome 
non  than  they  summon  from  the  whole  field  of  their  knowledge 


POETIC   IMAGINATION.  867 

every  law  that  could  relate  to  this  particular  case,  and  hc- 
lect  and  combine  into  one  conception  such  of  these  laws  aa 
will  reasonably  account  for  the  change.  Most  men,  when 
they  observe  a  phenomenon,  know  that  it  must  liave  a  cau.se, 
but  never  give  themselves  the  trouble  to  seek  for  it.  Others 
are  perpetually  searching  after  causes,  but  seem  condeumed 
to  search  forever  in  the  wrong  direction.  Men  who  are 
preeminently  gifted  are  generally  endowed  with  this  power 
of  combination  in  a  remarkable  degree.  Such  were  Ar- 
chimedes, Plato  and  Aristotle,  among  the  ancients,  and 
among  the  moderns,  Newton,  Sir  H.  Davy,  Cuvier,  and 
many  of  the  illustrious  men  yet  spared  to  us.  It  liaa 
appeared  to  me  that  the  study  of  chemistry,  when  pursued 
into  the  regions  of  original  investigation,  has  a  strong  ten- 
dency to  cultivate  the  highest  exercise  of  this  endowment. 

As  these  two  forms  of  the  imagination  are  of  special 
mterest,  and  are  to  a  considerable  degree  dissimilar,  we  shall 
in  the  following  remarks  consider  them  separately. 


SECTION   II.  —  POETIC   IMAGINATION. 

Imagination,  as  we  have  said,  is  the  power  of  combina- 
tion. In  poetic  imagination,  its  elements  are  not  general 
abstract  ideas,  but  rather  notions  of  the  several  parts  of 
different  wholes,  which  may  be  united  at  will.  The  pic- 
tures of  the  imagination  are  not  representations  of  chisses, 
but  are  individual  images  which  the  mind  forms  for  itself 
from  the  conceptions  which  it  has  already  treasured  up. 

Thus,  when  a  painter  would  delineate  on  canvas  an  ideal 
landscape,  he  has  recourse  to  the  various  elements  of  pic- 
turesque beauty  which  are  present  in  his  recollection.  Ho 
uas  been  in  thJ  habit  of  observing  the  aspects  of  nature  Id 
all  their  infinite  variety.     Tree  and  shrub  river  and  stream- 


358  IM^ELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

let,  meadow  and  hill-side,  sunlight  and  shadow,  at  mornings 
noon  and  evening,.are  all  vividly  impressed  upon  his  recol- 
lection. He  forms,  at  first,  a  general  conception  of  the  picture 
which  he  is  about  to  execute.  He  forms,  perhaps,  another.  ' 
and  another,  until  the  prominent  features  of  his  design  are 
determined  upon.  When  the  elements  of  his  combination 
are  such  as  he  approves,  he  proceeds  to  fill  up  the  outline 
with  such  of  the  accessories  as  will  best  harmonize  with  his 
subject.  When  his  conception  is  thus  matured,  he  proceeds 
to  give  it  form  and  coloring.  The  idea  which  at  first  ex- 
isted in  his  own  mind  alone,  now  begins  to  appear  in  all  the 
loveliness  of  a  finished  picture.  It  is  said  that  Cole,  the 
distinguished  American  landscape  painter,  never  drew  a  line 
upon  canvas  until  he  had  not  only  matured  the  whole  scene  in 
his  mind,  but  even  written  out  the  description  in  full.  From 
this  written  delineation  he  rarely  made  any  variation  when 
he  transferred  his  conception  to  canvas.  The  case  is  the 
same  in  any  other  of  the  fine  arts.  One  of  the  most  im- 
pressive ideas  that  crowds  upon  the  spectator,  as  he,  for  the 
first  time,  looks  upon  the  interior  of  a  gothic  cathedral,  is, 
that  all  this  magnificence  of  beauty,  even  to  its  minute 
details,  must  have  existed  in  the  mind  of  the  architect  be- 
fore the  first  stone  of  the  mighty  fabric  was  laid.  It  aU 
appears  like  a  gorgeous  epic, —  an  Iliad,  or  a  Paradise  Lost, 
in  stone. 

In  the  preceding  cases  our  design  is  simple.  It  is 
merely  to  present  a  conception  which  shall  awaken  th^ 
emotion  either  of  beauty  or  sublimity  in  the  minds  of  our 
fellow-men.  Our  labor  is,  in  the  first  place,  purely  concep- 
tual. It  consists  in  creating  in  our  own  minds  a  picture. 
Suppose  this  to  have  been  done ;  the  next  step  is  to  give  to 
this  conception  some  external  expression^  by  which  we  shall 
transfer  to  the  minds  of  wther  men  the  very  image  which 
we  have  created  in  our  own.     Hence  we  see  that  two  ele* 


POETIC    IMAGINATION.  359 

ments  must  be  combined  in  the  character  of  an  eniihfiit 
artist.  First,  he  must  be  endowed  \vith  a  rich  and  vi«M>roua 
imagination,  by  which  he  may  form  beautiful  and  strikin;^ 
conceptions.;  and,  secondly,  he  must  be  a])le  to  realize  hm 
conceptions  in  some  material  form,  so  that  they  may  create 
their  proper  impression  upon  the  minds  of  others.  Artidfa 
may  fail  from  the  want  of  either  of  these  elements.  If  a 
man  be  ever  so  highly  gifted  with  imagination,  but  be  dv- 
ficient  in  power  of  execution,  unable  to  establish  any  medium 
of  communication  between  himself  and  other  men,  he  will 
be  forever  exposed  to  mortifying  failure.  He  may  speak  or 
lecture  well  on  his  art  but  he  can  never  become  a  success- 
ful artist.  Such  was  apparently  the  case  with  Ilaydon.  On 
the  other  hand,  when  imagination  is  w^anting,  the  prac- 
titioner may  be  a  skilful  copyist ;  if  a  painter,  he  may  draw 
with  accuracy,  or  represent  with  fidelity,  whatever  he  sees ; 
but  he  can  never  attain  to  the  highest  conception  of  art. 

The  manner  in  which  these  two  processes  are  united  in 
art  is  various.  Sometimes,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  the 
conception  is  elaborated  and  perfected  in  the  mind,  befori-  it 
receives  any  external  expression.  Gray's  Elegy  and  Burns* 
•'Bruce's  Address  to  his  Soldiers,"  are  s;iitl  to  have  been 
completed  before  a  word  was  written.  In  other  cases, 
the  rough  draft  is  first  committed  to  canvas,  or  written  out 
in  words,  and  this  is  elaborated  and  modified,  until  it  haa 
attained  to  all  the  perfection  of  which  the  author  is  caj)ahle 
Milton  was  for  many  years  engaged  in  the  plan  of  Panidise 
Lost,  and  there  now  exist  in  the  Library  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  his  various  drafts,  approaching  nearer  to  tho 
plan  which  he  finally  adopted.  Which  of  these  rro<les  b 
to  be  preferred  must  be  left  to  tho  mental  habitfl  of  the 
artist.  As  a  general  rule,  however,  it  may  be  remarket! 
that  the  more  thoroughly  any  work  is  excogiti.t..]  in  tl.r  l)f>. 


360  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

ginning,  the  less  will  be  the  labor  of  composition,  and  the 
more  marked  and  observable  the  symmetry  of  the  whole. 

But  suppose  that  this  first;  intellectual  labor  has  been 
accomplished,  and  a  conception  has  been  formed  which  we 
desire  to  present  to  our  fellow-men.  What  shape  shall 
this  expression  assume  ?  The  answer  to  this  question  will 
depend  upon  the  endowments  special  to  the  individual. 

If  this  conception  has  been  formed  in  a  mind  endowed 
simply  with  the  power  of  language,  it  will  be  expressed  in 
prose. 

Suppose,  that,  in  addition  to  the  power  of  language,  an  artist 
possess  also  an  ear  for  rhythm,  he  will  express  it  in  poetry. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  be  endowed  with  the  power  of 
delineating  form,  he  will  execute  his  conception  in  marble 
or  stone,  and  become  a  sculptor  or  an  architect. 

If  he  have  the  power  of  expression,  not  only  in  form,  but 
also  in  color,  he  will  be  a  painter. 

Thus,  the  fountain  from  which  all  the  fine  arts  take  their 
rise  is  precisely  the  same.  It  is  the  power  of  creating  in 
our  own  minds  images  of  beauty  or  sublimity.  Hence 
flow  the  various  forms  of  art  in  the  channels  marked  out  by 
our  individual  endowments.  It  is  rare  that  an  individual  is 
gifted  with  more  than  one  of  these  modes  of  expression, 
though,  in  highly  favored  instances,  they  are  occasionally 
combined.  Michael  Angelo  was  equally  distinguished  in 
sculpture,  painting  and  architecture ;  and  was,  besides,  no 
mean  poet.  Washington  AUston  was  both  a  painter  and  a 
poet.  Such  gifts  are,  however,  uncommon,  and  success  in 
a  single  department  may  well  satisfy  the  ambition  of  any 
artist. 

We  see,  then,  the  reason  of  the  rule  in  rhetoric,  that,  in 
order  to  test  the  correctness  of  a  metaphor,  we  should  con- 
ceive of  it  as  represented  on  canvas.  We  here  recognize 
the  principle  that  the  spiritual  part  of  the  work  is  the  same 


POETIC    IMAGINATION.  ,,C,\ 

m  both  modes  of  expression;  arnhve  piesent  it  to  thedecw- 
ioii  of  taste,  in  any  manner  that  will  best  display  its  form 
and  proportions.     Thus,  Horace  coiTectly  remarks, 


I 


"  Pictoribus  atque  poetis, 
Quidlibet  audendi   semper  fuit  oequa  potcstas.' 


Hence  a  conception  expressed  in  any  one  of  the  fine  arts 
is  readily  transferred  to  the  other.  A  group  in  painting  is 
easily  rendered  in  marble.  Either  of  these  also  furnishes 
subjects  for  poetry,  while  the  conceptions  of  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  Scott  and  Bunyan,  have  supplied  inexhaustible  ma- 
terials for  the  painter  and  engraver. 

The  relation  of  poetic  imagination  to  taste  is  easily  ex- 
plained. By  the  imagination  we  create  pictures  in  the 
recesses  of  our  own*  consciousness.  By  poetry,  painting, 
sculpture,  and  the  other  fine  arts,  we  give  to  our  concep- 
tions an  outward  manifestation.  By  this  outward  manifes- 
tation we  transfer  our  own  conceptions  to  the  minds  of  other 
men.  They,  by  the  passive  power  of  the  imagination,  form 
for  themselves  the  image  which  we  represent.  Hence,  the 
imagination  in  us,  addresses  first  the  imagination  of  others. 
But  this  is  not  its  ultimate  object.  Its  design  is  to  please 
the  taste.  Unless  the  emotion  of  beauty  or  sublimity  is 
awakened,  we  fail  to  accomplish  our  object.  If  we  do  not 
form  an  impressive  manifestation  of  our  own  conception,  it 
will  fail  to  create  a  corresponding  conception  in  other  men. 
After  the  conception  has  been  awakened,  if  they  look  upon 
it  with  disgust  or  indifference,  our  labor  has  been  thrown 
away.  We  see,  therefore,  that  in  order  to  form  the  charac- 
ter of  a  finished  artist,  there  must  be  combined  great  vi;,'or 
I  of  imagmation,  and  great  delicacy  ol  taste.  The  author 
must  be  able  instinctively  to  determine  whether  his  concep- 
tion is  really  beautiful,  that  is,  whether  it  will  give  pleas- 
ure to  the  universal  mind  of  man. 
31 


362  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

When  taste  is  deficient  and  the  imagination  Tigorous,  a 
writer  or  artist  will  abound  in  conceptions  ;  but  they  will  be 
puerile,  oiean,  disgusting,  unnatural  or  misplaced  ;  or,  what 
is  perhaps  more  common,  beauty  and  deformity  will  be 
strangely  and  unaccountably  mingled  together.  In  such  a 
ease,  the  world  sometimes  passes  them  by  in  silence,  some- 
times overwhelms  them  with  ridicule  ;  or,  provided  the  fol- 
lies and  eccentricities  are  strongly  marked,  at  first  it  gazea 
upon  them  with  wonder,  then  applauds  them  as  criginalj 
and  then  consigns  them  to  oblivion.  In  the  words  o^ 
Horace : 

*'  Humano  capiti  cervicem  pictor  equinam 
Jungere  si  veiit,  et  varies  inducere  plumas 
Undique  collatis  membris,  ut  turpiter  atrum 
Besinet  in  piscem,  mulier  formosa^superne, 
Spectatum  admissi  risum  teneatis,  amici. 
Crediti,  Pisones,  isti  tabulae  fore  librum 
Persimilem,  cujus,  velut  aegri  somnia,  vanae 
Fingentur  species,  ut  nee  pes  nee  eaput  uni 
Keddatur  formae." 

Ars  Poeti<3A,  1 — 9. 

It  IS  possible,  however,  that  the  cause  of  the  failure  of 
an  author,  or  of  an  artist,  may  be  precisely  the  reverse. 
His  taste  may  be  too  far  in  advance  of  his  contemporaries. 
In  this  case  they  will  derive  no  pleasure  from  his  concep- 
tions, be  they  ever  so  perfect,  and  his  works  will  fall  dead 
from  his  hand,  though  ever  so  deserving  of  immortality. 
Pamters  have  perished  from  want,  the  least  deserving  of 
whose  pictures  have  since  commanded  a  price  which  would 
have  rendered  the  artist  opulent.  The  manuscript  of 
Paradise  Lost  was  sold  for  five  pounds ;  while,  at  pres- 
ent, the  annual  profits  from  the  sale  of  his  work  would  have 
been  a  fortune  to  the  patriot-poet.  The  progress  of  taste 
may  thus  create  a  demand  for  a  work  of  the  imagination, 
which  did  not  exist  in  the  life-time  of  the  artist  or  the 


POETIC   IMAGINATION.  868 

author.  Homer  is  said  to  hiive  l)(';;.^e(l  liis  hreiul  while 
living  ;  although,  centuries  after  his  ileatli,  seven  of  iho 
most  illustrious  cities  contended  for  the  honor  of  havin«' 
been  his  birth-place. 

I  have  thus  far  treated  of  imagination  as  the  power  by 
which  we  form  pictures  at  will.  The  object  here  is  simple. 
The  combinations  thus  formed  address  themselves  to  the 
taste.  If  they  give  us  pleasure  nothing  more  is  demanded, 
and  our  object  has  been  attained.  If  the  painter  execute  a 
beai.tiful  picture,  or  the  sculptor  a  beautiful  statue,  we  ask 
for  nothing  more.  So,  if  the  novelist  or  the  descriptive 
poet  present  us  with  a  succession  of  pleasing  or  exciting 
scenes,  they  may  be  entirely  successful.  More  commonly, 
however,  in  writing,  some  other  design  is  intermingled  with 
this.  Thus,  when  in  earnest  composition,  we  desire  to 
lead  the  mind  of  the  reader  to  a  given  result,  some  moral  or 
intellectual  idea,  by  the  association  of  resemblance  or  con- 
trast, suggests  an  event  or  object  in  nature  or  art  to  which 
it  is  analogous.  We  turn  aside  and  form  an  image  of  the 
suggested  idea.  .  Here,  however,  our  object  is  two-fold.  To 
introduce  an  image  merely  because  it  was  beautiful,  might 
distract  attention  from  the  proper  course  of  thought,  and 
thus  interfere  with  our  principal  design.  Besides  being 
beautiful,  the  image  must  illustrate  and  enforce  the  idea 
which  suggested  it.  When  both  of  these  objects  are  accom- 
plished, the  great  end  of  this  form  of  imagination  isatt^iinetl, 
and  to  attain  it  is  one  of  the  most  difhcult  achievements  in 
literary  labor.  Those  comparisons  and  metaphors  which 
spring  so  spontaneously  from  the  subject,  that  it  appears 
impossible  to  have  given  utterance  to  the  thought  in  any 
other  manner,  while  they  irradiate  it  with  brilliant  and  un- 
expected light,  have  commonly  been  the  result  of  iniens* 
labor,  and  are  the  pr  Kluct  of  the  most  ex(iuisitc  artiitio 
skill/ 


36^  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

It  may  serve  to  illustrate  this  use  of  the  imagination  if 
we  present  a  few  examples.  Moore,  a  writer  of  exuberant 
fancy,  has  occasion  to  allude  to  the  fact,  that  the  affections, 
by  their  nature,  demand  an  object  on  which  they  may  lean, 
and  which  they  strive  to  appropriate  to  themselves.  This 
idea  naturally  suggests  the  image  of  a  vine,  which  can  only 
be  sustained  by  entwinmg  itself  around  a  support.  This 
illustration,  however,  has  been  so  often  employed,  that  it 
has  become  trite.  The  poet  looking  more  narrowly  upon 
the  object,  observed  that  it  clung  to  its  support  by  means 
of  a  tendril.  Hence  he  elaborates  the  following  beau- 
tiful comparison  : 

"  The  heart,  like  a  tendril,  accustomed  to  cling, 
Let  it  grow  where  it  will,  cannot  flourish  alone. 
But  will  lean  to  the  loveliest  nearest  thing 

It  can  twine  with  itself  and  make  closer  its  own." 

Burke  visited  Versailles  very  aoon  after  the  marriage  of 
Marie  Antoinette.  lie  saw  what  seemed  the  commencement 
of  a  brilliant  and  happy  career,  herself  the  most  remarkable 
object  in  the  court  which  she  adorned.  When,  in  his  re- 
marks on  the  French  revolution,  he  had  occasion  to  refer  to 
this  event,  her  position  suggested  to  his  rich  and  poetic  im- 
agination the  appearance  of  the  morning  star.  His  mind 
turned  at  once  towards  the  beautiful  image,  and  he  says, 
''  It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw  the  queen 
of  France,  then  the  dauphiness,  at  Versailles ;  and  surely 
never  lighted  on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch, 
a  more  delightful  vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon, 
decorating  and  cheering  the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began 
to  move  in,  glittering  like  the  morning  star,  full  of  life,  and 
splendor,  and  joy." 

Thus  Longinus,  when  he  is  comparing  the  eloquence  ef 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero,   turns  to   nature  for  analogies- 


POETIC    IMAGINATION.  JIG-I 

By  two  very  striking  images  he  gives  us  an  impression  of 
the  peculiar  character  of  each,  beyond  the  power  of  an^ 
mere  description.  He  compares  the  one  to  the  tliunderl)olt, 
which  by  a  single  stroke,  scatters  in  splinters  the  giant  oak 
leaving  a  second  stroke  superfluous ;  the  other  to  a  con- 
flagration in  a  forest,  spreading  on  every  side  irresistible 
destruction,  furnishing  for  itself  the  material  which  it  con- 
sumes, and  gaining  breadth  and  intensity  at  every  step  of 
its  progress. 

In  these  cases  a  two-fold  object  is  accomplished.  h\  the 
first  place  a  new  and  beautiful  image  is  introduced,  to  which 
the  mind  recurs  with  pleasure ;  and,  secondly,  the  original 
idea  is  rendered  vastly  more  definite  and  impressive.  In 
this  manner  we  render  taste  and  imagination  subservient  to 
reason.  We  convince  men,  and  make  them  pleased  to  be 
convinced,  and  thus  rarely  fail  of  success. 

In  the  above  instances  it  will  be  perceived  that  a  visible 
image  is  presented  to  the  mind,  numerically  distinct  from 
the  idea  to  which  it  owes  its  origin.  In  many  cases,  how- 
ever, this  is  not  done.  The  image  is  only  casually  and  for 
a  moment  present  to  the  mind  of  the  writer,  yet  its  presence 
suggests  the  use  of  words  which  belong  rather  to  it  than  to 
the  principal  thought.  Thus,  he  who  resists  successfully  a 
host  of  enemies,  naturally  suggests  the  idea  of  a  man  making 
headway  against  a  violent  stream.  We  do  not,  however, 
introduce  the  image,  but  only  use  terms  suggested  by  it,  and 
say,  he  stemmed  the  torrent  of  opposition.  When  we  think 
of  the  origin  of  our  nation,  its  struggles  with  the  aborigines, 
its  exposure  for  years  to  universal  destruction,  we  are  natu- 
rally led  to  think  of  a  tree  just  planted,  which  any  hand 
may  pluck  up;  or  of  childhood,  which,  in  its  helplessness, 
any  assailant  may  overcome.  We  do  not  express  the  image 
in  full,  but  its  presence  renders  it  almost  imi)0S3ible  for  ni 
to  speak  upon  the  subject  without  employing  the  terms,— 
31* 


366  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

^'  the  germ  of  a  nation."  ^'  the  planting  of  a  people,"  "  the 
infancy  of  the  republic,"  etc.  So,  Avhen  we  reflect  upon 
the  progress  of  a  great  truth,  first  discovered  by  a  retired 
philosopher,  then  modestly  brought  to  the  notice  of  the  world, 
receiving  testimony  from  kindred  sciences,  until,  gaining 
strength  at  every  step,  it  is  universally  acknowledged,  we 
naturally  think  of  a  spring,  which,  rising  in  the  recesses 
of  the  mountains,  receives  tributaries  on  every  side,  until  it 
gradually  spreads  out  into  a  mighty  river.  Hence,  we 
speak  of  '' ascending  to  the  fountain  head  of  knowledge," 
of  ''the  current  of  opinions,"  of  ''a  flood  of  evidence,"  and 
the  like.  Instances  of  this  kind  are  found  in  abundance  in 
the  books  on  rhetoric. 

There  is  another  relation,  somewhat  difierent  from  the 
above,  in  which  the  imagination  stands  to  the  art  of  per- 
suasion. By  the  imagination  we  form  pictures  of  objects, 
scenes,  events,  characters,  and  the  like.  It  is  a  well- 
known  fact  that  our  emotions  are  excited  as  truly  by  a  con- 
ception as  by  the  reality.  We  are  moved  by  the  incidents 
of  a  romance,  we  love  one  fictitious  character  and  hate 
another,  we  grieve  over  the  distresses  of  virtue,  we  rejoice  in 
the  punishment  of  crime,  just  as  though  what  we  read  were 
veritable  narrative.  And  this  efiect  is  produced  by  the  con- 
ceptions themselves,  for  our  emotions  are  not  quelled  even  by 
the  reflection  that  all  this  is  fiction.  In  this  manner,  the 
imagination  may  be  made  to  address  our  domestic  afiections, 
our  passions, — worthy  or  unworthy, —  our  conscience,  or  our 
piety.  Thus,  the  inimitable  parables  of  our  Saviour  convey 
the  most  sublime  and  touching  lessons  of  universal  truth. 
The  allegory  of  Bunyan  overflows  with  religious  instruction, 
and  exquisite  moral  sentiment.  Homer  has  instilled  into 
the  bosom  of  millions  besides  Alexander,  the  love  of  war, 
and  the  inextinguishable  thirst  for  glory.  We  thus  per- 
ceive that  the  passions  ani  sentiments  of  mankind,  either 


POETIC   IMAGINATION.  367 

br   good  or  for  evil,  are  greatly  under  die  power  of  tho 
Imagination. 

The  manner  in  which  the  orator  avails  himself  of  thin 
principle  is  the  following.  In  the  attempt  to  convince  men 
fUT  first  appeal  is  to  their  reason.     We  construct  a  train  of 

rgument  which  proves  our  propositions  to  be  true,  and  we 
present  such  motives  as  should  induce  them  to  act  in  tho 

aanner  we  desire.  If  we  are  deeply  in  earnest  ourselves, 
pur  earnestness  will  not  fail  to  call  into  exercise  every 
power  of  the  mind.  Notions  of  things  material  and  imma- 
fcerial,  visible  and  invisible,  related  to  our  subject  by  all  the 

siws  of  objective  or  subjective  association,  will  with  various 
legrees  of  distinctness  rise  before  us.  These  various  mate- 
irials  the  orator  uses  in  such  manner  as  he  perceives  best 

iapted  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  In  the  words  of  Shak- 
ppeare, 

**  The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  he.iven  ; 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shape,  and  gives  to  airy  nothings 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Mid-summer  Night's  Dream. 

When  an  image,  a  picture,  or  an  event,  presents  itself  to 
the  imagination  of  the  orator,  better  adapted  to  e.xcite  tho 
emotion  which  he  wishes  to  arouse  than  the  naked  statement 
of  his  argument,  he  spreads  this  picture  before  tho  niimi 
with  all  the  graphic  power  of  which  he  is  capable.  We  are, 
as  I  have  said,  affected  by  conceptions  as  truly  as  by  reality. 
The  emotion  excited  by  the  accessory  is  readily  transferreil 
to  the  principal  idea,  and  thus  we  are  sunk  in  s;ulnc^ 
melted  into  compassion,  aroused  to  indi<;nation,  or  inflamed 
to  patriotism,  as  we  listen  to  the  ct^'nest  appeals  of  imjMUi. 
sioned  eloquence.     It  is  by  this  combination  of  the  reasoning 


868  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

power  with  the  imagination^  that  the  greatest  triumphs  of 
the  art  of  persuasion  have  been  accomplished. 

Sometimes  the  imagination  personifies  an  abstract  princi- 
ple, and,  'nvesting  it  with  every  element  of  grandeur  and 
sublimity,  awakens  emotion  which  is  at  once  transferred  to 
the  principle  itself  Curran,  in  his  defence  of  Eowan, — 
who  had  been  indicted  for  the  publication  of  a  paper  in  which 
he  pleaded  for  universal  emancipation, —  affirms  that  his 
client  had  claimed  nothing  more  than  was  the  birthright  of 
every  Englishman,  and  that  universal  emancipation  is  an 
essential  element  of  the  British  Constitution.  His  imagina- 
tion, fired  with  so  noble  a  theme,  at  once  conceives  of  uni- 
versal emancipation  as  the  genius  presiding  over  British 
soil,  and  he  proceeds  to  clothe  this  being  with  every  attri- 
bute of  majesty,  thus  transferring  to  the  principle  which  he 
defends,  the  sublime  emotions  which  his  conception  has  in- 
spired. '^  I  speak  in  the  spirit  of  British  law,  which  makes 
liberty  commensurate  with  and  inseparable  fi:om  the  British 
soil,  which  proclaims  even  to  the  stranger  and  the  sojourner, 
the  moment  he  sets  his  foot  on  British  earth,  that  the  soil 
on  which  he  treads  is  holy,  and  consecrated  by  the  genius  of 
universal  emancipation.  No  matter  in  what  language  his' 
doom  may  have  been  pronounced ;  no  matter  what  complex- 
ion incompatible  with  freedom  an  Indian  or  an  African  sun 
may  have  burned  upon  him ;  no  matter  in  what  disastrous 
battle  his  liberties  may  have  been  cloven  down ;  no  matter 
with  what  solemnities  he  may  have  been  devoted  on  the  altar 
of  slavery, —  the  moment  he  touches  the  sacred  soil  of 
Britain,  the  altar  and  the  god  sink  together  in  the  dust, 
his  soul  walks  abroad  in  her  own  majesty,  his  body  swells 
beyond  the  measure  of  the  chains  that  burst  from  around 
him,  and  he  stands  redeemed,  regenerated,  and  disenthralled, 
by  the  irresistible  genius  of  universal  emancipation. '^  The 
tfiect  of  such  a  conception  upon  a  hearer  is  obvious.     He, 


POETIC   IMAGINATION.  869 

who  before  looked  upon  tha  doctrine  as  merely  a  matter  of 
abstract  right,  now  cherishes  it  as  a  sublime  and  most  enno- 
bling sentiment,  and  not  only  justifies,  but  honors  and  ven- 
erates the  man  who  promulgates  it. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  same  means  may  bo  successfully 
used  to  arouse  indignation  against  a  person  or  an  opiuion. 
The  same  great  orator,  wishing  to  discredit  the  testimony 
of  a  government  witness,  presents  before  us  an  image  which 
can  awaken  no  emotion  but  those  of  loathsomeness  and  detes- 
tation. Referring  to  the  confinement  of  this  person  in  the 
Castle  before  the  trial,  he  styles  him  ''  the  wretch  that  is  buried 
*a  man,  who  lies  till  his  heart  has  time  to  fester  and  rot,  and 
is  then  dug  up  a  witness."  He  asks,  "  Have  you  not  seen 
him,  after  his  resurrection  from  that  tomb,  after  having  been 
dug  out  of  the  region  of  death  and  corruption,  make  his 
appearance  upon  the  table,  the  living  image  of  life  and  death, 
and  the  supreme  arbiter  of  both  ?  Have  you  not  marked, 
when  he  entered,  how  the  stormy  wave  of  the  multitude 
retired  at  his  approach  ?  Have  you  not  marked  how  the 
■'human  heart  bowed  to  the  supremacy  of  his  power,  in  the 
'  undissembled  homage  of  deferential  horror  7  how  his 
■glance,  like  the  lightning  of  heaven,  seemed  to  rive  the  body 
'  of  the  accused  and  mark  it  for  the  grave,  while  his  voice 
warned  the  devoted  wretch  of  woe  and  death, —  a  death 
which  no  innocence  can  escape,  no  art  elude,  no  force 
resist,  no  antidote  prevent?  There  was  an  antidote.— 
a  juror's  oath;  but  even  that  adamantine  chain,  which 
bound  the  integrity  of  man  to  the  throne  of  eternal  justice, 
is  solved  and  melted  in  the  breath  that  issues  from  the  in- 
former's mouth.  Conscience  swings  from  her  moorings, 
and  the  appalled  and  afirighted  juror  consults  his  own  safety 
in  the  surrender  of  the  victim." 

From  such  instances  as  these  it  is  easy  to  perceive  the 
xnannernn  which  the  orator  may  make  even  the  imaginatiou 


870  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

to  aid  in  tlie  work  of  persuasion.  He  may  bring  the  past 
the  present,  and  the  future,  before  the  mind  of  the  hearer 
and  awaken,  by  means  of  it,  any  train  of  sympathy  that  he 
desires.  The  pages  of  ancient  and  modern  eloquence  are 
studded  with  gems  of  this  kind,  illustrating  the  power  of 
the  consummate  orator  to  wield  the  passions  of  men  at  his 
will,  and  too"  frequently,  I  must  confess,  to  make  the  worse 
appear  the  better  reason. 


SECTION   in. -^ON   THE    IMPROVEMENT   OF   POETIC   IMAG- 
INATION. 

Imagination,  as  we  have  before  said,  is  the  power  of 
combination,  —  the  faculty  by  which,  out  of  materials 
abeady  existing  in  the  mind,  we  form  new  and  original  im- 
ages. Of  course,  our  power  of  combination  must  be  limited 
by  the  amount  of  the  materials  on  which  it  may  be  exerted. 
Knowledge  of  all  kinds  is  the  treasury  from  which  our 
power  of  combination  must  be  supplied.  The  works  of  the 
classical  poets  of  all  languages  furnish  us  with  a  great  variety 
of  beautiful  imagery.  But  these  poets  themselves  derived 
their  images  from  nature.  The  same  book  is  open  to  us,  and 
we  must  study  it  for  ourselves  if  we  would  attain  to  freshness 
and  vigor  of  imaginative  power.  He,  therefore,  who  would 
cultivate  this  faculty  with  success,  must  observe  nature  in 
all  her  infinite  variety  of  phases,  by  day  and  by  night,  in' 
sunshine  and  in  storm,  in  summer  and  in  winter,  on  the 
prairie  and  by  the  seaside,  and  delight  himself  in  the  beauti- 
ful and  the  grand  wherever  they  may  exist  in  every  aspect 
of  creation  around  him.  Says  Imlac,  in  Rasselas,  ''  I  ranged 
mountains  and  deserts  for  images  and  resemblances,  and 
pictured  on  my  mind  every  tree  of  the  forest  and  flower  of 


CULTIVATION    OF   THE    IMAQINAnON.  871 

the  valley.  I  observed  with  equal  care  the  crags  of  the 
rockj  and  the  pinnacles  of  the  palace.  Sometimes  I  wan- 
dered along  the  mazes  of  the  rivulet,  and  soniotimes 
watched  the  changes  of  the.summer  cloud.  To  a  poet  noth- 
ing can  be  useless.  Whatever  is  beautiful  and  wluitever  ia 
dreadful  must  be  familiar  to  his  imagination :  he  must  he 
conversant  with  all  that  is  awfully  vast  or  elegantly  little. 
The  plants  of  the  garden  and  the  animals  of  the  wood,  the 
minerals  of  the  earth  and  the  meteors  of  the  sky,  must  all 
concur  to  store  his  mind  with  inexhaustible  variety ;  for 
every  idea  is  useful  for  the  enforcement  or  decoration  of 
moral  or  religious  truths,  and  he  who  knows  most  will  have 
most  power  of  gratifying  his  reader  with  remote  allusions 
and  unexpected  instruction." — Rasselas,  chap.  10. 

The  habits  of  those  who  have  been  most  distinguished  for 
richness  of  imagination  will,  I  believe,  confirm  the  truth  of 
these  remarks.  The  poetry  of  Homer,  Shakspeare  and 
Milton,  is  replete  with  images  which  could  only  have  been 
derived  from  close  observation  of  nature,  as  she  presented 
herself  to  them  in  their  dissimilar  walks  of  life.  But  we 
may  recur  to  more  recent  instances.  It  is  recorded  of  the  ^ 
distinguished  American,  whose  exquisite  portraits  of  nature 
have  rendered  classic  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  that  he  once 
invited  a  friend  to  visit  his  '•  studies."  He  led  him  to  some 
of  the  mountains  that  overlook  his  favorite  river,  and  re- 
marked that  he  was  accustomed  to  spend  whole  days,  from 
sunrise  to  sunset,  in  those  majestic  solitudes,  observing  the 
never-ceasing  changes  wrought  upon  the  scenery  around 
him  in  every  hour  of  the  day,  and  that  thus  he  labored  to 
acquire  a  familiarity  with  every  appearance  of  natural 
beauty.  The  boundless  range  of  the  imagination  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  been  long  acknowledged.  Until,  how- 
ever, his  memoirs  were  published,  ni  one  would  have  be^ 
lieved   that  he   depended  on   minute   observation  for  tha 


612  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

materials  of  his  fancy.  Before  he  wrote  Rokeby,  hu  visited 
his  friend  Mr.  Morritt,  in  whose  grounds  the  scene  of  the 
poem  was  to  be  laid.  ^'The  Monday  after  his  arrival,  he 
said,  ^  You  have  often  given  me  the  materials  for  a  romance, 
now  I  want  a  good  robber's  cave  and  an  old  church  of  the 
right  sort.'  We  rode  out  and  found  what  he  wanted  in  the 
ancient  slate  quarry  of  Bignal,  and  the  ruined  abbey  of 
Eglinstone.  I  observed  him  noting  down  even  the  peculiar 
little  wild  flowers  and  herbs  that  accidentally  grew  around 
and  on  the  side  of  a  bold  crag  near  his  intended  cave  of 
Guy  Denzil,  and  could  not  help  saying,  that,  as  he  was  not 
to  be  on  his  oath  in  this  work,  daisies,  violets  and  primroses, 
would  be  as  poetic  as  any  of  the  humble  plants  he  was  ex- 
amining. I  laughed,  in  short,  at  his  scrupulousness ;  but  I 
understood  him  when  he  replied  that  in  nature  herself  no 
two  scenes  were  exactly  alike,  and  that  whoever  copied  truly 
what  was  before  his  eyes,  would  possess  the  same  variety  in 
his  descriptions,  and  exhibit,  apparently,  an  imagination  as 
boundless  as  the  range  of  nature  in  the  scenes  which  he 
describes  ;  but  whoever  trusted  to  imagination,  would  soon 
find  his  own  mind  circumscribed  and  contracted  to  a  few 
favorite  images,  and  the  repetition  of  these  would  soon  pro- 
duce that  monotony  and  barrenness  which  have  always 
haunted  descriptive  poetry  in  the  hands  of  any  but  the  pa- 
tieiit  worshipper  of  truth.  ^  Besides,'  said  he,  '  local 
names  and  peculiarities  make  a  fictitious  story  look  so  much 
better  in  the  face.'  In  fact,  he  was  but  half  satisfied  with 
the  most  beautiful  scenery  which  he  could  not  connect  with 
some  local  legend,''^ —  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  vol.  1, 
page  426. 

Nor  was  Sir  Walter  Scott  a  close  observer  of  nature 
merely  in  the  forms  of  inanimate  creation.  His  amazing 
power  of  delineating  every  variety  of  human  character  may 
be  traced  to  the  same  source.  When  ^^  The  Pirate"  appeared, 


IMPROVEMENT    OF   THE    IMAr.INATION.  f^JS 

every  one  wondered  at  the  fertile  fancy  of  the  Great  Un- 
known, and  his  power  of  conceiving  so  accurately  the  mnn- 
ners,  and  even  the  modes  of  conversation  of  the  people  of 
the  Hebrides.  Those,  however,  who  Imd  accoinpaniod  tho 
author  in  his  visit  to  these  regions,  recognized  in  many  of 
the  most  striking  passages  of  the  novel  an  almost  literal 
record  of  the  events  which  had  transpired  under  their 
own  eyes.  We  thus  perceive  that  the  exhaustless  richnei« 
of  the  imagination  of  the  great  novelist  was  derived  from 
a  remarkably  exact  observation  of  nature  and  mankind, 
aided  by  a  memory  from  which  nothing  seems  to  have 
escaped  that  could  minister  to  the  success  of  his  literary 
labors. 

It  is  related  of  Stothard,  an  eminent  English  artist,  that 
nothing  could  exceed  the  care  with  which  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  copying  the  minutest  object  in  nature,  in  which  he 
detected  any  special  beauty.  "  He  was  beginning  to  paint 
the  figure  of  a  reclining  sylph,  when  a  difficulty  arose  in  his 
mind  how  best  to  represent  such  a  being  of  fancy.  A  friend 
present  said,  ^  Give  the  sylph  a  butterfly-wing,  and  then  you 
have  it.'  '  That  I  will,'  said  Stothard,  '  and,  to  be  correct, 
I  will  paint  the  wing  from  the  butterfly  itself  He  instiintly 
sallied  forth  into  the  fields,  caught  one  of  these  beautiful 
insects,  and  sketched  it  immediately.  *  *  He  became 
a  hunter  of  butterflies.  The  more  he  caught,  tlie  greater 
beauty  did  he  trace  in  their  infinite  variety,  and  he  would 
often  say  that  no  one  knew  what  he  owed  to  these  insects, — 
they  had  taught  him  the  finest  combinations  in  that  diflicult 
branch  of  art,  coloring.  '^  *  Whenever  he  was  in  the 
fields,  the  sketch-book  and  the  color-box  were  brought  forUi 
from  his  pocket,  and  many  a  wild  plant,  with  ita  delicate 
formation  of  leaf  and  flower,  was  carefully  copied  on  tho 
spot.  The  springing  of  the  tendrils  from  the  stfem,  and 
every  elegant  bend  and  turn  of  the  leaves,  or  the  drooping 
32 


374  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

of  a  bell,  was  observed  and  depicted  with  the  utmost 
beauty."  He  who  observes  nature  in  this  manner  will 
never  have  occasion  to  complain  of  deficiency  of  materials 
for  the  use  of  the  imagination. 

2.  It  is  evideni,  however,  that  the  successful  use  of  the 
imagination  does  not  depend  merely  upon  our  power  to 
form  pictures.  We  must  do  more  than  this.  To  conceive 
of  a  mountain  more  vast  than  another  mountain  might  be 
considered  an  exercise  of  the  imagination.  But  this  would 
excite  no  emotion  either  of/  novelty  or  sublimity.  The 
theogony  of  Boodhism  is  replete  with  conceptions  of  this 
kind,  but  it  Tiwakens  no  other  feeling  than  that  of  disgust. 
If  we  hope  to  cultivate  this  faculty,  we  must  acquire  the 
habit  of  associating  the  visible  with  the  invisible,  the  mate- 
rial with  the  spiritual.  Had  Goldsmith,  in  his  celebrated 
simile,  compared  the  cliff  to  another, cliff,  or  the  village  pas- 
tor to  another  village  pastor,  his  conception  would  have  been 
powerless,  and  w^ould  scarcely  have  escaped  contempt.  It 
is  the  unexpected  coincidence  between  a  sublime  object  in 
nature  and  the  moral  elements  of  a  noble  character,  that 
presents  one  of  the  finest  images  to  be  found  in  the  English 
language.  We  must  learn  to  associate  these  two  classes  of 
objects  together,  so  that,  whatever  be  the  point  of  observa- 
tion which  the  mind  occupies,  it  shall  habitually  seek  for 
appropriate  analogies,  and  turn  in  the  direction  in  which 
they  will  most  readily  be  found.  Thus,  it  was  remarked 
above  of  Sir  W.  Scott,  that  ''  he  was  but  half  satisfied  with 
the  most  beautiful  scenery  which  he  did  not  connect  with 
some  local  legend."  Thus,  a  poetic  imagination  instinctively 
sees  all  things  double,  blending,  in  beautiful  harmony, 
thought,  sentiment,  subjective  emotion,  with  whatever  is  most- 
analogous  to  it  in  the  objective  world  of  nature  or  art. 

We  may  cultivate  the  imagination  by  studying  atten- 
tively  works  most  distinguished  for  poetical   combination 


IMPROVEMENT   OF   THE  IMAGINATION.  87f 

ll  cii-}  studying  attentively^  in  distinction  from  the  niera 
cursory  perusal  of  classical  authors.  We  must  not  only 
read  but  meditate  upon  the  beautiful  and  suidinie  in 
thought,  until  we  feel  the  full  force  of  every  analogy ;  en- 
tering into  the  spirit  of  the  writer  himself  if  we  would 
avail  ourselves  of  the  most  successful  cfTorts  of  human 
genius.  We  thus  acquire  the  intellectual  liabits  of  the  nian- 
ters  cf  human  thought.  In  the  language  of  poetry,  wo 
catch  a  portion  of  their  inspiration,  instead  of  servilely  ren- 
dering their  thoughts  in  our  own  language.  It  is  by  the 
diligent  study  of  a  few  of  the  best  writers,  and  not  the  hasty 
readirg  of  many,  that  we  derive  the  greatest  benefit  from 
the  study  of  the  classics  of  our  own  or  any  other  country. 
The  late  Mrs.  Grant,  of  Laggan,  who  had  acquired  uncom- 
mon power  in  the  use  of  the  English  language,  ascril)ed  her 
success,  more  than  to  anything  else,  to  the  fact,  that  for  sev- 
eral years  in  her  youth,  she  was  limited  in  her  reading  to 
the  Bible,  the  Dictionary  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost. 

But,  after  all,  the  study  of  the  classics  is  mainly  bene- 
ficial as  it  enables  us  to  study  nature  for  ourselves,  and  to 
discover  the  fountains  from  which  genius  in  all  ages  hixs 
been  invigorated.  When  we  have  learned  to  i\5sociatc  the 
seen  with  the  unseen,  we  have  acquired  a  language  which 
enables  us  to  read  with  new  eyes  the  inexhaustihle  volume 
of  the  works  of  God.  The  world  of  matter  and  the  world 
of  thought  stand  up  before  us  in  grand  parallelism,  each 
reflecting  light  upon  the  other.  Thus,  in  the  descriptions 
of  Washington  Irving,  every  flower,  every  animal,  every 
bird,  the  hill-side,  the  waterfall,  the  field  and  the  forest,  all 
seem  endowed  with  life,  and  almost  with-  reason;  they  l)e- 
eome  our  companions,  and  are  ever  suggesting  to  us  some 
idea  of  playful  humor  or  of  aff'ecting  sentiment.  Thus,  the 
most  common  occurrences  awakened  in  Burns  thobo  analo- 


3T6  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

gies  with  human  life  and  manners,  whica  gave  occasion  t''. 
some  of  his  most  exquisite  odes. 

But,  lastly,  this  habit,  like  any  other,  can  only  be  culti- 
vated by  practice.  We  must  form  the  combinations  of  the 
imagination,  if  we  would  learn  to  form  them.  We  must 
assiduously  cultivate  the  practice  of  writing,  if  we  would 
learn  to  write  well.  If  we  would  write  well,  we  must  write 
earnestly,  having  an  end  in  view,  and  being  deeply  interested 
in  the  efibrt  to  attain  it.  In  this  state  of  mind  analogies 
the  more  readily  suggest  themselves.  As  they  arise  dimly 
and  flit  before  us  at  a  distance,  we  should  summcn  them 
into  our  presence,  and  shape  them  if  possible  to  our  purpose, 
If  they  are  intractable  we  must  labor  the  more  strenu^;usiy, 
viewing  them  from  different  points,  and  striving  to  seize  up- 
on their  analogy  with  the  idea  which  we  wish  them  to  illus- 
,trate.  We  may  frequently  fail,  or  at  best  succeed  but  im- 
perfectly. This,  however,  should  not  discourage  us. 
Nothing  was  ever  exquisitely  finished  without  unwearied 
and  patient  labor,  and  at  the  cost  of  repeated  and  mortifying 
failure.  By  untiring  and  well-directed  effort,  great  things 
may  in  the  end  be  accomplished.  We  must  be  patient  with 
ourselves,  and  not  expect  to  do  without  labor  what  other 
men  have  done  in  no  other  manner.  Paradise  Lost  was  the 
work  of  almost  a  lifetime.  Cowper  somewhere  informs  us 
that  his  poetry,  which  seems  to  flow  without  effort,  cost  him, 
on  an  average,  half  an  hour  for  every  line.  If  incessant 
toil  was  necessary  to  successful  effort  in  minds  so  highly 
gifted,  ordinary  men  surely  need  not  to  expect  to  oucceed 
without  it. 

REFEEENCES, 

Imagination  in  general  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  7,  sec*  1. 
Steps  in  the  process  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  chap.  7,  sec.  1. 


PHILOSOPUICAL  IMAGINAliON.  87T 

Difiference  between  abstraction  in  reasoning  and  imagination  —  Stew- 
art,  vol.  i.,  chap.  4,  sec.  1. 

Relation  of  imagination  to  character  —  Stewart,  vol.  i.,  ohap,  7.  mo^ 
4—6. 

Manner  in  which  imagination  pleases  us — Stewart,  vol  i.,  chap.  6, 
Part  1,  sec.  4. 

Relation  ef  imagination  to  fine  arts  —  vol.  i.,  ch.  7,  sec  2 


SECTION   IV.  —  PHILOSOPHICAL  IMAGINATION. 

There  is  another  mode  in  which  the  imagination  acta,  of 
BuflScient  importance  to  deserve  particular  attention.  It 
may  be  denominated  Philosophical  Imagination.  With  some 
remarks  concerning  it  we  shall  conclude  the  present  chapter. 

In  this  form  of  imagination,  as  in  the  preceding,  we  com- 
bine the  elements  which  previously  existed  in  the  mind. 
The  elements,  however,  are  in  the  two  cases  dissimilar.  In 
poetic  imagination,  as  I  have  said,  we  make  use  of  parts 
of  individual  wholes,  which  we  combine  anew,  forming  an 
image  at  will.  In  philosophical  imagination  our  elements 
are  single  general  truths  or  separate  laws  of  nature,  or  the 
various  relations  of  these  laws  to  each  other.  These  wo 
combine  into  a  conception  of  a  new  and  more  complicated 
law  or  general  philosophical  truth. 

The  conceptions  when  formed  by  these  separate  acts  ^  of 
imagination  are  also  exceedingly  unlike.  By  poetical  im- 
agination we  form  an  individual  picture,  which  may  be 
represented  to  the  senses.  Qy  philosophical  imagination  we 
form  not  a  picture,  but  an  ideal  conception  of  some  general 
truth.  By  the  one  we  form  images,  by  the  otner  we  frame 
hypotheses.  In  the  one  case,  the  conception  is  addressed  to 
the  taste,  and  if  the  emotion  of  beauty  or  sublimity  is 
awakened,  our  object  is  accomplished.  In  the  other,  th« 
taste  is  wholly  neglected,  and  our  appeal  is  exclusively  to 
32* 


378  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

the  understanding.  If  the  conception  is  analogous  to  truth, 
or  if  its  truth  or  falsehood  can  be  definitely  determined^ 
nothing  more  is  required.  The  design  of  the  one  is  to  give 
us  pbasure ;  of  the  other,  to  enlarge  our  knowledge. 

The  nature  of  the  conceptions  which  we  are  considering 
may  be  understood  by  examples.  Copernicus,  having  ob- 
served the  various  established  facts  respecting  the  motions 
of  the  heavenly  bodies,  sought  to  form  a  conception  of  their* 
various  relations  which  should  account  for  every  fact  by 
bringing  it  under  the  control  of  some  understood  and 
acknowledged  law.  Ptolemy  and  Tycho  Brahe  had  made 
the  same  attempt  before,  but  they  imagined  laws  nowhere 
existing,  and  left  many  of  the  facts  wholly  unaccounted  for. 
^-^pernicus  siXpposed  the  sun  to  be  the  centre  of  a  singk 
system,  the  stars  being  themselves  centres  of  systems  at 
infinite  distances  from  it ;  the  earth  and  planets  to  move 
around  the  sun  in  orbits  nearly  circular,  and  the  moon  to 
be  a  satellite  of  the  earth,  revolving  around  it,  and  thus 
with  it  revolving  around  the  centre  of  the  system.  By  this 
conception,  all  the  facts  thus  far  observed  were  accounted 
for.  Dr.  Black,  reflecting  upon  the  facts  which  he  had 
observed  respecting  the  freezing  of  water,  the  melting  of 
ice,  and  the  formation  and  condensation  of  vapor,  sought  to 
form  a  conception  of  some  general  law,  which  should  account 
for  all  the  phenomena.  He  was  thus  led  to  originate  the 
doctrine  of  latent  heat,  and  immediately  saw  that  this  would 
fulfil  every  requirement.  Each  of  these  is  an  instance  of 
philosophical  imagination.  It  is  an  original  conception  cf 
some  general  law,  or  combination  of  laws,  addressing  itself 
to  the  understanding,  and  harmonizing  facts  otherwise 
apparently  contradictory. 

These  illustrations  appertain  to  science.  But  essentially 
the  same  exercise  of  the  imagination  must  be  employed  in 
every  original  design.     We  can  never  either  think  or  act 


p 


_  PHILOSOPHICAL   IMAGINATION.  879 

efficiently,  unless  we  think  or  act  in  conformity  with  a  plan. 
There  must  always  exist  some  ideal  which  wo  propose  cither 
to  prove,  or  else  to  realize  in  action.  This  ideal  must  be  the 
product  of  the  imagination.  The  ideal  of  Paradise  LosI 
was  thoroughly  thought  out  before  a  line  of  it  was  written. 
So  the  plan  of  every  great  enterprise  iDust  be  matured,  and 
its  detail  thoroughly  arranged,  before  it  can  be  commenced 
with  any  hope  of  success.  We  see,  then,  how  imi)ortajit  an 
element  of  individual  or  social  progress  is  found  i:>  the  exer- 
cise of  this  faculty. 

It  must  be  apparent  that  great  diversities  of  chi-mcter 
must  necessarily  arise  from  the  different  degrees  in  which 
this  endowment  is  bestowed.  Some  men  have  no  ideals. 
They  form  no  plans  beyond  those  demanded  in  the  conduct 
of  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life.  In  all  things  else  they  follow 
instinctively  the  beaten  track,  and  yield  with  unquestioning 
submission  to  the  opinions  of  those  who  have  gone  before 
them.  They  have  no  other  rule  of  action  than  implicitly  to 
follow  their  file-leader,  fully  convinced  that  nothing  can  bo 
better  than  what  has  been,  and  that  a  course  of  action  must 
of  necessity  be  wise,  provided  it  has  been  for  a  long  while 
pursued.  Others,  again,  are  overburdened  with  imaginings. 
They  do  nothing  but  form  plans,  and  originate  projects 
which  have  no  foundation  in  general  principles,  and  must 
inevitably  end  in  ludicrous  failure.  Such  men,  however, 
rarely  attempt  to  realize  their  own  schemes ;  they  are  satis- 
fied with  the  attempt  to  force  them  upon  others.  They  aro 
the  builders  of  castles  in  the  air,  ever  striving  after  imjK^si- 
bilities,  spending  tbeir  lives  in  the  fruitless  labor  of  i)Ui>u. 
ing  phantoms  and  grasping  after  unsubstantial  shadows. 
That  man  is  rarely  endowed  who  is  able  to  originate  idcaU 
resting  on  truth,  and  to  work  them  out  with  that  \k>U  mffu'iiy 
which^nsures  the  possibility  of  realizing  them  in  action. 
When  such  power  is  united  with  executive  talent,  and  guidod 


380  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHT. 

by  enlarged  benevolence,  it  designates  a  man  who  was  created 
for  the  benefit  of  his  race. 

It  is  important  to  observe  the  relation  which  a  philosophi- 
cal imagination  sustains  to  the  reasoning  power  in  out 
investigation  of  truth. 

I  have  said  that  reasoning  is  the  process  by  which  we 
pass  from  *  the  known  to  the  unknowHj  and  thus  transform 
the  unknown  into  the  known.  Suppose  the  philosopher  to 
stand  on  the  utmost  limits  of  the  known.  His  reason  is 
prepared  either  to  prove  or  disprove  any  proposition  that 
may  be  presented.  But  there  is  no  proposition  presented. 
There  is  nothing  within  the  cognizance  of  the  understand- 
ing, but  on  the  one  side  the  known,  and,  on  the  other, 
absolute  silence  and  darkness.  Reason  presents  no  proposi- 
tion. Its  sole  province  is  either  to  prove  or  disprove  what  is 
placed  before  it.  None  of  the  other  faculties  which  we 
have  considered  can  present  propositions  to  the  reason,  as 
the  matter  on  which  its  powers  shall  be  exerted.  Hence 
the  necessity  of  the  imagination.  Its  office  is  to  pass  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  known,  and  form  a  conception  which  may 
be  true  of  something  in  the  unknown.  This, it  presents  in 
the  shape  of  a  proposition  or  a  philosophical  conception. 
As  soon  as  this  is  done,  an  opportunity  is  offered  for  the 
exercise  of  the  reasoning  faculty.  There  is  something  now 
to  be  proved,  and  there  may  be  something  by  which  to  prove 
it.  We  at  once  endeavor  to  discover  some  media  of  proof 
which  may  show  a  necessary  connection  between  what  is 
known,  and  this  proposition  which  is,  as  yet,  unknown. 
Until  this  connection  can  be  shown,  our  proposition  is  a  mere 
suggestion,  a  theory,  an  hypothesis.  As  soon  as  this  con- 
nection has  been  established,  what  was  before  hypothesis 
becomes  acknowledged  truth,  and  by  just  so  much  is  the 
dominion  of  science  extended. 

Or,  to  express  the  same  idea  in  another  form,  experiment, 


PHILOSOPHICAL   IMAGINATItN.  88i 

or  the  attempt  to  discover  new  truth,  is  notliin;^  n  '  -^  m 
putting  questions  to  nature.  But  a  question  supj..-,  -no 
definite  object  of  inquiry.  The  answer  of  nature,  if  she 
answer  at  oil,  is  always  either  yes  or  no.  Philosopliical 
imagination  enables  us  to  put  the  question  in  a  form  ca])al)lo 
of  a  definite  answer.  It  suggests  a  conception  which  may 
be  true  or  false,  but  which  must  be  either  one  or  the  other. 
By  experiment  or  demonstration  we  put  the  (question  to 
nature,  and  receive  her  answer  either  afiirmative  or  nega- 
tive. If  the  answer  be  negative,  we  surrender  our  proposi- 
tion as  worthless,  and  the  imagination  suggests  another,  and 
another,  until  an  affirmative  answer  is  received.  The  work 
is  then  accomplished,  and  a  new  truth  is  added  to  the  sum 
of  human  knowledge. 

Thus  the  conceptions  of  Ptolemy  and  of  Copernicus  were 
both  mere  hypotheses  of  equal  value,  until  one  was  proved 
to  be  true.  The  conception  of  Newton,  that  the  motions 
of  the  bodies  which  compose  the  solar  system  are  all  sub- 
jected to  the  law  of  gravitation,  was  a  mere  hypothesis,  a 
creation  of  the  imagination,  until  it  was  scientifically  estab- 
lished. He  himself  so  considered  it,  and  I  believe  never 
mentioned  it  until  he  had  proved  it.  He  considered  it  merely 
a  question  which  he  had  put  to  nature,  unworthy  of  atten- 
tion until  he  had  received  an  affirmative  answer.  At  first, 
he  supposed  that  the  answer  which  he  received  was  negative. 
Taking  for  one  element  of  his  calculations  the  length  'jf  a 
degree  of  the  earth,  as  it  had  been  measured  by  the  French 
mathematicians,  he  found  that  his  hypothesis  could  not  be 
established,  and  he  laid  it  aside  for  several  years.  A  new 
and  more  accurate  measurement  was  afterwards  obtained, 
which  brought  to  his  recollection  his  almost  fcrgotten  com- 
putations. He  commenced  them  anew,  with  more  accurate 
data,  and  soon  arrived  at  the  result  which  added  hi.s  uninn 
to  the  brief  Hst  of  those  who  must  always  be  remembered 


382  INTELLEbiOAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

The  samo  process  must  be  performed  in  every  case  where  a 
scientific  truth  is  discovered.  The  proposition  of  the  square:j 
on  the  sides  of  a  right-angled  triangle  was  a  mere  hypoth- 
esis to  Pythagoras  until  he  had  demonstrated  its  truth. 

These  illustrations  have  referred  to  science.  The  truth 
here  suggested  is,  however,  of  wider  application.  Thus,  the 
ingenious  inventor  has  become  acquainted  with  some  natural 
law  which  he  believes  may  be  rendered  available  for  the 
service  of  inan.  He  must  form  in  his  own  mind  a  concep 
tion  of  the  manner  in  which  this  result  may  be  accomplished. 
At  first  a  rough  draft  is  present  before  him.  He  per- 
ceives it&  imperfections,  and  labors  to  correct  them.  One 
and  another  plan  suggests  itself,  until  he  has  before  him  a 
whole  system  of  arrangements  by  which  the  result  may  be 
attained.  Months  of  anxious  thought  were  consumed  by 
Watt  and  Fulton  before  they  perfected  those  conceptions, 
which,  when  realized  in  the  form  of  inventions,  have  revolu- 
tionized the  manufactures  and  commerce  of  the  world.  The 
same  remark  will  apply  to  a  military  commander,  who, 
before  a  sword  is  drawn,  must  form  in  his  mind  the  whole 
plan  of  a  campaign.  Thus  it  is  that  an  act  of  the  imagina- 
tion must  precede  every  other,  when  an  important  truth  ia 
O)  be  discovered,  or  great  enterprise  to  be  achieved.  We 
must,  first  of  all,  form  a  conception  of  what  we  would  do,  or 
prove,  and  of  the  means  by  which  it  is  to  be  accomplished. 
We  may,  it  is  true,  fall  short  of  our  ideal ;  but,  except  by 
accident,  we  cannot  go  beyond  it.  Hence  this  creative 
power  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all  great  excellence.  Other 
things  being  equal,  he  will  certainly  arrive  at  the  most 
em^jnent  success,  who  is  able  to  take  the  largest,  most  com- 
prehensive, and  most  truthful  views  of  that  which  he  desires 
to  accomplish. 

I  shall  close  this  chapter  by  a  few  suggestions  on  the 
mode  of  improving  a  philosophical  imagination. 


PHILOSOPHICAL   IMAGINATION  883 

It  is  obvious  that  this  power,  to  be  of  imy  pmcticul  v;iluc 
iLUSt  derive  its  materials  from  essential  truth.  Fancies  eai. 
never  form  the  elements  of  a  philosophical  imagination.  Wo 
desire  to  discover  truth ;  but  truth  can  only  lx»  discoverctl 
by  means  of  truth.  The  more  thoroughly,  therefore,  wo  are 
acquainted  with  the  known,  the  more  easily  shall  we  dis- 
cover the  regions  which  may  be  reclaimed  from  the  unknown. 
He  will  be  more  likely  to  extend  the  limits  of  human 
knowledge  who  has  made  himself  acquainted  with  alrea«ly 
discovered  truth.  Newton,  at  an  early  age,  was  familiar 
with  all  that  was  then  known  of  the  science  of  astronomv  ; 
and  this  knowledge  pointed  out  to  him  the  line  in  which  dis- 
covery was  to  be  made.  Columbus  was  profoundly  learned 
in  the  geography  of  his  age.  He  was  intimately  accjuaintcd 
with  all  that  had  been  discovered  of  the  figure  of  the  eartii, 
and  the  proportions  in  which  its  surface  was  covered  with 
land  and  water.  This  knowledge  first  suggested  to  him  the 
idea  of  a  new  continent.  Had  he  known  of  nothing  beyond 
the  shores  of  the  gulf  of  Genoa,  his  mind  coultl  never  have 
formed  this  magnificent  conception,  and  after-ages  would 
never  have  heard  of  the  "  world-seeking  Genoese." 

2.    I  have  before  remarked  the  power  of  generalization  to 

Aid  in  the  discovery  of  truth.     We   may  here  observe  the 

mode  in  which  it  tends  to  this  result.     Every  object  in 

nature,  every  change,  every  law,  is  the  type  of  a  class  more 

numerous  than  we  are  able  to  conceive.     These  types  are 

repeated  and  diversified  in  infinite  variety,  but  they  arc  all 

characterized  by  the  same  essential  elements,  unseen,  it  may 

be,  by  the  casual  observer,  but  understood  by  the  far..^i.i,ditcd 

:  interpreter  of  nature.     He  who  is  able  to  distinguish  the 

essential   elements   of  a  type  from  its  accidentiil  circum. 

j  stances,  trace  them  out  through  their  various  manifestations, 

i  »nd  expand  them  to  their  widest  generalizations,  will  find^hii 

mind  replete  with  conceptions  of  all  possible  truth.     Gen- 


384  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

eralization  pointed  out  to  Newton  those  conceptions  which 
led  to  most  of  his  discoveries,  and  also  gave  rise  to  many 
suggestions  which  were  not  proved  to  be  discoveries  until 
more  than  a  century  after  his  death.  In  his  experiments 
on  light,  he  observed  that  the  refracting  power  of  different 
bcdies  was  in  proportion  to  their  combustibility,  and  that  the 
diamond  possessed  the  former  power  in  an  unusual  degree. 
Applying  this  law  to  this  particular  case,  he  was  led  to  con- 
ceive that  the  diamond  itself  might  be  combustible.  Though 
a  mineral,  and  the  hardest  of  known  substances,  he  disre- 
garded these  accidents,  and,  boldly  generalizing  his  idea, 
predicted  a  discovery  which  only  a  few  years  since  has  been 
established. 

3.  In  the  works  of  a  great  artist,  there  is  always  to  be 
observed  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself,  which  a  true  connois- 
seur will  readily  detect.  We  call  this  peculiarity  the  style 
of  an  author  or  an  artist.  It  is  derived  from  the  intellec- 
tual and  moral  character  of  the  individual,  and  is  that  which 
renders  his  outward  works  the  index  of  his  inward  and  spir- 
itual mind.  It  is  natural  to  suppose  that  this  peculiarity 
should  be  apparent  in  the  works  of  the  Creator.  There  is 
a  speciality  in  his  mode  of  treating  subjects,  a  style  which 
designates  all  the  works  of  his  hand.  He  who,  by  deep  and 
profound  reflection  on  the  works  of  God,  has  become  most 
familiar  with  the  laws  of  that  w^hich  we  call  nature,  and 
with  the  relations  which  these  laws  sustain  to  each  other, 
will  be  the  most  likely  to  penetrate  into  the  unknown,  and 
originate  those  conceptions  which  lead  to  the  discovery  of 
truth.  The  further  he  advances  in  his  investigations,  the 
richer  will  be  the  field  of  discovery  that  opens  before  him. 

If  I  may  be  allowed,  I  will  use  an  illustration  which  I 
once  employed  when  treating  on  this  subject.  '^  Suppose  I 
should  present  before  you  one  of  the  paintings  of  Raphael, 
and,  covering  a  part  of  it  with  a  screen,  ask  you  to  proceed 


PHILOSOrillCAl,    i;i  \.;|\  •  n-.v 

I 

^with  the  work,  and  designate  where  the  next  lines  should  l>o 
drawn.  It  is  evident  that  none  but  a  painter  ever  nei-tl 
make  the  attempt,  and  that,  of  painters,  he  would  Ik;  the 
most  likely  to  succeed  who  was  best  acquainted  with  tho 
genius  of  Raphael,  and  had  most  thoroughly  meditated  on 
the  manner  in  which  that  genius  manifested  itself  in  tho 
work  before  him.  So,  of  the  system  of  the  universe.  We 
see  but  in  part;  all  the  rest  is  hidden  from  our  virw. 
He  will,  however,  most  readily  discover  where  the  nut 
lines  are  drawn  who  is  most  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
the  character  of  the  author,  and  has  pbserved  with  the 
greatest  accuracy  the  manner  in  which  that  character  is  dis- 
played in  that  portion  of  the  system  which  he  nas  revealed 
to  us.  It  is  evident,  also,  that  just  in  proportion  as  tlie 
work  advanced,  and  portion  after  portion  of  the  screen  was 
removed,  just  in  that  proportion  vtould  the  difficulty  of  com- 
pleting the  whole  be  diminished." —  Discoui-sc  on  the  Phi- 
losophy of  Analogy. 

If  these  remarks  be  true,  they  throw  some  light  upon 
the  subject  of  education.  The  power  of  forming  conceptions 
which  shall  lead  to  discovery  in  science,  or  to  the  practica- 
ble in  action,  is  clearly  of  vast  importance.  Can  this  power 
I  be  cultivated  ]  On  this  question  there  can  be  no  doubt.  It 
•  steadily  increases  with  the  progress  of  the  human  mind. 
We  naturally  inquire  whether  the  cultivation  of  this  ele- 
ment of  intellectual  character  has  been  regarded  with  suffi- 
cient attention  by  those  who  form  our  courses  of  higher 
education.  A  large  part  of  the  studies  which  we  pursue 
add  very  little  to  our  power  of  forming  conceptions  of  anj^ 
character  whatever.  A  larger  infusion  of  the  study  of 
physical  science,  not  merely  as  a  collection  of  fact.s,  but  as 
a  system  of  laws,  with  their  relations  and  dc'iKHideneios, 
would  be  of  great  value  in  this  respect.  We  thus  study 
the  ideas  and  conceptions  of  the  Creator.  We  become  lO- 
33 


386  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

quainted  with  his  manner  of  accomplishing  his  purposes, 
and  learn,  in  seme  measure,  the  style  of  the  Author  of  all 
things.  Surely,  this  habit  of  mind  must  be  of  unspeakable 
value  to  a  philosopher  in  the  discovery  of  truth,  or  to  a  man 
of  aflFairs  in  devising  his  plans,  since  these  can  only  succeed 
as  they  are  in  harmony  with  the  designs  of  infinite  wisdouj 
and  benevolence. 

*'  There 's  a  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends. 
Rough-hew  them  as  we  will." 

REFERENCES. 

Nature  of  hypothesis  —  Reid,  Essay  1,  ohap.  3, 
Importance  of  ideals  —  Stewart,  vol  i.,  chap.  7,  sec  6, 
Certain  style  in  nature's  works  -^  vol.  ii.,  chap.  4,  m^  4 


I 


CHAPTER    VIII, 

TASTE. 


SECTION   I. —  THE   NATUl^E    OF   TASTK. 

We  have  now  considered  the  most  important  (f  those 
powers  of  the  human  mind  which  may  be  strictly  termed 
intellectual;  that  is,  which  are  employed  in  the  ac(iuisition 
and  increase  of  knowledge.  By  the  use  of  these  wc  mi;;ht 
prosecute  our  inquiries  in  every  direction,  and  extend  tho 
hmits  of  science,  as  far  as  it  has  been  permitted  by  our  Crea- 
tor. But  were  this  all,  we  should  be  deprived  of  much  of 
the  innocent  pleasure  which  accompanies  the  einj)l()yinfnt 
of  our  faculties,  and  thus  lose  an  important  inducement  to 
mental  cultivation.  We  find  that  many  of  tlie  phenomena 
which  we  observe,  are  to  us  a  source  of  happiness,  freijuently 
of  an  exquisite  character.  This  happiness  is  bestowed  upon 
us  through  means  of  another  endowment,  which  we  denomi- 
nate taste.  It  is  so  intimately  associated  with  the  faculties 
'  purely  intellectual,  that  our  view  of  them  would  be  imiKM-fcct 
( iid  we  not  bestow  upon  itat  least  a  brief  examination. 

Taste  is  that  mental  sensibiljty  by  which  we  cognize  the 
beauties   and    deformities   of    nature   and    art,— enjoying 
pleasure  from  the  one,  and  suifering  pain  from  the  other.- 
In  this  definition  we  speak  of  taste  is  a  sensibility,  mliioi 


86S  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


m 


than  a  faculty.  A  faculty  is  the  power  of  doing  something,! 
of  putting  forth  some  act,  or  accomplishing  some  changeJ 
Such  is  not  the  nature  of  taste.  It  creates  no  change.  It 
merely  recognizes  its  appropriate  object,  and  is  the  seat  of  the 
subjective  emotion  to  which  the  object  gives  exercise.  When 
an  object  is  presented,  taste  recognizes  its  aesthetic  quality ; 
it  is  sensible  of  pleasure  or  pain,  and  here  its  office  terminates. 
Of  the  universality  of  this  endowment  there  cannot  be  a 
question.  The  consciousness  of  every  man  bears  testimony 
to  its  existence.  When  we  look  upon  a  rainbow,  we  are 
sensible  of  an  emotion  wholly  different  from  that  with  which 
we  look  upon  the  dark  cloud  which  it  overspreads.  The  Kii 
cause  of  the  emotion  we  call  the  beauty  of  the  rainbow,  and 
the  emotion  itself  we  recognize  as  one  of  a  peculiar  charac- 
ter, unlike  any  other  of  which  we  are  conscious.  We  ob- 
serve that  all  men  are  affected  by  a  multitude  of  objects  in  ri 
the  same  manner  as  ourselves.  Young  and  old,  cultivated  ta; 
and  uncultivated,  observe  this  quality  in  many  of  the  same  ffe; 
objects,  and  are  affected  by  them  in  the  same  manner.  It 
is  not  asserted,  however,  that  all  men  recognize  the  quality 
of  beauty  in  the  same  things,  or  that  all  men  are  conscious  iir 
of  the  same  intensity  of  aesthetic  emotion.  These  may  vary 
by  association  and  culture.  What  is  here  affirmed,  is,  that 
all  men,  in  various  degrees,  are  conscious  of  the  pleasure  i[^ 
lerived  from  the  observation  of  objects  which  they  term 
Deautiful,  and  that  there  are  objects,  which  all  men  of  the 
same  or  a  similar  degree  of  culture,  designate  by  this  epi- 
thet. Hence,  particular  scenes  have  been,  by  all  observers, 
denominated  beautiful  or  sublime.  Hence,  descriptions  of 
localities  or  events  have  been  transmitted  from  age  to  age, 
from  nation  to  nation,  and  from  language  to  language,  ever 
awakening  the  emotions  to  which  they  at  first  owed  their 
celebrity.  Anacreon's  ode  to  Spring,  Homer's  description 
of  a  storm  in  the  ^gean,  Horace's  Fountain  of  Brundu-  ^i 


lio: 


NATURE    OF    TASTK.  ggp 

rium  and  the  pleasures  of  a  country  lito,  Milton  a  liaicicr. 
of  Eden,  seem  beautiful  to  all  men  ;  and  every  man,  when 
he  applies  to  them  this  designation,  is  certain  that  ho  usca 
language  which  is  perfectly  well  understood  by  the  men 
■  whom  he  addresses. 

It  may  serve  to  render  our  notion  of  taste  more  defmito 
if  we  distinguish  it  from  some  of  the  faculties  with  which 
it  is  liable  to  be  confounded. 

Taste  is  sometimes  confounded  with  imagination.  Thus 
figurative  language  and  works  of  art  in  general  are  some- 
times said  to  be  addressed  to  the  imagination.  This  is  not 
strictly  true.  The  conceptions  of  the  fine  arts  are  created 
by  the  imagination  of  one,  and  reproduced  by  the  imagina- 
tion of  another.  This  is,  however,  only  the  means  to  an 
end.  Our  ultimate  object  is  to  present  them  to  taste,  for, 
unless  the  taste  be  gratified,  no  matter  how  strongly  they 
;may  be  imagined,  the  whole  object  for  which  they  are 
created,  fails. 

Imagination  is  the  faculty  by  which  we  combine :  tasto 
is  the  sensibility  by  which  we  feel.  Imagination  forms  pic- 
tures ;  taste  determines  whether  or  not  a  certain  quality 
^exists  in  them  after  they  are  formed.  By  my  imagination, 
il  form  a  conception  of  a  landscape ;  by  my  taste,  I  decide 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  conception  which  I  have  createil. 
ilmagination  creates  ;  taste  judges  of  the  creation.  Imagina- 
tion itself  is  the  seat  neither  of  pleasure  nor  pain ;  all  the 
[pleasure  which  we  enjoy,  or  the  pain  which  we  suffer,  fi-om 
the  works  of  the  imagination,  is  derived  from  taste. 

These  endowments  may  be  conferred  in  very  different  degree 
upon  the  same  person.  A  fertile  imagination,  as  I  have 
before  remarked,  is  sometimes  combined  with  a  very  im|>ur- 
Ifect  taste.  In  such  cases,  an  artist  will  form  images  in 
great  profusion,  but  they  fail  to  please,  and  sonietuiKM  di^ 
gust  us.  Such  seems  to  have  been  the  case  with  Fuseli.  a 
33* 


S9G  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

painter  of  boundless  imagination,  but  frequently  combining 
in  his  conceptions  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous.  This 
peculiar  type  of  character  is  not  uncommonly  found  in  pAv«. 
sons  passing  into  insanity,  or  in  that  condition  of  the  intel- 
lect, sometimes  existing  through  life,  in  which  the  individual 
dwells  habitually  upon  the  narrow  confine  which  separates 
sanity  from  madness.  The  late  Edward  Irving,  a  man  of 
powerful  imagination  and  withal  of  commanding  eloquence, 
seems  for  many  of  the  later  years  of  his  life  to  have  exem- 
plified this  remark. 

It  is,  however,  more  common  to  find  men  endowed  with  a 
correct  taste,  but  deficient  in  imagination.  Such  persons, 
have  no  power  of  original  creation,  while  they  will  decide 
correctly  concerning  the  creations  of  others.  They  are 
good  critics,  but  bad  artists.  For  a  man  of  so  eminent  en- 
dowments, I  think  that  Addison  may  be  considered  much 
more  remarkable  for  taste  than  imagination.  I  think  it  was 
the  great  Lord  Chatham  who  remarked,  that  few  men  were 
endowed  with  the  '•'prophetic  eye  of  taste,"  that  is,  who 
could  create  for  themselves  a  conception,  and  judge  correctly 
concerning  its  beauty,  before  it  had  assumed  a  visible  reality. 
His  remark  was  made  w^ith  reference  to  landscape  gardening, 
but  it  is  of  general  application.  We  know  that  almost  every 
man  can  determine  whether  grounds  are  laid  out  beautifully, 
while  very  few  men  have  the  talent  for  so  laying  them  out 
as  to  confer  permanent  pleasure  on  the  beholder.  Distin- 
guished success  in  the  fine  arts  can  only  be  attained  by 
those,  in  whom  both  of  these  endowments  are  in  an  eminent 
degree  united.  Homer,  Milton,  Shakspeare,  M.  Angelo, 
Raphael,  were  all  thus  preeminently  gifted. 

Taste  and  conscience  have  many  points  both  of  similarity 
and  difierence.  Both  of  them  belong  to  the  class  of  original 
suggestions.  Both  take  cognizance  of  a  peculiar  quality  in 
An  external  object,  and  both  derire  either  pleasure  or  pai^? 


NATURE    OF  TASTE.  8Vk 

fh)m  the  cognizance  of  this  quality.  Wlien  I  sec  an  art 
done,  I  recognize  in  it  the  quality  of  right  or  wrong,  ami  I 
am  conscious  also  of  a  subjective  emotion.  So  I  perceiva 
an  external  object.  I  observe  in  it  the  quality  of  beauty  or 
aeformity,  and  it  awakens  its  corresponding  aesthetic  emo- 
tion, which  is  either  the  pleasure  or  pain  of  tiii*te.  In  these 
respects  they  singularly  coincide. 

In  many  important  particulars,  however,  they  are  widely 
dissimilar. 

Conscience  observes  the  peculiar  quality  which  it  detects, 
in  nothing  but  the  voluntary  actions  of  responsible  beings. 
Taste  discovers  the  quality  which  it  cognizes,  in  all  objects 
material  and  spiritual,  in  all  actions,  and  in  all  rehitions. 
The  one  is  called  into  action  by  the  quality  of  right  or 
wrong;  the  other  by  beauty  or  deformity.  The  difference 
between  these  two  qualities  is  manifest  at  once  to  our  con- 
sciousness. Every  one  knows  that  the  quality  which  ho 
recoornizes  in  a  rose,  and  that  which  he  reco;i;nizes  in  an  act 
of  noble  self-sacrifice,  are  as  different  as  any  two  objects 
within  the  range  of  his  knowledge.  The  subjective  emotion 
awakened  by  conscience  is  wholly  unlike  that  awakened  by 
taste.  The  emotion  of  conscience  is  complicated  with  a 
variety  of  other  emotions,  as,  for  instance,  of  moral  appro- 
bation or  disapprobation,  the  conviction  of  good  or  ill  desert, 
the  assurance  of  consequences  which  must  result  from 
moral  action.  The  pleasure  of  taste  is  simple,  terminating 
in  itself,  and  wholly  destitute  of  any  moral  emotion.  No 
man  can  pay  even  a  casual  attention  to  the  deliverances  of 
consciousness,  without  being  convinced  of  the  wide  difTiT- 
ence  both  objective  and  subjective,  of  these  two  endowments. 

The  character  of  taste  varies  greatly  with  age.  In  youth, 
bright  colors  and  strong  contrasts  please  us.  We  arc  inca- 
pable  of  being  affected  by  anything  which  does  not  imprena 
us  strongly.     As  we  gr^w  older,  we  dcriy«  more  plcaijuro 


$92  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

from  form^  proportion,  symmetry  and  expressi^n.  Lesi 
dazzling  colors,  and  more  subdued  contrasts  become  agree- 
able, and  we  behold  with  indifference  what  we  once  admired 
as  beautiful.  In  this  respect,  savages  resemble  children. 
No  color  pleases  them  so  much  as  scarlet,  no  matter  in  what 
form  it  may  become  a  part  of  the  dress.  Their  ornaments 
are  such  as  force  themselves  upon  the  notice,  without  any 
regard  to  the  relation  which  they  sustain  to  the  character 
of  the  wearer,  or  their  harmony  with  the  general  impression 
which  he  supposes  himself  to  produce.  Ornaments,  in  a 
more  advanced  state  of  society,  worn  merely  to  attract 
attention,  or  for  the  display  of  wealth,  manifest  the  same  im- 
perfection of  taste  which  we  observe  in  savages. 


SECTION    II. — TASTE    CONSIDERED    OBJECTIVELY.  —  MATE- 
RIAL   QUALITIES   AS   OBJECTS    OF   TASTE. 

The  objects  adapted  to  awaken  the  emotion  of  taste  are 
innunerable.  The  Creator,  having  bestowed  upon  us  this 
sensF^ility,  has  made  the  universe  around  us  to  minister  tc 
its  gratification.  The  heavens  above,  the  earth  beneath, 
all  the  changes  of  the  seasons,  all  the  products  of  animal 
and  vegetable  life,  the  gems  of  the  mine  and  the  pearls  of 
the  ocean,  the  ripple  of  the  brook  and  the  thunder  of  the 
cataract,  the  prancing  of  the  war-horse  and  the  bounding 
of  the  fawn,  the  wing  of  the  butterfly  and  the  plumage  of 
the  bird  of  Paradise,  the  carol  of  the  lark  and  the  wild 
scream  of  the  eagle,  with  the  ten  thousand  objects  which 
meot  us  wherever  we  look  abroad  upon  the  works  of  God, 
are  intended  to  awaken  the  emotions  of  beauty  and  sublim- 
ity, and  fill  us  with  humble  adoration  of  Him  who  is  the 
ftivei  of  every  good  and  perfect  gift. 


OBJECTS   OF  TASTE.  HOJ 

To  attempt  an  enumeration,  of  jiU  the  ohjocts  in  whicli  wf 

^discover  beauty  or  sublimity  would  be  uselciW.     We  shall 

aerely  indicate  some  of  the  classes  of  objects  by  which  wo 

Fare  thus  affected,  principally  for  the  sake  of  directing  atton- 

jtion  to  the  aesthetic  elements  existing  in  the  w^rld  around  uh. 

The  qualities  of  external  objects  which  address  them- 
selves to  the  taste  are  those  which  arc  perceived  by  the  eya 
and  the  ear. 

By  the  eye  we  perceive  color ^  form^  and  viotion. 

Color  as  an  object  of  beauty. 

Colors  may  be  divided  into  prismatic  and  plain. 

The  prismatic  colors  are  violet,  indigo,  blue,  green,  yel- 
low, orange  and  red.  These  all  are  beautiful  separately, 
and,  in  an  eminent  degree,  when  combined.  What  can  bo 
more  exquisitively  beautiful  in  color,  than  the  summer  rain- 
bow or  the  solar  spectrum  7  No  human  being  probably  ever 
looked  upon  them  without  intense  delight. 

A  distinction  may,  however,  be  discovered  between  tho 
prismatic  colors.  The  first  three  of  the  series,  in  the  order 
in  which  I  have  mentioned  them,  may  be  denominated  grave, 
the  last  three  gay,  while  the  remaining  one,  green,  i>ossesse3 
a  character  intermediate  between  them.  Hence,  gay  color* 
are  most  appropriate  to  festive  occasions,  while  graver  are 
adapted  to  occasions  of  solemnity.  The  dresses  of  men  are 
generally  either  black  or  blue ;  those  of  women,  of  every 
variety  of  color,  but  more  commonly  gay.  How  strangely 
inappropriate  would  it  seem  if  the  dresses  of  a  we<liling 
party  or  a  ball-room,  and  those  of  a  court  of  justice  were  ex- 
changed for  each  other  !  The  colors  of  the  garden  and  the 
field  are  commonly  either  white  or  some  modification  of  rtnl, 
orange,  or  yellow.  The  grave  colors  are  here  obsiTVcil  but 
rarely,  and  then  in  their  lighter  shades ;  or,  by  being  mingled 
with  the  others,  they  increase  their  effect  by  contrast 

The  color,   however,  which  is  most  abundantly  Bpreail 


894  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

over  nature  is  green.  It  is  universally  agreeable ;  it  admits 
of  an  infinite  variety  of  shade,  and,  without  producing  any 
vivid  emotion,  harmonizes  most  happily  with  all.  A  grove 
is  an  appropriate  place  for  a  festive  entertainment,  and  trees 
are  the  indispensable  ornament  of  a  cemetery,  where  every- 
thing reminds  us  of  the  sorrows  of  separation  and  the  so- 
lemnities of  eternity. 

Color  sometimes  becomes  an  element  of  sublimity  as  well 
fts  of  beauty.  The  sublimity  of  a  thunder  cloud  is  increased 
by  its  intense  blackness.  The  deep  blue  of  the  heavens,  in 
a  clear  night,  adds  greatly  to  the  grandeur  of  the  spectacle 
which  they  exhibit. 

Many  of  the  objects  which  we  perceive  are  clothed  with 
plain  colors,  as  gray,  brown,  dusky,  or  wood  color.  These 
produce  in  us  no  emotion,  either  of  pleasure  or  pain,  but 
they  relieve  the  eye  when  fatigued  by  the  brilliancy  of  the 
prismatic  colors.  Thus,  the  earth  when  not  covered  with 
vegetation,  the  trunks  and  branches  of  trees,  and  most  of 
our  domestic  animals,  are  clothed  in  plain  colors. 

Form,  —  We  detect  the  quality  of  beauty  in  the  simplest 
varieties  of  form.  Thus,  a  straight  is  more  beautiful  than 
un  irregular  line.  A  curved,  irrespective  of  utility,  is  more 
beautiful  than  a  straight  line.  A  spiral  line,  as  of  a  vine 
entwined  around  a  column,  is  more  beautiful  than  either. 
The  stems  of  flowers  that  bend  gently  downward,  like  the 
lily  of  the  valley,  are  more  beautiful  than  those  which  stand 
straight  and  inflexible,  like  the  hollyhock.  Every  one  has 
remarked  the  difference  between  the  serpentine  bending  of 
a  river,  seeming  to  turn  at  will  in  any  direction  which  it 
prefers,  and  the  stiff  rectilinearity  of  a  canal,  carried  through 
hill  and  over  valley,  without  a  single  graceful  flexure  to 
vary  its  monotony. 

Angles  seem  capaMe  of  greater  beauty  than  could  have 
been  anticipated.  The  obtuse  angle  of  the  roof  of  a  Greciao 


OBJECTS    Ot     VASTE.  /JJf, 

temple  is  remarkably  agreealile.  Tlic  ^vll(>le  eflect  of  the 
edifice  would  be  destroyed  by  raising  tlif  roof  to  un  acute 
angle.  On  the  contrary,  a  pyramid  standing  on  tliu  ground, 
if  its  apex  were  obtuse,  would  appear  squat  and  di.sgn^tiri'^r 
Yet,  an  acute-angled  roof  is  not  always  displeasing 
Gothic  edifict>it  is  indispensable,  and  here  an  obtuse  an-lc 
would  be  intolerable.  That  this  difibrence  exists  must,  I 
think,  be  admitted  by  all.  The  reason  of  it  I  am  unable 
to  discover. 

Figure. — Irrespective  of  utility,  figures  bounded  hy 
curves  are  more  beautiful  than  those  bounded  by  straight 
lines.  A  sphere  is  more  beautiful  than  a  cube,  a  circle 
than  a  square,  an  ellipse  than  a  parallelogram,  a  cylindri- 
cal than  a  rectangular  column.  The  lines  of  i)eauty  in  the 
human  countenance  are  all  curves.  What  could  be  more 
shocking  than  a  human  face,  formed  by  right  lines?  The 
petals  of  flowers,  the  outline  of  fruits,  are  almost  univer- 
Bally  bounded  by  curves. 

Regular  figures  are  always  more  beautiful  than  irregular. 
A  square  is  more  beautiful  than  a  trapezoid.  A  room  of 
which  the  opposite  sides  are  not  equal,  or  a  window  or  door 
not  exact  parallelograms,  afiect  us  painfully.  The  roof  of  a 
house  of  which  the  sides  slant  unequally  is  everywhere  dis- 
agreeable. 

Simple  forms  are  generally  more  beautiful  than  complex. 
Every  one  admires  the  simple  majesty  of  a  Grecian  temple, 
the  mere  combination  of  a  few  right  lines  and  circles.  Yet 
this  rule  is,  by  no  means,  exclusive.  The  Gothic  cathedral 
is  remarkable  for  its  extreme  complexity,  both  of  doaien 
and  ornament,  and  yet  it  is  preeminently  beautiful 

Proportion.— Vvo])ori\on  is  a  relation  existing  U'.^s..  i 
the  parts  of  the  same  figure,  as  between  the  length  aixl 
breadth  of  a  parallelogram,  the  two  diameters  of  an  ellipse, 
the  diameter  and  height  of  a  column,  or  the  base  and  eler*. 


896  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

tion  of  a  building.  In  some  of  these  we  discover  beauty  ; 
in  others  deformity.  A  building  with  no  other  beauty 
than  that  of  proportion  is  frequently  decidedly  agreeable. 
It  requires  the  highest  skill  in  an  artist  to  determine  before- 
hand the  proportions  that  shall  please  all  men  in  all  ages. 
In  this  respect  the  taste  of  the  Greeks  was  preeminent 
The  canons  which  they  established  for  the  proportions  of 
tlie  several  parts  of  a  temple  have  never  been  improved. 
It  has  been  found  that  no  material  departure  can  be  mado 
from  them  without  producing  deformity. 

Uniformity  J  or  perfect  similarity  of  corresponding  parts, 
is  another  source  of  beauty.  We  admire  a  tree,  of  which 
the  opposite  branches  are  equal,  and  project  at  the  same 
angle  from  the  trunk.  A  building  with  equal  wings  on 
the  opposite  sides  is  frequently  beautiful ;  but  if  the  wings 
be  of  different  magnitudes,  or  dissimilar  construction,  it  is 
considered  a  deformity.  The  limbs  on  the  opposite  sides  of 
the  body,  the  features  on  the  opposite  sides  of  the  face,  are 
uniform  ;  when  it  is  otherwise,  we  are  pained  by  what  seems 
a  monstrosity. 

But,  while  uniformity  is  pleasing,  it  is  necessary  to  observe 
that  its  opposite,  variety^  is  equally  pleasing.  In  objects 
designed  to  accomplish  the  same  purpose  we  expect  uni- 
formity ;  but  when  the  design  is  diflFerent,  or  even  suscep- 
tible of  modification,  we  are  delighted  with  variety.  We 
love  to  see  the  opposite  branches  of  the  same  tree  uniform ; 
but  we  also  love  to  see  the  different  trees  of  a  forest  or  a 
park  marked  by  every  possible  variety.  We  are  pleased 
when  the  windows  of  a  house,  in  the  same  story  and  in  the 
same  line,  are  uniform ;  but  we  are  also  pleased  to  see  the 
windows  of  different  stories  dissimilar.  .  If  two  rows  of 
columns  are  placed  one  above  the  other,  in  the  front  of  a 
building,  it  would  be  monstrous  to  see  different  orders  of 


OBJECTS    OF   TASTB.  g/f 

architecture  occupying  the  same  line  ;  but  wo  are  plciukxl 
when  the  upper  row  is  of  a  different  order  from  the  lower. 

Magnitude  has  an  important  influence  on  all  our  wsibetic 
ideas.  Vastness  is  a  quality  which  addresses  strongly  the 
sensibility  of  taste.  Every  one  has  felt  the  emotion  of  .sul>. 
liniity  when  travelling  through  a  mountuinous  country. 
Hence  a  region  like  Switzerland  becomes  a  favorite  resort 
for  the  lovers  of  nature  from  every  part  of  the  civilized 
world.  The  ocean  is  at  all  times  a  most  impressive  object, 
especially  when  lashed  into  tempest.  Here  vastness  in 
magnitude  combines  with  resistless  force  to  create  the 
strongest  emotion  of  sublimity.  On  the  other  hand,  small- 
ness,  if  combined  with  regularity,  may  be  eminently  beau- 
tiful ;  but,  without  regularityj  littleness  awakens  no  emotion. 
An  overhanorino^  cliff  is  sublime ;   a  fraf];ment  broken  off 

DO  I  o 

from  it  is  indifferent :  but  a  delicately-formed  crystal  found 
in  that  fragment  may  be  remarkably  beautiful.  The  temple 
of  Minerva,  or  Lincoln  cathedral,  impresses  us  with  awe, 
and  awakens  the  emotion  of  sublimity ;  but  an  accurate 
model  of  either,  of  a  few  inches  in  magnitude,  would  bo 
exceedingly  beautiful.  A  cascade  in  a  brook  is  beautiful ; 
but  the  cataract  of  Niagara  is  inexpressibly  sublime. 

Such  are  some  of  the  facts  relating  to  beauty  of  form 
It  is  proper,  however,  to  remark  that  they  are  only  geneml, 
not  universal ;  that  is,  we  frequently  observe  beauty  which 
seems  at  variance  with  the  most  commonly  observeil  laws. 
We  can  never  say  that,  because  a  particular  form  or  pro- 
portion is  beautiful,  therefore,  in  different  circumstances,  a 
form  directly  the  reverse  milt  be  disagreeable.  Ournotiona 
on  these  subjects  are  frequently  modified  by  association. 
But  where  no  association  exists,  we  observe  contradictions 
which  can  be  harmonized  by  no  laws  with  which  I  am  ac- 
quainted.  A  remarkable  instance  of  this  occurs  m  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  the  Grecian  temple  and  the  Gothic 
34 


398  li^TELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

cathedral,  of  which  the  canons  are  precisely  the  reverse  of 
each  other.  In  deciding  upon  any  form  of  be/iuty,  our 
appeal  must,  therefore,  be  to  the  sensitiveness  of  our  com- 
mon nature.  The  taste  of  mankind  is  here  ultimate,  and 
seems  frequently  to  set  all  our  laws  at  defiance. 

Motion  as  a  source  of  beauty. 

Motion  is  in  itself  pleasing.  A  ship  under  Bail  is  vastly 
nuDre  beautiful  than  a  ship  lying  at  anchor  or  at  the  wharf 

But  motion  is  of  various  kinds,  each  exhibiting  some 
peculiar  form  of  beauty. 

Motion  may  be  either  quick  or  slow.  Though  both  aiw 
agreeable  objects  to  the  taste,  slow  motion  tends  more  to  the 
beautiful,  and  swift  to  the  sublime.  The  slow  sailing  of  a 
hawk  is  beautiful ;  when  pouncing  upon  his  prey,  the  motion 
tends  to  the  sublime.  The  gentle  flow  of  a  river  is  beau 
tiful ;  when  it  falls  over  a  precipice  it  is  sublime. 

In  general,  it  may  be  remarked,  that  no  motion  is  beau- 
tiful which  betokens  toil  or  violent  effort.  The  nearer  it 
approaches  to  utter  unconsciousness  of  exertion,  other  things 
being  equal,  the  more  beautiful  it  becomes.  Every  one 
must  have  observed  the  aesthetic  difference  between  the  toil- 
some gait  of  a  rhinoceros,  or  an  elephant,  and  the  elastic 
bounding  of  a  deer.  The  motion  of  a  vessel  under  sail, 
for  this  reason,  is,  I  think,  more  beautiful  than  of  one  pro- 
pelled by  steam. 

Motion  in  curves  is  more  beautiful  than  that  in  straight 
lines,  both  because  of  the  greater  beauty  of  the  curved  line, 
and  because  curvilinear  motion  indicates  less  effort.  For 
these  reasons,  the  motion  of  a  nsh  in  the  water  has  always 
seemed  to  me  remarkably  beautiful.  The  waving  of  a  field 
of  grain,  presenting  an  endless  succession  of  curved  lines, 
advancing  and  receding  with  gentle  motion,  uniform  in  the 
midst  of  endless  variety,  has  always  seemed  to  me  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  objects  in  nature.     On  the  contrary, 


OBJECTS   OF   TASTE.  899 

jolting  and  angular  motion  always  displeases  us.  How  dif. 
ferent  is  the  effect  produced  by  the  motion  of  one  man  od 
crutches,  aid  of  another  on  skates  ! 

Ascending  motion  is  more  graceful  than  descending,  if  it 
do  not  betoken  effort.  The  ascent  of  a  rocket  is  more  l)cau- 
tiful  than  its  descent,  especially  if  it  ascend  in  a  curved  line. 
For  this  reason  a  jet  d'eau  is  vastly  more  beautiful  than  a 
waterfall  of  the  same  volume.  Ascending  motion  in  spiral 
lines  is  exceedingly  beautiful,  as  for  instance,  the  ascent  of 
a  hawk,  as  it  moves  slowly  upw^ard,  in  oft-repeated  circles. 

It  is  manifest  that  many  objects  derive  their  pow<fr  to 
please  us  from  a  single  one  of  these  qualities.  Thus,  the 
evening  cloud  displays  rarely  any  other  beauty  than  that  of 
color.  Others  combine  several  of  them,  conducing  to  the 
same  result.  Thus  the  rainbow  unites  beauty  of  color  with 
beauty  of  form.  The  greater  the  number  and  the  more  intense 
the  degree  in  which  any  object  unites  these  several  qualities, 
the  more  impressive  does  it  become,  and  the  more  Huiver- 
sally  is  it  selected  by  pcets  and  artists  for  lesthetic  effect 
Thus  the  human  form,  especially  the  countenance,  combin- 
ing beauty  of  color,  form,  motion,  and  expression,  is  always 
considered  the  most  remarkable  object  in  nature,  and  is 
selected  by  painters  and  sculptors,  as  the  finest  subject  on 
which  their  art  can  be  employed. 

Objects  of  taste  addressed  to  the  car,  or  beauty  nf 
sound. 

That  sound  is  a  source  of  beauty,  independently,  and 
especially  in  combination  with  other  objects,  will  be  readily 
granted  by  every  lover  of  nature.  How  greatly  is  the  effect 
of  a  summer's  landscape  increased  by  the  singing  of  birds ! 

Sounds  differ  in  their  degree  of  loudness. 

Loudness  awakens  the  emotion  r,f  sublimity,  as  m  lh« 
instance  of  a  peal  of  thunder  or  the  roar  of  a  c.»tanu-L 
Soothing  sounds,  as  the  singing  of  birds,  the  hum  of  bce^ 


400  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

the  rustling  of  the  trees  of  a  forest,  add  greatly  to  the 
effect  of  a  summer's  landscape.  Low,  continuous  sound 
tends  to  repose,  and  harmonizes  with  all  our  ideas  of  the 
peace  and  quietness  of  a  country  life.  These  circumstances 
are  beautifully  combined  by  Virgil,  in  describing  the  peace 
of  Italy,  in  contrast  with  the  civil  wars  by  which  it  had 
been  so  lately  devastated  : 

*'  Sepes 
Hyblaeis  apibus  florem  depasta  salicti, 
Saepe  levi  somnum  suadebit  inire  susurro 
Hinc,  alta  sub  rupe,  canit  frondator  ad  auras. 
Nee  tamen  interea,  raucae,  tua  cura,  palumbes, 
Nee  gemere  aeria  cessabit  turtur  ab  ulmo." 

1  Bucolic. 

So  Shakspeare,  alluding  to  the  power  of  gentle  sounds 

"  That  strain  again  ;  it  had  a  dying  fall. 
0,  it  eame  o  'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odor." 

Twelfth  Night,  Act  1,  Seene  1. 

But,  while  loudness  of  sound  awakens  the  emotion  of  sub- 
limity, it  must  not  be  supposed  that  its  opposite,  absolute 
silence,  is  unimpressive.  Deep  silence  is  frequently  emi- 
nently sublime,  especially  when  it  occurs  in  the  intermission 
of  the  roar  of  the  tempest,  or  in  preparation  for  the  awful 
catastrophe  of  a  battle.  Campbell,  in  his  ^'Battle  of  the 
Baltic,"  illustrates  this  fact  in  these  remarkable  lines: 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 
*  Hearts  of  oak  ! '  our  captain  cried,  and  each  gaii« 
From  its  adamantine  lips. 


OBJECTS  OF   TASTE.  401 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  thj  ships. 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun.*' 

The  late  Dr.  Jeffries,  of  Boston,  in  the  narrati\o  of  hifl 
passage  across  the  English  Channel  with  Montgolfier,  in  a 
balloon,  has  the  following  striking  remark  : 

''Amidst  all  the  magnificent  scenes  around  mo  and  under 
me,  nothing  at  the  time  more  impressed  me  with  ita  novelty 
than  (if  I  may  be  allowed  to  use  the  expression)  the  aw- 
ful stillness  or  silence  in  which  we  seemed  to  be  enveloped, 
which  produced  a  sensation  that  I  am  unable  to  describe, 
but  which  seemed  at  the  time  to  be  a  certain  kind  of  stillness 
(if  I  may  so  express  it)  that  could  be  felt." — Narrative 
of  Two  Aerial  Voyages,  page  52. 

Sound  may  be  either  lengthened  or  abrupt.  Continuous 
sound  is  grave ;  abrupt  sound  is  exciting.  We  all  have  ob- 
served the  difference  between  the  long,  reechoed  bellowing^ 
of  distant  thunder,  and  the  sudden  rattling  reverberation 
of  thunder  near  at  hand.  Music  with  few  or  distant  inter- 
vals harmonizes  with  a  melancholy  train  of  thought.  Mu- 
sic with  rapid  and  frequent  intervals  is  cheering  and  ani- 
mating. Every  one  knows  the  different  effects  of  a  dirge 
and  a  quick-step,  or  of  the  same  air  played  in  cj  lick  and  in 
slow  time. 

The  effect  of  music  on  our  emotions  is  thus  admirably 
iesciibed  by  Cowper : 

•*  There  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds. 
And  as  the  mmd  is  pitched,  tlie  ear  is  pleased 
With  melting  airs  or  martial,  briak  or  grave. 
Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 
Is  touched  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 
How  soft  the  music  of  yon  village  bells. 
Rolling  at  intervals  upon  the  car 
In  cadence  sweet !  now  dying  all  away. 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 

34* 


402  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

Clear  and  sonorous  as  the  gale  comes  on 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  memory  slept." 

Task,  Book  6. 

I  have  thus  far  spoj:en  of  sounds  which  produce  an 
aesthetic  effect  upon  us  by  themselves.  It  is,  however, 
probable  that  sounds  depend  more  upon  association  for  their 
effect,  than  either  color  or  form.  The  effect  of  music  is 
greatly  increased  by  uniting  it  with  appropriate  words.  The 
most  common  air,  if  associated  with  the  remembrance  of 
home  and  country  and  friends,  beconies  deeply  affecting.  I 
have  heard  the  Swiss  herdsman's  song,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
dull  and  monotonous,  without  any  power  of  appeal  to  the 
heart.  Yet  it  is  said  to  effect  these  mountaineers,  when  in 
a  foreign  land,  even  to  weeping ;  so  that  the  playing  of  it  is 
forbidden  in  the  armies  with  which  they  are  in  service. 

It  is  on  this  account  that  common  sounds,  nay,  sounds  in 
themselves  displeasing,  become,  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances, delightful.  There  is  nothing  intrinsically  pleasing 
in  the  lowing  of  cattle  ;  when  heard  close  at  hand,  it  is  dis- 
agreeable. Yet  I  have  heard  seamen  speak  with  deep  feel- 
ing of  the  delight  with  which  they  listened  to  these  sounds, 
when,  after  a  long  voyage,  they  first  heard  them  from  their 
native  shore.  In  a  word,  anything  pleases  us  which  recalls 
deeply-affecting  reminiscences ;  and  music  possesses  this 
power  in  a  remarkable  degree.  Cowper  expresses  this  truth 
^ith  exquisite  taste  in  the  following  passage : 

**  Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  iay,  and  one 


OBJECTS    OF   TASTE.  405 

The  livelong  night.     Nor  these  uh)no,  whom  not« 
Nice-fingered  art  must  emulate  in  vain, 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  Ivites,  that  soar  sublime 
In  still  repeated  circles,  scrwiming  loud, 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boiling  owl. 
That  hails  the  rising  morn,  have  charu.H  for  mo. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves,  and  hanh. 
Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  forever  reigm. 
And  only  therc^   please  highly,  fur  her  sahe,** 

Task,  Hook  1. 


SECTION   III  — OBJECTS    OF    TASTE.      IiMMATERIAL    QUAL- 
ITIES. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  we  discover  in  the-  cre:ition 
around  us  much  that  is  beautiful  which  ca/uiot  be  referred 
to  any  material  quality.  There  are  various  attributes  of 
human  beings  which  do  not  discover  themselves  to  the 
Senses.  There  are  various  affections  of  our  spiritual  nature 
which  we  are  able  to  contemplate  distinctly  by  thenisclvcri. 
These  affections  are  capable  of  producing  in  us  the  emotion 
of  beauty  and  sublimity,  or  of  deformity  and  meanness.  A 
brief  consideration  of  some  of  these  is  neces.sary  to  the 
completion  of  the  plan  which  we  have  proposed. 

The  order  in  which  these  emotions  arise  is  probably  the 
followino-.     We  first  become   conscious  of  the  emotion  of 

o 

bBauty  from  the  contemplation  of  material  objects.  Color* 
and  sounds  first  delight  us  ;  then  form  and  motion.  But, 
as  our  minds  assume  a  subjective  tendency,  we  think  of 
the  actions,  the  motives,  the  governing  principles,  and  char- 
acters  of  men.  We  find  that  some  of  these  awaken  in  us 
an  emotion  exceedingly  analogous  to  that  of  which  we  were 
conscious  when  we  observed  the  beautiful  and  sublime  in 
external  nature.  We  give  to  both  clas^ses  of  emotion  the 
same  name,  and  designate  the  objects  which  awaken  them 


404  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

by  the  same  epithet.  Thus,  we  speak  of  a  beautiful  flowet; 
and  of  a  beautiful  sentiment,  of  a  sublime  scene  and  a  sub- 
lime action,  employing  the  same  term  to  designate  the  aes- 
thetic quality  in  the  object,  whether  it  be  materistl  or  imma- 
terial. 

It  may,  however,  be  well  to  observe,  in  passing,  that  the 
amotion  of  taste,  when  we  contemplate  a  moral  action,  is 
different  from  the  moral  emotion.  In  the  latter  case,  we 
look  upon  it  as  right  or  wrong ;  as  fulfilling  or  violating 
obligation ;  as  a  matter  for  moral  approbation  or  disappro- 
bation, and  as  involving  consequences  greater  than  we  can 
adequately  conceive.  In  this  case,  we  merely  contemplate 
its  aesthetic  quality,  as  something  which  excites  within  us 
the  emotion  of  the  beautiful  or  sublime,  without  any  consid- 
eration of  its  merit  or  demerit,  or  any  view  of  its  conse- 
quences either  here  or  hereafter.  Hence  it  is  that  there  are 
many  more  admirers  of  goodness  than  good  men.  A  pro- 
fane and  impious  poet  may  discourse  eloquently  on  the 
character  of  a  holy  God,  as  Rousseau  paid  a  striking  tribute 
to  the  moral  sublimity  of  the  death  of  the  Redeemer. 

I  proceed  to  mention  a  few  examples  of  immaterial  qual- 
ities which  seem  to  possess  remarkable  aesthetic  power. 

Unusual  power  of  intellect,  successfully  displayed,  pre- 
sents an  object  singularly  pleasing  to  the  taste.  Newton,  in 
his  study,  arriving  at  the  result  of  his  labors,  and  over- 
whelmed with  the  consciousness  that  he  had  revealed  to 
mankind  the  mechanism  of  the  universe  ;  Milton,  in  pov- 
erty and  blindness,  working  out  his  immortal  epic  ;  Gibbon, 
seated  on  the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum,  resolving  to  develop 
the  cause  of  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Roman  empire, — 
are  illustrations  of  this  form  of  sublimity. 

High  intelligence,  leading  to  important  and  self-reliant 
action,  presents  a  still  more  impressive  object  of  the  spirit- 
ually sublime.     A  general,  on  the  eve  of  a  great  battle, 


IMMATERIAL    OBJECTS   0.    TASTE.  406 

prepared  for  a  contest  on  which  vast  issues  dcpoiid,  aa  Na- 
poleon at  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids  ;  Columbus  medilaling 
the  disco vt-ry  of  America,  and  fully  resolved  to  Oevote  h'\» 
life  to  the  search  for  an  unknown  world;  Clarkson  rcsolv- 
ing  to  lay  aside  every  other  object,  and  live  thereafter  only 
for  the  abolition  of  the  African  slave-trade,— may  all  U 
cited  as  instances  of  this  kind. 

The  social  and  domestic  afiections,  when  conspicuously 
displayed,  furnish  many  illustrations  of  beauty  and  sui)lim- 
ity.  The  aflFection  of  the  parent  for  his  prodigjil  son,  in 
the  inimitable  parable  of  our  Lord ;  the  Roman  daughter 
nourishing  from  her  own  breast  her  father  who  wa^j 
condemned  to  die  by  starvation ;  the  lament  of  David  over 
Saul  and  Jonathan,  and  his  bitter  wailing  over  his  son  Ab- 
salom; the  parting  of  Paul  from  the  elders  at  Miletus, — 
are  all  illustrations  of  the  power  of  affection  to  create  the 
emotion  of  the  beautiful,  and  they  have  been  fre<juently 
used  for  this  purpose  by  poets  and  artists. 

Still  more  impressive  are  the  exhibitions  of  high  moral 
excellence. 

The  noble  bearing  of  the  three  Hebrews,  when  threatened 
with  instant  death  unless  they  would  worship  the  golden 
image  of  the  king  of  Babylon,  is  a  fine  illustration  of  tho 
morally  sublime.  ^'0,  Nebuchadnezzar,  we  are  not  care- 
ful to  answer  thee  in  this  matter.  If  it  be  so,  our  God 
whom  we  serve  is  able  to  deliver  us,  and  he  will  deliver  u» 
out  of  thy  hand,  0  king  !  But  if  not,  be  it  known  unto 
thee,  0,  king,  that  we  will  not  serve  thy  Gods,  nor  wor- 
ship  the  golden  image  which  thou  hast  set  up.'' 

The  description  by  Hwace  of  a  man  of  steadfast  purpoM 
ani  incorruptible  integrity,  has  for  ages  called  forth  Om 
admiration  of  scholars  : 

••  Justum  et  tenacem  propositi  virum 
Non  civium  ardor  prava  jubentiam. 


406  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

Non  vultus  instantis  tyranni, 
Mente  quatit  solida,  neque  Auster, 
Dux  inquieti  turbidus  Hadrise, 
Nee  fulminantis  magna  manus  Jovis. 
Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis, 
Impavidum  ferient  ruinse." 

Lib.  3.  Carmen  3.  1^8. 

An  act  of  supposed  patriotism  is  thus  celebrated  by 
AJcensiie : 

"  Look  then  abroad  through  nature,  to  the  range 
Of  suns  and  stars  and  adamantine  spheres, 
Wheeling  unshaken  through  the  void  immense. 
And  speak,  0  man  !  does  this  capacious  scene 
With  half  that  kindred  majesty  dilate. 
Thy  strong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose 
Refulgent  from  the  stroke  of  Caesar's  fate. 
Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots,  and  his  arm 
Aloft  extending,  like  Eternal  Jove 
When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  called  aloud 
On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel. 
And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail ! 
For  lo  !  the  tyrant  prostrate  in  the  dust. 
And  Rome  is  free  again." 

1  adduce  this  passage  without  any  sympathy  with  its 
ethical  sentiments,  and  merely  as  an  example  of  the  power 
of  supposed  patriotism  to  awaken  emotion.  It  is  a  con- 
spicuous instance  of  the  power  of  love  of  country  to 
ennoble,  for  the  moment,  assassination  itself  How  different 
is  the  type  of  moral  sublimity  revealed  to  us  in  the  New 
Testament !  For  example,  I  need  only  refer  to  the  dying 
prayer  of  Jesus,  '^Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not 
what  they  do  ! ''  The  reply  of  our  Lord  to  the  soldier  who 
3mote  him  has  always  seemed  to  me  eminently  sublime : 
''If  I  have  done  evil,  bear  witness  of  the  evil;  but  if 
well,  why  smitest  thou  me  ?  " 

The  effect  produced  upon  us  either  by  material  qualitiea 
or  immaterial  energies  is  greatly  increased  by  contrast.  A 
large  object  seems  larger,  and  a  small  object  smaller,  when 


IMMATERIAL    OBJECTS   OF   TASTE.  407 

placed  in  juxtaposition.  A  beautiful  form  appears  in>r6 
beautiful  by  contrast  with  deformity.  Lofty  d  is  in  tr  rest  xl- 
ness  is  more  sublime  when  opposed  to  meanness,  and  })ra>vTy 
when  contrasted  with  pusillanimity.  Of  this  principle  ar- 
tists of  every  profession,  wherever  it  is  possible,  avail  them- 
selves. We  thus  see  youth  and  old  age  introduced  into  llic 
same  group,  in  an  historical  painting,  wildness  and  cultiva- 
tion into  the  same  landscape.  So,  in  romance  and  tragoJjr, 
characters  of  the  most  opposite  elements  are  brought  into 
contact,  to  deepen  the  impression  produced  by  both.  TLus, 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  Othello  and  lago,  Duncan  and  Macbc  th, 
add  greatly  to  the  impression  of  each  other.  Instances  of 
the  same  kind  may  be  given  without  number. 

It  is  universally  observed  that  the  external  indicationf  of 
the  benevolent  affections,  or  of  those  which  we  recognia  3  aa 
beautiful,  are  themselves  beautiful ;  while  those  which  in- 
dicate the  malevolent  affections  are  displeasing.  Hence,  wo 
frequently  meet  a  person  whose  countenance,  without  a  single 
beautiful  feature,  is  remarkably  agreeable,  simply  by  reason 
of  the  expression.  In  other  cases,  when  the  features  them- 
selves are  beautiful,  they  fail  to  impress  us  favorably,  be- 
cause they  are  disfigured  by  the  indications  of  meanness. 
selfishness,  passion,  or  treachery.  Hence  it  is  that  mcml 
and  intellectual  cultivation  have  so  powerful  an  effect  in  im- 
proving the  human  countenance.  It  is  only  when  the  ma- 
terial and  spiritual  elements  are  united,  that  we  observe  the" 
highest  style  of  human  beauty.  We  can  thus  readily  dis- 
tinguish the  works  of  a  first-rate  artist.  A  sculptor  or  a 
painter  may  be  able  to  delineate  a  form  of  faultless  prc|X)r- 
tions,  and  yet  only  attain  to  mediocrity  in  his  profeaelon. 
He  who  to  skill  in  delineation  adds  the  power  of  exprcaning 
the  indications  of  intellectual  and  moral  clianirter,  i,^  alono 
destined  to  the  immortality  which  the  arts  of  design  can 
confer.     It  is  one  thing  to  copy  a  model,  and  is  a  very  dif 


408  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

ferent  thing  to  form  a  conception  of  character,  and,  then,  tc 
represent  it  in  marble,  or  on  canvas,  so  that  we  reproduce  tho 
same  conception  in  the  mind  of  every  beholder. 

Some  of  the  innocent  and  painful  emotions,  as  sorrow, 
grief,  regret,  disappointment,  may  be  agreeable  objects  of 
taste,  in  their  external  manifestations.  Here,  however,  a 
cautious  line  of  discrimination  must  be  observed.  As  soon 
as  emotions  become  intense,  they  cease  to  be  pleasant  to  the 
beholder.  Thus,  the  external  indication  of  sadness  may 
render  a  beautiful  countenance  more  attractive ;  but  the 
distortion  produced  by  convulsive  grief  is  unpleasant. 
Hence,  he  who  is  overwhelmed  by  calamity,  and  is  obliged 
to  give  utterance  to  his  emotion  in  sobs  and  weeping,  covers 
his  face,  or  retires  from  the  view  of  others.  The  same  re- 
mark, in  fact,  applies  to  all  the  emotions.  A  smile  may  be 
pleasing  in  an  historical  picture,  but  a  broad  grin,  or  wide- 
mouthed  laughter,  would  be  intolerable.  In  reference  to 
this  subject.  Dr.  Moore,  in  his  ^'  View  of  Society  and  Man- 
ners in  Italy,"  objects  to  the  conception  of  the  celebrated 
group  of  Laocoon.  He  affirms  that  the  physical  agony 
expressed  in  the  contortion  of  the  features  and  limbs  of  the 
parent  and  children,  as  they  writhe  within  the  folds  of  the 
serpents,  is  too  intense  to  be  contemplated  without  positive 
pain,  and  that,  therefore,  the  effect  of  the  group  is  distress- 
ing and,  of  course,  unpleasant.  The  artist  has  exhibited 
his  conception  with  admirable  skill ;  the  fault  is  in  the  con- 
ception itself 


SECTION   IV — THE   EMOTION    OF     TASTE;    OR    TASTE     CON- 
SIDERED   SUBJECTIVELY.^ 

The  emotion  of  taste,  or  that  state  of  mind  of  which  we 
are  conscious  when  we  contemplate  any  object  of  unusual 


TAgTE    CONSIDERED    Srii.I  i:rTl\  ELY.  4iit. 

•esthetic  power,  is  exceedingly  simple.  Every  one  knowi 
what  it  is,  yet  it  is  impossible  to  analyze,  and  difficult  to  do- 
scribe  it.  It  is  not  connected  by  necessity  wixh  any  result. 
Sometimes  we  may  desire  to  possess  the  object,  as,  for  in- 
stance, a  picture  that  pleases  us  ;  but  this  desire  is  by  no 
means  universal.  Who  ever  desired  to  own  the  falls  of 
Niagara  ?  Nor  does  the  possession  of  a  beautiful  object  in- 
crease the  pleasure  whicb  it  gives  us.  The  traveller  through 
a  beautiful  country  enjoys  the  scenery  around  him  just  as 
much  as  if  it  were  his  own. 

The  emotion  of  gratified  taste  is  eminently  pleasing.  To 
be  assured  of  this,  we  need  only  observe  the  sacrifices  which 
men  undergo  to  obtain  it.  We  travel  hundreds  of  miles,  at 
great  personal  inconvenience,  and  are  satisfied  if  at  the 
end,  we  can  look  upon  a  magnificent  cataract,  or  spend  a 
few  days  amid  scenes  of  picturesque  beauty.  What  rail- 
lions  have  been  attracted  to  Italy  to  survey  the  creations  of 
art  which  adorn  the  crumbling  tomb  of  that  '^  lone  mother 
of  dead  empires  !  "  And,  if  we  look  upon  the  world  around 
us,  we  shall  be  surprised  at  the  vastness  of  the  expense  in- 
curred in  the  gratification  of  taste.  We  do  not  spend  much 
on  mere  specimens  of  art,  but  when  anything  is  demanded 
by  utility,  we  are  willing  to  treble  the  cost,  if  it  also  gratifies 
our  love  for  the  beautiful. 

The  emotion  of  taste,  like  the  objects  which  excito  it, 
is  of  a  twofold  character  —  that  produced  by  the  beautiful, 
and  that  by  the  sublime.  The  distinction  easily  unfoldii 
itself  to  our  consciousness.  Every  one  knows  that  the 
emotion  produced  by  a  parterre  of  flowers,  a  jet  d'cau,  in  un- 
like that  produced  by  the  sight  of  the  ocean  in  a  storm,  a 
magnificent  mountain,  the  Parthenon  of  Athens,  or  the 
pyramids  of  Egypt.  Both  are  emotions  of  Uistc.  liolh 
are  eminently  sources  of  pleasure.  The  character  of  the 
one  may,  however,  be  readily  distinguished  from  the  other. 
35 


410  INTELLECTIJAL    PHILOSOPHY.    , 

No  sharp  line  of  discriminatk)n  can.  however,  be  drawL 
between  the  classes  of  objects  which  give  ri.se  to  these  dif- 
ferent emotions.  In  many  cases,  they  insensibly  blend  with 
each  other.  A  river  at  its  commencement,  and  for  a  por- 
tion of  its  course,  is  simply  beautiful.  When  it  pours  itself 
into  the  ocean,  like  the  Mississippi  or  Amazon,  it  becomes 
an  object  of  sublimity.  It  may  be,  however,  impossil)le  tc 
designate  the  point  at  which  one  quality  ends,  and  the  other 
begins.  The  same  is  true  of  immaterial  qualities.  An  act 
of  kindness,  compassion,  or  gratitude,  is  generally  beauti- 
ful, while  a  conspicuous  act  of  justice  is  sublime.  These, 
however,  may  be  reversed.  A  trifling  or  graceful  act  of 
justice  may  be  beautiful :  an  act  of  godlike  compassion,  as 
the  death  on  the  cross,  is  passing  sublime. 

We  may  observe  a  diiference  in  the  character  of  these 
emotions,  and  in  the  sentiments  with  which  they  harmonize 
The  emotion  of  beauty  is  calm,  moderately  exhilarating,  at- 
tractive, and  harmonizes  with  all  the  bland  and  social  affec- 
tions, whether  grave  or  gay.  The  emotion  of  the  sublime 
is  exciting,  engrossing,  filling  the  mind  with  awe,  some- 
times with  terror,  and  associating  with  grave  resolves  and 
momentous  and  soul-stirring  action.  Thus  ornament  may 
increase  the  hilarity  of  a  ball-room,  or  it  may  add  deeper 
impressiveness  to  the  sadness  of  the  tomb.  The  sublime 
may  add  intensity  to  the  emotion  which  impels  us  to  heroic 
achievement,  or,  overpowering  all  our  faculties,  may  over- 
whelm us  with  sudden  amazement. 

The  emotion  of  taste  is  commonly  transient.  Its  object 
being  to  give  us  pleasure,  the  impression  which  it  creates  is 
easily  effaced  by  collision  with  the  sterner  realities  of  life. 
It  is,  in  its  nature,  evanescent.  An  object  that  pleases  us 
to-day,  will  affect  us  less  powerfully  to-morrow,  and,  if  it  be 
continually  in  our  presence,  will  soon  cease  to  affect  us  at 
nil.     Personsf  living  in  the  vicinity  of    he  most  magnificent 


TASTE    CONSIDERED    SUBJECTIVKLY.  411 

sceiiCiy,  view  it  without  emoiion.  Frum  ilus  tiu't,  llu-  .n- 
tist  finds  it  necessary  to  employ  every  nieuiis  in  his  powci 
to  deepen  the  impression  which  he  designs  to  creato.  The 
manner  in  which  this  is  done  must  depend  upon  the  mcjuui 
at  his  disposal.  The  painter,  in  his  representation,  ia 
limited  to  a  single  moment  of  time.  In  forming  his  con- 
ception, he  must,  therefore,  arrange  every  circumstance  of 
his  picture,  so  that  it  shall  on  that  instant  conduce  to  the 
principal  eflect.  In  language,  we  are  not  thus  limited,  and 
may  accomplish  our  result  by  means  of  repeated  impres- 
sions. As,  however,  the  mind  aflFected  by  one  object  would 
be  less  affected  by  another  precisely  similar,  it  U'comea 
necessary  to  arrange  every  circumstance  climactically,  so 
that  the  emotion  first  excited  may  be  rendered  at  every  step 
more  intense.  The  effect  of  such  an  arrangement  is  beau- 
tifully illustrated  by  Shakspeare  in  the  following  passage : 

"  Knew  ye  not  Pompey  ?     Many  a  time  and  oft 
Have  ye  climbed  up  to  walls  and  battlements, 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea  to  window  tops, 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  livelong  day,  in  patient  expectation. 
To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Rome. 
And  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear. 
Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout. 
That  Tiber  trembled  underneath  his  banks. 
To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds 
Made  in  his  concave  shores  ?  " 

Juuus  CiESAB,  Act  1,  Scene  1. 

For  the  same  reason  novelty  adds  greatly  to  the  power 
of  an  esthetic  conception.  The  most  beautiful  object  bj 
repetition  becomes  incapable  of  moving  us.  Hence  we  aro 
specially  gratified  Avith  a  new  illustration,  an  unex|K»ctca 
resemblance  or  contrast,  or  any  object,  cither  of  beauty  or 
sublimity,  which  meets  us  for  the  first  time.  Hence  thf 
power  of  a  mind  that  looks  ufca  a  subject  by  iU  own  liglH 


112  intellbjtual  philosophy. 

and  discovers  new  relations  that  have  escaped  the  observation 
of  others.  Such  writers,  even  with  many  defects,  will  al- 
ways please  ;  while  he  who  is  content  to  be  an  imitator,  may 
be  faultlessly  correct,  and  inimitably  proper,  but  he  comes  to 
us  with  a  thrice-told  tale,  and  leaves  us  wholly  unaffected. 

Wit  is  generally  mentioned  as  one  of  the  objects  by  which 
the  emotion  of  taste  is  excited.  It  seems  to  me  but  partially 
connected  with  the  subject,  and  therefore  cannot  here,  claim 
any  separate  discussion.  In  the  place  of  any  analysis  of 
its  nature  and  effects,  I  shall  merely  quote  the  following 
passage  from  Dr.  Barrow  as  the  best  description  of  wit  and 
its  modes  of  affecting  us  with  which  I  am  acquainted. 

''  Sometimes  it  lieth  in  pat  allusion  to  a  known  story,  or 
in  seasonable  application  of  a  trivial  saying,  or  in  forging 
an  apposite  tale  :  sometimes  it  playeth  in  words  and  phrases, 
taking  advantage  from  the  ambiguity  of  their  sense,  or  the 
affinity  of  their  sound :  sometimes  it  is  lodged  in  a  sly  ques- 
tion, in  a  smart  answer,  in  a  quirkish  reason,  in  a  shrewd 
intimation,  in  cunningly  diverting  or  cleverly  retorting  an 
objection :  sometimes  it  is  concealed  in  a  bold  scheme  of 
speech,  in  a  tart  irony,  in  a  lusty  hyperbole,  in  a  startling 
metaphor,  in  a  plausible  reconciling  of  contradictions,  or  in 
acute  nonsense  :  sometimes  a  scenical  representation  of  per- 
sons or  things,  a  counterfeit  speech,  a  mimical  look  ot  ges- 
ture passeth  for  it :  sometimes  an  affected  simplicity,  some- 
times a  presumptuous  bluntness,  giveth  it  being  :  sometimes 
it  riseth  from  a  lucky  hitting  upon  what  is  strange,  some- 
times from  a  crafty  wresting  obvious  naatter  to  the  purpose  : 
often  it  consisteth  in  one  knows  not  what,  and  springeth  up 
one  knows  not  how.  Its  ways  are  unaccountable  and  inex- 
plicable, being  answerable  to  the  roving^  of  fancy  and  the 
windings  of  language.  It  is,  in  short,  a  manner  of  speak- 
ing out  of  the  plain  way,  which,  by  a  pretty  and  surprising 
uncouthness  in  conceit  or  expression,  doth  affect  and  amus6 


I 


TASTE    CONSIDERED   SUBJECTIVELY.  413 


the  fancy,  stirring  in  it  some  wonder,  and  breeding  some 
delight  thereto.  It  raiseth  admiration,  as  signifying  a  nimble 
sagacity  of  apprehension,  a  special  felicity  of  invention,  a 
vivacity  of  spirit  and  reach  of  wit  more  than  vul"^ir.  It 
seemeth  to  argue  a  rare  quickness  of  parts,  that  one  can 
fetch  in  remote  conceits  applicable  ;  a  notable  skill,  tliat  ho 
can  dexterously  accommodate  them  to  the  purpose  Ixjfore 
him,  together  with  a  lively  briskness  of  humor  not  apt  to 
dash  those  sportful  flashes  of  the  imagination.  It  also  pro- 
cureth  delight  by  gratifying  curiosity  with  its  rareness  or 
semblance  of  difficulty  (as  monsters  not  for  their  beauty  but 
their  rarity  ;  as  juggling  tricks,  not  for  their  use  but  their 
abstruseness,  are  beheld  with  pleasure),  by  diverting  the  mind 
from  its  road  of  serious  thoughts,  by  instilling  g^iyety  and 
airiness  of  spirit  in  way  of  emulation  or  complaisance ;  and 
by  seasoning  matters,  otherwise  distasteful  or  insipid,  with 
an  unusual  and  thence  grateful  tang.''  —  Sermon  against 
Foolish  Talking  and  Jesting. 

A  few  remarks  on  the  improvement  of  taste  may  be 
appropriate  to  the  close  of  this  chapter. 

I  have  said  above  that  taste  is  that  sensibility  by  which 
we  recoojnize  the  beauties  and  deformities  of  nature  and  art, 
derivmg  pleasure  from  the  one,  and  suifering  pain  from  the 
other.  Erom  this  definition  it  is  evident  that  the  function 
of  taste  is  two-fold ;  first,  it  discriminates  between  beauty 
and  deformity,  and,  secondly,  it  is  a  source  of  pleasure  and 
pain.  Cultivation  improves  it  in  both  these  respects.  It 
•  renders  us  better  capable  of  distinguishing  between  beauty 
and  deformity  in  their  nore  delicate  shades  of  difference; 
ajid,  as  this  power  of  discrimination  is  improved,  the  pleas- 
ure which  we  derive  from  gratified  tiiste  l)ecomes  more 
exquisite  and  enduring,  and  the  pain  which  we  suffer  from 
deformity  is,  in  a  corresponding  degree,  increased. 

When  we  speak  of  the  improvement  of  taste,  the  (luestioo 
35* 


414  INTELLECTUAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

naturally  arises.  How  may  we  know  when  our  taste  is  im- 
proved ]  The  taste  of  men  varies  greatly  under  different 
circumstances.  The  taste  of  childhood  differs  from  that  of 
youth,  and  that  of  youth  from  manhood.  The  taste  of 
savages  in  all  ages  is  unlike  that  of  civilized  man.  And 
among  nations  that  have  made  the  greatest  progress  in  civil- 
ization and  refinement,  we  find  that  there  have  been  great 
diversities  in  this  respect.  The  taste  of  Egypt  was  exceed- 
ingly different  from  that  of  Greece.  The  taste  of  Greece 
and  Rome  were  by  no  means  identical.  Neither  of  them 
bore  any  resemblance  to  the  taste  of  India.  Or,  if  we  draw 
nearer  to  the  present  time,  the  taste  of  the  Mahommedans 
was  very  dissimilar  to  that  of  the  Catholics  of  the  middle 
ages.  And  we  perceive  corresponding  difference  at  the 
present  day.  The  taste  in  architecture  of  France,  Ger- 
many, Italy,  and  Great  Britain,  is  by  no  means  identical. 
The  same  remarks  apply  to  poetry  and  the  other  fine  arts. 

Hence  the  question  has  frequently  arisen.  Is  there  any 
standard  of  taste  ?  Are  there  any  canons  to  which  we  may 
appeal  when  a  difference  of  opinion  exists,  or  by  which  w€ 
may  be  guided  in  our  attempts  at  self-cultivation?  It  may 
be  worth  while  briefly  to  examine  this  question. 

If  by  a  standard  of  taste  be  meant  a  system  of  arbitrary 
rules,  established  by  reasonings  or  dictated  by  authority,  to 
which  all  the  works  of  art  must  conform,  and  by  reference 
to  which  their  merit  must  be  decided,  it  is  manifest  that  no 
such  standard  exists.  Who  ever  established  it  7  =  By  what 
course  of  reasonings  were  its  principles  demonstrated?  Who 
was  ever  competent  to  decide  for  all  men,  at  all  times  ;  and 
to  whose  decisions  have  men  ever  yielded  implicit  submission? 
It  is  obvious  that  such  a  standard  does  nof  and  cannot  exist. 

But,  if,  by  a  standard  of  taste,  it  be  meant  that  on  a  great 
variety  of  questions  in  aesthetics  there  is  a  general  agree- 
ment of  mankind  in  all  ages,  and  among,  all  nations,  of  the 


IMPROVEMENT    <»r    T\<Tr.  41."^ 

same  or  of  similar  degrees  of  culiure,  aiij  tlint  thw  ngrco 
ment  having  been  observed,  many  general  lawn  may  !»o 
deduced  from  it  by  which  the  artist  may  be  safely  govei  ned, 
and  by  which  we  may  all  test  the  accuracy  of  our  individual 
decisions,  then  we  must  answer  this  (juestion  in  the  afTirma- 
tive.  No  one  will  doubt  that  some  forms,  colors,  and  pro- 
portions, are  more  agreeable  to  mankind  than  others  ;  iluit 
some  positions  are  graceful,  and  others  awkward  ;  that  some 
modes  of  thought  and  expression  give  us  pleasuiv.  and  (jthera 
give  us  pain.  If  mankind  are  made  with  similar  faculties, 
such  must  be  the  result.  Although  nations  may  differ  widely 
in  their  decisions  at  a  particular  time,  yet  intercourse  with 
each  other  and  progress  in  civilization  tend  to  unanimity  of 
opinion  even  on  questions  upon  which  there  existed  at  first 
great  diversity.  Thus,  when  Greece  and  Rome  came  into 
contact,  Greece  asserted  her  superiority  over  her  concjueror, 
and  every  Roman  artist  and  poet  copied  with  even  servile 
fidelity  the  models  which  were  brought  from  the  city  of  Peri- 
cles. It  is  the  object  of  the  artist  to  observe  these  general 
facts,  not  for  the  purpose  of  giving  laws  to  nature,  but  of 
recording  the  laws  .Aich  nature  has  herself  establishcil. 
Just  so  far  as  these  laws  have  been  discovered,  they  become 
the  standard  to  which  the  artist  must  conform  if  he  dcairca 
to  succeed,  that  is,  to  please  humanity. 

It  would  seem,  then,  that  in  our  in(|uiries  on  tlii.s  sub- 
ject we  are  merely  determining  a  question  of  fact.  We  ask 
what  sesthetical  forms  have  been  found  universally  U)  plca.se 
mankind,  or  rather  that  portion  of  mankind  whose  circum- 
stances  have  been  favorable  to  a  correct  decision  ?  When 
this  question  has  been  answered,  we  are  to  receive  it  as  an 
ultimate  fact.  That  which  human  nature  pronounces  to  »« 
beautiful  is  beautiful  to  man,  and  that  which  it  pn)nouiicci 
deformed  is  deformed.  We  may,  it  is  true,  witli  lulvantagf 
frequently  analyze  a  complicated  decision,  it  order  to  detar- 


416  INTELLECTUAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

mine  with  more  accuracy  the  particular  elements  on  which 
it  is  founded,  and  thus  arrive  at  a  simpler  and  more  general 
law.  Thus,  the  voice  of  mankind  has  pronounced  the  epic 
of  Homer  to  be  beautiful.  This  decision  cannot  be  ques- 
tioned. We  may,  however,  examine  it,  to  determine  the 
qualities  on  which  this  decision  is  founded.  There  is  the 
general  plot,  the  delineation  of  character,  the  description  of 
events,  the  vivacity  of  dramatic  action,  the  language  and 
rhythmical  power,  the  machinery  or  intervention  of  the 
gods,  the  quarrels  of  the  chiefs,  the  catalogue  of  the  ships, 
the  lists  of  the  slain,  the  slaughtering  of  animals,  and  the 
culinary  arrangements  of  the  chiefs.  We  may  certainly 
analyze  this  complex  variety  of  elements,  and  determine 
which  is  essential  and  which  injurious  to  the  general  effect. 
In  this  manner  we  are  enabled  to  ascertain  what  it  is  that 
pleases  mankind,  and  thus  form  a  more  definite  idea  of  the 
standard  of  poetic  excellence. 

Our  labor  here,  however,  consists  mainly  in  analysis. 
We  may  examine  separately  the  various  elements  of  success 
or  failure,  but  we  cannot  reason  from  them  with  any  decided 
confidence.  Because  a  particular  form  is  beautiful  in  one 
position,  we  cannot  determine  that  it  will  please  under  all 
circumstances.  Because  a  particular  "combination  of  form 
is  beautiful,  we  cannot  determine  what  will  be  the  effect  of 
an  entirely  opposite  combination.  An  artist  of  originality 
may  repose  a  reasonable  confidence  in  his  own  sensibilities, 
but  he  can  never  be  sure  that  a  conception  will  please,  until 
he  has  submitted  it  to  the  judgment  of  mankind. 

Writers  on  this  subject,  of  distinguished  ability,  have  con- 
tended that  there  is  no  established  relation  between  the 
numan  sensibility  and  the  external  world,  by  which  we  are 
entitled  to  say  that  anything  is  in  itself  beautiful.  They 
afiirm  that  our  idea  ji  beauty  is  merely  derived  from  asso- 
ciation.    In  reply  to  this  assertion,  it  may  be  remarked  that 


IMPROVEMENT   OF   TASTE.  417 

our  own  consciousness  testifies  clearly  to  the  character  of  the 

emotion  of  taste.  It  may  clearly  be  distinguished  from 
every  other  emotion,  and  also  from  every  act  of  tlie  inui-'i- 
nation,  the  reason,  or  any  of  our  other  faculties.  It  diffen 
from  them  all  in  its  nature,  its  origin,  and  its  resulta.  If, 
then,  it  be  an  original  and  peculiar  aflfection  of  tlie  mind, 
its  existence  need  not  and  cannot  be  accounted  for  by  a&so- 
ciation.  As  Mr.  Stewart  very  appositely  remarks :  **  Tha 
theory  which  resolves  the  whole  effect  of  the  beautiful  into 
association,  must  necessarily  involve  that  species  of  piiralo- 
gism  to  which  logicians  have  given  the  name  of  reasoning 
in  a  circle.  It  is  the  province  of  association  to  impart  to 
one  thing  the  agreeable  or  disagreeable  effect  of  another ; 
but  association  can  never  account  for  the  origin  of  a  clasd 
of  pleasures  different  in  kind  from  all  the  others  we  know. 
If  there  was  nothing  originally  pleasing  or  beautiful,  the  asso- 
ciating principle  would  have  no  material  on  which  to  operate." 

As  to  the  manner  in  which  this  faculty  may  be  improved, 
but  little  can  be  said  in  addition  to  what  was  remarked  when 
treating  of  the  imagination.  Both  faculties  are  employed 
upon  the  same  objects,  and  the  mode  of  cultivation  is  in 
most  respects  the  same.  A  few  brief  suggestions  arc  all  that 
I  shall  here  offer. 

It  is  universally  admitted  that  all  the  forms  of  nature 
possess  some  portion  of  aesthetic  power.  As  we  Ix^conio 
familiar  with  these,  and  hold  communion  with  nature  in  all 
her  aspects,  whether  grave  or  gay,  beautiful  or  sublime,  wo 
cultivate  our  aesthetic  sensibility,  we  more  readily  recognize 
the  beautiful,  and  rejoice  in  it  with  more  exquisite  emotioiLH. 

We  shall  also  derive  great  benefit  from  studying  wilb 
care  classical  productions  in  the  various  departments  of  the 
fine  arts.  When  an  artist  has  been  eminently  successful;  he 
has  united  in  one  conception  all  the  elements  of  the  beauti- 
ful within  his  power,  excluding  from  it  all   that  could  difc- 


418  INTELLECTUAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

tract  the  attention  or  diminish  the  effect.  Hence,  if  we 
comprehend  his  design,  understand  his  mode  of  developing 
it,  and  meditate  upon  his  work,  until  we  sympathize  with 
his  sentiments  and  share  in  his  enthusiasm,  our  taste  will 
become  in  some  measure  assimilated  to  his.  He  who  haa 
caught  the  inspiration  of  Raphael  must  possess  already  the 
spiritual  element  of  a  painter ;  and  he  who  can  feel  the 
sentiments  which  inspired  Milton  and  Shakspeare,  must  be 
endowed  with  some  portion  at  least  of  poetic  genius. 

If,  however,  we  desire  to  improve  our  taste,  we  must  do 
it  not  by  the  indiscriminate  study  of  models,  but  only  by 
the  contemplation  of  the  most  eminent.  We  m.ust  confine 
ourselves  to  the  most  faultless  models  if  we  would  cultivate 
our  love  for  the  beautiful.  If  the  student  would  form  a 
classical  style,  and  acquire  a  discriminating  love  for  literary 
excellence,  he  must  limit  his  reading  to  the  works  of  those 
whom  the  suffrages  of  humanity  have  numbered  among  the 
masters  of  thought  and  expression.  A  vast  amount  of  mis- 
cellaneous reading  may  enable  us  to  abound  in  small  knowl- 
edge and  flippant  criticism.  It  is  only  by  communion  with 
those  whose  works  ^^the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die," 
that  we  learn  to  emulate  their  intellectual  achievements,  and 
become  the  instructors  of  our  fellow-men. 

In  studying  the  works  of  others  for  our  own  improve- 
ment, one  caution  is  however  to  be  observed.  They  are  the 
productions  of  fallible  men  like  ourselves.  We  are,  there- 
fore, to  bring  to  the  examination  of  every  work  of  art,  the 
exercise  of  a  calm,  discriminating  judgment,  prepared  to 
distinguish  beauty  from  deformity  wherever  they  exist.  We 
must  exercise  our  own  taste,  if  we  would  cultivate  our  sen- 
sitive nature.  When  we  study  the  works  of  others  to 
awaken  our  own  sensibilities,  to  correct  our  errors,  and  to 
arouse  ourselves  to  emulation,  we  develop  our  own  faculties. 
But,  if  we  study  only  to  bow  before  a  piaster  as  we  would 


IMPROVEMK.XT    (>F    TASTK.  41!« 

worship  our  Creator,  we  become  servile  copyists  and  tie- 
graded  idolatei-s.  It  is  not  impossible  that  our  voneraliim 
for  the  ancients  has  in  some  degree  prcxluccd  tliis  vKi^x 
upon  modern  literature.  I  have  always  l)cen  struck  with 
the  remark  of  one  of  the  Italian  masters,  who,  when  ii  work 
of  an  earlier  artist  was  spoken  of  with  servile  adoration, 
turned  away  and  said,  ^' I  too  am  a  painter."  To  study 
the  works  of  others  that  we  may  be  able  to  equal  them,  cul- 
tivates the  power  of  original  creation.  To  study  them  only 
that  we  may  learn  how  to  do  feebly,  what  they  have  done 
well,  is  fatal  to  all  manly  development,  and  must  consign 
an  individual  or  an  age  tc  the  position  of  despairing  and 
wondering  mediocrity. 


0 

p 
p 


i 


APPENDIX. 


Note  to  pages  101,  102. 

It  is  stated  in  the  text  that,  under  certain  abnormal  circumgtancfi,  wt 
become  capable  of  perceptions,  or  cognitions,  without  the  aid  of  the  o*gaDf 
of  sense.  While  I  was  lecturing  on  this  subject,  a  few  years  since,  one  of 
my  pupils  informed  me  of  some  facts,  of  a  very  decided  character,  in  pos- 
session of  his  brother,  J.  M.  Brooke,  Esq.,  of  the  United  States  Navy.  At 
my  request  he  wrote  to  his  brother,  stating  my  wish  for  information.  Mr. 
Brooke  soon  after  very  kindly  wrote  to  me  as  follows  : 

Washington,  Oct.  27,  1851. 

Sir  :  It  affords  me  pleasure  to  comply  with  your  request,  ma<le  through 
my  brother  William,  relative  to  some  experiments  perfornie<l  on  Umvd  of 
the  U.  S.  steamer  Princeton,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  yc-ir  18^17  ;  she  U'ing 
then  on  a  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean.  Nathaniel  Bishop,  the  subject  of 
the  experiments,  was  a  mulatto,  about  twenty-six  years  of  ape,  in  Ko«i 
health,  but  of  an  excitable  disposition.  The  4irst  experiment  was  of  tho 
magnetic  or  mesmeric  sleep,  which  overpowered  him  in  thirty  minutcH 
from  the  commencement  of  passes  made  in  the  ordinary  way,  accompanied 
with  a  steadfast  gaze  and  effort  of  will  that  he  shouM  sleep. 

In  this  state  he  was  insensible  to  all  voices  but  mine,  unless  I  directed 
or  willed  him  to  hear  others  ;  he  was  also  insensible  to  such  amount  of 
pain  as  one  might  inflict  without  injury,  that  is,  what  would  have  been 
pain  to  another.  He  would  obey  my  directions  to  whistle,  dance,  or  nvng. 
When  aroused  from  this  sleep  he  had  no  recollection  of  what  occurr^ 
while  in  it.  That  such  an  influence  could  be  exert e<l  I  was  alrt'ady  aware, 
having  previously  witnessed  satisfactory  experiments.^  Of  clairvoyance  I 
had  never  been  convinced  ;  indeed,  considered  it  nothing  more  than  a  •orl 
of  dreaming  produced  by  the  will  of  the  operator.  I  became  aware  of  ita 
truth  rather  through  accident  than  design. 

It  happened  one  day  that  some  one  of  ray  brother  officers  Mkedia  qu«». 
tion  which  the  others  could  not  answer.  Bishop,  who  had  been  a  few 
moments  before  in  a  mesmeric  sleep,  g?ive  the  desircl  information,  ipm*- 
ing  with  confidence  and  apparent  accuracy.  As  the  information  rrUt^  to 
something-  which  it  seeme<;l  almost  impossible  to  know  with'  r  .  w« 

were  very  much  surprised.     It  struck  me  that  he  might  In  .i  ; 

and  I  at  once  asked  him  to  tell  me  the  time  by  a  watch  kept  m  i:.'  ..:.*- 
Cle,  on  the  spar  or  upper  deck,  we  being  on  the  berth  w  lower  dtxrk.  lit 
answered  correctly,  as  I  found  upon  looking  at  the  watch,  allowing  cgh* 
86 


422  APPENDIX. 

♦ 

or  nine  seconds  for  time  o-xupied  in  getting  on  deck.  I  then  asked  his 
many  questions  with  regard  to  objects  at  a  distance,  which  he  answered 
and,  as  f;ir  as  I  could  ascertain,  correctly. 

For  example,  one  evening,  while  at  anchor  in  the  port  of  Genoa,  the 
captain  was  on  shore.  I  asked  Bishop,  in  the  presence  of  several  officers, 
where  the  captain  then  was.  He  replied^  *'  At  the  opera  with  Mr.  Lester, 
the  consul."  **What  does  he  say  ?  "  I  inquired.  Bishop  appeared  to 
listen,  and  in  a  moment  replied,  *'  The  captain  tells  Mr.  Lester  that  he  wag 
much  pleased  with  the  port  of  Xavia  ;  that  the  authorities  treated  him 
with  much  consideration." 

Upon  this,  one  of  the  officers  laughed,  and  said  that  when  the  captain 
returned  he  would  ask  him.  He  did  so  ;  saying,  "  Captain,  we  have  been 
listening  to  your  conversation  on  shore."  "Very  well,"  remarked  the 
captain.  "What  did  I  say  ?"  expecting  some  jest.  The  officer  then  re- 
peated what  the  captain  had  said  of  Xavia  and  its  authorities.  **  Ah," 
said  the  captain,  "who  was  at  the  opera?  I  did  not  see  any  of  the 
officers  there."  The  lieutenant  then  explained  the  matter.  The  captain 
confirmed  its  truth,  and  seemed  very  much  surprised,  as  there  had  been 
no  other  communication  with  the  shore  during  the  evening.  I  may 
remark  that  we  had  touched  at  several  ports  between  Xavia  and  Genoa. 

On  another  occasion,  an  officer  being  on  shore,  I  directed  Bishop  to 
examine  his  pockets  ;  he  made  several  motions  with  his  hands,  as  if 
actually  drawing  something  from  the  officer's  pockets,  saying,  "  Here  is  a 
handkerchief,  and  here  a  box  —  what  a  curious  thing  !  —  full  of  little  white 
sticks  with  blue  ends.  What  are  they,  Mr.  Brooke?  "  I  replied,  "  Per- 
haps they  are  matches."  "So  they  are!"  he  exclaimed.  My  com- 
panions, expecting  the  officer  mentioned,  went  on  deck,  and  meeting  him 
at  the  gangway,  asked,  "What  have  you  in  your  pockets?"  "Noth- 
ing," he  replied.  "  But  have  you  not  a  box  of  matches  ?  "  "0,  yes  !  " 
said  he.  "  How  did  you  know  it  ?  I  bought  them  just  before  I  came  on 
board."     The  matches  were  peculiar,  made  of  white  wax  with  blue  ends. 

The  surgeons  of  the  Princeton  ridiculed  these  experiments,  upon  which 
I  requested  one  of  them  ( Far  quh  arson),  to  test  for  himself,  which  he  con- 
sented to  do.  With  some  care  he  placed  Bishop  and  myself  in  one  corner 
of  the  apartment,  and  then  took  a  position  some  ten  feet  distant,  conceal- 
ing between  his  hands  a  watch,  the  long  second-hand  of  which  traversed 
the  dial.  He  first  asked  for  a  description  of  the  watch.  To  which  Bishop 
replied,  "  'Tis  a  funny  watch,  the  second-hand  jumps. " 

The  doctor  then  asked  him  to  tell  the  minute  and  second,  which  he  did  ; 
directly  afterwards  exclaiming,  "  The  second-hand  has  stopped  !  "  which 
was  the  case,  Dr.  F.  having  stopped  it.  "  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  to 
what  second  does  it  point,  and  to  what  hour  ;  and  what  minute  is  it  now  ?  " 
Bishop  answered  correctly,  adding,  "'Tis  going  again."  He  then  told 
twice  in  succession  the  minute  and  second. 

The  doctor  was  convinced,  saying  that  it  was  contrary  to  reason,  but 
ke  must  believe.  I  then  proposed  that  the  doctor  should  mark  time  ;  and 
directed  Bishop  to  look  in  his  mother's  house  in  Lancaster,  Pa.  (where  he 
had  never  been),  for  a  clock  ;  he  said  there  was  one  there,  and  told  the 
time  by  it  ;  one  of  the  officers  calculated  the  difference  in  time  for  the 
longitudes  of  Lancaster  and  Genoa,  and  the  clock  was  found  to  agree 
within  five  minutes  of  ths  watch  time. 

Several  persons  being  still  unconvinced,  I  proposed  that  the  captai* 
should  select  a  letter  from  the  files  in  his  cabin  and  put  it  on  the  cabin 
table:  and  that  Bishop  should  read  it  withcut  leaving  an  apartment  on 


APPKXDIZ.  42^ 

the  cieck  below  the  cabin,  and  some  distance  forwanl  of  it.     Upon  thi*  tM 
captain  sent  for  me,  and  telling  me  that  all  the  discipline  in   liu-  -•  r  '.,-• 
would  be  destroyed,  ordered  me  to  discontinue  the  pru-ticc. 
retained  his  power  of  clairvoyance,  I  often  amuse*!  iiiyjM'lf  in  << 
10  the  United  States,  and,  although  I  cannot  assert  that  he  tU« 

truth,  I  believe  that  in  many  insUinces  he  did  so,  as  I  ha\r  ar- 

sons when  relating  to  them  for  confirmation  sucli  cxperiinMit-*  m  cKiir- 
Yoyance  as  concerned  actions  unknown,  as  they  supposed,  to  any  one  bat 
themselves. 

As  it  was  in  my  power  to  control  Bishop  in  his  wanderinp*,  I  U!«uallj 
limited  his  powers  of  observation,  and  meddled  only  so  far  in  the  aflairt 
of  my  neighbors  as  might  be  honorable. 

The  power  which  I  acquireil  by  putting  him  to  sleep  remained  af\cr  kt 
woke,  and  was  increased  by  its  exercise.  If  not  exerte<i  for  scveml  dayi 
it  decreased,  sometimes  rendering  it  necessary  to  repeat  the  passej*  aivl 
again  put  him  to  sleep.  While  awake  and  under  my  influence,  I  m'.u\9 
many  experiments,  such  as  arresting  his  arm  when  raisinj;  f«K»d  to  hi* 
mouth,  or  fixing  him  motionless  in  the  attitude  of  drinkinj^.  On  »tne 
occasion  I  willed  that  he  should  continue  pouring  tea  into  a  cuj>  ftlre:wHy 
fall,  which  he  did,  notwithstanding  the  exclamations  of  those  who  were 
scalded  in  the  operation.  Tliese  influences  were  exerte<I  witliout  ri  word 
or  change  of  position  on  my  part.  He  remembered  or  forgot  what  he  f^rM 
when  clairvoyant,  as  I  willed,  of  which  I  satisfied  myself  by  experiment. 

All  his  senses  were  under  control,  so  completely,  indeed,  that  had  ) 
willed  him  to  stop  breathing  I  believe  that  he  would.  You  may  wish  er 
know  something  more  with  regard  to  my  experience  ;  if  so,  I  shall  bi 
happy  to  inform  you.  I  am,  sir,  respectfully. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

J.  M.  Brookk. 

Db.  Watland, 

Providence,  R.  I. 


Note  to  page  115. 

When  treating  on  the  subject  of  consciousness,  1  have  referred  tc  thi 
feet  of  double  consciousness,  and  alluded  to  two  or  three  cases  which  hatf 
been  published.  Within  a  few  days,  a  case  has  been  brought  to  my  notiof 
by  my  former  pupil,  S.  P.  Bates,  Esq.,  of  Mejidville.  Penn..  which  ha* 
eeemed  to  me  more  remarkable  than  any  that  I  have  met  with  chwwhero 
Mr.  Bates,  at  my  request,  procured  me  a  narrative,  written  by  the  ^aticnl 
herself.  I  give  it  in  her  own  words,  omitting  only  such  paasages  %»  mid 
nothin-  to  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  rektion.  The  extracU  w  from  • 
letter  addressed  to  her  nephew.  Rev.  John  V.  Reynolds : 

My  de.4^  Nephew  :    I  will  now  endeavor  to  pive  you  a  >-;.f  ..  .n«nt  .f 
myself.    When  at  the  age  of  eighteen  or  twenty.  I  w:us  .^. 
with  fits.     In  the  spring  of  1^11,1  had  a  very  .evon>  om-. 
greatly  convulsed,  and  I  was  extremely  ill  'or  .si'veral  i^y».    -M 
hearing  were  totally  lost,  and,  durmg  twelve  woc.k.^^^^^ 
fit  mentioned,  I  continued  in  a  very  feeble  PUte.     But.  at  ■  U . . 


t24  APPENDIX. 

Kreeks,  the  senses  cf  sight  aad  hearing  were  again  restored.  But  a  mere 
remarkable  visitation  of  Providence  awaited  i^e.  A  little  before  the  ex- 
piration of  the  twelve  weeks,  one  morning,  when  I  awoke,  I  had  lost  all 
recollection  of  everything.  My  understanding  with  an  imperfect  knowl 
edge  of  speech  remained  ;  but  my  father,  mother,  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  the  neighbors,  were  altogether  strangers  to  me.  I  had  no  disposition 
to  converse  either  with  my  friends  or  with  strangers.  I  had  forgotten  the 
use  of  written  language,  and  did  not  know  a  single  letter  of  the  alphabet , 
aor  how  to  discharge  the  duties  of  my  domestic  employment,  more  than  a 
new-born  babe.  I  presently,  however,  began  to  learn  various  kinds  of 
knowledge. 

I  continued  five  weeks  in  this  way,  when  I  suddenly  passed  from  this 
second  state  (as,  for  distinction,  it  may  be  called) ,  into  my  first  state. 
All  consciousness  of  the  five  weeks  just  elapsed  was  totally  gone,  and  my 
original  consciousness  was  fully  restored.  My  kindred  and  friends  were 
at  once  recognized.  Every  kind  of  knowledge  which  I  had  ever  acquired 
was  as  much  at  my  command  as  at  any  former  period  of  my  life  ;  but  of 
the  time,  and  of  all  events,  which  had  transpired  during  my  second  state, 
I  had  not  the  most  distant  idea.  For  three  weeks  I  continued  in  my  first 
state.  But  in  my  sleep  the  transition  was  renewed,  and  I  awoke  in  my 
second  state.  As  before,  so  now,  all  knowledge  acquired  in  my  first 
state  was  forgotten,  and  of  the  circumstances  of  the  three  weeks'  lucid 
interval,  I  had  no  conception.  Of  the  small  fund  of  knowledge  I  had 
gained  in  my  former  second  state  I  was  able  to  avail  myself,  and  I  con- 
tinued from  day  to  day  to  add  to  this  little  treasure. 

From  the  spring  of  1811,  till  within  eight  or  ten  years  ago,  I  continued 
frequently  changing  from  my  first  to  second,  and  from  my  second  to  first 
state.  More  than  three  quarters  of  the  time  I  was  in  the  second  state. 
There  never  was  any  periodical  regularity  as  to  the  transitions.  Some- 
times I  continued  several  months,  and  sometimes  a  few  weeks,  a  few  days,  * 
or  only  a  few  hours,  in  my  second  state  ;  but  in  the  lapse  of  five  years  I, 
in  no  one  instance,  continued  more  than  twenty  days  in  my  first  state. 

Whatever  knowledge  I  acquired  at  any  time  in  my  second  state  became 
familiar  to  me  when  in  that  state,  and  I  made  such  proficiency,  that  I  soon 
became  as  well  acquainted  with  things,  and  was  in  general  as  intelligent 
in  my  second  as  in  my  first  state.  I  went  through  the  usual  process  of 
learning  to  write,  and  took  as  much  satisfaction  in  the  use  of  books  as  in 
my  first  state.  Your  father  undertook  to  reteach  me  chirography.  He 
gave  me  my  name,  which  he  had  written,  to  copy.  I  took  my  pen,  though 
in  a  very  awkward  manner,  and  actually  began  from  the  right  to  the  left 
in  the  Hebrew  mode.  It  was  not  long  before  I  obtained  tolerable  skill  in 
penmanship,  and  often  amused  myself  in  writing  poetry.  I  acquired  all 
kinds  of  knowledge  in  my  second  state,  with  much  greater  facility  than  a 
person  who  had  never  been  instructed. 

In  my  second  state  I  was  introduced  to  many  persons  whom  I  always 
recognized  in  that  state  (and  no  one  enjoyed  the  society  of  friends  better 
than  I  did) ,  but  if  ever  so  well  known  to  me,  in  my  first  state,  I  had  no 
knowledge  of  them  in  the  second,  until  an  acquaintance  had  been  again 
formed.  In  like  manner  all  acquaintances  formed  in  -the  second  state, 
must  be  formed  in  the  first  in  order  to  be  known  in  that. 

These  transitions  always  took  place  in  my  sleep.  In  passing  from  my 
second  to  my  first  state,  nothing  was  particularly  noticeable  in  my  sleep. 
But  in  passing  from  my  first  to  second  state,  my  sleep  was  so  profound 
that  no  one  could  awaken  me,  and  it  not  unfrequently  continued  eighteoi 


APPENDIX.  425 

or  twenty  hours.       had  generally  some  presentiment  Df  the  clinn-r  f„t 
several  days  before  the  event. 

My  sufferings,  in  the  near  prospect  of  the  transition  fn.m  ritli.-r  thr  .  t.oof 
th«  other  state,  were  extreme,  particularly  from  thcfirj^t  to  thr  ^.  ,  ,,  |  -t.iti: 
When  about  to  undergo  the  change  I  was  harassed  witli  fc.-ir  U-^t  I  j,h.»uKl 
never  revert  so  as  to  know  again  in  this  world  those  wlio  woro  dciir  to  nu 
My  feelings  in  this  respect  were  not  unlike  those  of  one  wlio  wa.H  nUul  to 
be  separated  by  death,  though,  in  the  second  sbite,  I  did  not  anticij»ato  the 
change  with  such  distressing  apprehensions  as  in  the  first.  I  wiw  njitu- 
rally  cheerful,  but  more  so  in  this  than  in  my  natural  state.  I  believe  I 
felt  perfectly  free  from  trouble  when  in  my  second  state,  and,  for  iwuie 
time  after  I  had  been  in  that  state,  my  feelings  were  such  that,  had  all  mj 
friends  been  lying  dead  around  me,  I  do  not  think  it  would  have  given  me 
one  moment's  pain  of  mind.  At  that  time  my  feelings  were  never  moved 
with  the  manifestation  of  joy  or  sorrow.  I  had  no  idea  of  tlie  p^ust  or  the 
future.  Nothing  but  the  present  occupied  my  mind.  In  the  first  HtuRo 
of  the  disease,  I  had  no  idea  of  employing  my  time  in  anytlun;;  that  waa 
useful.  L  did  nothing  but  ramble  about,  and  never  tire<I  walking  aboul 
the  fields.  My  mother,  one  day,  thought  she  would  try  to  rouse  me  a 
little.  She  told  me  that  Paul  says  those  who  would  not  work,  must  not 
eat.  I  told  her  it  made  no  matter  of  difference  to  me  what  Paul  said,  I 
was  not  going  to  work  for  Paul  or  any  other  person.  I  did  not  know  whc 
Paul  was  then.     I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  Bible  at  that  time. 

As  an  evidence  of  my  ignorance  of  any  kind  of  danger  in  that  early 
period,  before  I  had  attained  any  information  of  right  or  wrong,  danger 
or  safety,  as  I  was,  one  afternoon,  walking  a  short  distance  from  the  houi«, 
I  discovered,  as  I  thought,  a  beautiful  creature.  Insensible  of  danger,  I 
ran  to  it,  and,  in  attempting  to  take  hold  of  it,  it  eluded  my  gnisp  by 
running  under  a  pile  of  logs.  It  was  a  rattlesnake.  I  had  my  hand  upon 
the  rattle  ;  but  fortunately  my  foot  slipped  and  I  fell  back.  I  heard  it  ' 
rattle,  and  was  still  very  unwilling  to  go  home  without  it.  I  put  my  arm 
a  considerable  distance  under  the  log  where  the  snake  had  crept. 

It  may  be  remarked  that  whenever  I  changed  into  my  natural  state,  I 
always  feit  very  much  debilitated.  When  in  my  second  state  I  had  no 
inclination  for  either  food  or  sleep.  My  strength  at  such  times  was  en- 
tirely artificial.  I  generally  bad  a  flush  in  one  cheek,  and  continual 
thirst,  which  denoted  inward  fever. 

When  I  was  last  down  at  home  I  was  reading  some  letters  which  I  had 
received  from  dear  friends  with  whom  I  had  corresponded!  previous  to 
these  changes,  and  who  had  been  the  companions  of  my  younger  *]aj^ 
but  their  images  are  now  entirely  erased  from  my  memory.  It  would  be 
a  source  of  gratification  to  me  if  I  were  in  possession  of  my  former  recol- 

lection. 

**♦♦*• 
In  the  early  period  of  my  disease  I  used  to  talk  in  my  m.vj..  /ind  t^'U 
my  plans.     Sometimes  my  friends  would  overhear  me,  which  wo.iM  .•  lu-o 
them  to  watch  my  movements,  and  by  that  means  I  huvc  Nru  w%m 
many  unpleasant  trips  in  my  sleep.  ^1^^^'  l"-Tf>^LDa. 

Note  1.  Miss  Reynolds  could  pronounce  a  word  after  any  o?4'.  bat 
could  at  first  make  no  use  of  it  herself.  i    .  4^  w^  — 

Note  2.  The  hand-writing  of  Miss  Reynolds  m  her  secon.l  nUle  w»j  ii 
aifterent  from  her  hand-writing  in  the  firet  as  that  of  two  mdivi-iuiiUi 


426  APPENDIX. 


Note  3.  At  about  forty  years  of  age  these  changes  ceased,  and  she  lived 
on  to  the  end  of  life  in  her  second  state.  She  would,  of  course,  have  nc 
remembrance  of  her  life  previous  to  these  changes.  During  the  last  part 
of  her  life  Miss  Reynolds  taught  school,  and  proved  a  very  successfa 
teacher. 

In  addition  to  the  above  Mr.  Bates  has  obligingly  procured  for  me  the 
following  memoranda  from  Rev.  Mr.  Reynolds  : 

Miss  Reynolds  was  about  forty  years  of  age  when  these  transitions 
ceased.  Until  the  time  of  her  death,  at  the  age  of  sixty-nine,  she  con- 
tinued in  what  she  terms  her  second  state.  Hence,  all  the  early  part  of 
her  life  was  a  complete  blank.  Her  entire  disregard  of  danger  gradually 
disappeared,  until  there  was,  in  this  respect,  nothing  remarkable.  Her 
two  states  were  never  in  any  measure  blended. 

One  circumstance  alluded  to  by  Miss  R.  is  thus  stated  more  particularly 
by  her  nephew.  "  It  was  her  habit,  immediately  after  going  to  sleep,  —  and 
she  usually  dropped  asleep  very  soon  after  retiring,  —  to  begin  to  recount 
aloud  the  duties  and  incidents  of  the  preceding  day.  She  would  go  through 
all  that  she  had  done  during  the  day,  in  the  exact  order  in  which  it  had 
occurred.  She  would  frequently  stop  and  comment  upon  things  that  had 
occurred,  and  would  laugh  heartily  when  she  came  to  anything  thai 
pleased  her. 

"  After  going  through  with  the  duties  and  incidents  of  the  preceding 
day,  she  would  then  lay  her  plans  for  the  day  to  come.  When  the  day 
came,  she  would  begin  and  perform  everything  as  she  had  planned.  It 
seems  that  she  was  not  aware  of  having  formed  any  previous  plan  of 
action,  as  she  frequently  used  to  wonder  how  her  friends  could  divine 
what  she  was  going  to  do  during  the  day,  as  she  found  that  they  evidently 
*could  do.  This  habit  was  of  much  service  to  her  friends,  as  it  enabled 
them  to  foresee  and  prevent  her  from  doing  many  acts  of  mischief.  This 
\iabit  continued  for  more  than  a  year." 

Miss  Reynolds,  as  I  have  mentioned,  continued  for  nearly  thirty  yea'rs 
of  her  life  in  the  second  state.  "  She,  however,  ceased  to  manifest  any  of 
those  symptoms  bordering  on  insanity  which  she  exhibited  during  its  first 
periods.  She  taught  school  for  several  years,  united  with  the  church,  was 
a  consistent  Christian,  and  performed  all  the  duties  of  life  in  a  way  which 
exhibited  nothing  else  than  a  perfectly  rational  state.  No  person  would 
have  discovered  anything  unusual  in  h«r  manners  and  conversation. 
There  ivas,  perhaps,  always  ratl^er  an  excessive  measure  of  nervous  excita 
bility,  that  is,  an  excess  above  the  average." 


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talented,  unselfish,  noble,  heroic,  and  devoted  of  women." — dongr6jatitymUi*t. 

*'  In  biography,  this  is  the  book  of  the  season — and  of  many  seasons.  We  coofeM  U 
having  always  felt,  in  spite  of  our  reluctance,  an  unpleasant  degree  of  inl>i:ivlng  as  to  thi 
fitness  of  '  Fanny  Forrester'  for  the  work  of  missions ;  but  jis  Dr.  Keutlriok  ha.-*  |>or 
tr.syed  her  character  and  recorded  her  life,  she  carries  our  symi>athy — our  ailrnlrailoD— 
our  revcrtince,  by  storm.  Henceforth  wo  place  her  among  the  heroin«vs  and  martyrs  o^ 
Christianity.  Not  because  we  forgive  '  Alderbrook'  for  the  sake  oi  '  liat  CwtK*  — oai 
old  way  of  thinking  was  somewhat  in  that  style— bat  because  we  see  now  how  ihr  -;>lril 
of  unselfi.-^h  consecration  to  the  happiness  of  others  runs  through  both,  and  m:ik.-  .-Mn 
*parts  of  one  harmonious  whole.'  Her  'Life  and  Letters' are  worthy  of  nn  l:ii.;i -n'^ 
sale,  and  will  have  it.  How  'a  digger  among  Greek  roots'  could  write  such  »  ir««k 
sppreciative,  glowing  memoir  of  'a  sensitive  child  of  genius  and  soni;.'  pMftfs  our  com- 

Crehension;  and  we  can  not  forbear  the  remark,  that  Mr.-*.  .ruds<»n  does  not  ris*-   mofy» 
1  our  esteem  as  a  Christian  woman,  than  Dr.  Kendrick  as  an  author."— y^*/*!/**"**  ''•^ 
Qld^  Richmond. 

"The  correspondence  is  particularly  attractive,    aweeines.%  slmpllcUr    ■  i- 

Uess,  and  humor  are  its  characteristics.     The  volume  will  raise  oren  the 
which  the  public  has  formed  of  Mrs.  Judsou.     Tht-   nearer    it  conduct'*  u^  - 

iecret  feelings  of  her  heart  and  most  cherUhed  convictions  of  her  inind»  th«  iiwrc  ^raiAJ 
oveable,  and  noble  she  appears." — Boston  Tran'icript. 

"The  letters  of  Dr.  Judson  throw  new  light  up<»n  his  loving,  genial  n»lu[^.  •od  •ho^ 
w  thorou;] 
h«r  faithfulu 


iiow  thori>U'"'''*^^"'  ^^°  '*»"*^  morrinorA  wa>*  rtHA  (if  AfTrtctioQ-  und  how  DappT  I'.  pr«»ved.      WW 


to  ner  husban.L  the  maternal  love  which  knew  no  diaeronce  Deiwoen  uia  cm.u.ru  %aA 
her  own,  and  the  ever-growing  beauty  of  her  spiritual  Mfo  Mra.  Lmliv  L  Jud*ca  rt-t^-r^N 
ft  large  place  in  the  i)ublio  heart."— A?i*i;y/*  Joi^riMi. 


Boohs  Published  hy  Sheldon  c&  Co, 


HISTOET     OF    DOCTEINES. 

Bj  K.  R.  Hagenbach,  Professor  of  Theology  in  the  University  of  Basle. 

The   Edinburgh  translation  of  C.  "W.  Buch,  revised,  with  large  additions 
from  the  fourth  German  edition,  and  other  sources, 

By  Hexry  B.  Smith,  D.D., 
Professor  in  the  Union  Theological  Seminary  of  the  City  of  New  York. 
In  2  vols.,  8vo.     Cloth.     Price,  $5  00. 
"    2     "    "    ''    "  Sheep,  $6  GO. 

From  the  American  Preshytenan. 

"The  character  of  the  work,  as  the  product  of  profound  scholarship,  pervaded  in  the 
main  with  sound  and  elevated  views,  as  candid  in  its  statements,  condensed  in  style,  and 
well  fortified  with  pertinent  citations  from  a  wide  range  of  authorities,  is  well  known. 
Professor  Smith's  services,  in  the  revision  of  the  work,  are  very  great.  It  is  based  upon 
the  fourth  German  edition  of  the  work,  which  appeared  in  185T,  and  comprises  all  ^;he 
author's  improvements  to  that  time,  together  with  citations  from  other  authors,  and 
references  to  the  more  recent  German,  as  well  as  English  and  American  literature." 
From  the  Ilethodist. 

"It  is  the  great  merit  of  Professor  Smith,  of  Union  Theological  Seminary,  New  York, 
to  have  presented  the  theological  public  with  a  new  edition  of  Hagenbach,  which  em- 
bodies all  the  important  results  of  modern  research.  It  contains  all  the  matter  of  the 
last  (fourth)  German  edition  of  Hagenbach,  copious  additions  from  the  other  text-books, 
and  from  other  sources,  and  is  especially  valuable  for  the  completeness  of  its  biblio- 
graphical references.  In  this  department  the  German  original  is  particularly  deficient, 
as  it  notices  but  rarely  the  theological  literature  of  England  and  America.  Neither  En- 
gland nor  Germany  has  another  work  which,  in  this  particular  department,  contains  as 
much  information  as  this  excellent  new  edition  of  Hagenbach." 
From  the  Central  Presbytarian. 

"  The  history  of  Christian  doctrine,  although  an  important  part  of  theological  science, 
has  been  almost  necessarily  neglected  in  this  country,  in  consequence  of  the  want  of  a 
suitable  text-book.  The  v,^ork  of  Hagenbach,  a  translation  of  which  was  published  some 
years  since  in  Clark's  Foreign  Library,  was  in  many  respects  what  was  needed,  but  the 
translation  was  so  imperfect  and  unreliable  that  it  could  not  be  safely  recommended. 
If  Professor  Smith,  therefore,  with  his  habitual  thoroughness,  had  only  revised  the 
translation,  he  would  have  rendered  an  important  service  to  the  interests  of  this  branch 
of  theological  learning  among  us.  But  he  has  done  much  more  than  this.  He  has  not 
only  incorporated  the  improvements  and  additions  of  the  fourth  edition  of  the  original, 
(the  Edinburgh  translation  was  made  from  the  first  edition,)  but  has  also  made  additions 
from  other  authors  on  the  history  of  doctrines,  the  whole  of  which,  including  the  im- 
portant references  to  the  most  recent  German,  English,  and  American  literature,  increases 
the  matter  of  the  volume  above  one-third.  Henceforth  the  Edinburgh  translation  of 
Hagenbach  must  be  regarded  as  altogether  superseded  by  Professor  Smith's  edition." 
From  the   Christian   Observer. 

"This  is  a  valuable  book  for  theological  students.  Its  merits,  it  appears,  are  very 
highly  appreciated,  both  in  Germany  and  Great  Britain.,  having  passed  through  four 
editions  in  Germany,  aiid  three  in  Edinburgh.  The  present  edition  is  enriched  by  addi- 
tions from  it-s  predecessors,  and  also  from  other  works  on  the  subject.  This  neglected 
branch  of  theological  study  derives  importance  from  its  intimate  connection  with  the 
history  of  the  Church,  the  progress  of  philosophy,  and  the  various  phases  of  religious 
faith,  found  in  Christendom  at  the  present  time.  It  gives  a  view  of  the  internal  life  of 
the  Church,  and  may  render  important  aid  in  distinguishing  the  essential  articles  of  the 
Christian  faith  from  various  religious  errors  and  opinions  jvhich  have  been  entertained 
in  every  age."  * 

A  DICTIONARY  OF  ENGLISH  ETYMOLOGY, 

Ey  Hensleigh  Wedgwood,  M.A. 

Annotated  and  enlarged  by  Ho:n-.  George  P.  Maesh,  linthor  of  "  Lectures 

on  the  English  Language,"  etc.,  etc. 

YoL  I  (A  to  D).now  ready.     Imperial  8vo,  cloth,  (uHCUt.)     Price,  $3.00. 


I 
I 


Books  Published  by  Sheldon  dt   Co. 

UNIFORM  WITH  OLSHAUSEN'S  GOMMENTauy 


NEANDEFS  COMMENTARIES. 

THE  SCRIPTURAL  EXPOSITIONS  OF  REV.  AUGUfcCUS 

NEAXDER,   D.D. 

Translated  from  the  GermsL  by 

MRS.      H.     C.      CONANT. 

COMPRISIN'O 

rHE  FIRST  EPISTLE  OF  JOHX,  THE  EPISTLE  TO  THE  PHIL/P- 
PIAXS.  and  THE  EPISTLE  OF  JAMES.  1  vcL  8vo.,  uniform  wita 
Olshausen's  Commentary,     Price  $2  25. 

"  Neander  was  learned  in  phUosophy,  and  in  the  history  of  the  Church,  beyond  any 
msn  of  his  age,  perhaps  of  any  age.  Take  up  now  his  Commentary  on  Jol'in'g  Y\rM 
Epistle — the  best  of  his  works  of  this  character  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  The  fxcfl 
''"-'?€  of  this  exposition  is  not  at  all  owing  to  his  marvelous  learning,  but  to  the  child!ik« 

i  loving  temper  which  places  him  in  so  delightful  harmony  of  spirit  with  the  beloved 
..;:os:le." — Francis  Waylan4. 

*•  Neandpr  is  best  known  to  our  readers  as  the  Historian  of  the  ^urch,  and  his  Eccle- 
siastical History,  brought  down  to  the  period  of  the  Reformation,  has  secured  for  him  the 
reputation  of  being  one  of  the  most  profound  scholars  p^d  thinkers  of  the  age.  Th» 
eva'.cr  Ileal  Strauss.  Lis  friend  and  coUeagae,  says  of  him  in  his  funeral  discourse :  '  H« 
did  not  despise  human  knowledge ;  he  sought  for  it  with  unwearied  diligence  ;  he  was  a 
master  in  it;  but  he  laid-  all  the  surprising  treasures  of  his  learning  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross.' 

"  While,  however,  Neander  was  an  historian,  he  excelled  also  as  an  Expounder  of  the 
Bible :  and  we  have,  as  his  dying  legacy  to  the  people  of  God,  his  exposition  of  the  np^stle 
of  Paul  :o  the  Philippians  ;  the  General  Epistle  of  James  ;  and  the  First  Epistle  General 
of  John.  These  expositiDns  are  not — as  German  Expositions  usually  are — W'irks  of  learned 
criticism  merely,  but  are  popular  practical  Commentaries  on  Divine  truth,  rich  in  the 
results  of  study,  and  glowing  with  the  light  and  warmth  of  a  de-^p  pers«)nal  experience  of 
the  g'-^sijeL  Neander,  with  all  his  accumulated  stores  of  learning,  s:it  as  a  docile  pn^ilat 
.  the  leet  of  Christ,  and  his  Christiiin  humility  was  beautifully  illustrated  in  the  f.ict,  that 
when  applied  to  for  his  antograph.  to  be  placed  under  his  engraved  portrait,  he  pivt>  it, 
and  appended  therete  the  words  ;  *  Now  we  see  through  a  glass  darkly,  but  then  face  to 
face.'" — Hartford  Religions  HeraM. 

'•  This  work  is  exactly  what  it  professes  to  be,  not  learned  criticism,  but  a  practical  ex- 
planation of  the  Epistle  to  the  Philiypians,  It  comprises  two  popular  lectures,  which  wiU 
not  fiil  to  interest  any  intelligent  Christian  who  will  read  them  with  care.  Cler:.rvmen 
will  find  this  work  etainently  suggestive  of  n^-w  trains  of  thought  which  »aay  b*;  profitably 
use  1  in  the  sacred  task." — Llteran/ Advetiser. 

'•  The  friends  of  religious  truth  will  be  glad  t',^  see  this  Comrat-ntary  on  *  r 

James,  foil  wi  :g  so  soon  on  the  Philippians.     Perhaps  no  bo^jk  of  the  New  1  « 

been  mor-e  misunderstood  tlian  this  Epistle,  on  account  of  a  supposed  contr  j 

its  teachings  and- the   'doctrines  ©f  grace.'     A  more  comprehensive  ani  J 

exegesis,  however,  sees  in  the  Epistles  of  James  and  Paul  only  the  same  sy  ;i 

set  forth  from  different  points  of  view.     The  work  of  Ntander  is  a  most  v 
ance  in  the  elucidation  of  this  epistle.     By  looking  at  it  from  his  owneTui::;.  J 

point  of  view,  we  are  able  to  see,  at  a  glance,  how  it  falls  beautifully  into  i  J 

•ysteni  uf  Christ,  confirming  rather  than  weakening  the  great  doctrl   ■••^  n 

/f  which  the  Holy  Ghost  seems  to  have  intrusted  to  PauL     The  tra  -1 

idiomatic,  and  almost  entirely  free  from  the  abstract  and  cumbrous  ;  -J 

cftvn  marks  translations  fr.  m  the  German.  No  clergyman  or  Sunday-.^i'-  •■  ';,"'  ■  "  "^ 
fail  to  feel  his  mind  invigorated  and  his  heart  enlarged  by  the  study  of  this  work.  ~A««t 
York  Beoyrder.  ■  i« 

"  Mrs-  Conant  has  devoted  her  accomplished  skill  as  a  translator,  t  -     '     iB 

read e ring  into  English  thii  charming  prod'.iction  of  Neander.     Th\ 
ceedi  a  similar  one  on  the  Episth-  tu  the  Piulii)i'-ians   ;  .  1  is  i*s  If  '  ■  *- 

oVh*r  on  the  Firs:  Epistle  to  John— a  work  pnblis  "  -    •  •*  '        '      ^12 

no$  doubt  Vnat  these  volumee  will  he  desire  i  hv  .  anc»    te  sMAuxmam 

tbea  tr  4ll  «aiouichtfil  student?  o*'  thp  4iil»k-.''—  Wu:       .     ■  lector 


Books  Published  by  Sheldon  <b  Co. 


HISTORY  OF  LATIN  CHKISTIANITY. 

Including  that  of 'the  Popes,  to  the  Pontificate  of  Nicholas  V.    Bj  HBir. 
Haet  Milman,  D.D.,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's. 

8  vols.  Crown  8vo. 

Price  in  Cloth,  cut,   .    .  $15  00  I  Price  m  Sheep,     .    .    .  $18  00 

I      "        HalfMor.,gUt,.     24  00      •    " 

'*  One  of  the  remarkable  works  of  the  present  age,  and  one  in  irhich  the  author  reviewjs 
#rta  curious  erudition,  and  in  a  profoundly  philosophical  spirit,  the  various  chan^ces  that 
oftve  taken  place  in  the  Eoman  hierarchy ;  and,  while  he  fully  exposes  the  manifold  er- 
rors and  corruptions  of  the  system,  he  shows  throughout  that  enlightened  charity  which 
Is  the  most  precious  of  Christian  graces,  as  it  is  unhappily  the  rarest." — Wm.  H.  Prea- 
eott,  in  a  note  in  the  second  volume  of  Philip  II.,  p.  SCH). 
In  a  private  letter  to  S.  Austin  Allibone,  Esq.,  written  two  years  later,  Prescott  said  : 
"  If  it  seems  to  you  high  praise,  I  believe  no  one  who  has  carefully  read  the  extraor- 
dinary work  to  which  it  refers,  will  consider  it  higher  than  the  book  deserves." 

%  '"  Boston,  October  11, 1860. 

**  Qentlemen: — I  have  great  pleasure  in  expressing  a  most  favorable  opinion  of  Deaa 
Milman's  *  History  of  Latin  Christianity.' 

"  Through  the  kindness  of  the  author,  I  have  been  acquainted  with  the  work  since  its 
flrst  appearance  in  England.  It  is  a  work  of  vast  research,  conducted  with  judgment 
amd  discrimination  among  authorities  of  very  diverse  weight,  and  not  seldom  conflicting 
purposes,  and  alwayi  with  a  spirit  of  truly  liberal  inquiry. 

"  No  (  ne  can  deny  to  Dean  Milman  the  credit  of  Learning,  Candor,  and  a  consden  ;loai 
tearch  after  Truth. ' 

"  The  Theological  Literature  of  the  modern  English  Church  has,  as  far  as  I  am  aware, 
produced  no  more  valioable  wo7^k. 

"  1  remain,  gentlemen,  with  great  respect,  truly  yours,        ED  WARD  EVEKETT." 

"  St.  Geoboe'8  Ekotoby,  October  17, 1860. 
**  Messrs.  Sheldon  <fe  Co. : 

•'  Oentlemen :  I  am  exceedingly  gratified  vrith  the  appearance  of  your  new  edition  of  • 
Milman's  *  Latin  Christianity.'  It  is  a  work  equally  remarkable  for  the  extent  of  its  re- 
search, the  fullness  of  its  material,  and  the  eloquence  and  beauty  of  its  arrangement  and 
ityle.  Its  impartiality  of  statement  and  deductions  is  a  very  distinguishing  feature  of  ita 
excellence,  and  it  will  doubtless  take  its  place  among  those  histories  which  finally  ocr 
oupy  their  whole  projected  ground,  and  remain  as  permanent  authorities  among  men. 
«  Yours  respectfuUy,  STEPHEN  H.  TYNG." 

"  Union  Theological  Seminary, 
New  York,  Oct  19,  I860. 
*  Messrs.  Sheldon  &  Co.: 

**  Dean  Milman's  *  Historxy  of  Latin  Christianity'  is  not  only  the  ablest  work  of  its  dis 
ttnguished  author,  but  it  also  takes  the  front  rank  in  English  historical  and  ecclesiasticat 
literature.  Written  fn  a  liberal  and  impartial  spirit,  it  presents  in  an  attractive  styl« 
the  result,  rather  than  the  processes,  of  thorough  investigation  in  a  field  almost  un visited 
Dy  English  Church  historians.  General  and  ecclesiastical  history  are  here  so  combined, 
that  the  work  is  indispensable  to  every  student.  Your  elegant  and  cheap  edition  de- 
•erves  the  widest  circulation,  and  will,  I  doubt  not,  find  its  way  into  everv  good  li 
brary,  private  or  public.  HENKT  B.  SMITH." 

**  The  enterprise  and  usefulness  of  the  Publishing  House  of  Sheldon  h  Co.,  are  exhib- 
ited in  the  continued  issues  of  great  standard  religious  works,  such  as  the  Christian  stu« 
dent  must  have,  and  are  valuable  in  all  time.  Among  these  books,  and  in  the  front  ranfc 
of  religious  historical  composition,  we  place  the  volumes  which  this  house  has  now  be 
yun  to  publish,  the  flrst  having  just  made  its  appearance.  The  rise,  progress,  a  ad  tri* 
amph  of  Christianity  in  the  early  centuries,  constitutes  the  great  epoch  'n  tie  hiafcoif 
•f  the  wwid." — Hew  York  Observer 


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