Intellect, the emotions, and the moral nature

.

LIBRARY

INTELLECT, THE EMOTIONS,

THE MORAL NATURE.

INTELLECT,

THE EMOTIONS,

•ix.

KEY. WILLIAM LYALL

I'!:I:K cuu.r.iiK. HALIFAX. NOVA SCOTIA

EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO.

LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.
MDCCCLV.

BDINBI7ROH : T. CONSTABLE, PRINTFR TO HER MAJESTY

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION,

PAGE

1

I.

Mind and Matter, the two sub
stances about which philosophy
is conversant, . . .13

Importance of distinction between
Matter and Mind, . . .14

Two classes of philosophers, ac
cording to the predominance
assigned in their systems to
Matter or Mind, . . .14

Consciousness the only immediate
object of cognition, . . .14

Consciousness the starting-point of
philosophy, . . . .15

How the mind passes from a state
of simple consciousness to the
idea of self, . . . .16

Descartes' Enthymeme, . .16

The German " Ego," . . .16

The amount of Descartes' Enthy
meme. Fichtc's formula, . .17

The idea of personal existence, the
first, idea of the awakening mind, 18

II.

Origin of the Idea of Externality, . 19
Dr. Brown's account of this idea, . 21
If cm arks on Dr. Brown's account

of this idea, . . . .24
Error of Dr. Brown in denying any
peculiar intuition in order to this

idea, 24

Special difficulty in regard to the
mode of communication between
Mind and Matter, . . 27

Vanity of attempting to account for
this communication, or explain
the mode of it, . . . . 28
The principle of common sense, . 29
Coincidence between Reid, Oswald,
and Beattie, and the French phi
losopher, Father Buffier, . . 29

III.

The Idea of Externality not that of

an external world, . . .30
Origin of the idea of matter, . 31

Muscular resistance as distinguish
ed from tactual, . . .35

Dr. Brown the first to take notice
of this distinction, . . .35

Matter, what, as first apprehended
by the mind, . . . .35

Other properties of matter, . . 35

Idea of substance. Substance and
quality distinguished, . . 35

The mind informed of its own ex
istence, and its own qualities,
pari passu with its informa
tions respecting matter, . . 39

This indicates the laws of our being, 39

V.

The idea of Extension, . ' . 40

What gives us this idea, . . 40

The ideas of magnitude and figure, 41
How the infant mind is concerned
in the attainment of its first or

primitive ideas, . . • . . 41

VI

CONTENTS.

Magnitude, figure, distance, not ob
jects of sight, . . . . 42

Illustrations to show that these are
acquired objects of vision, or con
nected with vision only by a pro
cess of association, . . .43

VI.

Primary Qualities of Matter, . 47

Dr. Brown's view as to the primary
qualities, 47

The secondary qualities of matter, 48

Weight, or gravitation, a law ra
ther than a property of matter.
Weight but the action of gravi
tation, . . . . .49

The centripetal and centrifugal
forces the two grand and per
vading agencies in the universe, 49

The secondary qualities of matter
but modifications of the primary,
according to Locke, . . .50

Difference in the child's process of
attaining its ideas from this point
forward, 50

VII.

Idea of Space, . . . .52

Locke's account of this idea, . 52

Reid's account of this idea, . . 52
What space is according to the

German metaphysicians, . . 54
What, according to Dr. Samuel

Clarke, 55

Three particulars noticed by Cousin

in connexion with this idea, . 57

Has space objectivity? . . 58

The idea of Time, . . .59
Locke's account of the idea, . . 59
Origin of the idea according to Dr.

Brown, 60

View of Cousin, . . . .61
Merit of Locke, according to Cou
sin, in tracing the origin of this

idea, 63

Though the notion of time derived
from succession, not itself suc
cession, . . . . .64

Time absolute,

The idea of Eternity,

PAOH

64

64

Idea of Power, . . . .65
Origin of the idea, . . .65
Nature of the idea, . . .67
Efficiency denied to power, . . 68
Barrow, Hobbes, Butler, and Ber
keley, quoted by Dugald Stewart
as denying efficiency in power, 68
The doctrine of Malebranche, . 69
Atheism of Hume in denying effi
ciency to power, . . .70
Leslie's approbation of Hume's doc
trine, . . . . . 7U
Opposition of the General Assem
bly of the Church of Scotland to
Leslie's appointment to the Chair
of Mathematics in the Univer
sity of Edinburgh, . . .70
Brown's defence of Leslie, . . 70
Hume and Brown's views respec
tively, 70

Inadmissibility of these views, . 72
The views of others, though de
nying efficiency to subordinate
causes, still consistent with effi
ciency in the Great First Cause, 7ii
The language of Barrow, Hobbes,
Butler, and Berkeley, consistent
with the supposition of efficiency
in power, although that efficiency
might not be detected, . . 73
The denial of efficiency in second
ary causes, intended to lead to
the Great First Cause, . . 75
Language of Scripture in reference
to God as the supreme and uni
versally controlling power or
cause, . .'.... . .75

Dr. Reid's view, (note,) . . 76
Sir William Hamilton's remarks

upon this view, (note,) . .76
Whewell quoted, (note,) . .76
Classification of the sciences accord
ing to the simple ideas traced,
with the ideas of motion and

number, 77

Metaphysics a "PrimaPhilosophia," 78

CONTENTS.

Vll

Whevvell regards the simple ideas
as forms of the understanding, . 78

Dr. Chalmers's stricture upon
Whewell, .... 79

Remarks upon the view which
makes the simple ideas forms of
the understanding, . . .79

VIII.

Peculiar character of the primary
or fundamental ideas, . • 82

Progress of the mind from this stage
different from all its previous
progress, 83

The part which sensation, and the
part which mind, have, respec
tively, iu our primitive or fun
damental ideas, . . .83

Sensation, . . . . -84

The necessity ot an intellectual
principle to account for the phe
nomena of mind, . . .85

Sensation still the first fact or law
of mind to be observed, . . 87

The question, When does sensation
cease, and a purely mental state
commence ? . . .88

Important to mark this, . . 88

The tendency to forget mind amid
the claims of matter, . . 88

Materialism the result of too great
an engrossment in mere matter, 89

A materialistic tendency by no
meaus to be treated as one not
possible, 91

Mind not an organic result, . . 92
Importance attached to mind, when

spoken of as the soul in Scripture, 94
Doctrine of the ancient Epicureans, 94

Classification of philosophers ac
cording to a sensational or ideal
istic tendency, . . . .95

Descartes and Gassendi founders
of separate schools of philosophy, 96

The French metaphysicians for the
most part followers of Gassendi, 9(5

Locke claimed by this school, . 96

FK.QH

False grounds of this claim, . . 96
Gassendi and Condillac quoted, . 97
Injustice done to Locke ; his real

views, . .... 97
Views of Malebrauchc, . . 100

The Encyclopaedists, . . . 101
Materialism consequent upon sen
sationalism, .... 101
Results of materialism, . . 101

X.

Intellection the antithesis of sensa
tion, 102

Intellection the action of pure mind, 103
The mind generally represented as

possessed of certain faculties, . 103
The more philosophical view of mind, 104
The laws of mind, . . . 105
The principles of mind, . . 105
The voluntary actions of mind, . 106
Imagination, memory, association

of ideas, 106

The moral and emotional part of

our nature a source of ideas, . 106
The idiosyncrasies of mind, . .106
Classification of the mental pheno
mena, 106

Memory a property of mind,"as dis
tinct from the spontaneous action
of mind, from the modifying laws
of mind, and from the principles

of mind 107

Memory a property by which the

past is recalled, . . • 108
Memory, according to Dr. Brown, 109
In what Dr. Brown's view is defec
tive, 109

Memory necessary to every dis
crimination of an idea, . .111
This process of memory very rapid, 111
Memory gives identity to our dif
ferent states of mind, or allows
us to recognise their identity, . 112
This law allows us to recognise the
sources of pain, and the causes of
danger, and secures the preserva
tion of the sentient being, . .112
Memory gathers the larger experi-

Vlll

CONTENTS,

unce necessary for the purposes

of intellectual existence, . .113

Proverbs owe their origin to the
gathered experience which me
mory treasures, . . .114

The scenes which memory por
trays, 114

Peculiar characteristic of memory, 115

Memory will survive the grave, . 115

New law of memory in the future
world, . . • . .115

The surveys of memory in the fu
ture world, . . . .116

Imagination blends with the opera
tion of memory, . . .116

Memory furnishes many of its ma
terials to imagination, . .119

Different kinds of memory : the
question answered, — whether a
great memory and an enlarged
or philosophic judgment are com
patible? 119

Memory assisted by attention, and
that by the interest taken in any
given subject, .... 122

XII.

By the phenomenon of memory the
consciousness of one moment
prolonged into the next, . . 123
From this is obtained the feeling

of personal identity, . . • 123
Personal identity, . . .123

The precise question, . . .123
The identity of the body, . . 127
The identity of the soul, . .130

XIII.

Identity as a law of mind,

134

Resemblance as a law of mind, . 135
Classification proceeds upon this
law. . . 136

The law of contrast,

139

1 low far there must be resemblances
and contrasts in objects and quali
ties as existing in the universe, 142

The beautiful effect of the law of

contrast 144

Analogy, 147

A species of resemblance, . . 147
The rationale of this law, . . 147
The power of detecting analogies
the great scientific, and the great

poetic, faculty 149

Difference between scientific and

poetic analogies, . . . 149
Illustrations derived from analogy, 152
Difference between resemblance
and analogy, . . . .155

The law of proportion, . . . 156
Considered under its different as
pects, 156

The principles of the mind, . .168

Causality, 169

Generalization, .... 172
Deduction, ..... 191
On the respective natures of induc
tion and deduction, . . . 205

XV.

Ideas obtained, . . . .214
Review of the process by which

these are obtained, . . .214
Classification of the sciences ac
cording to the fundamental and
modified ideas, . . . .218

XVI.

Association of ideas, . . .219
Dr. Brown's secondary laws of as
sociation, ..... 225
Remarks upou Dr. Brown's sixth se
condary law, that "the influence
of the primary laws of suggestion
is greatly modified by original
constitutional differences," . 230

XVII.

Classifications of the intellectual
phenomena considered, . . 238

The author's view of mind further
explicated, .... 244

Controversy as to the nature of
ideas, . . . 248

CONTENTS.

IX

XVIII.

The supposed faculties of mind re
solved into the phenomena of
sensation and intellection as ex
plained in this work, . . 252

Conception, .
Abstraction, .
Judgment, .
Seasoning, .
Imagination,

J'AOK

. 252
. 261
. 266
. 269

. 270

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.

The emotional nature generally con
sidered, 279

The first essential condition of emo
tion, .....

291

293
294

295

Illustrated by the views of the

Quietists,

Cheerfulness, ....
How cheerfulness is consistent with

the existence of evil,
Cheerfulness distinguished from

gaiety, 299

Christian serenity, . . . 300
Cheerfulness distinguished from its

semblances, .... 305
Cheerfulness heightened by kind
liness of nature, . . . 306
Opposite emotions to cheerfulness, 310

Melancholy, 313

Fretfulness, Moroseness, Peevish
ness, 323

Joy, . . . . . .328

Difference between joy and cheer
fulness, 328

The opposite emotion to joy, . 336
How each emotion has its counter
part or opposite, . . . 336

Sorrow, 338

The emotions their own end : Final
causes connected only with the
counterpart emotions, . . 341
The emotions which are excited by
events, and those which termin
ate on objects, .... 346
Delight, ....... .348

Wonder, 357

Surprise and astonishment, . . 368

Admiration, 372

Wonder and admiration subservi
ent to devotion, . . . 379

Wonder becomes worship when
God is its object, . . .384

Veneration, Adoration, . . 384

Purposes subserved by the different
aspects of wonder, . . . 384

The emotion of the beautiful and
the sublime, . . . .388

The emotions which terminate on

being, 390

Love 391

Love in its modified aspects, . 400

Friendship, 412

Patriotism, 413

The antagonism of the emotions

considered, . . . .414
The antagonistic emotions to love, 420

Hatred 421

Anger, resentment, envy, revenge,

indignation, .... 424
Hatred more or less in each of these, 424
These characterized as the malevo
lent affections, .... 428
Indignation and resentment distin
guished, 428

Relation of anger to indignation

and resentment, . . . 436
Purposes subserved by anger, . 437
Classification of the emotions, . 444
Author's classification more speci
fically stated, . . . .448

Sympathy, ... . . 449
Philanthropy, . . . .451
Sympathy with any emotion of an
other, 457

Nice effect of the reciprocal influ
ence of the emotions, . . 458
b

CONTENTS.

Our sympathies with the general
emotions depend upon constitu
tional differences, . . . 460

Sympathy with the aspects of na
ture, 461

Generosity, or kindness, and grati
tude, 462

Desire, ... . 464

Dr. Eeid's enumeration of the de
sires, • 464

Stewart's enumeration, . . 464

Dr. Brown's enumeration, . . 464
Desire more properly considered as
one of the states of our mental
constitution, and any object the
object of desire as it yields plea
sure, or confers happiness or
good, ..... 464
Transition from the emotional to
the moral part of our nature, . 467

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL NATURE.

Peculiarity in the moral nature as
distinguished from the phenome
nal — the practical reason as dis
tinguished from the speculative, 473

Facts of the moral nature ultimate, 479

The proper question in regard to
the moral nature, or in a theory
of morals, .... 482

The confusion that has arisen from
the commingling of different ques
tions, and treating them as
one 483

Right and wrong, . . . 486

A relation appreciable by reason, 489

Yet no reason can be assigned for
Tightness or wrongness : the re
lation ultimate, . . . 490

The perception of the relation ac
companied with an emotion, . 490

The relation not only the object of
perception by a percipient agent,
but of moral approbation by a
moral agent, .... 490

The relation intrinsic, eternal, and
not created or constituted, . 491

The law founded on this relation,
though eternal and immutable
in itself, still in a high sense the
law of God, .... 493

Reasons for the promulgation of the
law as a command, . . . 497

The law of right is one, . . 500

The law of right as respects the
Decalogue, .... 503

The law of right in its different

applications, .... 504
Kant's view of the law of right or

of duty, 507

Error of Kant, .... 509
Distinction drawn by Kant be
tween the moral law as a " law
of holiness to the Supreme
Being," and a " law of duty to
every finite intelligent," . . 512
Incorrect idea in respect to duty as
obedience to law the foundation
of this distinction, . . . 512
Source of Kant's Error, . .514
Moral approbation and disapproba
tion, 516

The moral faculty, or conscience, . 524
The power of this principle, . . 528
Its influence upon other states,

mental and emotional, . . 529
The relation of conscience to the
other principles of our nature,
and to action,- .... 530
The desires as principles of action, 532
The relation of emotion to desire, . 533
The emotions divided into primary

and secondary, .... 534
The philosophy of this question
able, 534

The desires secondary to the emo
tions, 535

The general sources of the desires, 536
Fear the nearest antagonistic state
to desire, 536

CONTENTS.

XI

Courage ; its aspects, physical and

moral, 536

Hope, a modification of desire, . 537
Hope more peculiarly pertains to a
world in which good and evil are

mixed, 541

Dr. Brown's view of desirableness
as simply the relation between
the object and the desire, . . 542
Indirect refutation of the selfish

system of morals, . . . 543
Unnecessary to dwell upon the par
ticular desires, .... 547
Important to notice the aspect the
desires now present in connexion
with the character they must
have exhibited in an unfallen

state 547

The relation of the desires to law,
to conscience, and to moral obli
gation, ..... 553
The primal state, .... 553
The passions designated noble, . 553
Emulation, ..... 553
Distinction between the desire of
excellence and the desire of su
periority, ..... 553
Harmony between strictly ethical
views and the view of our nature
and of duty, or obligation, pre
sented in Scripture, . . . 554
Does the love of our neighbour ex
ist in our nature as fallen ? . 556
The desire of esteem, wherein jus
tifiable, 557

Distinct from the desire of fame or

praise, ..... 558
Shame a modification of this desire, 558
A sinful motive or state often very

near a moral or good one, . . 559
Hence the necessity of watchful
ness, 559

The very thoughts and intents of
the heart under the inspection
of conscience, .... 559
The desires thus cognizable by con
science, ..... 559
This leads to the consideration, —
What part the will has in those

states or actions with which mo
ral blame is connected, . . 559
All moral evil deserving of moral

blame, 560

Difficult}-, in the case of the desires,
not whether, when evil, they de
serve moral blame, but where the
blame is due, .... 560
Peculiarity in the case of man's

moral nature, .... 560
Federal representation, . . 560
Inconceivable in the government
of God, that where there was no
guilt in any sense, any being
could be involved in the evil to
which guilt attaches, . . 561
Evil desire guilty. More directly
culpable, if entertained or accom
panied by an act of will, . .561
The relation of will to an act to be

considered, .... 561
The nature of the will, . . 561
The connexion of the will with our
active principles, with action, and
with the right and wrong of an

action, 564

The state of the desires, . . 566
The desires, considered as regards
their objects, or the sources from
which they spring, either moral,
aesthetic, or physical — the last
including the appetites, . . 572
The physical nature not so much
the region of emotion as of feel
ing, and that feeling not so much
mental as bodily — the desires
belonging to the body, therefore,
appetites rather than desires, . 573
Bodily desires which are not ap
petites, ..... 573
The moral desires, . . . 573
Benevolent and malevolent desires, 575
Virtuous and vicious desires, . 575
The aesthetic desires, . . . 576
The physical desires, . . . 577
The relation of the will to action,
and the question of the freedom
of the will, . . . .578
I The relation between judgment,

Xll

CONTENTS.

motive, and desire, causal, or that
between cause and effect, . .579
Is it the same relation between

these and will ? . . .581
Activity of the will, . . . 582
The phenomenon of the activity of
tJie will amid motive influence,
seen in other departments besides
that of the will — causal influence
and yet independent action, . 588
Relation of the will to morality, . 597
To morality in the emotions, or
internal states, as well as in the
actions, 597

Dr. Chalmers's view on this sub
ject, 606

How did the emotions become
guilty? Or, the source of evil
motive, and an evil will, . . 609

On the origin of evil, . . .610

Different opinions entertained on
this subject, . . . .610

The Manichean doctrine, . .611

Evil regarded as a defect, not posi
tive, 612

How far our minds can go in de
termining the origin of evil, . 612

Practical conclusion, . . . 613

INTRODUCTION,

THE precise nature and objects of Metaphysical Science have
been much misapprehended, and the science itself in conse
quence has suffered even in the estimation of those whose
favour it is most important to propitiate. Metaphysics with
some is another name for whatever is shadowy, impalpable,
obscure. It has been thought that nothing satisfactory can be
determined, and no valuable results arrived at. Some have
regarded the metaphysics of one age as chiefly useful in cor
recting those of another. They ought to be studied, according
to this view, that we may guard against the mistakes that
philosophers have fallen into, or that we may be able to refute
their errors. With others it is only as an exercise of intellect,
and for the quickening of our faculties, that the science is
useful. It is in this latter view that Lord Jeffrey regards the
science as chiefly valuable. He would recommend it for no
other purpose, and he sees no other good that can result from
it. Carlyle has the following quarrel with all philosophy : —
" The mere existence and necessity of a philosophy," says he,
" is an evil. Man is sent hither not to question, but to work :
' the end of man/ it was long ago written, ' is an action, not a
thought/ In the perfect state, all thought were but the
picture and inspiring symbol of action ; philosophy, except as
poetry and religion, had no being. And yet, how in this im
perfect state," this writer adds, " can it be avoided, can it be
dispensed with ? Man stands as in the centre of nature ; his

A

2 INTRODUCTION.

fraction of time encircled by eternity, his handbreadth of space
encircled by infinitude : how shall he forbear asking himself, —
what am I ; and whence ; and whither ? How, too, except in
slight partial hints, in kind asseverations and assurances, such
as a mother quiets her fretful inquisitive child with, shall he
get answer to such inquiries ?" Goethe, in speaking of the
work, — " Systeme de la Nature," which he and some friends
had read with great disappointment, and whose barren and
sceptical speculations he condemns, says, " If, after all, this
book did us any mischief, it was this — that we took a hearty
dislike to all philosophy, and especially metaphysics, and re
mained in that dislike ; while, on the other hand, we threw
ourselves into living knowledge, experience, action, and poetiz
ing, with all the more liveliness and passion."

All these views proceed upon the mistake that the mind
cannot be a proper subject of study ; for if it can, we see no
harm in studying its laws and phenomena, as well as those of
any other subject of investigation. Is mind alone of all sub
jects the only one that will not submit to our investigation or
scrutiny, or that will yield no return to our efforts to analyze or
comprehend it ? It is obviously taken for granted that mind
escapes our observation, or will not submit to our analysis. It
is as if it were some impalpable essence that evaporated as soon
as we endeavoured to apply to it our chemical tests, or brought
to bear upon it our mental analysis. Has mind no laws by
which it is regulated ? Does it exhibit no settled facts which
may be made the subject of observation ? Have we no con
sciousness by which the facts of mind may be marked and
recorded ? Must error so unavoidably be fallen into in regard
to the phenomena of mind, that every successive age must be
employed only in correcting the errors of the preceding ? Is
mind not a real existence as much as matter ; and are its laws
and phenomena not as worthy of being ascertained as those of
the external universe ? Must it only be as a mental discipline
that we should study that internal substance, which, if it is
invisible, is yet the principle by which we think, which indeed
truly constitutes ourselves, and which subjects everything

INTRODUCTION. 6

else to its observation ? It is the thinking Being to which all
thought is amenable, to which thought owes its own being or
existence. Must we think about everything but ourselves ?
We have somewhere seen it said by Carlyle in his own peculiar
way — that he would rather think, than think about thinking.
There is point here, and there is some degree of satire. There
was a sardonic smile, no doubt, upon the countenance of the
writer or speaker as he uttered these words. But in all gravity
and seriousness, is it not interesting to think about mind, the
processes through which it passes, from darkness to day, from
its first dawn of intelligence to its maturest thought and dis
covery ? But there is more than what is merely interesting.
The laws of mind underlie all philosophy, and it is its forma
tive processes that put its laws even upon matter. A few
original ideas are the roots of all science. Whewell shews this,
and he founds his classification of the sciences upon these few
ideas. It is true that the sciences are independent of the
knowledge of this : but it is important to see the relation that
our ideas bear to the actual phenomena of the outer world ;
and he is the most intelligent philosopher who can determine
what part mind has, and what part matter, or the phenomenal
world, in the observed laws and processes of nature. Car
lyle has regarded metaphysics as a science of doubt rather than
a science of positive knowledge ; and in one sense it is so.
Doubt, not unbelief — ignorance, not scepticism. A science of
doubt — a science of ignorance — might well seem a contradic
tion. But the doubt is the doubt forced upon us by the neces
sary limitation to our faculties — the ignorance is the ignorance
necessitated by the limits set to our knowledge by the Creator.
In another state of being these limits may be removed or
greatly extended, and we may penetrate into the essence of
things, we may discern the nature of Being — Being and not
merely phenomena may be unfolded: ontology— not mere
psychology — may be possible. Here it is different, and the
limits to our knowledge it is important to ascertain. The
surrounding ignorance, or enveloping mystery, that wraps the
universe, it is as important to know, perhaps, as what may be

INTRODUCTION.

ascertained or known in the character of phenomena. With
the latter we may be practical philosophers, and able to adapt
phenomena to their uses, and there may be no limit to the
successive development of the laws of matter, and to the appli
cations of these laws ; but for the higher state of man, whether
is it more important to know these laws and all their possible
applications, or to know the ignorance which invests them, or
the limits which bounds our knowledge of them ? Our know
ledge of those limits first took the shape of scepticism ; it
arose in that phantom form : philosophy was a shadow point
ing to vacancy : everything was phenomenal : matter was
denied : time and space were annihilated : power was but a
sequence ; and in Germany, and with many even in our own
country, this is still the form which philosophy assumes : it is
a negation of all being, save perhaps our own being, and that
of God. Or if among German philosophers anything redeems
philosophy from this character, it is the prominence that is
allowed to the phenomenal, making it almost as good as the
actual, denying at one moment the actual, and restoring it the
next, under terms which do not assert its existence, but still
imply something more than mere appearances or phenomena.
The right state of mind, and that for which true philosophy is
valuable, is not scepticism as to the Actual, but suspended
inquiry as to what the Actual is — diffidence and mystery :
surely the most appropriate states of mind for the creature, —
everywhere in the vestibule of that divine temple whose
worship is mystery united with intelligence, where God sits
enshrined in the inner sanctuary, or only withdrawn behind
that veil which envelops all his works. Hence we find Carlyle
himself writing : — " Much as we have said and mourned about
the unproductive prevalence of metaphysics, it was not without
some insight into the use which lies in them. Metaphysical
speculation, if a necessary evil, is the forerunner of much good.
The fever of scepticism must needs burn itself out, and burn
out thereby the impurities that caused it ; then again will
there be clearness, health. The principle of life which now
struggles painfully, in the outer, thin, and barren domain of

INTRODUCTION. 5

the conscious or mechanical, may then withdraw into its inner
sanctuaries, its abysses of mystery and miracle, withdraw
deeper than ever into that domain of the unconscious, by
nature infinite and inexhaustible ; and creatively work there."
The unconscious here, with Carlyle, as distinguished from what
we suppose must be called the conscious, is where the mind is
beyond the region of mere questioning or inquiry, and creates,
works unconsciously, and brings up thought from the deeps
of its own nature. " From that mystic region," says Carlyle,
" and from that alone, all wonders, all poesies, and religions,
and social systems, have proceeded : the like wonders, and
greater and higher, lie slumbering there ; and brooded over by
the spirit of the waters, will evolve themselves, and rise like
exhalations from the deep." Will the mind ever arrive at that
state described by Carlyle ? Will it ever be entirely creative ?
Is not this the prerogative of the self-existent and infinite mind
alone ? Shall we ever cease to inquire into the phenomenal,
or cease to wonder at the absolute ?* It is metaphysics at all
events that carries us to the absolute, and it is undoubtedly a
higher position for the mind to occupy than the investigation
of the phenomenal simply. Carlyle withdraws his own depre
ciatory estimate ; and there could not be a higher praise of
metaphysics than what he has accorded to it. It is the grand
purpose of metaphysics to bring us to the absolute, and to
suspend our inquiries there. It investigates the phenomenal
for the sake of the absolute, or to determine the phenomenal,
and see what is beyond, or look into the " abysses of mystery
and miracle." That is the high, purpose of metaphysics, and
that is the service which she performs. There is not a more
important and higher function of the mind than that of won
der, and we never wonder at the phenomenal merely : it is
what is beyond, what is in, the phenomenon — its nature, the
law at work, or the power that created it, or that operates in
it. — it is this that excites our wonder ; and whenever we pass

* We oppose the Absolute to the they are to be distinguished seems hard-
Phenomenal, and we leave our readers 1 y to admit of a doubt,
to determine the nature of each : that

6 INTKODUCTION.

from the phenomenal, or suspend our minds in wonder at the
law present in it, we are in the domain of a higher philosophy
than the mechanical or the simply physical. In the region of
mystery and wonder we strive to reach the mind of God : we
try to enter into the arcana of his nature — to see his secret
counsels, or the very law of his intelligence ; and failing to do
this, we adore, we reverence, we admire and praise. We stand
outside, when we cannot enter the inner shrine.

But metaphysics has to do with the phenomenal as well as
what is beyond it, or in it. It not only leads us to the
unknown, to the actual, and suspends our minds in wonder
before it, but it investigates what may be known : it interro
gates mind as to its phenomena, and takes the information
which mind yields to its own inquiries. Mind may be as much
the subject of observation as matter, not the observation of the
senses indeed, but of as sure and competent a power, or witness,
as the senses. There is not a process that goes on in the mind
but is known to the mind itself — intimates its existence, or
reveals its nature. Its very existence is the mind's intelligence
of it. It intimates itself by its own presence. We call this
consciousness : the mind is conscious of its own states, or, as
we may say, self-conscious. Then there is the power of memory
by which a past state may be recalled, and may be present by
a kind of second consciousness ; or the memory of the state is
the exact counterpart of the state itself, and this also is the
subject of consciousness, or, again, is the mind's intelligence of
it. It is said now to be the subject of reflection ; or this
repeated consciousness continues as long as we please, and we
are thus said to reflect upon it. Or reflection is the turning of
the thought of the mind upon its own states, whether present
or repeated : there is not only the state intimating itself — self-
revealing, if we may so speak — but there is the turning of the
mind in upon the state : there is something like a mental
observation ; and this may be as sure a source of information
as the observation of the senses in regard to external pheno
mena, or the outward world. The mind is self-cognizant. Its
own arcana are open to its own inspection. It can minutely

INTRODUCTION. 7

observe its most intimate and secret workings : it can mark
and record every thought, or feeling, or observation. It can see
the exact state — what it is — what it amounts to. Now, is not
the mind as worthy of observation as the external world ? Are
not its phenomena as wonderful, and as legitimately a subject
of speculation or investigation as those of matter ? The differ
ence seems to be, that the phenomena of mind being so much
a part of ourselves, and so much the subject of self-consciousness,
it is taken for granted that we know them already, and know
them sufficiently, while we can know nothing of matter unless
we investigate it, and matter seems therefore more legitimately
the object of our observation, the proper subject of study.
Then, the laws of matter cannot be applied unless we investi
gate them and know them ; but we apply the laws of mind
whether we have investigated them or not. They operate
spontaneously within in spite of ourselves, and all our know
ledge of them hardly improves their own spontaneous action.
But is knowledge to be valued by its practical utility ? Is
knowledge not valuable on its own account ? — and shall we
shut ourselves out from all knowledge unless it can render a
practical return, or lead to some practical consequences ?
Then, indeed, our physical philosophers, our economists, our
statesmen, our observers of nature, are our only true philoso
phers, and their science alone is valuable. And this is the
estimate accordingly which the world is disposed to form.
Macaulay draws a contrast between the practical philosophy of
Bacon and its mighty results, and the philosophy of the specu
lative minds of Greece, however vast their powers, and sublime
and admirable in many respects their speculations. But even
tried in this way, surely moral speculation, and disquisitions
upon mind, will not yield in importance to that philosophy
which promises to reduce matter to the power of man, and
make us indeed Lords of creation. What although we were —
although we could wield the thunder as we can direct its
electric element — although the sea were as obedient to us as
a child — although we could apply every law of nature to our
use ? — there is in a single moral thought what is intrinsically

8 INTRODUCTION.

more valuable than all nature together, with all its laws and
phenomena ; and the immense physical advantages resulting
from the sciences may be purchased too dearly, if the science
of our mental and moral constitution is neglected or uncul
tivated. Man may be too mechanical : he may pursue his
physical objects too exclusively : he may have these too exclu
sively before him ; and some attention to the being within
him — not within him, but actually himself — might be of use
in impressing a higher character, in imparting a loftier tone to
his nature, and making him not the mere man of the world, or
of matter, but a spiritual being capable of holding converse
with other spiritual beings, and moving through the world not
as if he were to be a denizen of it for ever, but as having a
destiny above it, and that will not be limited by its duration.

The mind surely deserves to be known, and its phenomena
are worthy of being observed or studied. And indeed they are
so, while this may not be very formally the case. We are all
more or less observers of the phenomena within us : we all take
note, more or less, of what passes in our mental frames or con
stitutions. It is not necessary for the mind to be formally
studied in order to our being metaphysicians. We are meta
physicians in spite of ourselves : we are philosophers whether
we know it or not. Shall we complete our accomplishments in
this way, or shall we be contented with imperfect conclusions,
with half-formed speculations ? Shall we be superficial in our
knowledge, or shall we inquire deeper ? Shall we observe more
closely our mental phenomena ? Shall we make our own mind
the subject of study ? An enlightened curiosity would surely
lead us to do so. An enlightened wisdom tells us that

" The proper study of mankind is man ;"

and man's spiritual nature is what truly, as we have said, con
stitutes himself. A certain knowledge of this ramifies itself
through all other knowledge, except such as is strictly physical.
We are perpetually applying laws of our spiritual being, of our
mental arid moral constitution, to subjects and questions that
may be but of very subordinate moment. Their application in

INTRODUCTION. <)

literature is constant and direct. Does not history draw upon
the knowledge of them in its delineations of character, and its
statement of the principles of action and modes of life ? Bio
graphy cannot do without this knowledge. To the orator it is
essential — who would sway the minds of others, direct their
counsels, or influence their persuasions. The politician, the
statesman, by its views, must know better the laws that will
be salutary and expedient, and the motives that may be ex
pected to prevail in the government of men. The educationist
can adapt more successfully his instructions and his discip
line to the various characters and capacities under his care.
Poetry takes much from this science. Many of its finest effu
sions proceed upon the subtlest perception or analysis of our
mental states, and owe all their power over us to this. Criti
cism is the application of the mind's laws to the writings of
this and of former ages. Every one is a critic who can read
an author with appreciation. Do we not refer this or that
beauty of an author to its correspondence with this or that law
of our nature ? Do we not judge of this or that excellence by
its fulfilling this or that other demand of our mental or spiritual
constitution ? It is the principles of our nature that we bring
to bear in all criticism, whether on works of literature or art.
That Shakespeare was a metaphysician who can doubt ? He
wrought in what Carlyle calls the domain of the unconscious,
it is true ; but that he knew the laws of mind, that he was
acquainted with the phenomena of our spiritual framework, is
obvious from his marvellous productions. We know not how
much of our spiritual being we are acquainted with till we
come to apply its laws or employ its faculties. But what harm
would there be in knowing this ? The great bugbear of
Carlyle, the evil which he deprecates — the conscious state — is
incident to our imperfect knowledge. With a more perfect
knowledge there would be the knowledge of our mental and
moral constitution, from all inquiries into which Carlyle seems
to shrink. There is surely no harm in inquiry itself, and if
we cannot arrive at our knowledge in any other way, inquiry
is necessary. But the grand fault has been, that inquiry has

10 INTRODUCTION.

been too much conducted into mind as a subject, and not as it
is being. Our inquiries have been too abstract ; mind has
been viewed too much apart from the being possessed of it, or
rather, as not the being himself. But mind is being. Its
possessor is nothing else than mind, with a body in which that
mind resides. The most essential part of our nature is un
questionably the living soul within us — the spiritual substance
of which we are possessed, or which is clothed in a material
body, united to a material organization. The knowledge of
mind is living knowledge. It is the knowledge of living being,
not of an abstraction. It is in the concrete that mind ought to
be viewed ; it is the mind of Man ; it is a living being that we
have to study. It is mind which connects us with the spiritual
world, and allies us to spiritual existences of a still higher
nature than our own. It is true we speak of mind in the
abstract, and in studying our own minds we are studying
mind in general ; we believe in many of its properties — angelic
mind, nay, the Divine Mind itself. But does that render it
the less being? On the contrary, does it not shew its superi
ority over all material being, and make it the more worthy of
our study ? To trace its laws, to observe its phenomena, to
mark its intuitions, to follow its processes, and to attend to its
higher emotional and moral nature, is surely worthy of any,
even the highest, faculties. No one is entitled to call this
knowledge idle — to repudiate it, or to undervalue it as not
" living knowledge." The two extremes in philosophizing —
the highly ideal and the low sensational — are equally at fault.
They both equally subject the mind to a kind of necessity of
action, or of being acted upon, instead of viewing it as Being,
having laws by which it is regulated indeed, but still possessed
of a free activity, a personal existence, and an action within
itself. Were mind viewed in the way we have indicated, its
philosophy would not be regarded the vain, and subtle, and
idle study that it is by many considered ; metaphysics would
not have the shadowy character that it does possess with many.
It would then be the study of the laws of spiritual being, and
that spiritual being in the circumstances in which the mind of

INTRODUCTION. 11

man is found — linked to a material organization, and expatiat
ing on a material arena, with laws and faculties adapted.
And then the mental or intellectual strictly would not be
separated from the other parts of our nature — the emotional
and moral. They are all parts of the same spiritual substance.
How should the knowledge of this not be living knowledge ?
The knowledge of external nature, indeed, is more lively ; for
whatever appeals to the senses affects us in a more lively man
ner than what belongs to mind ; and in the action of life
there is that without ourselves, which, awakening our interest,
retains it with a vividness which the processes of mind can
not lay claim to. It is a law of our nature, too, that by
society we multiply ourselves, or diffuse our being ; we stamp
our nature upon others and upon the universe ; we give out
ourselves ; and the knowledge pertaining to external nature,
to experience, and to action, therefore, may be distinguished as
living knowledge ; and experience and action may seem pre
ferable to speculation or philosophy ; but this does not by any
means justify the contrast which Groethe has drawn between
philosophy, especially metaphysics, and the living knowledge,
experience, and action, to which he gave himself in recoil from
the former. The knowledge of mind as a concrete, in all its
phenomena or workings, must ever be living knowledge — most
properly deserves the name, — while it is the material — or that
of which it is the knowledge is the material — of the very life,
experience, and action which are so preferred. It is the mind's
qualities after all that go into the web of life. It is those very
phenomena, the knowledge of which is despised, which make
up experience and action. Did we not throw our minds out
upon the world, what would life be ? — what would the external
scene be ? — what would experience and action be ?

Man was created for action, but knowledge is not opposed
to action ; and especially to know the springs of action may
have some effect in enabling us to act aright. Religion is
the grand succedaneum here — the succedaneum, now that the
power of acting rightly has been lost ; and does not Religion
in a peculiar way call us to the knowledge of ourselves ? Does

12 INTRODUCTION.

it not call us to exercises in which all our spiritual phenomena
are involved, and in regard to which it is most important that
these phenomena should he known — that we may be able to
discern between a merely mental exercise and an emotional
and spiritual or moral, to see where these meet, and what are
their distinguishing characteristics ? The great subject of
man's responsibility is connected with right views of our moral
states, of the moral judgments, the emotions, and the Will.
And what is our higher spiritual being concerned with but
the emotions ? And the mutual action of all the parts of our
spiritual framework is necessary to be taken into account in
the exercises of the spiritual life, in even the simplest cases of
spiritual experience.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF IXTELLK

MDCD and Matter are the two substances about which all
philosophy is conversant. These two substances may be said
to divide the universe. But what do we mean by a substance?
It is a very large assertion, that these two substances divide the
universe. What is meant by a substance ? A substance, as
the notion is suggested to us, according to a process which will
afterwards be traced, is that something, subject, or substratum,
in which qualities inhere, or which exhibits those phenomena
and laws which it is the business of philosophy to mark or
discover. Substance, according to its etymological signification,
is that which subsists under certain qualities, these qualities
being the only proper object of observation. But it is impos
sible to make the term more intelligible than it is to every
mind ; and we can, with all safety, even at this stages, auppuee
it to be clearly understood. We say. then, that matter and
mind are the two substances which divide the universe. All
tint exists, all that we observe, is either matter or mind, be
longs as a quality to the one or the other. But what is the
distinction, again, between these two substances ? What con
stitutes or marks the boundary betwixt them ? But it is no
mere boundary that separates them. They have no contermi
nous limits. They are totally distinct in kind. How do we
know this ? How do we arrive at this distinction ?

X w, it is of great importance just to mark that there is such
a distinction. In our philosophical inquiries we set out with

14 INTELLECT.

«

this distinction : — Miiid exists ; matter exists. They are at
least notions, if not realities, or distinct entities or existences ;
and how these notions are to be accounted for, except as the
notions of real and separate entities or existences, it is for the
irapugner of the existence of either to explain. Accordingly,
the idealistic philosopher accounts for the phenomena of mat
ter by what are called the formative laws of the mind, and the
materialistic for the phenomena of mind by mere organizations
of matter. There is a class of philosophers who deny the exist
ence of matter altogether, and hold that it is a mere potency or
power of affecting the mind ; that there can be no such thing in
reality ; or, at least, that all we can know assuredly to exist is
the information or informations of consciousness. Others, im
pressed more by what is external, what affects their senses,
think they can account for all the phenomena of mind by cer
tain material organizations. It is interesting to note, that all
philosophers in the department of mind may be reduced under
the one or other of these two classes, according as they have
assigned to matter or mind the predominance in their system.
This will be better understood hereafter. Meanwhile we call
attention to this distinction as a fundamental one in philosophy,
1st, as marking out its two grand provinces, viz., matter and
mind ; and 2c%, as furnishing the characteristic of two separate
tendencies, according to which more or less of the phenomena
which we ascribe to mind is assigned to matter, or matter is
excluded, and all is assigned to mind — the only true system in
philosophy, being that which allows a real existence to both
provinces or departments, assigning to matter all that apper
tains to it, and to mind all that appertains to it.

It cannot be denied that consciousness, or the subject of our
consciousness, is that alone of which we can affirm directly
the existence. What we are conscious of is that to us which,
directly, or at once, we know to exist. We say directly, to our
selves, our own consciousness is the ivhole of existence. How do
I know that anything else exists, that there is anything without
myself ? I have sensations, impressions, ideas : how do I know
that these are anything more than sensations, impressions, ideas ?

INTELLECT. 15

How do I know that the world which I call external is really
external, and is not a mere idea, or a bundle of impressions or
ideas ? The first state of that existence which I call myself is
one of simple consciousness. May not every other state as well
be referable to consciousness only, and intimate no exist
ence beyond itself? It will be apparent, therefore, that
consciousness must be the starting-point of philosophy : we
must go up to it as the head and source of all our know
ledge ; for even those principles which are perceived by pure
reason, and are first truths of the mind, are known only as they
are the subjects of consciousness. Now, what is consciousness ?
What is that first or earliest source of our knowledge ? It is
so simple, perhaps, as to be incapable of definition. It is
the mind sensible of its own acts or states, or states which
we ascribe to a subject, mind — mental states, self-cognizant,
intimating their own existence. If we mistake not, this is
Dr. Brown's view of consciousness. " Sensation," he says,
" is not the object of consciousness different from itself, but
a particular sensation is the consciousness of the moment ;
as a particular hope, or fear, or grief, or resentment, or simple
remembrance, may be the actual consciousness of the next
moment. In short," says Dr. Brown, "if the mind of man,
and all the changes which take place in it from the first feel
ing with which life commenced, to the last with which it closes,
could be made visible to any other thinking being, a certain
series of feelings alone, that is, a certain number of successive
states of the mind, would be distinguishable in it, forming, in
deed, a variety of sensations, and thoughts, and passions, as
momentary states of the mind, but all of them existing indivi
dually and successively to each other." In the passage from
which our quotation is taken, Dr. Brown is exposing the error
of Dr. Reid in making consciousness a separate faculty of the
mind, although even Dr. Reid says of it, " It is an operation
of the understanding of its own kind, and cannot be logically
defined." Dr. Reid means, it is so simple that it cannot be
analyzed ; for a logical definition consists in giving all the parts
of a whole into which that whole may be analyzed or divided.

16 INTELLECT.

But why is consciousness so simple, but because it is just the
state of the mind itself, at the moment of any sensation or.
feeling or thought being present to it ? But if consciousness
be thus the primary source of all knowledge — the first state in
which that which we call ourselves exists, and if consciousness
be this simple state of the mind, or a mere sensation or thought
or feeling itself present to the mind, or intimating its own
existence, how do we come to pass from this state of conscious
ness to anything without ourselves, nay, to mind itself, as that
of which consciousness is a state ? How do I know that I
exist ? or how do I know that I, a person, exist ? Simple con
sciousness is my first state : how do I come to have the idea of
personal existence ? It is obvious it must be by consciousness
awakening, or being necessarily accompanied by, the idea of
personal existence. Perhaps no sooner am I in a state of con
sciousness than the idea of personal existence is awakened.
Let it be remarked, it is not the idea of mind as yet which is
awakened, but the idea of existence, of my own existence, arid
my existence as a person. That Jaw, whatever that I may
be, enters the soul at its earliest stage — seems to be inseparable
from, or is immediately consequent upon, the first dawning of
consciousness. This is the earliest light let into that chamber
which is yet to be filled with light, which is to become all light
and all intelligence. The idea of personal existence, accord
ingly, is the first truth in Descartes' philosophy, the first truth
which he lays down ; it is the oracular announcement of the
mind itself, " Cogito, ergo sum." It is singular, that after this
famous enthymeme has been the object of almost universal
assault, as involving a glaring fallacy in argument, as contain
ing what is styled in Logic, a " petitio principii," it is yet
the very position to which philosophy is recurring as her grand
starting-point in her most rigid systems of inquiry. For what
is the "ego" or the "me" of the German systems, but the
" cogito, ergo sum" of Descartes ? The German philosopher
says, "the me asserts itself;" that is just, " I am conscious of
existence." It is, in other words, " the personal existence speaks
out — declares itself." It is just the idea of personal existence

INTELLECT. 17

in the innermost recesses of the soul, and at its earliest dawn
of consciousness. The idea of existence, of course, is a simpler-
idea than that of personal existence, but we do not seem to
obtain the one without the other. The idea of existence comes
with that of personal existence. We say that this latter idea
necessarily accompanies the first act of consciousness, or at
least a very early stage of consciousness. It is that with which
Descartes set out in his philosophy, and he traces it to the
very source from which, in these remarks, we have obtained
it. For his " cogito," I think, is just a state of consciousness,
and went for nothing more with Descartes himself. This
great philosopher has been charged, as we have already hinted,
with a logical fallacy in his famous argument, with assuming
the very existence which is proved. " I think, therefore I am:"
— the " I" is already supposed in the " I think :" in other
words, the "lam" or existence, is already supposed; and there
is no need for proving it ; or a conclusion to prove it is not
only superfluous, but is in truth no conclusion at all. Des
cartes, however, obviously meant no more than that conscious
ness infers existence. I know I exist because I am conscious.
Although he has put the matter in a logical form he did not
mean a logical argument, and he asserts this in reply to the
objections taken to his so-called enthymeme. Cousin has
shewn triumphantly that he did not mean an argument at
all, and that he was sensible that the truth " I exist," was one
independent of all argument. " Je pense, done j'existe," are
his own words, as given by Cousin, " est en verite particuliere,
qui s'iutroduit dans 1'esprit sans le secours d'une autre plus
generate, et independamment de toute deduction logique. Ce
n'est pas un prejuge, mais une verite naturelle, qui frappe
d'abord et irresistiblement 1'intelligence."*

Descartes' " Enthymeme" is just the formula of Fichte : " The
me asserts itself." From that formula Fichte, one of the

* " I think, therefore I exist, is a of all logical deduction. It is not a

particular truth which introduces itself judgment, but a natural truth, which

into the mind without the aid of any strikes the understanding at once and

more general truth, and independently irresistibly ."

B

1 8 INTELLECT.

subtlest of German minds, constructs his whole system of
philosophy. His formula is nothing more or less than " I am
conscious of existence," or, " I am conscious ;" and the idea of
existence necessarily accompanies this state of simple conscious
ness. The " me," in the peculiar phraseology of Germany,
begins to feel itself, to awaken into a state of personal con
sciousness. There is something interesting, it must be con
fessed, in the way in which the Germans put the subject, and
they have undoubtedly the merit of making a more rigid
demand for consciousness as the grand stand-point, as they call
it, or starting-point of all metaphysical inquiry. " The me"
is just a more rigid way of denoting personality ; and " the
me asserts itself," is certainly a novel, and therefore striking,
way of expressing the first dawning of personal consciousness.
In whatever way the truth is announced, it is interesting to
contemplate this earliest stage of the mind's operations — the
first glimmer of light, so to speak, in the caverns of an im
mortal spirit's being and dateless existence — the feeblest twinkle
of that ray that shoots across the soul's awakening, or yet
noawakened powers. We cannot trace historically the progress
or development of ideas — we can but infer from the nature of
mind itself, or the knowledge that we now have of its laws and
operations, what must have been that development, that pro
gress. Self-consciousness, or the idea of personal existence,
must have been the very earliest stage of development, the
first idea, probably, that pierced the intellectual night, or awoke
the intellectual morning.

II.

The mind thus awakened, the idea of its own personality, or
of personal existence, once obtained, the mind would probably
for a time be occupied with this idea : — it would not be imme
diately let go, and every subsequent feeling or impression
would be referred to this personality — this personal self. It
would now be the centre of reference — whether in the case of
external or internal impressions — impressions from without, or

INTELLECT. 19

impressions from within. All would be judged of from this
point of reference — this stand-point of the German philosophy.
Every feeling of internal consciousness would be referred to
self, as belonging to self, to the " me." By and by, however,
feelings of a peculiar kind would be experienced. The senses
would not only convey sensations to this internal Being — but
sensations so modified as at last to awaken the idea of some
thing distinct from self, something that was not self- — and
hence the idea of externality. The internal feelings were now
such that the idea of something external is awakened. The
mind receives the idea or impression of externality. It is im
possible, perhaps, to trace minutely how this idea is awakened ;
but that it is awakened at a very early stage of Being is un
doubted. At least, of the idea of an external world, not all
the efforts of philosophers could deprive us; although they
might endeavour to rob us of an external world itself, and
have accordingly attempted to reason us into the persuasion
that there is no such thing. This was the gigantic, we should
rather say Quixotic, effort of Berkeley and Hume ; and it is what
most of the German philosophers of the present, and recent,
times, although by a different process, not only essay, but, as it
seems to themselves, triumphantly accomplish. They arrive at
the conclusion, they think, by the most absolute demonstration.
So did Berkeley, so did Hume, granting them their premises.
But with so much of truth in their reasoning — starting with a
right principle, they erred in not admitting what was equally
a principle, and should have been recognised, — viz., that autho
rity is due to all the depositions of consciousness ; and that
though consciousness is strictly the court of appeal in all our
questions, and mind is therefore ultimate in the judgment, or
in the question, we are not warranted to reject any plain inti
mation of consciousness ; while mind may undoubtedly testify
of what is diverse from itself, as well as of what is itself, or of
its own nature, if God has so connected the two as to act and
react upon each other. Consciousness is a simple feeling, and
its testimony to self, or to a being in which that consciousness
resides, is no more direct than its testimony to what is not

20 INTELLECT.

self : the feeling in either case is but a feeling, and the ground
of a conviction. The question as to the existence of an exter
nal world depends altogether upon the constitution of that
mind which, as being ultimate in the question, is thought to
deny the existence of an external world, or at least to render it
impossible that we can ever attain to the knowledge of its
existence. The full discussion of this point, however, does not
belong to this stage of our inquiry.

The idea of something external to self, then, has been
awakened. The exact process of this we have not stated.
That this idea should arise, however, very soon after the idea
of self, it is natural to suppose. The very consciousness that
would awaken the one idea, would negatively testify of the
other. The feeling of self would testify of what was not self.
The positive supposes the negative. If there were feelings or
impressions which awakened the idea of self, every other would
of course be referred to something else, and hence something
external. It must have been by the simplest process possible
that the idea of something different from self, something not
self, something external, arose. Externality was next in
order, or process of time, to personality. They were co-rela
tives — that is, if there was anything distinct from, and exter
nal to self. And the idea of an external world being one of
our ideas or impressions, as much as that of self, or of our per
sonal existence, it must have been something distinct from,
and external to self, that awakened it. Everything pertaining
to self would, by an unerring consciousness, be referred to it ;
and whatever did not pertain to it would be excluded, or would
by an unerring alchemy be rejected, and consequently referred to
something else. Self being the centre of reference, everything
that did not crystallize with it, or belong to it, would fall off.

We do not, of course, maintain that the infant mind would
take notice of all this — would mark the process going on within
it. No ; but the mind acquires its ideas although the process
is not marked by which they are attained. The infant does
not need to be a philosopher, or a metaphysician. But it goes
through processes which even the profoundest metaphysician

INTELLECT. 21

and wisest philosopher may attend to with interest. The little
prattler, not yet out of its mother's arms, which has not yet
even learned to prattle, is going through those processes which
it is the most difficult part of the metaphysician's work to
ascertain or learn. The most difficult question in philosophy —
that very one with which we are engaged — depends upon
operations almost too early to trace. We would question the
infant itself in vain. We would ask in vain how it has already
marked a world external to itself — how it already sees that
world, and knows it, if not in the fond mother whose existence
is as yet almost one with its own — yet in the thousand objects
which solicit its notice, and perhaps call forth its infant pas
sions. So early is the idea of an external world — that idea
disputed by philosophers — attained. There is a time when the
infant seems to lie passive, taking in its lessons, receiving
perhaps those very ideas which we do our utmost to trace ; but
soon the notion of an external world seems to be gained : the
little philosopher has first been strengthened in the idea of
its own existence : it has come to be a believer in its own
existence, for it has felt its own wants : it is not long till an
external world, too, dawns upon it, and now it can look with
understanding when before it only looked with mystery, and
its gaze is not only with a half intelligent smile, but with
intelligence beaming from every feature, expressive of anger or
joy, gratification or disappointment, aversion or love. It is
now a denizen of this world, for it has recognised it : it has
been made free of it : it is now one of ourselves, and it is left
to learn its other lessons as it best may, having learned this
much, that there is a world upon which it has been ushered,
and whose fights and conflicts it must, in common with its
elder fellow-combatants, sustain.

Dr. Brown supposes the following to be the process by which
the idea of an external world is arrived at : —

" The infant stretches out his arm for the first time, by that
volition, without a known object, which is either a mere
instinct, or very near akin to one : This motion is accompanied
with a certain feeling, — he repeats the volition which moves

22 INTELLECT.

his arm fifty or one thousand times, and the same progress of
feeling takes place during the muscular action. In this re
peated progress he feels the truth of that intuitive proposition
which, in the whole course of the life that awaits him, is to be
the source of all his expectations, and the guide of all his
actions, — the simple proposition, that what has been as an
antecedent, will be followed by what has been as a consequent.
At length he stretches out his arm again, and, instead of the
accustomed progression, there arises, in the resistance of some
object opposed to him, a feeling of a very different kind, which,
if he persevere in his voluntary effort, increases gradually to
severe pain, before he has half completed the usual progress.
There is a difference, therefore, which we may, without any
absurdity, suppose to astonish the little reasoner ; for the ex
pectation of similar consequents, from similar antecedents, is
observable even in his earliest actions, and is probably the
result of an original law of mind, as universal as that which
renders certain sensations of sight and sound the immediate
result of certain affections of our eye or ear. To any being
who is thus impressed with belief of similarities of sequence,
a different consequent necessarily implies a difference of the
antecedent. In the case at present supposed, however, the
infant, who as yet knows nothing but himself, is conscious of
no previous difference ; and the feeling of resistance seems to
him, therefore, something unknown, which has its cause in
something that is not himself.

" I am aware that the application, to an infant, of a process
of reasoning expressed in terms of such grave and formal
philosophic nomenclature, has some chance of appearing ridi
culous. But the reasoning itself is very different from the
terms employed to express it, and is truly as simple and
natural as the terms, which our language obliges us to employ
in expressing it, are abstract and artificial. The infant, how
ever, in his belief of similarity of antecedents and consequents,
and of the necessity, therefore, of a new antecedent, where the
consequent is different, has the reasoning but not the terms.
He does not form the proposition as universal and applicable

INTELLECT. 23

to cases that have not yet existed ; but he feels it in every
particular case as it occurs. That he does truly reason, with at
least as much subtlety as is involved in the process now sup
posed, cannot be doubted by those who attend to the manifest
results of his little inductions, in those acquisitions of know
ledge which show themselves in the actions, and, I may say,
almost in the very looks of the little reasoner, — at a period
long before that to which his own remembrance is afterwards
to extend, when, in the niaturer progress of his intellectual
powers, the darkness of eternity will meet his eye alike, whether
he attempt to gaze on the past or on the future ; and the wish
to know the events with which he is afterwards to be occupied
and interested, will not be more unavailing than the wish to
retrace events that were the occupation and interest of the
most important years of his existence."

" I have already explained," Dr. Brown continues, " the
manner in which I suppose the infant to obtain the notion of
something external and separate from himself, by the interrup
tion of the usual train of antecedents and consequents, when
the painful feeling of resistance has arisen, without any change
of circumstances of which the mind is conscious in itself; and
the process by which he acquires this notion is only another
form of the very process which, during the whole course of his
life, is involved in all his reasonings, and regulates, therefore,
all his conclusions with respect to every physical truth. In the
view which I take of the subject, accordingly, I do not conceive
that it is by any peculiar intuition we are led to believe in the
existence of things without. I consider this belief as the effect
of that more general intuition by which we consider a new
consequent, in any series of accustomed events, as the sign of a
new antecedent, and of that equally general principle of asso
ciation, by which feelings that have frequently co-existed, flow
together, and constitute afterwards one complex whole. There
is something which is not ourself, something which is repre
sentative of length — something which excites the feeling of
resistance to our effort ; and these elements combined are
matter. But whether the notion arise in the mariner I have

'24 INTELLECT.

supposed, or differently, there can be no doubt that it has
arisen long before the period to which our memory reaches ;
and the belief of an external world, therefore, whether founded
directly on an intuitive principle of belief, or, as I rather think,
on associations as powerful as intuition in the period which
alone we know, may be said to be an essential part of our
mental constitution, at least as far back as that constitution
can be made the subject of philosophic inquiry. Whatever it
may have been originally, it is now as impossible for us to dis
believe the reality of some external cause of our sensations, as
it is impossible for us to disbelieve the existence of the sensa
tions themselves. On this subject scepticism may be ingenious
in vain ; and equally vain, I may say, would be the attempted
confutation of scepticism, since it cannot affect the serious
internal belief of the sceptic, which is the same before as after
argument; — unshaken by the ingenuity of his own reasonings, or
rather, as I have before remarked, tacitly assumed and affirmed
in that very combat of argument which professes to deny it."

In this passage from Dr. Brown's Lectures, he accounts for
the idea of an external world by, or traces it to, the feeling of
resistance wlr'ch the child experiences in stretching out its
hand and meeting some object which had not hitherto inter
rupted the accustomed series of feelings accompanying such an
act. The muscular feeling of resistance, then, is the precise
occasion of the idea we are now speaking of, according to Dr.
Brown. And it will be observed he ascribes it to no intuitive
feeling, but just to the interruption of an accustomed train of
sequence, or series of feelings, which interruption arresting the
infant mind, and suggesting to it something that is not himself
as the cause. Dr. Brown's explanation of the process — of the
exact occasion of the idea — may be the true one ; but when he
says there is no intuition here — that it is not by any peculiar
intuition that we believe in this something without^ supposing
all to have passed through the process as traced by Dr. Brown,
we would ask how could the belief be arrived at, except by a law
of the mind which partakes at least of the force of an intuition ?
How could the mind pass from the one state to the other with

INTELLECT. 25

such certainty — with a confidence that not all the arguments
of philosophy, or rather of philosophic scepticism, such as that
of Berkeley and Hume, are able for an instant to shake ?
There is more surely here than an ordinary process of mind, by
which one idea may suggest another, or may be the occasion of
another. Although the feeling of resistance is an interruption
to a wonted train of feelings, or the new feeling is different
from any that had hitherto been referable to self, and suggests
something that is not self, still it is a feeling of self, or of our
selves : it is the self-conscious Being just existing in a new state
of consciousness ; and the question arises, how is this new state
referred to something without as its cause ? When we have
spoken of this new state as not referable to self, we meant in
its origin, or cause — it is still a state of the one self-conscious
Being : how does the self-conscious Being refer that state, no
longer to any internal, but to an external source? What
allows of the transition from self to what is not self? It is a
feeling of a peculiar kind, certainly, which now awakens the
idea of an external world ; but is not much of that peculiarity,
if not all of it, owing to an intuitive law of the mind by which
we come to pass from a mere sensation, or state of conscious
ness, a sensation discriminated indeed, a state of consciousness
altogether different from any other previous state, but still but
a sensation or state of the self-conscious Being — to pass from
that sensation or state to something external ? If there was
not some intuitive process, some law of the mind immediate
and irresistible, we do not see how the idea of externality could
ever be obtained. The new feeling might puzzle the infant
reasoner, or it might be set down just as a new feeling different
from any that had hitherto been experienced, but it would
never lead to something without or external. It is enough to
say that the mind is so constituted as to pass from the one to
the other ; but what is this but admitting an intuitive law ?
As Descartes says of our personal existence, it is a truth which
strikes the mind at once and irresistibly : so it may be said of
the belief in an external world, or simply the idea of exter
nality. Dr. Brown, therefore, seems to us, in his love of sim-

26 INTELLECT.

plicity, or desire to introduce no separate or independent law of
the mind, and to account for its processes by a few simple laws,
to have gone too far in rejecting all intuition in this process,
and ascribing all to the mind taking notice of the interruption
of one of Us accustomed sequences. Even when this way of
explaining the process is allowed, as furnishing the occasion on
which the belief of an external world, or the idea of exter
nality, arises, there still remains the most important part of
the process to be accounted for, viz., that by ivhich loe pass
from an internal feeling to an external object as its cause.
This must ever remain unaccountable, but on the ground of an
original and intuitive law of the mind. We believe in our
own consciousness, as intimating a personal existence, accord
ing to the same kind of law. We might have had that con
sciousness for ever, and never passed to the idea of personal
existence without such a law or tendency of the mind — a
tendency like all its original tendencies — wisely stamped upon
it by the Creator. The will of God, and the constitution
which God has stamped upon mind, and that in its relations to
an external world, is the only way of accounting for the idea
or belief in question. It is marvellous that this is not regarded
as satisfactory in all such nice questions, where the difficulty of
solution is felt and acknowledged, and that philosophers must
go farther, and trace the very law itself in its very tvorJciny.
" The most uninstructed peasant," says Dr. Reid, " has as dis
tinct a conception, and as firm a belief, of the immediate object
of his senses, as the greatest philosopher ; and with that belief
he rests satisfied, giving himself no concern how he came by
this conception and belief. But the philosopher is impatient
to know how his conception of external objects, and his belief
of their existence, is produced. This I am afraid," continues
Dr. Reid, " is hid in impenetrable darkness. But where there
is no knowledge there is the more room for conjecture, and of
this philosophers have always been very liberal.''

The mode in which the mind communicates with the external
world, or the external world becomes the object of perception

INTELLECT. 27

to the mind, has been the subject of various theories from the
time of Plato downwards. A very minute account of these
theories will be found in Dr. Keid's writings, and it would be
superfluous to repeat them here. More or less respecting them,
whether in the way of explanation or criticism, will be found
also in Dugald Stewart's writings, especially his " Preliminary
Dissertation." It is sufficient to say here, that all proceed
upon the necessity of accounting for what should have been
left unaccounted for from the beginning, viz., the mode in
which the mind communicates with the external world, can
have any conference, so to speak, with what is external. The
difficulty was not so much how matter could act upon mind —
a difficulty, too, and which was endeavoured to be got over by
refining sensations into sensible species, which became the
objects of perception, and these into phantasms, which were
thought to be the objects of imagination and memory — and
phantasms into intelligible species — the objects it was thought
of science and reasoning : it was through such a process that
matter was admitted into the valhalla of the mind : it must
lose all its grossness before it could pass into the presence of
Spirit : but this was not the chief difficulty. The chief diffi
culty lay in explaining how what was without could communi
cate with what was within — what was removed from the mind
could communicate with the mind as if it was present. The
mind sees, feels, hears objects, all at a distance, and knows
them to be distant : how could this be? nay, the nearest object
of sense is still removed from the mind, which is a spiritual
Being, and resides, it is supposed, in the sensorium or brain.
The question was, how could the mind perceive objects thus
removed at a greater or less distance ? On the principle that
nothing can act where it is not present — " sentire nihil qucat
mens, nisi id agat, et adsit" — how was the communication be
tween the outward and inner worlds to be explained ? Now,
this was obviously attempting an explanation of what was in
explicable, except by admitting the will of the Creator as a
sufficient explanation. God has so willed it, and we can and
need go no farther. Matter communicates with mind, and

'28 INTELLECT.

mind with matter by a law, or after a mode, of which we can
give no account. There is no need to suppose sensible species,
as refined sensations, capable, while sensations themselves are
not, of passing to the mind through the nerves — an ingenious
enough theory but wholly conjectural — nay, accounting for no
thing; for if the sensations were so refined, if the mere species
or representations of sensations were such that they could be
present to the mind, it still remains to be accounted for how
matter communicates with mind, while the passage up the
nerves to the brain and thence to the mind, has nothing in
physiology to support it, but is purely conjectural. The nerves
are indeed the medium of sensation, by which the senses operate
upon the mind ; but that is by a manner wholly inexplicable.
The mind communicates in a way wholly unknown to us with
the external world. So it is, and that is all that can be said.
The vanity of attempting to strike through the boundaries
placed to our knowledge was never more signally illustrated
than in the theories that have been entertained on this very
subject — than in the attempt to explain the mode of connexion
between mind and matter — the theories of perception. Had
the fact of that connexion, or communication, been admitted
without attempting to explain it — had the idea of externality
and the belief of an external world been rested in, and had the
attempt to account for them gone no farther than to trace, as
far as could be done, the occasion of the idea and belief, or
circumstances in which they arose, we would have had a wiser
and better philosophy much earlier, and many difficult theories
would have been spared both the pains of the inventor, and
the labour of those who were called to unravel them, while the
absurd attempt of the highest intellects to accomplish not only
what was beyond their faculties, but what their faculties had
no call to accomplish, where they were expending their powers
most futilely and in vain — powers, too, that have been in the
very van of intellect — such a spectacle would not have been
exhibited, bringing almost discredit upon philosophy itself
through the very names which adorn it. Plato, and Aristotle,
and Descartes, and Locke, and Hartley, and the French Ar-

INTELLECT. 29

nauld, and even the greatest of inductive philosophers, Newton,
would not have been found among those theorists, whose theories
or conjectures have been dissipated by a little common sense,
or by the admission of that principle into philosophy, to which
even philosophy must pay deference, that the ultimate laws or
intuitive convictions of the mind must be regarded as ultimate,
and the mind can inquire no farther. Strange that this prin
ciple was not admitted sooner — that the original or intuitive
laws or operations of the mind were not sooner recognised, and
that it was reserved for a philosopher of the eighteenth century
— Dr. Reid, with his coadjutors Oswald and Beattie — and in
France, contemporaneously, but without, apparently, any con
cert, Father Buffier — to set the question on its proper founda
tion. " The coincidence between his train of thinking (the
French philosopher's) and that into which our Scottish meta
physicians soon after fell," says Dugald Stewart, " is so very
remarkable, that it has been considered by many as amounting
to a proof that the plan of their works was in some measure
suggested by his ; but it is infinitely more probable, that the
argument which runs in common through the speculations of
all of them, was the natural result of the state of metaphysical
science when they engaged in their philosophical inquiries."

III.

The idea of externality is not yet that of an external world.
There is much that goes to make up the latter idea that is not
in the former. We derive the former from an interruption to
a wonted series of feelings which are referable to self, or to a
state simply of self-consciousness — the new feeling being some
thing altogether different from any which had either hitherto
been referred to self, or could be referred to self as its origin :
it is therefore attributed to something else. Whether it be,
according to Dr. Brown, a feeling of resistance to mmcular
action — or it be some feeling among the many which the

30 INTELLECT.

external world may awaken in the inner self-conscious Being,
it at once leads the mind to an external object as its cause, —
and this by an original law of the mind, which is infallible.
We have already seen that if there was not such a law, the new
feeling, however peculiar, would still be but a feeling of the
mind itself, and would never lead to anything without as its
cause. It must be by an intuitive process that the mind passes
from a state of consciousness to the certain conviction of an
external world — or just from an inner consciousness to an
external cause. No mere difference of feeling would awaken
or justify such a reference. It is by an intuitive law of the
mind that that reference is made, as much as when we conclude
that an effect must have a cause, or when we refer an object
possessing certain properties, or exhibiting certain charac
teristics, to a class to which it belongs. The law or consti
tution of our minds leads to the reference or conclusion in
both cases.

Externality, however, as we have said, is not an external
world. The idea of externality, however, having been obtained,
other ideas follow, which, combining with that of externality,
make up the idea of an external world. All the senses of the
child are open to impressions from without. The eye takes in
the colours of the landscape — the ear the sounds which salute
it — the smell the fragrance of the fields — the touch the texture,
the hardness or softness, of bodies, while the taste is regaled by
the sweets which are offered to its palate, or offended by the
nauseous potion which affection administers for its benefit.
Here are plenty of intimations, impressions, or sensations, all
coming from an external world. But the child is philosophic
in its procedure, or rather the mind does not operate but
according to its own laws. Colours, sounds, taste, smell, might
all affect the several senses, and not one idea, or the faintest
intimation of matter would be created, or conveyed to the inner
thinking being. It is perhaps impossible to determine whether
the idea of externality might not be excited. According to
Dr. Brown, it is resistance to muscular action which excites
this idea — first awakens it: but this it may be impossible

INTELLECT. 31

positively to determine. There is certainly a greater arrest
given to the mind by a feeling of resistance to muscular action,
or by the interruption of a series of muscular feelings, than can
be conceived in any other way ; but still it is no more than an
interruption of a series of feelings — it is no more than a feel
ing of resistance, — as a feeling of colour is one of colour, or
sound is one of sound. There can be no doubt, however, that
we owe the first idea of matter to the sense of touch, and that
none of the other senses could ever have awakened it. With
the sense of taste the sense of touch is combined, so that we
must separate what is peculiar to the one from what is peculiar
to the other. With the sense of sight, however, with that of
smell, with that of hearing, we can have no difficulty : it is
obvious that from none of these — nor from all of them com
bined — could we obtain the idea of matter. With respect to
the sense of seeing, for example, it can be demonstrated, and
has been demonstrated, by writers upon this subject, that light
or colour is the only proper object of that sense. The eye is
really affected by nothing but light or colour. This is at first
very startling, and can hardly be believed — in opposition to all
the varied solicitations that now affect, or seem to affect, the
eye from without, the varied qualities or objects of which it
seems now to be the organ of perception. Yet startling as this
may be at first, it has been demonstrably proved by Bishop
Berkeley in his Theory of Vision, and has been a settled point
in philosophy ever since. Magnitude, figure, distance — which
seem to be objects of sight — to be seen — it has been conclusively
shewn, are acquired by the sense of touch, and are now, apart
from the operation of that sense, mere inferences of the mind
in connexion with certain states of the visual organ. The
theory is this : — magnitude, fgure, distance, are ascertained or
acquired by the sense of touch — but consentaneous with the
process by which these are acquired, there are certain sensations
— certain effects of light or colour upon the eye — and certain
sensations pertaining to the particular axis of vision — which, by
a mind more active in its processes than the most learned or
the most ignorant are aware of, are registered, remembered, so

32 INTELLECT.

that upon the occurrence of these sensations, these states of the
organ of vision, the exact idea of magnitude, figure, distance,
acquired by touch is recalled, until it comes to appear an idea
of sight, or one of the direct informations of vision. All that
the eye sees is light in its different prismatic colours. It may
be obvious with a little reflection, even without the aid of
demonstrative science, that this is so. The medium of vision
are the rays of light falling upon the retina of the eye. Within
that small compass, then, how could distance be measured ?
upon that plain surface how could figures of every shape be
traced, or represented ? how could magnitudes of every size,
from the molecule to the mountain, be cast ? Distance is but
a line drawn, or supposed to be drawn, from the eye to the
object — from a point on the retina to a point at any distance
from it : a point therefore is all that can be really seen. It will
appear, then, that light or colour is the only proper object of
vision. But could light or colour ever suggest the idea of
matter ? That light is as material as the grossest substance,
is true — but, striking upon the eye, would it ever awaken the
idea of a material substance ? Could the sounds that float
around and seem to be warbled by the air — the soul of music
— harmonies that take the ear captive — notes that steal into
the chambers of the soul, and awaken all its finest and tenderest
emotions, — or those which startle and alarm, the blare of the
trumpet, or the crash of thunder — could any of these convey
a material image to the mind ? Are they not more akin to the
spiritual than the material ? Read the Ode of Wordsworth on
the power of Sound, and you will perceive this : —

" Tlnr functions are ethereal,"

says the poet :—

"As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind,
Organ of vision! And a spirit aerial
Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind;
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought
To enter than oracular cave ;
Strict passage through which sighs arc brought,
And whispers for the heart their slave ;

INTELLECT. 33

And shrieks, that revel in abuse

Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air,

Whose piercing sweetness can unloose

The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile

Into the ainbush of despair ;

Hosannahs pealing clown the long drawn aisle,

And requiems answered by the pulse that beats

Devoutly, in life's last retreats !"

II.

" The headlong streams and fountains
Serve thee, invisible spirit ! with untired powers ;
Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains,
They lull, perchance, ten thousand thousand flowers."

The fragrance that steals from the garden, or is wafted on every
breeze that sweeps the bean-field, or shakes the hedgerow, seems
as ethereal. It is not to either of them that we owe our idea
of matter ; it is to a sense more gross, more material, if we may
so speak — that of touch. It is to the sensations of hardness,
solidity, we think, that we are to trace this idea. How the
mind comes ultimately to have any of its ideas is a mystery
which we do not pretend to penetrate, — an ultimate fact or law
of the mind itself, which it is impossible to explain. In this
sense, every operation or law of the mind is intuitive, original,
ultimate, inexplicable. But we may trace the occasions of our
ideas, although not the precise modiis of their production.
And the occasion on which the idea of matter would seem to
take place or arise in the mind, is the presence of certain sen
sations of touch — such as hardness, solidity, or what Dr. Brown
calls the muscular feeling of resistance. The idea of matter
then rises in the mind, and this must be accompanied by the
cognate, or co-relative idea of mind. It seems impossible that
the one idea could arise without the other ; it is at that instant,
probably, that the idea of each, and the distinction between
both, takes place, or is perceived. It is then that the firmament
is reared which, for ever divides the two — mind from matter.
For the consciousness of self is- not necessarily that of mind.
The ego, or self, is merely the ego ; it is nothing more till the
two ideas, mind and matter, are discriminated. Then, indeed,

c

34 INTELLECT.

mind is seen to be the ego, or self; or self is seen to be mind,
immaterial, spiritual ; and the not self, or that which is exter
nal to self, is discerned to be matter, or is pronounced matter.
Here, then, we have got the two ideas, matter and mind. It is
true that the infant will, as yet, have a much more distinct idea
of matter than of mind. Indeed, mind will, as yet, be only the
kind of penumbra of matter — hardly an idea — not matter — yet
attending it — till by and by it will no longer be the penumbra,
but the light in which, matter itself is seen, and with which it
is contrasted. How soon does the child come to have an idea
of mind — of spirit ! How soon does spirit haunt it, and brood
over it, " a presence that will not be put by ;" and it talks of
shadows, and can conceive of the dead, in spiritual bodies, re
visiting their former dwelling-places, or, better taught, can take
in the doctrine of immortality, and think of the spirit of its
departed parent that has gone to God who gave it, and of God
himself the Great and Good Spirit, to whose spiritual dwelling-
place it is itself taught to aspire. So early, then, are these two
ideas obtained, and the distinction between them for ever and
indelibly fixed. The child is neither a materialist nor an
idealist. It neither ascribes all to mind nor all to matter. It
has a perfect belief in both. The skies do not appeal to it in
vain — nor the flowery fields — nor the thousand glad objects
that crowd within the sphere of its daily vision — nor in vain
do the sounds in earth and air salute it. But as little does its
own consciousness — do its own internal feelings — its spiritual
being — appeal to it in vain — wake within it those ideas of a
spiritual substance as something distinct from, and nobler than
matter, than even the world on which it gazes, or on which it
treads, with a tiny foot indeed, but already of more account in
the scale of Being than the world itself.

IV.

The first idea of matter would be that of something tangible
— something that could be touched — external to self. A greater
or lesser degree of hardness or tactual, not muscular, resistance

INTELLECT. 35

would be implied in the idea. We oppose tactual to muscular
resistance, the latter being more violent, the former being the
mere resistance which matter, in a more or less solid state, offers
to the touch. Dr. Brown was the first, we believe, who took
notice of muscular resistance as a distinct kind of sensation,
different from mere tactual sensation. But there is a certain
amount of resistance in every tactual sensation, even when it is
a fluid body that is met or encountered. In physical philosophy,
there is such a doctrine as the impenetrability of matter, that
is, matter may be displaced but cannot be penetrated. Matter is
composed of infinitely small particles — we can set no limits, by
our understanding at least, to the divisibility of matter, to the
minuteness of the particles of which it is composed. Each of
these, then, may be displaced, but cannot be penetrated. When
we pierce a solid body, we only set aside, or remove from their
former place, its constituent particles, but each several particle
is unpenetrated, and remains in all its integrity. Even in fluid
bodies, then, there is resistance. Matter, then, as first appre
hended by the mind, would be something that offered a resist
ance, however faint, to the touch. By and by, hardness and
softness would be distinguished, solidity and fluidity — and these
several ideas would be acquired by the mind. Matter would
be something that was hard or soft, solid or fluid. Hardness
and softness, solidity and fluidity, would be properties of mat
ter. And here the idea of substance would arise. It would be
to the mind that in which those qualities of which the mind had
obtained the idea, or an intimation however faint, inhered.
The, mind obtains the idea of them as qualities ; but qualities
imply a substratum. The substratum would be the substance,
the qualities being no more than qualities : matter would be
that ivhich possessed, or was the subject of, the qualities already
named. In like manner, the qualities of mind would be
referred to some substance or being in which they inhered,
some spiritual substance or essence of which they were only
the qualities. In this case the idea of the Being, although
not apprehended as mind — for it is not so apprehended till it
is distinguished from matter — the idea of this Being — the

36 INTELLECT.

self, the inner-self — would be first, and the idea of the quali
ties would be after. But it would be at this time, probably,
that the ideas of substance and quality would be obtained,
discriminated ; and the mind and its qualities would be
seen to be distinct — the mind the substance — the qualities
the properties of that substance. So simultaneously, and
yet in so orderly a manner, would the mind's ideas arise.
We can but give a conjectural view of that order. It is im
possible with positive certainty to determine the exact order,
in point of time, of the mind's ideas. But it is probable
that it was as we have traced it. It is well that no question
of importance depends upon the precise order in which our
ideas arose, or our knowledge of that order, — that no valuable
or vital decision is risked by the nicer distinctions of meta
physics. It is interesting, however, as well as useful, to trace,
as far as possible, the development of mind — of that inner-
thinking Being, which, in truth, constitutes the whole of
ourselves. If we would analyze the merest particle of matter
— if we would trace that organic structure in its growth and
germination — if we would determine the laws and properties of
bodies, shall we not observe the dawning and progress of the
thinking principle — shall we not observe its first opening and
subsequent expansion — a more curious object of observation,
surely, than the pollen of a flower, or the shape of a crystal, or
the laws of a chemical combination, or a mechanical force ? To
determine the limits and the laws of mind^— its connexion with,
but not its absorption in, or identification with matter — to mark
their mutual dependence, but their total difference, the laws of
each as affected and discerned by those of the other, matter at
once awakening and giving scope to mind, but not constituting
it — and further to notice the indestructible laws of belief,
where uncertainty may be granted or allowed, but scepticism
must be condemned, — all this must be at once interesting and
important, and constitutes the proper object of metaphysics —
the philosophy of mind. To determine the limits of mind and
matter, and to mark their entire and essential difference, and
yet, in our present state, their mutual dependence, is what is

INTELLECT. 37

necessary, the very desideratum, in the philosophy of the pre
sent day, the surest safeguard against the scepticism which
would confound mind with matter, or, as in German meta
physics, resolve all into mind, nay, annihilate mind itself, and
leave nothing but " the dream of a dream." We are forced
to be metaphysicians whether we will or not ; not if we would
not be sceptics, but if we would be able to meet the sceptic.
False philosophy can be met only by that which is true or
sound. The materialist can be successfully refuted only by
him who has examined well the separate limits of mind
and matter ; the idealist by him who has discriminated well
the laws of mind, and is in no danger, therefore, of being
carried away by an absolutism, which will allow no force, and
no reality, to anything which is not mere consciousness. Mind,
and the laivs of mind, are what must be held up in the face of
that infidelity which would reduce man himself to a mere
organism, somewhat superior to a sliell-fisli — or that which
would take away all certainty from our beliefs, and allow
nothing to those laws of our mental constitution which demand
our submission, as much as our merest consciousness, authori
tative as that consciousness in reality is. Are we not conscious
of these laws? Are we conscious only of consciousness I If
consciousness, at least, is to be trusted, does it not depone to
these laws ? Nay, what is our consciousness, at any particular
moment, but, as we have seen, the state of our mind at that
particular moment ? — and what is our consciousness when it
exists in the state of a sensation, and what is it when it exists
in the state of an internal feeling ? There are two separate
states of consciousness, pointing to two separate sources or
quarters from which these states are derived, pointing to matter
and mind. The one state of consciousness informs us of
matter, the other informs us of mind. Are both not to be
believed ? It is in vain that the materialist or idealist en
deavours to escape, according to his own favourite tendency,
from the beliefs of the mind — the beliefs of consciousness, or
our conscious beliefs. Neither, it is apprehended, is a very
firm believer in his own doctrine or theory. We question if

38 INTELLECT.

the author of the " Vestiges of Creation " is a believer in his
own creed ; or if those who abet his doctrines, or the followers
of a Combe or a Priestley, really, and seriously, and at all
moments, can discard the belief in mind; while the meta
physicians of Germany would require a certificate from their
own school of philosophy, that they were not, after all, as
orthodox believers in matter as others. It is of some use,
then, to trace the laws and processes of mind — to have our
belief firmly entrenched within these laws themselves, if we are
not tamely to deliver up the citadel of truth at the first demand
of the sceptic or the infidel. With respect to those laws and
beliefs to which we owe, and must, in point of fact, render sub
mission, we may quote the words of Dr. Chalmers : — " If con
sciousness depone to a certain primary and original belief, what
more have we to do than to give ourselves up to it, and follow
its guidance over that outer domain or department of truth
which belongs to it ? Or if consciousness depone to the exist
ence and the workings of a certain faculty — call it reason or
perception — what more have we to do than just to learn of that
faculty, the informations which it gives ? — authoritative informa
tions, they, of course, will be, and such as should carry the belief
of the whole human race along with them, seeing that they are
dictated by the resistless and fundamental laws of the human
understanding." It is because consciousness depones to the
belief, and to the faculty, that both are to be trusted ; and the
beliefs of the mind, and the informations of its several faculties,
are as much the objects of a strict and rigorous consciousness,
as any object of consciousness, even the simplest feeling, can be.
But this is a digression, although still important, to the
present stage of our inquiries. In the development of its
faculties, the mind does not form for itself either mind or
matter, as the German metaphysicians would teach us, leaving
to us neither mind nor matter, but certain formative laws of
consciousness, taking away even the subject of these laws, as if
there could be laws without a subject, or operations without a
substance or being, of which they are the operations. The mind
does not form to itself mind or matter, but becomes informed

INTELLECT. 39

o/mind aud matter, and the qualities and phenomena of both.
As we have endeavoured to trace the progress of its ideas, it is
first informed of its own existence — then of an external exist
ence — then of the material qualities of that external existence
— in connexion, again, with this, its own immateriality or
spirituality, its existence as mind, and of substance, as that in
which those material and immaterial qualities of which it is
cognizant, or which are now apprehended by the mind, inhere.
The mind is informed of all these in its own progressive de
velopment. And it is interesting to notice that it is informed
of its own existence, and of its own qualities, pari passu, or
simultaneously, with its informations respecting matter. This
indicates the laws of our Being. We are not purely spiritual
substances : we exist along with a material frame, and in a
material world, and God has connected the development of
mind, and the knowledge both of its own existence and laws,
with the knowledge of that material framework within which
it is to expatiate, and with the laws of which it is for a time,
at least, most intimately to have to do. There is this dual and
contemporaneous process going on during all this earliest and
most important period of the mind's progress. And of the two
substances, mind and matter, it seems to be as certainly assured
or informed of the one as of the other, and of neither more
certainly than of the other — although mind is itself, and matter
is what is external. There must be a more intimate feeling,
indeed, of self, than of matter ; it is mind which is cognizant
of matter, not matter of mind. Mind is the self-conscious
Being ; matter is no part of itself, although so intimately
associated. But we must first destroy the laws of mind, or
rather destroy mind itself, before we can destroy the belief both
of matter and mind, and the knowledge of the laws of both.
Let us proceed, then, with the examination of the mind's pro
gress in the ascertainment of the laws and the qualities, whether
of mind or matter — its own subjective self, and objective
matter.

40 INTELLECT.

V.

The next quality of matter that would develop itself would
probably be that of extension. The feeling of tactual resist
ance would be prolonged or continued over a surface ; and
hence at once the idea of extension would arise, and the quality
of extension be discerned or apprehended. The feeling of
resistance would be multiplied in a continuous direction, and
the idea of extension would be the result. We had first the
feeling of resistance itself, producing the idea of hardness and
softness, solidity and fluidity — the primary ideas, no doubt, of
matter. Consequent, perhaps, upon these— the first intimations
of qualities — or, contemporaneously, in the very ideas — we
obtained the idea of substance, as that in which the qualities
resided or inhered. This would, if not immediately, yet ulti
mately, lead to the distinction between mind as a substance
and the qualities of mind. Matter as a substance, and mind
as a substance, would both now be apprehended, and that
probably, or possibly, u.pon\the first knowledge of qualities, or
suggestion of these as qualities of a substance. But the idea of
extension would follow upon the possession of the idea of hard
ness or softness, and in connexion with the continued feeling
of resistance. This substance without would now be perceived,
or learned, to be extended. It would be ascertained to be
an extended substance. The idea of magnitude would follow —
dimension — that which was contained within the limits given
to the feeling of resistance. The term magnitude must be
taken in the sense of dimension or size ; and greater or
lesser magnitude would be a subsequent idea, and the result of
a comparison. The idea of figure, again, would be awakened,
and while the abstract idea of figure would be obtained, matter
would be discerned to be something figured, as well as possess
ing dimension, magnitude, extension, hardness, softness. The
idea of matter would now be pretty complete — those qualities
which are essential to it being now ascertained. Extension,
figure, magnitude, hardness, softness, would now enter into
the conception of matter. We know riot how quick the mind

INTELLECT. 41

would be in clearing up the chaos that, no doubt, would for a
time possess it. We cannot attend to the infant's motions
without seeing those processes going on which are to reduce
this chaos to an admirable harmony. That glance of the eye —
that other grasp of the hand — the application of its magic
measuring wand — these are not mere random processes, or for
pleasure only : they are all parts of the process by which the
child is disintegrating or combining its ideas — forming out of
the chaos that is before it that order under which every object,
and every quality of every object, come at last to range them
selves. Magnitude and figure are obviously but modifications
of extension, but they are distinct ideas. Magnitude is the
degree or quantity of extension. Figure is extension in different
directions, and in each direction considered relatively to another.
A cube, for example, is equal extension in all directions — an
oblong, greater extension in one direction than in another —
while a circle, perhaps, may be said to be extension continuous
in no one direction, and every part of which is equidistant from
a common point. Now, although the mathematical definition
of these figures is not part of the information acquired at this
early period, there can be no doubt that the figures themselves
are appreciable, and are laid hold of by the infant mind. How
soon will the ball be distinguished from the surface on which
it rolls ! How are the solid dimensions of the cubes, and the
flat surface of the cards, which are respectively to construct its
airy mansions, ascertained ; while the table on which the man
sion is to arise is pretty well known to be higher than itself, or
the scaffolding by which it is reached. A long is soon distin
guished from a short body, a high from a low, a narrow
from a broad. Every variety of shape and figure is discerned
and noticed, although it could not be mathematically described.
The mind is delighted with one form and displeased with an
other. This toy is commended by its shape, while that is
thrown away. Solidity and fluidity have been already noticed
as among the earliest ascertained qualities of matter. Smooth
ness and roughness will be contemporaneous probably with
extension ; for as the latter is got by continued resistance.

42 INTELLECT.

every extended surface will present greater or less irregularity
in its resistance to the tactual feeling. The regularity or irre
gularity will be the degree of roughness or smoothness of the
extended surface. Contemporaneous with these acquired im
pressions or ideas will be those sensations of the organ of vision
with which they are ever after to be connected, and so con
nected that some at least of the former will seem to be the
informations of the sense to which the latter belong. Magni
tude and figure, although acquired in the manner described,
appear to be the informations of the eye, of sight. It is a pro
cess of association, however, in every instance in which the eye
seems to inform us either of the magnitude or figure of bodies.
This is no doubt wonderful, and almost at first incredible, but
it is already a philosophic truth. The sensations of the visual
organ go so simultaneously with those of the tactual, and, by
a subtle process of the mind, to which there is no example in
after years, the two classes of sensations are so associated, that
it is enough for the one class to exist, to recall the other, or to
give us the other. But why, then, it may be asked, do not the
sensations of touch recall those of sight ? Perhaps they would,
were the circumstances of the two senses reversed, or by having
been deprived of the sense of sight we had become suddenly
dependent upon that of touch. Had Milton not in his blind
ness all the colours as well as forms of Paradise in his eye, as
it were — at least in his mind, when he wrote his description of
the primeval garden ? Were we to depend upon touch as we
depend upon vision — were it to be the guide of our every move
ment as sight is, then every associated impression, no doubt,
would be easily recalled. But we are to depend upon sight,
and it is sight that treasures the impressions, or the mind in
connexion with sight. Sight is always active — touch is often
in abeyance ; the sensations of the former, therefore, will be
ever recalling those of the latter — the sensations of the latter
seldom those of the former. It must be obvious that solidity
and fluidity must be inferences of the mind, and not direct
objects of vision ; and yet, do we not appear to see an object
as solid, and another as fluid ? In like manner with hardness

INTELLECT. 43

and softness, smoothness and roughness : these all appear to
be direct objects of vision ; and yet it must be obvious that
they are but inferences of the mind, in connexion with certain
states or impressions of the eye. It is in the same manner that
we come to measure distance by the ear as well as by the eye,
and by both, as though it were a primary information of these
senses. Let the customary state of the organ and of the me
dium through which it acts be disturbed by some unusual cause,
by a temporary imperfection of the organ, or by some unusual
state of the atmosphere, and the inference of the mind will be
wrong, or the mind will be altogether at a loss — and the sound,
or the object of sight, will be thought to be nearer or more
distant than it is, or no inference at all will be ventured upon.
" A given degree of sound," says Abercrombie, " if we believe
it to have been produced in the next room, we might conclude
to proceed from the fall of some trifling body ; but if we sup
posed it to be at the distance of several miles, we should imme
diately conclude that it proceeded from a tremendous explosion."
How is the inference of the mind upset when a straight object
is seen through water ! The oar of the bargeman appears to
be broken in two — and a beam placed upright is bent from the
perpendicular.* Objects appear enlarged when seen through a
fog, while, in particular states of the atmosphere, land seems
much nearer than in other states, and vice versd.^ The ear of
the Indian huntsman or trapper can discern and tell the dis
tances of sounds when another would be altogether at a loss,
or would not hear the slightest noise. The encampment of the
enemy not far off is an inference from marks that would escape
any other eye. Time itself is measured by the trail of the
flying foe. It can be accurately told on what precise day they

* The rays of light, which are the t The mind judges from the dim-
only proper object of vision, are refracted ness of objects in a fog that they are
to the eye, so that the inference of the far off, while they have the magnitude
mind is as in the case of really crooked of actual nearness. The inference,
objects. The eye conveys the same intel- therefore, is, that the object is very
ligence to the mind, or experiences the large, because it is supposed to be dis-
same sensations, as when an actually bent tant .
or crooked object is presented to the sight .

44 INTELLECT.

passed over this part of their route, and how many days they
are before on their march, by a pressure in the grass which
it might be supposed impossible to discern. A sailor accus
tomed to the watch on the deck, hears sounds which no other
would detect, and sees a sail on the horizon, when, to another
eye, all is empty space. It is obvious, then, that there are
acquired impressions both of the sense of hearing and seeing,
and these are precisely the senses which are most exercised,
and on which we most depend. A blind person learns infer
ences in connexion with the sense of hearing to which another
is an utter stranger ; so the deaf person from the sense of
sight. Many blind persons can tell colours by the touch : so
powerful is the law of association in connexion with the pro
cesses of mind — a law which works with a force of which we
shall yet have many remarkable examples.

We but seem to see that sky, then, so many fathoms over
head : all that we see is its azure, and that is painted on the
retina of the eye. One would suppose that the space between
us and the sky was seen.* Those spaces through which we pass
daily, the objects on which the eye rests — the street, the
houses, the persons we meet, are not objects of sight, are
not truly seen — we mean as such : the eye can take in at any
time but a small surface, and that but a surface of colour — all
the rest is but an inference, or are but inferences of the mind
in connexion with certain visual sensations. The inferences
are so rapidly made, however, that the objects appear to be
real objects of vision. They are truly objects of another sense;
or the sensations and impressions of that other sense have
united with those of the eye to give us in connexion with the
impressions of the latter the magnitude, figure, and relative
distances of objects. It is as if we saw these, because they are
intimately connected with certain visual sensations. They are
all real, but they are not immediate objects of sight. Their

* Space is distance in all directions, retina: distance tlien cannot be seen; —

or that which allows of distance in all and multiply points upon the retina,

directions; but distance in any dircc- could that give us space, or the measure -

tion is but a line from a point on the ment of space ?

INTELLECT. 45

reality is not denied — it is only that they are not seen that is
asserted. That figure, that magnitude, that distance, are as
real as if they were seen, but it is truly by a mental process,
by a previous process of association, and now by a rapid process
of inference, that they are discerned.* How wonderful ! but
what is not wonderful in that system of which we are a part ?
It is the truest lesson of philosophy to learn when to wonder
and vet not to doubt.

The art of the painter may illustrate this subject. How is
it that he can represent on his canvas, figure, distance, and
almost action ? It is by simple attention to the laws of per
spective. We exclude from the consideration at present that
genius which cannot only draw well, and give the proper light
and shade, so as to deceive the eye, but can convey the senti
ment as well as the truth of nature. By an accurate attention
to the simple laws of perspective, an object can be so repre
sented as to deceive the keenest observer. The story of Zeuxis
and Parrhasius is well known. The birds came to pick the
grapes of Zeuxis : Zeuxis would withdraw the curtain of Par
rhasius. By the management of light and shade in dioramas
the optical deception is complete. It would be impossible to
say that the long drawn aisles of the cathedral are not before
us. The colosseum in London represents the city as seen from
the dome of St. Paul's, it were difficult not to say, as perfectly
as if it were actually beheld. Streets, bridges, houses, churches,
spires, omnibuses, drays, the crowds pouring along Fleet Street
and the Strand, the Thames, the new Parliament Houses,
Westminster Cathedral, the very towers of St. Paul's itself,
which are supposed to be at your feet, and the interminable

* Certain amusing speculations might lieve you to be standing there ; I be-

follow from this view — or results — could lieve you to be of such a height, such

we actually mark the process as it goes a form ; I believe you to have come in

on, the inferences of the mind as they such a direction, to be going in such an-

arise along with the sensations of sight. other. All would be inference, belief.

In addressing a friend we could only Only of colour could it be positively or

say, I infer you to be so and so ; I be- properly said, I see that colour.

46 INTELLECT.

extent of buildings, both on the Middlesex and Surrey side of
the river, all are so accurately given, with such effect of per
spective, that the spectator might challenge any one, so far as
the completeness of the illusion is concerned, to say that it is
not London ; and yet it is but a sheet of canvas. The same
impressions received by the eye as from the actual objects, the
mind, apart from other data, could not say that the actual
objects are not seen. By a proper shading the very roundness
of the human figure may appear to start from the canvas —
and the distances in landscape may be so accurately preserved,
that for a time you experience all the delights derivable from
actual scenery. The representation of the last judgment by
Michael Angelo so affected a spectator, that he said — his blood
chilled as if the reality were before him, and the very sound of the
trumpet seemed to pierce his ear. There must be much more in
all this than a mere attention to the laws of perspective. Mere
imitation is the lowest part of the painter's art. There are
not only forms to be accurately given, not only must the per
spective be preserved, but the sentiment that lies over a
landscape, and the life or expression that is in a countenance
or a scene, must be communicated. Then, in addition to the
illusion which correct perspective produces, you have all the
animation and all the mind which mind itself throws around
even the inanimate scene, and which must be in the living
forms and actions which are transferred to the picture.

" Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And show the immortal labours in my verse,
Where from the mingled strength of shade and light,
A new creation rises to my sight ;
Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow." *

But the truthfulness of the mere laws of perspective, and the
illusion which they are capable of exerting, show that what
appears to be the informations of vision, or the direct objects
of sight, are truly acquired perceptions.

* Addiaon. Letter from Italy to Lord Halifax,

INTELLECT. 47

VI.

We have thus, then, arrived at the essential properties of
matter. These are extension, divisibility, solidity or fluidity,
hardness or softness, and figure. Motion does not seem to be
a property of matter : it is something communicated to it, not
belonging to it. But the qualities enumerated enter into our
very conception of matter. It is by these qualities that matter
becomes known to us. The properties of fragrance, heat or
cold, sweetness or bitterness, are not essential to matter — they
do not enter into our idea of matter. We can conceive matter
totally destitute of them, as indeed it often is. But matter
without extension, or some degree of resistance to the touch,
would be a contradiction. And there is more than our having
given the name, Matter, to that which discovers itself to us
by these properties, which, according to Dr. Brown, seems to
be the amount of a quality or qualities being primary, or essen
tial to matter: they are so, according to him, because we have
called that matter which possesses these qualities. If we had
given the name of matter to that which excited the sensation
of colour, of fragrance, of heat or cold, of sound — these,
according to Dr. Brown, would have been the primary qualities
of matter. But these must first have been capable of intimat
ing the existence of matter to us, which they are not. They
do not seem to be capable of intimating even anything external
to us. It is not to them that we have traced either the idea
of externality, or that of matter as a substance without us.
Besides, they are fluctuating, varying, qualities. They may be
possessed, or they may not. They are possessed by some
bodies — they are not by others. To give the name of matter,
then, to them, would be but to assign another name to qualities,
or rather to sensations, for they could not themselves intimate
that they belonged to an external substance. Or if they could
intimate this, there would be as many kinds of matter as there
were qualities, for none of them were essential to all matter.
But there must be some permanent or invariable qualities
before we can employ a name significant of them all, or of

48 INTELLECT.

which they were significant. According to Dr. Brown himself,
extension and resistance are the only two qualities which can
invariably be predicated of matter ; for figure and magnitude
are modifications of extension, — as solidity and fluidity, hard
ness, softness, are of resistance. Both solidity and fluidity,
both hardness and softness, are not essential to matter ; but
either of them must be — that is, matter must be either solid or
fluid, hard or soft. We cannot conceive the absence of both
at one and the same time, but we can conceive the absence of
one of them. The same with roughness and smoothness.
But extension and some degree of resistance must always be
possessed — must always be present, and therefore it is that Dr.
Brown himself has reduced the primary qualities of matter to
these two. They may be reduced still further, viz., to resist
ance ; for extension is rather a property of space than of
matter. Matter, even a monad, is resistance in space. What
is essential to matter, what enters into our very idea of it, is
called a primary quality. All the other qualities of matter are
called secondary.

The non-essential, or secondary qualities of matter, are
those which are not invariably possessed by it. We could not
give an unvarying, or one, name to that which was itself vary
ing and more than one. The two qualities which are always
possessed by matter, never separate from it, and one ofivhich
is that ivhich intimates its existence, these two qualities are
extension and resistance. Under extension we include magni
tude and figure ; under resistance, hardness, softness, solidity,
fluidity, smoothness, roughness. And these are objects of the
sense of touch. The qualities which are the objects of the
other senses may be possessed or may not ; and hence they are
called secondary. The colours of bodies, their fragrance, their
sonorousness, or, again, their sapidity or insipidity — these vary
with the object : some objects possess them, and more or fewer
of them ; others may possess none of them, or some of them in
so small a degree as hardly to be the object of sense. But
every object is extended, and has the power or property of
resistance. The material framework by which we are sur-

INTELLECT. 49

rounded, including this world and these globes, far into the
boundless regions of space, but presents these two essential
qualities — extension and resistance. Weight or gravitation is
a law of matter, rather than a property. Weight is but the
action of gravitation which pervades all matter — a law which
preserves the universe in order, and but for which everything
would rush into original chaos. No particle of matter would
cohere to another : no planet would seek its centre, or rather a
planet or globe could not exist. We would have Epicurus's
dance of atoms, — and yet why that dance ? — why motion at
all ? — and if stationary, by what law ? The truth is, it is
impossible for our minds, at least, to conceive any other state
of things than that which prevails ; and we are led inevitably
to a presiding mind, the author, and upholder, of all the order
and all the harmony that obtain in the universe.

The centripetal and centrifugal forces seem to be the two
grand agencies by which the universe is maintained in position,
or in its harmonious movements. The centripetal, or law of
gravitation, is that which regulates the internal movements of
every world ; and thus, as extension and resistance, with their
varied modifications, form the only primary qualities of matter,
so these two forces, with their modifications, may form the two
pervading laivs of matter, by which its position and motion are
secured, and order and action are maintained.

Weight, therefore, one of the apparent properties of matter,
belongs rather to one of the two laws we have mentioned. By
means of original principles so few does God accomplish His
purposes. Matter launched into space, is an extended, and
solid, or fluid, substance, and its motions are modifications of
the centripetal and centrifugal laws ; these, at least, are the
two great general laws which guide its motion, and keep every
particle of matter in its place. A derangement of these laws
would, perhaps, derange the properties of extension and resist
ance ; at all events, the former. It is by the coherence of the
particles of bodies that we have anything extended, and may
not that coherence, and the laws of fluid bodies, by which,
respectively, we have solidity and fluidity, be owing to the

D

50 INTELLECT.

same law of gravity which makes every particle seek its
centre ?

Locke makes the secondary qualities of matter but modifica
tions of the primary, and those other properties, as that of heat
to melt wax, or fuse iron, which are generally regarded as powers
rather than qualities of matter — he maintains to be as much
qualities as the other. He spends many useless pages to shew
that the secondary qualities of matter are but modifications of
the primary. It would be altogether idle to follow him in such
an attempt. Colour, taste, smell, and even heat and cold,
according to him, are produced by the bulk, figure, and motion
of the corpuscles of matter. Heat, to use his own words, is
but " a certain sort and degree of motion in the minute par
ticles of our nerves or animal spirits, caused by the corpuscles
of some other body." In this, and the doctrine which Locke
seemed to hold — that the primary qualities of matter could not
be discerned by the mind but by the medium of impulse, so
that, in the case of distant objects, there must be the interven
tion of insensible particles, in order to perception — this great
and original thinker seems to have fallen into the error of en
deavouring to account for what was inexplicable, not satisfied,
in this instance, at least, to confess ignorance, or to refer the
matter to a mere original law of our constitution.* His suppo
sition that the secondary may be but modifications of the
primary qualities, is a mere gratuitous assumption. Here, as
elsewhere, explanation is not necessary, and an ultimate law of
our constitution is the whole of the matter, or is a sufficient
explanation.

The ideas which we have endeavoured to trace may now be
supposed to pour in upon the infant's mind in a continuous
stream. It will no longer be restrained by the slow process of
marking every feeling as it arises, attending to it, and forming
its conclusions The process, as traced by Dr. Brown, by which

* It is by tin's doctrine that Locke diate perception. This, however, might
seems to favour the representationalist fairly bo regarded as a casual view,
theory of perception, as opposed to irnme- rather than a settled doctrine of Locke.

INTELLECT. 51

the feeling or idea of extension is obtained, illustrates the
gradual and elaborate formation, if I may so speak, of many of
the simplest ideas. We do not think that such an elaborate
process, as that which Dr. Brown describes, is necessary in order
to the idea in question. We do not see why the feeling of re
sistance, prolonged over a continuous surface, is not enough to
give us this idea. It is very evident, indeed, that the supposi
tion which Dr. Brown makes of a cube being placed in the hand
of an infant would not of itself give the idea of a square, or the
simple idea of extension. It is probable, that in such a case
the feeling would be very little different from what would be if
even a lesser extent of the infant's hand were impressed — from,
in fact, a simple tactual sensation. But the hand carried along
a surface is different, and seems perfectly capable of suggesting
the idea of extension. There is a continued feeling of resist
ance, which, surely, is just the idea of extension, or all that is
necessary to awaken it. We shall yet have occasion to refer to
Dr. Brown's account of this matter when speaking of the idea
of time. Meanwhile, we allude to his view, and to that which
is simpler, but still involving a process of marking, or observa
tion, on the part of the infant, for the purpose of directing
attention to the difference between the child's progress before
it has acquired its idea?, and when it is in the act of acquiring
them, and when now it has got the rudiments, so to speak, of
its education, has learnt the letters, and can form them into a
connected and intelligible language. Hitherto, its processes
have been truly like that of a subsequent period of life, when
the letters have to be learnt in order to easy, rapid, and intelli
gent reading. All the signs or marks of certain ideas have
been acquired, and now these ideas flow in upon it without its
knowing, or, in the least degree, remarking how they come.
The eye can now take in and measure, read, distance, figure,
magnitude ; the informations of all the senses are discriminated,
and yet associated ; and there is no difficulty now of, even at
the most rapid rate, telling all that is contained, and separately
understanding every several hint, or information, in the whole
volume that is spread out to the eye, the ear, and the other

52 INTELLECT.

senses. But we are anticipating, and there are a few other
simple ideas that have not yet been accounted for, and which,
when obtained, seem, along with those already traced, to form
the grand elementary ideas of the mind ; we mean the ideas of
space, time, power, motion and rest, and number.

VII.— SPACE.

The account which Locke gives of Space, or the idea of
Space, is this : speaking of solidity he says, — " This is the idea
which belongs to body, whereby we conceive it to fill space.
The idea of which filling of space, is, that where we imagine
any space taken up by a solid substance, we conceive it so to
possess it, that it excludes all other solid substances." Locke
thus traces our idea of space to solidity filling it ; the idea of a
solid substance gives us the idea of space, as that in which it
exists, or may be said to be. Dr. Reid's account of the idea is
the following : — " We are next," says he, " to consider our
notion of space. It may be observed, that although space may
not be perceived by any of our senses, when all matter is re
moved, yet, when we perceive any of the primary qualities,
space presents itself as a necessary concomitant, for there can
neither be extension nor motion, nor figure, nor division, nor
cohesion of parts, without space. There are only two of our
senses," Dr. Reid continues, "by which the notion of space
enters into the mind, to wit, touch and sight. If we suppose
a man to have neither of these senses, I do not see how he could
ever have any conception of space. Supposing him to have
both, until he sees or feels other objects, he can have no notion
of space. It has neither colour nor figure to make it an object
of sight ; it has no tangible quality to make it an object of
touch. But other objects of sight and touch carry the notion
of space along with them ; and not the notion only, but the
belief of it ; for a body could not exist if there was no space to
contain it. It could not move if there was no space. Its
situation, its distance, and every relation it has to other bodies,
suppose space.''

INTELLECT. 53

Such is the origin of the idea according to these several
philosophers. Locke separates the idea of space from that of
solidity, by supposing a body moving out of its place, and no
other coming into it. Keid says, — " A body could not exist if
there was no space to contain it. It could not move if there
was no space ; its situation, its distance, and every relation it
has to other bodies, suppose space." The two things which
suggest the idea, therefore, are solidity, or body occupying
space, and motion. Dr. Reid says, — " There are only two of
our senses by which the notion of space enters into the mind,
to wit, touch and sight." In this he rather defers to an opinion
of Berkeley than adopts it. Berkeley held that there was a
visible extension, and a visible space, as well as a tangible, being
that extent of the visual organ that was affected by the outward
object or space. But we might as well speak of an audible ex
tension, and audible space ; for, no doubt, there is a certain extent
of the organ of hearing affected by every impression which sound
makes upon it, and, perhaps, in proportion to the distance of
the sound, and magnitude of the body producing it, as when a
rock tumbles from some great height, or a bell, like that of
Lincoln Cathedral, emits its tones. But we do not speak of
audible extension, or audible space. The idea, no doubt, enters
the mind, through touch alone, and is got prior to the power
acquired by the eye of discerning figure, magnitude, distance,
motion. It arises, no doubt, with the very notion of solidity,
and the perception of motion. Locke, probably, gives the true
account of it when he says, — " If we can have the idea of one

«/ 7 */

body moved, whilst others are at rest, then the place it deserted
gives us the idea of pure space,"

But when we have got the idea, what is the amount of it ?
Perhaps, we may in vain put this question. We quote again
the words of Dr. Reid : — " But, though the notion of space
seems not to enter at first into the mind, until it is introduced
by the proper objects of sense, yet, being once introduced, it
remains in our conception and belief, though the objects which
introduced it be removed. We see no absurdity in supposing
a body to be annihilated ; but the space that contained it re-

54 INTELLECT.

mains ; and to suppose that annihilated seems to be absurd.
It is so much allied to nothing or emptiness, that it seems
incapable of annihilation or of creation.

" Space not only retains a firm hold of our belief, even when
we suppose all the objects that introduced it to be annihilated,
but it swells to immensity. We can set no limits to it, either
of extent or of duration. Hence we call it immense, eternal,
immovable, and indestructible. But it is only an immense,
eternal, immovable, and indestructible void or emptiness.
Perhaps, we may apply to it what the Peripatetics said of their
first matter, that whatever it is, it is potentially only, not
actually.

" When we consider parts of space that have measure and
figure, there is nothing we understand better, nothing about
which we reason so clearly, and to so great extent. Extension
and figure are circumscribed parts of space, and are the object
of geometry, a science in which human reason has the most
ample field, and can go deeper, and with more certainty, than
in any other. But when we attempt to comprehend the whole
of space, and to trace it to its origin, we lose ourselves in the
search."

Perhaps there is not one of our ideas that is so puzzling as
that of space, unless it be that of power, and even it is more
capable of being grasped than that of space. " An immense,
eternal, immovable, and indestructible void or emptiness!"
Is that an idea that we can take hold of ? or is it the idea of
anything ? And yet, it is perhaps as good a description of the
idea as we can have, while space itself may be susceptible of
no better definition. Kant and the German metaphysicians
deny its reality, and make it a mere form of our sensibility.
This, however, is about as intelligible as space itself. It would
be as easy to understand the one as the other. Nay, I have
some idea of space, however puzzling the idea, but I have no
idea of what a form of sensibility is, distinct from the sensi
bility itself; and if space is to be resolved into a mere state of
our own sensibility, then it is nothing. The mind will not
give up its ideas in that way. An idea must have something

INTELLECT. 55

for which it stands. It is true the mind may conceive of what
never existed : it may have the idea of a centaur and a golden
mountain. But these are mere combinations of ideas, and the
ideas of which they are composed must have had their proto
types in reality. It is not of such ideas that we speak, but
those simple ideas that are forced upon us in spite of ourselves,
which we cannot divest ourselves of, and which seem to retain
possession of the mind only because there is that of which they
are the ideas. We must be content with the idea at least, and
believe there is so much as the idea goes for.

Dr. Samuel Clarke makes it an attribute, and contends that
as an attribute must have a subject, and we cannot conceive the
time when space did not exist, we have an argument for the
existence of God.

But space as an attribute is as unintelligible as space as a
form of thought. Neither of these seems to convey any mean
ing. We believe we must be content with the idea we have,
and be satisfied that that exists which answers to the idea of
our minds. Is that to be resolved into a mere form of thought
or sensibility through which the planets wheel their courses, in
orbits of such inconceivable extent, and the most distant bounds
of which are but giving up to the telescope, and to the calcu
lations of the lonely astronomer, planets hitherto undiscovered,
and traces of fields still more distant, studded with worlds the
more interesting that they are so remote ? The bird on its
free and noble wing would hardly thank the philosopher for
his form of thought, or for an attribute to fly in. I suppose
we shall take our pleasure, or perform our journeys, independ
ently of the philosopher's notion of space. We shall not allow
ourselves to be restrained by it in our efforts for the good of
our species, or forget that the world only bounds the empire
of evil.

We cannot help quoting the following characteristic passage
from Dr. Chalmers : — " We cannot take leave of Mr. Cousin,
without rendering the homage of our grateful admiration to one
who, at this moment, holds the balance between the two philoso
phies of Germany and Scotland. It is true that in his theology

56 INTELLECT.

he is altogether wrong, though, judging from the general spirit
and drift of his speculations, we should say of him, that he is
not unhopeful. But what has earned for him our peculiar
esteem is his having so nobly asserted the prerogatives of com
mon sense against the sceptical philosophy of Kant. In parti
cular, his manly, and withal most effectual defence of the
reality of space and time, might well put to shame certain of
our own savans, who, in compliance with this wretched jabber
of the school at Konigsberg, now speak of both these elements
as having no valid significancy in themselves, but as being
mere products of idealism, or forms of human thought. In the
immediate successors of Kant we can easily forgive this extra
vagance, as Fichte, of whom we should not have expected, for
one moment, that the ' common sense' philosophy would ever
lead him to give up one iota of his transcendentalism. But
although common sense was utterly powerless against it, yet
upon one occasion it had nearly given way, when brought into
serious conflict with a not uncommon sensibility ; for Fichte,
as we were pleased to find, though a metaphysician, and in the
most abstract form, so for proved himself to be a possessor of
our own concrete humanity, as to fall in love. But circum
stances forced him to quit for a season the lady of his affections ;
and, when at the distance of 300 miles, German miles, too, he
thus writes to her : — ' Again left to myself, to my solitude, to
my own thoughts, my soul flies directly to your presence. How
is this ? It is but three days since I have seen you, and I must
often be absent from you for a longer period than that. Dis
tance is but distance, and I am equally separated from you in
Flaach or in Zurich. But how comes it that this absence has
seemed to me longer than usual, that my heart longs more
earnestly to be with you, that I imagine I have not seen you
for a week ? Have I philosophized falsely of late about dis
tance ? Oh, that our feelings must still contradict the firmest
conclusions of our reason !' Mr. Morell deprecates what he calls
the ignoble application of ridicule to philosophy; yet we should
not be sorry if, with the possession of such rich materials for
the exposure of that intellectual Quixotism into which so many

INTELLECT. 57

minds in Germany and elsewhere are now running wild, some
one having the talents of Butler or Cervantes were to arise, and
banish this grotesque and outrageous folly from the face of the
earth.

" Were it confined to Germany, we should have more tolera
tion for it. But it is now making frequent inroad within our
own borders ; and we are grieved to find that Mr. Whewell
expresses himself as if carried by the prestige of the German
philosophy and its outlandish nomenclature. We are not even
sure if Sir John Herschell be altogether free from it. We
-shall exceedingly regret if the manly English sense of these
great masters in physical science shall prove to have been in
the least vitiated by this admixture from abroad. In the face
of their high authority, we shall persist in regarding the whole
of the intermediate space between ourselves and the planet
Uranus as an objective reality ; and when we read of this
planet ' trembling along the line of their analysis/ we shall
look still farther off, or still more objectively, to the space that
is beyond it, nay, and shall infer, with all confidence, that
there must be a force outside which is disturbing its movements.
We are persuaded that common sense prevailed, and their
metaphysics were for a time forgotten, when, in the glorious
discovery of Le Verrier, they beheld the verification both of an
objective space and an objective causality."*

Cousin notices these three particulars connected with the
idea of space as distinguished from that of body. The idea of
space comes to us as of something that is possessed of necessary
existence: that of body comes to us as of that which may
be, or may not be : the idea of space is that of something which
has no limits, — that of body, of something that is limited on
every side: the idea of space is wholly one of reason, that of
body is accompanied with a sensible representation.

Space, then, is a necessary existence. We cannot conceive it
not to be : and it is infinite, without any limits. It is not our
senses that give us the idea of it : it springs up in connexion

* North British Review, No. XII., pp. 305-307.

58 INTELLECT.

with the idea of body iu space, or motion through space. When
Dr. Keid says that there are only two senses through which the
idea can be introduced to the mind, sight and touch, he means
merely that it is in connexion with the objects of these senses
that the idea comes to us. He says, a body could not exist if there
was no space to contain it : it could not move if there was no
space. He calls it "an immense, that is, infinite, eternal, immov
able, and indestructible void or emptiness." With Cousin space
is objective or has objectivity , for he speaks of it as infinite. It
would be absurd to speak of a form of thought as infinite.
Chalmers also contends for its objectivity. " We shall persist"
he says, " in regarding the whole of the intermediate space be-
tiveen ourselves and the planet Uranus as an objective reality"
The peculiarity regarding space is, that it is not a substance of
any kind, and yet it cannot be called merely an attribute, as
Dr. Clarke regards it, while it is an " objective reality." What
can that be which is neither a substance nor an attribute, and
yet has an objective existence ? But what is a substance ? Can
we give any other description of it than as that which reveals
qualities ? May it not, then, be as intelligible a desertion of
space that it is that in which a substance exists ? Substance
is that in which qualities exist — space is that in which sub
stance exists. It is not a quality or attribute of substance, but
it is that in which substance exists, but which itself again
might exist without substance. Farther our ideas cannot go.
There is one difficulty connected with it, that it is eternal, and
infinite, and necessary, and has an existence. Are not these the
very attributes and description of Deity ? and are we not thus
making something distinct from God, co-eternal with him, and
possessed like himself of infinite and necessary existence ? But
although we make it an existence^ we do not make it Being ;
and our idea of it is, that in which Being exists. We say,
farther than this our ideas cannot go. We know it, at least,
as that in which matter exists, and in which matter moves.
Whether it be equally necessary for spiritual Beings to exist,
and expatiate in, it is impossible for us to say. In one of the
most metaphysical and profoundest of our poets, we find the

INTELLECT. 59

expression, " placeless as spirit." We cannot, at all events,
conceive it not existing ; and we believe it to be one of the
attributes of God, that he fills space. It is a sublime thought
to conceive space infinite, space not as being, but as that in
which being exists, and God filling it with his presence, and
yet so filling it as that he does not exist in parts, and is not
divisible as space is. And it is a thought of Foster's, apart
from astronomy altogether, and to which he ascends by one
reach of his own great intellect, or which he arrived at by a
subtlety peculiarly his own, that while we cannot speak of mat
ter as infinite, yet in infinity there may be space to allow worlds
for ever multiplying, so that go where we will there may be
no limits to creation ; and it may be part of the occupation of
blessed spirits hereafter to explore the universe, and to find no
end to their discoveries arid their ever enlarging contemplations.
We give this thought of Foster's merely from memory ; but
we think we have accurately conveyed it. The thought sup
poses a reconstruction of the universe after its final destruction,
or as some have regarded the dissolution of the universe, plainly
foretold in Scripture, to be no more than itself a purification
or reconstruction, both this world and those worlds that people
immensity may remain to afford that glorious field for actual
observation which Foster has pointed at or suggested in one
of his writings.

TIME.

Time must always have been as well as space. We do not
believe in time, however, as objective, as having objectivity. It
is a very different idea from that of space. Space is without
us : time is neither within us nor without us. Shall we say
that time is merely a form of thought ? And yet, what is
time? Let it check the vanity of speculatists that they
cannot define that of which they have yet so clear and distinct
an idea.

Locke refers the origin of this notion to the succession of
ideas in the mind, that succession marked by the mind, and

60 INTELLECT.

with it growing up or arising the idea of time. Dr. Brown,
again, thinks that it is in acquiring the idea of extension that
we acquire the idea of time, and he supposes that the latter is
necessary to the former. He supposes it is by the fingers of
the child closing upon a circular body, as a ball, or some body
of different dimensions, in the hand, that the idea is awakened.
The fingers reach the different parts of the body in different
times : this is marked by the child, and the idea of time grows
up. This, according to Dr. Brown, is even before the idea of
an external world, or indeed of externality at all. It is the in
terruption merely of certain series of feelings at different points,
giving different lengths, and the co-existence of the series
awakening the notion of breadth ; and thus the ideas of time
and extension are simultaneous. The idea of extension is thus,
according to Dr. Brown, before that of a body that is extended.
But is it not possible that in some, nay in many, out of the
millions of cases, such a process as is supposed was never gone
through ; and how did the ideas of time and extension arise in
these cases ? It is necessary to Dr. Brown's theory that every
infant has gone through this process. Now it is quite suppos-
able that many an infant never had a ball placed in its hand,
or any body of different dimensions. Or if Dr. Brown were to
peril his theory upon the obstruction of other objects — its own
limbs, for example, when it moved its hand, is the supposition
at all probable that the idea of time in every instance came
into the mind in this way ? This may have been one of the
ways, but even as one of them, it seems a fanciful source for
the idea, — rather a precarious hold for such an idea to depend
upon. It seems far more likely that the idea arose from a
series of feelings of whatever kind, or even, according to Locke,
the procession of thoughts in the mind. The idea of the inner
self, repeated in the mind, frequently borne in upon it, and
thus duration or time accompanying every such idea or act of
memory — for there is memory in every feeling of self-conscious
ness, otherwise how could there be a reference of any, and
particularly every new feeling to self ? — we say duration, or
time, accompanying every act of memory, implied in self-

INTELLECT. (51

consciousness, the idea of time would necessarily arise. We
would trace, therefore, this idea to a series of feelings of what
ever kind ; it is not necessary to condescend upon the particu
lar series. Prolonged self -consciousness, or ever-recurring self-
consciousness, seems enough to give us the idea.

I find that this is precisely the view of Cousin. We cannot
refrain from quoting the passage in which he brings out his
view, so exact is the coincidence between the views we have
briefly explained, and those of Cousin, elaborated at greater
length : —

" II en est de 1'origine de 1'idee du temps comme de 1'origine
de 1'idee de 1'espace. Distinguez encore 1'ordre d'acquisition
de nos idees et leur ordre logique. Dans 1'ordre logique des
idees, 1'idee d'une succession quelconque d'evenements pre*-
suppose cello du temps ; il ne pent y avoir de succession qu'a
la condition d'une duree continue aux differents points de
laquelle soient attache's les divers nombres de la succes
sion. Otez la continuite du temps, vous otez la possibilite de
la succession des evenements, comme etant otee la continuite
de 1'espace est abolie la possibilite de la juxta-position et de la
coexistence des corps. Mais, dans 1'ordre chronologique, c'est
au contraire 1'idee d'une succession d'e'venements qui precede
1'idee du temps qui les renferme. Je ne veux pas dire, pour le
temps comme pour 1'espace, que nous ayons une idee claire et
achevee d'une succession, et qu'ensuite arrive dans 1'entende-
meut 1'idee d'un temps qui renferme cette succession : je dis
seulement qu'il faut bien que nous ayons d'abord la perception
de quelques evenements, pour que nous concevions que ces
evdnements sont dans un temps. Le temps est le lieu des
evenements comme 1'espace est celui des corps: qui n'aurait
1'idee d'aucun evenement, n'aurait 1'idee d'aucun temps. Si
done la condition logique de 1'idee de succession est dans 1'idee
de temps, la condition chronologique de 1'idee du temps est
dans 1'idee de succession.

" Nous voila conduits a ce resultat, que 1'idee de succession
est 1'occasion, 1'antecedent chronologique de la conception
necessaire du temps. Mais toute idee de succession est une

62 INTELLECT.

acquisition tie 1'experience ; reste a savoir de quelle experience.
Est-ce celle des sens ou celle des operations de Tame ? La
premiere succession nous est-elle donnee dans le spectacle des
evenements exterieurs, ou dans la conscience des evenements
qui se passent en nous ?

" Prenez une succession d'e'venements exterieurs: pour que
ces e'venements se succedent, il faut qu'il y ait un premier, un
second, un troisienie evenernent, etc. Mais si, quand vous
voyez le second evenement, vous ne vous souveniez pas du pre
mier, il n'y aurait pas de second, il n'y aurait pas de succession
pour vous ; vous vous arreteriez toujours a un premier qui
n'aurait pas meme le caractere de premier, puisqu'il n'y aurait
pas de second. L 'intervention de la memoire est done neces-
saire pour concevoir une succession quelconque. Or, la me-
moire n'a pour objet direct rien d'exterieur ; elle ne se rapporte
point immediatement aux choses, mais a nous. Quand on dit :
Nous nous souvenons d'une personne, nous nous souvenons d'un
lieu, cela ne veut pas dire autre chose, sinon que nous nous sou
venons d'avoir ete voyant tel lieu, voyant ou entendant telle per
sonne. Nous n'avons meinoire que de nous-memes, car il n'y a
memoire qu'a cette condition qu'il y ait eu conscience. Si done
la conscience est la condition de la m&moire, comme la memoire
est la condition de I' idee de succession, il s'ensuit que la premiere
succession nous est donnee en nous-memes, dans la conscience,
dans les objets et les ph&iomenes propres de la conscience, dans
nos pensees, dans nos idges. Mais si la premiere succession qui
nous est donnee est celle de nos idees, comme a toute succession
est attachee necessairement la conception du temps, il s'ensuit
encore que la premiere idee que nous ayons du temps est celle
du temps dans lequel nous sommes ; et de meme que la pre
miere succession est pour nous la succession de nos iclees, de
meme la premiere duree est pour nous notre propre duree ; la
succession des evenements exterieurs, et la duree dans laquelle
s'accomplissent ces evenements, ne nous sont connues qu'apres.
Je ne dis pas que la succession des evenements exterieurs ne
soit qu'unc induction de la succession de nos idees ; je ne dis
pas non plus que la duree cxterieure ne soit qu'une induction

INTELLECT. 63

de notre duree personnelle ; mais je dis que nous ne pouvons
avoir 1'idee ni d'une succession ni d'une duree exterieure
qu'apres avoir eu la conscience et la memoire de quelques
phenomenes interieurs, et par consequent la conception de
notre duree propre. Ainsi, en resume, la premiere duree qui
nous est donnee, c'est la notre, parceque la premiere succession
qui nous est donne'e est la succession de nos idees."

" Le merite de Locke," says Cousin, " est d'avoir etabli que
1'idee du temps, de la duree, de 1'eternite nous est suggeree
par 1'idee d'une succession quelconque d'evenements, et que
cette succession n'est pas prise dans le monde exte'rieur, mais
dans le monde de la conscience."

Locke says, — " There is another sort of distance, or length,
the idea whereof we get, not from, the permanent parts of
space, but from the fleeting and perpetually perishing parts of
succession. This we call duration, the simple modes whereof
are any different lengths of it whereof we have distinct ideas,
as hours, days, years, &c., time and eternity.

The answer of a great man to one who asked what time was,
— " Si non rogas intelligo," (which amounts to this : the more
I set myself to think of it, the less I understand it,) might
perhaps persuade one, that time which reveals all other things,
is itself not to be discovered. " To understand time and
eternity," Locke proceeds, " we ought with attention to con
sider what idea it is we have of duration, and how we came by
it. It is evident to any one who will but observe what passes
in his own mind, that there is a train of ideas which constantly
succeed one another in his understanding, as long as he is
awake. Reflection on these appearances of several ideas, one
after another in our ideas, is that which furnishes us with the
idea of succession ; and the distance between any parts of that
succession, or between the appearance of any two ideas in our
mind, is that we call duration."

Such is Locke's account of the origin of this idea. Cousin
fastens upon Locke a very unnecessary quarrel, as if the latter
confounded the succession of ideas from which we get the idea

64 INTELLECT.

of time, or duration, with time, or duration itself. We think
no one can read the passage which Cousin quotes to justify this
charge, without coming to the conclusion that Cousin has
either sought a quarrel — if we may express ourselves in so
homely phrase — or that he himself has misapprehended Locke's
meaning. Locke says : — " That we have our notion of succes
sion from this original, (the original as already given,) viz.,
from reflection on the train of ideas which we find to appear,
one after another, in our own minds, seems plain to me, in
that we have no perception of duration, but by considering the
train of ideas that take their turns in our understandings."
This is not to confound the succession of our ideas and time,
but just to say that we have no conception of time but from
this succession, as we have no perception of it but from this
succession. Cousin perhaps confounded conception and per
ception, and thought that Locke meant to say, that succession
itself is our only idea or conception of time, as it is in the suc
cession that we have the perception of time. Locke, however,
according to Cousin, has the honour of tracing to their proper
source the idea of time, duration, and, as a mode of that idea,
the idea of eternity.

While the notion of time is derived from succession, it is
not itself succession. Succession only measures time : time is
itself absolute. Events in time in no way affect time : it
remains absolute.

Time is therefore necessary, as space is. We are not able
to conceive no time, or time not existing. And thus we are
led to the idea of Eternity — for, as it is impossible to conceive
time not to be, it must always be. The two Eternities meet in
God ; for as He has existed in the one, it seems impossible to
conceive the other has not somehow its existence also in Him.
The name, " / am," " Jehovah," accordingly, is the peculiar
title which he challenges for himself. Amid such mysteries are
we situated. They touch — they press upon us on every side —
we cannot escape them.

" Si non rogas intelligo," was a wise answer to what, except

INTELLECT. (>5

as an inquiry connected with the history and philosophy of our
ideas, is an idle question. We cannot explain time, as we can
not explain space. But we can understand it if we do not
seek an explanation.

POWER.

Another of our simple elementary ideas is that of poiver.
It appears, like those already considered by us, to be very early
acquired. It would seem to be naturally suggested by the
observation of change, whether within us or without. The
succession in the mind's own ideas or states, or the succession in
the many instances of it in the external world, might awaken
the idea. Perhaps it is not necessary that the succession be
one which has been frequently observed, and which is invari
able in its operation ; it may be enough that there is succession.
Just as the idea of time arises with the succession of ideas in
the mind, it being, perhaps, impossible for the mind to mark
its own ideas, referring them always to the same internal self,
without acquiring the idea of time, so may the idea of power ;
as it would be natural to refer to some source, or power of pro
ducing them, the changes in the mind's states, whether of
thought or of feeling. Some mysterious power of awakening or
producing those thoughts or those feelings, which the mind had
present to it, or even before they were referred to mind as such,
would be felt, or conceived of, in the very thought or the very
feeling present for the moment. It would, perhaps, be a very
early question, — Whence these thoughts — whence these feel
ings — what power has produced them ? It is an intuition of
the mind, that every effect must have its cause. How soon
would the feelings or states of the mind be recognised to be
effects ? The idea seems to be implied, at least, in the reference
of certain internal states to an external cause. How could
there be such a reference without the idea of cause ? For
what does the reference amount to ? Is it not this ? — There is
something without me which produces this state or feeling. The
development of our ideas is something like the opening of the

6G INTELLECT.

leaves of a flower. The one is involved in the other, and hardly
separable from it ; it is like a part of it ; it opens as the other
opens. The idea of power would brood, perhaps, over the mind
at its earliest dawning. It would be involved almost in its earliest
consciousness. It would be felt to be & power that was stirring
in that first consciousness. At all events, it would undoubtedly
accompany the first act of reference by the mind to something
without. It would thus be before the observation of external
changes. The idea would not be very definite, certainly, but
still it would be possessed as soon as the mind made a reference
of one of its feelings to something without. Cousin seems to
argue that the idea, or the principle of causality, must be pos
sessed in order to the reference. So it must, but in this sense,
that the idea, or the principle, may be developed contemporane
ously with the reference, or in the reference. Something must
obviously call the principles of the mind into play ; and the
principle of causality — the principle that every effect must have
a cause, which is just the idea of power, may be awakened
by that which calls for the reference of a feeling or feelings to
something without. The idea of poiver, or causality, is, that an
effect must have a cause — that there is something to produce
the effect ; some " je ne sais quoi," as Cousin phrases it, which
produces the effect. That idea, then, in virtue of a law or
principle of the mind — that principle or law itself, now for the
first time called into play — that idea may be begotten in the
very appeal to the inner consciousness by something without,
and the answering reference of the inner consciousness to the
external cause. The principle is called into play — the idea is
begotten — and externality is marked — all at the same instant.
Our ideas, we have said, expand like the leaves of a flower, one
in the other. But the idea may be before this, and, in virtue of
the principle or law to recognise power where there are effects,
power may have been recognised in consciousness itself, or in
virtue of consciousness — consciousness the effect of some power.
If the idea was thus early, it must have been in a very unde
veloped state. Some cause of its feelings may have been
demanded by the infant, and that when it was yet but existing

, INTELLECT. 67

in a state of simple consciousness. It is very manifest, at all
events, that the idea must have been developed, if not before,
at least in the very appeal of the outward to the inward, when
the outward and the inward were distinguished. " There is
something without me loliich produces this feeling." The mind
would be surprised into the knowledge of the external world,
or rather of externality, and of power at the same time. The
one might not take effect a moment sooner than the other.
There would, perhaps, be no difference here between the logical
and chronological order of the two ideas — they would be
simultaneous ; or, the logical order would be, the principle of
causality, and then the idea of externality ; but chronologically
they would not be distinguished. The feeling excited by ex
ternality would be the occasion of both.

But here, again, the origin of the idea is distinct from the
idea itself. What is the idea ? What is implied in the idea
of power ? What do we mean by causality ? What is implied
in the principle that an effect must have a cause ? This is one
of the most vexed questions in philosophy. It gave birth to
Hume's famous Essay on Necessary Connexion, and Dr. Brown's
Essay on Cause and Effect, or " Inquiry into the Kelation of
Cause and Effect." Cousin calls the idea of power, or " 1'Idee
de Cause," one of the most important belonging to the human
mind, and that which plays the grandest part, both in human
life, and in the works of philosophers. The opposition which
the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland offered to Sir
John Leslie's appointment to the mathematical chair in the
University of Edinburgh, because of his views on this question,
apparently espousing the doctrine of Hume, which seemed to
lead to Atheism, was what gave occasion to Dr. Brown's " In
quiry." Every philosopher, perhaps, has expressed his views
on the subject; and it is not confined to philosophy, but
theology reckons it of sufficient importance, to demand its
notice at least ; while science, too, has its theories on the
engrossing question.

If we consult our own consciousness, we have no difficulty
in determining what power is, or causality. But it is singular

68 INTELLECT.

enough, that strong as the testimony of consciousness is upon
the subject, the tendency was early exhibited to deny the ex
istence of anything more in the relation of cause and effect
than a constant or invariable succession. It was contended
that, in secondary causes, at all events, there is no efficiency,
and that we in vain try to find out the efficient cause of any
phenomenon ; that we merely arrive at a certain connexion
between two events, the one invariably preceding, and the other
invariably following. Dugald Stewart says, that the supposi
tion of a real efficiency " has misled the greater part of
philosophers, and has had a surprising influence upon the
systems which they have formed in very different departments
of science." It is interesting to remark, that in these very
words of Dugald Stewart he recognises the very efficiency
which he is at the same time repudiating or denying ; for he
speaks of a doctrine or view entertained by philosophers having
a surprising influence upon the systems which they have
formed in very different departments of science. What is this
influence but efficiency ? Barrow, and Hobbes, and Butler,
and Berkeley, are all quoted by Dugald Stewart as denying
efficiency in cause, and resolving it into an order or connexion
established among the events in nature. It is in vain that we
look for the efficient cause in any event ; we but see an order,
or law, or connexion, which God may be supposed to have
established, but which is in itself nothing more than a certain
order, or law, or connexion. Barrow, for example, says, —
" There can be no such connexion of an external efficient cause
with its effect, (at least, none such can be understood by us,)
through which, strictly speaking, the effect is necessarily supposed
by the supposition of the efficient cause, or any determinate
cause, by the supposition of the effect." Butler contends that
we but see effects, that we know nothing of causes. Berkeley
and others, again, contend, that attraction and repulsion, and
suchlike supposed causes, are nothing more than certain rules
or laws according to which Nature proceeds in a uniform course ;
they are the order that we observe, and are themselves pheno
mena to be accounted for. Almost every work on philosophy

INTELLECT. 69

contains similar statements. They are always careful to re
mark that what we call laws or causes are nothing but a cer
tain order or arrangement which God has adopted, and the
names we give them should be to us significant only of that
order. Thus even for pious purposes the doctrine has been
held and insisted on, that the efficiencies in nature are no real
efficiencies, and that the will of God is all. Butler says that
we but see effects, we do not see causes ; and he would lead us
to the Great First and only cause, operating in and through
all. This undoubtedly was the purpose of Barrow also ; and
we know that Berkeley's whole system was intended to lead us
away from material causes to mind and to God. It was the
best bulwark he thought to erect against Atheism. This was
the design also of Malebranche's doctrine : with him everything
which appeared to be a cause was but an occasion on which
Deity himself operated : and hence his doctrine is called the
doctrine of " occasional causes." He went so far as to hold that
our very ideas were seen in God, and that our very minds were
present, as it were, in the divine, as body was in space. In our
volitions it was God operating : much more, to quote his own
words, " La nature ou la force de chaque chose n'est que la
volonte de Dieu : toutes les causes naturelles ne sont point des
veritables causes, mais seulement des causes occasionelles."
This, according to him, was sufficient to overturn the miserable
creed of the Atheist : — " Afin qu'on ne puisse plus douter de
la faussete de cette miserable philosophic, il est necessaire de
prouver qu'il n'y a qu'un vrai Dieu, parce qu'il n'y a qu'une
vraie cause." We have these scriptural statements, " In Him
we live, and move, anil have our being :" and, again, " Who is
above all, through all, and in you all." Malebranche's doctrine
is very much like a too literal interpretation of these state
ments. We know that Malebranche was remarkable for his
piety ; and it is possible he may have drawn his doctrine from
some such extreme interpretation of a passage otherwise an
nouncing a great truth. There can be no doubt, then, that
piety had much to do with the view which denies efficacy to all
natural agencies or causes. It was reserved for Hume syste-

70 INTELLECT.

matically to turn the doctrine against the existence even of a
great First Cause, and to hint, if not broadly assert, that the
connexion between the will of God and its effects was the same
as that between any other apparent cause and its effects.
Hume laboured as ingeniously in the cause of Atheism as
others have done in the cause of Theism. His speculations
were the most subtle and refined to weaken the foundations of
all religion. Nothing could be more so ; and it only deserved
a more worthy object to make his efforts worthy of him, and
worthy of the refined and ingenious subtlety expended on
them. Leslie, afterwards Sir John Leslie — a name famous in
science — having in a note to one of his works expressed his
approbation of Hume's speculation — which might be done with
reference to all subordinate and secondary causes, without
adopting his Atheistical application of the doctrine — was
opposed, as we have already stated, in his views towards the
mathematical professorship in the University of Edinburgh,
by the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, the mem
bers of which did not wish to see Atheism introduced into any
of the departments in the University. The doctrine was dis
puted at considerable length in the Assembly : some defending
the doctrine both in itself and against all Atheistical results
or applications of it ; others impugning the doctrine, and
maintaining that the atheistical application was but the legi
timate issue of the doctrine itself, was inevitable if the doc
trine itself was a true one. It was in these circumstances, at
once to defend Leslie and to uphold the doctrine, that Dr.
Brown — then himself hardly known to philosophy — wrote first
a smaller, and then his larger, treatise upon Cause and Effect.
Leslie was appointed to the professorship, and Brown's Essay is
now one of the standard works in philosophy, and is, perhaps,
the ablest review of the doctrine it maintains, that exists. Such
were the circumstances in which Dr. Brown's Essay on Cause
and Effect was produced.

Dr. Brown boldly adopts the view, that even the will of
God is an efficient in the same sense, and in that only, in
which any other cause is an efficient, viz., an antecedent : he

INTELLECT. 71

denied efficiency even to the Divine will, or contended that
immediate antecedence was the sublimest efficiency that could
be attributed to it. Hume says, " Are we not equally ignor
ant of the manner or force by which a mind, even the
supreme mind, operates either on itself or on body ? Whence,
I beseech you, do we acquire any idea of it ? We have no
sentiment or consciousness of this power in ourselves : we
have no idea of the Supreme Being, but what we learn from
reflection on our own faculties. Were our ignorance, there
fore, a good reason for rejecting anything, we should be led
into that principle of denying all energy in the Supreme
Being, as much as in the grossest matter. We surely compre
hend as little the operations of the one as of the other. Is it
more difficult to conceive that motion may arise from impulse,
than that it may arise from volition ? All we know is our
profound ignorance in both cases." Dr. Brown says, " The
power of God is not anything different from God, but is the
Almighty himself willing whatever seems to him good, and
creating or altering, by his very will to create or alter." He
maintains it is only a sequence of events we contemplate in
creation. He says, " We do not imagine anything existing
intermediately, and binding, as it were, the will of the omni
potent Creator to the things which are bursting upon our gaze.
We conceive only the Divine will itself, as if made visible to
our imagination, and all nature at the very moment rising
around." " It is evident," he continues, " that in the case of
the Divine agency, as well as in every other species of causa
tion, the introduction of any circumstance of suppo:ed effi
ciency, as furnishing a closer bond of connexion, would, in
truth, furnish only a new antecedent to be itself connected."

Hume, then, denies all energy in the Supreme Being, as
much as in the grossest matter ; at least, if our ignorance were
a sufficient reason for denying anything. Dr. Brown, again,
resolves creation into a mere sequence of events, and main
tains, that to introduce any circumstance of supposed efficiency
in the case of the Divine agency, as well as in every other
specie's of causation, is but to furnish a new antecedent in a

72 INTELLECT.

train of sequence, whose connexion must itself be accounted
for. Can such a doctrine be for a moment maintained ?
Strip the Divine will of all energy ! Make the Divine will
but a link, although the first, in a train of sequence ! How
is it possible to embrace such a conclusion as this ? We
thiuk Dr. Brown was rash in hazarding such a doctrine,
which he pushes even more boldly than Hume. He threw
himself without hesitation into the contest, and he cer
tainly maintains it a I'outrance. There is no flinching for
a moment on Dr. Brown's part. Hume says, " Were our
ignorance a good reason for rejecting anything, we should
be led into the principle of denying all energy in the Su
preme Being, as much as in the grossest matter." Dr. Brown
limits his conclusion by no such condition. With him, to
ascribe efficiency to the Divine agency, in any instance of its
operation, is to introduce a circumstance of connexion to be
itself connected. Dr. Brown makes the chain of causes, from
the humblest up to the Divine Being himself, but a train of
sequence, each part of the train connected with the other only
in the relation of antecedence and consequence — the Divine will
itself being but the first antecedent. And yet, with Dr. Brown,
this is to give a sublimer view of the Divine agency than is
possessed when we introduce any circumstance of efficiency
into that agency. " We conceive only the Divine will, as if
made visible to our imagination, and all nature at the very
moment rising around." The rapidity of the sequence is what,
with Dr. Brown, gives sublimity to the event, or to our concep
tion of it. But it became Dr. Brown to shew, that by ascrib
ing energy to the Divine will, or introducing, as Dr. Brown
expresses it, a circumstance of efficiency, we take from the
irustantaneousness, or grand rapidity, of the connexion. It must
be proved that by ascribing energy to the Divine will, or
introducing a circumstance of efficiency, we are adding any
thing to the Divine will itself. The will itself is the term in
the sequence, but that will is energy. It does not surely alter
the matter much to say, that in that will there is energy. The
will is the efficient : does it uifect the matter much to say that

INTELLECT. 73

in the will there is efficiency ? The writers already quoted,
with others that might be referred to, although they might be
held as denying efficiency in all secondary causes, — although
they held that even these were but phenomena to be accounted
for, were themselves effects, and not causes : that the laws of
the universe were but laws, and that the efficient eluded our
detection in every instance, nor could we hope to discover it :
they did not for the most part deny efficiency in God ; but
rather it was to lead the more surely to God, as operating in
all, that they announced such views ; while there is in their
statements something very far from the views of Hume and
Brown. Not to be able to detect the efficient is very different
from saying that there is no efficient, and we doubt if any
thing more was meant by these writers. Take even the lan
guage of Barrow: — " There can be no such connexion of an
external efficient cause with its effect, through which, strictly
speaking, the effect is necessarily supposed by the supposition
of the efficient cause, or any determinate cause by the supposi
tion of the effect." This does not deny efficiency in the sup
posed cause, but merely that the efficiency is such that we are
able to predict the effect from the cause, or to determine, before
experience, the cause from the effect. It is only, in other
words, to assert our ignorance of efficiency, and of the pro
totypes in the Divine mind, which arranged and appointed
all the efficiencies in the universe. Man knows no more
than experience teaches him, or those general principles,
necessary for his conduct and guidance in life, inform him
of, or enable him to anticipate. Before we could predict an
effect from its cause, or tell a cause from its effect, prior to
experience, we must have been partakers in the counsels of the
Creator, when he adopted the present arrangement in nature.
That is not asserting much, and far less is it asserting that
there is no efficiency in the causes that we see continually
operating around us. Bishop Butler's assertion must obviously
be understood in the same sense. What are causes, are to us
but effects, for they themselves have to be accounted for : we
cannot see what is efficient in them, and it by no mean!? takes

74 INTELLECT.

efficiency from them, that they have been produced, or called
into operation, by other efficients. Undoubtedly, it was a
wrong method of philosophizing, and must have led to injurious
results, to make the principle of efficiency itself the object of
investigation, instead of the circumstances in which that prin
ciple operated. In the law of gravitation, for example, we
may state the law upon a well-observed induction: we state
the circumstances in which that law takes effect, viz., when we
have two bodies, the one greater the other less, in which case
the greater attracts the lesser, if not held by other affinities or
attractions ; or in any combination or analysis, when we give
the circumstances in which the combination or analysis takes
place. This is all that we have to do : to attempt to catch the
subtle law itself, or to detect the efficiency, would be to waste
time, and either put us on a wrong track of experiment or
observation, or occupy us in altogether fruitless efforts. This
must accordingly be adverse to science, and till Bacon gave
forth the great truth which revolutionized science : — " Homo,
naturae minister et interpres, tantum facit et intelligit quantum
de naturae ordine re vel mente observaverit ; nee amplius scit aut
potest," scientific investigation was for the most part directed
to the discovery of occult qualities — hidden powers — instead of
observing the circumstances in which these powers operated,
the only proper subject of investigation. Are we to deny
powers, or efficiencies, however, in these circumstances, merely
because we cannot detect them, and because we must limit our
inquiries to the circumstances themselves in which they
operate ? This was not what Bacon meant ; nor do we believe
it is what Butler meant, or Barrow, in the respective state
ments quoted by Dugald Stewart, in what Lord Brougham
calls " a valuable and learned note." But whether the opinion
could fairly be attributable to them or not, at all events they
would never have proceeded the length of Hume and Brown,
and denied energy or efficiency in the Divine Being. It is
quite possible to allow, and to contend for, the absence of
efficiency in the agencies in nature, and yet hold to its exist-
once in God. This is quite possible, and it may be done for

INTELLECT. 75

the purpose of exalting the efficiency of the Creator, or calling
our attention to it, more devoutly marking its presence, even
when we would be apt to suppose that a secondary or inferior
agency was all that was at work. It is but a more pious
degree, as it were, of the sentiment that would discover God
in the powers which he has conferred in creation. To " look
from nature up to nature's God," has long been a canonized
sentiment, as the act itself was the delight and occupation of
the poet who gave it birth. And to heighten the sentiment,
or the devout feeling implied in it, it is not uncommon to
notice the absence of all true efficiency in the phenomena
around us, and to refer all to the direct presence and operation
of God. Accordingly, Dugald Stewart overlooking, as he must
have done, the Atheistical tendency of Hume's view — for what
is the denial of all energy in the Divine will but Atheistical ? —
what have we left in the place of God, if efficiency is denied,
and mere antecedence is predicated ? — overlooking this ten
dency, Dugald Stewart says, even of Hume's doctrine, that
it " seems to be more favourable to theism, than even the
common notions upon this subject (the subject of cause and
effect) ; as it keeps the Deity always in view, not only as
the first, but as the constantly operating efficient cause in
nature, and as the great connecting principle among all the
various phenomena which we observe." Scripture itself
seems to point to this view in the words already quoted, — " In
him we live, and move, and have our being," and in the innu
merable passages which refer the operations of nature to him,
recognise him in the minutest as well as the greatest events,
whether in creation or providence. " He maketh his angels
spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire :" the clouds are his
chariots, and he walks on the wings of the wind : he makes
darkness his secret place ; his pavilion round about him dark
waters, and thick clouds of the sky. Nay, Job rises to the
sublime anticipation of the very doctrine of these modern
days, and of the law of gravitation itself: " He hangeth the
earth upon nothing, and stretcheth out the north over the empty
place." This seems to refer the retention of the earth in her

76* INTELLECT.

orbit directly to God himself, and there is almost an implied
allusion to the law which modern astronomy has discovered
as that which holds the planets in their spheres. But how far
is all this from denying energy to God ; and who will cordially
own such a doctrine as makes the Divine will but the first
link in a chain of sequence ?*

NOTE. — Dr. Reid thus traces the idea: " It is very probable that the very con
ception or idea of active power, and of efficient causes, is derived from our volun
tary efforts in producing effects ; and that if we were not conscious of such
exertion, we should have no conception at all of a cause, or of active power, and
consequently no conviction of the necessity of a cause of every change which we
observe in nature." In reference to this view, Sir William Hamilton in a note
to this passage has this interesting statement : " If this were the case our notion
of causality would be of an empirical derivation, and without the quality of
universality and necessity. This doctrine is also at variance with the account
given above, (in a previous part of Dr. Reid's Essays,) where it is viewed as an
original and native principle." Sir William Hamilton adds : " It is true, how
ever, that the consciousness of our own efficiency illuminates the dark notion of
causality, founded, as I conceive, in our impotence to conceive the possibility of
an absolute commencement, and raises it from the vague and negative into the
precise and positive notion of power." The impossibility of conceiving of an
absolute commencement is, in other words, the impossibility of conceiving of an
effect without a cause, is just the principle of causality; and this principle, wo
have seen, is awakened contemporaneously with the reference of certain of our
internal feelings to externality, or an external cause, or even with the first state
of consciousness itself; and we have thus Sir William Hamilton's authority for
assigning the idea of power or causality to the source to which we have already
referred it. We silso remarked, that the idea would as yet be very undefined or
rudimentary ; and Sir William Hamilton says, " that the consciousness of our
own efficiency illuminates the dark notion of causalitt/" acquired as he describes,
" founded in our impotence to conceive of an absolute commencement," " and
raises it from the vague and negative into the precise and positive notion of
power." We believe this is the true account of the matter. Others, with
Dr. Reid, have traced the idea to our consciousness of efficiency in ourselves.
Sir William Hamilton properly objects to this view, that it is assigning an em
pirical derivation to the idea, a derivation which would never give us, or allow,
the universal and necessary truth or principle, that every effect must have a
cause. Whewell says, " That this idea of cause is not derived from experience,
we prove (as in former cases) by this consideration, that we can make assertions
involving this idea, which are rigorously necessary and universal ; whereas
knowledge derived from experience can only be true as far as experience goes,
and can never contain in itself any evidence whatsoever of its necessity."

* See Note A.

INTELLECT. 77

We might now speak of the primitive ideas of motion and
number ; but it seems enough to mention them as among our
primitive ideas. It were as vain to attempt any explanation
of them, as we have seen it was to explain time, power, space.
We must content ourselves with the ideas we have of them.
We may now, however, refer to Whewell's classification of the
sciences, as based upon or springing out of these several original
or primitive ideas we have noticed, including those of motion
and number. It is in proposing to treat of these ideas in his
" Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences," that he enumerates the
sciences severally connected with them.

" I shall," he says, " successively have to speak of the ideas
which are the foundation of geometry and arithmetic, (and
which also regulate all sciences depending upon these, as as
tronomy and mechanics,) namely, the ideas of space, time, and
number.

" Of the ideas on which the mechanical sciences (as me
chanics, hydrostatics, physical astronomy) more peculiarly
rest ; the ideas of force and matter, or rather the idea of cause
which is the basis of these :

" Of the ideas which the secondary mechanical sciences
(acoustics, optics, and thermotics) involve, namely, the ideas
of externality of objects, and of the media by which we perceive
their qualities :

" Of the ideas which are the basis of mechanico-chemical and
chemical science, polarity, chemical affinity, and substance."

The remaining sciences which Whewell enumerates, crystal
lography, mineralogy, botany, zoology, physiology, and paleeti-
ology, depend upon derived, and not primitive ideas, which we
have not yet traced.

It is interesting thus to see the roots of the sciences, or their
basis, in the ideas of the mind. All science may be said to
have to do with the properties of space, of number, of time, of
matter, of substance, of externality, of cause — to consist in
tracing the forces of bodies, their resemblance, their affinity,
their power of assimilation, their age, their history — or historical
causation, as Whewell calls it — their final cause or purpose.

78 INTELLECT.

It is in this sense that metaphysics supplies a kind of " prima
philosophia," of which Bacon gave the hint, although he became
the legislator for science rather than the scientific investigator
himself, either in the department of matter or mind.

Whewell seems, with Kant and the other German meta
physicians, to regard the ideas we have traced as forms of the
understanding, or ideas merely affixed to, or superinduced
upon, the materials given to the mind by sensation. Of
space, for example, he says, " Since there are such truths
applicable to our experience, and arising from the nature of
space, we may thus consider space as a form, which the mate
rials given by experience necessarily assume in the mind, as an
arrangement derived from the perceiving mind, and not from
the sensations alone."

If Whewell meant merely that we are indebted to the mind
as well as to the materials furnished by sensation, (as by the
presence in space of a solid body,) for our idea of space, this
would be an important truth ; but his meaning rather seems to
be that space is nothing but an idea, nothing apart from the
mind — a form superinduced by the mind upon matter existing
in space. For, after a statement to which we would not object:
" Thus this phrase, that space is a form belonging to our per
ceptive power, may be employed to express that we cannot
perceive objects as in space, without an operation of the mind
as well as of the senses, without active as well as passive facul
ties :" after this very intelligible and correct statement, he
adds, " This phrase, however, is not necessary to the exposition
of our doctrines. Whether we call the conception of space a
condition of perception, a form of perception, or an idea, or by
any other term, it is something originally inherent in the mind
perceiving, and not in the objects perceived." Whewell thus
plainly holds space to be in the mind perceiving and not in the
objects perceived. It is an important truth to mark, that space
and time, and suchlike ideas, owe their origin to the activity of
the mind itself, and that any share that sensation has in any
of them is but as an occasion, and not properly as a cause. This
is an important truth, one which is being more distinguished

INTELLECT. 79

at the present day, though we do not believe it to have been
overlooked by those who are assailed as being too sensational
in their philosophy ; we allude particularly to Locke. The
mode in which Locke traces the ideas shews plainly that he
understood the part which the mind itself has in originating
the ideas. But because the mind is thus active in producing
these ideas, have the ideas no counterpart for which they stand ?
are they ideas merely ? is Whewell's representation the right
one when he speaks of space being something originally in
herent in the mind perceiving, and not in the objects perceived?
Is this a correct representation ? We do not think so, and we
see the justice of Dr. Chalmers's stricture upon Whewell, that
he " expresses himself as if carried by the prestige of the Ger
man philosophy, and its outlandish nomenclature." " We shall
persist," says Dr. Chalmers, " in regarding the whole of the in
termediate space between ourselves and the planet Uranus as
an objective reality." Space, time, figure, cause, are not forms
of thought merely, or forms of the perceptive power, but are
realities, although it is the mind which gives us the idea of
them. It is true, therefore, that our ideas are the very essence
or the material of science itself; but then these ideas have
something for which they stand, and are not solely ideas. It
is of the very essence of the idea that there is something with
out the mind of which it is but the idea. In obtaining the
idea the mind obtains it as the idea of something which has
a real existence, or as Dr. Chalmers calls it, an " objective
reality." It seems the greatest absurdity to resolve all into
forms of thought, or of the understanding, or belonging to the
perceptive power. At this rate, what is there between us and
the boundaries of the universe ? The car of the aeronaut is
but a clumsy contrivance, when the whole of space is within
our own ideas. What need for railways — the grand invention
of modern times ? and how comes it that ships have been tra
versing the ocean so long, that from the time of the Argonauts
to that of Columbus, and till the present hour, the sea has been
the highway for voyagers and adventurers of every kind, and
many a noble triumph of nautical skill and personal enterprise

SO INTELLECT.

and daring has been achieved ? There is indeed room for a
Cervantes or a Butler, were such a genius to arise, in this field
of metaphysical speculation ; or a new Martinus Scriblerus
might exercise his wit to some purpose on the German forms
of thought, as he has done so successfully on the subject of per
sonal identity, and other scholastic niceties. The resurrection
of Belzoni's mummy need not surprise us so much ; and what
wonder if he " hobanobbed with Pharaoh," or

" Dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ?"

Indeed, the address to the mummy was composed with some
such sportive familiarity with the idea of time, not, however,
as if it was a mere idea, but a reality, disturbing the imagina
tion, puzzling the thought :

" And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !)

In Thehes's streets, three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous !
*****

" Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have above ground seen some strange mutations :
The Roman Empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

" Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,

When the great Persian conqueror Cambyses,
March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thund'ring tread,

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?"

There is room, therefore, we see, for strange and thick-
coming fancies in connexion with this idea, or rather with time
itself. The mind may sport itself with these, or rather be
wilder itself with strange amazement. But to deny reality to
space and time, or any other of our primitive ideas, is certainly
a vagary of which not a little use could be made by a Butler

INTELLECT. 81

or a Cervantes, if it was not rather a subject for the pungent
satire of a Swift, or the playful fancy of a Fontenelle.

" When Bishop Berkeley said, 'There was no matter,'

And proved it — 'twas no matter what he said :
They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,

Too subtle for the airiest human head ;
And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter

Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
Or adamant, to find the world a spirit,
And wear my head, denying that I wear it."

The proper application of metaphysics is not to lead us
into such vagaries which are the fit object of burlesque, but to
shew the limits of truth and knowledge. If we are led for a
season into the maze of doubt, or if not of doubt, of perplexity,
it is to be the more satisfied when we have emerged again into
the open light of sober reality, or when we possess the clew that
unwinds the labyrinth. To know the limits of our own minds,
to know the exact nature of our ideas, and to hold by the grand
original principles of our mental and moral constitution, is
safer, than if, ignorant of these, we relied upon the first impres
sions of our minds, even although they may be generally found
to be correct. Truth is best seen when it is distinguished from
error — when it is defined, limited, and separated to the eye. I
have all the firmer conviction of the reality of space, time, cau
sality or power, matter and mind, that their reality has been
called in question, and that I have set myself to inquire into
the mode of reasoning by which their reality has been ques
tioned, and thus know the true grounds of my belief. The pri
mitive ideas or informations of my mental constitution, nothing
can drive me from. I entrench myself within those beliefs or
ideas which my own mind gives me, and no subtleties or diffi
culties are of any avail to shake my convictions. It is to pri
mitive ideas, first principles, that we have to appeal in all
matters affecting our beliefs ; and it would be interesting to
know the character and extent of our beliefs, or the precise
nature of our primitive ideas and intuitive convictions, even
though no sceptical question had ever been raised.

F

82 INTELLECT.

VIII.

The mind is now supposed to have obtained its primary, or
fundamental ideas ; those ideas which are uniform, universal,
and irresistible in their authority ; which do not depend upon
opinion, nor suffer modification from the varying characteristics
or shades of mind, but belong to mind as such ; or which mind,
placed in such a sphere as the present, cannot but possess.
There is no mind destitute of them, let it be found in the most
solitary position on the surface of the world, on the very con
fines of civilisation and human existence. Had Crusoe, instead
of a castaway on Juan Fernandez, been indigenous to the soil,
he wrould doubtless have possessed these ideas. They are the
spontaneous production of the mind existing in certain circum
stances, possessing such and such laws, and operated upon as it
is by objects from without. The external influence brought to
bear upon it only excites its own internal activity, or spontaneity
of action, whereby the ideas are got as a strictly mental pro
duct, however the external influence may be necessary, and
while we do not deny that the ideas have their counterpart,
as distinct from the ideas, and of which they are but the ideas.
Power, or causation, is not in the idea, or the idea itself, but
something of which we obtain the idea, in virtue of the principle
existing in the mind, which assures us that every effect must
have a cause : in other words, such is the nature of the mind,
that we no sooner see an effect than we recognise it as such,
and refer it to a cause. It is not the observed instance of
causation, however, which gives us the idea, but the mind
itself, on the occasion of the observed instance. How unlike
is the idea of space to the occasion of that idea, a body existing
or moving in space ! — as unlike as possible, and yet it is thus
the idea is acquired. Where is the similarity between the idea
of time and the succession of ideas, or feelings, in the mind ?
The mind's own activity or spontaneity is thus to be marked
in all its original and primitive ideas. We have endeavoured
to trace it in its spontaneous action from its earliest state of

INTELLECT. 83

consciousness to the point at which we have arrived, when it is
now in possession of all its original and primitive ideas. The
progress from this stage onward must be a very different one
from all before. Hitherto, the mind was truly as if in Plato's
Cave, or like the chrysalis exploring its way, as it were, into
being, but very different from the chrysalis, as not a mere
organism, but an intellectual principle. And, hitherto, it is
not to us now a subject of memory or observation ; we can but
speak of its progress or processes at this period from what we
come to know subsequently of its mode of operation and laws.
By and by, the mind turns in upon itself, and reflects on its
own operations. It can make itself the subject of a double
consciousness as it were. It can become conscious of its act of
self-cognizance or reflection. It can, in short, take notice of its
own acts, and inquire into its own phenomena and laws. There
is a great difference between the mind in the one, and the mind in
the other of these two states ; and yet we can have no hesitation
in asserting that the former is the more important stage of its
history or progress. We confine our view, in this remark, of
course, to the simple intellectual development. That can bear
no comparison to its subsequent moral and spiritual develop
ment. But all its most important ideas are acquired at the
early period — unconscious period, we might call it, (if the mind
could ever be said to be unconscious,) — of its history through
which we have traced it. Now, however, it advances rapidly
upon its acquired ideas. It proceeds upon these, upward or
onward — combining, multiplying, modifying — every subsequent
idea being a mode, as Locke phrases it, or a mixed mode of the
former.

Let us remark, however, again, the part which sensation,
and which the mind itself, have respectively in our original
and fundamental ideas. The mind's earliest consciousness,
as we see, would be one of sensation. How do we know
this ? Not from any report which the mind itself brings
from that early period, but from the obvious fact that the
mind is dormant at that early stage, while we can perceive
from the very nature of sensation, that it can at no time

84 INTELLECT.

be dormant — except during what physiologists call a state
of coma, or entire suspension of the physical as well as mental
powers.

Sensation is that which connects the mind with the outward
world — that which binds us to matter under the present law of
our being. It is partly a mental, and partly a physical state
or phenomenon : what part is mental, and what part is physical,
it is impossible to determine. All that we can say and that
seems to be ascertained, is, that by the different senses, and by
a part of the nervous system, which seems reducible to none of
the senses — that, for example, which gives the sensation of
pain or of weariness — impressions from external objects are
conveyed to the brain, while it, again, communicates with the
mind, either as more immediately resident there, or as having
more immediate communication with that organ. That there
must be communication with the brain before there can be
sensation, and that the nerves are the medium of communica
tion, is seen from the fact, that if the nerve which communicates
with any part of the body is cut, there is no sensation in the
part to which the nerve no longer extends ; that when a limb
is amputated, a sensation at the extremity of the remaining
part of the limb is often referred to the part which has been
amputated, as if the limb was yet entire — a sensation at " the
extremity of the shortened fibres is referred to the member
which in their perfect state they supplied ;" and that when
the brain is in a comatose state, all sensation is suspended.
When the nerves of any one of the senses are lost, the sense
itself is lost. Besides, the substance of the brain and of the
nerves is the same. The one would seem to be the great reser
voir, the other the canals or ducts, and the analogy is the more
complete that there are nerves communicating influence from
the brain, vital and motive influence, as well as nerves com
municating impressions to it. The physiology of the nervous
system discloses to us an amazing instance of contrivance and
skill, and may well extort the exclamation of the psalmist : —
" I will praise thee ; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made :
marvellous are thy works, and that my soul knoweth right

INTELLECT. 85

well." But the ultimate fact is what we have to do with — the
communication between the brain and the mind.

A popular writer on physiology thus beautifully refers to
this communication ; while he shews the necessity of such a
communication, the necessity of an intellectual principle, to
account for phenomena which would otherwise remain unac
counted for.

" Look at a wrecked vessel ! There is one man there
ordering and directing all on board ; the only remaining
boat is lowered ; he is careful to see it filled with the persons
crowded about him ; it pushes off, and where is he ? He is
there on the deck of that sinking ship ; the boat would not
hold all, and he has refused a place in it, and remained to
perish rather than sacrifice one life committed to his charge.
He knows that death awaits him ; he has been urged to
save himself, and yet he is there ! What is the impulse which
prompts him thus to contravene the first great law of animated
nature ?

" Sleep, again, is among our most imperious needs, for the
want of it gradually destroys life. There lies a sick man in his
bed, senseless, in the last stage of an infectious fever, and there
is one watching beside him, looking pale and exhausted, but
who sleeps not, stirs not, though her young life is wasting away
with fatigue, and exposed to contagion, and she knows it, and
has calculated that the same grave will receive both ! What
nerve of all that fine machinery has impelled her to this course ?

" Look at the astronomer in his observatory ! The night is
far advanced, and he is chilled and fatigued, yet he remains
with his eye at the telescope — for what ? To carry on a series
of observations, which, perhaps, in two generations more, may
give as its result the knowledge of some great law of the ma
terial universe ; but he will be in his grave long ere he can
expect that it will be ascertained. He sits down to his calcu
lations, and he forgets his meals, sees nothing, hears nothing,
till his problem is solved ! No sense prompts him to this
sacrifice of rest and comfort. But do we call those persons
insane ? No ! we honour them as the excellent of the earth ;

86 INTELLECT.

admire their lives, and wish that, when the occasion comes, we
may have courage so to die.

" I know but of one solution of the difficulty," continues this
writer ; " there must be some element in man which we have
not yet taken account of ; some untiring, undying energy which
eludes, indeed, the fingers and the microscope of the anatomist,
but which exercises a despotic sway over the animal mechanism,
and takes possession of it for its own use, to the point of ex
hausting and finally destroying it. Nor is it any objection to
this view, that there may be instances either of congenital idiocy
or subsequent injury to the brain, where this power is less
manifested ; for we are not to judge of the peculiar character
istics of a species from the anomalous exceptions. The power
which overmasters and despises sense, is yet obliged to convey
its mandates through bodily organs ; take these from it, either
wholly or in part, and it can no longer manifest its existence
in the same way as when these organs were perfect. The
paralytic man would move his arm or would express his wishes
if his arm or his tongue would obey him ; and his frequent
impatience at their incapacity sufficiently shews that the ruling
will and the servant faculties are of a different and distinct
nature ; nay, it has been observed that even the insane are at
times conscious of, and lament a state of brain, which no longer
enables the indvidual to act rationally. This could not occur
were the. brain and nerves, as acted upon by external stimuli,
the only spring of man's will, for then the altered structure
would invariably produce a satisfied acquiescence in its results."

That element, that overmastering power, is mind. It ope
rates, or as the writer we have quoted expresses it, conveys its
mandates through bodily organs, but it is a principle which is
altogether different from these ; and it has a domain of its own
into which the senses do not intrude. The eye of the astrono
mer takes in the sphere of the planetary heavens, but when he
has made his observations, his calculations are a mental process
in which he retires from the region of sense altogether. It is
not an overmastering will merely that shews the superiority of
that principle which takes the senses under its own control,

INTELLECT. 87

and " exercises a despotic sway" over the body, so as to direct
it to its own purposes, and even cast it away when some end is
to be accomplished : it is the purely intellectual act also that
we can discern to be altogether distinct from any combination
of physical phenomena. The reigning and triumphant will is
indeed nobler than even the intellect in its highest exercises,
when that will is obeying the impulse of some lofty passion or
emotion : it is sublime sometimes in its mastery when it is under
the influence even of misdirected passion ; but in the operations
of pure intellect especially, there is something which at once
distinguishes it from all material or physical agencies or ope
rations.

Sensation, however, still is the first fact or law of mind to
be observed. It is the groundwork, so to speak, of mind — it is
the awakener of mind, and furnishes many of those intimations
or materials from which, as we have seen, our most important
elementary ideas are obtained.

The mysterious connexion between mind and matter must
for ever remain unexplained in our present state of being. That
there are these two distinct spheres of operation, and subjects
of phenomena, we cannot doubt, as we cannot doubt the infor
mations of that consciousness of which we feel ourselves the
subjects. Our consciousness informs us of two distinct classes
of feelings or states, the one of which we at once refer to one
source, the other to another. Even the Germans recognise our
" sense perceptions," whatever afterwards they make of these.
With respect to Kant, for example, Morell, in his History of
Philosophy, says, " the capacity of our being affected by the
objects of sense, just as is the case in Locke's philosophy, he
never questioned, but considered it as a thing self-evident that
the matter of our notions must be furnished from this source,
inasmuch as our other and higher faculties are simply formal,
or regulative, and therefore not adapted to supply the material
for any conception whatever." " What is immediately true to
us," again, says Morell, in giving an account of Fichte's system,
" are our sensations and perceptions : it is our reason which
supposes an external world in order to account for them." " All

88 INTELLECT.

we are immediately conscious of, argues Fichte, are the states
and processes of our own thinking self. Our sensations, per
ceptions, judgments, impressions, ideas, or by whatever name
they are designated, these form the material of all the know
ledge which is immediately given to us." I need not say that
in the British school of metaphysics sensation has its proper
place assigned it among the phenomena of mind. The ques
tion with us now is, When does sensation cease to be sensation,
and at what point does a purely mental state commence ? It
is of the utmost importance to mark the distinction between
sensation and a purely mental state. However important the
distinction between mind and body, although we live in a
mixed state of being, and the world which is the sphere of our
activities is a mass of matter, — although we are conversant
every day with material objects and material interests, we ply
material avocations, follow pursuits which terminate on matter,
and employ it constantly in their prosecution, — although the
universe of which our globe is a part presents material pheno
mena for our contemplation and solution, and in these we are
carried away into the loftiest speculations, and problems for
which only the faculties of a Newton were adequate, we must
never but remember that mind is also a part of our compound
nature, that we are mental as well as corporeal beings, and that
mind is by far the grandest part of our being. What is the
state of incorporeal beings we cannot tell, but we are corporeal
beings, — a fact, however, which does not in the least degree de
tract from the importance of mind. The great tendency is to
forget mind amid the claims of matter — to allow to the latter
the importance which should be assigned to the former. This
is done every day in the pursuits of life. Not only religion —
not only the science of morals, but the science of mind itself
— or just the fact that we are mental as well as corporeal beings,
renders the too exclusive engrossment with material concerns
and objects a great practical solecism, if it is nothing worse.
The degree, too, to which the mechanical sciences are cultivated,
to the utter forgetfulness of mental science, indicates the strong
tendency to forget mind altogether, and to attend solely to what

INTELLECT. 89

will develop and promote our physical state merely — what will
carry forward man's physical wellbeing or happiness. We have
heard a distinguished man of the present day ascribe to the
same source most of the infidelity and even atheism that pre
vails in the age in which we live. Materialism is the proper
spawn of too great an engrossment in mere matter, whether it
be in the too exclusive devotion to the business and pursuits of
life, or too entire an attention to the physical and mechanical
sciences. The tide is undoubtedly turning ; the spiritual part
of man is receiving more attention ; mental and moral science
is more cultivated ; more interest is awakened in all that con
cerns man as a spiritual and as an intellectual being : subjects
of a moral, political, and literary character claim a large share
now of the public and popular regard. Literature appeals
entirely to the mental part of our nature, we mean a legiti
mate literature, not the offensive productions of a prurient and
licentious press, which, in the shape of wild and impure fictions,
are as greedily sought after as they are abundantly supplied.
The political and social condition, too, is concerned with some
thing more than physical or temporal comfort : out of the chaos
of social evils seems to be arising a proper regard to man's
spiritual and eternal wants, the psyche from the slough of the
chrysalis. The political economist is beginning to see that the
mind and the soul must be cared for, and the education not
only for time but for eternity secured. Almost every social
improvement has an eye to man's spiritual wants. The names
of ages gone by that are most appealed to are the great refor
mers of their times, or those who stood in the breach when
civil and religious liberty were invaded. Cromwell has more
honour done to him than a thousand kings. Luther is a nobler
figure in history than the Imperial Charles. Napoleon's career
is remembered chiefly in connexion with the brilliant qualities
of mind that were exhibited in it, while its bad aim and selfish
tendency are as freely condemned. What was generous and
great, however, in the soul of Napoleon is the captivating spell
which exercises such an influence over us, the lustre which al
most throws into the shade, or blinds us to, his worse qualities.

90 INTELLECT.

Literature is teeming with rich and choice productions, and a
new epoch seems to be promised in the writings of a Baillie
and a Yeiidys. These productions are the true and genuine
fruit of an age of greater intellectual craving and loftier mark
than almost any that preceded it ; and in them not only the
intellectual but the spiritual takes a high place. We are
not forgetting the age that has gone before — the profound phi
losophy of Wordsworth, or the genuine soul of Campbell, or
the prodigious mind, if we may so speak, of Byron, — a mind in
rebellion against all law but that of its own great and spiritual
demands, with which, however, it was continually clashing from
its revolt against all that was consistent with these demands.
Keats and Shelley were sensuous, but it was a spiritual sensuous-
ness ; and Coleridge may almost be said to have been the great
metaphysician of his age. But there is a greater intellectual and
spiritual yearning in this age, and we take Baillie's Festus as its
type. Mental philosophy must strike in with this hopeful cha
racteristic. It must seek, if it can, to help it on, and to guide
it. The productions of the pulpit must meet the tendency.
The tone struck must not be lowered in the teachings from the
sacred rostrum ; and it is interesting to think that the more
spiritual the ministrations of the pulpit are, they will the more
meet both the intellectual and the spiritual wants of the age.
Spiritual truth will always be found in advance of intellectual,
or it will embrace it. Literary beauties, too, will always be
found at least not far off from genuine spirituality, as flowers
grow spontaneously in paradise. Let us be assured of even the
uncultivated mind uttering true spiritual truths, and we are
certain it will compel the most cultivated to listen and draw
forth the homage of the highest intellect. There was nothing
which affected Byron more, as he himself assures us, than the
knowledge as conveyed to him through a letter advising him
of the circumstance, that a pious female made his conversion
the subject of daily prayer. The beauty as well as the touch
ing nature of the incident seems to have struck the poet. True
spirituality is, in fact, the highest beauty, as " the Christian,"
a poet himself has said, " is the highest style of man/'

INTELLECT. 91

The more that we make the spiritual part of our being the
subject of our thoughts, that we trace its phenomena, that we
familiarize ourselves with its arcana and laws, the more shall
we see to admire and wonder at in our mental constitution,
and the finer adaptation shall we discover between all the laws
of mind and that economy in which we are placed, as well as
that material arena on which we are situated. Is it not inter
esting already to have seen the mode in which our fundamental
ideas are developed — those ideas which are the under layer, as
it were, or substratum, of all our mental furniture ? What a
marvellous arrangement or provision is it, and how wonderful
the product itself ! It is hardly possible to say, whether the
way in which the ideas are acquired, or the ideas themselves,
should be regarded as the more wonderful. And the more will
our admiration gather as we look at mind farther. The sen
sational tendency, too, or the tendency to materialize the mind
will be the more guarded against or repudiated. A material
istic tendency is by no means to be treated as one not possible,
and far less probable : it is one to be guarded against, and by
every means shunned. Able thinkers have yielded to it : it is
too prevalent at the present day. What could have produced
the " Vestiges of Creation," but a tendency so much to be
avoided? and what could have rendered that work so popular,
but the same tendency which it met in the public mind ? It
is a plausible theory that mind is the result of an organization
so fine as we find that of our constitution to be. The very
intricacy and delicacy of the arrangement, and closely connected
as it actually is with our mental phenomena, give a colouring
to the theory. Why this expenditure of contrivance, this nicety
of skill, this delicacy of provision and arrangement ? Those
slender filaments of nerves were surely intended for some men
tal result, or a result such as we perceive mind to be. It is a
worthy result of such a contrivance. As the fine machine pro
duces a filament of thread so delicate that it is hardly perceiv
able by the eye, so may mind be cast off from such an organic
combination at once so intricate and so simple. The theory
saves the necessity of supposing anything different from that

92 INTELLECT.

matter of which we are composed. It is the easiest way to
settle the question about mind. We then get rid of the ap
parent inconsistency of placing a spiritual substance in a mate
rial, and it is so like the process by which other results are
wrought out : it is like the product of a machine — like the fine
essence distilled from the grossest matter — like the blossom of
a flower, or its spirit fragrance — or like the marvellous results
of chemical combination : all these appear something like ana
logies ; and why then may not mind be resolved into a result
of organic arrangement ? So the materialists might argue.
What is the answer to this mode of reasoning ? An appeal to
our own consciousness. We have in ourselves the answer.
Mind cannot be an organic result. True, sensation is partly
material, and the difficulty of deciding where the material part
of the process or phenomenon stops, and the mental part be
gins, may be urged in favour of materialism ; but sensation is
not all the phenomena of mind, and while we confess a diffi
culty, we still mark the total difference between a material and
a mental product.

Mind, we repeat, cannot be an organic result Kespiration
is an organic result : the circulation of the blood is an organic
result : the motion of our bodies is partly the result of muscu
lar contractility, organic combination and action, and of mental
volition : — is mind at all like any of these ? Is it not different
from them, " to to coalo ?" Our inquiry is, When does sensation
cease to be material, and become mental ? We have already
stated that this cannot be determined by us — that we are left
in utter ignorance here — that the matter is one not even within
the sphere or scope of our investigation. But we can mark
when sensation ceases to be sensation and becomes intellec
tion ; in other words, when we have nothing of matter in our
mental states, but all is purely intellectual : we should have
said our states of consciousness, for to speak of mental states, is
already taking mind for granted. It is not too much, surely,
to say, that we can mark a mental state as distinct from one of
sensation. Is it too much to affirm that we mark a total

INTELLECT. 93

disparity between a sensation and an idea — that we can at
once discern the difference ? Does not the simplest idea testify
to its purely mental or spiritual origin ? Is not our very first
idea — that of self— separate from even the consciousness which
begets it ? Then comes the idea of not-self, or externality ;
then that of matter ; then that of mind — the latter involved or
wrapt up in the former ; then that of substance ; then we
acquire those of space, time, power : these again take varied
modifications, they become the subjects of science : by them
we solve problems which solve the motions of the planets,
which give to us their distances, establish the grand pervading
law of the universe, and are adding discovery to discovery,
so that the very depths of space, and the very secrets of crea
tion are revealed, or are revealing themselves to us. An
organic result is one and the same in all circumstances ; it
varies not : but here is a principle which sees no limit to its
wide and extending progress or advance — which is not itself
a mere law, but which is conversant about law, which is in
telligent of it, which reveals it, and can even unfold its own
processes or laws — is cognizant of itself: this surely is no
organic result.

Then if we go into the region of imagination, if we mark
the subtle processes of that faculty, if we observe its potent
sway — how it etherealizes or spiritualizes matter itself, clothes
it in its own beauty, invests it in its own fair hues, scatters
around its thousand spells, gives animation and meaning to
eveiy object by which we are surrounded, and to every sound
that comes to us, to the lightest whispers of the breeze, and to
the stillest rustling of the summer or the autumn foliage;
which hears a voice in the gurgling brook, that comes from
depths yet unfathomed by the mind itself, and listens in con
verse with the ocean as it murmurs unceasingly, and, with
Wordsworth, hears the sound of another ocean " rolling ever
more," when " our souls have sight of that immortal sea which
brought us hither :" who will say that all this is the result of
mere organization ? Who would be a materialist who has ever
felt the visitations of that spirit which comes to us when

94 INTELLECT.

nature is still, which woos us in the moods and aspects of
creation, who has felt —

" A presence that disturbs him with the joy of elevated thoughts,"

who has cultivated and cherished that presence, and is indeed
hardly ever unattended by it, so that it meets him in every
pathway where the influences of nature are around him ?

But mind is seen in the moral part of our constitution, in its
spiritual longings, and in its desire after immortality. What
have these to do with matter ? They spurn it, they trample
upon it, they escape from it, they anticipate an existence when
matter itself may be annihilated. There is in the voice of con
science — in the eternal distinctions of good and evil, in the
practical admiration of the right and hatred of the wrong:
what effectually silences, and must ever silence materialism ;
while the question of immortality, the " to be or not to be" of
the poet, or his moody but meditative soliloquist, surmounts
and triumphs over the very ghastliness of the grave.

It is a vast importance which is attached to mind when it is
spoken of as " the soul" in Scripture. How emphatic these
words of Jesus : " What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain
the whole world and lose liis soul ; or what shall a man give in
exchange for his soul?" What a price is weighed with it,
when Christ himself gave his life a ransom for it ! Scripture
takes the spirit of man out of the category of mere mind, and
gives it a place with the angels and with God himself. Singu
lar that even the Greeks and Latins seem to have recognised
the distinction in their different names for the immaterial
principle — <f>pr)V, vovs, tftyio? — mens, animus. We need not
remark that Ovfw^ and animus are the vital principle, the sub
stance of the spirit in which the faculties reside, and that <f>pr)i>,
vovs, and mens, rather point to the faculties, and seem to indi
cate the understanding, reason, and feelings or dispositions and
will of the OvfAos and animus. The Epicureans were that
ancient sect who held the materiality of the soul, although they
still held that the soul was a distinct principle, composed of
much finer particles than the body in which it resided. They

INTELLECT. 95

were the materialists of ancient times. It is in Scripture
chiefly that the dignity of the soul is recognised. The scheme
of redemption undoubtedly gives it a value which nothing else
could assign it in our estimation.

IX.

Philosophers have been classified according as they leaned to
a sensational or an idealistic tendency. Materialists are the
extreme sensationalists : the Transcendentalists are the extreme
Idealists. Gassendi, who was the opponent of Descartes, was
the first in modern times who traced all our knowledge, and
consequently all our ideas, to the senses, the objects of the
understanding even with him being sensible images. This was
reviving the Aristotelian doctrine of intelligible species, with
less of refinement in the images or species present to the mind.
Gassendi's admiration of the physical doctrines of Epicurus,
according to Dugald Stewart, " predisposed him to give an
easier reception than he might otherwise have done to his
opinions in metaphysics and in ethics." His opposition to
Descartes seems to have had something to do, likewise, with
his extreme opinions.

Descartes' first great truth, " cogito, ergo sum," which, as
Cousin has most conclusively demonstrated, was nothing more
than a recognition of the primary consciousness of the mind,
is the true starting-point of all philosophy. Descartes, there
fore, so far recognised the independence and immateriality of
the mind, as to make his thinking the very ground of his
belief in his own existence. His famous doctrine of innate
ideas, too, however erroneous, was yet a recognition of another
source of some of our ideas than the senses. Descartes'
words in reference to the mind, or himself as a thinking
being or substance, are very remarkable : " Non sum corn-
pages ilia membrorum qua3 corpus humanum appellatur ! non
sum tenuis aliquis aer istis membris infusus ; non ventus, non
ignis, non vapor, non habitus — Quid igitur sum ? res cogitans ;

96 INTELLECT.

quid est hoc ? nempe dubitans, intelligent, affirmans, negans,
volens, nolens."

Descartes and Gassendi became the founders of separate
schools of philosophy, and the modern distinction between
sensationalists and idealists ivas formerly that between Gas-
sendists and Cartesians. Most of the French metaphysicians
have followed Grassendi, and Locke has been claimed by them
as favouring the same views. This could only be from the
circumstance of sensation being with him one of the sources of
our ideas, and from the loose mode in which he expresses him
self; though his making "reflection" the other source of our
ideas, and a fair interpretation of his language on the subject
of sensation and our simple ideas, should protect him against
any allegation or charge of sympathy with the school of Gras
sendi or Condillac. Locke meant sensation to be one of the
sources of our ideas in no other sense than as the occasion on
which they were originated. He traces our simple ideas to
sensation, but it is to be remarked that they are recognised as
ideas, so that they are traceable to sensation no farther than as
the occasion of their arising. It is common enough to speak
of our getting certain ideas through the senses, when nothing
more is meant than that but for the part which the senses per
form in our complex constitution, we would have no such ideas ;
the ideas, however, belong to the mind, however the senses
present the material for them, or the occasion of them. The
idea takes place in the mind upon the presence of certain sen
sations — but how takes place ? — in virtue obviously of a law of
mind itself, or as a matter solely of mind. Did Locke recog
nise this part which the mind has in the origination of our
ideas ? There can be no doubt he did ; and it is this which
separates him from the school of Gassendi and Condillac.
This is precisely the point of divergence between the sensation
alists and idealists, between those who refer the whole phenomena
of mind to sensation, and those who recognise an independent
and intrinsic power in mind, but for ivhich even the part which
sensation has in our ideas would be to no purpose, and we
would never get beyond sensation itself. It may well seem

INTELLECT. 97

extraordinary that any pretending to take a philosophic view of
the mind at all, should make sensation the alone source of our
ideas, and resolve every faculty, law, or idea of the mind, into
but a new phase of sensation. This did Gassendi ; this subse
quently did Condillac. The former said, — " All our knowledge
appears plainly to derive its origin from the senses ; and
although you deny the maxim, (Gassendi was writing to his
opponent Descartes,) ' Quicquid est in intellectu preesse debere
in sensu ;' yet this maxim appears, nevertheless, to be true,
since our knowledge is all ultimately obtained by an influx or
incursion from things external, which knowledge afterwards
undergoes various modifications by means of analogy, compo
sition, division, amplification, extenuation, and other similar
processes, which it is unnecessary to enumerate." Condillac's
mode of stating the same truth or doctrine was, — " Our ideas
are nothing more than transformed sensations." The view
seems to have been, that hardness (to take this for an example)
was a sensation, and that solidity, as distinguished from hard
ness, was but the same sensation a little modified : resistance,
again, was the same sensation somewhat modified ; so with
matter and substance ; these were not ideas, or they were ideas
only in the sense of being transformed sensations. But it is
plain, that while hardness or resistance may be a sensation, we
have the ideas of hardness and resistance as distinguished from
the sensations, while solidity is an idea, and not, in any sense,
a sensation.* Substance, too, is an idea, and not a sensation, as
is matter, a species of substance. Is externality a sensation ?
It is a peculiar sensation which gives us the idea, but the idea
is something apart from the sensation. Space is not a sensation
but an idea, and it is suggested by something altogether dis
tinct from, and unlike space itself, (viz., a body occupying or
moving in space.) If time is a transformed sensation, it is so as
the result of a succession of sensations in the mind ; now, of
which of the sensations is it the transformation when it is the
result of them all ? It was as countenancing such a theory that
Locke was claimed by Condillac and his followers ; and it is

* See Note B.
G

98 INTELLECT.

as leaning to such a theory that he has been censured by a
recent writer on the history of philosophy, while it has been too
much the fashion, without a just and candid interpretation of
his whole system, and from a minute criticism of certain por
tions, and separate unguarded statements, of his famous Essay,
to denounce him as inconsistent with himself, and holding
views altogether empirical, and at variance with any intuitive
or independent power of the mind. Locke wrote at a time
when it was not possible that those guarded modes of state
ment, now so necessary, could be deemed requisite. It is a
legitimate and a valuable result of philosophical inquiry, to be
more precise and accurate in the terms employed, and in the
modes of statement. Successive theories impose this precision
upon philosophical writers, and the mistakes fallen into, and
errors either to be avoided or condemned, make it the more
requisite. Locke, besides, seems to have written as he would
have spoken, without much care as to his phraseology or the
arrangement either of his subjects or his ideas. He employed
terms in a loose manner without looking to the effect of them,
and although one statement often thus appeared to stand in
contradiction to another, or to be at variance with another.
In maintaining the theory, for example, that all our ideas come
either from sensation or reflection, the former being the source
of our simple, and the latter of our complex ideas, he never
intended to deny the activity of the mind by which such ideas
as those of space, time, power, and even substance and solidity,
are acquired ; this activity was taken for granted, and meta
physical writing, if we may be allowed to say so, had not
arrived c.t that stage ivhen such activity was needing to be
pointed out, or to be particularized. Locke's account of the
idea of space is, perhaps, the best that has ever been given,
while we have seen that he is equally correct as regards that of
time, so much so, that Cousin accords to him the merit of
having been the first to refer this idea to the succession in our
internal states, — " le monde de la conscience." If he is not so
accurate in tracing the occasion of the idea of power, or caus
ality, still he refers it to the principle of causality in the mind

INTELLECT. 99

itself ; the principle " that like changes will always be made by
like agents in like ways :" " concluding," he says, " from what
it has so often observed to have been, that this will be again, the
mind comes by the idea of power." It makes little against
Locke that the principle is said by him to be derived from what
has been frequently observed in the past ; it is a principle still,
and one that warrants a universal conclusion in reference to
the future, and therefore suggests the idea of power. The ac
tivity of the mind is surely as much here, as when the principle
starts into conspicuousness at once, and as we saw, either upon
the first state of self-consciousness, or the presence of a sensation,
disturbing, or at variance with, previous sensations, or feel
ings, hitherto experienced, and referable to self. It matters not
when the principle is awakened, or what awakens it ; it is some
thing of the mind alone, pertains to the mind's own activity or
spontaneity. But Locke recognises a distinct source of ideas
besides sensation, viz., reflection, and this was entirely a mental
act. " If it be demanded," says Locke, " when a man begins
to have any ideas ? I think the true answer is, when he first
has any sensations. For since there appear not to be any ideas
in the mind before the senses have conveyed any in, I conceive
that ideas in the understanding are coeval with sensation,
which is such an impression or motion made in some part of
the body, as produces some perception in the understanding.
It is about these impressions made on our senses by outward
objects, that the mind seems first to employ itself in such opera
tions as we call perception, remembering, consideration, reason
ing, &c.

" In time, the mind comes to reflect upon its own operations,
about the ideas got by sensation, and thereby stores itself with
a new set of ideas, which I call ideas of reflection. These are
the impressions that are made on our senses by outward objects
that are extrinsical to the mind ; and its own operations, pro
ceeding from powers intrinsical and proper to itself, which,
when reflected on by itself, becoming also objects of its contem
plation, are, as I have said, the original of all knowledge.
Thus the first capacity of human intellect is, that the mind is

100 INTELLECT.

fitted to receive the impressions made on it, either through the
senses, by outward objects, or by its own operations when it
reflects on them. . . . All those sublime thoughts which
tower above the clouds, and reach as high as heaven itself, take
their rise and footing here : in all that good extent wherein the
mind wanders, in those remote speculations it may seem to be
elevated with, it stirs not one jot beyond those ideas which
sense or reflection have offered for its contemplation." Here
Locke speaks of powers intrinsical and proper to the mind it
self; ivhile even with respect to those ideas which are got by the
senses, or are " conveyed in" as Locke expresses himself, by the
senses, he calls them ideas of the understanding. " I conceive,"
he says, " that ideas in the understanding are coeval with sen
sation ;" therefore, sensation was not the cause of them, pro
perly speaking, but the occasion of them : they belong to the
understanding, although they arise coeval with certain sensa
tions. Locke also speaks of " a power which the mind is able
to exert within itself, without the aid of any extrinsic object or
any foreign suggestion." Sensation and reflection is Locke's
antithesis, and in the two terms of it we have the two sources
of all our ideas. But mind is in operation as soon as we get
an idea. An idea is exclusively a mental product : there is no
longer anything of sensation in it. Gassendi and Condillac,
on the contrary, insist upon every idea being but a modified or
a transformed sensation. Locke had nothing in common with
such a philosophy. Condillac and his followers had no right
to claim him. They have all the merit of the sensational
philosophy. It peculiarly belongs to the French school of
metaphysics from the time of Condillac ; although Gassendi
was the first who propounded the theory. Malebranche, who
flourished between the time of Gassendi and that of Condillac,
held the doctrine, that our ideas are immediately suggested by
the Divine Being, as he is the only true cause of everything
that either exists or happens. God is the immediate inspirer
of every thought, as he is the immediate cause of every event ;
nay, according to Malebranche, our minds themselves exist in
God as matter in space. It was his piety that led him to adopt

INTELLECT. 101

this theory. His object, like that of Berkeley, was to uproot
infidelity by one bold effort, and make God all in all. We can
admire the piety of the design, while we wonder at the teme
rity of the doctrine. It was certainly carrying the citadel of
the enemy by a coup de main, but it was at the risk of phi
losophy and everything else : common sense perished in the
line of approach or mode of assault. Condillac wrote a con
siderable time after Malebranche, as the latter flourished about
twenty years after the time of Gassendi. Condillac was fol
lowed by the Encyclopaedists, and what he began with, making
sensation the only faculty of the mind, and every idea but
a transformed sensation, his followers carried all the length
of an undisguised and unmitigated materialism. Mind was
denied, and everything was referred to a system in which the
nerves played the only part. " Les nerfs" said Cabanis, " voila
tout I'homme" Physiology became the grand study, and phi
losophers were found expending the greatest efforts of mind to
prove there was no mind, and that all was but the action and
result of a system of nerves. Much valuable information, no
doubt, was thus acquired in the department for which France
has always been pre-eminent, viz., physiological science. But
this was at the expense of far more valuable truth, and un
doubtedly the materialism of that period contributed to the
general state of mind which issued in the excesses of the Kevo-
lution. What were Mirabeau's dying words in the presence
of that very Cabanis who had taught that the nerves were all
of that wondrous combination in which to every true thinker
the mind is by far the grandest part ? " I shall die to-day,"
said Mirabeau on his deathbed to Cabanis ; " all that can be
now done is to envelop one's-self in perfumes, to crown one's
self with flowers, to surround one's-self with music, that one
may sink quietly into everlasting sleep." Thiers, in his History
of the French Revolution, calls these calm and dignified obser
vations. Cabanis recanted doctrines which he saw in the
commentaries of such deathbeds, and the massacres of the guil
lotine. The revolutionists exulted in the thought that death was
an eternal sleep, and if he had contributed to such a state of

102 INTELLECT.

sentiment, he hastened to repair his error, and to assert the
everlasting distinctions of virtue springing out of the inde
structible principles of mind.

X.

Intellection is the word we would be inclined to adopt as
expressive of the action of mind as mind, and in antithesis to
sensation, which is partly a corporeal and partly a mental
function or state. On the presence of certain sensations, we
have seen a mental act takes place, and our ideas of externality,
of matter, substance, mind, space, time, power, are obtained.
These are purely the products of a mental operation, while this
is by no means to say that they have not their counterparts for
which they stand, or of which they are the ideas. So wonder
ful is the connexion between the external and internal worlds.
The objects of our ideas, or their prototypes, are without us —
but these ideas are purely mental, or given to us by mind.
But for this power of fashioning its ideas, the external world
would appeal to us in vain ; and figure, distance, magnitude,
everything about which science is conversant, and with which
taste and morals have to do, would be a nonentity, at least to
us : other faculties, other minds, might apprehend them, but
to us they would have no existence. It is a marvellous con
nexion which exists between the world without and the world
within. While all about which the mind is conversant is a
kind of creation, even as if it had no independent existence,
and the Germans were right in making everything phenomenal
and subjective., we believe and cannot question that there is
that without which is more than phenomenal, and is objective.
God has created a material universe ; he has endowed it with
certain qualities, or it possesses those properties which are
essential to matter: he has placed mind in this material frame
work or universe, as he himself is a Spirit or Mind of infinite
perfection, — that created mind must learn those qualities or
properties of the universe in which it exists, and it does so in
a manner which is characteristic of itself, by an act or acts
purely mental, so that the ideas are its own, while at the same

INTELLECT. 103

time they have their counterpart without. This independent
action of the mind may be denoted generally Intellection, or the
action of pure mind. We think it is of importance to employ
a term by which this action of the mind may be designated,
both as opposed to sensation as the first law or state of the
mind, and to any view that would stop short of recognising
the operation of mind purely or simply, even in the formation
of our most rudimentary ideas. We know that in the account
of the origin of our ideas, in any intellectual system, except in
those sensational ones in which our ideas are regarded but as
transformed sensations, mind is recognised ; but it is not enough
marked that mind bears the whole part, and that sensation but
acts as a prompter, or as the occasion of the mind's operations,
— is the suggestive stimulant, if we may so speak, not itself
approaching to the remotest resemblance to an idea. The
grand point to be noticed is the distinction between a sensation
and an idea — the one partly a corporeal, the other strictly a
mental product. We vindicate the separate integrity of mind,
its distinct nature, and its independent action. Having ob
tained its simple ideas, which are the rudiments of its other
ideas, saving those which belong to taste and to moral duty —
what happens after that ? but that the mind regards its simple
ideas under different modifications, thus forming its complex
ideas, or its ideas variously related.

It is usual to represent the mind as possessed of certain
faculties, to account for its ideas, and its varied phenomena.
The operations or states of the mind are represented under the
description of different powers, and thus we have — Sensation,
Memory, Judgment, Perception, Conception, Abstraction, Gene
ralization — what Locke calls Composition — Imagination. Dis
cernment, and Comparison, are also names in the vocabulary of
the faculties, and seem to be employed by Locke for the more
generic term Judgment. Judgment is the faculty which, pre
siding over even our remembered sensations, discriminates, or
forms them into ideas. A name is nothing, if we really under
stand what we express by it. But would we call that process
or operation by which our simple or elementary ideas are

104 INTELLECT.

obtained by the name of judgment ? Is it not better to refer
all to mind simply, acting spontaneously and independently,
but in a manner altogether inexplicable, and not to be ac
counted for by any name or names ? In like manner, shall
we say our complex ideas are obtained by a faculty which we
term judgment, or comparison, or composition ? For all prac
tical purposes there is no harm in speaking of the faculties of
the mind, and of the mind operating according to certain
faculties, in the way of discernment, comparison, composition,
or, more generically, judgment. But more philosophically and
simply the view properly is, that the mind, first by its own
spontaneity and activity, and then according to certain laws,
obtains its simple ideas, such as self, externality, matter, sub
stance, with their various properties — space, time, power : then
these ideas are modified, and we have the idea of universal
space, Eternity, causality under all its phases : we can limit
or extend our idea of space ad libitum, — consider it as cir
cumscribed by lines, and thereby derive the properties of
figures, and construct the science of geometry — divide time into
periods, or consider it according to the observed motions of the
heavenly bodies — regard the laws of motion and of force, and
so obtain the mechanical sciences : and all this is just mind,
one and indivisible in all its operations, regarding its ideas
under those aspects in which they may present themselves to
it, or may be capable of being considered — it is, in short, intel
lection operating in various ways, or intellection affected vari
ously by limiting circumstances, supposed or actual. Three
lines, for example, meeting each other, is an arbitrary circum
stance presented to the mind, or supposed by it ; and thus out
of space so circumscribed, we obtain the idea of a triangle, or
a figure possessing three angles : that idea again variously
modified gives us the idea of an isosceles, an equilateral, or a
scalene triangle. But the arbitrary or modifying circumstance,
or the line drawn according to a particular figure, may give us
the idea, and all the properties, of the circle, or square, or
parallelogram ; and our ideas of space and of figure may be as
various as the directions in which lines can be drawn, or the

INTELLECT. 105

magnitudes by which space may be measured. The properties
of these figures determine at once the distance, orbit, and
speed of the stars and planets, and may add, as they have
added, a Kepler's laws, and a Newton's theory of gravitation,
to the discoveries and the known facts of science. Again, by
the idea of causality we obtain the idea of God, or at least of a
First Cause. The mind perceives — (we use the word perceive
to express a mental act by which certain ideas may arise in
the mind) — the mind perceives, that a cause of the creation
of the universe must be supposed, to account for the exist
ence of the universe : the universe is the effect, God is the
cause. It is but the operation of that very early developed
principle of the mind, developed as early as the first state of
consciousness, or at least the first discovery or intimation to
us of an external world, or of externality — the principle that an
effect must have a cause. But the effect is one implying or
exhibiting intelligence : the cause must therefore have been
an intelligent one. But, again, the effect is very stupendous ;
nay, it was creation ; but for such a stupendous effect nothing
less than omnipotence was adequate ; while creation is the
effect of a Creator ; and a Creator must himself be uncreated ;
and an uncreated being must have always existed ; and what
have we here but the natural perfections of God ? See how
simple, how unobserved, so to speak, how unwitting, how silent
but irresistible, the process is ! There is no laboured effort of
judgment : the process is obviously but a farther extension of
that by which our simplest ideas arise. The mind, however, is
guided or influenced by certain laws and principles: it acts under
these laws or by these principles : its faculties are rather mind
itself acting under or according to these laws or principles.

For example, there is the law of identity, the law of diver
sity, the law of resemblance, the law of contrast, the law of
analogy, the law of proportion.

Then there are the principles — Causality, to which we have
traced the idea or belief of Externality ; Generalization, or the
principle by which our generalized ideas are formed ; Deduction,
the principle on which all reasoning properly speaking depends.

106 INTELLECT.

Then we have the voluntary actions of the mind, such as
attention, to which again may be referred what is called the
power of abstraction, which is nothing more than the mind
applied steadfastly to one of many subjects or ideas or quali
ties, and attending to it apart. Imagination is just the laws
of mind above enumerated, with a state peculiar to itself, and
which may be called the ideal or imaginative state. Memory
is a property of mind by which the past is recalled or repro
duced : it is neither a law nor a principle. There is, lastly, the
circumstance or property of association in our ideas.

The moral and emotional part of our nature does not
come under our present review, although this may be men
tioned as a separate source of ideas ; for we could have no
idea of emotion unless we were capable of emotion, and we
could have no idea of duty — of right and wrong — but for the
law of right and wrong, or unless we were capable of perceiving
this distinction ; while it is the aspects of emotion and of
principle which go to the formation of character, and all the
variety of disposition. Actions, too, may be variously contem
plated, as characterized by such and such emotions, or exhibit
ing such and such moral principles, or violations of principle.
It may be seen what a wide range of ideas is thus opened up,
or given to the mind.

We may specify here, too, the idiosyncrasies of the mind — a
term for which we are indebted to phrenology — by which is
meant some predominating bias or faculty, mental or moral,
according to which one mind is distinguished from another.

We thus consider the mind possessed of a spontaneous activity
and inherent poioer, by which our simple ideas are framed,
products of the mind solely, and not indebted to sensation
farther than as the prompter or stimulant of mind : that
activity still in operation gives us the modifications of our
simple ideas, in which extended operation we see the laws
above enumerated, and those principles of the mind — causality,
generalization, deduction. We have the voluntary actions of
mind, attention, abstraction. We have the state of Imagina
tion, and the properties of memory and association.

INTELLECT. 107

XI.

Memory, though mentioned so late among the phenomena
which mind presents, comes first under our consideration. We
mentioned it so late because it does not belong to any of the
more general phenomena to which may be referred many of the
mental characteristics. We have called it a property of mind,
for it is altogether distinct from the spontaneous action of
the mind by which we obtain our primitive ideas, the modify
ing laws of the mind, the principles of the mind, and even its
voluntary actions ; for although volition may exert an influence
upon memory, so that we may set ourselves to recall any past
event, this is not so much a voluntary act of memory, as me
mory influenced by an act of volition. All the voluntary acts
of mind, indeed, are just mind under the influence of volition.

MEMORY.

Memory is undoubtedly something unique, or distinct from
any other phenomenon of the mind. Nor do we call it a faculty,
as we have refrained from designating any of the phenomena
of mind facilities, inasmuch as the only thing pertaining to
mind to which we can properly apply the name power, is the
will, the seat of moral power ; and hence it is, that what are
strictly to be regarded only as phenomena of mind take the
aspect of faculties, because they may be under the influence of
volition. A volition may be so present and operative as to give
to what is nothing more than a succession of ideas in the mind
the aspect of a faculty. Even what are called our judgments,
are but ideas variously combined or related, but when loe set
ourselves to compare our ideas, or invite their presence in their
relations and connexions, we are said to exert an act of judg
ment. In the same way when we set ourselves to recall a past
idea or event, we are said to exert an act of memory. But
what truly takes place in each of these instances ? In each
instance we have but ideas arising in the mind according to
certain laws, or according to a certain characteristic or property
of the mind, under the influence of volition, or an act of will.

108 INTELLECT.

Will is a real act ; in it is recognised the source or spring of
action. We have spoken of the spontaneous activity of the
mind, that is, the action of mind as mind, and prior to the
possibility of a volition. But even this spontaneous activity is
to be distinguished from the succession of ideas according to
certain laws ; because having obtained an idea, that rather is
the cause of another idea, than the more inner action, if we
may so speak, of mind itself. It cannot be doubted that ideas
suggest ideas, or that upon the presence of one idea another
idea arises ; now, that is different from the internal activity by
which our first and primitive ideas are obtained. It is the
latter that we call spontaneous activity ; the former is the mind
operating according to certain laws. One idea is the cause of
another idea ; in the case of our simple ideas, mind is the cause
of them. Now, memory is distinct from a mere succession of
ideas, and is a property of mind by which the past is recalled,
and not merely an idea suggested by an idea. Dr. Brown
adopts a nomenclature for the phenomena of the mind to avoid
ascribing to the mind powers or faculties, and he resolves the
phenomena of the mind into states, which he calls the states of
simple and relative suggestion. He recognises mental laws
according to which these states arise ; but he makes the same
distinction that we have thought it necessary to make between
the mind as possessed of powers, and the mind as exhibiting
properties or laws of operation. The latter, we think the more
correct aspect in which to regard the mind. Suggestion is the
grand law in Dr. Brown's system ; we have called it generally
intellection, or just the operation of mind. Relative suggestion
with Dr. Brown is when ideas spring up or arise in the mind
not in their simple form, but in certain relations, and these
relations are accounted for by the primary and secondary laws
of suggestion. Dr. Brown, therefore, accounts for all the
phenomena of mind strictly, by the phenomenon or law of sug
gestion, but that phenomenon or law regulated by other pheno
mena or laws, which are called the laws of association or
suggestion. Now, instead of having a law or phenomenon
regulated by other laws or phenomena, we would describe the

INTELLECT. 109

former by the term intellection, and make the laws which
regulate it the laws of intellection ; in other words, ive would
consider the mind simply under the regulation of certain laws.
Thinking, or ideas, may be said to be the distinguishing char
acteristic or effect of mind ; but ideas do not arise in the mind
but under the operation of certain laws, or thinking goes on
according to certain laws. Now, we have distinguished me
mory from ideas, or from thinking, and it is to be distinguished
from the laws of thinking, or the laws by which our ideas are
regulated. We make it a property of mind. We have already
said that the will is the only proper power of the mind ; with
it alone can we properly connect the idea of poiuer. What
then is memory ? We say it is that property or characteristic
of mind by which the past is recalled. Dr. Brown resolves it
into a simple suggestion, or conception, with a relative feeling
or idea of time ; or that suggestion or conception recognised as
belonging to the past. But in that very recognition lies the
peculiarity of memory which Dr. Brown makes no account of
at all. We say the peculiarity of memory lies in the recogni
tion of the past ; or rather this recognition is the recalling
process, and it gives no account of memory to say that it is
simple suggestion with a relative feeling of time. What is so
peculiar to memory is its recalling the past, and that is not
explained by simple suggestion; for that may take place without
any reference to the past, an idea being suggested by another
idea in the present, according to the law of simple suggestion;
and the feeling or relative idea of time does not explain the
phenomenon. The question is, why this idea of time ? why
this feeling of past time ? why not of future time ? why of
time at all ? This brings us to the precise characteristic, or
distinction, of memory. It recalls the past, or in virtue of this
property of mind the past is recalled. We call it a property of
mind ; it is not a faculty ; it is not a law. The past is present,
and yet it is not present, it is recalled ; that is a property of
mind. Strange, singular law or property ! — the past present !
recalled ! The past revived to the mind ! How shall we ex
plain this law, or rather, as we have called it, property ? A

110 INTELLECT.

past idea, or a past event, revived in the mind : can we go any
farther than this in our explanation ? We think Dr. Brown's
view not only exceedingly defective, but altogether absurd ;
for in the attempt to simplify, it misses the grand characteristic
or peculiarity of the phenomenon. Dr. Brown — and we shall be
forgiven for so freely criticising so great an authority — would
seem to have been misled by what would appear to be a process
of memory, but in reality is no more than simple suggestion,
or a conception, together with a relative idea of time, when a
past event, as narrated in history, or transmitted by any other
means, is conceived of by the mind. Here, truly, we have
conception with a relative feeling or idea of time. But is this
memory ? Are we remembering when we think of the events
of past ages ? We remember only what has been within the
sphere of our own experience. It is our own past we recall
when we remember. Dr. Brown's idea of memory has regard
to the past of events which happened in other times, but not
within our own observation or experience. History gives a
narration of these events, but we are not remembering when
we read history — when the events which it records are passing
before the mind. The History of Europe by Alison is history
to us ; it would have been memory to Napoleon had he lived
to peruse it. We remember only what has happened in our
own time, and within our own experience ; and in reference to
events that have happened in our own time, though not within
our own experience, we rather remember when they happened,
than remember the events themselves. Memory, then, is our
own past reproduced. It is the events of our own experience — or
our own past ideas or feelings — recalled. In all other cases in
reference to the past, it is just a conception that we have, with
the knowledge that it is the conception of a past event. In the
case of memory, it is our minds which give us the event, or
feeling, or idea. In the other case, it is to others we are in
debted for the event, or feeling, or idea, and our minds have
nothing to do with the process further than conceiving of these.
In the one case it is the past recalled ; in the other it is the
past conceived of.

INTELLECT. Ill

But it is memory when the last moment is recalled — when
the last idea is recalled. The past is ever being reproduced.
It is owing to this that we have any ideas whatever. Did the
sensation which gives us any of our most elementary ideas flit
away, as if it had never been, the instant that it was expe
rienced, we would have no such ideas, and though the sensation
might be prolonged, still it would be prolonged in vain, for
only the sensation of the present moment would be known. It
is by our sensations, or ideas, being retained in the mind, as it
were, even when they are truly past, that that operation of the
mind takes place by which an idea is produced, or new ideas
arise. How marvellous the process of the mind ! Memory is
necessaiy to every discrimination of an idea, and to every pro
cess of discrimination which is implied in reasoning. The past
flows into the present, and makes part of our present thoughts
and our present processes, like the recurrent stream forming
part of the tide with which it mingles. And this double pro
cess is ever going on. To account for a complex idea, Dr.
Brown has recourse to what he terms the doctrine of virtual
equivalence. The mind is one and indivisible ; there cannot,
Dr. Brown says, be two thoughts or ideas in it at the same
time : the complex idea, therefore, is not two ideas — it is
equivalent to tivo. This is an approach to an explanation of
a very difficult subject : we know not if it is a satisfactory
explanation, an explanation, viz., of the virtual presence of two
ideas in the mind at the same time. We may take it as the
best that can be given. In every complex idea that pheno
menon is presented. But what shall we say of a past idea and
a present, and a process by which a new idea results ? And
yet, this is what must take place in order to every new idea.
The point to be attended to is the necessity of memory in the
formation of our ideas. Memory brings up the thread from
the past which is to mix with the present moment, or the idea
of the present moment: it is the warp and the woof of the
mind. It is the two seen together in the mind that gives us a
new product. And how rapid may be this process ! Who can
catch the electricity of the mind ? who can observe the swift

112 INTELLECT.

shuttle ? who can mark the blending thoughts ? Memory is
as really in operation in the recalling of the past moment, as
in the recalling of the past year, or the past twenty years.
And this is by far the most important act of memory — if we
may call that an act which is only a law or a property of mind
— for but for this, mind would be at a stand, or would be but
a series of fleeting sensations : it would never get beyond sen
sation, and the sensation of the present moment.

It is sensation prolonged or repeated that allows of that
mental act by which an idea arises. But for a sensation to be
prolonged it must be recognised or identified with the sensation
of the past moment, or with the sensation of several moments
past. It seems improbable that the flitting sensation of a
moment should give rise to an idea, or should awaken a mental
act. The mind would hardly be roused into activity by a
single sensation, passing away as it arose. But without memory
this would be the phenomenon presented. Every sensation
would be singular. Memory gives identity to our sensations,
or allows the mind to recognise their identity : a mental act or
state is the result, and we have traced the progress from the
first mental act or state onwards till the whole of our primitive
ideas are obtained. Memory is that wonderful property of
mind by which one state of mind is recognised to be the same
with a past state of mind, so that the past and the present
become one, and we have a continuity of feeling owing to
which we live not only in the present moment, but through a
succession of time. Why is it that even the feeling of pain is
continuous ? All that we can be really said to feel is the
sensation of the present moment ; but in pleasure or pain the
feeling is prolonged : the past is multiplied into the present,
and we have a resultant quantity, the aggregate of a series of
feelings. What an important end this must subserve in the
constitution of our nature must be at once apparent. No two
continuous feelings would be felt to be such, but for this law
of our constitution. We would have no continued identity :
we would live in moments. The treasured experience of the
past would not be. Nothing would be distinguished, not

INTELLECT. 113

even our sensations. Coleridge's lines in reference to the
infant,

" Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of wo,
Tutor'd by pain each source of pain to know,"

would have no application. The first law of our being — self-
preservatiori — would have no existence : for how could we seek
our own preservation when our own identity was not even
recognised ? Or how could we know the sources of pain when
we knew only the pain of the present instant ? Memory is
necessary to any knowledge. It is the cement of our feelings,
the thread of their continuity, the amber in which they lie,
the reflex act by which what is past is yet present. This
allows a recognition to take place ; it allows a mental act :
and wherever a mental act has been exerted there is know
ledge. Mind is essentially formative: it gives unity, con
sistency, character, to our feelings. The conscious being
becomes self-conscious : the sentient being becomes intelligent :
the depository of sensations, the possessor and dispenser of
knowledge. Such a law or arrangement it is that secures the
very preservation of the sentient, conscious, intelligent agent.
Pain becomes not only a sensation, but a recognised sensation,
a discriminated sensation, an idea ; and we can trace it to its
source : and by a law or principle of the mind which is to
come under our attention, we can predict it in connexion with
any circumstances, or course of events, or known causes.

But memory gathers the larger and higher experience neces
sary for the purposes and for the very possibility of intellectual
existence and intellectual progress ; that experience which is
the basis and pabulum of knowledge ; the very material which
knowledge makes use of, and which goes to constitute other
knowledge ; the experience, above all, which is our light in
duty, the guide of conduct, our beacon in life, and solemn
monitor with reference to our approaching end. It treasures
up the experience of others, and adds our own : all the wisdom
to which ages have contributed, and which is accumulating
with every successive period. Sages have thought for us ; the

u

114 INTELLECT.

wise of every age are our instructors ; all nations levy wisdom
for our peculiar benefit. It is true, that memory extends only
to our own past consciousness ; but this does not hinder but
that the consciousness of others may be treasured for our good.
All proverbs owe their origin to this source : they are the
gathered wisdom of ages and of peoples. How many observa
tions go to constitute a single apophthegm or wise saying ! The
observation has been repeated thousands of times by thousands
of individuals : it is some sign of the sky, some index of the
weather, some principle of conduct, some circumstance of
character, some mark of providence ; and now it has reached
that point when it takes shape : it crystallizes itself in some
mind : it gathers into consistency, and becomes a proverb for
ever. Some happy utterance under some happy inspiration
may give it form. How many such utterances are never caught
up ! But others have fallen on more likely ears, or they were
such as could not die. All nations and all languages have
their proverbs ; their wise sayings are enriched with these
pearls of sage observation or experience.

What scenes does not memory faithfully portray, and does
it not hold within its magic chambers or mysterious recesses !
The wizard power can evoke them in a moment, and infancy,
youth, manhood, pass before the eye. The past is a picture in
which scenery and events live. Who has forgot the sports of
his childhood, the spot on which he gamboled, and his first
essays at mimic life ? Who cannot recall the playmates of
earlier years, and the long, long sunny days, with their many
incidents, and their protracted pleasures ? I can recollect when
a day was like a century, and an afternoon was like half an age,
and the sunbeam fell with something of a solemn influence,
and I seemed to know not when the hours would come to a
close. Far, far on into the evening our pleasures were protracted,
and the earth did not seem to bear a curse, and yet there were
whispers of death and rumours of decay, and the heart was
often surcharged with a heavy feeling. I remember the long
walks, and the more adventurous excursions, and the rambles '
through the fields, with scenery that spoke to the heart, and

INTELLECT. 115

that shall never be effaced, forming, while it enchanted, the
imagination. I can recollect a range of hills resting again. st
the western horizon, whose outline, varied and picturesque —

" Scotland's northern battlement of hills" —

is as vivid to me at this moment as if I was looking upon
them. That line of hills was always the most pleasing fea
ture in the landscape. The road which had these in view
was always the most inviting, and the most frequented. It
seems to he a characteristic of memory to fix upon some
spot above all others which lives indelibly upon its tablets,
and becomes the scene of almost every imaginary picture
which we draw, or which is afterwards portrayed to the
imagination. This feature or characteristic of memory seems
worth noticing. All the tender or exciting scenes of which
I have ever read are mostly connected with one such spot.
There was a churchyard, too, in my native town, where the
scene of Christ's resurrection, and of the two disciples visit
ing the sepulchre, with the apparition of the angels, seems
always to be re-enacted, often as I read of these events. Christ
and Mary seem to stand before me on that very spot. The
sleeping guards and the earthquake, and the rising Jesus — the
interior of the sepulchre and the watching angels — and the
napkin and linen clothes lying, — are all invariably associated
with that place.

Our memories will undoubtedly survive the grave. How
important to have their tablets inscribed only with characters
that will form a part of the happiness of heaven to peruse !
Perhaps we think too little of this world, not only as a state
of preparation for the next, but as the place where we are to
lay up undying records for the future. From the sanctified
soul all that would mar the happiness of heaven will be ex
punged ; but how much will that soul have of duties performed,
of labours endured, and sufferings borne in the service of Christ
to remember ? It would appear that a new law of memory
will be developed in the future world : all that would give pain
to the redeemed will be forgotten, or will not disturb : all that

11G INTELLECT.

would afford pleasure to the lost will be swallowed up in the
overwhelming wo. To the redeemed the history of time will
present a subject of marvellous contemplation, and will unfold
those secrets of Providence and Grace which are so perplexing,
while yet they are enveloped in darkness and mystery. All
God's ways will meet there and be reconciled. The dark and
unknown in their own history will look clear and bright in
such a survey. God will be vindicated, and everything will
be seen to have fallen out to his glory, and for the best and
highest interests of his government. They will be parts of a
universal plan, which even eternity will not be able fully to
disclose, or utterly to exhaust of interest. The interest will
rather gather with the contemplation, and the Divine mind,
an immeasurable infinitude, an unfathomable deep, will ever
be discovering itself in new and unthought of aspects, develop
ing new and before unheard of and unimagined treasures of
wisdom and knowledge.

Into such fields of survey will the fields of personal recollec
tion — of every individual's own history — hereafter stretch. Our
memories will be part of the survey — the most important part
to us — but small indeed compared with the whole. And our
histories will be the stand-point, so to speak, to us in the con
templation : our lines of observation will begin there, and circle
round the infinitude. What a faculty is that, which, beginning
with the recollection of a child's consciousness, will afterwards
be connected with an exercise so vast and so exalting !

Imagination often blends with the operation of memory; and
it is owing to this, in part, that the exercise of memory is so
pleasing, when that exercise is concerned with scenes and events
in our past lives. Imagination throws its own light upon
everything which comes in any degree within its sphere. It
softens the past, it heightens the future. It is the torch of
hope ; it is the mellow star which trembles on the horizon of
memory. Shall we say it is imagination, or is it a law of me
mory itself, according to which only the pleasing is recalled,
and the disagreeable or indifferent is allowed for the time to
sink away ? No doubt, if the very scene could be recalled

INTELLECT. 117

which affords so much pleasure in retrospect, we would find
many deductions from its happiness. But these were connected
with the moment then being. Some engrossing care, or some
painful incident, or some unwelcome feeling, neutralized, per
haps, or greatly abated the pleasure of the scene or the hour.
But the scene is now recalled apart from these, and we expe
rience something of the happiness that would have been felt
had there been no such circumstances to detract from it. The
scene, without any alloy to mix in its happiness, is realized to
the memory — shall we say to the fancy ? The imagination,
undoubtedly, takes up the matter, and manages it after its
own fashion, or at least helps it with its own hues. Hence,
" The Pleasures of Memory," as well as " The Pleasures of
Hope," are the subject of poetic description. There is room
with respect to both for the exercise of imagination. The very
exercise of imagination in itself is pleasing. The ideal state is
itself a source of delight or pleasure, and this is an ultimate
fact which is unaccountable. Whatever, therefore, is attribut
able to imagination in the recalling of the past, must give
delight — must be essentially pleasurable. But we would be
unwilling to attribute more to imagination than is clue. When
the pleasures of a past scene, or of past scenes, can be recalled
without all that detracted from it, or them, in the reality, surely
the effect must be a pleasurable one. Imagination is not need
ing to add its charms or lend its colours. Memory does the
work itself, using its power of election, and resting only upon
the green spots in the past, like palm-groves

" islanded amid the waste."

The mind, in its desire for pleasure, makes the selection with
the same instinct that a bee will settle upon flowers that give
honey, and no others. It willingly forgets, or does not call up
in its picture, the features of the scene, or circumstances that
would produce pain. If I want to recall the sports of my boy
hood, I do not recall with them the quarrels and enmities which
might chance to break in and disturb for an hour or day the
pleasures of the play-ground, and convert it into something
like a listed field. If I want to recall the smile and all that is

1 18 INTELLECT.

pleasing in the recollection of a parent, I forget bis frown, and
think only of that which gave pleasure in past days, and is
capable of yielding the same pleasure though but in retrospect.
All the vexations, all the envies, all the disparaging circum
stances that blended in the enjoyments of the festive scene
are forgotten, and the festive scene itself, with its delusive
lights, and its brilliant company, and its deceitful flatteries, are
revived. Time, too, has undoubtedly a mellowing influence, a
softening effect, like distance in the landscape, or age on a
building.

" As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower
Awes us less deeply in its morning hour,
Than when the shades of time serenely fall
On every broken arch and ivied wall ; •

The tender images we love to trace
Steal from each year a melancholy grace."

Campbell's opening lines to " The Pleasures of Hope " might
almost with equal propriety apply to the effect of the past as
to that of the future, omitting the circumstance of the bow of
promise in the clouds : —

" At summer eve when heaven's aerial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue."

The sunbright summit of the mountain mingling with the
sky, is a picture or image of hope, but the cliffs " of shadowy
tint," and the enchantment produced by distance, are as appro
priate to memory as to the influence of hope. Nay, in Hope's
pictures memory bears a part ; for,

"Every form that fancy can repair
From dark oblivion glows divinely there."

And the bard of memory, addressing memory, says: —

" From Thee gay Hope her .airy colouring draws."

Hope is a sort of generalization from the past, either our own
past or that of others. It will hardly venture upon pictures

INTELLECT. 119

which the past does not warrant. The past and the future are
something like the horizon from which you are retiring, which
cannot be divided from, or stretches round and forms, the very
horizon on which you are advancing.

If imagination exerts an influence upon memory, memory
furnishes many of its materials to imagination. The scenes
which it retains in mind are the very pictures which fancy
weaves into her sketches, or embodies in her conceptions. The
creation of the poet still works upon materials got from ex
perience. Hence the Muses are the daughters of Memory.
The most original conception that was ever formed derived its
materials from what the poet had observed in the world with
out, or the world within. There is an original or creative
faculty which detects analogies which would not otherwise be
perceived, and sees a lurking truth or thought in a principle or
a fact which would have escaped all other notice ; and it is
thus that philosophy and science are indebted to memory, or the
truths, or facts, which memory treasures up and records. The
scientific or philosophic faculty, and also the simply inventive,
is very analogous to the creative faculty in poetry. The former
operates by hidden analogies, seen in principles of truth, or
laws of nature, as the latter by the mysterious resemblances
whether in external objects, or between these and facts or
phenomena of mind. Memory is the grand faculty necessary
to all these.

This leads us to say something of the different kinds of
memory, and to take notice of the question which has some
times been put, Whether a great memory and an enlarged or
philosophic judgment are compatible ?

We speak of a quick (or as Dugald Stewart calls it, a sus
ceptible) memory, a retentive memory, and a ready memory.
Dugald Stewart's remarks upon this subject are characterized by
a niceness of observation, and justness of view, altogether worthy
of him. We might be content to direct to this part of Dugald
Stewart's work on the " Elements of the Philosophy of the
Human Mind," but we may venture upon a single remark or
two in addition to what he has said.

120 INTELLECT.

Memory, to be complete, or to perform its functions com
pletely, should easily acquire, securely retain, and readily recall.

There is the imprinting of its objects upon the memory, or
the storing of them up, or just committing them to the memory,
or leaving them under the power of memory. If it be asked,
how is this done ? we can only answer, by the power of memory.
This is a power or property of mind of which we can give no
account, as is ultimately the case with all its powers or pheno
mena. So it is — is the utmost that can be said. Now, this
power of at first receiving its objects, is influenced by various
circumstances, which, however, we shall not notice till we have
spoken of the other kinds of memory, or features distinguishing
it, retentiveness and readiness.

For memory to be retentive, is to be tenacious of what it has
once received. In the case of a retentive memory, what has
been attained is not easily let go, is, on the contrary, long
retained. What is committed to the mind is long preserved,
perhaps indelibly fixed on the mind's tablets. A day, months,
years, do not wear it away. Only the infirmities of old age,
or the encroachments and paralysis of disease, may obliterate
or enfeeble the impression.

A ready memory, again, is when the objects of memory are
easily recalled, readily arise, and at the bidding or demand of
mind itself.

Now, it will be apparent, that the laws which regulate this
faculty, or this property or characteristic of mind, under one of
its aspects, will have much influence with it as respects the
rest. The philosophic or scientific mind, for example, which
has regard to principles, will much more easily treasure the
facts and principles of science, or principles of any kind, than
the mind that has little regard to principles, and can see only
objects existing separately or in their isolated state ; such a
mind does not generalize, does not detect, and can hardly
appreciate, principles, and therefore, it might labour in vain to
remember a science, or to commit its truths to the memory.
But such a mind will, perhaps, be more rapid in the acquisition
of separate or isolated facts which have no philosophic bond or

INTELLECT. 121

principle of connexion. Surprising instances of memory are
exhibited by minds of this stamp, which make the philosopher
sometimes feel astonished, and almost hide his diminished
head. He has no chance with such a mind in the news of the
day, or the topics of current discourse, the facts of history, and
the minute particulars which form the gossip of literature, and
the talk of the sciences ; so that, even in his own field, with re
ference to those particulars, the philosopher may be beat by the
mind of far more common or ordinary character. But, again,
these particulars being bound together by no common principle
or tie, while they may be easily acquired, may be as easily for
gotten ; and accordingly it is the philosophic memory that is
the most retentive. There are, however, instances of great
reteutiveness even in the case of memories whose objects lie
isolated, without any common bond. The philosophic memory,
again, is generally not a ready one. It has regard to principles,
and it always takes more time to recall and arrange a principle
than to state a fact. The philosophic mind, therefore, the
more valuable of the two, will often appear at a disadvantage
with the mind which deals with facts merely, and not with
principles ; for while the philosophic is seeking for the one, the
unphilosophic, or less philosophic, mind, is delivering itself of
the other with all readiness and promptitude. It is this often
which constitutes the difference in the readiness and facility of
extemporaneous speaking. Dr. Chalmers was not good at
extemporaneous address. He was often seen fetching at his
thoughts, because they lay imbedded in principle ; but when the
principle was once got hold of, his words came readily enough,
while they were instinct with meaning, and pregnant with im
portant and suggestive thought. Burke was not a fluent
speaker, because his speeches were big with philosophic prin
ciple, and, accordingly, are the speeches which alone, of those
of all the brilliant galaxy of the period in which he shone,
are read for the principles of government they contain,
and high truths they announce. They are the only lights
in the firmament, while the oratory of others has blazed and
expired.

122 INTELLECT.

A remarkable instance of a susceptible or quick memory is
related of Person the celebrated Greek scholar, who is said to
have been able to commit a whole newspaper to memory driv
ing through the streets of Oxford. Sir Walter Scott, ag iin,
almost never forgot what he had once read, and he was a walk
ing library of ballad lore and legendary story. Instances have
been known of the whole Bible having been committed to
memory. How prodigious and how ready must be the memory
of the lawyer, to quote precedent after precedent, and date after
date, and to refer the jury or the judge to the very volume, and
the very line of the page, where each is to be found !

The question whether a great memory and an enlarged or
philosophic judgment are compatible, is already answered ; for
the cases in which they do not seem to be compatible are only
those in which the remote analogies of philosophy occasion
some hesitancy or greater slowness in recalling the appropriate
objects of the philosophic memory, while the objects of the
memory which seems to be greatest, merely from its being
most ready, are the less valuable ones of unassociated or dis
jointed facts, which may have been retained, not from any
capacity in the memory itself, but merely from the habit of
mind to deal with such facts, and the keen relish felt in them,
or perhaps selfish ends connected with them. The lover of
news, the keen dealer in social or literary gossip, are not in
debted to any superiority of memory for the amazing extent of
information, such as it is, which they possess, and command
over it which they at all times seem to have, as to the peculiar
habit and predilections of mind by which such persons are
characterized.

Susceptibility of memory is greatly assisted by attention, and
that by the interest felt in any given subject. Where no in
terest is felt in the matter to be committed to memory, the
process of acquisition will be a very slow one for the most
part, and very likely the matter will as quickly disappear as it
was slowly acquired. Much, almost all, depends upon the in
terest which the subject-matter excites. The true secret of
memory, therefore, is to have the interest of the mind engaged.

INTELLECT. 123

That being the case, the memory will literally achieve won
ders.

XII.

By the phenomenon of memory the consciousness of one
moment is prolonged into the next. From this arises the feel
ing of our individual, or as it is generally termed, personal
identity. The consciousness of the one moment is recognised
as the consciousness of the same being with that of the next :
the feeling of identity comes in connexion with that pheno
menon, and may be inseparable from it. It is an intuition of
the mind. The first reference to a conscious self is nothing
else than this feeling or belief of identity.

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

Much that is useless or trifling has been written and spoken
upon this subject. To raise a question as to our identity, call it
personal, individual, or, as Dr. Brown terms it, mental identity,
seems very absurd: to point to the circumstance of self-conscious
ness, or the feeling of personal identity, through all the stages of
our mental and personal history, is very different. It matters
little whether we call it personal or mental identity; surely it is
unnecessary to enter into any elaborate proof, as Dr. Brown and
others have done, to evince that identity, and to maintain its
consistency with great and constant changes in the states of the
individual self-conscious being. Dr. Brown especially has been
elaborate upon this subject without much reason, as we humbly
think ; for an identity of some kind, whether as the result of a
material organization, or an identity of the thinking substance —
the real self — the soul — cannot be disputed, and it were idle to
argue with any that would dispute it. There may be some
shadow of a reason for calling in question the existence of an
external world, since consciousness is what we have to appeal to
in the matter of all our primitive beliefs, even our belief in the
existence of an external world. But to deny identity to self,
whether to our 'organic or our thinking self, is to put an end to
discussion by making it useless to discuss. What is it to any

124 INTELLECT.

one how any question is settled, if he is not, or if he does not
know that he is the same person, the same conscious being that
he was twenty years ago, or even an hour ago ? Could any
seriously call this in question ? Is this a point to be seriously
brought in question ? The feeling of identity, through all
the stages and changes through which an individual passes,
from infancy to manhood and old age, and in all the states vn
which that wonderful principle, the soul of man, can exist, is
one worthy of being noticed and attended to ; and the some
what curious question to which the visible changes in the body,
which forms a part of our personal selves, give rise, is also
worthy of notice, and begets some strange inquiries; but who
would argue with the person who disputed either his own or
another's essential identity, because of any changes and varie
ties of state, whether in the mind or in the body to which the
mind is linked by a personality which we are led to understand
will not be lost or destroyed by death itself, but revived or
reconstituted at the resurrection ? Dr. Brown, in transferring
the question from one of personal identity to one of mental
identity — and yet the credit can hardly be accorded to him of
having been the first to put the question in this form — un
doubtedly gains something in the way of strengthening that
point which alone it is of any material consequence to guard
or maintain, viz., our spiritual identity : if that is preserved,
then it is of little importance whether in any other respects we
are the same or not ; for it is our souls or our minds that make
ourselves: but there is obviously something more connected
with the question ; and it is not what these bodies are to us,
but what the personality constituted by the union of soul and
body ; and the question seems to be, how this personality
remains amid the changes, even the visible changes that befall
the body ? This is the only question that seems possible to
be raised. The changes through which the mind passes may
be great, are great. The process of ideas through the mind in
a single day implies great changes. What a difference between
a state of grief and a state of joy — a state of despondency and
a state of hope — a dull unimaginative state, and when the

INTELLECT. 125

mind is alive to all the solicitations of fancy, and the excur
sions of the imagination !

Who would suppose that the soul of that infant is to wield
the destinies of empires, or is to unravel the mysteries of the
universe, or is to deal with the highest themes of human
thought, and awaken the admiration of the world by its dis
coveries, or by the splendour of its genius ? How different the
power of mind at one period and at another ! Was Milton at
school the same with Milton when he wrote the Paradise Lost ?
Was Newton when a sickly boy the same as Newton when he
wrote the Principia, and determined the law of gravitation ?
Who could predict a Cromwell in the brewer's son, or a Napo
leon in the youth at Corsica ? That mind, that can now take
in all the complicated affairs of states and empires, maintain a
correspondence almost too voluminous for a single lifetime, in
the case of others, to peruse, lead in a hundred battles, em
brace the minutest arrangements of the equipment and marches
of armies, and of the etiquette of courts, wield the highest
intellects, and the most powerful wills, by the ascendency and
the energy of his own, and legislate with even greater ability
than he could command or rule, could not once distinguish the
right hand from the left. Is that the hero of Marengo, and
the ascendant spirit of Tilsit, looking down upon the dashing
wave from the rock of Elba, or the sea-beach of St. Helena ?
Born in the same year, the conqueror of Napoleon was a child
in the cradle at the same time. Over that fatal wreck of all
that was once beautiful and lovely in character, the mind is
suspended in amazement as well as in grief, and a mother
thinks of the days when she fondly hoped to see the fruit of
her anxieties and toils in the maturing of those virtues which
she laboured to develop and to foster. " Is not this Saul of
Tarsus ? is not this he that destroyed them which called on
this name in Jerusalem, and came hither for that intent, that
he might bring them bound unto the chief priests ?" The
greatest change that can happen to the human spirit is that
implied in conversion. We see a Rochester, the most frivolous
as well as the most profligate of the Court of Charles the

126 INTELLECT.

Second, the companion of a Villiers and of Charles himself,
dying in the faith of Jesus. We see a Gardiner, at one time the
elegant and accomplished debauchee, the most respected for
his gallantry, heightened by his piety, in the troop to which he
belonged, and indeed in the whole army. We see a Newton
transformed into a minister of that gospel which he had made
the subject of profane ridicule, and the preacher of those precepts
which, as he himself informs us, he had trampled on with the
most daring recklessness. These are instances of a change
that may well excite our wonder, and, if anywhere, bid us
ask, if these are indeed the same persons in the two stages or
periods of their history ? The Scriptural account of conver
sion is, " Old things are passed away ; all things are become
new." But even here there is no room for question or dubiety.
There is conversion, but the individual is the same ; and this
is the glory of the work. The only question as to personal
identity, then, must have regard to the united personality of
soul and body : is that every way the same, though we see such
changes — the infant — the youth — the man — and will that per
sonality exist in the judgment? When the body and the mind
together have undergone such changes, where can be the person
ality of the individual ? Is the man, the youth, or the infant, the
person, the individual ? In what will the personality consist in
the future world, when infancy, youth, manhood, age, will be
alike unknown ? At which of all the stages of his life will the
individual hereafter exist, or will they be all met in one ? These
questions, more curious than profitable, still do beget some
wonder, and not an altogether idle curiosity. As to the iden
tity of the body in the future world, we know that this pre
sented a difficulty in the way of the reception of the doctrine
of the resurrection. " How are the dead raised up ? and with
what body do they come ?" It is a well-known fact in refer
ence to the body, that it is undergoing a perpetual change,
and that every seven years the particles of which it was com
posed are renewed : if, then, there is a resurrection of the dead,
with what body do they come ? What will become of per-
sonalitv in such a case ? Which of the bodies will be raised

INTELLECT. 127

up ? The Apostle anticipated such an objection, and he makes
personality, so far as the body is concerned, to consist in the
identity of the body, not of its particles. It shall undergo such
a change as to be a spiritual, whereas it was once a natural
body; an incorruptible, whereas it was once a corruptible body;
a glorious body, whereas it was once a body of humiliation —
raTreivaxrecas. " We must all (ive, in our personality) appear
before the judgment-seat of Christ." " Behold, I shew you a
mystery ; we shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed (the
personality preserved in the change) in a moment, in the
twinkling of an eye, at the last trump ; for the trumpet shall
sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall
be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption,
and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this cor
ruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have
put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying
that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory."

It is in such a connexion, and in such a view of it alone,
that the question of identity possesses any importance. The
identity of the soul cannot be doubted for a moment, or occa
sion any difficulty. It passes through changes; but are changes
of state inconsistent with identity, whether of substance or
consciousness ? Memory, like a glance, will hereafter unite
every moment in one, and every change that has been under
gone, whether for the better or the worse, will concentrate in
the final state of the soul. " He that is unrighteous, let him
be unrighteous still ; he that is holy, let him be holy still."

A few more remarks will close this subject.

The identity of the soul is owing to its immateriality, while,
again, its immateriality may be inferred from the feeling of
identity. It is only what can undergo a change of parts that
can be said to change in its entireness or totality. Even mat
ter suffers no change but as respects the particles of which it is
composed ; as respects these particles, could we arrive at the
minutest of them, there is no change ; they remain in their
identity. The only change that takes place in bodies is in the
arrangement of their parts, and in the substitution of certain

128 INTELLECT.

particles for others which have passed away. A constant
change of this kind is taking place in nature. The waters of
the ocean, which may be said to be the great aqueous body of
our globe, are exhaled in vapour, and form those clouds which
float in the air, and constitute so interesting a part, or feature,
of the scene which the eye takes in — as it looks from heaven to
earth, and from earth to heaven — combining in admirable har
mony, but yet in pleasing contrast, with the terrestrial land
scape — a something not of earth, but yet belonging to it —
" cloudland," or battlemented cities built in the sky, the domes
and the dwelling-places of celestials. These clouds descend in
showers again to the earth, and by its rivers and lakes find
their way to the ocean from which they rose. The seed rises
into the plant or the tree, but these again are resolved into the
very soil or compost from which they took their nourishment.
The very rocks decompose ; the mountains wear down into the
valleys ; everything is undergoing a transformation of some
sort, and these bodies of ours are not exempt from the general
law. But in all this change there is an integrity and identity
as respects the particles of matter, which, we believe, are neither
one less nor more since the beginning of creation. And amid
all this change we see a unity pervading the varied structures
of the earth which makes them one even when the change is
proceeding before our eyes. Clouds have their shape and their
identity, and by a law, which even the vapours obey, they are,
and can be, only clouds. Even in their change they are one,
till they drop in blessed showers upon the earth. That flower,
that tree, that rock, that mountain, retain their identity till
they are decomposed, and their particles unite in some other
combination. The flower exhales its particles in some measure
in the breath of its fragrance, but it is ever drawing fresh sup
plies from its root, and by its leaves, which are its lungs : so,
but more slowly with the tree. But is there not a unity, an
identity, all the while, during their brief or their longer ex
istence ? With all its abrasures yon mountain stands the same
to the eye as when first we gazed on it, and it will be the same
in form and aspect, perhaps, when it will be looked upon for

INTELLECT. 12U

the last time before it is enveloped in the final fires. There is
a law of unity even in respect to it, in the order of its layers,
and composition of its strata. So with our bodies ; their
identity is preserved amid all their change ; it is the same
body, although the particles of which it is composed are not
the same. It is not the particles of any structure that give it
its unity and integrity, but the law of the structure, whatever
that may be. Our bodies are one because of this law, and our
individual bodies are one because of the individual law of their
being or existence. " In the world," says Coleridge, " we see
everywhere evidences of a unity which the component parts are
so far from explaining, that they necessarily presuppose it as
the cause and condition of their existing as those parts ; or
even of their existing at all." This is a very important obser
vation. It is this law or unity which constitutes personality
in every case ; and this law or unity is traceable to the Divine
mind. Hence the Apostle says in arguing the point of identity
with the objector to the resurrection, " How are the dead
raised up, and with what body do they come ? Thou fool,
that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die : and
that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body which shall be,
but bare grain, it may chance of wheat or of some other grain :
but God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every
seed his own body." The particles of the body may change,
but the personality remains the same. The body as it will be
raised up at the last day, will be the same in all essential re
spects as before death. Why does not only one class of bodies
differ from another, but one body differ from another ? The
law which accounts for this is the law of personality, and con
stitutes the personality in every particular case. That will
remain. We shall not be different beings in the resurrection
from what we were here. The soul will be united to its own
body ; the complete personality of the same soul in the same
body will be reconstituted, and will exist for ever. So much
is this doctrine of identity recognised in Scripture, that the
bodies of departed believers are in some sense recognised as
living. For in arguing with the Sadducees in regard to a case

130 INTELLECT.

proposed by them, our Lord said : — " As touching the resurrec
tion of the dead, have ye not read that which was spoken unto
you by God, saying : I am the God of Abraham, and the God
of Isaac, and the God of Jacob ? God is not the God of the
dead, but of the living." " All live unto God," as Luke has it.
May not this mean, — they are in the sight of God as if alive ?
" Together with my dead body," says Christ, " shall they arise."
The period that will elapse between the resurrection of Christ
and their resurrection is as nothing — is not taken account of
by God or by Christ. At all events, the bodies of His saints
are precious in His sight, and their identity is not lost even in
the corruption of the grave. Christ hath redeemed them with
His blood, with the souls to which they were united. " Awake
and sing, ye that dwell in the dust ; for thy dew is as the dew
of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead." " I will redeem
them from death : I will ransom them from the power of the
grave. 0 Death, I will be thy plague ! 0 Grave, I will be thy
destruction !"

But the identity of the soul is of another kind from that of
the body, or from our personal identity. In the case of the
soul, it is identity of substance, and as we have remarked, this
follows from its immateriality ; while again, its immateriality
follows to the mind as a necessary consequence from its identity.
The soul is immaterial, and must therefore be annihilated
before it can undergo any change of substance ; change to it
would be annihilation. It cannot be decomposed ; it cannot
be resolved into elements ; before it can change it must cease to
be. That it passes through changes of states we have seen, but
its substance and essential inherent properties are ever the same.
We feel our identity ; it is a matter of consciousness. In re
spect to the body, we see it, even from youth to manhood,
passing through all the stages or periods of age. With the
soul it is felt ; it is a matter of intimate internal consciousness.
If the mind is sane, we know ourselves to be the same that we
were in the earliest period of our lives to which memory can
extend. I have seen an insane person who fancied herself
Marie Antoinette of France, and there was some transaction on

INTELLECT. 131

her mind with England, which, at all events, is not recorded in
history, but respecting which she was very eloquent, though
very incoherent, and obviously very indignant. Conscious
ness here was shaken from its throne ; its link of connexion
with her real past was broken, and a fancied past existed to her
poor wandering intellect. But in the very incoherence of that
mind we saw only the mind insensible of its own identity, and
by some mysterious derangement fancying an identity which
did not belong to it. But when the mind is sane, its entire
consciousness remains, and it feels itself to be the same through
all successive years from its earliest period of recollection until
now. Does not this prove the soul's immateriality ? Could
ever changing matter possess such a continuous consciousness,
could we suppose it possessed of consciousness at all ? It is an
often quoted saying of Wordsworth's,

" The boy is the father of the man,"

and it possesses a high moral as well as an important psycholo
gical meaning ; but it has a pyschological meaning, and implies
the identity of the spiritual being within us through all the
successive stages of that being, till it has reached its fullest
development ; nor shall it then cease to be the same, or to be
conscious of its identity. The consciousness will go with it
into the future world, with all the recollections that form that
consciousness — the materials either of its misery or its happi
ness. It is this identity which will form, as it forms now, the
ground of all our judgments respecting ourselves, and of God's
judgment respecting us, and his procedure in regard to us.
The grand final judgment of the quick and the dead will pro
ceed upon every individual's identity, and his consciousness of
that identity. The soul will live over again in that moment
all its past history, the old traces which memory had forgotten
starting into vivid brightness, and either flashing terror, or
awakening emotions long since perished, and all the more pleas
ing or delightful that they will be parts and elements in the
very sentence that is to proceed from the throne of the Judge,
and the happiness that will begin, to know no termination.

1 32 INTELLECT.

XIII.

We have considered that property of mind by which the
past is recalled and retained, in order to those great purposes
which the Creator has designed to serve in our mental history
and development. It is owing to this characteristic of mind,
as we have seen, that any progress is made even from the most
elementary state of sensation to one of intellection. Memory
is hardly intellection itself ; but without it there would not be
intellection. It is intellection when the mind throws out its
own ideas over the external world ; obtains ideas from the
external world ; these ideas being entirely the result of mind,
but still the ideas of what is actually without us, or is not a
part of ourselves. There is a universe without us with which
we have to become acquainted : mind is placed in that universe,
and it must form its own knowledge, gather for itself the ideas,
which are not the copies, but the mental counterpart, of what
is without, the information which mind furnishes to itself of
the facts of the external universe. The process of this we have
already endeavoured historically to trace. But what is the
process of intellection by which these ideas are formed ?
When the mind determines for itself, for example, an external
world,, or arrives at the idea of externality — what is this mental
process? It has been called an intuitive Judgment. How
little does a name help us to the understanding of a reality !
What is a Judgment ? It is a state of the mind on the pre
sence of certain other states. What is this but a mental
result ? All that can be said about it is, that it is a result
arrived at by mind, or one state of mind that arises in conse
quence of another state of mind, or other states of mind. It
seems to explain a vast deal when we call it a judgment, as if
we knew what judgment was. A body exists in space : space
is infinite and eternal : space cannot be annihilated. These
are called judgments of the mind. I exist ; there is a universe
without me : I am one of millions of beings like myself; there
is a material world on which I live : I am surrounded by a
creation, animate and inanimate ; I see life in its thousand

INTELLECT. 133

forms : I discern the properties of matter, I trace its laws : I
see reason as distinguished from wwreason, (if I may coin a
phrase) : my simple ideas are combined ; space becomes magni
tude, capacity : they are modified ; space becomes figure :
time gives me the notion of eternity ; these are further modi
fied : the properties of figure and number evolve : dimension
and time are measured : the position and duration of the planets
are fixed and calculated : their periodic motions, their orbits,
their attractive and repelling influences: the size, structure,
and habits of the various tribes, vegetable and mineral, that
people our earth, their formation and growth and decay ; these
are marked : chemical affinities, combinations, and repulsions,
are discovered, till there is nothing almost beyond our know
ledge, or our capacity of knowledge. All this is said to be by a
process of judgment ; it is at least by a process of intellection.
But why do we call it intellection ? Because if we ask our
selves, what judgment is ? we can give no answer but that it
is a process of mind, or, in every single instance of it, an act of
mind by ivliicli an idea arises or results in the mind from the
presence of another idea, or other ideas. When my mind is in
the state of observing or noticing a body existing or moving in
space, and it obtains the idea of space, what clearer notion does
it give me of this process to call it a judgment, than just to call
it simply an act or state of mind, or intellection ? All that we
can say about it is, that it is an act or a state of mind. We
cannot arrive at any more distinct notion of the process or act.
In like manner, when in a mathematical problem I construct
a circle or triangle according to certain requirements, or, in a
mathematical theorem, I prove that any two angles of a
triangle are together less than two right angles ; or that the
square on the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to
the squares described upon the sides; in any mathematical
problem or theorem whatever : as respects the successive acts
of the mind by which the result is arrived at, the problem
accomplished, or the theorem proved : what clearer discovery
does it give me of these acts to call them judgments, than to
call them simply acts or states of mind ? This being true, and

134 INTELLECT.

that other idea being verified, another arises or follows as a
consequence, and again another ; but what is there here but
successive states of mind, or one truth evolving out of another ?
When I compare, or am said to compare, two objects together
of different dimensions, and I pronounce, as I am said to do,
regarding their respective magnitudes, this is said to be a judg
ment of the mind ; but is it not just the mind existing in a
state of felt or perceived diversity between the two objects, — in
this instance the diversity of size or magnitude ? Were the
objects equal, the mind would exist in the state of felt identity,
the identity of magnitude. The judgments of the mind, then,
we contend, are just ideas or states of the mind arising accord
ing to certain laws. There is not a faculty we call judgment ;
but the mind exists in certain states inevitably according to
the laws essential to mind, or conferred upon it by the Creator.
There is the law, as we have already stated, of identity or
diversity, in all the kinds of identity and diversity existing
among objects — the law of resemblance — the law of contrast —
the law of analogy — the law of proportion : that is, in each
case, the law according to which the mind perceives or exists
in a state of felt identity or diversity, resemblance, contrast,
analogy, proportion. These relations have been established, or
must exist in the universe ; and the mind, of its own nature,
or in virtue of the constitution which God has impressed upon
it, is fitted to perceive them. Our own identity, for example,
our minds are constituted to recognise intuitively and at once.
When this law of the mind is disturbed, identity in objects is
lost ; or it may be only personal identity that is confounded,
while other objects are seen in their true character. What
confusion is introduced into the mind when this one law is
deranged, when the mind is no longer capable of seeing objects
in their real character, but everything appears in some aspect
or character not its own ! This is perhaps the grand or per
vading phasis of mental aberration : the law of identity is lost,
or the mind is no longer capable of identifying self or any
other object. A thousand wild fancies in consequence flit
through the brain. Place, time, self, and every surrounding

INTELLECT. 135

object, are confused, and supposed to be other than they are.
The person who is the subject of this derangement or aberra
tion exists in a world of his own. He is a prince — he is a
commissioned prophet of God — he has some high mission to
fulfil : all around him are his subjects ; he is clothed in regal
attire ; he has a crown on his head ; he wields a sceptre ; or
he is required to announce some great truth, and all must
listen. We mean nothing more by the law of identity and
diversity, than that the mind is fitted to perceive these where
they exist. Say it is by a judgment of mind : we say it is by
mind. Mind discerns these. And so with resemblance and
contrast, so with analogy, so with proportion. The relations
of time and place may be resolved into identity and diversity.
Events and objects are either the same in point of time and
place, or they are not the same: they are more nearly the
same, or they are more remotely different.

It is by the law of identity that our sensations and ideas are
recognised as the same at the different times of their being
present to the mind. The law reigns among our internal states
as well as among external objects. It is thus that our internal
states become discriminated — their identity is recognised, and
their diversity from other states is marked. Diversity, there
fore, is the co-relate of identity, and the two form the ground
work of all the other laws, and consequently of all the other
ideas acquired by these laws. Identity and diversity give re
semblance.

RESEMBLANCE.

Identity, not individual identity, but the identity of classes,
shades away till there is opposition or contrast. Objects exist in
classes ; these classes have nearer resemblances to other classes,
remoter resemblances to others, and still more remote again
to others. The mind perceives these resemblances, cannot be
brought in contact with them without perceiving them. It
does not constitute them. There are resemblances which its
own ingenuity may constitute, as when we perceive a resem
blance between wit and an essence, or between the succession

136 INTELLECT.

of wit and laughter, and the flash of the lightning and the
report of the thunder, in respect to which resemblance, Charles
Lamb says, that the succession can never but once take place.
The resemblance between an April day and beauty smiling
through tears, is entirely fanciful. But there are actual resem
blances, and it is upon these that the process of classification
depends. This is no arbitrary process. It depends upon the
real resemblances in objects. That resemblance amounts in
some instances to an absolute identity in all particulars, except
that of individuality, the identity of the individual. When
this is the case, the individuals are in all respects the same,
except their individuality ; they are the same as regards the
essentials of the class — the essence of the species. There are
still diversities, and perhaps, strictly speaking, we can never
arrive at a species infima^ although in classification there is
what is termed the " species infima," or lowest species, inas
much as to go any further, any lower in the classification, would
be useless and troublesome. It is a fine law of creation, and
indicates admirable and beneficent design, that the objects in
creation exist in classes, or that there are such resemblances
as to allow of classification. Were every object diverse from
another, where would be the fine purposes served by the
great aggregates or the vast multitudes of the same species
that we find existing ? We might conceive, indeed, the same
purpose served by different objects, agreeing in the purpose
which they served, but diverse in every other respect ; but in
such a case, though the useful object could be accomplished,
how could this be known ? Instead of a class being discern
ible by the numerous particulars in which the class is united
as a class, we would have to repeat the discovery of the useful
property or quality in every new individual or case. It is plain
that the first end of creation would be frustrated. Certain
purposes were to be subserved, but not a purpose could be sub
served where such a diversity reigned. We must suppose in
such a case, that our very sensations would be different among
themselves, since nothing existed as a class ; not even matter
could be distinguished as such, for what is matter but the

INTELLECT. 137

aggregate of certain qualities ? Everything is included under
the name of matter which possesses these qualities. The very
first classification of the mind, by which mind and matter are
respectively recognised, depends upon certain resembling feel
ings of consciousness, identical so far as the class of feelings is
concerned, though not numerically so, and therefore resembling
rather than identical. The mind proceeds in detecting those
resemblances that prevail, and reducing both substances and
qualities under classes. We set out with remarking, that the
two generic substances which divided the universe were matter
and mind, that these were the two grand genera under which
everything else may be included. Everything is either material
or spiritual. But the same law of mind which gives us this
classification, gives us other subordinate classifications. Other
resemblances are detected, so that our ideas have a progress,
and the universe is reduced to order in our minds, or it ex
hibits to the mind the order which really prevails. Hence
things exist to the mind not merely as material and spiritual,
but as animate and inanimate, rational and irrational ; and all
the orders, genera, species, of the universe are settled or ob
tained. Now, this process of mind partly takes place in the
way simply of an arrangement under one head of those objects
or qualities which are seen to resemble, and partly according to
an original and intuitive principle of the mind, which is called
the principle of generalization. Wherever objects are seen to
possess properties in common, they are classified at once under
one head ; but generalization is a different process, and depends
upon an original law or principle of the mind. It will come
to be considered hereafter. Meanwhile, we remark, that it is
that principle, that conviction of the mind, irresistible and
unerring, according to which, from certain resembling circum
stances, we proceed to a generalization of the objects in which
these circumstances appear, or to the conclusion that these
objects belong to one class, and are alike in all the particulars
which characterize that class. This is a law of mind, and
supersedes the necessity of observing the whole particulars of
a class before we venture to classify. Classification would be

138 INTELLECT.

a very slow, and withal a very uncertain process, did we wait
in all instances till we had gathered or observed all the parti
culars in which certain objects might resemble each other before
we reduced them to a common class. We have a shorter way
of proceeding, and at the same time more certain ; for whatever
might be the accuracy and competency of our observations, or
enumeration of resembling circumstances, we could never be
sure that our observation or enumeration was complete, and
that in no particular we had been mistaken. But by a certain
law of mind, intuitive and irresistible in its operation, a certain
conviction and confidence which never fails, a very few parti
culars in many cases serve for a generalization ; in some cases
a single instance, or particular of agreement, is sufficient ; and
in no case need the enumeration be perfect. A single circum
stance of agreement, for example, in regard to the teeth of
certain animals, gives us the graminivorous and carnivorous
races. To ascertain that circumstance is to ascertain the race
or class. The chemist, in arranging his pharmacopeia, does
not need to analyze every substance, or examine it in every parti
cular before he can assign it to its class ; a single circumstance
may be enough to tell him that this or that new substance is
an earth or an alkali — a poisonous or a wholesome substance.
Just, then, as objects exist in classes, and the work of arriving
at the knowledge of the individuals in these classes is greatly
facilitated, so by the law of classification the work of classifica
tion is greatly promoted.

But all objects do not resemble each other. Among many
the law of contrast, instead of the law of resemblance, obtains ;
they are contrasted rather than similar. The mind again is
fitted to perceive this dissimilarity. It looks very much like
a law, that the mind is fitted to perceive resemblance where
it exists — contrast where it exists — to be affected by the ap
pearance of analogy, and again of proportion. There is a
judgment in each of these instances, but why is the judg
ment different ? — why the peculiar judgment ? Let it be ob
served, we do not attribute faculties to the mind. In all its
operations the mind is one and indivisible ; it is mind alone

INTELLECT. 139

that is acting or operating as mind acts or operates. We can
more easily conceive powers in matter than we can in mind.
In any one instance of the mind's phenomena, it is simply
mind that we perceive or can think of ; mind itself is the only
power in operation ; and its phenomena are according to cer
tain laws, characteristics, or properties of mind. With matter
it is different. We can conceive power or powers lodged in it,
even although we seem to be thus adding something spiritual
to what is material. As we have said before, the only power
that seems to be in mind, as distinct from it, is volition, or the
power of will ; and yet this is still the mind j ust willing, exert
ing an act of will. This, we say, is more like a power than
any others of the mental phenomena. At all events, we can
see that in any of the phenomena of mind, it is the mind itself
which is acting, or exhibiting the phenomena. For the mind
to exert an act of judgment, is for the mind to exist in a state
of felt or perceived relation, or to exist in that state by which,
or according to which, it perceives identity, resemblance, con
trast, analogy, proportion ; — these being, for the most part,
again, the states in which objects exist in their relations among
themselves, or to one another. Contrast, opposition, is one of
those states.

CONTRAST.

We have already hazarded the opinion that contrast is no
thing more than identity or resemblance shaded away till it
has become opposition. For instance, lowness may be regarded
as height diminished to a certain standard ; and, accordingly,
what is low in one position, or point of comparison, may be high
in another. The same with all our ideas, except it be our ideas
of right and wrong. There is no absolute standard, and there
fore contrast is just a different degree of the same thing or
quality. Ugliness, or deformity even, is but a deviation greater
or less from the law of beauty ; and it is a common enough
maxim, that there is but a step between the sublime and the
ridiculous. There is but a step, and yet there is all the interval
of two opposites, — so similar are they, and yet so contrasted.

140 INTELLECT.

The sublime may sink by a less rapid gradation into the ridi
culous, but a single circumstance may plunge it from its peril
ous height at once into the laughable or contemptible. The
sublime contests of the angels, in the Sixth Book of Paradise
Lost, become somewhat ludicrous, from the admixture of ma
terial ideas : Satan, for example, writhing under the stroke of
the archangel's sword, —

. . . . " Then Satan first knew pain,
And writhed him to and fro convolved, so sore
The griding sword, with discontinuous wound,
Pass'd through him :"

while we are told that Moloch,

" Cloven to the waist, with shatter' d arms
And uncouth pain, fled bellowing."

Venus, in dudgeon, — as represented by Homer, — that a
mortal had wounded her, is a similar instance, though perhaps
here Homer intended the ludicrous rather than the sublime.
Diomede's address to her is certainly in admirable keeping, and
the pouting and plaining of the beautiful goddess are not less
so. Jupiter seems rather to have enjoyed Venus's wound, even
while he tenders to her the kindly advice to leave warlike
affairs to Mars and Minerva.

The introduction, again, into the wars of the angels, of a
material artillery, which is material, and yet not material, —
we mean the idea is material, but the enginery is so managed,
or described, as to tell upon spiritual beings, and produce the
most disastrous effects — this is undoubtedly ludicrous, and we
are forced to laugh when Satan thus addresses his compeers : —

" 0 friends, why come not on these victors proud?
Erewhile they fierce were coming ; and when we,
'To entertain them fair with open front
And breast, (what could we more ?) propounded terms
Of composition, straight they changed their minds,
Flew oif, and into strange vagaries fell,
As they would dance."

Milton is not long of recovering himself or his poem from
any ludicrous associations which his description might awaken.
He had too much art to fall into the absolutely ludicrous, but

INTELLECT. 141

it must be allowed that the sublime and the ridiculous are
very close neighbours. The same proximity is seen in the
description of Satan's flight through chaos, but there it is more
admissible. The poet might indulge some play of the fancy at
the expense of Satan, bound on such a journey, and in such a
place as chaos. There was no harm in supposing him used
rather roughly, or meeting some grotesque and not very cour
teous circumstances amid the war of the elements, for he had
no proper business there ; and the poet no doubt felt the worst
that could happen was too good for such a messenger of mis
chief. We have another illustration of the same approach of
opposite or contrasted qualities, in the hideous figures carved
on some of our most beautiful styles of architecture : and, still
more strikingly, in the often laughable and grotesque repre
sentations on the most solemn buildings of the most solemn
age of architecture. The finest cathedrals which time has
spared to the present day, give us such strange combinations.
Some law must have guided to such results. Is the grada
tion from the sublime to the ridiculous so rapid a one in the
mind, that the mind easily passes from the one to the other,
and even finds a relief in so doing ? All the interval be
tween is overleaped, and the more easily, that littleness is but
greatness diminished. The ludicrous may sometimes be the
sublime made a mock of. Take away the grotesque figures
from the places they occupy, and they would excite compa
ratively no ludicrous ideas. Moloch bellowing would be no
ludicrous, but an absurd, conception, except in the place where
it occurs ; and to have described Satan in pain, " writhing
convolved," when on his throne in Pandemonium, would have
given you no ludicrous idea, but one inconsistent and out of
place. There must be some laio of connexion before the ludi
crous and the sublime together can be effected. You must slide
from the one to the other. The mind must pass in natural
gradation. Why is Don Quixote ludicrous ? Because the inno
cent foolery of the solemn knight is connected in your mind
with a great idea, viz., that of chivalry, but which had its
gradations down even to the absurd, — absurd when it was

142 INTELLECT.

serious, — ludicrous when it was given in fiction. Don Quixote
excites your mirth, because he never excites your pity. There
is a gradation from the sublime to the ludicrous — there is none
from the sublime to the sad or the pitiful.

Enough for the analysis of the idea of contrast, which we
have said may be regarded as identity or resemblance shaded
away into opposition, or the opposite of resemblance. Now,
the mind is susceptible of ideas of contrast, sees or perceives
the opposition. Great, little ; sublime, ludicrous ; high, low ;
beautiful, ugly ; diligent, slothful. Of course the contrasted
quality is contrasted. Good and bad, virtuous and vicious, are
not contrasted : they are disparate ; they are unlike quantities.
The contrast of good would be the absence of good, if good
properly can have any contrast. Evil is an antagonist, not a
contrasted principle. It does not merely stand in contrast, it
actually opposes, and seeks the extirpation of the other, nay,
has already supplanted the other where it exists. Contrast
allows of comparison ; there is some of the quality of the greater
or of the superior in the lesser or the inferior, though it has
become negative. Lowness has still something of the quality
that is in highness ; littleness has still something of the quality
that is in greatness, that is, they are not disparate, or distinct,
and incapable of comparison. There is no contrast between
sublimity and poverty, the two things are totally unlike and
separate. There is a contrast between happiness and misery,
but none between riches and misery. It seems essential to
contrast, therefore, that the qualities or things contrasted be
capable of a gradation from the one to the other.

It would, perhaps, be presumptuous to speculate how far
there must be resemblances and contrasts in objects and qualities
as they exist in the universe. What state of things would that
be in which no one object resembled another, nothing was
similar or homogeneous, but everything diverse or heterogene
ous ! not even the particles of matter the same, so as to con
stitute matter ; no homogeneity among spirit, but a wild chaos
of substances and qualities a thousand-fold more chaotic than

INTELLECT. 143

that chaos out of which the present order of the universe
sprang ? Can the mind even conceive of such a state of being
or existence ? It seems impossible to realize it even in thought.
Even in chaos the materials of the universe, at least, were the
same. But in the state supposed not even these would be the
same. In order, therefore, to a universe, a cosmos, we may
suppose, there must be this law of resemblance. Every object
must have its like. Perhaps, there is not an object, not a thing
in existence, but has its counterpart or likeness. To each
monad of matter there are a thousand monads of matter, nay,
millions on millions multiplied indefinitely. Hence worlds —
hence systems — hence aggregates of systems, to which no limit
may be assigned. The world of spiritual being may be as
illimitable. The numbers that dwell in the presence of God,
and that perhaps people other worlds as well as this one, may be
riot only what no man could number, but may be incalculable.
But how much farther than homogeneity of substance does the
law of resemblance extend !* This law constitutes the unity
of systems, binds them together. But descending from systems
to our own planet, how beautiful the order that prevails, owing
to this law ! All is beautiful harmony. We lift our eyes to
heaven, and we see one vast firmament. We cast them upon
the earth, and we see one solid globe diversified by various
outline, and covered with various herbage, but one earth. We
see its orders of minerals, all in strata, reducible to classes ;
its herbs, trees, flowers, all having their genera ; its animate
tribes likewise exhibiting their marked resemblances, and
belonging to classes. We find innumerable laws obtaining
among the different orders and classes of being, or sub
stances, in our world. These have their resemblances or
their identity, and from the hum of an insect's wing, or the
rustle of the ripening grain, to the roar of the lion or the
crash of the thunder, from the mighty avalanche to the float
ing vapour, we have a unity of law which can be expressed by
one term, and under which can be reduced all the varieties

* Resemblance, let it be remembered, is identity of substance, or quality, with
numerical, or individual, diversity.

144 INTELLECT.

of its operation, mighty as the void or interval between the ex
tremes may be. Mind itself, as such, has its laws. It is thus
that mind is intelligible to mind, and that we can calculate
upon its operation as certainly as we can upon the recurrence
of night and day.

The law of resemblance, as we have seen, gives us the law of
contrast, or allows the law of contrast. And this also is a
beautiful arrangement in creation. It secures not only variety
but pleasing variety. Variety itself may be said to be pleasing,
but what would not be lost to the mind, if the variety was so
little as never to strike with the effect of contrast ! We can
conceive the shadings from perfect resemblance so small as
never to affect us by way of contrast. What pleasure would not
thus be lost, even if utility would not be sacrificed ? It seems
as if the Creator had delighted in contrasts ; no contrasts, how
ever, it may be to him. Creation ascends from the animalcule
which the microscope can hardly discover, to the colossal crea
tures which roam through the desert, or that people the jungle.
Again, we have the little flower, like a starlet upon the grassy
field, hardly visible to the eye, and the oak, or the pine, lifting
their branches aloft, and spreading a shade of some hundred
feet in circumference. We have the mountain rising from the
plain, and forming one of the most striking and interesting, or
impressive, contrasts in nature. How does the majesty of the
hills strike the mind, both as contrasted with our own little
ness, and when one looks up to them from the level beneath !
The Alps must tower like a world itself above the gaze.
There could not be a more impressive lesson than to stand in
one of the Alpine valleys at the foot of these tremendous
mountains. They must catch up the mind, and overwhelm it
at the same moment, by their august impressiveness. Every
other height can be as nothing in their presence. They will
rise, and rise till the mind becomes giddy with gazing, and
their summit is lost in the clouds, or hides itself in dazzling
snow. Well might the poet hymn the Creator in those valleys
from which Mont Blanc or Jura rises. It must be like the
steps to heaven. Both Coleridge and Shelley have poured

INTELLECT. 145

forth their hymn from the vale of Chamouni — the one to God,
the other to the spirit at least of nature. The impression upon
Coleridge's mind was one of deep and awful prostration, yet of
solemn and lofty devotion : —

" Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause-
On thy bald awful head, 0 Sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arvciron at thy base
Have ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form !
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines
How silently ! Around thee and above,
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it
As with a wedge ! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from Eternity!"

Coleridge closes the hymn thus, —

" Thou, again, stupendous mountain ! thou,
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base,
Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly secmcst, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me. — Rise, 0 ever rise ;
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth !
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hiernrch ! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth with her thousand voices praises God."

The effect on Shelley's mind was more metaphysical, yet
wondrously poetical. True, however, to his atheistical creed,
he never rises to the idea of God. He can only say, —

" Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,
Remote, serene, and inaccessible :
And this, the naked countenance of earth
On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains,
Teach the adverting mind."

. . . . " The secret strength of things,
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome
Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee !
And what wert thou, and earth, and stars, and sea,
If to the human mind's imagining,
Silence and solitude were vacancy?"
K

146 INTELLECT.

Christopher North muses in his own peculiar way among his
own Scottish hills or mountains : — " What an assemblage of
thunder-riven cliffs ! This is what may be well called Nature
on a grand scale. And then how simple ! We begin to feel
ourselves — in spite of all we can do to support our dignity by
our pride — a mighty small and insignificant personage. We
are about six feet high, and everybody about us about four
thousand. Yes, that is the four thousand feet club ! We had
no idea that in any situation we could be such dwindled dwarfs,
such perfect pigmies. Our tent is about as big as a fir-cone,
and Christopher North an insect 1"

Some of the most salutary and devoutest sentiments are
derived from the feeling of contrast. Man recognises himself
to be nothing in the presence of the vast objects of creation, or
rather of Him who created them. Thus the Psalmist was
struck when he contemplated the heavens, the work of God's
hands, the moon and the stars which he had ordained : — " What
is man, that thou art mindful of him ? and the son of man,
that thou visitest him ?" It is thus that all the proper senti
ments arising from the contemplation of God, in contrast with
our own littleness and imperfection, impress us, and should
impress us deeply ; and hence the advantage of meditating
both upon God and upon His works. Their immensity, His
immensity, fills us with awe, and should inspire us with devout
adoration. Sometimes of an evening, when we look into the
sky, the overpowering idea bursts upon the mind, — How great
must be that Being who formed these heavens !

" Worlds on worlds, amazing pomp !"

— who presides over those planets, guides them in their mazy
courses, is above all, in all, and through all ; is in ourselves,
and, while he is the nearest object or being to us, is at the
same time the farthest off, in the remotest regions of space, an
Omnipresence, a Spirit, who can be nowhere absent, and whose
energy is ever operating ; who looks down to us from the sky,
and who besets our very path !

INTELLECT. 147

ANALOGY.

Analogy is the next law of the mind which we have enume
rated, and is a species of resemblance. It is not a resemblance
between objects or circumstances in themselves, but in the
relation which these objects or circumstances bear to some
thing else. The mind is subtle enough to detect resemblances
in the most shadowy influences or effects, while the objects or
circumstances in which these are perceived, or with which they
are connected, may be the most dissimilar. A ship, for ex
ample, may be compared, as it bears a resemblance, in its dif
ferent effects or purposes, to a house, and to a land-carriage.
It is the mariner's home on the waters ; it is the merchant's
vehicle of transit between the most distant parts of the world.
There is no direct resemblance between life and a river, but
the analogy is very striking when they are both regarded in
their source, their progress, and their issue. There is no direct
resemblance between an acorn and an infant Republic or State,
but the analogy holds when we compare the smallness of both,
and their subsequent growth and greatness. The kingdoms of
nature and providence differ in many respects from the king
dom of grace, but, as regards the ruler and the subjects, they
are the same ; and we may expect the principles which pervade
the one to be those which will distinguish the others ; in other
words, we may expect to find the same principles of procedure
running through them all ; and such, accordingly, is the foun
dation of Butler's famous argument on the analogy of religion
to the constitution and course of nature. Natural and moral
laws have often a surprising resemblance in respect to their
tendencies or their operation, while they must be most dissi
milar in themselves. There is one law which seems to pervade
both the natural and moral worlds, viz., the slowness of growth
in connexion with permanency or endurance of result. The
trees which are longest of attaining their maturity, are longest
in vigour, and are generally the strongest and most majestic.
The flower soon reaches its bloom, but as soon decays. The
insect seems to start into full life at once, but its existence is

148 INTELLECT.

but for a day, and where there may be some progress in its
growth, its life appears to be longer in proportion. In the case
of man, his life, had it not been cut short by sin, would have
borne some proportion to the period of his infancy, and, as it
is, it does bear some proportion still. It would appear to be
so also with mental and moral powers and habitudes. The
quickest of development are not uncommonly the soonest ex
hausted, and very precocious genius too often but flourishes
and fades ; at all events, such genius never perhaps exhibits
the same strength and maturity as that which grows with
years, and keeps pace with advancing life and advancing expe
rience. Greatness seems to be the result of slow accretions,
like the rings of the oak, exhibiting a texture and a promise of
durability which do not belong to the lush-stalks of a spring
and summer's growth. There is analogy here, but not simi
larity, or direct resemblance. The mind is like the body in
its growth and progress, both need discipline, training, and
what food is to the one, knowledge is to the other. The
eye takes in the expanse of wood and field ; it looks from
heaven to earth, and from earth to heaven, and the uni
verse unveils at its glance. Analogous is the mind in its
rapid movements through the universe of truth — as rapid as
penetrating.

It is on this law that many of the discoveries in science
depend. One principle may have its analogous principle, and
may suggest it to the mind conversant with science. The
simple motive power of steam, in a particular instance, sug
gested its application to the impelling of machinery, and led to
the invention of the steam-engine. The most remarkable dis
covery of modern times, the electric telegraph, is but the appli
cation of a power which had already transmitted itself along
the string of Franklin's kite, and made known to him the
electricity of the sky. Instead of the laborious structures of
Rome, the aqueducts, which are traceable to as early a period
as that of Tarquinius Priscus, and whose remains are still seen
spanning the plain of the Romana Campagna, the observance
of the simple law by which water invariably seeks its level,

INTELLECT. 149

suggested a mode of introducing that element into cities from
almost any distance with comparative ease. Hardly a limit
can be assigned to the applications and discoveries founded
upon the law of analogy. They may go on multiplying and
extending till hardly anything is left unsubjected to the con
venience of man.

The power of perceiving analogies may be said to be the
great scientific, as it is the great poetic faculty. We should
rather say, the mind in which the law of analogy is the most
prominent, or that according to which suggestion most readily
takes place, or thought most readily arises, is the philosophic
and the poetic mind. The analogies which rule in the poetic
mind, however, are very different from those which have their
sway over the scientific or philosophic. In the one case, it is the
analogies of mechanical laws, or the identity in a material law,
seen under different aspects or applications ; in the other, it is
the analogy descried in a law of nature under varied circum
stances, or with varied modifications, and simply descried, — an
object merely of interesting and poetic, not of scientific obser
vation. The same analogy may be both scientific and imagi
native. In Darwin's " Botanic Garden," the fine analogies
connected with such a subject are at once scientific and poetic,
— scientific when marked for the purposes of science, poetic
when observed merely under the poetic feeling, and as objects
of beauty. The analogy, or identity of law, between the falling
of an apple and the motions of the heavenly bodies, was scien
tific, and led to the grandest scientific generalization that ever
took place ; but it is also highly poetic, and may be the subject
merely of imaginative contemplation. But poetry deals with
analogies, for the most part, which have no scientific truth or
application. There is no scientific truth or reality in the
analogy drawn by Shakespeare in the often-quoted passage, —

. . . . " She never tolil her love,
But let concealment, like a worm in the butl,
Feed on her damask cheek."

But who does not recognise the beauty of the analogy not-

1 50 INTELLECT.

withstanding ? In the lines which follow we have resemblance
without analogy, —

.... " She pined in thought ;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief."

This must be resemblance simply, unless we consider the
resemblance to consist in the effects produced by the two
objects, the pining beauty, and the figure of patience, on the
mind of a spectator, or a person contemplating them, or the
mind to which the analogy is presented. There is fine poetic
power in the comparison. Patience sitting on a monument,
is at once alive, and is only a dead statue. It is as alive in
the mind of the poet as it would be in the mind of the sculptor,
whose conception the poet was realizing in his.

Resemblance gives us direct comparison : Analogy, the com
parison of effects or relations. When we have said that the
power of perceiving or detecting analogies is the great scientific
and poetic faculty, of course we do not exclude the simple law of
resemblance, for analogy includes resemblance, and resemblance
is poetic as well as analogy. Many of the figures of poetry, and
eloquence, are borrowed from resemblance simply. But the re
semblances of analogy are even more general than direct resem
blances, inasmuch as the relations of objects must be more
numerous than the objects themselves, while they must be also
more striking and more beautiful. A resemblance of relation
must be more hidden, more recondite, than any direct resem
blance, not so obvious at first ; but a resemblance, when once per
ceived, always pleases more the less likely it is to strike the mind,
and which comes upon the mind, therefore, with some surprise.
Shakespeare, and all our better poets, abound in analogical
comparisons. The conceits of our older writers' often owe their
beauty to the subtle analogies couched in them. Herbert has a
fine analogy on the Sabbath, though somewhat of a conceit : —

" Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden therefor those

\]rhn 11-11 nt fieri'* for their icoinxl."

INTELLECT. 151

The poets of the sixteenth century are especially remarkable
for such comparisons.

The description of Satan among his compeers, also frequently
referred to by philosophic critics, owes its force to the law of
analogy : —

. . . . " He, above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
Stood like a tower : his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than archangel ruined, and the excess
Of glory obscured : as when the sun new risen
Looks through the horizontal misty air
Shorn of hi* beams; or from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so yet shone
Above them att the archangel."

Here the mind is left to the dim effects of the sun in the
circumstances described, and of the archangel in his ruin, while
the pre-eminence of both is one grand point in the comparison.
The poet was not ignorant that a glory might belong to a form,
even a spiritual form, which it needed not any elements with
which we are acquainted to produce : —

.... " His form had not yet lost
AH her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than archangel ruined, and the excess
Of glory obscured."

It is from the law of analogy that Ossian for the most part
derives his comparisons.

" Bring me the harp, 0 maid ! that I may touch it when
the light of my soul shall arise." When his soul refuses the
impulse of song, he says, — " It is a stream that has failed."
But, again, the song rises like the sun in his soul. He feels
the joys of other times. So strong is the law of analogy in
Ossian, that he asks the moon, " Whither dost thou retire from
thy course when the darkness of thy countenance grows ?
Hast thou thy hall like Ossian ?" It seemed to Ossian that she
must have. " Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief ?" Ossian
speaks of the sound of days that are no more, and the memory

152 INTELLECT.

of former times came like the evening sun over his soul. " Did
not Ossian hear a voice ? or is it the sound of days that are no
more ? Often does the memory of former times come like the
evening sun on my soul."

So subtle are the analogies that the mind detects. It is a
pleasing exercise of mind, and the most shadowy analogy has
the most delightful influence, taking the mind sometimes alto
gether by surprise, or leaving on it the most vague and unde-
finable impression. How shadowy is the analogy, and yet how
true, in these words ! —

" The dreamy ttmgglei of Ike stars v;ith light."

The world is full of such analogies, and the mind is, perhaps,
never but under their influence more or less. They come down
from the sky ; they sleep or they rustle in the woods ; they are
in "the light of setting suns;" they lie on the fields; they
chase in the shadows of the clouds over the mountains ; they
sigh in the breeze, or murmur with the tides of ocean. It is
thus that nature has a voice and preaches to us, or spreads its
not obscure lessons before us in almost every object that meets
our gaze. By the same law philosophy is ever adding to its
discoveries, and rendering the path of man through this world
smoother and happier, or his condition in it one of greater con
venience and comfort, as well as opening ever-varying sources
of intellectual enjoyment. No fear of any limits to poetry, as
some are wont to predict, because of the advancement of science,
and the literal truth that is now poured over every object ; for
analogies will be ever new, and hidden resemblances will be
detected by minds as long as there are minds ; and what limits
can we set to the empire which science is still erecting for itself ?

The law of analogy affords, and is frequently employed for
the purpose of illustrating and enforcing, moral truths. The
natural and moral worlds, as we have already remarked, seem
to l)e pervaded by principles very much the same. They have
the same Author, and it would seern as if He had stamped the
same mind upon both ; or as if those perfections by which He is
characterized could not fail to leave a oneness of impress on all

INTELLECT. 153

to which these perfections gave birth. Is there not something
in the loftiness of the vaulted heaven like the feeling of lofti
ness in the human soul ? Do not the heavens symbolize
greatness, vastness of idea, expansiveness of thought and of
feeling ? Does not humility find its symbol in the lowly shrub
or in the still lowlier flower ? Do not some flowers court the
shade and seek the hiding-places of creation ? Some, again,
pine in the shade, and flaunt garishly in the day. Does not
purity find its emblem in the lily, and faithfulness in the sun
flower ? The rose is said never to be without its thorn, while
moralists have not failed to remark that certain flowers do not
give out their fragrance till they are crushed. The parasitical
plant robs the tree round which it clings of its strength, and
the stronger falls by the weaker. The oak breaks while the
willow bends in the storm. The luxuriance of weeds, where
the hand of cultivation has not been, or where no care has been
exerted to repress them, is not an unapt representation of the
mind which has been left uncultivated, or where no watch has
been kept upon its motions. The question occurs here, Why,
both in the natural and the moral worlds, do the baser plants
grow where the nobler are not cultivated ? or do weeds spring
when no effort is made to keep them down ? Do we not find
a moral truth in the attractions of the spheres — in the ebb and
flow of the tides — in the course of rivers — in the stability of the
mountains — in the evanescence of the clouds — and in the
illusions with which the flitting shadows mock the eye ?
Southey has drawn a fine moral from the Holly-tree, which
the poet observed had its leaves strong and pointed where it
was more open to injury, but growing smoother and softer
towards the top of the shrub ; and which is well known to
retain its freshness or verdure throughout the whole year.
The poet says, —

" I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralize :
And in this wisdom of the Holly- tree

(,'an emblems see

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after time.

1 54 INTELLECT.

" Thus though abroad I might appear

Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude

Reserved and rude,

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

" And should my youth, — as youth is apt, I know, —

Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

" And as when all the summer trees are seen

So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display

Less bright than they ;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree ? —

" So serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young and gay

More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-tree."

" The righteous," says the Psalmist, " shall flourish like the
palm-tree ; he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those that
be planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts
of our God. They shall bring forth fruit in old age ; they shall
be fat and flourishing."

Does not our Lord gather many of his finest lessons from the
analogies which nature presents ? " Consider the lilies of the
field, how they grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin ; and
yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not
arrayed like one of these." " Behold the fowls of the air, for
they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns ; yet
your heavenly Father feedeth them : are ye not much better
than they ?" By how many analogies does not Christ represent
the kingdom of heaven ? and some distinct principle of that
kingdom was illustrated in all of them. There was more than
mere resemblance — there was analogy — when Christ said, " I

INTELLECT. 155

am the vine, ye are the branches, and my Father is the husband
man. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh
away, and every branch that beareth fruit he purgeth it, that
it may bring forth more fruit." How finely does Jeremy Taylor
say, in the spirit of this analogy, " For so have I known a
luxuriant vine swell into irregular twigs and bold excrescences,
and spend itself in leaves and little rings, and afford but tri
fling clusters to the winepress, and a faint return to his heart
which longed to be refreshed with a full vintage ; but when
the Lord of the vine had caused the dressers to cut the wilder
plant, and made it bleed, it grew temperate in its vain expense
of useless leaves, and knotted into fair and juicy branches, and
made accounts of that loss of blood by the return of fruit." The
difficulties of the new birth are set at rest at once by the ana
logy which our Lord employs : " The wind bloweth where it
listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell
whence it cometh or whither it goeth ; so is every one that is
born of the Spirit." The doctrine of the resurrection has its
analogy in the seed cast into the ground, and its rising in a
new body : " Thou sowest not that body that shall be, but
bare grain, it may chance of wheat or of some other grain ;
but God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him."

The change from the chrysalis to the winged inhabitant of
the air gives an analogy from which we may anticipate the
resurrection, and the change that will take place on the body,
now chained to earth, but anon an inhabitant of a higher and
more spiritual region.

From this review of resemblance and analogy, it will be seen
that they both may be resolved into identity in some of our
primitive ideas, or their relations, with individual diversity.
Take any example of resemblance or analogy, and that identity
will be found, with diversity in the individual object or
instance in which it appears. And the difference between
resemblance and analogy is, that resemblance is identity in the
qualities of objects, with individual diversity — while analogy
is identity in the relations of qualities, laws, or principles,
with diversity in the instance or case in which that identity is

150 INTELLECT.

observed. Such identity and diversity may be traced by the
observant mind in all the varied objects, or manifestations of
law and of principle in the universe.

PROPORTION.

Proportion is the next of those general laws under which
objects are contemplated, and according to which the mind is
fitted to contemplate them.

Objects may be regarded in their identity, their diversity, in
their resemblances, or under contrast, in the analogies that
pervade them, and again under the proportions which mark or
distinguish them.

Proportion is a certain relation between objects or qualities,
or between parts of a whole : it may exist among mathematical
lines and figures, and also among simple numbers. It is
either the proportion of magnitude, or degree, or number, or of
disposition or arrangement of parts, with reference to one
another, or to a whole. A body is either greater or less in
magnitude than another — a quality greater or less in degree —
and either may stand in a certain relation of disposition or
adaptation as parts of a whole ; or, again, any number of
bodies or qualities may be considered in their relation to any
other number. But bodies may be contemplated in the lines
of their superficies ; and number may be contemplated ab
stractly from body. We have thus the proportion of magni-
mtude, the proportion of degree, the proportion of number,
the proportion of arrangement or disposition of parts ; and
magnitude and number may be represented by lines, or by
abstract numbers or symbols.

The proportion of magnitude, of degree, of number, may be
divided into these three — equality, greater, less.

Equality is when any object, or any quality of an object, or
any number of objects or qualities, is the same in point of
magnitude, degree, number, with any other object, or any
other quality, or any other number of objects or qualities. The
objects, or qualities, or numbers, are then said to be equal :
there is no disparity of greater or less. I can take my measure,

INTELLECT. 1 57

or I make my calculations, and I find an equality. This is a
species of identity ; as greater or less, again, is a species of
diversity : it is identity in point of magnitude, or quality, or
number, or it is diversity in respect of these. The magnitude
is the same, the quality is the same, the number is the same ;
or the magnitude is different, the quality is different, and the
number is different. The proportion of equality is uniform :
that of greater or less may be infinitely varied.

Between equal objects there can be only one relation of
equality ; between unequal objects there may be every variety
of inequality, every diversity of proportion. There is no limit
to numbers, from the unit upwards : there is no limit, at least
to our conception of magnitude : it can be bounded only by
the extent of space. Extent is a species of magnitude, and we
may properly enough speak of the magnitude of space, although
magnitude is generally connected with the idea of body.
Height and depth, length and breadth, however, in other
words, extent in all directions, may conveniently be regarded
under the generic term magnitude, although the ideas are
separable from one another, and from that of magnitude,
strictly speaking ; magnitude, viz., in the sense of bulk. Quan
tity refers to number ; for when the term " quantity" is used
with reference, or application, to magnitude, it implies the idea
of number in the contents of body: quality is measured in
degree, or the measure is expressed by degree. We may speak,
however, of degrees of magnitude ; and the earth is divided
into degrees. We have the degrees* of latitude and longitude.
The degrees of quality may be included under magnitude ; so
generic is the idea magnitude, being extent of any kind. Still,
magnitude is fairly appropriable to bulk, and we speak of the
extent of space — be it height, depth, length, or breadth — and
the degree of any quality, rather than the magnitude of space,
or the magnitude of a quality. There are modes of measure
ment applicable to bulk, space, and quality. The air even is
ponderable, and heat is reducible to a scale. Mental qualities

* This indeed is a conventional use of the term ; but the degree in this case is
certainly a term of measurement.

158 INTELLECT.

we do not measure, but we estimate them. In the same way
we form our gauge of moral qualities, and even spiritual quali
ties. The Apostolic injunction is not to think more highly
of ourselves than we ought to think, but to think soberly,
according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of
faith ; and he says of himself, — " We dare not make our
selves of the number, or compare ourselves with some that
commend themselves : but they, measuring themselves by them
selves, and comparing themselves among themselves, are not
wise. But we will not boast of things without our measure,
but according to the measure of the rule which God hath
distributed to us, a measure to reach even unto you." There
is a proportion thus, even in the qualities of the mind,
and even in those spiritual qualities which God dealeth out to
every man as it seemeth him good. There is an important
principle in the moral and spiritual government of God, and
one which has its analogy even in the natural world, which is
announced in these words of Christ, ever memorable, ever im
portant : " To him that hath shall be given, while from him
that hatli not shall be taken away even that which he seemeth
to have." God's dispensation of grace is in some proportion to
our improvement of what has already been imparted ; and the
right improvement even of what is before grace seems to have
the promise of grace added to it : " Ye shall know, if ye follow
on to know the Lord : His going forth is prepared like the
morning." And the whole tenor of Scripture seems to hold
out this view, though God is still perfectly sovereign in the
bestowal of his grace, and he is found even of them that ask
not after him. We see the same connexion and the same law
in the natural world. By the blessing of God in some places
production is almost spontaneous ; but the promise is to the
husbandman who sows plentifully, and who waiteth for the
precious fruits of the earth. And, accordingly, the Apostle
announces the principle in the spiritual kingdom by language
borrowed from the natural kingdom : " He that soweth sparingly
shall reap also sparingly : he that soweth bountifully shall reap
also bountifully." There is, no doubt, a nice adjustment ob-

INTELLECT. 1 59

served by God in all his dealings, and in eveiy department of
his procedure or administration. It was a subtle observation
of this kind that led Malthus to his celebrated theory of popu
lation. That theory is indeed disputed : we notice it here
merely as an instance of a proportion observed, or supposed
to have been assigned by the Creator, between the increase of
population in a country or district, and the means of subsist
ence. If the theory be correct, there seems to be a rate at
which population will always outstrip the supply of provision,
so that from time to time the former will be trenching upon
the limits of the latter, when certain balances or checks come
into play, so as to keep the proportion somewhat equable.*
God has undoubtedly established nice proportions in all His
works. In the arranging of the elements — in the disposition
of earth and water — in the mountains and valleys — in the
herbs, plants, and all vegetable productions — flowers, shrubs,
trees — in the growths of the various climes — in the climes them
selves — in the laws of evaporation and congelation — in affinity
and repulsion — polarity — in the centripetal and centrifugal
laws — in the adaptations to the wants or nature of the various
tribes and substances that people or that compose the earth —
in the law of growth and decay — in the overhanging firmament
— in the balancings of the clouds, in reference to which God
asks Job, " Dost thou know the balancings of the clouds, the
wondrous works of him which is perfect in knowledge?" — in
all these what proportions do we not mark, what skilful dis
position and adaptation ! Take the human body, or any or
ganic structure — what proportion ! Take a tree — a plant — the
minutest flower — what proportions — we say not what adapta
tions ! A modern writer upon painting and architecture makes
the proper distinction between symmetry and proportion, but
symmetry may be included under the more generic term pro
portion. In the disposition of parts, however, with reference
to one another, and to a whole, symmetry has regard to the

* This proportion has been regarded by peculiar adaptation or provision he has
Suiuner as subserving the progress and constructed his argument for the Being
advancement of society — and upon the of a God. — See "Records of Creation.''

1 GO INTELLECT.

balance preserved between these parts, in number, position,
magnitude — as the two legs of an animal — the two wings of a
fowl — the two fins of a fish. The two wings of a house are an
instance of symmetry. A single pillar to a door, or gate-way,
would be unsymmetrical. The branches all on one side of a
tree would be unsymmetrical ; and it was the arrangement in
the leaves, petals, branches of trees and flowers, that led us to
take notice of this admirable proportion observed in nature.
Mark even the smallest leaflet, or indentation of a leaf, and it
has a corresponding leaflet or indentation. There seems to be a
symmetry in the very veins of a leaf. Look at the trefoil, the
third leaf seems to grow from between the other two, and the
symmetry is between these two. We have no doubt that the
minute, and especially the scientific observer of nature, could
bring surprising instances of the law of proportion. There
seems to be a flux and reflux — an ebb and flow — a giving and
taking throughout all nature. Emerson has a curious specula
tion in one of his essays on what he calls " Compensation," which
we give in his own words : — " Polarity, or action and reaction,
we meet with in every part of nature ; in darkness and light ;
in heat and cold ; in the ebb and flow of waters ; in male and
female ; in the inspiration and expiration of plants and animals ;
in the systole and diastole of the heart ; in the undulation of
fluids and of sound; in the centrifugal and centripetal gravity; in
electricity, galvanism, and chemical affinity. Superinduce
galvanism at one end of a needle, the opposite magnetism takes
place at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels.
To empty here you must condense there. An inevitable dual-
ism bisects nature, so that each thing is a half, and suggests
another thing to make it whole ; as spirit, matter ; man,
woman; subjective, objective; in, out; upper, under; motion,
rest ; yea, nay." This is certainly carrying symmetry, or com
pensation, pretty far. But we have already noticed such a
balancing or proportion in the objects and laws of nature.
Emerson carries the speculation still farther. He traces the
law, as we have already done, in the Divine providence, but
according to his own peculiar creed or philosophy he states

INTELLECT. 101

it thus: " The same dualism underlies the nature and condi
tion of man. Every excess causes a defect ; every defect an
excess. Every sweet hath its sour ; every evil its good. Every
faculty which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put
on its abuse. It is to answer for its moderation with its life."
There seems to be a recognition on the part of Emerson of
Malthus's doctrine in the quotation from Solomon's proverbs,
where therefore it would seem the doctrine was faintly inti
mated : " If riches increase, they are increased that use them."
I would not say that Malthus's doctrine is here, but undoubt
edly there is some faint shadowing of it.

The proportions of numbers is an almost boundless subject,
and certainly a marvellous one, and so of lines and figures.
When will the calculator have exhausted the one ; when will
the mathematician have traced all the others ?

The proportion of disposition, or arrangement of parts,
whether to each other or to a whole, opens up a fertile and
interesting subject of contemplation. This is different from
symmetry. Symmetry is produced by a balance or uniformity ;
there may be the proportion we are now speaking of where
there is not uniformity but diversity. There is symmetry in
the branches of a tree, and the petals of a flower ; there is pro
portion between the branches and the trunk, between the petals
and the stem. There is symmetry in the fluting of a column,
or the parts of a capital ; there is proportion between the base
and the entablature, and between the shaft and both. The
range of columns on each side of the Temple of Theseus, was
symmetry ; the relation of these to the building was proportion.
The proportions of Gothic architecture are very different from
those of Grecian, but they are equally proportions ; the one more
grand and imposing, the other more chaste and classic. The
proportions of Egyptian architecture, and the same is the case
wyith the Hindoo, are massive, those of Grecian, elegant, those
of Gothic, lofty and elevating. The temples of Thebes and
Luxor would overawe, and produce a sombre and gloomy,
rather than solemn effect: those of Athens, and Ionia, and
Corinth, a chastened and refined ; while the minsters and

. L

162 INTELLECT.

cathedrals of the Middle Ages elevate and subdue by turns, and
secure that degree of solemnity which is in accordance with
devotion. The. structures of ancient Nineveh, which are now
being excavated from those ruins which a Nahum and a
Zephaniah foretold, seem to have been of gigantic proportions.
We have gome idea of them from the pictures of a Martin,
purely imaginative as his sketches must have been. The caves
of Elephanta, in the East, also astonish by their proportions —
temples cut out of the solid rock. The impressions produced
by St. Peter's in Borne seem to be very amazing ; perhaps it
stands alone among buildings. The proportions are so vast,
and yet so admirable, that it is not till you stand under the
Dome for some time, and repeatedly repair to it, that all its
proportions are taken in ; and the effect upon Beckford, as he
himself relates, after repeated visits, was like that of the fir
mament, so vast, yet so simply sublime. The tremendous
dimensions of the Dome are estimated, and can be estimated,
only by the apparently diminutive size of objects which are yet
known to be themselves vast.

" But thou, of temples old, or altars new,

Standest alone with nothing like to thee —

Worthiest of God, the holy and the true,

Since Zion's desolation : when that He

Forsook His former city, what could he,

Of earthly structures, in His honour piled

Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty,

Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
" Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ;

And why ? it is not lessen'd, hut thy mind,

Expanded by the genius of the spot,

Has grown colossal, and can only find

A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined

Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou

Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,

See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow.
" Thou movest, but increasing with the advance,

Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,

Deceived by its gigantic elegance ;

Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize,

INTELLECT. 163

All musical in its immensities ;
Rich marble — richer painting — shrines where flame
The lamps of gold, and haughty dome which vies
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame
Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the clouds must claim.

" Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break,
To separate contemplation, the great whole ;
And as the ocean many bays will make,
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul
To more immediate objects, and control
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll
In mighty graduations, part by part,
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart."

We have not the eye of a painter or a sculptor, else we might
dwell at much length on the symmetry and proportion observ
able in the forms and aspects of creation. Who is not struck
with the proportions of many of those animals which God has
destined for the service and convenience of man ? — the horse,
whose limbs seem moulded to the expression of strength,
beauty, and swiftness, whose hoofs seem shod with fire as they
scour the plain ; which " saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha ! and
he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and
the shoutings." A flock of deer sweeping the lawn, or reposing
among the trees of some ancient park, with their tapering
limbs, and branching horns, and soft eye, seems the perfect
image of beauty and gracefulness, and that quiet loveliness,
which looks out from the eye, and has a deeper seat far than
mere outward shape or form. But nowhere do we see the
combination of symmetry and proportion so complete, and its
triumphs so great, as in the human form. Accordingly, it is on
it that the painter and the sculptor have lavished their powers
and put forth their strength, drawing, it would appear, from a
conception nobler than the reality ; an ideal taken from what
the reality seems only to indicate, or to point to. Italian
artists, like the ancients, seem to have aimed at this ideal
beauty. Proportion to its minutest shade of perfection was
their intent study, and still they dismissed from their canvas
or their marble, what would disturb the minutest expression of

164 INTELLECT.

ease, grace, majesty, beauty, strength, power. And we have an
illustration in this into what almost imperceptible lines and
degrees proportion may evanish, if we may so speak, or of what
imperceptible degrees it may consist. The proper conception
of proportion must involve infinitely minute particulars or
shadowings of thought : the last conception, how minute !
Nature has not been so particular ; but as in the moral world
Butler has referred to the tendencies of principles though we
may not see their full development ; so with regard to ideal
form and beauty, their principles may be seen in abstract con
ception though never in a living concrete. And this is what
is meant when we speak of an ideal form, or an ideal beauty.*
We see to what the principles of form, of beauty, point or lead ;
we can follow the indication, and imagine the reality.

..." Turning to the Vatican, go see
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain —
A father's love and mortal's agony,
With an immortal's patience blending : vain
The struggle ; vain against the coiling strain
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp,
The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.

" Or view the Lord of the unerring how,

The god of life, and poesy, and light —

The sun in human limbs array 'd, and brow

All radiant from his triumph in the fight ;

The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright

With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye

And nostril beautiful disdain, and might

And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the Deity.

* "We call attention," says Cousin, me the occasion for conceiving the ideal,

" to two words which continually recnr but the ideal is something entirely dif-

in this discussion, — they are, on the ferent from experience or nature; so that,

one hand, nature or experience; on the if we apply it to natural, or even to arti-

other, ideal. Experience is individual ficial figures, they cannot fill up the con-

or collective; but the collective is re- ditionof the ideal conception, and we are

solved into the individual; the ideal is op- obliged to imagine them exact. The

posed to the individual, and to collective- word ideal corresponds to an absolute

ness: it appears as an original conception and independent idea, and not to a col-

of tho mind. Nature or experience gives lectivo one." — See Cousin on Beauty.

INTELLECT. 165

" But in his delicate form — a dieam of love,

Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast

Long'd for a deathless lover from above,

And madden'd in that vision — are exprest

All that ideal beauty ever bless'd

The mind with in its most unearthly mood,

When each conception was a heavenly guest —

A ray of immortality — and stood,
Starlike around, until they gather'd to a God!"

It is not proportion of individual form so much, that we
observe in general nature, as harmony of effect. There are
proportions, however, also of colouring on the landscape,
ininglings of light and shade ; and slope and level must blend
to make a perfect picture. A dead level makes a very unin
teresting landscape, whether on canvas or in nature itself. A
Kembrandt may be admirably painted, but a Dutch flat does
not make an interesting picture, except for its antique towers
and spires, which fill the foreground or rise in the distance.
A calm expanse of sea is not a picture, it is a thought ; and to
make a picture it must have its vessels and its sea-ports, and
the sky must be stretched in harmony above. Mont Blanc of
itself is not a picture, though it may be hymned in beautiful
and sublime poetry, or the God who

" Sank its sunless pillars deep in earth."

It is wonderful the effect of the varied forms, and combinations
of form and colour in a landscape. How admirable, how
graceful all !

The law of proportion operates in our thoughts, and secures
harmony, grace, and what is called keeping, in style. The
serious in composition will not intrude itself upon the gay, or
the gay upon the serious, and wit, humour, and the play of
fancy, will be limited to their proper place, or will be indulged
in their proper proportion. The keeping of style is just the
observance of each style in its own place, and in suitable adap
tation to the subject in hand. In some minds there is a
predominance of some one faculty, or of some faculties, over
others. It is all reasoning, or it is all imagination ; or there is
a fine balance of powers. " Fit words in fit places" is the

166 INTELLECT.

definition given by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, of good style.
Is not this just proportion ? It is undoubtedly an aspect of it.
A balance of all the passions was the definition, given by one
of the ancient philosophers, of virtue. There is truth in the
definition — for virtue will secure the balance or regulation of
all the passions ; but virtue is something else, and is not
merely what it secures. Politeness has been called a proper
regard to the smaller decencies or proprieties of life. Eccen
tricity is when any part of the conduct is out of proportion
with the rest. The grotesque and ludicrous in appearance or
conduct arises in part at least from a want of harmony — the
violence done to harmony — in the conduct or appearance. A
cyclops would be a somewhat grotesque-looking being ; equally
odd in a mental and moral point of view are those of whom
some crotchet has taken such possession, that it seems never
absent from their minds, and appears to be the one thing
there. Don Quixote outstrips all competitors in this depart
ment.* Hudibras, perhaps, is his sole rival. It was to mock
the only real thing of the age that Butler's Hudibras was written,
viz., Puritanism — Puritanism and the love of freedom being at
that time well-nigh commensurable terms. Even what is good
may be cast into ridicule by being represented in an exag
gerated form. The spiritual element is what the world never
could, and never can, understand or estimate ; and accordingly
while Hampden and Sydney have long obtained their laurels,
as heroes and patriots, Puritanism is but emerging at this day
from the cloud of detraction in which it was enveloped. Let
but the element of religion be mixed up in any question, how
ever vital and important otherwise to the interests of mankind,
and every hard name is dealt out, and false construction put
upon the otherwise noblest actions and motives. A high and

* Hence Foster's allusion to the that class of which Don Quixote is the

honoured knight ; when speaking of time immemorial commander-in-chief."

those who from their enthusiasm in any If this can he said of a right enthu-

eause — even a right enthusiasm in a siasm, what shall be said of an enthu-

right cause — are thought " to occupy siasm altogether misdirected, and out

a duhious frontier space betwixt the of proportion ?
rational and the insane, are assigned to

INTELLECT. 1G7

honourable enthusiasm, where religion is concerned, gets but
little praise from the world : it is regarded with suspicion, and
frowned upon by those who do not know what is the pre
cise occasion of their anger or their hatred. It is no dispro
portion to exalt a noble cause ; and religion, and religious
freedom, are the noblest of all causes. Everything else will be
in suitable subordination, and will form the very harmony
which seemed to be broken — the harmony consists in that
subordination. The hero, the patriot, the religious reformer,
stand in beautiful harmony with themselves ; and their heroism,
their patriotism, and their religion, constitute the character to
which succeeding ages do reverence.

We have thus considered those laws which obtain recipro
cally in the external and internal worlds, the worlds of matter
and mind, which the mind at once is fitted to perceive, and
which operate in the mind as laws of its own nature — identity,
diversity, resemblance, contrast, analogy, proportion. There is
not only the relation of identity, or of an object to itself at one
time, or at different times, — the relation of diversity between
objects, — the relation of resemblance, contrast, analogy, propor
tion, — but there is the law according to which these relations
exist respectively, — a law which must be referred in each case
to the Divine creative mind. From the types or archetypes in
the Divine mind, these relations have their existence in out
ward reality ; and our minds, moulded in the image of the
Divine, are fitted to perceive them. Perhaps mind cannot but
perceive them, at all events as it is now constituted. Mind
would have to undergo a total revolution not to perceive these
relations ; and hence we speak of the laws of identity, resem
blance, &c., as belonging to the mind itself. Derangement, as
we have seen, in reference to some of these laws, is just when
these laws, or when outward objects, according to these laws,
are not seen or recognised ; and all accordingly is vacuity or
confusion in the mind. Who shall restore that order from
which everything has been hurled or cast down ? Who shall
give the mind to operate according to these laws again ? Who

168 INTELLECT.

shall touch the spring, and all will be well again — all again
order, serenity, harmony, beauty ? — the mind will be brought
out of its interlunar cave — no longer wander in eclipse — but
revolve in light. God alone holds that spring in his own
hand — can give the touch, can communicate the energy.

We have now to consider the principles of the mind, — the
principle of causation, or the principle according to which we
trace causes — the principle of generalization, or that according
to which the generalizing process is conducted — the principle
of deduction, or that according to which all reasoning takes
place : we shall consider the laws of association ; and having
thus the modified as well as original sources or occasions
of our ideas, we shall then consider what are called the facul
ties of the mind in relation to them, — reason and reasoning,
conception, abstraction, imagination, — while the influence of
volition upon the mind, or its voluntary acts, will also come
under our notice.

XIV.

The three grand principles of mind are causality, generaliza
tion, and deduction, — generalization, however, as we shall see,
being partly dependent upon causality, and deduction being,
in every proper or real instance of it, a new generalization. It
is a principle of mind that every effect must have a cause ;
that what belongs to one or more observed instances, or cases,
will belong to a class ; and the reverse of this, that what be
longs to a class must belong to every individual of that clas^-.
These are properly principles of the mind, — the mind purely.
The word principle, " principium" means a first truth. In
aesthetics, we speak of the principles of beauty and sublimity ;
in morals, of the principles of justice or virtue generally.

We employ the term rather in a conventional sense, to denote
not only a first truth, but a practical result to which that truth
leads, as when, from the truth, that every effect must have a
cause, we proceed to the tracing of causes ; or from the truth,
that like causes will produce like effects, we generalize pheno
mena or laws ; and from the truth, the " dictum" of Aristotle,

INTELLECT. 169

that what belongs to a class will belong to every individual of
that class, we proceed to the drawing of conclusions from
general premises.

CAUSALITY.

There is that in the mind icTiich assures us that every effect
must have a cause. This principle exists in the mind even
prior to its development. As soon, accordingly, as an effect is
presented to our observation, we refer it to a cause. According
to a principle of the mind we inevitably do so. This is some
what different from our concluding in reference to the existence
of our own consciousness, of our personal selves, of the external
world. Our own consciousness is immediately accompanied
with the belief in the existence of that of which we are con
scious, or of the consciousness itself; our idea of self, with the
belief in the existence of self ; and the idea of the external
world, with the belief in the existence of an external world.
But the reference of an effect to a cause, — a cause which may
not be present, or may not be visible, and may not even be
traceable, — this is something different ; and it is here ive re
cognise a principle in operation. In the other instances, con
sciousness, self, the external world, are the direct objects of
cognition. The cause is the object of cognition only through a
principle, and the particular cause may not yet be discovered.
We know there must have been a cause, from the principle,
that every effect must have a cause, but the cause may as yet
have eluded our search or detection. The principle is enough
for us. Consciousness, self, an external world, or externality,
must themselves be the objects of cognition, or they are not
the objects of cognition at all. Cause, in any particular in
stance, is the object of cognition, even while the precise cause
may not yet be discovered.

The principle of causality is, that every effect must have a
cause. This exists in the mind prior to the discovery of causes.
The principle that there must be an external world, does not
exist in the mind prior to the information of our senses and
our mind together, that there is an external world ; or rather

170 INTELLECT.

there is no such principle. There is no such principle as that
I must exist, or that an external world must exist, but there is
such a principle as that an effect must have a cause. We can
affirm of a cause merely from the existence or observation of
an effect. Nor is this a first truth precisely in the same sense
that the truths of aesthetics or of morals are first truths. We
could conceive the mind not recognising effects to be effects,
but merely events or facts ; but we could not conceive mind
not distinguishing between right and wrong, or beauty and
deformity. The distinction between right and wrong, beauty
and deformity, is offered to the mind in the very fact, or the
judgment of right and wrong accompanies the contemplation
of the very action ; and the aesthetic judgment, the contempla
tion of the very object which is beautiful, or the reverse ; but
the perception of a cause in an effect depends upon a principle
implanted directly in the mind.

How important a principle is this ! How much depends
upon it ! We have seen it is concerned in the very idea of
externality itself. Every effect must have a cause : externality
is the cause of this feeling at a particular moment : there is an
external world.* What a powerful stimulus to investigation
and inquiry ! Philosophy has been said to be " rerum cognos-
cere causas." We set out on the track of philosophy as soon as
we institute an inquiry into a cause. All discovery is connected
with this. Even in the science or philosophy of mind we are
tracing the cause or source or origin of our ideas — our feelings
— our actions. In physical sciences we trace the causes that
have operated, or that operate, to this or that effect. We say,
what an important principle is this ! It carries us through the
universe ; it lifts our mind to the observation of those stars ;
it makes the world on which we tread a scene of interest and
inquiry ; it makes every object by which we are surrounded a
subject of delighted contemplation, or eager curiosity; it makes
nature the minister of our wants, and the magazine of our
pleasures or enjoyments. Newton was pondering the principle

* There is something more than this world, but this principle is in the refer-
principle in the reference to an external ence.

INTELLECT. 171

when the falling apple revealed to him the secret, as it may
well be called, of the universe. Franklin had it in his eye
when he sent his messenger up to the clouds, and received from
it the information that he wanted. Davy toiled in his labora
tory till chemical discovery grew under his observing glance,
as a Liebig and a Faraday are doing at the present day. Os
cillations are observed in a planet ; astronomers know there
must be a cause ; an Adams and a Le Verrier set themselves
to calculate the distance of the disturbing force, and they almost
simultaneously — certainly without knowing the fact that either
was at work — tell the place of a new planet, and when the
telescope is pointed to the spot it is discovered. Certain ap
pearances in the human frame set the physiologist upon the
inquiry, and the circulation of the blood is discovered ; the
means of mitigating disease and pain is found, and the healing
art becomes a science ! The statist, the political economist,
investigate the causes of phenomena in the social and political
condition ; and inquiry is made into every means by which the
social and political wellbeing may be promoted. The world is
astir with questions of social reform and economical improve
ment. No principle is more active in the mind than the one
under our consideration. It is developed in the child still
lisping his words, or dependent upon signs to make known
his meaning. The child is an astronomer after a sort, and he
has his theory of the stars. One, in his pious moments, sup
posed them to be openings through which the glory of heaven
was seen. Campbell had his theory of the rainbow :

" Still seem as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven."

How eager are the queries of a child ! How marvellous
often ! With what simple and beautiful curiosity does it
inquire the use of this and the cause of that. And Newton
thought himself but a child on the margin of the great ocean
of truth, gathering a few pebbles there. It is only at the pre
sent day that certain sciences have grown into importance, and

172 INTELLECT.

are unfolding their wonders before the eager investigators in
the track of inquiry that has been opened up. The age of the
world has been discovered to be thousands of years more than
was dreamed of in a former philosophy. And all this by the
instigation of the one principle of causality — the curiosity to
which it prompts, and the certainty with which it foretells or
anticipates.

Dependent somewhat upon this principle, and nearly akin
to it, is that of generalization.

GENERALIZATION.

The principle of causality is, that every effect must have a
cause : it seems to follow from this, that every effect must have
its own cause. There may be more causes than one for the
same effect, but each is the cause of that effect ; and were it
not so, it would not be a cause at all. The same cause, then,
will be always attended by the same effect. This is the prin
ciple of generalization, and leads to the generalizing act of the
mind. It is true that generalization takes place where we are
not observing causes at all, but co-existing or similar pheno
mena ; but we connect these phenomena with some cause, and
we generalize upon the certainty that causes are uniform in
their operation. We observe in certain objects, or in certain
phenomena, a certain feature or characteristic : we observe that
feature or characteristic wherever we see those objects or phe
nomena : we generalize the circumstance, and say, that it will
always be so, and in every individual of the class of objects or
phenomena ; and we may thus get a class of objects or pheno
mena, that is to say, we are able confidently to arrange in a
class the objects or phenomena so characterized. We do not
wait till we have observed every instance in any such case ; we
generalize the fact after less or more observed instances, as the
case may be. Were we suspending our minds till every in
stance was observed, it is obvious we would have no general
facts or laws or classes, for when would the universal induction
or observation be made ? And it is in this that we see the

INTELLECT. 173

peculiarity in the law or principle of generalization. It may
be said, that it is no distinct principle, since it proceeds upon
the principle, that like causes will produce or be followed
by like effects. But the point is, why do we suppose a cause
in operation in every case the same ? how does the mind step
to this conclusion or persuasion ? When I see the sun set, and
after an interval of a certain number of hours, and no more,
rise again — why am I led to believe that there is a uniform
cause at work which secures the periodical return of the sun to
our horizon ? This is the principle of generalization. It pro
ceeds upon the principle of causality ; but there is a distinct
principle, too, viz., that which from a single observation, or a
number o/observations of a phenomenon, infers the operation of
a uniform cause, and anticipates, therefore, the uniform effect.
Newton generalized the law of gravitation from the observa
tion of the falling of an apple. It struck him that there was
the uniform operation of a law here, as in the similar motions
of all bodies — each seeking a centre, or attracted by the greater
body. How wide was that range through which the law he
had hit upon by a fortunate suggestion — rather by a sagacious
and most original association of analogy — something of a
ci-eative poiver of which we have but little conception —
through which that law had operation ! This was a generali
zation the widest perhaps that was ever made. What must
have been Newton's state of mind when he happened upon
such a generalization ? Surely if ever it was permitted to
mortal to entertain a thought of pride, he might have enter
tained it at this moment. Or was the thought far too lofty for
pride ? Was he here brought face to face with a great secret
of nature, and when he beheld that example of what Cowper
has styled " contrivance intricate expressed with ease," did he
feel in the presence of the great Contriver, and worship the
power and wisdom of which so beautiful an expression had
dawned upon his mind ? It is more probable, especially with
such a mind as his. Franklin felt as if he could at that
moment gladly die, when he verified the generalization of the
phenomena of the clouds into the one principle with which he

174 INTELLECT.

had been so familiar in his study — electricity. What pleasure
must burst upon the philosopher's mind at every such generali
zation ! It is like new land conquered — a new world dis
covered — the Pacific flashing upon the adventurous Spaniard
and his band ! It is truly " standing on the top of some
mountain thought," and taking a look not only into that
new region of truth, but those regions which will successively
open up, expanding immeasurably into the distance of scien
tific discovery.

Generalization proceeds upon the principle that like causes
will, in all similar circumstances, be attended by like effects.
This, we have said, is somewhat involved in the principle that
every effect must have a cause, for it is of the essence of a cause
to produce its own effect. The further process of the mind,
then, in generalization, is to apprehend the existence of some
cause in the phenomenon or fact under observation ; and the
uniform operation of that cause, and the consequent uniform
effect, in other words, the uniformity of the phenomenon or
fact under observation, is an immediate state of the mind. The
peculiarity of generalization, as we have already said, is that
by which we pronounce the operation of a cause in the parti
cular case, a cause connected with the special phenomenon.
The sun's rising in the morning, for example : we do not
merely apprehend a cause connected with the phenomenon of
the sun's rising ; that would be causality simply ; but we
apprehend one connected with his rising at the particular
time, and this gives us the general truth or expectation that
it will always rise at that time. The mind apprehends
a cause connected not only with his rising, but with his
rising then, and this is already the general truth. In the
same way, the mind connects a cause with a body falling to the
earth, and that is already a general truth. The body might be
impelled to the earth by a force for which we can account, but
it falls to the earth by some law for which we cannot account,
and we generalize it into the law of gravitation. There is not
merely, therefore, the operation of the principle of causality, by
which we recognise a cause, but the operation of that in such

INTELLECT. 175

a manner, or in connexion with such other principle of the
mind, as allows the mind always to anticipate the same cause
with the same result. No visible force was applied to the apple
as it fell from the tree ; why then did it fall ? The sun appear
ing on our horizon at a particular time, and that not once, but
again and again, allows of the general conclusion respecting his
rising. And it will be observed that his appearing repeatedly
at the same time, serves to establish the phenomenon of his ap
pearing at that time ; and having got that phenomenon, the
general conclusion is at once obtained. The one observation
of an apple falling gives us the fact of its falling, but the one
observation of the sun's rising or appearing on the horizon at a
particular time, does not give us the fact of his rising at that
time, but the one fact of his having risen at that time ; but
two or .three observations of his rising give us the fact we speak
of, and we generalize that for all time. The precise fact or
phenomenon ascertained, we generalize it ; but in some cases
it requires more observations than in others to get the precise
fact or phenomenon. It is found, accordingly, that in some
cases we generalize more quickly than in others. In chemistry
the precise phenomenon can be arrived at much more accurately
than in other sciences, and the generalization takes place very
rapidly. Get the precise phenomenon, and the generalization
is immediate, since a cause is at once seen to be in operation.
To see that cause, is already to generalize. It is not the cause
of an isolated fact, it is the cause of a general fact. The gene
ralization is in the perception of the cause. The cause that
we have perceived, or that we perceive, insures to us the same
effect in all similar circumstances. Every cause will insure its
effect in all similar circumstances; but this is a cause that
will be uniform in operation — is not an accidental, isolated one.
The mind apprehends a cause that will operate in all time to
come. This we take to be the peculiarity of generalization.

Induction and generalization, as the terms are used, are the
same, but more properly induction is the observation or collec
tion of facts or instances upon which generalization proceeds.
This observation of instances is, properly speaking, induction,

17<) INTELLECT.

and rightly viewed, generalization is quite distinct from induc
tion. Induction, strictly speaking, is the mere observation or
gathering of particulars, or data — the generalization consequent
upon this is the only philosophic process. Induction, however,
is generally spoken of as including both processes — the gather
ing of the instances and the generalization consequent.

Induction is the grand instrument of Bacon — the " novum
organon." It is the grand instrument of all empirical science
— of all the sciences that depend upon observation and expe
rience. It was because before his time philosophy had been
conducted upon the false method of hypothesis and theory,
apart from observation and experiment, that Bacon, by his
novum organon, effected such a revolution in the philosophic
world, and may be said to have laid the foundation for all
future discovery. To ascertain facts was Bacon's great method
— the generalization would follow upon these. Previous to his
time philosophers generalized before they had the facts, and
what they generalized, therefore, was merely matter of conjec
ture ; their generalizations were theories, and theories proceed
ing upon mere hypotheses. There was, therefore, no proper
philosophy previous to his time, except a few scattered obser
vations which had anticipated the dawn of the inductive system.
Among the ancients the vainest conjectures were formed regard
ing the system of the universe, and every opinion seems to out
strip another in absurdity. Bacon demanded that we should
not proceed a single step in science without ascertained pheno
mena. These were carefully to be collected ; and Bacon lays
down rules, which he calls " instantire," which were necessary
to all accurate observation, or induction. These rules, or
" instantias," form the legislation of all inductive philosophy.
Others, no doubt, are added as observation proceeds ; but by
far the most important rules are contained in Bacon's enumera
tion, and they can never grow obsolete while science exists.
Bacon is still regarded, and must ever be regarded, as the great
legislator of science. Get but a sufficient number of cases in
point, arid let these be ascertained with sufficient accuracy, with
all the accuracy which the " instantiaj" will secure, and there

INTELLECT. 177

is no fear afterwards ; the mind will do the rest of the work.
The generalizing process will be quick enough after that, and
will be as certain as a law of mind can make it. Theory built
upon conjecture was but an airy fabric, and had no foundation.
It was like the deception painted on the atmosphere, which
beguiles the traveller in the desert, and vanishes as he arrives
at that point in the distance where it seemed to rest. Not
even like that — often not so pleasing or so flattering, but liker
a figment of the brain, absurd as the fancy which gave it form
and being. Nothing was too crude — nothing too grotesque —
nothing too ridiculous to be a theory of philosophy. Bacon
saw, that if we were to generalize, we must generalize upon
rightly ascertained and well established facts or data. Fancy
was as distinct from science as an illusion in the air from that
of which it gave the promise or formed the representation.
What an advance, accordingly, has science made since Bacon
gave the law! Discovery seemed to wait till he said, This is the
track on which alone it can be pursued ; on this road you may
advance to conquest, but upon no other. Science will not un
fold her laws unless you interrogate them. " Homo minister
natures est et interpres." You must become a little child if
you would learn ; you must submit to be taught by nature
herself. You must listen to her oracular responses. You must
record those instances in which you, as it were, hear her voice.
You must submit to the crucible those cases which seem to be
her phenomena. All must be patiently observed, and the re
sponse will come — the law will develop itself — the phenomenon
will not deceive. There is a point at which mind and nature
meet. It is a revelation as soon as that point is attained.

Such is the law or principle of generalization. How admi
rably is it adapted for the purposes of man's existence ! We
cannot conceive of knowledge without it. If we never could
arrive at a general truth, what truth could we arrive at ? and
if we could not arrive at it in this way, when, by any process
of observation, however extensive, would we arrive at it ?
Nature, or the author of nature, has managed matters differ
ently for us. By the principle we have been considering we

M

178 INTELLECT.

get general views from particular observations. The mind
takes possession at once of a truth from a very few instances,
it may be, of its exemplification. And it is possessed with
more certainty, perhaps, than if we had gone through the
whole range of experiment and observation, were that possible.
For in the one case we have an unerring intuitive law of mind
to depend upon ; in the other, we could not be certain that in
such a multiplicity of observations we had not in any one in
stance been mistaken. The observing power may have grown
dim or weary in the vast exercise to which it was subjected.
But here a few observations which have not fatigued, which
have been accurately and certainly made, open up the whole
vista through which we would otherwise have had to travel,
and could never have travelled. Nay, at the end of our obser
vations, could we reach an end, we would be as far from our
point as ever ; for what certainty could we have that new cir
cumstances might not arise, might not intervene, and so render
useless every observation we had made ? But by this principle
we know that no new circumstances can modify the case or law
in point. Though we had made a universal induction of every
fact that can be known, what information would this give us
with regard to the future ? it would only tell us of the present
or the past. The future would still be an uncertainty. But
this principle is prophetic ; it not only ranges over all co-exist
ing phenomena of the same kind, but it tells us that the future
will be as to-day. It predicts the future with the same cer
tainty that it tells us of the present. We confidently look
forward to the same phenomena, the same results, as we have
already observed or ascertained.

What purposes of life does not this principle subserve ?
Without it life would have been too short for those inductions
which would otherwise have been necessary to give us a well-
ascertained fact, or principle, or law ; and, as we have seen, no
induction, however extensive, would have given us this, for still
we would have been able to affirm only with reference to the
past, and would have had no certainty with reference to the
future. Generalization takes the future into its own hand.

INTELLECT.

and affirms with perfect certainty with regard to any particular
fact or principle, which has been the object of observation, in all
time coming. Newton's generalization had not reference merely
to the past instances of gravitation, to these as belonging to one
class of phenomena, but that class of phenomena involved, or
had respect to, a phenomenon which he could predict in all time
to come in the same circumstances. Our most familiar actions
in life may be said to depend upon a generalization. In the
commonest implements we use, and in the commonest use of
them, some generalization is implied. There is a nice observa
tion often where we think there is nothing more than familiar
and almost intuitive knowledge. We almost think that water,
as a matter of course, must run down a declivity, and, in adapt
ing our arrangements accordingly with regard to this law, we
do not imagine that we are acting upon an important gene
ralization ; so, in the placing of any body in a particular posi
tion, we think not that we have reference to the law of gravita
tion in so simple an act. Who thinks of the law of gravitation
in recovering himself from a shock which he has received, or in
those nice movements by which the balance is preserved in
walking upon a narrow bridge, when perhaps a false step would
plunge us into the abyss below ? The mechanic is not thinking
of those laws which a nice observation has made familiar to
him, not as laws, but as circumstances to be obeyed in his
trade, or to be followed in the use of his instruments. The
sooty blacksmith never heard of the law of percussion, but if
he did not observe it when employing his hammer, it would
shiver his arm, brawny as it is. He has made a generalization,
though it has not taken the specific form of a law. Many a
practical observation never derived anything from science.
Shrewd inductions have been made when nothing more was
supposed to be done than to follow a wise experience. The
man of superior sagacity in his trade, or avocation of life, what
ever that may be, turns circumstances to account which are
truly the particulars of an induction, and which, in being thus
acted upon or improved, constitute a generalization, it may be
of great value, often, as it turns out, even of scientific value.

180 INTELLECT.

Generalization is a principle of the mind, — that is, the mind
proceeds to generalize in certain circumstances in spite of itself.
We are no sooner brought into such and such circumstances
than we generalize. It is on this principle that all our general
conclusions are founded, — maxims of conduct, as well as rules
of trade, or laws of art. We form principles of conduct, as
observed in their effects, without reference to the abstract prin
ciples from which they may more properly spring, or with
which they may more properly be connected. We may look at
actions from the separate points of view of their abstract prin
ciples of right or wrong, or their effects on the world. Maxims
are formed, for the most part, upon observations taken from
the latter point of view. Maxims are generalized observations.
The minor virtues, and the principles which guide us in the
business and pursuits of life, are seldom taken up to the higher
source of abstract principle, but are drawn from observations
and experience. The common proverbs, which are character
istic of a place or a nation, or belong to the species, are founded
upon experience. What gives us the proverbs concerning the
weather ? Generalizations of a familiar and everyday kind
and use.

Classification often proceeds upon generalization, though in
many cases it would seem that we classify merely as we observe
instances or particulars of agreement. It would not seem to
need any exercise of the generalizing principle to classify all
mineral substances under one head, all animals under another,
and vegetables under another ; but the term generalization has
been extended even to this act of classification. We are dis
posed to think that the peculiarity of generalization consists in
detecting some law or cause at work in certain cases or in
stances of observed similarity, and confidently counting upon
that law in all such cases, and in all future time. For example,
certain minerals are observed to occur in certain strata, in a
certain relation to other strata ; that they will always be found
in such strata is a generalization, and depends upon the prin
ciple which we call by that name. Now, this is something
different from merely classifying a mineral, as coal, or lime-

INTELLECT. 181

stone, or ironstone, having determined the properties of these
minerals ; that all animals of a certain structure, and with
certain provisions for the purpose of seizing their prey, are
carnivorous, is a generalization different from the classification
of animals under the name of the genus or species to which
they belong, as quadrupeds, bipeds, fishes, birds, &c. The one
generalization depends merely upon a perceived resemblance —
the other upon the principle of generalization, already consi
dered. In the latter there is a perceived resemblance, and when
treating of the law of the mind by which we perceive resem
blance, we regarded it as that on which generalization pro
ceeded ; but we then remarked that there was something more
than a perceived resemblance, there was the principle which
we have endeavoured to explain, and which we have said seems
to consist in the detection of a cause at work, and the certain
prediction that such a cause will always be found at work,
when it will be attended by its necessary effect or effects.
Classification, therefore, is distinct from generalization ; but it
may depend upon a generalization. When it proceeds merely
upon a perceived resemblance, there is properly no generali
zation. Still, even this has been called generalization, as it
consists in the application of general terms to objects or beings
or qualities which have something in common, or a circum
stance of resemblance. General terms are given to qualities or
substances resembling in certain particulars, and are only
applied to the circumstances in which they resemble, or to the
qualities or substances or objects, in so far as they resemble in
these circumstances. The resemblance may be connected with
nothing further, or it may be connected with that principle or
law of which we have repeatedly spoken, and which leads to a
comprehension under a class which does not depend upon a
mere resemblance. The resemblance leads the mind to some
cause, and that cause, uniform in its operation, insures to the
observing mind the certainty of the same effect in the most
universal induction that could be made. We can predict of
every animal that it will be carnivorous, if it possesses claws or
talons : we connect some cause with the property, and predict

182 INTELLECT.

in the case of every such animal, that it will be carnivorous.
So with many of our general terms, they depend upon a gene
ralization, strictly speaking. Certain strata of the earth have
uniformly been observed in certain relations or positions : the
generalizing process or law of the mind, or principle, gives us
a cause, or supposes some cause in operation, and we affirm
with the utmost confidence that these strata will always be
found so situated ; or we call these strata by a certain name
because they are so found. Certain temperaments of body are
found in connexion with certain conditions of health and
developments of disposition : they are connected with some
fixed cause, and we have the classification accordingly of the
lymphatic, the nervous, and the sanguineous temperaments,
and their corresponding indications in health or disposition.
Classification simply, that is, whether it proceeds upon merely
felt or perceived resemblances — or depends upon the generaliz
ing principle — employs and demands general terms. The mind
is led by an inevitable law and necessity to classify, and general
terms are its implement or means by which this is done. Even
were we not inventing or employing general terms, the classifi
cation might exist in our own minds, but it would not be
available for the purposes which man has in view. Of what
use would it be to classify for ourselves, and to have no language
by which the classification should be designated ? The great
purposes of classification, and of general terms by which we
indicate the classification, is to serve the practical ends of life.
A still wider purpose of utility opens up to us in this aspect or
application of the principle of generalization. What would
language be if we had no general terms ? How limited, or
how cumbrous ! Had every individual a distinct name, when
should our vocabulary be completed, and how could we master
our vocabulary ? Proper names are so called because they
are the names of individuals ; and it is necessary to have these ;
because the law of identity is riot lost in the law of similarity,
and we have need often to recognise individuals in their iden
tity, or individuality. Hence John, Thomas, London, Paris.
But proper names, or nouns, are very fc\v in comparison with

INTELLECT. 183

general or common ones, and because we have more to do with
classes than individuals. The range of our individual interests
or relations is limited; that which connects us with the universe
of being is unbounded. More absorbing interests far are those
connected with the limited range ; except again, when, as Cole
ridge expresses it, " we feel ourselves parts and proportions of a
universal whole," when we step beyond the limited interests of
this petty sphere, and realize our spiritual and immortal in
terests and destinies : this is indeed " the noon-tide majesty of
our being." But in this, again, terms themselves are lost, and
spiritual being and existence perhaps comprehend all. How
limited may be the language of spiritual beings ; for great and
absorbing feelings and thoughts may be all that they will ever
need to express. How large will be the generalizations ! how
simple the feelings ! Love to God and to each other, and
the admiration of one predominating beauty or glory may sum
up the whole of the latter. All moral principles we know are
reducible to love. May there not be an equally comprehensive
generalization in respect to other truths as well ? — in respect to
the laws of being, and the conditions underlying all relations ?

A question was keenly agitated during the scholastic ages as
to the precise object of general terms, — whether it was some
thing real as distinct from the individual objects among which
a resemblance was discerned, or whether it was the term or
name that constituted the general feature of agreement or
resemblance, and not that feature of agreement or resemblance
that gave rise to the term. Kealism and Nominalism were the
distinctive titles of the separate systems, and the abettors of
either were called Realists or Nominalists. Realism was the
first system held, and Nominalism was a revolt from it.

The Realists maintained — and it was heresy to dispute the
point — it was an innovation classed with the more strictly
theological heresies of which the Church of the Middle Ages
was so observant, as the same Church, true to its ancient and
hereditary character, at the present day, still is — the Realists
maintained that everything which was called by a general
term, every genus or species, had a real existence, qua genus or

184 INTELLECT.

species, existed apart from the individual objects among which
the resemblance which occasioned the general term was found.
It was not merely a resemblance or circumstance of agreement
that was detected. There were universal forms, universal sub
stances, universal qualities — where they were was no doubt
more difficult to determine — but that they really existed was
not to be disputed, on the pain of the fagot or the dungeon.
It was not strange that such a doctrine should find some
opponents even at the risk of martyrdom. Not that the doc
trine was so vital as to call for martyrdom, perhaps, except
with those who, like Galileo, would maintain that a false doc
trine was false, at all hazards. Free inquiry is not to be
repressed, and the stamp of Galileo's foot upon the earth, with
the utterance " still it moves," was the challenge to the whole
conclave of bishops and cardinals to do their worst. Roscilinus,
himself a theologian, impugned the doctrine. " He disputed
the universal a parte rei." He had the boldness to attack this
favourite and most nondescript entity or existence. He held
that there was no such entity or existence. He doubtless had
never seen " a universal a parte rei." It had never crossed his
path. No such shadowy being had ever come within his view,
or challenged his inspection. He saw only objects or qualities
—not the universals, of which these were but individual
examples. Existing nowhere in heaven or earth that he could
perceive or imagine, were those universal forms, genera,
species ; and his observation, doubtless, extended as far as that
of his opponents. He had undoubtedly the advantage of his
opponents ; for he could challenge them to shew him " a
universal a parte rei," which he had never seen for himself, and
appeal to their own consciousness if they themselves had ever
been so fortunate. The famous Abelard — whose passion for
Eloise lives still in Pope's exquisite lines — was the pupil and
abettor of Rosciliuus. The question grew ; and now might be
seen armies determining the nice question at the point of the
sword. There was something real in the mode of determining
the question, at all events, and a stroke of the sword would
remind the Nominalists that names were not everything ; but

INTELLECT. 185

that a keen edge, or a sabre-stroke, though not exactly " a
universal a parte rei," was something more than a name.

Any extreme in opinion very often leads to its opposite.
Whether by a subtle association of contrast, or from the im
pression that the truth must be the reverse of the theory or
doctrine from which at any time we are obliged to dissent, the
mind starts at once to a theory the most opposite, without for
a moment suspecting that the truth may lie in neither extreme,
nay, that both extremes may be equally at fault. The doctrine
of the Realists had been held by Pythagoras, and by Plato, and
indications of it are seen in the writings of Aristotle. It arose,
no doubt, out of the necessity to account for general ideas as
the objects of thought, to explain how it came that the mind
could think about what had no individual existence or proto
type without itself. The mind, according to the common
theory, could think about, or be conversant with, nothing but
its own ideas. What then was the object of thought in the
matter of general terms'/ What was it that the mind had an
idea of when general terms were employed, when a river, a tree,
a mountain, for example, was spoken of ? If a particular river,
or tree, or mountain, was named, then the object of thought
was that river, or tree, or mountain. But let no particular
river, or tree, or mountain, be spoken of, and let the name or
appellative be generic, and what is the object of the mind's
thoughts, what does the idea of the mind in the particular case
represent ? It does not represent any actual object or existence
external to the mind and perceivable by sense. Has it no
existence without the mind ? Has it no prototype ? The
doctrine was, that it had a prototype, that it had an existence
independent of the mind. In the case of every genus, or class,
it was thought that what belonged to every individual of the
class in common formed the essence of the class, and though
not an object of sense, was yet independent of the mind, and as
independent as the objects of sense are of the act of perception.
Adopted by the schoolmen, the too slavish followers of Aristotle,
and not only his followers, but the pervcrters of his doctrines,
it became heresy, as we have seen, to dispute the real existence

186 INTELLECT.

of general ideas, or those ideas indicated by general terms : we
mean by their real existence, the existence of that which con
stituted, or was thought to constitute, in every case, the essence
of the individuals of a class as individuals of that class. That
essence was called in the peculiar language of the schools, " a
universal a parte rei." The Nominalists contended that there
was no such essence apart from the individuals, and that in the
matter of general terms the object of our thought was still the
individual; only, we had given a name to all individuals agree
ing in possessing the same property or characteristic. A general
term was a mere term, not even denoting a circumstance of
agreement, but a term which, applicable to an individual, might
be extended to every individual which had the same properties
or characteristics which that term was originally invented to
express. The term tree, for example, did not express any cir
cumstances of agreement in a class of individual objects, but
was the name given to an individual, and was in time extended
to all objects concurring in the same properties. The same
with river, mountain, quadruped, and any other general term.
This opinion was maintained with great acuteness and ability
on the part of its supporters, but was met with the keenest
opposition from the Realists, enlisting even all the rancour of
religious animosity both in favour and against it. It has gained
supporters even in modern times, while the doctrine of the
Realists has sunk into merited oblivion, or rather is regarded
with astonishment or ridicule, as it is viewed with one or
another sentiment of the mind, as we contemplate it seriously,
or regard it in a somewhat sportive vein. The " universal a
parte rei" has disappeared with the equal absurdities of a former
age, or former ages. Plato, and Aristotle, and the schoolmen,
have no followers in this tenet of their philosophy ; nor do the
thunders of the Church now help to maintain it. Armies are
no longer enlisted on its side, nor do princes and potentates
contend in its favour. Nominalism, however, has obtained its
adherents at the present day, and among these we find the
brightest names in philosophy, such as Berkeley and Stewart.
It would be an endless task to follow out or discuss all the

INTELLECT. 187

opinions of philosophers on every subject that came before us.
On some subjects it is necessary to be more minute ; on others
it is sufficient to notice what opinions have been maintained, and
form our own independent judgment. Stewart's opinion seems
to be connected with certain views on the theory of language,
and also with peculiar views respecting the process of reasoning.
Nominalism, indeed, must depend upon that particular theory
which Stewart entertained on the origin of appellatives or
common nouns. Either it is true that we first give a name to
an individual, and that is extended to all individuals agreeing
in the same properties with the individual so named, or Nomi
nalism is untrue, is not the correct theory on this subject.
Now, is it so that every general term was at first a proper name,
or the name of an individual ? No doubt, many general terms
were thus formed ; but even with respect to these, when they
became general terms, they were employed to express either
what we call a general idea, or an idea or feeling of agreement.
But what shall be said of those terms which we could never
have had but for this feeling of agreement ? We do not like
the expression, feeling of agreement. Neither, strictly speaking,
can we say perception of agreement, for perception more pro
perly applies to external, objects. We think the proper view
of the matter is, that the mind is fitted to recognise (or perceive
in this sense) the agreement or resemblances among objects or
qualities, and when such agreement or resemblances is recog
nised or perceived, the mind exists in that state of recognised
or perceived resemblance. Dr. Brown calls it a feeling of
resemblance. We confess we have always demurred to this
expression, for the term feeling seems to belong to another part
of the mind altogether, to another department of the mental
phenomena. We do not believe, however, that when Locke
and Reid spake of a general idea, or an idea of resemblance, or
of the similarity existing among objects, that they regarded that
idea as distinct from the mind having it. We might thus, well
enough, allow of the phrase general idea, or idea of resemblance,
if understood in the sense of the mind existing in the state of
recognised or perceived resemblance. If understood in this

188 INTELLECT.

sense, the doctrine of the Conceptualists is not open to the
objection which Dr. Brown brings against it. The doctrine of
the Conceptualists, as opposed to both the Realists, and more
immediately the Nominalists, is, that general terms are the re
sult of general ideas, these general ideas being founded upon
resemblance among objects or qualities. We would not have
general terms but for these ideas. Certain substances agree in
possessing certain properties, and we call them minerals ; others
in possessing certain other properties, and we call them vege
tables ; and again, others in possessing the property of life, and
we call them animals ; all in possessing certain still more
generic properties, and we call them substances. Could these
terms ever have been invented without the general idea attach
able to all substances, to all animals, to all vegetables, to all
minerals ? Now, this general idea is the object of the mind when
we employ a general term. And hence the name Conceptu
alists. With them there was no real thing independent of the
mind, and apart from the resembling objects or qualities ; but
the resemblances among the objects or qualities gave us the
general idea — the idea of substance — the idea of life — the idea
of vegetation — the idea of mineral existence, and the term was
invented to express each several idea. Again, with them the
process was not, naming individuals, and then applying the
name given to all individuals exhibiting the same characteristic
properties, which is the theory of the Nominalists, with whom,
accordingly, strictly speaking, the object of a general term was
an individual, and the term alone was general, or it became
general by its appropriation ; but the agreement or resemblance
was perceived before the general term was invented, and the
object of the term ivas the circumstance or feature of agreement
or resemblance. This may not have been invariably the case,
but objects are for the most part seen in groups, and they would
not be named singly ; a name would be employed as applicable
to objects thus seen, and observed to resemble, and reference
undoubtedly would be had to the agreement or resemblance.
Dr. Brown takes exception to the phrase, general idea, arid holds
that we have no such idea, that there can be no such idea; but

INTELLECT. 189

we have a feeling of resemblance ; there is a felt relation, the
relation of resemblance, and we call all objects by the same
name or term among which that relation exists. We agree
with Dr. Brown, only with the qualification, that we do not
believe anything more was meant in the phrase, " general idea,"
and that our persuasion is, the Conceptualists meant nothing
more.*

In the matter of general terms, then, there have been those
who held that they stood for something real, and independent of
the mind, and separate from the individuals, as such, in which
a resemblance existed ; there have been those who held that
the general term is but a term extended from individuals to a
class of resembling individuals ; and those again, who held that
the term was expressive of a circumstance of felt, recognised,
or perceived resemblance, or agreement, between a number of
individuals, which were classified accordingly. The last is un
doubtedly the correct view.

It is from such a process of mind that we get genera, species,
sub-species, and species infirna, or lowest species. Objects may
resemble each other in certain respects, and we class them as a
genus, as the genus animal ; but among those so resembling,
there may be great diversities in other respects, but another
circumstance of resemblance may be discerned, and with re
spect to the genus animal they are the species quadruped ; but
again, among quadrupeds there are diversities, and with respect
to these diversities, it is the genus, and not the species, quadru
ped ; but having observed every particular of resemblance that
can be detected, and finding at last no diversity beneath a
certain class, this is not a genus but a species, and the species
infima, or lowest species, — for every species comprehending a
class under it is a genus with respect to that class : ascending,
again, we come to a class which has none above it, and this,

* Dr. Brown surely does not simplify ral idea, or an idea of agreement ? For

the matter when he calls it, not an idea, the general idea is not understood to be

but a "feeling of agreement." Either anything more than an idea of agree-

this feeling is something or it is nothing. ment, or resemblance, in certain parti-

If it is something, then is it anything culars or characteristics,
more simple or intelligible than a gene-

15)0 INTELLECT.

accordingly, is not a species, but a genus, and the summum
genus, as it is called. The genus animal, for example, is a
species in relation to being in general, and being is the sum-
mum genus, there being none higher.

The generalizing process is one of great moment with respect
to the other processes of mind. It proceeds, as we have seen,
upon a perceived resemblance, and where there is nothing more
than the perceived resemblance, it is properly only classification ;
but it may depend upon the generalizing principle, that prin
ciple by which we not only classify objects according to observed
resemblances, but these resemblances are made the basis of a
classification according to another resemblance, not, it may be,
directly perceived. For instance, we say that certain animals
are predatory, or live upon prey, from an observation of parti
culars altogether apart from the actual seizing of their prey ;
and this latter observation may never have been made by the
naturalist, who nevertheless proceeds as confidently in his
classification as if he had seen the animal making the spring,
or tearing the vitals of its victim. It was by such a process
that Cuvier made those wonderful classifications which asto
nished the scientific world, and gave a new method for ascer
taining the age of the earth. This, combining with the rigid
observations of geology, laid the foundation of a new science,
viz., palzetiology as applied to the earth. From the bones of
certain animals Cuvier was able to tell their habits and their
structure ; and the conclusion was, that no such animals could
exist under the present economy of the earth, and that they
must belong to a period anterior to the world's present exist
ence. Geology may almost be said to have grown out of this
observation. What an important generalization, then, was
here, and how important the classification to which it led !
But generalization is the great purveyor, if we may so speak,
to the faculty or process of reasoning. It provides the materials
of that process, and to the analysis of the process, as involved
in the principle of deduction, we now direct ourselves.

INTELLECT. 191

DEDUCTION.

We have ranked Deduction among the principles of the mind.
The principle of causality is that by which we say that every
effect must have a cause, and we proceed to the tracing of
causes ; the principle of generalization is that by which — from
the conviction, the intuitive conviction, that in any case of
an observed phenomenon some cause must be at work, and that
that cause must be uniform — we proceed to classify or generalize
into a law or fact : the principle of deduction is that accord
ing to which, from what is true of a class, we say that the
same must be true of every individual of that class, and we
obtain our reasonings — our deductive conclusions. Now, is
this a principle ? Does it deserve to rank as a principle of
the mind ? Is it not like a truism, to say that what is true of
a class must be true of every individual of that class ? In
reference to this, it must be observed, that there are two kinds
of classes ; or individuals may be reduced under a class in two
ways, either by classification simply, or by generalization. We
have made the distinction between mere classification and
generalization. By the former we merely apply a common
term to all objects exhibiting the same properties, or to all
phenomena of the same kind ; as when we arrange under the
term tree all objects exhibiting the root, stem, branches, and
leaves of a tree ; and classify the different kinds of trees, as
oak, elm, beech, lime, according to their observed character
istics ; or call by the term electricity, or galvanism, or polarity,
the phenomena which we observe to exhibit the distinctive
characteristics of these phenomena.* But it is different when
we generalize in the proper meaning of that term. In a true
generalization we venture upon a kind of prediction, or we infer
one class of facts from another class of facts ; in some cases it
is truly a prediction : we affirm something as true for all time
which we have merely once, it may be, or a few times, observed
in the past. Now, with respect to the former kind of classifica-

* The laws of electricity, galvanism, been arrived at by a strict generaliza
polarity, however, must have originally tion.

192 INTELLECT.

tion, where no generalization properly speaking is implied, where
we have nothing more than a class of resembling objects or phe
nomena, — to assert of a class, is already to assert of every indi
vidual of the class, and to affirm of the individual of a class
what is true of the class to which it belongs, is nothing more
than to repeat of the individual what had virtually been affirmed
of it as one of a class. But in respect to every individual of a
generalized truth — eveiy particular exemplification of it — it is
to a principle of the mind that we owe our conclusion. We
do not merely repeat a truth respecting an individual which
we have already affirmed when we announced the general truth
under which it comes, but we infer the individual from the
general truth. Every individual instance of a generalized
truth is not like one of a class of truths, but the individual
truth depends upon the generalized truth. The generalized
truth gives you the particular truth — the particular truth could
never have been had without the general truth. But how is
this the case when we get the general truth from a particular
observation of it, or from the observation of it in a particular
instance ? But do we really get the general truth from the
observation of it in a particular instance ? No, we do not ; we
get it from the generalizing principle. Even the particular
exemplification of the truth is not a truth to us till we have
made the generalization. Even the very truth of the particular
instance is involved in the generalization : it may have been
an accident ; it may not have been an exemplification of a
general truth, but the generalizing principle enables us to per
ceive a general truth or law, of which the particular instance
under observation is an exemplification ; and then it is no ac
cident, it is the exemplification of a principle or law of which
there will be other instances besides this, but of which this is
one. Now, with respect to every future, every particular, in
stance or exemplification of a general truth or law, it is obvious
that the truth of that particular instance or exemplification
depends upon the general truth or law which we have arrived
at by the generalizing principle. We could not affirm its truth
otherwise. We could not affirm of a man that he is mortal.

INTELLECT. 193

that he will certainly die, unless we had generalized the truth
that man is mortal. We affirm the truth that a man is mortal,
because we have already generalized the truth that man is
mortal : the general truth gives us the particular. The gene
ralization is, as it were, repeated — is, in fact, repeated in every
instance in which we affirm the truth of that generalization in
individual or particular cases ; or, if not repeated, it is in virtue
of that generalization alone that we can affirm the proposition
or truth, particularly, or in any one instance, which we have
been able to affirm generally. We do not take a particular out
of a general, or an individual out of a class, but we affirm a
particular because of a general ; we affirm a truth respecting an
individual because we could affirm it respecting a class. How
do I know that any body will gravitate towards the earth ?
Is it not obviously in virtue of the generalized principle or law
of gravitation ? A generalized truth is not a parcel of truths,
but it is a general truth, in consequence of which we affirm it
in particular applications. Truth is not a thing which can be
divided or parcelled out ; it is simple, it is one ; and truth fol
lows from truth. The general truth is, that all bodies gravi
tate to the earth ; the particular application of it is, this body
will gravitate to the earth. Now, is the latter contained in the
former ? Does it not rather follow from it, or does it not depend
upon it ? I know that this body will gravitate to the earth, be
cause I know that the lesser body gravitates towards the greater.
It is already true that this body will gravitate to the earth, even
before the general principle of gravitation has been arrived at :
but it is not true to me but in virtue of the general truth or law.
The general truth or law does not contain it ; it allows it ; it
enables me to assert it with confidence. There is a way, indeed,
of asserting a general truth that makes any particular instance
or application of it appear but the bringing out one of a class.
For instance, when I say that " all men are mortal," and add,
" John is mortal," I affirm of John what is already affirmed of
him, in saying that " all men are mortal." But when I say that
" man is mortal," or that " mortality is a law of humanity,"
and then add, that " John is mortal," I affirm that " John is

N

194 INTELLECT.

mortal," because I can affirm that " man is mortal," or that
" humanity is subject to mortality ;" and the latter mode of
stating the general truth is the correct one. John, in the latter
instance, is not one of a class of mortals, but he possesses that
nature of which we have generalized the truth, that it is sub
ject to mortality. How do we count with certainty upon indi
vidual instances of conduct, and the results flowing from these ?
In other words, how do we arrive at moral certainty, but be
cause of generalized principles of conduct ? Not because this or
that act is one of a number, but because of the nature of the
act itself. We have a general principle in reference to this
kind of action, or line of action, and, in virtue of that principle,
we assert, regarding any one instance of that line of action,
that it will be attended by certain consequences. How do we
believe in honesty, and yield it our unhesitating confidence ?
Is it not because of a generalized principle in regard to it ?
Does any one case of honesty command our confidence, because
it is one of a class ? Is it the plurality that gives us the singu
lar ? Or is it not the principle that allows its application ?
And if it is the latter, as undoubtedly it is, then there is a
deduction from a general truth or principle to a case in point —
from a general to a particular. Such we take to be deduction.
We maintain there is a difference between bringing an indivi
dual out of a class, possessing the characteristics of that class,
and inferring or affirming a particular truth from a general
principle. In the one case it is merely a process of numbering
or identifying — in the other, it is inference or deduction. The
two states of mind are very different. Having determined the
nature of a flower, a shrub, a tree, we say this is a flower — this
is a shrub — this is a tree. That is not reasoning, properly
speaking. It is reasoning, when we infer, not merely identify,
or take out of a number. To say this is a quadruped, because it
belongs to the class of quadrupeds, — that would not be reason
ing ; it is merely enumeration or identification. The differ
ence between classification and generalization is one of great
importance to our subject. It is a distinction which has not
been enough noticed or attended to. It is undoubtedly owing

INTELLECT. 195

to this that such confused and. incorrect notions prevail in
reference to deduction, and to the syllogism as purporting to
be the true process of reasoning. It is thought, that because a
class is a number of individuals, deduction cannot be a real
process of the mind, or that it is nothing more or less than
recognising the truth, already asserted of a class, in one of the
individuals of that class. It is denied that this is any addi
tional process of the mind ; nor is it, if this be a true represen
tation of deduction — in other words, if deduction be confined
to drawing inferences in respect to individuals of a class, as
individuals of a class merely. It is this which lies at the
foundation of Mill's objection to the syllogism, or to deduc
tive reasoning. Mill is the most recent opponent of the
syllogism as a process of reasoning, and he is unquestionably
the ablest exponent of the views on that side of the question.
He takes an original view, indeed, of the subject. But Locke,
and Campbell, and Stewart, and Brown, object to it on essen
tially the same ground, viz., that the truth of the particular
is already contained in the general, and is not needing to
be educed by a process of reasoning, or by the application
of a minor premiss — in other words, by deduction. Now, if
reasoning were confined to what were truly individuals of a
class, the objection would be good, at least as against the
claims of the syllogism or deduction to be considered a process
of reasoning, or anything more than a mode of evincing or
exhibiting truth. But we have already seen that deduction
properly applies to particulars of a generalized truth, when it
is truly a process of reasoning or inference. Let us recur to
our example : — " All men are mortal." — " John is mortal."
The objection is, that the latter of these propositions is con
tained in the former, and that the syllogism is useless ; for it
proves what had already been asserted in the general premiss.
The syllogism involves a petitio principii, for it assumes in the
general premiss the truth supposed to be brought out or educed
in the conclusion. Deduction, then, is no real process of rea
soning. What reasoning at all is, then, it seems difficult to
say. Mill consistently confines reasoning to the inference im-

19G INTELLECT.

plied in generalization. His representation of the matter is
this : — " The proposition that the Duke of Wellington is
mortal, is evidently an inference." He allows it to be so ; and
his inquiry is, Whence is it obtained ? " Do we," he says, " in
reality conclude it from the proposition, All men are mortal ?"
The other objectors to the syllogism would say, It is not con
cluded from it, — it is contained in it. Mill says it is contained
in it, if the syllogism be " considered as an argument to prove
the conclusion." But he allows it to be an inference ; " it is
got as a conclusion from something else." And to the question,
" Do we in reality conclude it from the proposition, All men
are mortal ?" he answers No. " The error is/' he says, " that
of overlooking the distinction between the two parts of the
process of philosophizing, — the inferring part and the register
ing part, — and ascribing to the latter the function of the former.
The mistake is that of referring a man to his own notes for the
origin of his knowledge. If a man is asked a question, and is
unable to answer it, he may refresh his memory by turning to
a memorandum which he carries about with him ; but if he
were asked how the fact came to his knowledge, he would
scarcely answer, because it was set down in his note-book,
unless the book was written, like the Koran, with a quill from
the wing of the angel Gabriel.

" Assuming that the proposition, The Duke of Wellington is
mortal, is immediately an inference from the proposition, All
men are mortal, whence do we derive our knowledge of that
general truth ? No supernatural aid being supposed, the an
swer must be, By observation. Now all which man can observe
are individual cases. From these, general truths must be drawn,
and into these they may be again resolved, for a general truth
is but an aggregate of particular truths, — a comprehensive
expression, by which an indefinite number of individual facts
are affirmed or denied at once. But a general proposition is
not merely a compendious form for recording and preserving
on the memory a number of particular facts, all of which have
been observed. Generalization is not a process of mere naming,
— it is also a process of inference. From instances which we

INTELLECT. 197

have observed, we feel warranted in concluding, that what we
found true in those instances holds in all similar ones, past,
present, and future, however numerous they may be. We then,
by that valuable contrivance of language which enables us to
speak of many as if they were one, record all that we have
observed, together with all that we infer from our observations,
in one concise expression ; and have thus only one proposition
instead of an endless number, to remember or to communicate.
The results of many observations and inferences, and instruc
tions for making innumerable inferences in unforeseen cases,
are compressed into one short sentence.

" When, therefore, we conclude from the death of John and
Thomas, and every other person we ever heard of in whose
case the experiment had been fairly tried, that the Duke of
Wellington is mortal like the rest, we may indeed pass
through the generalization, all men are mortal, as an inter
mediate stage ; but it is not in the latter half of the process,
the descent from all men to the Duke of Wellington, that the
inference presides. The inference is finished when we have
asserted that all men are mortal. What remains afterwards is
merely deciphering our own notes."

The use of the general proposition, then, according to Mill,
is merely as a memorandum, and the conclusion has virtually
been arrived at in the generalization already made. That the
Duke of Wellington is mortal, has already been concluded,
when we concluded from a number of observed instances that
all men are mortal. " The inference is finished when we have
asserted that all men are mortal." Now, the point at which we
would be at issue with Mill is, in making the generalization, or
general truth arrived at by the process or principle of generaliza
tion, a mere memorandum ; and that " what remains afterwards
is merely deciphering our own notes." This does not seem to be
a true account of the matter. The generalization is, as it
were, repeated in every instance of a particular conclusion, and
the conclusion hangs upon that generalization. This, we would
say, is the peculiarity in every instance of a particular pro
position, wr of a general proposition applied to a particular

198 INTELLECT.

case : there is truly a new generalization in order to that case,
or before we can assert the proposition in that case. There is
nothing like the reference to a memorandum. Let us transfer
the case to ourselves. How do we know that we are mortal,
and count with certainty upon our death at some time or
other ? Does not the generalization take place anew in our
minds ? — and is there not an application of the generalization
to ourselves ? Mortality is inseparable from the possession of
humanity : it is inseparable from me : why ? because I am
possessed of that humanity. Is this a reference to a memor
andum ? Is this deciphering one's notes ? Why do we use
the word therefore in such a case ? All men are mortal :
therefore I am mortal. There is manifestly a process of
mind distinct from generalization : what is that process ?
We call it deduction, or generalization in order to a par
ticular. According to Mill, there can be no inference wliat-
ever ; for all inference is, and must be, deductive. Even
in generalization, so far as the inferring part of the process is
concerned, it is deduction. We can never reason from a par
ticular to a particular. " Not only," says Mill, " may we
reason from particulars to particulars, without passing through
generals, but we perpetually do so reason. All our earliest in
ferences," he says, " are of this nature. From the first dawn
of intelligence we draw inferences, but years elapse before we
learn the use of general language. The child who, having
burnt his fingers, avoids to thrust them again into the fire, has
reasoned or inferred, though he has never thought of the general
maxim, fire burns. He knows from memory that he has been
burnt, and on this evidence believes, when he sees a candle,
that if he puts his finger into the flame he will be burnt again.
He believes this in every case which happens to arise; but
without looking, in each instance, beyond the present case.
He is not generalizing ; he is inferring a particular from par
ticulars." Those who have already traced the progress of the
mind's ideas, and who have seen at how early a stage generali
zation must commence, or how soon the mind must be influ
enced by general and intuitive principles, will not accept the

INTELLECT. 199

above account of the process in the case supposed. If the
child does not generalize at the earliest stage, how does it
come to have its primitive ideas ? Is not the notion of ex
ternality a general idea ? The notion is — whatever produces
this feeling must be external. Do we not owe that to the
general principle, that every effect must have a cause ? All
our primitive ideas are in the same way general ideas, and are
obtained from the same principle of causality, accompanied
with a distinct intuition of the mind. It is from that very
principle, secretly working, that the child, in the case supposed,
obtains the inference. The principle of causality immediately
comes into play. The thought of a cause immediately starts
into the mind, and there is generalization here. The idea
of cause is general. It is not merely, this fire is the cause of
my pain, but there is a cause of my pain in the fire ; nay,
there is causation in the fire — a more abstract and general
proposition still — and the child accordingly avoids the flame in
all time to come. But for this generalizing process, however
undeveloped, and however rapid, the child would thrust his
finger again and again into the flame. But, at all events, it
will be allowed that when generalization does take place, it is
not inference from a particular to a particular, or from par
ticulars to a particular. There is the generalizing principle
in every instance of generalization. We connect the pheno
menon with a cause, and we confidently anticipate the same
phenomenon in all similar circumstances. There could be no
generalization but in virtue of such a principle of the mind.
That principle is intuitive. Its most important operations are
in childhood : but no generalization takes place without it.
Even in generalization, therefore, we reason from a general
principle. The reasoning part of the process is essentially
deductive. The minor premiss is the instance or instances
under our observation.

No mistake, it seems to us, could be greater than to say that
we reason from particulars, whether in inductive or in strictly de
ductive reasoning, either when we generalize, or when we reason

200 INTELLECT.

to particulars from our generalization. There was an entire
overlooking in such statements as Mill has made on this subject
of what really takes place in the mind when we reason. It
may safely be asserted, that there is a general principle or truth
in the mind in every case in which the mind reasons, and which
forms the basis of its reasoning. It may not be very clearly
marked, or distinctly developed, and far less may it be promi
nently or formally expressed, but it is the basis of the reasoning
notwithstanding. The mind performs many processes when
all the parts of the process are not very distinctly marked, and
the transitions and stages of the process may be too subtle to
detect. The operations of the mind are not all marked as they
occur, or as they are performed. If it were necessary to the
reality of a mental act or operation that it have been the object
of attention, the actual number of our mental operations would
be limited indeed. The great majority of them escape any
prominent notice.

We quote again from Mill. — " I believe," he says, " that in
point of fact, when drawing inferences from our personal ex
perience, and. not from maxims handed down to us by books or
tradition, we much oftener conclude from particulars to parti
culars, directly, than through the intermediate agency of any
general proposition. We are constantly reasoning from our
selves to other people, and from one person to another, without
giving ourselves the trouble to erect our observations into gene
ral maxims of human or external nature. When we conclude
that some person will, on some given occasion, feel or act so
and so, we sometimes judge from an enlarged consideration of
the manner in which men in general, or men of some particular
character, are accustomed to feel and act ; but much oftener
from having known the feelings and conduct of the same
man in some previous instance, or from considering how we
should feel or act ourselves." There is surely an unpardonable
mistaking here of the mental processes, a most unaccountable
inattention to the real operations of the mind, in the cases sup
posed. Even when we reason from ourselves to other people,
or from one person to another, although we do not formally

INTELLECT. 201

erect our observations into general maxims, it is surely a total
contradiction of the mental processes to say, that in making
ourselves or others the ground of our reasoning, we have not a
general principle in view, and that the instances put are not
made to take the place, or perform the part, of general maxims.
In such cases we are arguing from example, and example has
always the effect of a general premiss or proposition. A prin
ciple is supposed in the example. Did we ourselves act without
a cause, or were the circumstances in our own case arbitrary ?
was there no principle involved, or cause in operation ? and if
there was, do we not put forward ourselves, or do we not
instance our own case, as really embodying some principle, or
exemplifying some law of individual conduct, or, it may be, of
providential arrangements, which may have all the effect of
general maxims ? So, in citing the cases of others. This is
too obvious to need illustration, or that we should need to dwell
upon it. It is only wonderful that any writer, and especially
such a writer as Mill, should have fallen into such a mistake,
or should not have perceived the error or oversight. But he
persists in it, and with much beauty of language and illustra
tion, refuting himself all the while, both in the instances sup
posed, and in his manner of putting them. " It is not only
the village matron," he says, " who, when called to a consulta
tion upon the case of a neighbour's child, pronounces on the
evil and its remedy, simply on the recollection and authority of
what she accounts the similar case of her Lucy." Does not the
village matron suppose some general causes in the case of her
Lucy, which she thinks will embrace the case of her neighbour's
child, as, on the one hand, explaining or accounting for the
evil, and on the other, helping to a remedy ? " We all," Mill
continues, " where we have no definite maxims to steer by,
guide ourselves in the same way ; and if we have an extensive
experience, and retain its impressions strongly, we may acquire
in this manner a very considerable power of accurate judgment,
which we may be utterly incapable of justifying or communi
cating to others. Among the higher order of practical intel
lects, there have been many of whom it was remarked how

202 INTELLECT.

admirably they suited their means to their ends, without being
able to give sufficient reasons for what they did, and applied,
or seemed to apply, recondite principles, which they were
wholly unable to state." This is exactly what we maintain.
The principles, and these, possibly, very recondite, may be
reasoned from, or form the ground of judgment even when the
individual so reasoning, or so applying these principles, may be
wholly unable to state them. Mill explains the matter differ
ently. He says, " This is a natural consequence of having a
mind stored with appropriate particulars, and having been long
accustomed to reason at once from these to fresh particulars,
without practising the habit of stating to ourselves or to others
the corresponding general propositions." But although the
habit of stating these general propositions may not have been
practised, is it not possible for them to be in the mind notwith
standing, although there may be no ability to state them, or
although they may not have been very distinctly discriminated ?
" An old warrior," again says Mill, " on a rapid glance at the
outlines of the ground, is able at once to give the necessary
orders for a skilful arrangement of his troops, though, if he has
received little theoretical instruction, and has seldom been
called upon to answer to other people for his conduct, he may
never have had in his mind a single general theorem respecting
the relation between ground and array. But his experience of
encampments, under circumstances more or less similar, has left
a number of vivid, unexpressed, ungeneralized (?) analogies in
his mind, the most appropriate of which, instantly suggesting
itself, determines him to a judicious arrangement," We ask if
it is possible for such a person to adopt a line of tactics, or
determine upon a movement, without some general principles
of action, although they may not be the systematized principles
of military schools ? Principles there must be on which he
proceeds. Let the extremest supposition be made ; let it be
supposed that he but adopts a line of procedure which he had
seen succeed on some previous occasion ; that he has no scien
tific principles to guide him, and not even principles at all on
which he can explain the success of his movement : this is

INTELLECT. 203

possible, though a warrior, taught in the school of experience,
even while he has never studied in any other school, could
hardly be so destitute of all principles ; but let it be supposed
that he acts merely from the examples themselves of past suc
cesses or good fortune, still, are not these very examples his
principles ? — do they not stand him in stead of principles ? —
does he not know, at least, that they could not have commanded
success in the past, if they were not connected with principles,
or with reasons of some kind or another ? What do we mean
when we speak of grounds of conduct, reasons of conduct ? A
single example warranting us, nay, impelling us, to act in such
or such a way, is itself a generalization. We say to ourselves :
every such instance of procedure will be attended with like
success. The very example is the ground of a generalization,
or is a generalization. Where is the reasoning from particulars
here ? No : we never do so reason. Reasoning from a parti
cular would be an anomaly ; it would not be in accordance with
our mental constitution. We invariably proceed upon principles
or general propositions. This is the grand characteristic of
reason. Call it what you please. Let deduction be no principle
of the mind ; let inference never occur but in generalization ;
a general truth or principle is always the ground of any and
every conclusion of the mind. The mind always goes up to
some general principle. This is the case in generalization
itself. Whately states the major premiss, or the general
principles, in the case of induction or generalization, thus:
" What belongs to the individual or individuals we have ex
amined, belongs to the whole class under which they come."
Better, perhaps, " there are classes under which individuals
come." In other words, like causes will produce like effects,
and there is a cause in this particular instance : that is the
principle of generalization in every instance of it.

It appears, then, that we must have a general principle in
all reasoning. It may be a principle merely, not formed into
words, though capable of being expressed in words ; or it may
be a general proposition conveying a general truth or state
ment. We then from the general statement assert the parti-

204 INTELLECT.

cular, respecting which we wish to conclude. This may not he
inference ; but if it is not inference, there is no inference what
ever. In generalization, it may be stated thus : Like causes
will produce like effects : or a cause will be followed by its
effect : there is a cause here : it will be attended by its effect ;
it is now then a generalized truth, or phenomenon, or law.
Like causes will produce like effects : A cause must be in ope
ration in this instance, in which mercury falls in the Torricel
lian tube ; the law of the barometer is already generalized.
That is truly the process of the mind in generalization. In so
far, therefore, as it is a process of reasoning, it is inference in
no other sense than any other instance of reasoning is ; but in
so far as it is an observation of nature, or of a phenomenon of
nature, there is a new law or phenomenon arrived at. Do we
deduce, or rather infer, our conclusion from the single instance,
or few instances of observation? Is it really these that give us
our conclusion, or is it the deductive process already traced ?
If it is the latter, our conclusion is obtained in the same way
as any other, even although a new law is thus added to the
already ascertained laws of nature. So far as the argument
then is concerned, it is deductive inference, and no other ; so
far as it is an observation of physical phenomena, the inference
applied to that observation, like an algebraic sign or formula
applied to a quantity which may be put in its place, we get for
our conclusion the physical phenomenon.

It is necessary then to remember, that all inference is de
ductive, and that, if deduction is no real process, there is no
real inference whatever, and reasoning is a name and nothing
more ; or it is going up from particulars to generals, and to
still higher generals, till we come to the principles of the mind
itself, in which, like the plant in the seed, all reasoning, all
truth is folded. This may be the true account of the matter.
Truth may lie in principles of the mind like the flower in the
pod, or in that unity of which Coleridge speaks, which is before
the seed itself, and is the law of creation, or the will of the
Creator.

The grand point to be attended to is the necessity of a gene-

INTELLECT. 205

ral truth before we can arrive at a particular. Truth exists in
principles, as things exist in classes. Nothing is isolated, and
all truth has its archetypes in the Divine mind, as necessarily
must all being. The principles of the mind are the germs from
which all truth, intellectual, aesthetic, moral, religious, evolve,
except such religious truth as must have its revelation ab cxt.ra.
From these principles truth, ever enlarging, may expand to the
mind. The circle may have no bounds, or circle may extend
beyond circle indefinitely — ever new consequences may develop
themselves — new applications of all the subjects of thought —
and eternity may not see the limit, as undoubtedly it will not,
to the developments of truth ; — one principle or general truth
giving out another — one particular truth combining with another
— a new principle evolving from this — and so on infinitely.*

With some remarks upon induction and deduction, their
respective natures and merits, we shall close this subject.

There is a very pregnant saying of the famous Harvey,
quoted by Whewell in his " Philosophy of the Inductive
Sciences," which comprehends in a brief sentence the respective
provinces and precise characteristics of induction and deduction.
Harvey says, — " Universals are chiefly known to us, for science
is begot by reasoning, from universals to particulars ; yet that
very comprehension of universals in the understanding, springs
from the perception of singidars in our sense." Whewell quotes
these words from Harvey, to show that the doctrine held by
Harvey, " of science springing from experience, with a direction
from ideas," was exactly that which Whewell himself " had
repeatedly urged as the true view of the subject." Whewell is
at great pains to bring out, and insists much upon that part
of induction, which consists not in the collection of facts merely,
" singulars in the sense," but their colligation by the concep
tions of our own minds — that is, the generalizations by which
the facts are explained, and are bound together, as it were,

* As truth may thus expand or de- ultimately to one truth or principle in
velop indefinitely, is it hazardous to the Divine mind ?
conjecture that all truth may be traced

206 INTELLECT.

under some law or general phenomenon. " In each inference
made by induction," says Whewell, " there is introduced some
general conception, which is given not by the phenomena, but
by the mind. The conclusion is not contained in the premises,
but includes them by the introduction of a new generality. In
order to obtain our inference, we travel beyond the cases which
we have before us. We consider them as mere exemplifications
of some ideal case, in which the relations are complete and in
telligible." This is a true representation of the process of induc
tion ; and it is to be remarked, then, according to this view, that
the inference is got by the introduction of some general con
ception, which is given not by the phenomena, but by the mind.
This is something very different, then, from the view that the
inference is immediately drawn from the observed particulars,
and which would represent this to be the only kind of inference
which we can have, or which the mind ever makes. " The
conclusion," Whewell says, " is not contained in the premises,
(viz., the particulars in the observed case,) but includes them
by the introduction of a new generality." We think Whewell
would have been more correct had he said that, what are gene
rally regarded as the premises in the induction, viz., the ob
served particulars, are the minor premiss merely, while the
major premiss is the generalizing principle in the mind from
which it is we obtain the new generality. " In .order to obtain
our inference," says Whewell, " we travel beyond the cases
which we have before us. We consider them as mere exempli
fications of some ideal case, in which the relations are complete
and intelligible." The observed particulars do not give us the
inference. We consider them as mere exemplifications of some
ideal case. In other words, if we may venture to put an inter
pretation on Whewell's language, agreeable to the doctrine
which we have already represented on the subject of induction
or generalization : — We suppose a cause, and we consider the
cases before us as exemplifications of the operation of that
cause ; we try to find out that cause, and, having found it, the
induction is complete. The discovery, or the finding out of
that cause, is the invention which Whewell speaks of as an

INTELLECT. 207

essential part of induction, and what is commonly overlooked
by those who treat of induction. " I now speak," says Whewell,
" principally of the act of invention, which is requisite in every
inductive inference." — " Although in every inductive inference,"
he says again, " an act of invention is requisite, the act soon
slips out of notice ;" and, having explained how it does so,
he says, — " Thus we see why it is that this step of which we
now speak, the invention of a new conception in every in
ductive inference, is so generally overlooked that it has hardly
been noticed by preceding philosophers." The following quo
tation from Whewell will explain still farther his view, and
it will be seen to be in accordance with that which we have
presented, while it will still farther bring out or explicate the
real process of induction. After the words first quoted from
this distinguished philosopher, he proceeds to say, — " We take
a standard, and measure the facts by it ; and this standard
is constructed by us, not offered by nature. We assert, for
example, that a body left to itself will move on with unaltered
velocity, not because our senses ever disclosed to us a body
doing this, but because (taking this as our ideal case) we find
that all actual cases are intelligible and explicable by means of
the conception of forces causing change and motion, and ex
erted by surrounding bodies. In like manner, we see bodies
striking each other, and thus moving and stopping, accelerating
and retarding each other ; but in all this we do not perceive, by
our senses, that abstract quantity, momentum, which is always
lost by one body as it is gained by another. This momentum
is a creation of the mind brought in among the facts, in order
to convert their apparent confusion into order, — their seeming
chance into certainty, their perplexing variety into simplicity.
This the conception of momentum gained and lost does ; and, in
like manner, in any other case in which a truth is established
by induction, some conception is introduced, some idea is
applied as the means of binding together the facts, and thus
producing the truth." In these examples given by Whewell,
or any other example that may be adduced, the conception of
forces, the conception of momentum, or any other conception,

208 INTELLECT.

as the case may be, is just the supposed cause of which we have
all along spoken, to which the mind is led, on the presence of
the observed cases, and which having been discovered, or in
vented, as Whewell expresses it, is the induction or generaliza
tion in the particular case. The subject is still further illustrated
by Whewell. " Hence," he says, " in every inference by induc
tion, there is some conception superinduced upon the facts ;
and we may henceforth conceive this to be the peculiar import
of the term induction. I am not to be understood as asserting
that the term was originally or anciently employed with this
notion of its meaning, for the peculiar feature just pointed out
in induction, has generally been overlooked. This appears by
the accounts generally given of induction. " Induction," says
Aristotle, " is when by means of one extreme term we infer the
other extreme term to be true of the middle term." The case
which Whewell takes to illustrate his meaning, as to what
really takes place in induction, and to shew the imperfection of
Aristotle's view, is the elliptical motion of the planets round
the sun. It was Kepler who determined this motion of the
planets. The case then stands thus, — Certain phenomena are
observed in certain of the planets, or in connexion with their
motions. How shall we account for these ? There is some
cause for them. Kepler sets himself to account for them — to
discover the cause. After long and laborious attempts, Kepler
at last hit upon elliptical motion as the cause ; that cause
accounted for the peculiarities in the motion of these planets.
But what was true of these planets was true of all the planets,
and the elliptical motion of the planets round the sun was the
induction or generalization. Now, what have we here ? We
have the particulars respecting certain of the planets. These
planets are Mercury, Venus, Mars. Some cause must be found
to account for the peculiar phenomena which they exhibit.
That cause is found in their elliptical motion round the sun.
But the cause that determines the phenomena in the case of
these planets, determines the same phenomena in the case of
the other planets ; the mind at once refers the law which is
true of these to all the planets ; the inference is generalized ;

INTELLECT. 209

the invented conception becomes a law. Now, according to
Aristotle, — by means of one extreme term, Mercury, Venus,
Mars, we infer the other extreme term, elliptical motion, to be
true of the middle term, planets. As Mercury, Venus, Mars,
describe elliptical orbits round the sun, and as by the inductive
or generalizing principle in the mind, that all planets are repre
sented by one or more of the class, and will, therefore, be found
to be characterized by the phenomena or laws by which any
of them are characterized, we get the inductive conclusion that
all planets move in ellipses round the sun.

Mercury, Venus, Mars = all the planets :

Elliptical motion is the motion of Mercury, Venus, Mars :

Elliptical motion is the motion of all the planets.

Now, Whewell remarks upon this, that "Aristotle turns
his attention entirely to the evidence of the inference," or to
the argument after the inference has been obtained, "and
overlooks a step which is of far more importance to our know
ledge, namely, the invention of the second extreme term. The
particular luminaries, Mercury, Venus, Mars, are one logical
extreme ;* the general designation, planets, is the middle term ;
but having these before us, how do we come to think of descrip
tion of ellipses, which is the other extreme of the syllogism ?
When we have once invented the second extreme term, we
may, or may not, be satisfied with the evidence of the syllogism ;
we may, or may not, be convinced, that, so far as this property
goes, the extremes are co-extensive with the middle term ; but
the statement of the syllogism is the important step in science.
We know how long Kepler laboured, how hard he fought, how
many devices he tried, before he hit upon this term, the ellipti
cal motion. He rejected many other second extreme terms,
for example, various combinations of epicyclical constructions,
because they did not represent with sufficient accuracy the
special facts of observation. When he had established his
premiss that ' Mars does describe an ellipse round the sun,' he

* That cannot be in the inductive quent to the induction, and evincing the
syllogism, but in the syllogism subse- truth obtained.

0

210 INTELLECT.

does not hesitate to guess, at least, that in this respect he might
convert the other premiss, and assert that ' All planets do
what Mars does.' But the main business was, the inventing
and verifying the proposition respecting the ellipse. The in
vention of the conception was the great step in the discovery;
the verification of the proposition was the great step in the
proof of the discovery."

The invention of this extreme term, then, according to
Whewell, is the grand matter in induction. What is this but
the discovery of that cause which we suppose, or rather believe,
to be present in every case of an observed phenomenon ? But
why do we seek for this cause ? Why are we put upon such
an invention ? Obviously to account for the phenomena ob
served. There is the principle of causality — we suppose a
cause — we seek for it, — and upon the principle, that like causes
will produce like effects, we suppose the same cause in the case
of the whole class of objects to which the observed instances
belong, and generalize the law, or obtain the induction. Whe
well does not seem to take notice of the principle that leads to
the invention of the conception, or the ideal case — that demands
it. It is just the principle of causality. But what we are
concerned with just now is, that the mind is put upon this
invention, and that it is not the particulars in any observed
phenomenon that form the real ground of our induction, or the
premiss to our inductive inference ; it is the principle involved
in every generalization, and which is obviously supposed in
Whewell's account of the process of induction. Induction is
something more, then, than an inference from particulars ; it
involves the invention of some conception, according to Whe
well, adequate to account for the special facts of observation ;
it is the discovery of a cause. There are cases, indeed, in which
the induction does not proceed any further than the generaliz
ing of a fact or phenomenon, without either a new conception,
or the invention or discovery of any new law ; and Whewell,
again, does not seem to speak of such cases. But numerous
are the cases in which the induction proceeds all this length,
and consists in this very invention or discovery, and the gene-

INTELLECT. '21 1

ralizing into a universal the law or principle so invented or dis
covered. In the former case, we merely obtain the general fact
or phenomenon on the ground of some supposed law without
inquiring, it may be, into that law. The inductions and
classifications in natural science, in botany, geology, zoology,
and such like, seem to be of this kind. In astronomy and
chemistry, the inductions are of the other kind ; the causes are
sought for, and not the mere phenomena.

From this account of Induction it will be seen that it is the
great instrument of science. It will be seen, too, that there is
still scope for hypothesis or theory, in what Whewell calls
invention — or the conception superinduced upon the facts of
our observation — in the attempt to assign some cause in the
case in point, when the induction is one which consists in the
discovery of some cause of an observed phenomenon. But
still, this hypothesis or theory must be verified by experiment,
or established by actual calculation. Till then, it is only
hypothesis or theory, and there is as yet no proper induction,
no actual discovery. Many parts of science are yet in this
stage — waiting for an invention, or for the establishment of
some hypothesis.

The grand purpose of Induction is discovery, to extend our
acquaintance with the phenomena and the laws of the universe.
It is to it that we owe the present boundaries of scientific
knowledge. By it science is extending more and more the
limits of her empire. Could Bacon see the present extent of
science he would but see the verification of that system of
philosophizing which he gave to the world. Induction was
the novwn organum, or new instrument of inquiry, which he
did not invent, but of which he shewed the use. He put it
into men's hands. He made it known. He brought it out of
the repository in which it had so long remained hid ; nay, in
the concealment of which it had never so much as been sus
pected to exist. It was in the mind before — it was one of its
principles ; but who had so much as formed even an idea of
its virtues — of its vast potency ? Unconsciously, indeed, it
may have been in some measure the instrument of inquiry ;*

* See Whewell. — " Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences," vol. ii. p. 328.

212 INTELLECT.

but it was not itself defined to the mind, far less recognised
in its true character and importance. Bacon's almost pro
phetic mind was intended by providence, no doubt, for the
revolutions it was to effect. The whole aspect of science was
to be changed ; and in a few centuries from his time the world
was to make more advance than in all the ages of the world's
history preceding: we behold its effects in that inverted
pyramid of inductive discovery, or vast chart of scientific know
ledge, which the philosopher can now draw out, or represent,
to himself, and which has been partially done by Whewell — in
reference to the sciences, Astronomy and Optics — in his work
on the Inductive Sciences.

Deduction is generally supposed to be the antithesis of In
duction. And in one point of view it is. It is so, if we have
regard only to " the particulars in the sense," and connect our
inductive conclusion with them ; and if we take into ^account
that it is always a new truth that we arrive at in induction,
while by deduction it may be a hitherto undeveloped truth,
but not a strictly new truth that we obtain. But a stricter
analysis will shew to us that so far as the truly mental part of
the process in induction is concerned, it is really a case of
deduction, and the two are distinguished by the circumstances
in which the deduction takes place. In ordinary deduction we
have already a general truth or principle to proceed upon, and
from which we draw our particular or less general conclusion,
and that general truth need not be a principle of the mind, or
an intuitive truth. But in induction — in what is truly the
deductive part of the process — the general truth from which
we reason is a principle of the mind, an intuitive truth. In
ordinary deduction, or what is usually styled deduction, the
process is direct ; we immediately deduce our conclusion from
the general truth or principle. In induction the process is
indirect, and besides the mental deductive process there is the
application of its result to the given circumstances. The ob
served particulars are the exciting circumstances in which the
mental process takes place, but it is truly the mental process
which gives us the result, and then that result is applied to

INTELLECT. 213

the particulars, and to all similar particulars, to the case in
point, and to all similar cases. There is a mental process super
induced upon the facts of observation — a conception — and to that
conception we are led by the deduction that silently takes place
in our minds. There is a cause here. Every cause will be
attended by its effect in all similar circumstances. What is
that cause ? We invent a cause, or we discover it. The
deductive process then is : Every cause will be attended by a
uniform effect, will operate in all similar circumstances in the
same way : such and such is the cause here : we may expect it
in all circumstances the same as those now under observation,
and attended by the same effects. This is the deduction ; the
invented cause or phenomenon will be found in all similar
circumstances, or will distinguish all similar cases.

Induction and deduction, then, are not so opposed as at first
sight they may appear. In every inductive process there is de
duction, and the difference between this and ordinary deduction
is in the circumstances in which the deduction takes place, and
the result which it gives. But the peculiarity of that result,
again, is not owing to anything peculiar in the deduction, but
to the peculiarity of one of the terms, it being really what
Whewell calls a creation of the mind. But the invention of
this term, this mental creation, is not a part of the inductive
principle, though so essential to the inductive process. This
mental act, creation, or invention, as it really is, is truly won
derful in itself. It is in such acts, as it is in the kindred acts
of imaginative creation, that the true power of original minds is
seen. To " give to airy nothing a local habitation and a name"
is very much allied to the act of the philosopher's we have been
considering. " How little of Newton's train of thought," says
Whewell, " was contained in, or directly suggested by, the fall
of the apple ! If the apple fall, said the discoverer, why should
not the moon, the planets, the satellites fall ?" " How are we,"
says Whewell, " in these cases, (the cases of invented ideas,) to
discover such ideas, and to judge which will be efficacious in
leading to a scientific combination of our experimental data ?
To this question we must, in the first place, answer, that the

214 INTELLECT.

first and great instrument by which facts, so observed with a
view to the formation of exact knowledge, are combined into
so important and permanent truths, is that peculiar sagacity
which belongs to the genius of a discoverer ; and which, while
it supplies those distinct and appropriate conceptions which
lead to its success, cannot be limited by rules, or expressed in
definitions."

In deduction a similar characteristic of mind is seen in what
is called the invention of middle terms, or in the supplying new
terms of comparison by which new relations are brought out.
This is often akin to the scientific invention of which we have
been speaking. Fertility and originality of mind are seen here.
It consists in a predication or a statement from which some new
relation, doctrine, or view is brought out. The originality of a
thought always consists in the middle term, or major premiss,
of some deductive process, which is the middle term, or major
premiss, of that process, although nothing more than itself is
stated, and the deduction is not formally made.

XV.

We have now got ideas. States of mind which we call
thought have been traced or accounted for, those primitive
ideas which are of such grand and primary importance to all
our subsequent knowledge ; and these variously modified and
combined according to the laws we have endeavoured to ex
plain, and the principles we have endeavoured to explicate or
unfold. All our ideas, we believe, are traceable to the sources
we have now pretty thoroughly examined. A little considera
tion will shew that our primitive ideas are the staple of all our
ideas — that our other ideas are but modifications or combina
tions of these. This is not to say that our other ideas are not
essentially new ideas, distinct and individual, and possessing
their own individual value. We believe chemists speak of
the basis of a substance, while the substance itself may be very
different from the mere elements which enter into its combina
tion. There is a kind of mental or spiritual chemistry, or
process of combination and analysis by which, from the sub-

INTELLECT. 215

stratum of our primitive ideas, all our other ideas are obtained.
Personality, externality, matter, mind — with their separate pro
perties — space, time, power, number, motion : of these few
elements all our purely intellectual ideas are composed. Into
how many combinations may not these elements be thrown by
the laws and principles of whicli we have given the account ?
Under what various modifications may they not present them
selves ? We have seen that Whewell gives a classification of
all the sciences according to our elementary ideas. And if the
physical sciences can be classified according to these, every one
who is conversant with thought at all must be aware how much
of it is concerned with the properties of mind and the features
of character. These form the Avide field for the moralist and
the theologian. What are the discussions of the student and
the statesman concerned with but human interests and human
character ? What constitutes history but the narrative of what
was once the present ? WThat forms the groundwork of the
artist, or the poet's creation ? It need not surprise us that our
elementary ideas are so few, or that out of them we can have
such an unlimited variety and multiplicity. It may serve to
illustrate this subject, if we think of the endless combinations
which the letters of the alphabet may assume. Of how many
words is any one language composed, arid yet what limit can we
set to the order in which these may be arranged ? Men have
been speaking and writing every day and every hour of the day,
and wherever there have been human beings who can maintain
an intercourse by language — in how many instances have the
same words, in the same order, been repeated ? What a variety
in the human countenance out of a few features — in the human
voice from the same organ — in human disposition, with the
same essential elements ! It seems to be the triumph of Divine
power and wisdom to serve the greatest variety of ends with
the fewest means. A few laws make up the system of the uni
verse ; but how endless their modifications ! So is it with mind
and its ideas. The elementary ideas can easily be numbered,
but who can number their variety ? Thoughts that have the
universe for their scope — that scale the throne of Deity — that

216 INTELLECT.

wander through eternity — that take in the multiplicity of created
objects — man and his wide variety of interests — that are un
ceasing in their change and fluctuation, these are made up of
but a few elements. The laws of identity, similarity, contrast,
analogy, proportion, and the principles of generalization and
deduction, effect all the changes of which our simple ideas are
susceptible, or add those new ones which are only new as they
are seen under new relations, in new compounds, and in con
nexion with new phenomena. A new phenomenon was dis
covered in the discovery by Kepler of the elliptical motion of
the planets round the sun, but what new idea was there in
this ? or the elliptical motion of the planets was a new idea,
but it was new only in its connexion, and as a combination of
the ideas of motion and the figure of the ellipse. The atomic
theory of Dalton was a new idea in chemistry,, and one. we
believe, which has introduced a new era in chemical science,
but again new only in its application, and as a theory of science;
for the ideas of which the theory was composed must of course
have been previously possessed. The idea of atoms was not
new, it is involved in our primitive idea of the divisibility of
matter ; but the idea of ultimate atoms, and their chemical
affinities and repulsions, was new, and has been admitted into
science.* Bishop Butler added a new idea to moral science,
or rather to that department of theological science which has
to do with the evidences of Kevealed Keligion, when he brought
out the analogy of Revealed Religion to the constitution and
course of nature ; but it was new only in the new relation de
veloped, it was not new in the fundamental ideas of which the
new idea was composed. Every original writer on any subject
adds new ideas to the stock already acquired, but no new fun
damental idea, none which may not be resolved into our funda-

* The question of ultimate atoms was that the atoms be smaller than the small-
discussed even among the ancients, and est observable particles. The question
is not yet settled. Dalton's theory pro- as to whether atoms are ultimate is the
ceeds, or was stated by Dalton himself most curious and puzzling perhaps in
as proceeding, upon the supposition of metaphysics, and no one shews more
atoms being ultimate. But Whewell strikingly the limits of our faculties,
eht-ws that it is fiiongh for the theory

INTELLECT. 217

mental ideas — new in their combinations but not in their
elements. Every new creation of the poet, and the artist, brings
out, it may be, with lavish profusion, or embodies in nice pre
cision, new analogies, new resemblances, new and beautiful
proportions ; but any really new elementary ideas, none. Of
what infinite combinations is not music composed ? how new
the combinations in every several melody ; but the very plea
sure of music consists in the detection of ideas which we have
possessed formerly in other combinations, and which surprise
us in the new, produce a pleasing recognition, while they excite
a strange and delicious sensation or feeling of novelty. Music
itself furnishes an illustration what variety may be produced
by a few elementary sounds. The range of the musical scale
is limited enough, but the range of musical creations is un
bounded. We are aware that much of music is sensational —
that it is the fine harmonies that affect the sense, and not the
ideas that strike the mind, or impress the heart: but what
would music be without the latter, without the vistas of thought
and feeling that are opened up — that vanish into the infinite —
that delight while they detain, but please most when they
lead us beyond this lower sphere, and leave us on the very
margin of the infinite and the eternal. Perhaps the finest state
of our minds — of our intellectual states we mean — is when we
hardly know the value and limits of our own thought — made
up of elements so simple, but stretching into distances which
we cannot measure — into which we can but gaze. The idea
of the Divine Being is one which we cannot fully take in —
awakened by so many objects or exciting causes around us —
a modification merely of our ideas of Being, Spirit, and the
attributes of Spirit: but how vast! — how incomprehensible!
— how immeasurable ! Existence, but self-existence — spirit,
independent of matter, — power, but omnipotent power, — wis
dom, but infinite wisdom, — duration, but eternal duration, —
presence in space, but omnipresence !

Of such elements are our ideas composed — of such combina
tions or modifications are they susceptible — into such infinite
distances may they stretch.

218 INTELLECT,

We shall add ben those puts of Wh e well's classification of
the sciences founded upon ideas, which we omitted before, as not
having obtained oar modified ideas, the ideas modified by the
laws of mini and the principles of generalization and deduction.

We give the Hmnifintinn now entire, and in WhewelTs own
words, and it will be easy to recognise those sciences that an
dependent upon our primitive idea?, and those which take their
rise from the ideas modified by the laws of mind.

** I shall have to speak," airs Whewell, " of the ideas which
an fne foundation of geuuieiiy and arithmetic, (and which also
regulate all ecJenoBs depending upon these, as astronomy and
mechanics,) namely, the ideas of space, time, and number. Of
the ideas which. the seoMidaiy mechanical jncJenoni (arwnntics, op-
ties, and tnermotics) involve, namely, the ideas of the externality
of objects, and of the media by which we perceive their qualities,

" Of the ideas which, an the basis of inffffhaninfr-difmiral, and
chemical science ; polariij, c^f«nc«| affinity, and substance ;
and the idea of symmetry, a necessary part of the philosophy of
crystallography.

"Of the ideas on which the dassificatory sciences proceed,
(mineralogy, botany, and zoology,) namely, the ideas of resem
blance, and of its gradations, and of natural affinity.

u Finally, of those ideas on which the physiological sciences
are founded, the ideas of separate vital powcts, such as assimi
lation and irritability, and the idea of final cause.

" We have, besides these, the palaetiological sciences, which
proceed mainly on the conception of historical causation."

Obviously, then, the sciences which depend upon our modi
fied ideas as their basis, are crystallography, of which, in this
classification, the idea of symmetry is the basis, and the classifi-
catory sciences, of which the beak, according to Whewell. are
the ideas of in iwmnleimr and its gradations. In all the rest we
recognise our primitive ideas ; for even vitality is a species of
power, and historical causation is but time and causation com
bined. Vitality, however, is power in combination, and so
likewise is historical causation ; it is causation or power in
combination with time, and the destinies or changes of being.

INTELLECT. 219

or existence ; so that physiology and [>ala?tiology may be said
to depend in a certain way upon our modified, and not simply
our primitive, idea*.

XVI.

We have now to attend to those laws of association in our
ideas which are of such importance to the formation of the
very modifications and combinations of ideas which we have
noticed, and, indeed, to all the processes of mind.

ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.

The laws of association, by which our thoug/U* are linked
together I'M traitis, or one thought is immediately followed by
another, or capable of awakening or suggesting another, have
been reduced by Hume to the three, — Resemblance, Contiguity,
and Causation ; and by Dr. Brown, to Resemblance, Contrast,
and Contiguity in time and place. Dr. Brown shews that
classifications of the very same kind had been made even before
the time of Hume. The first attempt at such a classification
seems to have been by Aristotle himself, that very acute and
accurate observer of many of the mind's processes and laws.
Dr. Brown's objection to causation being a separate law or
principle of association, on the supposition that causation is
nothing more than antecedence and consequence in events, is
perfectly valid. The events in such a case are merely con
secutive. But we can see no good ground for that theory of
causation ; and the original principle of causality, as it is of
such iui|>ortance in the formation of our original ideas, should
not be excluded from the laws of subsequent suggestion or
association. Does not an effect immediately awaken the idea
of its cause ? Does not a cause immediately awaken the idea
of its efivct ? and is this merely on the principle of proximity
or contiguity ? As a principle or law of connexion we have
seen that causality, or causation, is the very principle of gene
ralization, or circumstance in our minds which leads to gene
ralization. Causality is something far more important ami
influential than contiguity in tune and place.

220 INTELLECT.

Perhaps, we need no other principles or laws of connexion
among our ideas, than those by which our ideas originally are
produced, or arise in the mind, and are afterwards modified and
combined. Causality is the grand principle in the formation
of our original or primitive ideas ; and it, with resemblance,
analogy, contrast, time and place, which include, of course,
contiguity in time and place : these are just the laws mentioned
by Hume and Brown. It may certainly be contended that
contiguity in time and place is something different from the
simple ideas of time and place ; but then is it not a modifica
tion of these ideas, or may it not, as we hinted when considering
this law of our ideas, be a phase of the idea of identity, an
event or a place being more or less nearly the same, or contem
poraneous with another event or place ? Contiguity seems a
shade of identity, as there are shades of resemblance, until, as
we have seen, we come to contrast itself. At all events, con
tiguity in time and place is but a relation of these ideas. It
contributes, however, to precision, to speak of contiguity or
proximity in time and place, and to admit contiguity among
the laws of association.

The aspects of our ideas, then, in their original state, and
under the different modifications, become the laws according
to which they arise in connexion. The ideas, as they are
obtained, seem also to be retained: the same laws which
gave us our ideas become the bond of their connexion. The
law of resemblance, for example, or the susceptibility of the
mind to perceive resemblance, not only gives us ideas of re
semblance, but is a bond by which resembling ideas are con
nected in the mind. We not only perceive resemblances, but
the presence of one idea has its resembling idea instantaneously
associated with it. I perceive a remarkable resemblance be
tween two landscapes or pieces of scenery ; the law of resem
blance enables me to perceive this — there is such a resemblance,
and the mind is fitted to perceive it — but the same law insures
upon the presence of the one object, or its idea, the idea of its
resembling object. When I chance to come upon a landscape
bearing a close resemblance to one I have seen before, in the

INTELLECT. 221

order of nature I am first capable of perceiving, or being
struck with the resemblance ; but again, the presence of the
one immediately reccalls, or has associated with it, the idea of
the other. The mind exists in a state of perceived resem
blance, but there is a susceptibility of the mind, besides, in
virtue of which the presence of the one piece of scenery, or its
idea, is followed by, or accompanied with, the thought of the
other. The one is said to recall or suggest the other ; but
obviously if the mind could not exist in the state of a perceived
resemblance, there would be no such recalling, no such asso
ciation or suggestion. The capability of the mind existing in
a state of felt resemblance, as Dr. Brown calls it, is first sup
posed, and then the suggestion, or just the connexion, takes
place — the connexion is the suggestion. The same with all the
other laws of association ; they were the aspects under which
our ideas were originally acquired, or laws by which they were
modified, but they come to act as connecting links among our
thoughts — identical objects or qualities being thus associated
in the mind, or capable of being associated : so with resembling
objects, so with contrasted objects, so with all existing or per
ceivable analogies — so with proportion, so with cause and effect,
so with contiguity in place and time, or objects, or events, con
tiguous or proximate, in place or time.

The oak or the elm suggests, or has immediately associated
with it, the oak or the elm which shadowed our father's cottage.
The temperature which regaled and imparted health to the
sickly frame under one clime of the earth, recalls the invigora
ting breezes and delightful sun of a clime the same, though in
a separate and far distant region. On the other hand, the
sunny clime of the south recalls, by the force of contrast, the
cold and ungenial skies of the north. The mind of the tra
veller is continually occupied in marking the identity or dis
similarity among the objects or circumstances that meet his
eye, or come within his experience. This act of the mind
is not merely a pleasing one, but leads to observations which
are the most important to science, and which contribute to the
knowledge of laws and manners, to social improvement, and

222 INTELLECT.

the infusion of a better principle and spirit into the theory anil
practice of legislation. It is the associating principle which is
at work in those connexions which lead to such results. Com
parisons could not be drawn did not this principle furnish the
material. Resembling or contrasted objects, or institutions, are
not always present together, so as to admit of the comparison,
but this law supplies the place of their actual presence by
making them present to the mind. The man of science recalls
the observations he has made in other quarters, and they assist
him in those he is now making ; or the disparity between
phenomena gives him the varying or opposite character of
these very phenomena, which it is important to mark. A
flower may bring home and all its reminiscences to mind, the
garden-plot where a similar flower grew, the circumstances in
which we last saw it, the feelings or sentiments with which it
was associated, or which it awakened. Halleck of New York
indites some verses to the memory of Burns on viewing the
remains of a rose brought from Alloway Kirk, the scene of one
of Burns' most striking compositions. This was the suggestion
of place, or, as it has been called, contiguity. It is rather the
suggestion of place simply, for the rose was brought from the
spot itself, and it recalls scenes which are not immediately
contiguous, but which have their place, their ideal place, their
celebration in the page of the bard, or are connected with his
name : —

" Wild rose of Alloway, my thanks !

Thou mind'st me of that autumn noon,
When first we met upon ' the banks
And braes of bonnie Boon.'"

After some connecting links of thought the writer says, —

" I've stood beside the cottage bed,

Where the bard-peasant first drew breath,
A straw-thatch'd roof above his head,
A straw-wrought couch beneath.

" And I have stood beside the pile,

His monument — that tells to heaven
The homage of earth's proudest islo
To that bard-peasant given."

INTELLECT. 223

The pilgrims who are attracted by Burns' fame, —

" Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,
Or trod the piled leaves of the west,
My own green forest land.

" All ask the cottage of his birth,

Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth,
His fields and streams among.

" They linger by the Boon's low trees,

And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries,
The Poet's tomb is there !"

How powerful were the associations of place in Byron's mind
when wandering amid the ruins of Borne and Athens ! And
here, again, it was not contiguity of place, but place simply.
The ruins were the connecting link with ages long gone, events
and actors that had long passed away, but not without impress
ing their memories on all future ages. The same link of
connexion was in the mind of Gibbon, when, among the ruins
of the Coliseum, he resolved to write the history of the decline
and fall of that Empire, whose magnificent monuments he was
contemplating. In these instances we have the associations of
place mingling with those of time, place suggesting time, and
time awakening innumerable trains of thought or reflection.
We have seen how analogy operates on our trains of thought ;
and it is the law of proportion that is present in the processes
of mathematical reasoning, and arithmetical calculation, as
well as in the refined perceptions and embodiments of the artist.
Give to the architect certain proportions of a building, and
these will immediately suggest to his mind, or be associated
with, their fitting proportions. State to the mathematician
certain properties of figures, and the implied or accompanying
properties have their immediate place in the mind. It is said
of Sir Isaac Newton, that he could see the steps in a demon
stration as if by intuition. A correct eye can point out at once
the faults or excellencies of a piece of sculpture, or a painting, sub
mitted to it. A redundancy, or a defect, in colour, a false propor-

224 INTELLECT.

tion, or a wrong disposition of light and shade, is immediately
singled out, and becomes the subject of animadversion, while the
perfection of these in the great masters is the subject of unceasing
panegyric. These links of connexion are endless. By means
of them the mind is confined neither to time nor place, but
realizes all time and all place. Links of association connect the
mind with the invisible world, and with the throne of the
Eternal. By contrast we rise to the conception of Deity, and
again we revert from Him to the most insignificant of those
creatures which He has made. His ways may often resemble
ours, and we may draw an argument from ours to them ; but
there is an infinite contrast still between God and us, between
His ways and our ways, His thoughts and our thoughts.
Sounds have their resemblances and contrasts, and the power
of association in words is illustrated in the connexions and
multiplied ramifications of language. It is thus that etymology
can draw the conterminous boundaries, and trace the common
origin, of all languages. The memory in recalling words formerly
learnt is greatly assisted by the power of association. Khyming
is an exemplification of the same law ; it is the association of
resemblance which is the law of rhyming. And nothing almost
affords greater pleasure than the well-managed rhymes of a
beautiful poem. The fine cadences, and the constant recurrence
of the same sound, are sometimes inexpressibly pleasing, and
are capable of producing the most soothing or the most thrill
ing effect. It is now like the stately march of armies, now like
the organ's swell, anon like the trumpet's peal, or again, like
the long liquid lapse of murmuring streams. Alliteration has
its origin in the same law, and, judiciously employed, may con
tribute both to energy and to beauty in composition. A pun
is a suggestion of resemblance, and, as not containing a remote
or hidden analogy, but a very obvious resemblance, is not
regarded as a very high style of wit.

The associations of analogy, we have seen, are those in which
the greatest originality may be displayed, and are always the
most striking, because the most unexpected to the mind.

Associations may be varied by habit as well as by original

INTELLECT. 225

constitution of mind ; and this leads us to enumerate, and to
dwell for a little upon Dr. Brown's secondary laws of association
or suggestion.

So far as we are aware, Dr. Brown was the first to take
notice of the secondary laws of association, at least to reduce
them under any classification or arrangement. In Dugald
Stewart we find some remarks very much the same with those
which Dr. Brown makes on this subject; and in Campbell's
Philosophy of Khetoric, some of the circumstances specified as
operating upon the passions, are just those which Dr. Brown
has enumerated as influencing the primary laws of association.
Dr. Brown, however, has undoubtedly the merit of concentrat
ing the remarks which lie scattered in other authors, as well as
adding those which are strictly his own ; and his classification
may well take its place beside every statement of the laws of
association already given, and which, with relation to these
secondary or subordinate laws, Dr. Brown has called the
primary laws of association.

We give the modifying or secondary laws in Dr. Brown's
own words : —

" The first circumstance which presents itself, as modifying
the influence of the primary laws, in inducing one associate
conception rather than another, is the length of time during
which the original feelings from which they flowed, continued,
when they co-existed, or succeeded each other.

" In the second place, the parts of a train appear to be
more closely or firmly associated, as the original feelings have
been more lively.

" In the third place, the parts of any train are more readily
suggested, in proportion as they have been more frequently
renewed.

" In the fourth place, the feelings are connected more
strongly, in proportion as they are more or less recent.

" In the fifth place, our successive feelings are associated
more closely, as each has co-existed less with other feelings.

" In the sixth place, the influence of the primary laws of
suggestion is greatly modified by original constitutional differ-

1-

226 INTELLECT.

ences, whether these are to be referred to the mind itself, or to
varieties of bodily temperament."

One of the circumstances which Dr. Campbell mentions as
influencing the passions, is the importance of the action which
is the subject-matter of address or appeal. " The third circum
stance," says Campbell, " the appearance of which always
tends, by fixing attention more closely, to add brightness and
strength to the ideas — was importance. The importance in
moral subjects is analogous to the quantity of matter in phy
sical subjects, as on quantity the moment of moving bodies in
a great measure depends."

The importance of any associated circumstance, or thought,
in like manner, gives intensity or strength to the association.
This is either not noticed by Dr. Brown, or it is included in
the second subordinate law affecting our associations — viz.,
the liveliness of the original feelings. " We remember," says
he, " brilliant objects more than those which are faint and
obscure. We remember for our whole lifetime, the occasions
of great joy or sorrow ; we forget the occasions of innumerable
slight pleasures, or pains, which occur to us every hour."

Some such event has often affected the destinies of in
dividuals, and been the very spring of their career in life.
Those who are acquainted with the biographies of distinguished
men must be aware of this fact, and their memories may fur
nish them with instances. A great event must be more
powerful in its associations than an indifferent one, or one of
more trifling importance.

Proximity of time and connexion of place are other two
circumstances which Dr. Campbell specifies as influencing the
passions.

" As to proximity of time," says he, " every one knows that
any melancholy incident is the more affecting that it is recent.
Hence it is become common with story-tellers, that they may
make a deeper impression on the hearers, to introduce remarks
like these — that the tale which they relate is not old, that it
happened but lately, or in their own time, or that they are yet
living who had a part in it, or were witnesses of it."

INTELLECT. 227

Virgil introduces JEneas when commencing the narrative of
the events through which he had passed, and especially those
connected with the taking and final ruin of Troy, —

" Trojanas ut opes et lamentabilc regnum
Eruerint Danai,"

saying, —

" quaeque ipsc miserrima vidi,
Et quorum pars magna fui."

This is Dr. Brown's fourth circumstance of subordinate
association : " In the fourth place, the feelings are connected
more strongly, in proportion as they are more or less recent."

It is touchingly introduced in the recital by the disciple
going to Emmaus, of the events connected with Christ's death,
when interrogated respecting them by Christ himself: " And
besides all this, to-day is the third day since these things were
done" So recently had the events transpired ; no wonder
that he and the other disciple were communing about these
events.

Time wears off impressions. When the circumstance is
recent, nothing almost can dislodge it from the mind. It is
the one absorbing thought. It may be a joyful one — then it
spreads gladness through the air, and makes nature itself
jocund : the heart calls upon every object and every being to
sympathize with its joy. If a sad one, everything is clothed in
gloom, and the air itself seems to have a burden in it. The
disciples, when they had seen the Lord after His resurrection,
were as transported with joy, as before this they had been
overwhelmed with sorrow. The tidings which told of another
and another victory over the armies of France, when freedom
was thought to be in the scale, when Napoleon was known to
be the enemy of the nations, and Britain stood in " the Ther
mopylae of the world," were hailed with universal enthusiasm,
and formed the one subject of thought and discussion among
all ranks and classes from the one end of Britain to the other.
How different are the associations connected with these events
now! — how differently are they thought of! Events, like
objects, of the greatest magnitude, when seen in the distance,

228 INTELLECT.

possess a very indistinct outline, and seldom come within the
sphere of the vision: let them be recent and they fill the
horizon.

Connexion of place has the same effect. This is not only a
circumstance of original suggestion or association, but it modi
fies any association already existing. " Local connexion," says
Dr. Campbell, " hath a more powerful effect than proximity
of time." " Connexion of place," says he, " not only includes
vicinage, but every other local relation, such as being in a
province under the same government with us, in a state that
is in alliance with us, in a country well known to us, and the
like. Of the influence of this connexion in operating on our
passions, we have daily proofs. With how much indifference,
at least with how slight and transient emotion, do we read in
newspapers the accounts of the most deplorable accidents in
countries distant and unknown ? How much, on the contrary,
are we alarmed and agitated on being informed that any such
accident hath happened in our neighbourhood, and that even
though we be totally unacquainted with the persons concerned ?"

It is singular that Dr. Brown overlooked this secondary law
of association. It is obviously different from the original sug
gesting circumstance. It not only affords the association, but
it vivifies it — keeps it alive — gives it strength — makes it much
more lively and powerful. The scene where any memorable
occurrence took place, where any signal achievement was accom
plished, intensifies the association, while it also begets it. It
is amazing the interest that is attachable to the spot where any
illustrious person lived or was born. Not only are associations
connected with that person's life and works or achievements
awakened, they are far more lively than if any circumstance
awakened these associations at a distance. Halleck's associa
tions with Burns were extremely interesting, and were more
lively by the circumstance of locality that was in the very
flower which he had probably plucked on the banks of the
Doon, beside " Alloway's auld haunted Kirk ;" and the remin
iscences stretching across a wide intervening ocean gave ten
derness, no doubt, to the associations awakened ; but to be on

INTELLECT. 229

the spot itself — to see the very scenes which Burns has rendered
memorable, a charm does seem to lie over these scenes, even
while you may intensely wish that the career of a genius so
remarkable had been otherwise ! Locality, in such a case, has
a wonderful influence. Residing at one time in that neigh
bourhood, we frequently passed by the very kirk, and the poet's
birthplace, and we can say — so it seemed to us — the whole
land, exceedingly beautiful itself, was lighted up with the
poet's memory. Doon was the Doon which Burns had made
famous ; its " low trees" — exactly descriptive — low but not
stunted — umbrageous, aud adorning " banks and braes," which
" pressed to be in the poet's song," grow in the very light which
he threw around them. We must not let our admiration of
genius, however, carry us away. We must remember that it
was not given to be employed on the themes which too often
engross it ; and perhaps that very admiration of its efforts on
themes even of an earthly interest, is itself of the earth earthly.
About the same period, it was our lot to sojourn in the town
which gave birth to James Montgomerie. We visited the cot
tage in which he was born : we cannot tell how vivid were our
impressions when we looked upon the humble apartment in
which he first drew breath ! What is there in such connexion
of place ? Why are our associations so vivid when standing
on such spots, and looking upon such scenes ? Can we tell ?
We can only give the fact, or point to the phenomenon itself.
We cannot be censured for quoting the famous passage of
Johnson on his visit to lona, and the sentiments which he felt
when "treading that illustrious island." We have ourselves
visited that island, and the memory of St. Columba hangs over
it like a spell. It has a different setting from other islands in
the ocean. " We were now treading," says the sage, " that
illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledo
nian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived
the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To
abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible,
if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible.
Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever

230 INTELLECT.

makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the
present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far
from me, and from my friends, be such frigid philosophy, as
may conduct us, indifferent and unmoved, over any ground
which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. The
man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force
upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow
warmer among the ruins of lona."

The other two circumstances which Dr. Campbell mentions
us influencing the passions, viz., " relation to the persons con
cerned in any action or actions," and " interest in the conse
quences," may be extended to the subject of association.
Relation to the place, scene, action, or person, awakening or
producing the original association, and interest in the conse
quences of such event or action, must make the association to
us a great deal more vivid and powerful than to any others.
We need only direct attention to this. Dr. Brown has not
noticed either of these circumstances. It may be questioned,
therefore, if Dr. Brown's classification, valuable so far as it
goes, is complete. Indeed, the modifying circumstances of
association, perhaps, can hardly be enumerated. There is
truth in what Dugald Stewart says, — " There is no possible
relation among the objects of our knowledge which may not
serve to connect them together in the mind ; and therefore,
although one enumeration may be more comprehensive than
another, a perfectly complete enumeration is scarcely to be
expected."

We must make an observation or two upon the last of Dr.
Brown's secondary laws. " In the sixth place, the influence of
the primary laws of suggestion is greatly modified by original
constitutional differences, whether these are to be referred to
the mind itself, or to varieties of bodily temperament."

This modifying circumstance, or law, is one which undoubt
edly exercises a most important influence upon our associations
and habits of thought. That there are constitutional differences
both of mind arid body — differences both in mental and bodily
temperament — cannot be doubted. This is a subject greatly

INTELLECT. 231

dwelt upon by phrenologists, and it is perhaps in taking notice
of this circumstance, as well as in the general adaptation of his
system to the facts of phrenology, that Dr. Brown's system is
pronounced by his biographer, Dr. Welsh, himself a phrenolo
gist, the one whose positions or doctrines accord most with the
discoveries or advances of phrenology. The subject is one con
nected with the most difficult questions in morals, and even in
theology. How far does man's peculiar idiosyncrasy, or consti
tutional temperament, whether of mind or body, influence or
affect his character and actions, and in what way is his respon
sibility concerned in this question ? We think the direct and
imperative answer to this inquiry is, that in no case can respon
sibility be so affected by any constitutional peculiarities as to
take it away, while these peculiarities are themselves circum
stances in man's probationary state, or just his moral position
in this world, to be carefully attended to, and for which, as for
the whole of his moral condition, the grand remedy is applica
ble. But it is rather the intellectual, or purely mental, idiosyn
crasy or bias, which is referred to, and which we have now to
take into account, although that is very intimately connected
with the other part of our nature. Phrenology, in accordance
with the mental idiosyncrasy, temperament, or bias, adopts a
nomenclature which always connects the faculty with the
idiosyncrasy, and it speaks of the faculty being large when it
is so along with the idiosyncrasy. Hence we have causality,
ideality, comparison, &c., the predominating direction of the
mind being indicated by the names of the faculty or faculties.
This predominating direction cannot be said to have been
overlooked in mental philosophy, but undoubtedly phrenology
has called attention to it much more prominently than was
ever done before, although still it does not seem to belong
peculiarly to that system, but may be taken into account in any
right view of the mental operations or phenomena. It is an
interesting view, however, to take in connexion with mind, viz.,
the constitutional differences which characterize it, and these
in connexion often with bodily temperament, or at least tem
perament, which is partly bodily and partly mental. Here,

232 INTELLECT.

again, phrenology is distinguished from any other view of
mind that was previously taken, in connecting bodily tempera
ment with mental characteristics. The physiology of this sub
ject, we believe, is established beyond a doubt. We would
confine our attention, however, here, to the simply mental
bias, the constitutional differences in mind, or in one mind as
distinguished from another. This forms a most interesting
subject of examination or reflection. It falls more properly to
be considered at a subsequent stage of our progress, but we
advert to it now as one of the secondary laws of association,
and as exercising a very extensive influence on the whole
current and tenor of our thoughts and pursuits.

We have but to look at the bent and direction in the minds
of those around us, the nature of their pursuits, the cast of
their conversation, the habit of their thought, to discover im
portant original differences in their mental constitution. It is
true that circumstances, for the most part, give the direction to
the pursuits of men, and to the path which they follow in life,
but even in these pursuits, in that very path which they have
chosen, or in which they have, it may be, been fortuitously
directed, we may still discern those original differences of con
stitution. Even in the pursuits of trade and commerce, we
find those who are not contented to absorb themselves entirely
in their claims, but who have a mind to look to matters of more
permanent interest, and to whom knowledge, and the pursuit
of knowledge, in its extensive and varied range, affords the
highest pleasure. The mental idiosyncrasy is not destroyed
even in the routine and demands of business. It breaks
through even the necessities of a still more unpropitious situa
tion, and we find the mechanic and the humble tradesman
indulging predilections of mind which are independent of his
position and his calling. " The pursuit of knowledge under
difficulties" is not so uncommon a spectacle as it was once, or
the difficulties are now not so unsurmountable. It is by no
means now a rare spectacle to see the humble mechanic well
acquainted with science, or conversant with literature. The
relish for these will break through every obstacle, and the

INTELLECT. 233

facilities for indulging it are very great ; but it is among those
who have better opportunities for indulging such tastes, and
whose business more directly it is to prosecute such objects,
that we find the best illustrations of our present subject.
Among all classes there are different degrees of native refine
ment and mental capacity, which will exhibit very different
directions of thought and modes of association ; but look at the
different tracts which minds which professedly give themselves
to study pursue. Science is the chosen field of some, philosophy
of others, learning of others ; while, with others, the profound
topics of theology are those which engage their lofty but de
vout speculations or inquiries. Some minds again take the
direction of history in preference to every other pursuit or
study. They love to dwell upon the past ; and the more re
mote the events, they possess the greater fascination. Some
are antiquarian in their tendency. The remains of antiquity
possess an indescribable charm to their minds. The excava
tions of a Belzoni or a Layard, and the researches of a Sir
William Gell on the site of Troy, and among the relics of
Pompeii, would almost tempt them to become travellers, — as
it was the same bent of mind, as well as to serve the interests
of science, that directed these enterprising and patient investi
gators in the tract of inquiry which they pursued.* Minds
naturally have a bias one way or another, and, for the most
part, they will be found following it. And the associations are
all according to that bias, and the topics which consequently

* In Lord Byron's Diary there oc- veracity. It is true I read ' Homer

curs this characteristic passage : — " In Travestied,' because Hobhouse and

reading, I have just chanced upon an others bored me with their learned lo-

expression of Tom Campbell's. Speak- calities, and I love quizzing. But I

ing of Collins, he says, that ' No reader still venerated the grand original as the

cares any more about the characteristic truth of history (in the material facts)

manners of his eclogues than about the and of place. Otherwise, it would have

authenticity of the tale of Troy.' 'Tis given me no delight. Who will per-

false — we do care about ' the authen- suade me, when I reclined upon a

ticity of the tale of Troy.' I have stood mighty tomb, that it did not contain a

upon that plain daily, for more than a hero ? Its very magnitude proved this,

month, in 1810, and if anything dimi- Men do not labour over the ignoble and

nished my pleasure, it was that the petty dead; and why should not the

blackguard Bryant had impugned its dead be Homer's dead ?"

234 INTELLECT.

engage the attention. A philosophic mind views everything
under a philosophic aspect. The principles which belong to a
subject ever turn up in their minds. They see it through
that medium. What is called a practical mind leaves the
principles, and deals with the subject in the concrete, and
as it tells upon or is seen in practice. The thoughts of the
scientific again are ever running upon external phenomena,
and tracing external laws. The astronomer is ever among
the stars ; the geologist has his haunts among the caverns of
creation, and lives in epochs ; the botanist will not let the
flower grow in its beauty, but must question its structure, and
ascertain its family and descent ; the physiologist pursues life
to its retreat, and is ever marking its marvellous indications
and laws. With the literary man, the productions of those
who have written works which have arrested the mind of con
temporaneous and succeeding ages, are the interesting sources
from which he draws all his pleasure, and with them are all
his associations. It is easy to know a classic mind from the
bent of its associations. Its thoughts are among the remains
of ancient Greece and Rome. A scholar will always go up to
a classic fountain for the authorities on which he depends, or
which he delights to quote. When this is done judiciously and
sparingly, nothing has a finer grace, while the ancient authors
have often a power of expression, and an exquisiteness of con
ception, not always met with among modern writers. There
was something in the languages of Greece and Rome which was
greatly favourable to condensation of meaning, and beauty of
thought and expression ; or at all events, we can, in such a
form as a quotation from an ancient author and a classic
language presents, state with advantage a sentiment which
would be commonplace or comparatively feeble if conveyed in
any modern language, or the language especially which we
ourselves employ. Classic quotations were far more common
in a past age than now. Jeremy Taylor, and Howe, and the
divines of the same age, are full of them : all the distinguished
writers of that period make them the great vehicle of their own
sentiments. Addison and Johnson could not write without a

INTELLECT. 235

quotation from a Greek or Latin author. This was undoubtedly
carried to excess. There is not even the same use now as there
was then for the practice. A more sparing quotation from classic
antiquity is therefore proper ; but when such quotation is ap
propriately made it has the best effect. Milton was classic :
Shakespeare was not. Shakespeare derived his classic allusions
at second hand, and they have, accordingly, all the appearance
of this : they are not true coin ; they merely bear the image
and superscription of the coin. Milton's allusions were from the
mint ; they were struck off in his own mind. How is the bent
of his classic associations seen in all his works ! In the Para
dise Regained — in the temptation of our Lord — Satan, without
destroying propriety, is made to employ some of the finest
classic allusions, in expressions of choicest and most classic
beauty. It is in Satan's address that the expression occurs, —
" Athens the eye of Greece," and again, " the attic bird," as
applied to Plato : —

" See there the olive grove of Academe,
Plato's retirement, where the attic bird
Trills her thick warbled notes the summer long."

It is there, also, that we have those lines : —

" Thence to the famous orators repair,
Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence
Wielded at will that fierce democratic,
Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece "

Milton's classical association is still more strikingly seen, if
possible, in the Ode on the Nativity. The profusion of classic
allusion there is wonderful, and the effect is admirable. How
bold, and yet how beautiful, and within the bounds of the most
sacred propriety, the employment of the following allusion in
reference to the coming of Christ, taking the heathen myth and
applying it to its only legitimate object : —

" The shepherds on the lawn,
Or e'er the point of dawn,

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row :
Full little thought they than,
That the mighty Pan

Was kindly come to live with them below ;
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep."

23G INTELLECT.

Again, in reference to the change produced on the world by
the appearance of Christ, what could be more classic, and what
more effective !

" The oracles are dumb,
No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving :
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos, leaving ;
No nightly trance or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

" The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament :
From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,

The parting genius is with sighing sent,
With flower-inwoven tresses torn,
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

" In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,

The Lares and Lemures moan with midnight plaint :
In urns and altars round,
A drear and dying sound

Affrights the flamens at their service quaint,
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat."

Dr. Brown traces to this secondary law of association the
peculiarity in the suggestions of original and inventive minds, as
distinguished from those which do not derive their suggestions
from the same source, viz., analogy. We have already considered
this peculiarity in the suggestions of some minds. We recur to
it merely to remark, in connexion with the peculiar idiosyncrasies
of different minds, that the philosophic mind may often be seen
in conjunction with the poetic, and that in every philosophic
poet the suggestions of analogy will be found greatly to predo
minate. We would distinguish Wordsworth as a philosophic
poet, in the special sense of the phrase, above even Milton or
Shakespeare. Wordsworth is ever bringing out fine and hidden
analogies, which only a mind like his could detect ; ever brood
ing on the nicer connexions observable in the natural world, or

INTELLECT. Z.W

between the world of matter and that of spirit. All his associ
ations took this direction. There was philosophy in all his
fancies. He made everything philosophize, or give out philo
sophy. Shakespeare found " books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones, and good in everything." With Wordsworth
it was B& philosophy, and that quiet kind which "broods on its
own heart," penetrates even stones, and hears a voice deeper far
than its own in the murmur of the passing stream. Shake
speare could not have stayed to mark the lessons which Words
worth draws from stones, and brooks, and trees. How trippingly
does Shakespeare make the allusion, or utter the statement, we
have referred to ! With Wordsworth it was very different. It
was a felt and powerful sentiment with him : —

" Wings have we, — and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean, and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies tJte low."

There is an influential associating principle which should not
be passed over in connexion with this subject; we mean spi
rituality of mind, or that state of mind produced by the recep
tion of the gospel, and the regenerating grace of God. This
gives a peculiar direction to all the thoughts. Where there is
true spirituality it will exert a more powerful influence than
any other associating principle whatever. It will take all the
rest into its own direction. It will be above and around all —
form the element of all. Science will not be contemplated but
in connexion with the more astonishing display which God has
made of His perfections in the scheme of Redemption. The
plurality of worlds will be viewed as the theatre of God's moral
attributes, and in its connexion with the superior honour con
ferred upon this earth as the scene of redemption. The song
of the angels will be re-echoed : " The whole earth is full of His
glory." Nature will not be contemplated apart from, not
merely God in nature, but Christ, or faith in Him ; and the
life of faith will find everything capable of reminding of Him,
or yielding some lesson connected with the spiritual life which
is hid with Christ in God. It was thus that Cowper fed the

238 INTELLECT.

spiritual flame at the lamp of nature itself, and he found ana
logies of the spiritual life wherever he turned. How fine the
spiritual analogy brought out in these lines :

" The Spirit breathes upon the word,

And brings the truth to sight ;
Precepts and promises afford
A sanctifying light.

" A glory gilds the sacred page,

Majestic like the sun;
It gives a light to every age,
It gives, but borrows none.

" The hand that made it still supplies

The gracious light and, heat ;

His truths upon the nations rise —

THEY IIISE, BUT NEVER SET."

This is a circumstance of association which all should seek
or cultivate. There is in the associations of a spiritual mind
something inexpressibly pleasing, something that is far above
every other possession or attainment. To breathe a spiritual
air, how much more delightful and desirable than to feel the
breath of Araby ! The other pursuits of life too much inter
rupt the cultivation of a truly spiritual habit or state of mind.
Other engagements may be necessary, but this should not be
interfered with by any of them, however important or proper
in their place. Alas, when the breath of the Spirit is not
sought while every other attainment or possession is assiduously
cultivated or pursued !

XVII.

CLASSIFICATIONS OF THE INTELLECTUAL PHENOMENA.

The phenomena we have examined seem in themselves to
account for what are generally regarded, and what are com
monly spoken of, as the faculties of the mind. It might
appear an altogether unwarrantable position to maintain that
the mind does not possess powers or faculties — that we are in
correct when we speak of the faculty of judgment, or the faculty
of imagination ; that these are not really faculties, but may be

INTELLECT. 239

explained in some other way than regarding them as such.
Perception, conception, abstraction, memory, imagination, at
tention, have all been enumerated as faculties of the mind ;
and it would require some sufficient reason for regarding them
in any other light, or for calling them in question as faculties,
and resolving them into something else. Dr. Brown seems to
have been the first to take another view of the mind, and to
account for, or explain, its phenomena in a different way. He
was led to his peculiar view by the doctrine which he enter
tained on the subject of causation. His doctrine on this sub
ject, the doctrine of many previous philosophers, viz., that
causation is nothing but sequence in events, led him to con
sider the mental phenomena in the same light, as sequences,
or states of succession, all power being denied to mind as well
as to matter. The first link in the chain of mental sequence
is the first impress upon the mind from the external world :
from that moment there is a succession begun which never
ceases. We have endeavoured to trace the same connexion, or
succession, from the earliest consciousness downwards ; but it
is not from any such view of causation, as if it were mere
sequence in events, that we have been led to take this view of
the mental phenomena. We think it is an imperfect account
of causation, to resolve it into mere sequence, that there is in
it what is not explained, or accounted for, by any such view.
But the unity and simplicity of mind seems to require that we
regard it, not as possessing so many powers or faculties, but
rather as existing in so many states. We regard it as having
susceptibilities rather than facilities, or such a constitution
impressed upon it, that it exists in those states, or exhibits
those phenomena, which we have endeavoured to trace or ex
plain, from the first consciousness to the most abstract concep
tion, and most complicated train of thought. The only power
belonging to mind is ivill, the power of volition ; all apart from
that is mind simply, existing in those states, or presenting those
phenomena, which are characteristic of mind when brought into
certain circumstances. We have accounted for the rise of our
ideas, our simple uncompounded ideas : — we have considered

240 INTELLECT.

those laws and principles by which they are modified : — we have
seen them existing in trains, or in certain orders of connexion,
and we have examined the circumstances of connexion by which
one train takes place rather than another, or one associated idea
arises rather than another. Dr. Brown considers the mind
under the division, the external affections of the mind, and
the internal affections ; the latter he divides into the intel
lectual states and the emotions. The intellectual states, again,
he considers under the phenomena of simple and relative
suggestion. The external affections of the mind, of course,
include all the phenomena of sensation, and lead to the con
sideration of the ideas arising from this source. The idea of
externality, we have seen, is traced by Dr. Brown to the feel
ing of resistance, and that not merely tactual but muscular
resistance. We think that the part which the mind has in the
acquiring of its original ideas is not enough recognised by Dr.
Brown ; and hence he is ranked rather in the sensational school
by Morell, or as partly sensational in his tendency. We have
seen it is of great importance to mark the mind's spontaneity
even in the acquisition of its primitive ideas, and to consider
sensation as the occasion merely of these ideas, and not in any
proper sense the cause. The purely intellectual states con
sidered under the phenomena of simple and relative suggestion,
was a novel view of the mind, and was undoubtedly a step in
advance. There is sufficient evidence in the writings of previ
ous philosophers, that the unity and simplicity of the mind was
not disregarded by them, and that they did not contemplate
the faculties of the mind, of which they gave an enumeration,
as distinct from the mind itself ; but their view was, from Locke
downwards, that the mind was capable of conceiving, appre
hending, abstracting, judging, remembering, imagining. It
contributed, however, undoubtedly, to simplicity, to present
the mental phenomena as they really were, and to make it
plain that the mind did not possess faculties distinct from it
self, which is so apt to be supposed when these faculties are
spoken of, or did not so much possess faculties as exist in states
according to certain laws of its constitution, or principles, or

INTELLECT. 241

modes of action characteristic of mind. Dr. Brown was bold
enough to make this innovation — to present this new view of
mind ; or he had the originality to seize upon this new view
and give it to the world. Locke, we cannot help thinking,
notwithstanding all the objections found against him, took the
right view of mind, when he endeavoured to trace its ideas,
and when he considered these as simple, modes of ideas, and
mixed modes, and as existing in the relations of identity, diver
sity, degree, number, magnitude, proportion, position, cause
and effect, and so on. If he had not enumerated the faculties
of discernment, comparison, composition, abstraction, but re
garded certain laws, according to which the modes, mixed
modes, and relations of ideas, were obtained, his view would
have been very much the same as Brown's, or even more
simple ; for the introduction of a principle or law of suggestion,
however convenient the name to intimate the rise of our ideas
according to certain circumstances of connexion, is apt to
give the idea of what Dr. Brown wished to discard — something
distinct from the mind, though operating as a power within it.
This is the objection we would take to Dr. Brown's system,
that suggestion seems something extraneous to the mind : it is
something active : it is the very thing which Dr. Brown wished
to get quit of in mental philosophy — a power ; whereas the
mind rather exists in certain states according to certain laws of
its constitution. When it exists in the state of what Dr.
Brown calls a suggestion — or when suggestion takes place —
this is no more than an idea arising upon the presence of
another idea, according to a law by which one idea is not in
strict language suggested by another, but arises upon the pre
sence of that other. The term Association, for which Dr.
Brown substituted Suggestion — as expressing the tendency in
our ideas to arise in a train, ivithout supposing any previous
association, but by immediate suggestion — we would still prefer ;
for association is the real phenomenon, and not suggestion ;
and there is no need whatever to suppose any previous associa
tion in fact : the association is in the law or property according
to which the association actually takes place. The beauty and

Q

242 INTELLECT.

originality of Dr. Brown's view, however, cannot but be ac
knowledged by those acquainted with the systems of philosophy.
He has been regarded as too much of a sensationalist, from the
dependence in his system of our ideas originally upon sensa
tion, and their following from this in a sequence or chain of
phenomena. We have already remarked that he does not
sufficiently recognise, or prominently enough keep in view, the
spontaneity of the mind in the acquisition of its original ideas,
and the very subordinate part, after all, however necessary,
which sensation plays in the obtaining of these ideas. This,
however, seems to have been taken for granted, or rather never
to have been doubted, in his system. Nor was it till the
German mode of philosophizing came into vogue — the rigid
and scientific mind of Germany being satisfied with no other
mode, and with nothing short of the absolute, if that were
attainable — it is only since this that attention has been called
to the peculiar part which mind plays in the formation of its
primitive ideas — what is called the formative process of mind.
In this point of view the German philosophy has done eminent
service. Its rigid method, of setting out from consciousness,
and tracing our ideas onward, has undoubtedly given to philo
sophy a character which it did not formerly possess, and
brought prominently into view that purely intellectual part,
that truly formative part, which the mind has in the produc
tion of its most elementary notions or ideas. We advert not
here to its too rigid and idealistic character. That has already
in some measure been done. We express our admiration, in
the meantime, of the scientific " stand-point" in its inquiries,
and the importance assigned to mind, although this was carried
to the absurd extreme of making mind everything, and forma
tive even to the extent of creating the external world, and its
phenomena, for itself. It is of immense consequence, however,
to recognise the predominance of mind ; and it is peculiarly
interesting to see how it operates in connexion with the inti
mations from the external world, in other words, in connexion
with matter — a connexion of which it would seem not to be
independent. What shall we call that faculty by which the

INTELLECT. 243

mind thus obtains its primitive ideas ? Will what is called the
faculty of judgment account for the process ? It will, if we
mean by judgment a spontaneous act of the mind itself. How
does the mind determine this to be external to itself, and that
not, when in both cases it is existing merely in states of con
sciousness ? How does it refer the one consciousness to self,
the other to externality, as its source or occasion ? An act of
judgment merely will not explain this. A mere comparison
would never give the result. The mind ventures upon a deci
sion of its own — acts spontaneously, independently, and in
virtue of that constitution which the Creator has conferred
upon it, or which may be essential to mind. That this feeling
has an external, and this an internal source, is a very different
kind of decision from that by which two is pronounced to have
the same relation to four that eight has to sixteen ; or any
judgment of the mind, when two ideas are seen in comparison.
It is when our primitive ideas are obtained that judgment
comes in : it is among our ideas that certain relations are
observed, whether of identity, similarity, difference, contrast,
analogy, proportion. Before this, or in the acquisition of our
primitive ideas, it is mind, a spontaneous act of mind, not a
judgment, not the result of a comparison, or a perceived
relation. It is an arbitrary decision, but a decision still accord
ing to the constitution of mind, or according to mind. After
wards, our ideas are seen in relation, or modified by those laws
which we have endeavoured to trace.

Dr. Reid's division of the mind is into the Intellectual and
Active powers ; and more minutely he enumerates — 1st, The
powers we have by means of our external senses ; 2dly,
Memory ; 3dly, Conception ; 4thly, The power of resolving
and analyzing complex objects, and compounding those that
are more simple ; 5thly, Judging ; Gthly, Reasoning ; Tthly,
Taste ; Sthly, Moral perception ; and, lastly, Consciousness.

Dugald Stewart's classification of the mental powers is the
following: — 1st, Consciousness ; 2d, Perception ; 3d, Attention ;
4th, Conception ; 5th, Abstraction ; 6th, Association of ideas ;
7th, Memory; 8th, Imagination ; 9th, Judgment or Reasoning.

244 INTELLECT.

Dr. Young, of Belfast College, iti bis published lectures, has
given a classification, which be acknowledges to have adopted
from Professor Mylne of Glasgow, and which reduced the
faculties to the three — Sensation, Memory, and Judgment.

This last classification undoubtedly has the merit of simpli
city — as great a simplicity as was compatible with the view of
the mind's possessing faculties. Dr. Young offers some criti
cism upon Dr. Brown's innovation, and while he concedes for
the most part the correctness of the analysis on which it pro
ceeds, objects to the new nomenclature thus introduced into
philosophy, — no very weighty objection, surely, if that new
nomenclature was connected with a simpler view, and a pro-
founder analysis of the mental phenomena. We are inclined
to innovate still further ; and we divide the strictly mental part
of our constitution into the two phenomenal departments,
Sensation and Intellection.

To sensation we allow nothing more than the power of ori
ginating our ideas, and that by being only the occasion on
which they arise. We pretend not to say how they can be the
occasion of our ideas, as we pretend not to determine the nature
of any mental phenomenon whatever, beyond stating the phe
nomenon as it appears to the cognitive mind. The peculiarity
in regard to sensation, and the subsequent mental act, is, that
the former is dissimilar in its very nature from the latter ; and
what is peculiarly to be noticed, is the transition from a sen
sational state merely, to a strictly mental state ; or, as it may
be termed, a state of intellection. Intellection is when mind
comes into play as mind purely — sensation implying a bodily
feeling, as well as a mental state, and that mental state being
itself a feeling, and not any purely mental state. It is of im
portance to oppose the mental, or intellectual, to the sensa
tional, and at the very earliest stage to mark or notice what is
purely mental in our states or processes. We may thus obtain
all the advantage of the most rigid system of an absolute meta
physics, while we do not run into the extravagance of denying
a sensational department, and that as having its exciting cause,
or its archetypes without. Not that we ascribe to sensation

INTELLECT. 245

itself the information respecting its exciting cause, or those
ideas of the external world tvhich we derive from a strictly
mental process, operating upon occasion of our sensations.
But when we have got intellection, when we have marked off
this territory from the bordering land of sensation, a very wide
survey lies before us, and we have our division of mind to
begin anew. Dr. Brown, after the general division of the ex
ternal affections and internal affections of the mind, has his
analysis of the latter still to make, and these internal affections
he has resolved into the laws of simple and relative suggestion.
Now, what do we make of intellection ? We consider it just
mind operating according to its distinctive nature, and laws
impressed upon it by the Creator, or essential to mind as such.
This takes in a part of the mental operations for which Dr.
Brown's division does not account, viz., all that is prior to
simple suggestion — the action of mind upon our first sensa
tions, and by which our primitive ideas are acquired. The
external affections of the mind do indeed lead to the considera
tion of the origin or rise of our primitive ideas ; but the term,
" the external affections of the mind," does not include this, or
give the least hint or intimation of it ; and accordingly Dr.
Brown discusses this matter without having a name for it, or
having it ranked or recognised in his classification. He thus
makes too little recognition of mind in this early stage of its
operations, and allows too much to the external affection. The
sensations, or series of sensations, give us the ideas : mind is
little accounted of in the matter. But there is mind at work
as soon as a sensation is experienced, and all our most impor
tant, because all our elementary ideas, are got at this early stage.
The independent action of mind at this stage is perhaps the
most wonderful part of the mind's operations. The wonder in
this case is, that the mind is acting without suggestion, or any
law whatever. It is not by suggestion, or any law, except its
own spontaneity, that it is prompted to determine this to be
self, and that to be externality. It is not by suggestion that
we get the idea of matter, of extension, of space, of time :
It is not suggestion that gives us the idea of causality, or

246 INTELLECT.

cause and effect. If we attend to all our original ideas, we
shall find that we are indebted for them to mind simply, oper
ating we had almost said arbitrarily, and yet according to the
nature of mind.

Let us look at the subsequent acts or processes of intel
lection.

The simple ideas acquired, they now pass through various
modifications. The simple idea of externality, for example,
becomes the idea of an external world. How many ideas enter
into our idea of an external world ? Just all the ideas that go
to make up the idea of a world, in addition to that of exter
nality. Now, it may be said to be by a process of combination
or composition that the complex ideas of world, and external
world, are obtained ; and, accordingly, we have the faculty of
composition according to Locke, and, according to Keid, the
power of analyzing complex objects, and compounding those
that are more simple. Eternity, according to Locke, would be
a mode of time, as magnitude, form, would be of space or ex
tension. Now, what is the idea of eternity ? Is it not just
identity in the idea, time prolonged indefinitely ? the same
idea conceived indefinitely, or without any limits being con
ceived of — without the idea of limits ? Is not the idea of mag
nitude just that of extension, and proportion in extension ? Is
not the idea of figure or form that of extension in different
directions — diversity, therefore, in extension, with, again, pro
portion ? In any complex idea, again, such as that of world,
external world, we have but our elementary ideas variously
modified, and then viewed in an aggregate ; and an aggregate,
or any complexity, is just considering under the idea of unity
what separately would be a number or multitude. A mixed
mode with Locke is when various modes of ideas — in other
words, ideas modified — are combined or considered in one con
crete, or one idea. For instance, the idea of God is a mixed
mode. It is the combination of several modified ideas, — sub
stance, spiritual substance: time, eternity: power, omnipotence:
identity, immutability: space, omnipresence. These are com
bined. They are viewed in the aggregate, or in one concrete,

INTELLECT. 247

in unity — one Being. We might go over all our ideas in the
same way, and we would but find our elementary ideas vari
ously modified, or variously combining, according to the laws
and principles of the mind. Take the idea of numbers and
their proportions. Here we have but identity, diversity, and
proportion — in other words, unity, or a unit — a number of
units, giving plurality, and proportion in the number of units,
or in the plurality, arid unity in plurality. Four and one are
five — that is, four units, and another unit, make five — so do
three and two, or three units and two units, and these respec
tively give the same result ; or four and one, and three and
two, are respectively five. Hence the necessary truths of num
bers are just proportion in diversity — unity, therefore, with
diversity and proportion. The same with lines, superficies, and
with solid figures. The figure of an object is identity, diver
sity, proportion, resemblance. Is there any need for separate
faculties for all this ? Indeed faculties are not supposable in
the one simple, indivisible substance, mind ; but there is no
need for them. Our simple ideas take various modifications.
They are seen under various aspects ; they enter into various
combinations, or are considered in unity, while they might be
considered separately, in the concrete, or united with being,
while they might be considered in the abstract, or as qualities
simply. Our ideas present themselves in the mind under the
modifications which the laws of mind, already considered by
us, impress upon them, or produce ; and all that we mean by
laws is, that the mind operates in such and such a way, or is
capable of perceiving or contemplating objects or ideas under
such and such aspects or modifications. The law does not give
the modification, nor the modification the law, but the modifi
cation exists externally to the mind ; after identity — similarity,
difference, contrast, analogy, proportion ; and the mind is capa
ble of perceiving them, of recognising them. It is mind, one
and indivisible in all. It is beautiful to contemplate mind as
an indivisible, spiritual substance, and every operation as that
mind itself acting — not even its ideas separate from the mind
— these ideas being: but mind itself. Who is not lost in the

248 INTELLECT.

admiration of this simplicity, in the marvel presented in the
contemplation of a spiritual substance thus changing, but
simple and undivided in all its changes ? Have we not an
approach here to an explanation of the immutability of God ;
for all truth being known to Him, every idea present to His
mind, in one wide and comprehensive intelligence, how can He
change ? The identity and diversity in all objects which He
has created, their resemblances, contrasts, the fine analogies,
the proportions, every relation, as every existence, every sub
stance, being, quality, the whole range and universe of truth,
and possible truth, are present to His omniscient and all-com
prehensive mind. It must exist, then, ever the same — Him
self, the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness or
shadow of turning.

Much controversy has existed as to the nature of our ideas.
Are they but modifications of the mind, or are they in the
mind ? The general doctrine or view has been that they are in
the mind, — not mere modifications of the mind — representative
entities, not cognitive modifications, as Sir William Hamilton
makes the distinction. This seems to have been the Platonic
theory of ideas ; and it was Plato's doctrine, that the archetypes
of everything existed in the Divine mind before they had ex
ternal embodiment, before they were created. This was also
the view which Aristotle took ; his intelligible species being
refined sensible species, or the species thrown off by external
bodies, refined so as to become the object of intellection, or
matter for the understanding or cognitive faculty. This view
of our ideas was attributed to Descartes and Locke ; and the
latter has especially been charged with being the originator, at
least in England, of what is called the representationalist theory
of ideas, which laid the foundation, or prepared the way, for
Hume and Berkeley's sceptical theories about an external world.
We are persuaded that neither Descartes nor Locke held the
representationalist theory, although their language may some
times seem to give countenance to it. Locke often expressed
himself unguardedly ; but immediately upon such expressions,
we find passages which demonstrate what his real meaning

INTELLECT. 249

was ; and we could desire nothing more to the purpose, or
more clearly and every way admirably expressed. This does
not diminish the merit claimed for Dr. Reid, of overthrowing
the scepticism of Berkeley and Hume ; for that scepticism was
founded upon the representationalist theory of our ideas,
whether that theory was entertained by Locke or not. The
Platonic and Peripatetic theories, pretty similar in effect at least,
and the views of the schoolmen, were the real representationalist
theories. It was contended by Berkeley and Hume, that if
the external world is perceived through the medium of ideas,
these are all that we can be certain of, or that we can know
certainly to exist, — everything being in idea, and necessarily
so, before the mind can perceive or take cognizance of it. We
need go no farther than our ideas for the explanation of what
we call matter, or a material framework without us, — in other
words, the external world. Sir William Hamilton contends
that " the Platonic theory of ideas has nothing to do with
a doctrine of sensitive perception ;" and that " its introduction
into the question is only pregnant with confusion." But what
is his own account of that theory ? He says, " The Platonists,
and some of the older Peripatetics, held that the soul virtually
contained within itself representative forms, which were only
excited by the external reality." This is surely the represen
tationalist theory — the representation indeed not coming from
without, but still the representation of what is without. The
forms of Plato corresponded, according to Sir William Hamil
ton, with the " species sensiles expressce" of the schoolmen,
although not derived from without, but " having a latent and
real existence in the soul, and, by the impassive energy of the
mind itself, elicited into consciousness, on occasion of the im
pression made on the external organ." Were these forms, so
elicited, different from the mind formative, or the formative
laws of the mind ? The idea conveyed at least by the termino
logy, is that of something apart from the mind, — ideas in the
mind. The representationalist theory, then, was fairly charge
able only upon the ancients and the schoolmen, and both
Locke and Descartes are unfairly implicated in it.

250 INTELLECT.

Whatever may have been the origin of the term idea, there
can be little doubt now as to its meaning in general accepta
tion. It is now employed generally for that state of mind in
which something is mentally present, be it an object of sense,
or some abstraction of the mind itself. It has the most generic
signification therefore. In its strict etymological signification,
it may mean the representation of something, and hence pro
perly it could be employed fur objects of sight alone, or the re
presentation of these in the mind. It is not, however, so
limited now in its application. Idea now is purely a mental
thing, and has as abstract a signification as notion or concept,
which terms Sir William Hamilton would substitute in the
place of Idea, discarding Idea altogether from the terminology
of philosophy. Its figurative sense is sunk, and it now signifies
generally the thoughts of the mind, which are just the states
of the mind at any moment, or successive moments, when it is
the mental part, properly speaking, and not the sensational or
emotional part of our being, which is had in view. It would
be a poor result of philosophy if it were to narrow our terms,
so that each would be like a dried specimen of a herbarium, and
our meaning was to be fixed by the precise term we used, as
well as by the general tenor of our discourse. All life would
be taken from language in this way, and a philosophic pedantry
would deface all our simplest efforts at communicating thought,
and mar often the finest, and perhaps the most impassioned
expression of emotion itself. There can be no danger now of
confounding "idea" with a representation or picture of its
object in the mind. The time when it would create confusion
in language, we think, is past. The forms of Plato, the intelli
gible species of Aristotle, have vanished with the theories which
gave them birth.

We would take ideas, then, for the thoughts of the mind,
whatever these are — those mental states which may be called
generally thoughts, ideas, conceptions, notions, apprehensions —
although there may be a propriety in using one of these terms
in preference to another in certain connexions ; the connexion
for the most part will suggest the term to be used. Dugald

INTELLECT. 251

Stewart has the following note to his remarks upon what he
calls the faculty of conception. " In common discourse," he
says, " we often use the phrase of thinking upon an object, to
express what I here call the conception of it : — In the follow
ing passage," he continues, " Shakespeare uses the former of
these phrases, and the words imagination and apprehension as
synonymous with each other : —

. . . . ' Who can hold a fire in his hand,

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,

By bare imagination of a feast ?

Or wallow naked in December's snow,

By thinking on fantastic Summer's heat ?

0 no ! the apprehension of the good

Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.' "

It is in the unfettered use of language, though it may not be
scientifically precise, that the vividness and freedom of style,
and force of expression, often consist. Substitute " conception
of the frosty Caucasus," for " thinking on the frosty Caucasus,"
in the above passage, and how tame the expression compara
tively ! Still, when exactness and precision are aimed at, when
no disturbing element must be admitted into our thought, or
mode of conveying it, when accuracy is at the very moment the
object in view, it would be wrong to employ a term about which
there could possibly be a mistake, and we properly seek to con
vey our meaning in the most unencumbered language. Con
ception may often be a better word than idea, notion better
than conception, and concept better than all. There are times
too when thought is a far better word than idea, although still
they might be used as synonymous. Thought expresses more
than idea, it goes deeper into the mind ; and when we speak of
a fine thought, it is something loftier or profounder than a fine
idea. We have used the term idea hitherto, as it is that which
is generally employed when speaking of our primitive or
elementary ideas, and we do not see that it would be any great
improvement, or contribute to greater accuracy, to use the term
notions instead. Descartes, according to Sir William Hamilton,
was the first who assigned to the term its general meaning, or

252 INTELLECT.

employed it for our thoughts in general. It is the term usually
employed by Locke, and, in his use of it, it is by no means
exclusively appropriated to an image or picture in the mind — it
is employed for the most abstract of the mind's thoughts or
conceptions. We use it in the same wide sense.

Our ideas, and their various modifications, then — and these
capable of following, or inevitably following, each other in a
certain order of connexion — give us the whole of the mental
phenomena: the laws or principles by which the ideas are at
first obtained, and are afterwards modified, and follow in
trains, being supposed. We can thus account for all the
faculties.

XVIII.

THE SUPPOSED FACULTIES OF MIND KESOLVED INTO THE
PHENOMENA ALREADY CONSIDERED.

Memory we have already taken out of the category of facul
ties, and made a property or characteristic of mind. By it, the
past in which we ourselves existed is recalled or reproduced.
This is more than a conception. Dugald Stewart thus dis
tinguishes conception and memory. " Conception," he says,
" is often confounded with other powers. When a painter
makes a picture of a friend, who is absent or dead, he is
commonly said to paint from memory, and the expression is
sufficiently correct for common conversation. But in an analysis
of the mind, there is ground for a distinction. The power of
conception enables him to make the features of his friend an
object of thought, so as to copy the resemblance ; the power of
memory recognises these features as a former object of percep
tion. Every act of memory," Dugald Stewart adds, " includes
an idea of the past ; conception implies no idea of time what
ever." It is the supposition of faculties which has occasioned
those minute distinctions which have been drawn between one
faculty and another, or in order to keep the province of one
faculty separate from that of another. Discard the notion of
faculties, and what have we but ideas passing through the mind,
or the mind existing in states, called ideas, according to certain

INTELLECT. 253

laws or characteristics of mind ? Memory and conception are
thus not distinguished but in the nature of the ideas present to
the mind. In the one case, we have ideas of a past time, of a
past scene, of a past object, in which we ourselves lived, or had
a part, or which we observed, or were eye-witnesses of. In the
other, we have merely ideas of a scene or object in the mind.
That is to say, the mind exists in the one instance in the state
of a recognised past ; in the other, in the state of a thought,
conception, or idea. Dugald Stewart limits conception to
absent objects of perception, or to sensations formerly felt. " By
conception," he says, "I mean that power of the mind which
enables it to form a notion of an absent object of perception ; or
of a sensation which it has formerly felt." " I do not contend,"
he adds, " that this is exclusively the proper meaning of the
word, but I think that the faculty I have now defined, deserves
to be distinguished by an appropriate name." The distinction
between memory and conception, then, according to Dugald
Stewart, is the mere circumstance of time in the one, which the
other wants. " Every act of memory includes an idea of the
past ; conception implies no idea of time whatever." Dugald
Stewart gives a beautiful example of what he means by concep
tion, quoting again from Shakespeare. " Shakespeare," he
says, " calls this power ' the mind's eye.'"

Hamlet says, on the appearance of the ghost of his father : —

" My father ! Methinks I see my father."

Horatio asks, " Where, my Lord ?" And Hamlet replies :
" In my mind's eye, Horatio." Stewart, then, limits concep
tion to an absent object of perception, or to a past sensation,
without the idea of its being past, or without the idea of the
time when it was formerly felt ; for then it would be memory.
Now, in order to meet the case of an idea or notion of a past
perception or sensation, without the notion of time, Dugald
Stewart invents a faculty, and calls it conception, or the already
recognised faculty of conception lie appropriates to this. By
others the faculty is regarded as the same with simple appre
hension, and is that faculty of which a simple thought, notion,
or idea, without any judgment, or any other adjunct whatever,

2.34 INTELLECT.

is the object. But what thought of the mind does not imply
a judgment or discrimination ? In systems of Logic, a distinc
tion is drawn between simple apprehension and judgment.
But in every simple apprehension there is properly a judgment,
in the sense of an idea limited or discriminated. To make
conception and simple apprehension, then, synonymous — as a
mere thought without a judgment, is to forget what actually
takes place in the case of every thought. We can have no
thought without a judgment — a limitation or discrimination.
Some judgments may be more complex than others, but we
cannot have the simplest idea without a judgment ; it is im
plied in the very circumstance of its being an idea, that it is
discriminated. It is only in the states of simple consciousness
that we have no judgment. In the case of our primitive ideas,
judgment is more spontaneous than with our other ideas, and
hence they are called intuitive judgments ; but there is judg
ment wherever there is an idea, in the sense that there is judg
ment even where there is direct comparison ; there is discrimi
nation. In an intuitive judgment the discrimination is ventured
upon intuitively, or at once, without material for it. In another
judgment the materials exist. That is all the difference.
What is a conception, then, different from a judgment, and
what is a j udgment but an idea limited, discriminated, defined ?
Dugald Stewart's view of conception, confining it to the notion
of a past sensation or an absent object of perception, does not
help us to a distinct faculty, for what have we here but an
idea ? Is there anything so peculiar about the idea of a past
sensation, a pain, for example, we have formerly felt, or of an
absent object of perception, to require it to have a name appro
priated to it ? I have the idea of an absent friend : Is that
not an idea, but a conception, because it is the idea of an absent
friend ? Conception may be a more appropriate term for the
particular state of the mind at the time when such an idea is
present to it, or when it exists in the state of conceiving, or
thinking, of an absent friend ; but it is obvious, it is but a state
of mind after all, and taking the term idea in its generic sense,
it is but the particular kind of idea that constitutes the differ-

INTELLECT. 255

encc between this state of mind and any other in which an idea
is present to it. It is the peculiar kind of idea that makes
the difference. I think of the scene of my childhood ; it is
at this moment present to my mind ; it is in my " mind's eye."
What is this as distinguished from the idea of the law of
gravity ? Both are ideas, the only distinction is in the nature
of the ideas. We have already accounted for the differences of
our ideas by their originating circumstances, or their modifying
laws. The idea of the scene of my childhood is not one idea ;
it is the idea of place, that place separated from me by distance,
and distinguished by all the circumstances of scenery and asso
ciations and remembrances belonging to the place, and which
give it a tender and lively interest to the mind. Still, in all
this, we have nothing more than ideas more or less simple, and
combining or uniting in one aggregate, or whole, or unity.
When a painter endeavours to call up the features of his absent
friend, when he succeeds, and when he has those features be
fore him, so that he can, by his peculiar art, transfer them to
canvas, is not the distinction between this and any thought
only in the object thought about ? The one thought is called
a conception, the other an idea, it may be ; but is there any
peculiar faculty in the one case which we have not in the
other ? It may be doubted if it is not memory after all that
is at work here. We think of the friend or scene as either is
at this moment existing, but how can we distinguish this from
the remembrance of the friend or scene when we last saw them ?
Is it not memory that is doing the work after all ? At all
events, the presence of any absent object of perception does not
involve any peculiar faculty. We have nothing but certain
ideas after all present to the mind. They may be ideas of an
object of perception : Dugald Stewart himself calls it " a notion
of an absent object of perception." If it is a notion, it is an
idea; and may not that arise to the mind from some link of
connexion which we may be able to observe or not ? The
term is useful, however, in this application, as marking out,
or having regard to, the peculiar kind of idea or ideas present
to the mind, and the term should be used in such an applica-

256 INTELLECT.

tion in preference to idea. The state of mind is very little
different from that of imagination, as we shall see when we
come to consider that faculty. The element that goes to con
stitute imagination may be at work in the conception of absent
objects of perception, as it may also in the memory of past ob
jects of perception. And hence the vividness often of our
conceptions and memories, and the peculiar charm that may
be around them. The difference in the vividness and clearness
of the conception of different minds may be owing to imagina
tion or the want of it, the power as it is called of realizing a
scene, of picturing our thoughts. Some minds have greater
power of conception on this very account, they are pictorial ;
they can call up a scene or an object much more vividly than
other minds. Imagination may help even the vividness of our
most abstract conceptions ; it may not contribute to their
distinctness, but it gives them a vividness which they would
not otherwise possess. A more analytic or abstract mind may
give the thought more distinctly, better defined, more accurately:
but the other realizes the idea he has more, and could convey
it more vividly to others. He sees it in a picture ; imagination
lends its figures even to abstractions ; and the subtlest thought
may be obtained by the help of imagination, and conveyed to
others through the same medium. It is this very circumstance,
the power of a vivid imagination, having almost all the effect
of a reality, that Dugald Stewart has mistaken for a momen
tary belief in the reality of our conceptions. Were we to see
one of Shakespeare's dramas enacted on the stage, with the
costume and other circumstances adapted to the characters
represented, and the period and action of the drama, and
enacted with lifelike reality, we might almost be cheated into
the belief that it was a real scene that was taking place before
our eyes, and that the dramatis personal were the characters
which they only personated. Macbeth might seem to us for
the moment overwhelmed by the murder of Duncan and the
vision of Banquo, or Lear actually driven to madness by the
ingratitude of his daughters : faithful acting has produced an
illusion so complete as to be followed by the most serious effects

INTELLECT. 257

on the mind of the spectators. The dramatic action of Whit-
field in the pulpit has had the same effect, realizing the scene
or the circumstances he was pourtraying, or the impression of
which he was wishing to convey, so completely, that the hearer
was for the moment carried away, and felt in the very circum
stances, or transported to the very scene, described. A sailor,
we are told, on one occasion, when Whitfield was describing a
storm, and every word and action of the orator gave increased
vividness to the picture, hardly doubting that he and those
around him were in the utmost peril, and apparently feeling
that not a moment was to be lost, exclaimed aloud, " To the
long-boat ! to the long-boat !" The way in which, covering
his eyes, and weeping with emotion, Whitfield uttered the
words, " the wrath to come ! the wrath to come ! " was the
means of converting one who afterwards himself became a
distinguished preacher. And Whitfield could repeat the same
action again and again with the same success. Even the cold
infidel seemed to see the angel arrested in his ascent to heaven,
as Whitfield apostrophized him in the conclusion of his dis
course, and called upon him to stop that he might take the
tidings of another soul converted to the heavenly courts : it was
Hume that acknowledged, that often as he had heard this stroke
of Whitfield's eloquence, it had never failed to produce the same
effect upon his mind. " Spinello," says D'Israeli in his " Liter
ary Character," "having painted the fall of the rebellious
angels, had so strongly imagined the illusion, and more parti
cularly the terrible features of Lucifer, that he was himself
struck with such horror as to have been long afflicted with the
presence of the demon to which his genius had given birth."
All are familiar with the anecdote regarding Luther in his cell
at Wurtemburg. So lively was his impression of demoniac
influence, and so vivid at a particular time his idea of the great
tempter of souls, that he thought he saw him, and, in the spirit
peculiar to the reformer, hurled his ink-bottle at him, bidding
him avaunt, and begone from his presence. Superstitious
people, no doubt, believe in the existence of those spirits to
which every variety of name has been given, and which have

R

258 INTELLECT.

been assigned to every place, and to every element, and to
almost every occasion, while children taught in the absurd lore
of ghosts and hobgoblins, and fairies, and genii, will not trust
themselves in certain situations, lest they should enjoy a vision
of these interesting personages. What shall we say of these
cases ? Must we infer from such instances that conception is
in every case attended by a momentary belief in the reality or
existence of its object, or its presence while it is an object of
conception, which belief would be permanent were it not cor
rected by the informations of our senses, and the admonitions
from the objects around ? Such is Dugald Stewart's doctrine
on this subject. He asserts that the painter actually believes
in the presence of his friend, while, for the time, he recalls his
features. " The belief, indeed," he says, " is only momentary,
for it is extremely difficult, in our waking hours, to keep up a
steady and undivided attention to any object we conceive or
imagine, and as soon as the conception or imagination is over,
the belief which attended it is at an end." So far as the con
ception is concerned, the belief is perfect ; it is only corrected
by the circumstances around us to which our senses are alive.
We believe few will subscribe to this doctrine. Granting that
in those vivid conceptions where imagination does so much to
strengthen the conception, there is belief; this is far from ad
mitting that conception itself, as such, or in all instances, is
accompanied with a belief in the reality of the object of our
conception, or conceptions. But may not those instances of
lively conception themselves be explained without resorting to
the theory that there is actual belief, even in these instances, in
the scene or object concerned ? There was only a realization
of the scene, of the object — a vivid imagination, not a belief.
In Luther's case there seems to have been some physical
affection, and consequently, optical illusion, acting in connexion
with a heated fancy. In the case of superstitious people, again,
and of children, it is an actual belief ; for they are taught to
believe in the existence of spirits and their visits to this lower
world, and of those legendary beings whose names are so
familiar in pages of romance and fabulous story ; and when

INTELLECT. 259

any shadowy or strange shape meets their eye, and they cannot
correct their impression by other objects of sight, it is not a
conception that is believed in, it is the notion or idea they have
received as true, and which they never thought to question.
A vivid impression of a scene is not belief in it. The exclama
tion of the seaman under Whitfield's oratory may have been
only the effect of excitement ; and we know how ready sea
faring men are to obey the impulse of every varying feeling.
It is difficult to determine, however, how far the illusion may
go without reaching actual belief. In reading an ordinary
story, we know well that all is fiction, and yet, owing to the
vividness of the description, and the truth to nature, what is
called the verisimilitude of the narrative, we have the pleasure
almost of being among the scenes described. We realize the
sentiments and feelings of the parties, as if they were our own,
or as if we were in their circumstances. That it is not belief
is evident, for we have an interest even in the most harrowing
circumstances, the belief of which must destroy all pleasure, and
produce, not interest, but actual suffering. Authors have wept
at passages of their own writing. Alfieri noted in the margin
of one of his dramas, " written while shedding a flood of tears."
Burns was seen by his wife, in the field, indulging an incon-
trollable fit of laughter, and when he came into the house, he
repeated to her " Tarn o' Shanter." D'lsraeli has recorded an
interesting circumstance connected with Mrs. Siddons, which
we give in his own words : — ;c The great actress of our age,
during representation, always had the door of her dressing-
room open, that she might listen to, and, if possible, watch the
whole performance with the same attention as was experienced
by the spectators. By this means she possessed herself of all
the illusion of the scene ; and when she herself entered upon
the stage, her dreaming thoughts then brightened into a vision,
where the perceptions of the soul were as firm and clear as if
she were really the Constance or the Katherine whom she only
represented." The same author says, — " Actors of genius have
accustomed themselves to walk on the stage for an hour before
the curtain was drawn, that they might fill their minds with all

260 INTELLECT.

the phantoms of the drama, and so suspend communion with
the external world." The ancient Rhapsodists seem to have
derived their name from the effect which their own compositions
had upon them. The Italian improvvisatori, at the present day,
appear to realize all that is said of lyrical bards and minstrels
of former times. We would give one other quotation from
D'Israeli, for he has a chapter devoted to a kindred subject to
that on which we are now treating. "Amidst the monuments of
great and departed nations," says he, " our imagination is touched
by the grandeur of local impressions, and the vivid associations,
or suggestions of the manners, the arts, and the individuals, of
a great people. The classical author of Anacharsis, when in
Italy, would often stop as if overcome by his recollections.
Amid camps, temples, circuses, hippodromes, and public and
private edifices, he, as it were, held an interior converse with
the names of those who seemed hovering about the capital of
the old world, as if he had been a citizen of ancient Rome
travelling in the modern. So men of genius have roved amid
the awful ruins till the ideal presence has fondly built up the
city anew, and have become Romans in the Rome of two
thousand years past."

We have in all these instances the power of a vivid concep
tion, or rather imagination ; for it is imagination which pro
duces all these effects. Mere ideas or conceptions present to
the mind would not give us them. Imagination must vivify
them, or they must be accompanied in the mind with that
mysterious element which, accompanying any of our concep
tions, constitute them the conceptions of imagination, and give
to them a brightness and a charm which are indefinable and
indescribable. This power, or the element accompanying it,
makes the most ideal scene real, renders the past present, and
brings the absent and the dead within " the mind's eye." Our
conceptions unbrightened by this element are dull enough :
they are mere conceptions. With this element playing about
them, they are clothed in sunlight ; and an effect, which words
cannot describe, possesses and fills the whole soul. But vivid
ness itself, apart from any other effect of imagination, is an

INTELLECT. 261

important one in reference to our conceptions, and that whether
as respects ourselves, or in order to our vividly conveying them
to others. We find at one time that we can much more
vividly and impressively communicate our thoughts than at
others, and the difference is in the liveliness of our conceptions.
Vividly to conceive is vividly to express. It is wonderful the
difference between the expression of a thought at one time and
at another. And it will be found that when we conceive or
think most strongly, our thoughts will take a figurative turn
or expression. This is seen in the more impassioned parts of
Shakespeare's dialogue. The power of conceiving strongly may
be cultivated by the habit of thinking, by conversation, and
familiarity with those authors who are the best examples of
thinking themselves, and who most vividly convey their thoughts
in writing. The cultivation of the imaginative faculty for this
purpose is of some importance. If the reason alone is cul
tivated, it is most likely that vivacity of expression will be
sacrificed, and jejuneness both of thinking and expression will
be the result. All the finer poets should be studied : we should
invite the visitations of that spirit ourselves by which nature
becomes a scene of greater delight, and we see life in every
thing around us. Inanimate objects will then speak to us,
and the mind will not be a storehouse of facts, or a machine
for giving out arguments as formal as they may be scientific or
correct ; but a living principle, inviting truth from every quar
ter, inhaling it, taking in the inspirations of nature, and what
is above nature — a soul feeling as well as thinking, and when
thinking the most abstractly, loving truth all the more that it
has points of contact with the simplest as well as the sublimest
lessons.

Abstraction, Judgment, Reasoning, and Imagination, form
the next subject of examination or analysis, as reputed faculties
of the mind.

ABSTRACTION.

Abstraction is generally regarded as that power which the
mind possesses of attending to one or more objects or qualities

262 INTELLECT.

of objects, to the exclusion of all others. When an object is
presented to our contemplation, were we not capable of confin
ing our attention to itself, or one of its distinguishing charac
teristics — considering the object in detail — it is plain that none
of its qualities could become known to us. For every object is
made up of a number of qualities, and monads alone can be
said to be simple. For any object, then, to be the object of
our knowledge, it must be known in respect of its several
qualities. But for these qualities to be severally known, again,
they must be separately considered. When an object is pre
sented to us in the aggregate, we have at first, we must have,
but a very confused conception of it, or rather no conception of
it at all ; for as we have traced our ideas, they unfold very
gradually, or are formed by the mind in somewhat of a regular
order or succession. The faculty of abstraction, then, if it is a
faculty, begins with our earliest exercise of mind. We can
acquire but one idea at a time. Our ideas may become com
plex, and there may be in them what Dr. Brown calls virtual
equivalence, which is the nearest that we can come to the
explanation of complexity in a simple, undivided, and indivisi
ble substance ; but it is obvious it is but one idea that the
mind can obtain at a time. Our knowledge of the qualities of
matter and of mind is acquired in this way ; and it is in the
same way that the distinguishing characteristics of bodies come
to be known ; for the knowledge of the qualities of matter as
such, can be regarded as only extended, when we add to that,
the knowledge of the powers or properties which are lodged in
bodies. Many of the properties of bodies are but the primary
and secondary qualities which belong to matter as such : but
there are properties which arise out of the powers with which
different bodies are endowed ; and these can be ascertained, or
become the object of knowledge, just as we acquire the know
ledge of the simple qualities of matter. In like manner our
minds, or mind itself, can be the object only of successive
observation, or successive consciousness. Both matter and
mind, therefore, develop their qualities, and their several
phenomena, in detail. We acquaint ourselves with them,

INTELLECT. 263

as they unfold themselves to our observation. Now, liter
ally, this is the whole of abstraction. Instead of having a
power of considering objects or qualities separately, or apart,
we cannot, if we would, do otherwise. We have not the power
of doing anything else. Singular, to assign a faculty to a mere
mode of procedure in the mind, and what is rather the absence
of a faculty, or the inability to comprehend things in the aggre
gate, or except in detail. That is not a power, surely, which is
merely the order in which our knowledge is acquired. There
are two ways in which knowledge may be prosecuted, or rather
obtained. It may be obtained involuntarily, or voluntarily —
that is, it may thrust itself upon us, or we may set ourselves to
seek it, or prosecute it. We either make it the direct matter
of our pursuit, for we must have knowledge of some kind, and
the lowest observations that can be made must still be ranked
as observations ; or qualities and objects develop themselves to
us without any care or attention on our part. But in either
way, it is only one subject at a time that can engage our minds.
We would in vain seek to embrace more than one matter of
observation, were we ever so willing. This is the very order,
then, in which all knowledge is obtained, and all knowledge is
prosecuted. It is said we have the faculty of selecting subjects
of observation, of making some quality or attribute the subject
of our attention, while we exclude every other. Strange faculty
that, which is rather the faculty of not being able to do any
thing else. To call that a faculty, which is the want of one !
The faculty of abstraction is the faculty of not considering, or
making the object of attention, more things than one at the
same time. Is this a faculty, or is it not rather the absence of
one ? We know not what higher intelligences can do, — what is
the process of their inquiries, or the way in which they obtain
their knowledge, — but our own faculties are obviously limited
to the acquisition of one subject of knowledge at a time. We
proceed by successive steps in our knowledge ; we cannot take
any more comprehensive glance than a single observation im
plies ; we have not the universal intuition of Omniscience, nt>r
the wide survey which, it may be, superior intelligences are

264 INTELLECT.

capable of. Our knowledge grows upon us, or we increase it
by voluntary, but in all cases single, observations. We confine
ourselves, just because we can do nothing else, to a single sub
ject of inquiry, or to one object of observation. Some one
quality or attribute of a substance or body, or it may be of
mind, engages our attention. Now, it is what is voluntary in
this process that gives it the aspect of a separate faculty, or
indeed of a faculty at all. The act of a volition, the result of -a
desire, and the consequent mental effort or occupation of our
thoughts, that is abstraction. We wish to consider a certain
subject, or to investigate or examine a certain quality or attri
bute of an object, — the doing this is called abstraction ; and
this process — for it is not a faculty — is made a faculty of the
mind, and is extended to a process much simpler, the involun
tary process by which all our simple ideas are acquired, and
much of our succeeding knowledge is obtained. It is said to
be by the process of abstraction that our knowledge of qualities
at all is obtained. It is said that we abstract the quality of
hardness from that of softness, or that we abstract this quality
from all other qualities, and call it hardness. But has not the
quality of hardness just forced itself upon our attention before
any abstraction, and irrespective of any voluntary effort of ours ?
Dr. Brown, with that extreme subtilty and acuteness which
distinguished him, has the following observations in connexion
with this subject: — " In abstraction, the mind is supposed to
single out a particular part of some one of its complex notions
for particular consideration. But what is the state of the mind
immediately preceding this intentional separation — its state at
the moment in which the supposed faculty is conceived to be
called into exercise ? Does it not involve necessarily the very
abstraction which it is supposed to produce ? And must we
not, therefore, in admitting such a power of voluntary separa
tion, admit an infinite series of preceding abstractions, to ac
count for a single act of abstraction ? If we know what we
single out, we have already performed all the separation which
is necessary ; if we do not know what we are singling out, and
do not even know that we are singling out anything, the sepa-

INTELLECT. 265

rate part of the complex whole may, indeed, rise to our con
ception ; but it cannot arise by the operation of any voluntary
faculty. That such conceptions do indeed arise, as states of
the mind, there can be no question. In every sentence which
we read, in every affirmation which we make, in almost every
portion of our silent train of thought, some decomposition of
more complex perceptions or notions has taken place. The
exact recurrence of any complex whole, at any two moments,
is perhaps what never takes place. After we look at a scene
before us so long as to have made every part familiar, if we
close our eyes to think of it, in the very moment of bringing
our eyelids together, some change of this kind has taken place.
The complex whole, which we saw the instant before, when
conceived by us in this instant succession, is no longer, in
every circumstance, the same complex whole. Some part, or
rather many parts, are lost altogether."

" Abstraction," Dr. Brown continues, " as far as abstraction
consists in the rise of conceptions in the mind, which are parts
of former mental affections more complex than these, does un
questionably occur ; and since it occurs, it must occur accord
ing to laws which are truly laws of the mind, and must indicate
some mental power, or powers, in consequence of which the
conceptions termed abstract arise. Is it necessary, however, to
have recourse to any peculiar faculty, or are they not rather
modifications of those susceptibilities of the mind which have
been already considered by us ?"

The point to which Dr. Brown brings the question, is just
that at which by an independent tract of thought we have
arrived. The separate conceptions of the mind in any case
constitute the whole of the supposed faculty of abstraction.
There is a voluntary effort of the mind, however, by which we
make some subject or some quality the exclusive object of our
regard or attention. We voluntarily abstract our minds, as it
is said, from every other subject, from every other quality, or
we consider those which are the object of our attention apart.
On the one hand, we abstract our minds, or on the other, we
abstract the qualities for separate consideration. The proper

26G INTELLECT.

view undoubtedly is, that we abstract our minds from all other
subjects or objects of attention. But what is this abstraction
of our minds ? What is this voluntary effort ? It is just the
operation of a certain volition, the result of a desire to possess
ourselves of a certain subject of knowledge, and what already
is to some extent the matter of our knowledge, becomes matter
of further consideration or regard, and new conceptions arise
concerning it in the same involuntary way, that the part which
has previously given itself to us did. All that is peculiar in
the process, is the act of volition by which something, in part
known, is made the object of contemplation, or exclusive atten
tion ; and thus attention is a part of the process : but what is
attention ? It also is regarded as a peculiar faculty ; but it is
no more than that desire or volition we have spoken of blend
ing with, or influencing our trains of conception : it is that
desire or volition controlling our minds, so that we have exclu
sive regard to one subject of thought, we are said to attend to
that one subject. Our conceptions, here, however, are as in
voluntary as in the most involuntary suggestions. Our con
ceptions are independent of us. It is only an indirect influence
that our volitions have upon our conceptions. They truly arise
involuntarily. This has been shewn by Dr. Brown in the most
satisfactory way ; and Stewart adverts to the same circumstance
or feature of our associations. All that the will can do, is to
direct the mind continuously to what has once spontaneously
arisen ; or it may lead us to dismiss it from our minds, suspend
our thoughts of it ; although this very volition often makes it
all the more tenacious. In the former case it is attention, and
it seems to be this which constitutes the peculiarity of abstrac
tion, or which leads to the invention or supposition of such a
faculty.

JUDGMENT.

Judgment is another of the supposed faculties of the mind ;
and it is the only one of the faculties as classified that, along
with memory, we would be disposed to admit as a distinct
mental process or power. But there is no need to suppose a

INTELLECT. 267

distinct faculty even here ; or rather it is not a philosophic
view of the mind to ascribe to it faculties, and we prefer to
contemplate the mind as mind, characterized by certain laws
and principles which are intuitive to it, or which are the
sources and modifying causes of all our ideas. The laws of
mind, or the aspects under which qualities and objects are seen
or contemplated, present certain relations to the mind, and a
judgment is nothing more or less than a quality or object seen
under these relations. A resemblance, a contrast, an analogy,
a proportion : qualities or objects are seen under one or other
of these aspects. Or identity is what is perceived, and what is
predicated. This is the whole of judgment. It may be said,
— well, but this is a faculty. Is it not rather our ideas exist
ing merely under certain relations ? It is not judgment that
forms these relations ; these relations exist independently of us,
and our minds perceive them, or our minds are formed to exist
in states of relation. What is judgment, the supposed faculty
of the mind, exercised about, but the identity, resemblance,
analogy, contrast, or proportion, existing among objects or
qualities ? What are our judgments, but perceived or felt re
lations, or more simply, ideas of relation ? When we speak of
the faculty of judgment, it is as if that faculty sat in formal
deliberation upon two simple ideas, and pronounced a verdict
respecting them, the proportion, for example, and precise pro
portion, between them. It is implied in the faculty, if it is
viewed as a faculty, that it institutes a formal comparison, and
having made the necessary examination or scrutiny, pronounces
accordingly. We accordingly speak of the judgment which the
mind forms — of the mind judging; we say, this is my judg
ment — this is the judgment which I form. An opinion is a
judgment, and we speak of forming an opinion. But in all
these cases we have nothing but ideas seen under certain
relations.

A judgment may be said to be a mental perception, just as
we have external perceptions, or perceptions of objects without.
A real relation is a mental object. Dr. Keid confines the term
perception to the perception of objects without, and it was he

268 INTELLECT.

who vindicated for perception an immediate and intuitive effect,
in opposition to the representational theory of perception, and
in refutation of the scepticism of Berkeley and Hume. Sir
William Hamilton sees no reason for such a limitation. We
are forced often to employ the word when it has application to
merely a mental object, a truth, a relation of any kind. We
may correctly say, I perceive a truth, or I perceive a relation.
A judgment, then, is just a perceived relation — what Dr. Brown
calls a " felt relation," a phrase of more doubtful propriety.
And yet we somehow fall very naturally into the phrase, a felt
relation, a feeling of relation. This is rather difficult to account
for, since a relation is not properly an object of feeling. Feel
ing belongs either to the sensational or to the emotional part
of our nature. But a perceived relation is essentially mental,
or belongs to the mind proper, not to the emotions. But with
out discussing so nice a point, we say that a judgment is a
perceived or a felt relation, and there is therefore no need of a
peculiar faculty which we may call judgment. We have still
just the mind existing in a certain state, a state of relation.
All our judgments are but the evolution of certain relations,
and these are given to us by the intuitions and laws of mind
which we have considered. It seems to us that this is the view
demanded by a strict and accurate philosophy. For all prac
tical purposes, of course, we may speak of our judgments, and
of the faculty of judgment. We may speak of the faculty of
conception — of the faculty of abstraction. We cannot be draw
ing nice metaphysical distinctions, in common language, and
for ordinary or practical purposes. But it is well that we know
what we are saying — what we are speaking about after all — that
we have taken the gauge or survey of the mind. We are
enabled thus even when we speak in popular language, to
avoid those errors which ignorance of the real phenomena of
the mind frequently induces. We can take a more precise and
correct view of many a question or subject, or see at once what,
perhaps, may, without such a knowledge of the mind, involve
or occasion long and tedious, and, it may be, vague discussion.
A clear view of mind will settle many a dispute, about which

INTELLECT. 269

otherwise there might be much desultory debate, or will settle
it much more speedily than when a haze hung about it, which
proceeded entirely from our ignorance of mind and its real
phenomena. It is not, therefore, to introduce metaphysics into
our ordinary speech, or the management of ordinary discourse,
that we pursue the analysis of mind to the utmost extent that
we may regard it capable of. But we do so, because, in the
first place, it is demanded of us that we pursue every subject
to its legitimate issue or limits, or present it in its exact point
of view or bearing ; and, in the second place, for the highest of
all practical purposes to which any subject can be turned, viz.,
the right elucidation, or the accurate discrimination, of truth.

Let us look at this view of judgment as it bears upon the
subject of reasoning, or the supposed faculty of reasoning.

Reasoning, as distinguished from judgment, is a series of
judgments : we compare one judgment with another, and de
duce or evolve a third. We assert some general proposition —
we include a particular under it, and get the truth of the par
ticular, therefore, in the general. We assert, all spiritual sub
stances are immortal : we include under that assertion the
immortality of the human soul, or find the immortality of the
human soul involved in the immortality of spiritual substances.
We get the truth of the particular from the truth of the gene
ral. We predicate something of a general term ; we then
predicate the general term of the particular, or include the
particular under the general, and we thus are warranted to
assert of the particular what we had asserted of the general.
This is the common form of reasoning, and it is that form to
which every other may be reduced. Now, taking this as the
common form of reasoning, as it undoubtedly is, it will be seen
that we have here but extended relations, relation involved in
relation. It is obvious that what is true of general terms must
be true of the particulars included under them ; and it is only
necessary, therefore, to assert or establish the relation of the
general and the particular, to obtain the same relation regard
ing the particular that we had already obtained in the case of
the general. That in reasoning we deduce a particular from a

270 INTELLECT.

general, we have already endeavoured to shew. And we have
shewn that a new generalization takes place in order to this.
But this is nothing more than the deducing of relations —
the perception of dependent relations. Reasoning is nothing
more than this. A process of reasoning, again, or rather a
train of reasoning, is just an extended series of such reason
ings.

IMAGINATION.

The only faculty, or supposed faculty, that remains to be
considered, or that falls under our analysis, is Imagination.
We have included it in our classification of the mental pheno
mena ; but we said then that it was distinguished from the
other phenomena, only as implying the rest, while it was
attended by a state peculiar to itself, and which, for want of
a better name, we call the ideal, or imaginative state. The
grand peculiarity of imagination is that state. For, what have
we in imagination but ideas ? and there is no source of our
ideas but those which we have considered. These ideas, how
ever, are seen under, or accompanied by, a state, which gives
to them all their peculiarity ; so that we have not merely ideas,
but ideas of the imagination. In Milton's description of the
moon, for example, —

" Riding near her highest noon,
Like one who had been led astray,
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,

we have just the ideas of place, of time, and the relation of
analogy, or an idea seen under the law of analogy. But are
these ideas — is this analogy — all of this fine conception ?
Surely not. There is a fine essence here not yet accounted for
by the mere circumstance of ideas, and any relation whatever.
That would never account for, would never constitute, the
imagination implied in the conception. Shelley thus addresses
the moon : —

" Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering cornpanionless ? "

INTELLECT. 271

What is the fine essence that gives to this thought all its
beauty ? The moon is seen rising in the heavens, pale with
its own silvery light, and among the stars, with which it seems
to have no companionship. This is formed into the conception
of " weariness with climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
companionless." Who does not recognise the beauty of this
conception ? Shall we repudiate it as absurd ? Then we are
either insensible to the fineness of imaginative conception, or
we are resolved to regard everything as absurd which is not
literal truth or reality ; and with us imagination is not a legi
timate state, or faculty, of the mind. But it is a state, or
faculty of the mind, whether we repudiate it or not, or whether
we possess it or not. The moon is not the simple planet which
attends upon our orb, or which wanders round our earth. It
is endued with life : it is invested with consciousness and feel
ing. It climbs the heaven : it is conceived to do so reluctantly :
it feels its loneliness ; and that too among the stars which have
a different birth : there is no congeniality, no companionship,
between the moon and the stars: it gazes on the earth, all
solitary in the wide and pathless sky ! Who would deny this
fine conception ? Has it no truthfulness, no reality, no beauty ?
The mind, at least, in its activity of imagination, forms the
conception. In spite of itself, these ideas are awakened.
Pollok, again, describes the moon gazing on the earth

. ..." as if she saw some wonder walking there."

Whence the effect of these ideas ? whence their power ? Why
does the sea seem to speak with a multitudinous voice ? Why
does the wind complain ? why does it moan or rave ? — at one
time " teasing itself with a wayward melancholy," at another,
as if the voices of the dead

" Rose on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"

This is an idea very common in Ossian ; and Byron in his
boyhood caught the spirit of Ossian : —

" Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?

'272 INTELLECT.

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale."

" From the rock on the hill," says Ossian, " from the top of
the windy steep, speak ye ghosts of the dead ! speak, I will
not be afraid ! " " When night comes on the hill, when the
loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn
the death of friends." " Lay by that beam of heaven, son of
the windy Cromla. What cave is thy lonely house ? What
green-headed hill the place of thy repose ? Shall we not hear
thee in the storm ? in the noise of the mountain stream ?
when the feeble sons of the wind come forth, and, scarcely
seen, pass over the desert ?" The thunder speaks with the
voice of God : the floods roar : the forests clap their hands :
the fields rejoice. With Milton, when the strains of music are
heard, —

. . . . " Even Silence

Was took, ere she was ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and he never more,
Still to he so displaced."

When Comus hears the same strains, he says, —

" How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of Silence, through the empty vaulted night,
At every fall, soothing the raven down
Of darkness."

The lady in Comus, in one state of feeling, speaks of evening
as " gray-hooded Eve," and likens it to a

" Sad votaress in Palmer's weeds."

In Shakespeare, it is " tragic, melancholy night ;" and Macbeth,
intent upon his murderous deeds, says, —

. . . . " Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day."

Whence the power of these conceptions ? or what gives them
to us ? Is it the analogy that is couched in them ? But every
imaginative conception does not convey or embody an analogy.
And even where it is analogy — as this unquestionably is the

INTELLECT. 273

principal source or vehicle of imaginative conception — that is
the explanation of the beauty of any thought, the question is,
why analogy should be such a source of beauty, or produce
such effects ? What is there in analogy to do this, and only
in some analogies, and not in all ? Many analogies are scien
tific, and have no imaginative character. It is not the analogy
that will explain the imagination, neither is it imagination
that gives a character to the analogy, but a certain state which
we call the imaginative state, and which seems to be inexpli
cable, allows of certain analogies being imaginative, while others
are not. It is impossible to explain this state, or analyze it :
it seems to be an ultimate phenomenon of the mind, and re
fuses all analysis and explanation. Under this state the naind
is imaginative, even when it cannot express or body its ideas.
The ideas are virtually in the mind ; but are they always those
of analogy or even resemblance ? Certain of our ideas seem to
be poetic, or to have a poetic effect of themselves, irrespective
of any analogy or foreign element. They are poetic, and we
can say no more about it. The finest of our poetic states, cer
tainly, are those in which we are put on seeking an analogy ;
but the question recurs, why is this poetic ? why is this ima
ginative ? what is there in the seeking an analogy, or in the
actual feeling or perception of an analogy, that produces the
poetic effect, or that may be described as the imaginative
state ?* This cannot be explained ; and it is here that we see
the peculiarity of imagination. It will not give up its proper
nature to all our demands or questionings. To try to ascertain
the subtle element, were like trying to catch the element that
runs along the electric wires, and communicates mysteriously

* A recent writer on imagination very have no regard to analogies, while it
happily characterizes it as " the seeking does not, after all, resolve the mystery,
of a new concrete." We believe this is or shew why this seeking a new concrete
an accurate description of imagination is imaginative, or is the source of ima-
in many instances, and perhaps in its ginative pleasure. This peculiar mystery
highest operations. But this makes no is not even referred to by that writer,
account of those cases in which we are The question still is, Why is the " seek-
truly in the imaginative state, though ing a new concrete" imaginative, what
we are not seeking a new concrete, and is imagination ?

274 INTELLECT.

with half the world ; to fix the influences that paint the flowers,
or that form the colours of the morning or the sunset skies,
that silver the shell in its caves, or make the sea obedient to
all the moods and changes of the heavens. Certain of our ideas
are poetic, imaginative ; why, it is impossible to say. This far
can be determined regarding them, what Alison has brought
out in regard to the ideas or conceptions which result in, or
give, the feeling of beauty, that they are ideas or conceptions
of emotion, — as antiquity, melancholy, pity, tenderness, purity,
fragility, power, majesty, and suchlike. And it is this which
makes the beautiful and sublime so hardly separable from the
imaginative — or from imagination. In many circumstances it
is impossible to say whether we are in the state, of feeling the
beautiful, or experiencing the imaginative, in other words, in a
state of imagination. It is difficult to say whether it is the
beautiful that constitutes the imaginative, or imagination that
creates the beautiful. The beautiful and the sublime are un
questionably attendants on the imaginative, if they do not
constitute it. Ideas of emotion are the element of both. The
beautiful and the sublime will always be found connected
with ideas of emotion. So will the imaginative ; the resultant
state in both cases is the phenomenon that refuses to be
explained.

Did our limits permit, we might dwell upon the different
aspects of imagination, its modes of operation, its effects. It
would be especially interesting to look at it in its more creative
character, in the poet ; in the lyric, or the drama, or the more
majestic epic ; and wit and humour would be seen to be aspects
of this faculty or phenomenon, the former of a creative fancy,
the latter of a more creative imagination. These are subjects,
however, which would require, as they have obtained, treatises
for themselves.

It is in the imaginative state that the mind is so active in
perceiving analogies, " seeking new concretes," animating and
personifying nature, and obtaining those figures of speech
which have their element, or find their material, in resem
blances and analogy. It is to this source that we owe much of

INTELLECT. 275

what may be called the beautiful but erring mythology of the
Greeks and Romans : —

. . . . " Sunbeams upon distant hills,
Gliding apace, with shadows in their train,
Might with small help of fancy he transformed
Into fleet oreads sporting visibly."

The ghosts and fairies, the gnomes and other imaginary
beings of a rade state of society, owe their origin to the acti
vity of this principle, united with the suggestions of a super
stitious fear. In certain circumstances the imagination is
ready enough, in the most cultivated age, to body forth these
imaginary creatures, and to entertain a certain dread which
it requires some effort of reason to counteract. It is in those
very places where the imagination has most scope to operate,
or most suggestives to its action, that we find the superstitions
prevailing which are connected with the existence and the ex
ploits of the beings of imagination.

Our limits, however, will not permit us to dwell upon these
topics.

Imagination, as it is partly an emotional, as well as an in
tellectual state, furnishes an appropriate point of transition
from an intellectual course to that on which we are now to
enter — the Emotions, or states of emotion.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.

THE spiritual constitution of man is composed of more than
a merely intellectual provision or apparatus ; the intellectual is
but a part of his compound being, and not the most important
part. Marvellous is the combination of that spiritual nature
which resides within us, or rather which constitutes ourselves.
The spiritual and immaterial soul is composed of qualities and
endowments as opposite, almost, or as diverse, as matter and
mind, having no affinity save that of being both spiritual, or
belonging to one spiritual substance, yet capable of acting and
reacting on each other in a surprising manner ; in which total
distinctness or diversity, and yet mutual reaction, consists much
that is so wonderful in our spiritual constitution. The intel
lectual part of our nature is a surpassing mystery — those pro
cesses by which the mind becomes all light, opens to ideas of
itself and the outer world or universe, puts upon all that is
external or internal its own forms, while these forms have their
counterpart without, or in the inner self, constructs science,
and makes its own processes the subject of its investigation —
but marvellous as this is, there are mysteries of our nature far
greater than these, and the intellectual part may be said to be
the least wonderful of our compound being.

We have considered the purely intellectual part of our
nature, linked as that is with what is sensational, what ties us
to matter, and connects us with that world on which, for a
time, we are to expatiate, and where those destinies that are

'280 THE EMOTIONS.

to reach into eternity have their commencement : we have traced
the awakening and development of the Intellect, the manner in
which its ideas are acquired, those processes which are commonly
referred to faculties, but which we have chosen to consider as
mind simply, acting according to certain laws, or developing these
laws ; and we now arrive at a distinct department of our spiritual
being : we pass out of the intellectual into the emotional ; and
there lies even beyond that territory, another still more wonder
ful and of higher account, and still beyond that, a sphere
which links us with the loftiest created intelligences, and even
with Deity himself. And thus while the sensational connects
us with the lowest parts of being, or of creation, there is what
connects us with God, and makes us fit companions of angels.
It is not to be supposed, however, that while these departments
are so distinct, they have no connexion with each other, that
they do not interlace, as it were, or enter into beautiful and
admirable combination. What is so admirable in our spiritual
being or constitution, is the mutual dependence of the different
parts, or the mutual action between these parts, the influence
which the one has upon the other — the sensational upon the
intellectual — the intellectual again upon the sensational-
giving its forms to it, the intellectual upon the emotional, the
moral, and the spiritual, and these again upon the intellectual,
and upon one another. But as distinct as the boundary is be
tween the sensational and the intellectual, it is scarcely more
so than that between the intellectual and the emotional part of
our being, while there is an entirely distinct element again in
the moral, and still an additional element in the spiritual,
though this and the moral element are very nearly allied, if
they are not altogether one. That the moral is also emotional,
there can be no question, and we know how much of this latter
element enters into our spiritual nature ; but there is a depart
ment purely emotional, in which there is nothing that is either
moral, or in the sense described spiritual. The faculty or phe
nomenon of imagination, is perhaps the connecting link be
tween the intellectual and the emotional ; at least we saw that
a great part of that phenomenon of mind consisted in the

THE EMOTIONS. 281

emotion distinguishing the ideas of imagination, or those
ideas which in virtue of that very emotion are called ideas of
the imagination. It is the emotional element in them which
gives them all their peculiarity, so that they are totally and
strikingly diverse from all other ideas. We cannot determine
why the emotion accompanies the idea — why that peculiar idea
should be so characterized — whether it is the idea that awakens
the emotion, or the emotion is the grand element, and the idea
would be nothing without the emotion, while the connexion is
entirely an arbitrary one, and has been appointed by the Author
of our constitution : we say we cannot determine this ; but we
should not at least wish to regard the connexion as arbitrary ;
and there is much in the conceptions of imagination that would
seem to claim for themselves an intrinsic virtue — the power to
beget the emotion. There is something far more wonderful in
u conception of the imagination than we can perhaps ever ex
plain or comprehend ; in that single combination of Virgil, for
example, in describing the place of shades, —

. . . . " loca nocte tacentia late,"

who can tell why the idea here suggested to the mind is so
peculiar — is associated with so peculiar an emotion ? What is
in that one word, " tacentia," suggestive of all that is solemn,
sublime, almost oppressive to the mind. — calling up those dim
localities, those shades lying silent far and wide under night ?
What is there in anything that is pictorial or graphic ? What
is there in scenery itself, to awaken those feelings or emotions
which are peculiarly those of imagination, and which are so
pleasing and interesting ? But the point now to be attended to
is, that ideas of imagination are connected with emotion ; and
thus the transition is easy, from the consideration of this
faculty or phenomenon, into the strictly emotional part of our
nature.

Man, besides being capable of intellectual effort, — besides
being an intellectual being, possessed of reason, understand
ing, intelligence, with the peculiar faculty to which we have
now adverted, is also endowed \vith an emotional nature or

282 THE EMOTIONS.

capacity. He is capable of feeling, as well as of thinking.
The spiritual substance within him is capable not only of the
quick motions of intellect, but of the exciting sensations of
emotion ; and these two parts of his nature are very different.
The emotional is more allied to the sensational than to the
intellectual, though still so different from either. We can
speak of the sensations of emotion just as we speak of the
bodily sensations. There is a region of feeling in the mind, or
the same spiritual substance which thinks can feel, which ex
hibits the phenomena of intellection, exhibits the phenomena of
emotion. It is the same spiritual substance in all, but now it
thinks, and now it feels, — now it is an intellectual, and now it
proves itself an emotional nature ; and it may be both at once,
while sensational impressions of pain or pleasure may be racking
or transporting it. And here we take no account of the strictly
moral or spiritual departments of our being, still higher and
more important departments than either the sensational or
intellectual, or purely emotional. Of all is man composed, but
we have now to do with the strictly emotional. We view man
as capable of emotion, — mental feeling as it may be termed.

Were we to conceive man a purely intellectual being, unsus
ceptible of emotion, he would present a very different object of
contemplation from what he now does. Pure intellect, uncon
nected with feeling, would be a very curious object of con
templation. Sometimes it has been nearly realized in actual
specimens of our race : while in some the intellectual far
predominates over the emotional, and in others again the
emotional over the intellectual. But a purely intellectual being
has never been seen. The " Stoic of the woods — the man
without a tear," — " impassive, fearing but the shame of fear,"
was yet capable of the strongest emotions — was roused to in
dignation — was fired with revenge — was touched with tender
ness — was moved to sympathy — though he could conceal all
under an appearance of indifference, or restrain all within the
bounds of comparative equanimity. Wordsworth, in one of his
peculiar productions, speaks of an " intellectual all in all," but
there never was such a being. Circumstances, habits, pursuits,

THE EMOTIONS. 283

may give a prominence to one part of our nature over another
— may develop the intellect at the expense of the feelings.
There is a danger of the intellectual acquirements displacing
the due cultivation of the heart, of the feelings. The scholar
who becomes a pedant, the mathematician who sees little or
nothing but the relations of figures, the metaphysician who
turns even the phenomena of his own thinking and spiritual
self into a mere field of speculation, may exhibit little of the
amiable or the lofty in feeling, and may shrink up into a mere
thing of intellect, and intellect perhaps in its most mechanical
operations or driest processes ; but even in such examples the
key of the emotions has only to be touched, and deep feeling,
or thrilling emotion, will awaken like the tones of an instru
ment, though somewhat out of tune. It is by his emotions
that the intellectual being becomes the being of action, and of
dignified, and amiable, and lively feeling, that we find him.
Otherwise, he would be incapable 'of forming into society ; or,
at all events, that were a strange congregation, a singular
moving crowd, which the world would present, when intellect
was all, and feeling was entirely absent, — no loves, no hatreds,
no sympathy, no wonder, no fear, but the cold ray of mind
enlightening, guiding, directing, actuating. Man is not so con
stituted. He is not all intellect merely ; his mind is not the
cold region of intellectual light merely, the region of polar rays,
where no emotions kindle, and the illuminating shaft shoots not
from a heavenly zenith, but from a cold horizon, round which
it circulates eternally. Such is not man. His mind warms
under the sun that enlightens, kindles with emotion, and
bursts into all the fruitfulness of moral and spiritual vegeta
tion. There is an atmosphere in the mind as well as a light —
a region of emotion — and it is the interpenetration of the two
that produces all those varied and beautiful phenomena which
we find distinguishing the mental, as the combination of the
same two agencies produces such admirable phenomena in the
natural world.

But we have not yet Jbund what that peculiar state of the
mind which we call an emotion is. We have said that the

284 THE EMOTIONS.

mind exhibits this phasis as well as the intellectual, and that
the purely emotional is a department or characteristic of the
mind by itself. It is the kind of atmosphere of the mind ; it
is its vital breath ; its emotions are truly its life. Destroy its
emotions, and the merely intellectual would go out like light
in an exhausted receiver. It is the emotions that form that
glorious cloud-land, and all those brilliant effects, which intel
lect and emotion together produce, or which, iu the repose of
mind, when its more brilliant shafts may not be playing, lie in
soft loveliness, and fill up the scene with a tranquil and attrac
tive beauty. Or all may be storm and tempest, enveloping
the light of mind, or broken only by feeble or fitful gleams,
leaving the scene more dark than before, and only revealing
the night that is in the sky.

An emotion, like all the states of the mind, when we come
to define them, is insusceptible of definition, except in language
which would need itself to be defined. It may be called a
mental feeling, as sensation is a bodily one ; and this is the
nearest, perhaps, that we can come to anything like an accurate
idea, or rather to anything like an accurate description, of the
peculiar phenomenon which we call by the name Emotion, for
all have a clear enough idea of the phenomenon who have once
experienced it ; — and who has not been actuated by emotion
of one kind or another, and almost every hour or moment of
his being ? We can safely appeal to every one, then, for a
correct enough idea of emotion, although, it may be, incapable
of definition. It is feeling ; it is not an idea ; it is not an act
of intellect, or exercise of intelligence ; it is not memory ; it is
not imagination, although emotion accompanies every act of
imagination, and is essential to it. It is a state of feeling, and
we call it mental feeling, as distinguished from sensation, which
is partly bodily, and partly mental. An emotion is not a sen
sation, although it is more nearly allied to that than to what is
purely mental or intellectual ; while, again, it does not belong
to that lower department of mind to which sensation is refer
able, and ranks higher than even the exercises of intelligence
or intellect. Emotion is a higher state than pure intellect ;

THE EMOTIONS. 285

not this or that emotion, but the region or susceptibility of
emotion. We have said it is the atmosphere or life of the soul.
When I meet a person, what is it to me that he possesses this
or that idea, that he is occupied with this or that mental
process ? it is feeling or emotion that I wish, and ideas are
only worthy as they are the sources of emotion. It is his
emotions that make any one person interesting to another.
These are life, and life-giving, and ideas are important only as
they minister to these.

When we speak of pure emotion, either we mean those
emotions which have nothing moral or spiritual, as an element,
in them, or we mean the emotions, as such, apart from the
objects or causes of them, as love, fear, wonder, or admiration,
which may have for their objects or excitements, moral beings,
or moral causes, and therefore a moral element in them, or
may spring from causes or occasions which have nothing moral
in them, or connected with them. The emotion is the state or
feeling of the mind apart from its source ; but the same emo
tion may have a moral aspect or not, according as the element
of duty, or right or wrong, mingles in it, or calls for it. It is
our duty to fear God ; it is neither our duty, nor not our duty,
to fear what is simply terrible. The love of our neighbour is
our duty ; we may love or not, without either moral praise or
blame in either case, what is simply amiable or lovely. The
moral element comes from the region of duty, and may mingle
with our emotions, but the emotions themselves are distinguish
able from that element, and are capable of separate considera
tion. This distinction will be of importance when we come to
consider the moral element, or the subject of duty. The region
of emotion is distinctly apart, and although we may speak of
the moral emotions, or the moral feelings, it will be found, we
apprehend, that what is moral in them, does not appertain to
the emotion, but is altogether apart. There is the emotion,
however, of moral approbation or disapprobation, distinct from
every other ; but even that is not in itself moral, but accom
panies every act of approval or disapproval, and what is moral,
is the possession of the emotion, not the emotion itself. Every

28G THE EMOTIONS.

other emotion is simply an emotion, and its character, if it have
a moral character, is determined by something else than the
emotion itself.

An emotion, in its strictest meaning, is a movement of the
mind, consequent upon some moving cause. But what kind of
movement — or why do we call this phenomenon a movement of
the mind, while we denominate an act of intellect an act, and
of the will an act of the will ? Obviously, because there is
some analogy between motion of the body, or of any material
substance, and this phenomenon of the mind, as there is an
analogy between an act of the body and the acts of the will or
the intellect. We think it is a defective analysis of the mental
phenomena which would regard them as the mind acting, or as
acts of the mind. The will, properly, is the only active power
of the mind, and even that will be found so far to be determined
by motives. But the analogy between the external motions of
our own, or of other bodies, and the emotions of the mind, may
be thus traced. By an act of will, or an impulse from some
foreign body, our limbs, or our whole bodies, are put in motion ;
and in the same way, by an act of will, or the impulse of other
bodies, bodies foreign and external to ourselves are put in
motion. There is impulse and motion. Now, in the pheno
mena of emotion there is something like impulse, and an
emotion of the mind is the consequence. An emotion is thus,
more properly, any feeling of the mind suddenly inspired or
produced ; it is the feeling either in its first and sudden excite
ment, or the same feeling considered in relation to that first or
sudden impulse or excitement. We call it a feeling, or, per
haps, an affection of the mind, when it is not considered with
relation to this impulse or excitement, but regarded in its con
tinuous existence or exercise. Thus love or admiration when
awakened by any object, is an emotion ; when continuous, it is
an affection. We speak, however, of the emotions, without
including in the use of the term, thus generically employed,
any idea of suddenness, or want of continuousness in their
exercise. As originally employed — regarded in its origin — the
term undoubtedly has respect to this circumstance of sudden or

THE EMOTIONS. 287

temporary exercise. But it is now extended to the feelings in
general, and is employed without any such specific reference.
It may have a tendency to suggest, and refer the mind to the
rise of emotion, and may very appropriately be employed when
this specific reference is had regard to, but it is by no means
confined to any such usage or sense. The emotions are just the
feelings. The term emotion, however, is to be distinguished
from the term passion ; and the emotions, we think, are not
the same as the desires. Passion does not express a different
idea from emotion, but only a stronger one, or is employed for
the intenser degree of the same feeling. Passion is but a stronger
emotion. Emotion is generic : Passion is specific. The pas
sions are not the emotions, but the emotions include the passions.
The desires are, we think, distinct states of mind. They may
be accompanied with emotions, but they are not the emotions.
Desire is an essentially peculiar state of mind, and the different
desires are the same feeling only directed to, or set upon,
different objects ; whereas every emotion is distinct from every
other. We think desire, with its opposite, regret, are distinct
states of mind, and should be considered as separate from the
emotions. It does not seem to us proper to speak of the emo
tion of desire, the emotion of regret. They are undoubtedly
accompanied with feelings. We cannot desire an object with
out a feeling of some kind towards that object, and in the same
way with regret ; but is desire a feeling ? is regret a feeling ?
They are so peculiar feelings that they stand out from all the
rest, and are by themselves alone.

Dr. Brown, in his love of simplicity and classification, has
divided the emotions into immediate, retrospective, and pro
spective ; and the only prospective emotions are the desires,
for hope and expectation he makes but forms of desire, vary
ing according to the degree of probability of the object of our
desires being attained. We shall have an opportunity of con
sidering this latter opinion when we come to speak of these
states of the mind. Meanwhile, we refer to the classification of
the emotions by Dr. Brown, as confounding the desires, and
regret, or the regrets, if we may so speak, with the emotions.

288 THE EMOTIONS.

The emotions are love, joy, pity, anger, and such like ; are not
the desires very distinct in their nature from such states ? It
is curious, while Dr. Brown can include so many emotions,
all varying more or less from each other, under the immediate
and retrospective emotions, he can include only the desires
under the prospective. Would we call the desire of continued
existence — the desire of pleasure — the desire of society — emo
tions ? The desire of power, or ambition, is more like an
emotion — so the desire of glory, which may be characterized as
ambition as well as the desire of power. We think it will be
found that every emotion, properly speaking, has an immediate
object, and it is only regret and desire that look to the past or
the future. Anger and gratitude have immediate objects ; and
curiosity and ambition, so far as they are desires, are not emo
tions. They are accompanied with emotion or feeling, but as
desires, they are something more than a feeling or emotion ;
they are desires. Joy or gratitude is a simple feeling : desire
is accompanied with feeling. The desire in any particular case
is desire, and the feeling accompanying it is the feeling pecu
liar to that desire. Hence it is, that in the desire for wealth,
or the desire for power, there is room for all the varied feelings
which do accompany these desires — the same desire being ac
companied with as varied feelings as there are objects which
can be set before the mind in the acquisition of wealth or
power. The emotions of anger, gratitude, however, are one.
Perhaps the distinction we draw between the emotions and
desires will be better seen when we consider the different
instances of these separate states of the mind, as we are disposed
to regard them.

The mind would seem to be never without feeling or emo
tion, just as it is perhaps never at any time but occupied with
some thought, or with thinking. Thinking has been regarded
as the very essence of mind ; in other words, mind exists, it
has been supposed, only as it thinks, and cannot exist without
thinking — an opinion which seems to have been the origin of
Descartes' doctrine of innate ideas, which Locke controverts at
some length. Locke regards thinking as the action of the soul

THE EMOTIONS. 289

rather than Us essence, and maintains there are moments of
unconsciousness, as in sleep, when the mind exists without
thinking. He says, however, " I grant that the soul in a
waking man is never without thought." This seems a little
inconsistent with what he had said but a paragraph before :
" I confess myself to have one of those dull souls, that doth
not perceive itself always to contemplate ideas, nor can con
ceive it any more necessary for the soul always to think than
for the body always to move ; the perception of ideas being, as
I conceive, to the soul, what motion is to the body, not its
essence, but one of its operations ; and, therefore, though
thinking be supposed ever so much the proper action of the
soul, yet it is not necessary to suppose that it should be always
thinking, always in action. That perhaps is the privilege of
the infinite Author and Preserver of things, who never slumbers
nor sleeps ; but is not competent to any finite being, at least
not to the soul of man." In the same way, Locke would ques
tion the soul being always the seat of feeling. But without
pushing this question to its issues, it may be safely maintained,
that the mind is seldom, if ever, without thought or feeling of
some kind, and that at those moments perhaps when it seems
to be so, it is only a state of inertness and quiescence rather
than one of entire absence or negation of feeling or thought.
We are conscious of such moments when the mind seems to go
to sleep, or to stop like the motion of a watch when its chain
is unwound, or when something obstructs its mechanism : it
would be difficult at such a time to say what thought possesses
us, or if we are the subjects of any one feeling. Thinking and
feeling, however, are the two states of mind in which, if it
exists in a state of consciousness at all, it must exist. These
are the two characteristics of mind, constituting it mind, or at
least distinguishing it from mere inert and sensuous matter.
Feeling is equally a characteristic of mind as thought or
thinking. That spiritual substance within us is ever the
scene of busy thought or of active feeling. The two are charac
teristics of the same substance. The one operation or pheno
menon interferes not with the other. The busiest processes of

T

290 THE EMOTIONS.

thought may be going on when the mind is all tumult, all
emotion; nay, the one may be the actual minister to the
other. The train of thoughts or conceptions that arise in the
mind may also hurry it along on the tide of the most lively
emotion ; and, as under the spell of the orator, or under the
entrancing witchery of song, almost transport it beyond the
bounds of endurance, or " lap it in elysium." Emotion again,
we know, is the great prompter and enkindler of thought.
Such two separate states or conditions of being are worthy of
the great contriver and author of our nature ; and they are the
conditions of His own infinite mind ; if, without irreverence,
we may carry up our ideas from the finite to the infinite, and
regard both as exhibiting the same essential properties of
spiritual existence. This cannot be irreverence, when Scripture
itself informs us that man was made in the image of God :
" And God said, Let us make man in our image." How won
derful that the Uncreated should place one in his own image
upon earth ! The Uncreated, the Everlasting, having beings
made like unto himself, and consulting to make them :
" Let us make man in our image !" The resemblance, or
rather the very identity of nature, consisted in the possession
of a cognitive or intellectual, and a sensible or emotional nature
or capacity. This is the most general definition perhaps that
could be given : the emotional including the moral and the
spiritual, as well as the purely emotional. The point to mark
is, that man is not merely intellectual, he is endowed with a
capacity of the most varied feelings or emotions. In taking a
review of the mind, therefore, that spiritual nature created in
the likeness of God, it would be unpardonable to overlook any
part of it, and even what might be apt to be regarded as the
least important of those emotional states in which from time
to time the soul exists, nay, in which, some one of them, it
may be said at all times to exist. Some one emotion or other,
it may be said, is occupying or filling the mind every moment
of its conscious existence. When we say emotion, we mean
feeling ; for although the term emotion possesses a generic
signification, and has been appropriated to all the feelings, it

THE EMOTIONS. 291

seerns too strong a term as applicable to many which are of a
calm and quiet character, suggesting no impulse, and almost
apparently inherent, as of the very essence and being of mind,
and not merely capable of being awakened or excited.

The first essential condition of emotion would seem to be
one of calm and placid enjoyment. That might be taken as
the first essential state of emotion. The balance of all the
emotions would seem to require or necessitate a calm and
settled state. Anything else would be the predominance of
some one emotion, existing in a higher degree of excitement or
strength. In the case of an infinite being, the condition sup
posed may be compared to the full ocean over which no storms
sweep, and in which no internal agitation obtains. We must
connect man in his conditions with his first origin : it is a state
of derangement in which he is now found. Philosophy has
contented itself with an incomplete view, when that view is
limited to the present state of man, and is not carried up to
one of prior superiority and perfection. The details of man's
primeval condition, and his fall, could never have been guessed
at by reason, but even reason may teach us that man did not
come from his Maker as he now exists. We may suppose,
then, that the balance of all the feelings in man was similar to
that in the Divine Being himself — only, their centre would be
God ; just as God would be the centre to himself; and every
feeling would move in harmony with that primary and supreme
law of regard to our Maker. It is difficult to form an idea of
such a state. Man is not as he once was. It is from a very
different point of view that we now contemplate his whole
mental and spiritual constitution. We see not that constitu
tion in its perfect state. We see it deranged, or broken into
fragments — or an element in it which introduces an entirely
new set of phenomena. The question is, whether we are to re
gard man as he now is, or as he must have been — from the
present point of view, or from that from which he might once
have been contemplated. Are we to look at the ruins, or are
we to put these ruins together — are we to look at the broken
vase, or are we to endeavour to piece it ? It may seem that

292 THE EMOTIONS.

we have nothing to do with his former state, as it may be con
tended we become acquainted with that state from a foreign
source — not from our own consciousness — and the informations
of our own consciousness, it may seem, are all that we have to
do with, or should have regard to. But it is enough to con
template man's present state, to see that he is not what he once
was, and that the phenomena he must at one time have pre
sented, must have been very different from those which he
now exhibits. We are not indebted to revelation alone for
this. Revelation gives us the circumstances of the Fall : — a
state of prior perfection would seem to have been guessed at by
the ancients, who had not revelation to guide their inquiries,
and to put them in possession of the truth. The phenomena
of man's present emotional nature therefore cannot be regarded
without attention to the moral derangement which prevails,
and which must affect more or less all the emotions and feel
ings. Enough may be seen in them, however, to tell us what
they once were, to speak even of their own primeval character.
An entire set of emotions testify to the sin which has affected
our moral constitution. We cannot look at these without see
ing that an element has crept into the soul which once had no
lodgment there, and made man the empire of evil, as he was
once the scene only of what was fair and lovely and of good
report. Whenever we enter the emotional department of our
nature, this element must be taken into account. We cannot
otherwise properly deal with the phenomena that are presented.
It is not with this department, as it was with that of mind
simply. There we had the phenomena simply, without any
disturbing element to take into view. Now we have this
element continually to have regard to. Writers upon this
department of our mental phenomena, have for the most part
had no regard to this element. The inconsistencies and eccen
tricities of our nature have been abundantly noticed — these
have been dwelt upon by a peculiar class of writers — and they
have been a subject for the humourist in his sketches, as well
as the moralist in his graver productions. But the key to all,
or the source of all, has been little adverted to. Man's emo-

THE EMOTIONS. 293

tional and moral nature have been descanted on as if all was
as it should have been, as it only could be ; and the best com
pensating circumstances have been introduced to account for
any eccentricity, and to justify it in consistency with the wisdom
and purpose of the Creator. It is a different view that is forced
upon us. We cannot regard those attempts at explanation,
those apologies and vindications, which are intended to save
the wisdom, and illustrate even the goodness of God, in what
is unmitigated evil, or connected with evil as a condition of
our present moral nature — we cannot regard these but as an
entire overlooking of the real state of the case, and even the
actual phenomena. These remarks will be justified, we are
persuaded, as we proceed with the consideration of those sub
jects which are now to engage us — and first with the emotions
simply.

We have said, then, that the first essential condition of feel
ing would seem to be one of calm and placid enjoyment, — the
balance of all the feelings. Any predominance of one feeling
over another is an interruption to this state, and must proceed
from some new unexpected cause. In a state of perfection,
this would be the harmony of all the feelings, with God as
their centre. The sect of Quietists, as they were called, which
arose in France, and of which Fenelon was a distinguished
member, and whose tenets Upham of America seems to have
embraced — at least he is obviously the partial expounder of them
— held that it was possible to arrive, even in our present imper
fect state, through the principles of the Gospel, and by the
sanctifying power of faith, at a condition of entire acquiescence
in the will of God, so that the soul should be distinguished
by no one emotion particularly, but be possessed of an unruffled
peace, which not even the afflictions or sufferings of the present
scene could break or disturb. Upon such a state we might
conceive a superior joy arising, or different emotions at different
times taking the predominance. Madame Guyon was a dis
tinguished disciple of this sect, and we find her thus writing
regarding her imprisonment in the Castle of Vincennes, where
she was confined at the instigation of her active enemies, and

294 THE EMOTIONS.

for the maintenance of her peculiar principles, — principles
which drew down against her, as well as the famous Fenelon,
all the eloquence arid power of Bossuet. We find her thus
writing: — " I passed my time in great peace, content to spend
the remainder of my life there, if such should be the will of
God. I employed part of my time in writing religious songs.
I and my maid, La Gautiere, who was with me in prison, com
mitted them to heart as fast as I made them. Together we
sang praises to thee, Oh our God ! It sometimes seemed to me
as if I were a little bird whom the Lord had placed in a cage,
and that I had nothing to do now but to sing. The joy of my
heart gave a brightness to the objects around me. The stones
of my prison looked in my eyes like rubies. I esteemed them
more than all the gaudy brilliancies of a vain world. My heart
was full of that joy which thou givest to them that love thee
in the midst of their greatest crosses." A calm enjoyment, con
nected with a complete absorption in the Divine will, was the
predominating state of the Quietists, and hence their name.
But we find a culminating joy rising above this state, as in the
extract we have given ; and we introduce the mention of this
sect, and of the peculiar and distinguishing point in their
experience, as illustrative of what we mean by the first and
essential condition of the emotions, or of feeling, in a rightly
constituted soul, — that is, a soul in which the element of evil
does not obtain. A quiet repose, a calm enjoyment, an equi
poise of all the feelings, an absorption in the Divine will, and
a harmony of all the affections, — this seems the first necessary
condition of feeling. Now, in our present imperfect state, the
nearest approach to this is that serenity of mind, that sunshine
of soul, as it has been called, in which no peculiar feeling pre
dominates, and, little or nothing disturbing the happiness which
the mind, from any or from no sources, seems to be capable of
receiving — the mind seems all peace, contentment, and happi
ness. Cheerfulness is the name generally given to such a state.
It is the equipoise of the feelings — it is the first condition of
feeling — everything else is an interruption or a disturbance. An
increase of happiness is joy, and any sorrow is a foreign element

THE EMOTIONS. 295

coming from a quarter which is not to be supposed, and which
has obtained existence through the introduction of evil by some
way into the world. Moral evil, with all the ills attending it,
is the cause of this interruption of the mind's serenity, content
ment, cheerfulness ; but in a state where moral evil obtains,
what is this cheerfulness, this serenity, this sunshine of mind ?
What does it amount to ? How is it to be accounted for ?
What is its source ? What is its true nature ? Moral evil
exists ; and what is that serenity then which we find actually
distinguishing certain minds, and which nothing seems almost
capable of interrupting or discomposing for a single moment ?
Or if the mind is not so constantly serene, it may be habitually
so, and cheerfulness is a state which all or most may exhibit on
occasions. Why is it one of the emotions still, in spite of
existing and admitted evil ?

The emotion or feeling which we call cheerfulness, obviously
exists in spite of the evil which obtains in the world. It is
plain, that if moral evil were dealt with as it might be expected
to be — if it were to be arraigned and condemned, it would be
a very different state of things that would be presented, than
we see actually prevailing. A mere glance at the moral state
of the world is sufficient to shew us that evil is not punished as
it deserves — that it is not continually met by the moral admi
nistrator of the universe — and that either " the Judge of all
the earth " will not do right, or that He has adopted a certain
plan with this portion of His dominions, to recover it from its
revolt, and to save it from destruction. Enough of evil, evil
in the sense of suffering, exists to shew that moral evil will not
be permitted without punishment, and in comparison with
what undoubtedly was the normal and original state of man, or
the designed condition of the world, moral evil is punished at
the hand of the Great Legislator and Kuler every day. But
that it is yet spared — that it is not suffering condign punish
ment — that the Lawgiver and Sovereign has not come forth
from His retreat, armed with the thunders of His justice, is
obvious at a glance. While this is so, there is room for the
exercise of much that was primeval, much that does not bear

2% THE EMOTIONS.

the stamp of moral evil, of sin. We cannot say that anything
in human conduct is without sin, without moral evil. But
many of the affections and actions are virtuous, if not holy, that
is, they are cherished, or done from a preference, so far, at
least, of what is good. There is not unmitigated evil ; con
science is not altogether extinguished ; moral preferences are
not altogether destroyed ; and a virtuous life may be exhibited
without any desire at all for the honour of that Being who gave
us those laws, which, originally inscribed upon the heart, are
not wholly effaced. There may be so far a preference for what
is good, what is morally right and holy. The Fall, we might
say the fall even of the rebellious angels, has not so wholly
obliterated moral distinctions that the good is not seen, and
preferred, at least, as a matter of abstract judgment. We can,
at least, pronounce regarding this world that it is so. The
good is chosen ; the evil is shunned. There is a root of moral
depravity in every heart, which exhibits itself in some form or
another, some mode of manifestation or another. On such a
subject it is almost impossible accurately to limit our positions,
and define our terms. It cannot be questioned, however, that
while the root of evil is in every soul, the element of all sin,
there are still moral preferences, there is a capacity for appre
ciating and loving, to a certain extent, the morally right — the
morally excellent ; and this is the secret of any happiness that
is still in the world. God has not given up this world ; we
know from revelation that it is under a scheme which admits
of a mixed state of good and evil, and under which it has not
suffered that blight which would wither every growth, whether
of virtue or happiness. God's curse has not produced all its
effects, because it has not been executed, or permitted, in all its
extent. Virtue is still permitted to live, and although there may
be little regard to God in all that is even virtuous and praise
worthy, there cannot be virtue or moral preference without
some degree of happiness. It is in the reign of the evil passions
that misery consists. All moral evil is essentially connected
with misery ; there cannot be even an approach to good with
out an approach to happiness. Hence, there may be cheerful-

THE EMOTIONS. 297

ness even in a world like this. It has been truly said by a
merely moral writer, that " pleasure is in us, and not in the
objects offered for our amusement ;" and in saying this, he is
referring to the sentiment of moral writers in every age. He
adds, in his own words : — " If the soul be happily disposed,
everything becomes a subject of entertainment, and distress will
want a name." The lightest moral writers, therefore, even
when disporting, as it were, with such subjects, do not fail to
regard that element which we have noticed, the presence or
absence of which is the very explanation of what is otherwise
so difficult of explanation in our moral condition. " If the
soul be happily disposed ;" but how is it to be happily disposed ?
" Pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered to our amuse
ment ;" so it is, but why ? Moral writers have not pursued
their own principles far enough. It is valuable, however, to
have the testimony of even moral writers to views and princi
ples, which, followed out, are consistent and explicable only on
the scheme of revelation, or find their issue only in the harmony
of its entire doctrines. Pleasure is indeed in us ; if not in us,
it cannot be found without us. The world does not contain it,
if the mind has it not in itself. The world may be the scene
on which our virtuous affections expatiate; it may give the
opportunity for their development ; we may find in the various
objects presented to us, and in the circumstances in which we
are placed, causes and occasions of the development and exer
cise of our virtuous dispositions, and those feelings which it is
happiness in itself to possess ; but as these dispositions and
feelings are in the mind, so it is essentially the mind itself
which is the real seat or source of happiness. Every virtuous
feeling has happiness more or less connected with it. It may
be far from being what it ought to be. Virtue is very different
from that state of the soul which is the result of. the regenerat
ing, new-creating, influences of God's Spirit. But even virtue
cannot be truly practised without a return of happiness, or
without happiness in the very exercise of it. Virtue is hap
piness. The preference of good to any extent is happiness,
which nothing can destroy ; it is only to the extent that there

298 THE EMOTIONS.

is not this preference that unhappiness has place. The virtuous
dispositions may have still existence in the mind. This is very
far from that piety to God without which even virtue is of little
account. Virtue without piety ! a proper sentiment towards
our fellow-beings, but not a proper sentiment towards God ! Is
not this a great anomaly ? does it not argue something at fault
even at the heart of our virtue ? It is the mainspring wrong,
and while that is the case, there is no security for virtue itself.
We know not how far the derangement may spread when the
spring is snapped — when the central wheel is wrong — when
derangement exists in the moral mechanism. That God is not
loved, regarded, obeyed, argues a moral degeneracy which may
spread or diffuse itself we know not how far. But still a certain
moral state does exist ; certain moral dispositions are felt ;
certain moral preferences are entertained ; and these must
always be accompanied with, or productive of, happiness, and
just to the degree that the dispositions or preferences are
possessed or cherished.

Cheerfulness, then, is that degree of happiness that results
from the proper exercise and regulation of the moral disposi
tions, the moral preferences. Let these be duly regulated,
duly exercised, and the mind cannot fail to be the seat of
cheerfulness. It is when no feeling is allowed to predominate,
when no passion is allowed to get the mastery — even a good
and virtuous passion or feeling — for even that may be unduly
exercised, or disproportioned to its object — it is in the harmony,
as we have said, of all the passions or feelings that cheerfulness
has place. When a joy predominates — when even a worthy
emotion rises superior in the soul — when a higher state legiti
mately exists, it is not cheerfulness, it is the joy, or the peculiar
emotion that for the time has place or being. Cheerfulness is
the reign of all the dispositions, their proper and proportionate
reign, their harmonious existence and action. Accordingly, he
is characterized most by cheerfulness who is characterized
most by the harmonious action of all the virtues, of all the
moral dispositions or emotions. In whomsoever these exist in
harmonv, cheerfulness will be found to exist — this state or

THE EMOTIONS. 299

feeling will be found predominating, or rather prevailing. If
the mind possesses a uniform preference of the true, the
amiable, the good — if it is true, amiable, good — if it is ever
ready to exercise a virtuous disposition when there is an appeal
to it, and feels little tendency to exercise the opposite — we
have a mind in which cheerfulness will have almost its undis
turbed seat. It is in such minds that we find this beautiful
and enviable state, this daylight of the mind, as Addison calls
it. Disturb such a mind's cheerfulness you cannot, or you can
hardly do it. There is a gaiety of disposition which is not
cheerfulness — and much of which is the result of physical
constitution — a certain lightness of physical temperament,
yielding easily to the impulse of favourable circumstances
without. This may exist, and may be as easily damped as it
is readily excited. But true cheerfulness is chiefly a moral
state ; and hence we find that external circumstances for the
most part do not impair it, or at least it breaks through the
most disadvantageous, and exhibits itself, perhaps, in the most
afflictive of these. You will find this state of the mind like
sunshine in the midst of darkness — daylight in the sky, even
when that sky is overcast with clouds. It is because there is
no reproach, no cause why the mind itself should be discom
posed, because the clouds themselves are not of the mind, and
come from a foreign quarter, that this feeling can yet exist.
There may thus be

" Cheerfulness of soul,
From trepidation and repining free,"

in circumstances the most unfavourable to its existence — a
" central peace," as Wordsworth expresses it, " residing at the
heart of agitation." Wordsworth speaks of the "man of cheer
ful yesterdays, and confident to-morrows ;" who can speak of
confident to-morrows, although it is possible for to-morrow to
be cheerful in spite of the adversity that may break upon it ?
Adversity may come like a storm, enveloping all the heavens,
and swallowing up every ray and beam of light : for a time all
is darkness, not a speck is seen through the clouds, but the
clouds clear away, and the conquering sunshine prevails.

300 THE EMOTIONS.

Addison says, " cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in
the mind, and fills it with a steady, perpetual serenity." The
daylight may be overcast, but it for the most part returns.
The triumph, however, of cheerfulness in affliction is chiefly
accorded to those who have their peace from a higher quarter
than anything belonging to this world, or than the exercise of
the moral virtues, and it is not so much cheerfulness as peace.
Alas ! mere cheerfulness, however good, and having so sure a
basis or spring, is apt to be overcome or destroyed by the
afflictions of life. It cannot stand before them, it cannot exist
in the midst of them, the affliction entirely conquers. It is
here that Christian serenity contrasts with mere cheerfulness ;
and it is here we see the introduction of an element which does
not belong to the mind itself, consistent with it, but having its
source higher. Christian serenity is very different from mere
cheerfulness. It has a different source, a more stable basis, a
more permanent action ; nor is it liable to the same interrup
tion as the other. And yet it may be said to bear the same
relation to the rest of the graces or states of the renewed soul
that cheerfulness does to the merely moral virtues. It is the
resultant of all the rest, or exists in the harmony of all the rest.
Directly, or immediately, it is the effect of faith in Christ and
trust in God : it is the effect of a humble affiance in the Divine
Being, which could not be exercised but in connexion with the
reconciling faith of the Gospel, that faith in the Kedeemer
which restores the sinner to the Divine favour ; but except in
harmony with the other graces or exercises of the renewed
character it does not exist. If the Christian's charity, for ex
ample, is disturbed, if be is living in an atmosphere of enmity,
or allowing the irascible feelings to get the predominance, this
feeling or state will be scared from the soul, or will not exist.
The calm of a renewed soul is the result of all the spiritual
virtues or graces in nearly equal exercise. The sea does not
repose when the elements are disturbed ; but let these rest, let
the balance of these be preserved, and the sea, down to its pro-
foundest depths, is unruffled, feels not a single movement of its
waters. And as when the storm may be loudest, and the sur-

THE EMOTIONS. 301

face of the deep may be greatly agitated, there are depths which
the storm does not reach ; so in the soul of the Christian there
is a serenity too deeply seated to be disturbed, which all the
storms of life cannot break. Faith in the Divine Providence,
and in the reconciling power of Christ's death — of His work —
puts the soul on a basis which nothing can shake, gives it
a security which nothing can disturb. Mere cheerfulness, of
course, that serenity of mind resulting from the harmonious
action of the moral virtues, is very different from this. It
is not, however, to be despised. And, apart from the regen
erating grace of the Gospel, it is one of the qualities or
characteristics of mind which must be considered ; and it is in
the unrenewed what the other is in the renewed soul. It has
room for exercise even in the latter. The moral virtues, al
though they are exalted into something higher, and are the
exercise of nobler principles, or are exhibited in connexion
with still loftier examples of conduct, are not neutralized or
put out of being, and all the pleasure which they ever gave
will be still felt. The pleasure accompanying any right action
must always accompany it — they will never be found dissociated ;
and there will be an under play, as it were, of all the moral
virtues, even when the main current of the soul is spiritual.
Honesty, temperance, benevolence, kindness — all the social
virtues — yield the same pleasure that they ever did. We do
not mean that the Christian will be satisfied with them as any
ground of merit before God, or that in this sense they will
yield any happiness ; but happiness is inseparable from any
amount of moral excellence, from the very exercise of any
moral virtue. It is in the excellence or virtue itself. When
all the moral virtues are attended to, then happiness must be
the result, cheerfulness will be the result. This daylight of
the mind will have place. The Christian is the subject of ex
periences to which the merely virtuous man is a stranger ; and
he detects sin in actions which the other would entirely approve.
The pleasure resulting from a virtuous course of action, there
fore, may co-exist with experiences which almost prevent that
pleasure from being felt ; and the sin discernible in them to a

302 THE EMOTIONS.

spiritual eye, which not only would escape, but must escape,
all others, disturbs when otherwise there would, for the most
part, be unmixed pleasure. Still, right action cannot but have
its reward even with the Christian. The strict performance
of every duty brings its reward. Let any duty or obligation
be interfered with, and the cheerfulness of the mind is disturbed,
and that even apart from the relation of the particular duty,
or obligation, to God, or to the responsibility we owe to him.
Moral action, as well as spiritual, is the proper action of
the soul, and for it to be disturbed is to occasion misery ; —
just as to interrupt the free action of the body would be
the occasion of discomfort and suffering. The healthy action
of the mind, on the other hand, must always be pleasurable,
the source of enjoyment, and in the Christian as well as any
other. The Christian's cheerfulness, however, mounts into a
higher, a purer air. It becomes a more settled calm, a more
serene enjoyment. A quieter region still is that in which he
breathes, and cheerfulness is peace — yea, a peace which passeth
all understanding. On ordinary topics of converse in ordinary
actions, the Christian's cheerfulness comes out. At other times
we see the peace which the Gospel alone can impart, and which
the Christian maintains or can exhibit in the most adverse
circumstances. But we must attend to the emotion we are
speaking of as a state of mind that belongs even to the merely
morally good, and which may be legitimate even with them ;
and, looking at it in this point of view, we have characterized
it as the result of the exercise, and the harmonious exercise, of
the virtuous dispositions, of all the emotions. It is not meant
that all the virtues, or all the emotions, are at any one moment
in harmonious and combined action. What is intended is,
that there is the predominance of no virtue, or passion, or
emotion, so as to make that the ruling one either for the time,
or permanently, in the mind ; in which case the mind would
be characterized by that one virtue, or passion, or emotion, — the
virtue being accompanied with a livelier feeling than would be
due to it were it existing not in that prominence, but in a just
balance with the other virtues. When any one emotion, or

THE EMOTIONS. 303

virtue, accompanied with its appropriate emotion, predominates,
the balance of the mind is disturbed, and it is no longer cheer
fulness that is felt, but that emotion. Cheerfulness, we repeat,
is the harmony of all the emotions. No one emotion prevails
over the rest, and every emotion that is proper is felt, or may
be felt. There has only to be the call for it, and it will be
experienced. The mind, insusceptible of any emotion that is
proper, cannot be the seat of true cheerfulness. Envy, or some
sinister passion, may reign. It is not necessary, we say, that
all the emotions be in actual operation ; it is only necessary
that there be room for their operation. Any frustration, any
insusceptibility with respect to any one emotion, the equili
brium of the soul is disturbed. In the equilibrium of the
atmosphere, all the elements seem to be at rest, and yet they
are all in harmonious action. When a balance is in equili
brium, neither of the sides seems to be in action ; and yet it is
because both are in action equally that the equilibrium is pro
duced, or there is a rest on the point of equilibrium. So is it
with the emotions. None may be said to be in action, and yet
all may be said to be in action, or are capable of action, and
only await the call for them at the proper time, or in their
proper place. Such may be regarded as the most perfect state
of the emotions, and, accordingly, a cheerful, serene state of
mind has ever been regarded both as the most lovely to con
template, and the most delightful to be experienced, and to
come in contact with. Mirth or gaiety has never been so much
valued, or held in such estimation. It is the cheerful, not the
gay countenance, that doth good like a medicine, and because
it is the index of the cheerful mind. Gaiety has its own exhi
larating effect, but you are disposed to ask how long it will last.
Not so with cheerfulness ; you can count upon its continuance.
It is not a transient, but a permanent state. Mirth or gaiety
flashes, cheerfulness shines. We have our spirits unexpectedly
raised by mirth ; we have them permanently sustained by
cheerfulness. The exhilaration of the one is delightful for the
time, but it soon spends itself, and the depression may be as
great as the exhilaration was lively. It is questionable how far

304 THE EMOTIONS.

that exhilaration should be carried. Mirth or gaiety may be
allowed beyond all bounds of propriety. Prudence has to say,
Hitherto, and no farther. No one would blame a proper hila
rity of spirits, and there are excitements to it which we need
not repress. It is an innocent tendency or propensity which
has only to be restrained within bounds, or yield to solicitations
or considerations which are as proper as the cause which has
excited our mirth. So indulged or allowed, it is perfectly pro
per, but reins must not be given to it ; and it is the part of
sober judgment to say when the quickened and joyous feelings
should stop. But to cheerfulness of mind, there can be no
required boundaries, but those which the demand for other and
opposite emotions nature may sometimes make. To be cheerful
when we should be sorrowful, is no proper exercise of cheerful
ness, but an indication rather of insensibility. The mind may
be stupid and insensible even to the proper calls of sorrow.
The King, in Hamlet, asks Laertes whether his father was dear
to him, or if he (Laertes) was but

" the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart."

To weep when we should rejoice, and to rejoice when we
should weep, must be equally inconsistent — rather the latter is
the more inconsistent, at least the more unseemly of the two.
Cheerfulness will not obtrude itself when sorrow is in the
ascendant: it may mitigate its violence, and hang upon its
livery its own lighter favours, or edge it with a less sombre
hue ; it may lighten up even sorrow, and make it less afflictive
or appalling ; but it knows the demands of sorrow, it respects
these demands, and for a time it gives way to sadness.

We have spoken of cheerfulness in its perfect state. When
does it ever exist in perfection ? We have considered it as it
must be abstractly regarded ; but the abstract perfection of a
quality is seldom that quality itself as seen, or as in actual
exercise. There may be degrees of the quality, and we may
see these degrees, where we may not see itself in perfection.
Cheerfulness may be a predominating state of the mind,
though it may be frequently interrupted : a degree of cheerful-

THE EMOTIONS. 305

ness may be exhibited, though uniform cheerfulness may not
be possible. And, accordingly, we do speak of a cheerful
person, though he may have his moments of sorrow. Cheer
fulness is the habitual frame of his mind. Cheerfulness, not
melancholy, is the distinguishing cast of his character. It is
not to be denied that there are semblances of cheerfulness ;
and a kind of constitutional insensibility to serious impressions
may produce all the appearance of cheerfulness, which is not
it in reality. Absence of emotion may be mistaken for the
harmony of the emotions. There is

" The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead,"

which is very different from the beautiful serenity of a mind in
healthy action, and a heart in repose with itself and with every
thing around. It is the latter which we characterize as cheer
fulness. It is not to be forgotten either, that there is a happy
disposition of all the elements of the mind by nature, which is
not precisely the harmony of the emotions, and which we see
existing often along with a state the opposite of virtue. There
is a happy combination of the particles of our nature, so to
speak, which in some produces all the effects of cheerfulness,
or disposes to what has the appearance of a cheerful state.
Shakespeare's Falstaff is the perfect embodiment of such a
character, even where there is the opposite of all that is praise
worthy and respectable, and the presence even of the mean as
well as the selfish and sensual indulgences. We see such
characters, not in such perfect type, every day. Happy com
bination, but most miserably directed or applied ! There can
be no doubt that the physical has often much to do in the
production of what seems, what is taken for, a cheerful charac
ter. But, on the other hand, we see cheerfulness often united
with the most disadvantageous physical state and temperament,
and even with the utmost physical suffering. Cheerfulness
triumphs over all. The soul triumphs over the body — mind
surmounts its physical enthralment, and the triumph is all the
more signal that it appears as if it were impossible there could
be cheerfulness in such cases, united to such a frame, or sur
mounting such a condition. And yet many are the instances

u

306 THE EMOTIONS.

of this. Poverty is no barrier to cheerfulness. Content may sup
ply the place of riches. The cottage is more often the abode of
cheerfulness than the palace, and yet we cannot forget that the
latter may possess something infinitely more precious than the
affluence of its wealth, or the splendours of its adornments.

" Honour and shame from no condition rise :"

Cheerfulness is confined to no station.

" Non ebur, neque aureum
Mea renidet in domo lacunar :

Non trabes Hymettiae
Premunt columnas ultima recisas

Africa : neque Attali
Ignotus hseres regiam occupavi ;

Nee Laconicas milii
Trahunt honestae purpuras clientae.

At fides, et ingeni
Benigna vena est ; pauperemque dives

Me petit."

To cheerfulness of disposition, or that state of the mind
which we call by this name, consisting in the equipoise of the
emotions, there may be added a warmer element, an openness
and kindliness of nature, which, uniting with the other, gives to
the character an inexpressibly pleasing and interesting effect and
aspect. There is not only the cheerfulness of day, there is the
warmth of sunshine. There is not only the pleasing harmony of
colours, there is the warm glow of sunlight resting upon all.
There may be cheerfulness without kindness, or that kindness
so predominating, as to mark the character, and to overflow in
streams of goodness. The kindness of the heart has scope for
exercise in the harmony of the emotions which prevails, and
no predominating passion or feeling prevents its exercise.
Such a person scatters sunshine, as well as brings daylight,
wherever he comes. His heart is a fountain of kindliest emo
tions. It is such a character which Coleridge has sought to
pourtray in his somewhat strained and eccentric composition,
" The Rime of the Ancient Mariner/' The precise point of
character is seized when he represents the mariner blessing
even the slimy things which crawled upon the sea: —

THE EMOTIONS. 307

" A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware."

For all the consequences attending this, the machinery of
the poem itself must be consulted. But the precise state of
mind here — the precise character to which we refer — is happily
touched. For killing a poor albatross, sailing in the happy
sky, the mariner had been doomed to a severe penance ; the
spontaneous love that sprang up in his heart towards the slimy
things crawling on the becalmed sea, under a tropical clime, is
the means of his deliverance — the curse that rested on him is
removed ; and he concludes his rhyme with this moral : —

" He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small ;
For the dear God who loveth us —
He made and loveth all."

Most of Wordsworth's poetry is imbued with the same spirit ;
and it is the high moral of his poetry to inculcate it. To let
the heart expand in kindliest affection — to breathe only kindly
emotion — to sympathize with the moods of nature — to love all
God's creatures : this is that poet's philosophy — this dictates,
and animates his poetry. It is the very utterance in his sonnet
composed on Westminster Bridge, in his Hart-Leap-Well, and
in his lines composed on revisiting the banks of the Wye. The
following lines may illustrate the spirit, the pervading one in
Wordsworth's writing :

Speaking of the objects in the landscape that were revived
to him, he says : —

" These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye :
But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too
Of unremembcred pleasure : such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts

308 THE EMOTIONS.

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift

Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood

In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on, —

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

And even the motion of our human blood,

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul :

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things."

The state of mind to which we refer, may not be so idealized
as this comes to : it may take a less philosophic turn : it may
be just the kindly nature of the warm-hearted, the generous, as
well as the cheerful, man; but the combination when this
warmth of disposition is added to cheerfulness, when the two
go together, is very attractive, and implying, as we have seen
cheerfulness does, the harmony of the virtues, in the harmony
of the emotions, the merely natural character is in a state of as
great perfection as nature may be ever destined to reach. Such
characters are not, we hope, rare : may not the character be
cultivated ? In our imperfect state too many disturbing causes
interfere with, or prevent, its development. Even it, however,
is not a picture on which we should dwell with too much com
placency. How much is wanting to make up the character of
the Christian ! And even destitute as he may be of that per
fection of natural qualities, exhibiting little of that cheerful
ness and that kindliness of nature and disposition which enter
into the composition of the other character, the Christian is
still the higher and more valuable character of the two. There
are depths of feeling in the Christian which the other knows
nothing of: there are heights, regards to God, to which he is a
stranger. All that nature can exhibit, in its most perfect state,
is still connected with much sin ; and one true penitent regard,
a sincere, though a feeble, faith in the Saviour, is worth the
best feelings of nature a thousand times told. The love which

THE EMOTIONS. 309

the Christian bears to his fellows, is a very different one from
that which the most loving of natural dispositions cherishes.
It embraces eternity in its regards, and what a feeling must
that be which in the breast of one man has all eternity in
cluded ! The desire of a Christian for the spiritual good of
others is as real as it is profound and influential. It does not
limit itself to the temporal good of its object. That it will
promote too. The charity of the Christian is after all the only
lasting principle we can count upon for even the temporal relief
and amelioration of the world. How many forms of usefulness
does it not only take, but seek ! It goes about everywhere
doing good. It spares not its means: it withholds not its
labour : it seeks its object, and its opportunity. " The cause
which I knew not I searched out," was the expression of Job
regarding himself ; it is the characteristic of every Christian.
The world would not be much the better of all the kindness
which mere natural disposition would dictate. There must be
a stronger feeling than natural kindness. Natural kindness
would never have made a Howard. It was Christian charity
that impelled him on his career of philanthropy. Charity dic
tates that prayer which, unheard and unseen by mortal, escapes
the boundaries of this world, and enters the ear of Him who, in
answer to prayer, sends blessings upon the thankful and the
unthankful — upon the evil and the good. The Christian has
recourse to prayer when every other means fails, and along with
every other means of doing good. What a desire may ascend
with that prayer to the throne of the Eternal, and the Christian
has power with Him to prevail ! It may be unwarrantable, or
at least inexpedient, at all times to speak of the answer to
prayer ; but that the Christian's prayers are answered, and that
these are laden with many blessings, will not be questioned by
any who believe the Bible. With all the imperfections, then,
that attach to the character of the Christian, are not his good
wishes, after all, the only effectual ones ? Let not the Chris
tian, however, think he is warranted to indulge in any un-
amiable moroseness because he has such wishes, and these may
take the prevailing form of prayer, or be seen in active useful-

310 THE EMOTIONS.

ness. Cheerfulness becomes the Christian, and he is the one
most able to repress any unamiableness of character, or disposi
tion, in virtue of those principles by which he is actuated, and
those dispositions which have been implanted in him. It should
be the study and endeavour of every one to attain to that cheer
fulness which is surely within the reach of all, if virtue is within
the reach of all ; and who should be always happy, or should
"rejoice evermore," if not the Christian ? It is he alone who
can rejoice even in tribulation. His peace goes with him even
there. It fills him with a calm — not "the slumber of the
dead," — but the calm of a heart whose trust is stayed upon God.
He has reason to rejoice always. And yet there is need for
heaviness through manifold temptations. The Christian's joy
is far from being uniform, and he may not be able to exhibit
that cheerfulness which even the merely natural disposition
may frequently exemplify. Other things equal, however, the
Christian has most reason to be cheerful. He is called upon to
cherish this disposition, even as one of his duties. The natural
fretfulness — the tendency to discontent — the disposition, it may
be, to sadness — the irascibility of nature which may be native to
him — he is to restrain and overcome. This disposition all may
cultivate. It may be attained just in the due regulation of the
passions or emotions. All sin, all vice, is an enemy to it. It can
not survive along with moral evil. It is in the very preference
and practice of what is right that it lives. It is as inseparable
from moral good as any effect from its cause, as light from the
beams which diffuse it round our path. We proceed to con
sider the qualities which are opposed to it — the feelings or emo
tions which may be regarded as the opposite of cheerfulness.

It will be easily seen that in a world where moral evil
exists, very opposite feelings from those of cheerfulness will fre
quently prevail. The opposite of cheerfulness will be the very
effect of moral evil. And this, after all, is the predominating
state of the world. Evil so prevails as to mar the happiness
which would be otherwise so perfect. Unhappiness, misery, is
the direct fruit of evil, of sin. Let the world be in its primeval

THE EMOTIONS. 311

state, and all paradise would smile, and God would again walk
with man in the garden. Moral evil must bring its punish
ment, and we see that punishment in the many forms of misery
or unhappiness that exist. With the altered state of man God
has adopted an altered procedure, while sin itself creates con
fusion, disorder, suffering. The reign of the evil passions is
the reign of suffering. It is marvellous that order can exist in
this world at all. It is because there is so much of good as
well as evil. This, as we have seen, can obtain only in such a
state, where all is not unmitigated evil, and the Moral Legislator
of the universe defers His anger, and has adopted a remedial
scheme for the recovery of His lawless subjects. Still, moral
evil does bear its bitter fruit. Misery, vexation, disappoint
ment, wo, in a thousand forms, exist. The heart mourns over
innumerable causes of grief and disappointment. Its own evil
passions entail misery. The purest, the most perfect, confess
evils which they have not escaped, and which they see in their
best actions. In no case does the heart pronounce a verdict
of acquittal, of absolutely guiltless. See the most cheerful
person at times, the individual who has the most right to be
cheerful, and you will see a cloud upon his brow, and he, too,
will acknowledge that he is not always happy. Go through
the world, and an absolutely happy person will not be found.
In the fine image of Hall, the roll in Ezekiel's vision has been
put into every hand, and it is inscribed within and without,
with mourning, lamentation, and wo. Where one does not
suffer in liimself, he suffers in the sufferings of others, in his
relations or connexions in life. No one is so by himself that he
is not affected by what takes place around him, or by some
interest which he feels in others. Sorrow is thus often induced
by causes foreign and external. We are bound up in the
happiness, in the very conduct, of others. We cannot escape
the ties that encircle us. Sorrow may come from the very
quarter where we expected most happiness. Disappointments,
crosses, are thickly strewn, encompass our path, make our very
homes the scene of weeping. The loss of goods, the death of
friends, the failure of cherished schemes, the ingratitude, or

312 THE EMOTIONS.

worse, of those, from whom we looked for an increase of happi
ness in the affection which they owed to us, and by the dutiful
conduct which they were bound to render, and a thousand other
ways in which evil may come, these all, or one or other of these,
may sadden our spirits, and make all our prospect melancholy.
The cloud may be temporary, or it may be longer continued ;
and if one cloud pass away, another may succeed more gloomy,
and involving all the sky in still thicker darkness. There are
the cares and vexations, and there are the more serious ills of
life. If we have not the one, we may have the other, and the
former, as well as the latter, may throw a cloud over the spirits
— may interfere with that cheerfulness and equanimity which
otherwise would prevail. How much even of the good man's
clays are harassed and saddened by the disappointments of
business, and the cares that come to him from the world ? To
maintain cheerfulness is almost impossible, and it is the appear
ance of it that he assumes rather than the reality that he
possesses. He does not give way, perhaps, to melancholy, or to
the sallies of fretfulness and passion, but he is too often tempted
to do so. His spirits, oppressed with anxiety, and vexed with
disappointment, cannot bear up, and difficulties which he can
not meet, altogether overcome. The sallies of passion, or the
gloom of melancholy, may get the better of him. How much
need at such a time for the stay which the Christian has even
in such circumstances, although even the Christian may be
often tempted to the indulgence of such wrong dispositions, or
to yield to such wrong influences. The Christian, however,
has a compensation in all his trials, and he can have his hope
in heaven when every earthly hope has failed.

Fretfulness, moroseness, melancholy, or just that sadness
which calamity cannot fail to engender, are the opposite states
to cheerfulness. Either of these may be induced by the causes
to which we have adverted. Fretfulness and moroseness imply
an ill-regulated mind ; for however the causes which oppress
may be such as to do so, a proper regulation of the temper, or
the dispositions, Would secure against such unamiable states.
We may exercise a command upon ourselves in most circum-

THE EMOTIONS. 313

stances, and to yield to the sallies of temper, or to court mo-
roseness of disposition, is altogether improper and indefensible.
We may not be happy, but we need not be unamiable. We
may not be cheerful, but it is in our power not to be morose.
We may preserve an equanimity when our circumstances might
tempt to irritation or impatience. Melancholy is a mood of mind
distinct from moroseness or fretfulness. It does not exhibit the
unamiable qualities of either. It is generally the result of a
course of circumstances, or of some single calamity, which may
have borne more or less severely upon the mind, and from
which there is, or appears, no escape, or to which there seems
no alleviation. It is the effect, for the most part, of disap
pointment — it is the creature of disappointment, or disappoint
ment is an element in it — has been one of the many, it may be,
and concurring circumstances which have induced it. We see
this when a merchant's schemes have failed, and he is left a
ruined and a beggared man. We see it when the man who
has aimed at station and influence in society finds his efforts
useless, and every ambitious hope laid in the dust. The well
calculated schemes for wealth frustrated or destroyed — the ruin
of a state of affluence itself — the wreck of such splendid enter
prises — the dissipation of all that was so promising, or so flat
tering, and not a relic of a once prosperous and flourishing
condition saved, such ruin falling on one devoted head, or
strewing its thousand fragments at the feet, too often involves
the victim of such disaster in incurable melancholy. When
the man, ambitious of power, sees a rival promoted, and finds
that his chase for station and preeminence has been unsuccess
ful, he yields to that only relief for wounded minds, and rushes
into the arms, or courts the embrace of melancholy. Disap
pointed affection invites this somewhat pleasing influence, or
its first paroxysms of sorrow yield to this softer and less dis
tracting feeling. Melancholy is less distressing than the feeling
experienced immediately upon the occurrence of any calamity,
or when that calamity is recent. It is not till after a time that
melancholy supervenes. We call the immediate emotion,
rather grief, deep sorrow, a feeling bordering upon distraction,

314 THE EMOTIONS.

or perhaps distraction itself. We say of a person under recent
calamity that his grief is excessive, that he is distracted with
grief, or that there seem to be no bounds to his sorrow. Were
such excessive emotion to continue, both mind and body would
give way under it, and probably death alone would relieve the
sufferer. We know from the most solemn of all examples of
suffering, that there is such a thing as being sorrowful unto
death. But it is a wise provision of our nature that all violent
emotions soon spend themselves, and the mind subsides into
a state of temperate grief or calm enjoyment. The bow does
not always continue bent ; it would break if it did : it must
relax, and the elastic wood seeks its natural state. By a violent
shock an oscillating body may be carried far beyond its point
of oscillation, but it will inevitably find its equilibrium or point
of rest. Let the storm be ever so violent, afterwards there
comes a calm. Not more surely does nature obey these laws,
or do these laws operate in the physical world, than does the
mind exhibit a similar law, or obey a similar tendency ; it, too,
finds its point of rest; it, too, relaxes from the strong bent
either of excessive joy or of violent grief. But in finding this
point of rest, or equilibrium, in relaxing into its natural state,
or ordinary pitch of feeling, there is a point at which both
its joy and its grief partake neither of rest nor of excessive
emotion. The joy is no longer the strong impulsive feeling
which almost transported the individual beyond himself, nor
the grief such as distracted the mind, and almost tore it
asunder. It becomes a pleasing joy, which expends itself in
no half-frantic gesticulation, but radiates in delighted expres
sion from the countenance ; it subsides into a calm grief, which
we denominate melancholy. Dr. Brown is wrong, we think, in
making the subsidence of feeling in the former case cheerful
ness. He is right when he makes it in the latter melancholy.
There is a difference in the two cases : Moderate joy is glad
ness, but gladness does not seem to us to be a proper synonyme
for cheerfulness. " Cheerfulness," says Dr. Brown, " which at
every moment may be considered only as a modification of joy,
is a sort of perpetual gladness. It is that state," he continues,

THE EMOTIONS. 315

" which, in every one, even in those of the most gloomy dispo
sition, remains for some time after any event of unexpected
happiness, though the event itself may not be present to their
conception at the time ; and which, in many of gayer tempera
ment, seems to be almost a constant frame of mind." Cheer
fulness does not at all depend upon " any event of unexpected
happiness." It is an independent feeling, and might exist
although there never had been any happiness beyond the feel
ing of cheerfulness itself. Cheerfulness does not depend upon
outward circumstances. It is its grand prerogative that it may
exist in the most depressing circumstances. It has existed in
a prison, and the prisoner has been happier than the party at
whose despotic will he has been confined, and has been known
to leave his cell even with regret. But if cheerfulness was the
mere subsidence of a state of gladness, it would not be within
the walls of a prison that we should look for it. It would have
no existence but upon the prior existence of a sudden or supe
rior happiness. Dr. Brown is right, however, we conceive,
when he says, — " The state of melancholy, when it is not con
stitutional and permanent, but temporary, is a state which
intervenes between the absolute affliction of any great calamity
and that peace to which, by the benevolent arrangement of
Heaven, even melancholy itself ultimately leads." Melancholy
does not in every case lead to this peace ; and, accordingly,
Dr. Brown limits his observation to that melancholy which is
of a temporary kind, which is not constitutional or permanent.
But even when it is permanent, it is always something less,
considerably less, than the original affliction which passes into
it. The first paroxysm of grief is something far more strong
than the melancholy into which it may subside. The one is a
relief from the other ; it is happiness in comparison with the
other. Violent grief could not be endured long; a gentler
sorrow, or melancholy, takes its place, and fills the mind, which
otherwise must still have been the seat of dominant sorrow. It
is a benevolent provision which secures such a change, and
allows the most passionate grief to become weak as that of a
child, or something in which there is even a degree of pleasure ;

316 THE EMOTIONS.

for there is a pleasure even in grief, when it is not of that
violent sort that fills and distracts the mind. Benevolent in
all His arrangements, God has so provided that sorrow should
not continue either so long, or of such violence as to paralyze
the spirit, and make this world, as it would otherwise be, a
scene of almost unmitigated wo. The grief which is laid
aside after a few days or months, would, but for this wise and
benevolent provision, still continue to distract ; and we would
have the accumulated grief of a lifetime, it may be, weigh
ing down the spirit, which seems hardly capable of sustaining
one of them. Melancholy may continue, while violent sorrow
cannot. It is the kind of equilibrium of the sadder emotions,
seeking their point of rest, as cheerfulness may be the kind
of equilibrium of the pleasurable emotions, or the subsidence
of some joy which had been for a time in the ascendant.
The mind may exist notwithstanding melancholy ; and melan
choly, therefore, may reign without the destruction of the
very seat of its dominancy. Some never escape from its
influence ; they carry it with them to their grave. It marks
their countenance, it imprints their step, it expresses itself on
their whole demeanour. In its more distressing aspect or form,
it is the subject of a sketch by one who had himself realized
all that he so strikingly pourtrays. In its lighter moods, it is
touched by Milton with a no less graphic power, though too
much fancy, perhaps, is thrown into the picture.

" Divinest melancholy" is perhaps made too attractive, as it
undoubtedly is invested with too ideal a character. Perhaps
Milton had reference to that kind of melancholy of which Dr.
Brown speaks when he says : — " How universally a certain
degree of disposition to melancholy is supposed to be connected
with genius, at least with poetic genius, is manifest from every
description which has been given by those who have formed
imaginary pictures of the rise and progress of this high character
of thought. The melancholy, indeed," Dr. Brown continues, " is
not inconsistent with occasional emotions of an opposite kind ;
on the contrary, it is always supposed to be coupled with a dis
position to mirth, on occasions in which others see perhaps as

THE EMOTIONS. 317

little cause of merriment as they before saw of melancholy ;
but the general character to which the mind most readily
returns, is that of sadness — a sadness, however, of that gentle
and benevolent kind of which I before spoke." Dr. Brown
quotes a very apposite passage from Beattie's " Minstrel," to
illustrate his view. The author of that exquisite poem makes
his subject — the minstrel — the progress of whose genius, and,
accordingly, of genius in the abstract, it is the object of the
poem to trace, characterized by all that pensiveness or tendency
to melancholy which Dr. Brown says is supposed to be con
nected with poetic genius. The poet thus describes the young
minstrel : —

" And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy ;

Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye.

Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy,

Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy :

Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy ;

And now his look was most demurely sad,

And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why.

The neighbours stared and sighed, yet bless'd the lad :
Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.
" But why should I his childish feats display ?

Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled ;

Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray

Of squabbling imps, — but to the forest sped,

Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head ;

Or, where the maze of some bewildered stream

To deep^untrodden groves his footsteps led,

There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,
Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team.
" In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,

Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene.

In darkness, and in storm, he found delight :

Nor less, than when on ocean wave serene,

The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling shene.

Ev'n sad vicissitude amused his soul :

And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,

And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control."

This state of mind, so finely brought out by the poet, may
more properly be regarded as pensiveness, or a disposition to
sadness, connected as that may be with all the finer emotions

318 THE EMOTIONS.

of the soul. " The fountain of tears," it has been said, " is
nearer the heart than that of smiles." There is enough in this
world to beget a feeling of pensiveness, if not something more,
in every reflecting mind. The poetic cast of melancholy is
not far from the philosophic, which Dr. Brown also notices :
both have the same source, though the one may be tinged with
the hues of imagination, while the other may be more absolute
and literal. " There is a melancholy of a gentler species,"
says Dr. Brown, after describing the darker moods of it,
" which, as it arises in a great measure from a view of the
sufferings of man, disposes to a warmer love of man, the
sufferer, and which is almost as essential to the finer emotions
of virtue, as it is to the nicer sensibilities of poetic genius."
Now, we have said that disappointment seems to mingle more
or less in every instance of melancholy. We had reference in
our remark to the more serious instances of the emotion. If
the aspects of the feeling to which Dr. Brown refers are to be
regarded as truly melancholy, and not rather as mere sadness,
or pensiveness, awakened by the contemplation of the sufferings
of man — by that serious eye which a more penetrating thought
casts upon the world — if it is truly melancholy, we think a
feeling of disappointment must be an element in it ; disap
pointment not so much with regard to personal objects, as with
respect to those general expectations and views which aspiring
genius, and a benevolent philanthropy, are supposed to cherish.
The mind no sooner opens to the bright anticipations winch it
is prone at the outset in life to form, than it finds them all
dissipated or dashed by an adverse world. There is an anti
cipation of disappointment when the very anticipations of good
are struggling for realization. The forecast of evil comes
before itself. The world casts its shadow upon the bright and
advancing steps of youth. " Shades of the prison-house," as
Wordsworth has it,

" begin to close
Upon the growing boy."

Need we wonder at the effect which that state of things
which the world presents is fitted to produce, and does produce,

THE EMOTIONS. 319

upon a reflective mind, when it yields itself to reflection ? The
poetic and the philosophic mind both are imbued with that
reflective nature or tendency which is never without matter for
its meditations, and which hears "the still sad music of
humanity," when other ears are deaf. There is a kind of
philosophy which prevails, which is to let the world take its
course ; let humanity suffer ; let evil exist ; we need concern
ourselves as little about it as possible. Such a philosophy will
not commend itself to any true and generous nature. A philo
sophy all tears may be as mistaken a one, as a philosophy all
smiles ; but, undoubtedly, the former had more ground for it
than the latter. " Democritus," says Sir Thomas Browne,
" that thought to laugh the times into goodness, seems to me
as deeply hypochondriac as Heraclitus that bewailed them."
There is greater room in the world, undoubtedly, for the school
of a Heraclitus than for that of a Democritus. The frivolous
and the vain may laugh away the evils of life, but the true-
hearted and the deep-thinking will often see occasion for the
tear of pity or of sadness, in the very circumstances that may
provoke the laughter of others. Even, therefore, where there
may be no great call for the feeling of personal disappointment,
though a person's own path were all brightness and all pro
sperity, is there nothing in the state of the world, generally, to
engender this feeling, to awaken that sadness in which disap
pointment or regret mingles as an element ? Do we not suffer
in the sufferings of others ? Do we not weep with those that
weep ? Can we avoid making the case of the disappointed our
own ? Is there no treachery, no deceit, no baseness, to be met
with in the world ? Do we not often behold a littleness of
motive and of action which inspires aversion, if it does not
awaken disgust ? To be affected with the misery that prevails
in the world, we may be assured, is always the accompaniment
of a noble nature. The Howards of our species are the noblest
specimens of the race, and a fine temperament, whether linked
with a philosophic or a poetic genius, may have all the sensi
bilities without the strong and impulsive will of a Howard.
In proof that disappointment is an element in melancholy — and

320 THE EMOTIONS.

we refer to such an evidence with all reverence — we may hazard
the remark that it could not be said of the Saviour that He was
ever melancholy, although He was often sad. In one sense,
He was often disappointed with the ways of the world, and
with the conduct of His own friends, but not so much disap
pointed as grieved at heart. He knew what He had to expect
when He entered upon His work. He had entertained no
enthusiastic dreams of what was to be, or of what ought to be ;
He cherished no illusory hopes, no vain imaginations, the
indulgence of which, even although connected with the most
generous and virtuous aspirations, is, when disappointment is
met with, the very element out of which melancholy — that more
gentle kind of it which is connected with genius — weaves its own
sombre tissue. Every one has heard of the melancholy of the
poet Cowper. It had substantial disappointments to create it,
but it is interesting to find him referring to these very disap
pointments as the cause and explanation of that state of mind
of which he was so long, and so painfully, the victim. We
find him in a poetical epistle to a friend thus affectingly alluding
to his circumstances : —

" See me, ere yet my destined course half done,
Cast forth a wanderer on a world unknown !
See me neglected on the world's rude coast,
Each dear companion of my voyage lost !
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my Lrow,
And ready tears wait only leave to flow !
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free,
All that delights the happy, palls with me !"

We find from Cowper's own letters that his principal works
were written under a necessity to keep off melancholy. That
there was much that was constitutional in the melancholy of
Cowper, there can be no doubt. But the frequent allusions in
his letters to his unfitness for life, and the failure of all the
hopes of his friends regarding him, if not his own hopes, dis
cover to us the true cause, what, perhaps, was at the heart, of that
feeling which so constantly attended him. The extreme deli
cacy and refinement of physical and mental constitution which
incapacitated him for taking his place as a reading or merely

THE EMOTIONS. 321

recording clerk in the House of Lords, and afterwards from
becoming a law-lecturer in the Temple, and the consequent
failure of every hope that had been entertained of him : it was
this that gave a tinge to his whole life ; and had not religion
come in to relieve that horizon which was otherwise so dark,
that very religion to which, by many, all his melancholy is
traced, he had been, probably, a hopeless maniac all his days.
He was frequently deserted, indeed, by the consolations of
religion, but such consolation as he had was from this source,
and the tone and tenor of his writings for the twelve long years
during which he informs us he scarcely had a ray of comfort,
shew how he was more supported than he was even aware by
the secret, and solid, if not very lively satisfaction and peace,
which never wholly desert the soul that has once admitted them.
Cowper's whole case is exceedingly instructive on the subject
of which we are treating, and in nothing is it more instructive
than as to the source from which relief is to come, in any such
instance of melancholy, or despondency, arising, whether from
constitutional temperament, or from an unfitness for the rude
struggle and contest of life, and the failure of every most
cherished scheme or expectation. The following lines were
written during the long period of despondency to which we
have adverted, and aptly describe his state, both as regards his
melancholy, and the mode in which relief came to him : —

" I was a stricken deer, that left the herd
Long since ; with man}- an arrow deep infixed
My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by One who had himself
Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
"With gentle force soliciting the darts,
He drew them forth and heal'd, and bade me live.
Since then, with few associates, in remote
And silent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene ;
With few associates and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.

322 THE EMOTIONS.

1 sue that all are wandererfi, gone astray,
Each in his own delusions ; they are lost
In ehace of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream ensues ;
And still they dream that they shall still succeed,
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,
And add two-thirds of the remaining half,
And find the total of their hopes and fears
Dreams, empty dreams."

Melancholy, then, we take to be one of the feelings opposed
to cheerfulness ; it is either the subsidence of a violent sorrow,
or begotten by a train of circumstances whose effect is not ex
cessive sorrow, but the feeling we call melancholy ; and disap
pointment, we conceive, is, in every instance, an element in the
emotion. It may be unnecessary to refine so much as this —
to distinguish the emotion or feeling of melancholy from that
of pensiveness or sadness ; but we think an element can be
clearly distinguished in the former which is not in the latter.
Pensiveness is hardly a synonyme to sadness ; it approaches
nearer to melancholy than sadness does. Pensiveness is almost
entirely a constitutional thing ; it is partly begotten, however,
by the disappointment which our hopes or expectations from
the world are inevitably doomed to suffer. It is not so strong
as melancholy : let the disappointments take either a personal
turn, or let them deepen and darken in their character, as our
experience in life opens up new subject for melancholy thought,
and melancholy, not pensiveness merely, will be the result.
Foster's was a melancholy cast of mind essentially from this
source ; and it was deep in proportion to the profound views
he took, not of life merely, but of all moral questions. The
dark shade cast from the latter deepened his feeling with re
spect to the former, and made all the expectations he might
be prone to cherish in regard to the world more melancholy
in their effect in proportion as he beheld them signally baffled,
and so unlikely to be ever realized. Kousseau's melancholy
arose very much from the same source ; but his reflections
upon life were not so just, as they wanted the element of reli-

THE EMOTIONS. 323

gion, or were not taken from the side of religion. They were
connected with no views of God, and held in check by no
fear of God's sovereignty. It is not one circumstance merely
which produces melancholy, although this may do it, but
often a train of circumstances, — as it is not one melancholy
reflection on life, but a course of reflection, that produces
it in the meditative mind. Virtue will not always prevent
the intrusion of melancholy, although it will greatly help
to do so. There may be a cheerful melancholy, if we may
so speak, or along with much cause for melancholy, there may
be at the same time abundant cause for cheerfulness. The
more virtuous we keep the mind, the more cheerful it will be
even under the disasters of life. There can be no doubt there
are great constitutional differences, and what would involve one
in melancholy would hardly affect another. There is a ten
dency in some to look always at the darker side of things ;
others, as Goldsmith expresses it, can put themselves on that
side of the world in which everything appears in a pleasing
light. To the latter there is no melancholy ; sorrow may be
felt, but to melancholy such persons are utter strangers. And
this is from no want of feeling ; the sympathies of such persons
may be most tender, but, from a singular law of their constitu
tion, nothing ever wears a gloomy aspect to them. We can
give no account of this law any more than others in the mental
and moral world, except that it is perhaps intended by the wise
Creator, even in this our fallen state, that there should be
blended many of the elements of a happy social condition, while
there is enough to remind us that our state is a fallen one, and
that perfect happiness is to be sought for in a future world to
which our hopes are taught to aspire by the Gospel alone.

From the view we have taken of melancholy, it will be seen
that it is not properly the opposite of cheerfulness. The pro
per opposite of this latter emotion is fretfulness or moroseness.
Wherever these exist, there can of course be no harmony of the
emotions ; and they can be owing only to the disturbance of
that harmony. We have said there may be a cheerful melan-

324 THE EMOTIONS.

choly : we should have rather said a serene melancholy ; but
we cannot speak of a serene fretfulness — a serene raoroseness.
Wherever these are, there is disorder in the feelings : there is
a total disturbance. Melancholy may be like a cloud passing
over a serene sky ; in moroseness, all is murky as well as dark,
and there is a sullenness in the whole aspect of nature ; in fret-
fulness, we have broken and jagged clouds ever and anon
passing over the heavens, and the wind speaks in fitful gusts.
Peevishness, again, is the same as fretfulness, but along with
the clouds and the winds we have cold and drizzling showers,
producing discomfort as well as gloom. There is a strong ten
dency in some minds to indulge in such dispositions. Fretful-
ness is the least culpable, and the least unpleasant of the three;
it may result from real causes, and it is transient in its opera
tion : moroseness, too, may have its more settled cause ; but
for peevishness there is no excuse, unless, which is often the
case, it is the result, in part, of physical derangement, or a
habit of body that disposes to it by constant suffering or un
easiness. Often, however, it is the result of natural tempera
ment, an infirmity of disposition always leading the unhappy
possessor of it to find fault when there is no cause for it, nay,
when there is cause for the very reverse. To such a disposition
nothing comes right, or if anything comes right, it is sure to
be put wrong. It will look up and complain in your face even
when you are doing all in your power to please, and when you
may be wearing your most benignant smiles. Shakespeare has
hit off this unfortunate temper, or turn of mind, with his usual
happy power and truthfulness : —

" Why should a man whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ?
Sleep when he wakes ? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish ?"

Moroseness has generally some good grounds for it. A man
would hardly be morose if he could help it. It begins with
some good reason, for the most part — but it may be cherished
too long, and hugged too closely. Moroseness is silent : fret-

THE EMOTIONS. 325

fulness speaks out: peevishness pules out, if we may so ex
press ourselves — its language is a whimper — and no matter
into what ears it is poured ; the more affectionate, perhaps,
the more suitable for its purpose. A repining, murmuring,
disposition may be neither the peevish, nor the fretful, and
yet it may partake of both ; and the morose, too, often breaks
out into murmuring or complaint: at other times it is entirely
silent, and you might in vain try to entice it into smiles.
Goldsmith in one of his comedies has sketched the "good-
natured man," — and in the same comedy the disposition of
mind to which we have just adverted, is very happily touched.
Croaker, when he had no other subject to write upon, drew up
an account of the increase and progress of earthquakes. His
salutation to a friend was : " A pleasant morning to Mr.
Honeywood, and many of them. How is this — you look most
shockingly to-day, my dear friend?" Croaker thought it was
all one what weather they had in a country going to ruin like
his own, " taxes rising, and trade falling, money flying out of
the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it." The " good-
natured man" is the very opposite of Croaker. He is never in a
bad humour : he could not be put into one ; nothing seems to be
able to fret or irritate him, although he felt there was something
in his friend Croaker's conversation that quite depressed him.
To humour Croaker's habit of mind, he falls into the same vein,
or way of moralizing ; but when Croaker leaves him, he says,
" I shall scarce recover my spirits for three days." Such fret
ful, sullen, and peevish dispositions are to be studiously
guarded against ; while what is called good nature, if carried
to excess, may lead to the greatest extravagances. Sir William
Honeywood could detect in the good nature of his nephew, a
disposition arising rather from the fear of offending the im
portunate, than a desire of making the deserving happy. This
disposition may be linked with the utmost recklessness of ex
penditure, and folly in the manner of extending favours. It is
plainly something very different from cheerfulness, which sup
poses no excess of emotion, and is not itself necessarily kind
ness. Every emotion should be under control, and perhaps

326 THE EMOTIONS.

cheerfulness should be sought above every other state of mere
enjoyment ; for the happiness connected with it is connected
with a right moral state, and due exercise of all the virtuous
emotions. " Live happy," says Sir Thomas Browne in his
Christian Morals, " in the elysium of a virtuously composed
mind, and let intellectual contents exceed the delights wherein
mere pleasurists place their paradise. Bear not too slack reins
upon pleasure, nor let complexion or contagion betray thee
unto the exorbitancy of delight." The dispositions to fretful-
ness, moroseness, and peevishness, are the causes of as much
unhappiness to the person who indulges them, as to those on
whom the unpleasant humour is expended, or who happen to
be the subjects of its caprice. But the effects do not stop with
their possessor. " There is a sullen gloom," says Dr. Brown, in
a characteristic passage, " which disposes to unkindness, and
every bad passion ; a fretftilness in all the daily and hourly in
tercourse of familiar life, which, if it weary at last the assidui
ties of friendship, sees only the neglect which it has forced, and
not the perversity of humour which gave occasion to it, and
soon learns to hate, therefore, what it considers as ingratitude
and injustice : or which, if friendship be still assiduous as
before, sees in those very assiduities a proof, not of the strength
of that affection which has forgotten the acrimony to soothe
the supposed uneasiness which gave it rise, but a proof that
there has been no offensive acrimony to be forgotten, and per
sists therefore in every peevish caprice till the domestic tyranny
become habitual." The indulgence of such humours is very
apt to be allowed in that very scene which of all others should
be distinguished for the cheerful and amiable affections. The
dispositions we would not exhibit abroad, we are apt to suffer
ourselves in at home, because we do not feel those restraints
upon us which society imposes ; and while the bad humour
may not go very far, it may yet serve often to interrupt that
flow of happiness which a greater restraint upon ourselves or
command over our tempers would secure.

Old age is very apt to be querulous or fretful, and the cir
cumstances of this period of life are its ample excuse. If the

THE EMOTIONS. 327

temper cannot be commanded at that season, what wonder
when every feeling is a pain, and every thought almost is a
regret for something that has for ever passed away ? If there
are friends still to wait upon and soothe it, the inability to
meet that very friendship with an adequate return, or with
acts and assiduities of equal kindness, is felt as itself a trial,
and almost galls the spirit that may be as sensible of the good
offices tendered, as if it could repay these with double affection.
Naturally unamiable dispositions are all the more unlovely
when seen in old age, as there is nothing to compensate their
effect ; but when what is unamiable has its cause in old age
itself, it becomes almost endeared to us for the sake of that
very old age, and we delight in the opportunity of bearing with
its irritability, and soothing the temper which we know so
well would never in other days have exhibited itself. It is a
demand upon our very affection ; it is often exhibited for no
other purpose. Old age knows its right, and it will assert it,
and we are the more willing and ready to allow it. There
may be something even flattering to our own affection in the
calls made upon it ; and if there is pleasure in the exercise of
virtuous dispositions — if there is happiness in the very indul
gence of amiable qualities, old age gives us the best oppor
tunity of exhibiting both, so that a pardonable pride — if ever
pride can be pardonable — a satisfaction at least in having
affection to exhibit, and having that affection fully trusted in
or appreciated: these, as well as the direct pleasure arising
from the exercise of virtuous and amiable emotions, may legi
timately be allowed or supposed to accompany the affectionate
attentions we pay to the aged. What indulgence should not
be shewn to those who have finished their span of existence,
and wrhose horizon, now in this world, is all in the past ? Their
future is already in the unseen and eternal state. They have
arrived at that brink over which it is almost giddiness to look.
Who shall blame them if they feel giddy in the contemplation ?
What need at such a moment for the hope of immortality ! —
and that, indeed, filling the mind, and occupying the spirit,
may well diffuse a calm over the soul, and impart to it a

328 THE EMOTIONS.

dignity, which will allow no room, or take away all disposition,
to fretfulness, while it raises it above every earth-born feeling
or passion. Old age so characterized is a sublime spectacle.
Why should it not be oftener exhibited ? Why should not the
faith of the gospel then shed its parting rays, more beautiful
as fears clear away like clouds from the sinking sun, and show
ing a larger radiance, as refracted almost from the unseen
world itself ?

Joy is the next emotion which demands attention. Taking
along with us the principle with which we set out, that moral
evil exists, that it is a fact to be considered in all our emotional
or moral states, the question is, How can joy consist with the
admitted fact of moral evil ? and we find the same solution of
the question as in the instance of cheerfulness. We then
found, or took notice of the circumstance, that although moral
evil exists, it is not unmixed evil, or that the world is a scene
in which good as well as evil obtains — that the Moral Legis
lator of the universe has not punished evil to the extent that
an unmingled administration of justice might require, and
might lead us to expect — that he has adopted a remedial
scheme with respect to this world, which still allows the
development and exercise of much that is amiable and praise
worthy in character ; while happiness or pleasure attends, and
must attend, the exercise of every virtuous disposition. That
happiness is cheerfulness, or allows cheerfulness ; and if nothing
occur to mar it, and no emotion predominate over another,
cheerfulness is the result, and forms the equable emotion or
state of the mind. Happiness being thus possible, there may
be joy as well as cheerfulness in the world. The mind was
constituted at first susceptible of joy as well as cheerfulness.
Cheerfulness is the first happiness of the mind, unelevated,
undepressed. Joy is a livelier or superior degree of happiness.
Certain occurrences or circumstances are calculated to awaken
joy. The happiness that was before felt is augmented, or the
mind is raised at once from a state of depression to one of joy.

THE EMOTIONS. 329

If we receive an accession to the means of comfort and of
happiness, we experience joy — we are not merely happy, we feel
joyful. If our happiness consists in doing good, and an en
larged sphere of usefulness presents itself which was not
expected, we feel joy. If some new truth develops itself in
our inquiries — if some question is solved — if some very dif
ficult point in science is determined, on which we had in
vain expended our faculties — above all, if it yields to our own
investigations and energies, we feel joy. The unlooked-for
meeting with a friend, the sight of one's native land after a
period of absence, an act of generosity or kindness from, a
supposed enemy, some unexpected blessing received, or appre
hended danger warded off, — all these awaken joy, and make the
mind perhaps exult in happiness. Joy will express itself often
in exclamations of delight. Delight seeks utterance, and
laughter, and even tears, testify to the joy that is felt.

Joy is for the most part, but it is not always, sudden. It
sometimes springs up in the mind, and we know not whence
its source. The mind is open to solicitations of pleasure, and
we know not whence they address us. As there is a sympathy
between trie mind and the frame in which it resides, it some
times is the result of a quickened sense of mere bodily pleasure,
as when all the pulses beat in healthy tune, or an external joy
in the very atmosphere appeals to the senses, and through them
to the mind. There is a beautiful sympathy between the mind
and external nature. The mind is adapted to feel the appeals
made by external nature — nature is rendered capable of these
appeals to the susceptibilities and sentiments of the mind. Joy
springs up that instant in the bosom. Akenside, the poet of
philosophy, speaks of

. . . . " The lively joy when aught unknown
Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power
To brisker measures."

The exhilaration of exercise is akin to joy, and is undoubtedly
a promoter of it. The walks among the scenes of nature, the
stringing the frame to vigorous exertion, and the views that
expand to the eye when we gain some mountain summit which

330 THE EMOTIONS.

our energies have been tasked in reaching ; the distant expanse
which the niind as well as the eye can take in, the healthful
play of every vital feeling, and the power of such a scene as
invites the gaze, to solicit the mind away from its cares and its
sorrows, all ministers to a joy or delight which is felt in no
other circumstances, and which makes the mind as well as the
very body healthy. Nature has not given us vital powers and
capacities of pleasure without a purpose, and she has not allow
ed such scenes to linger on this world without the intention
that we should bring our minds into frequent communion with
them. The lines of Beattie are surely a pardonable enthu
siasm, and may be employed to stimulate to that love of
external nature, of which many exhibit such a lamentable
deficiency.

" 0 how canst tliou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which nature to her votary yields :
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields ;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And all that echoes to the song of even ;
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,

And all the drcffld magnificence of Heaven,
0 ! how canst tliou renounce, and hope to be forgiven '?"

To these pleasures the Christian adds another ; speaking of
the Christian, the " Freeman whom the truth makes free," the
Christian poet says, —

" He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His arc the mountains, and the valleys his,
And all the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who with filial confidence inspired
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say, ' My Father made them all.'
Arc they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis of interest his,
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,

THE EMOTIONS. 331

Wlio.se heart with praise, ami whose exalted mind
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love
That plunn'd, and built, and still upholds a world
So rloth'd with beauty for rebellious man ?"

Joy may have its source in moral causes. We may rejoice
in an event which will give happiness to thousands, and pro
mote the virtue of a community. Our own prosperity, or that
of others, connected with the exercise of right principle, ex
perienced in the very carrying out of that principle, may be
a legitimate source of joy. We triumph in the success of
virtue. Individual prosperity may often be connected with
the maintenance of principle ; and to see the virtuous re
warded, or to have virtue rewarded in one's own case, is a
real source of joy, whether to the observer, or to the indi
vidual himself. The spectacle of moral principle, steadily
maintained through a uniform course of action, maintained on
its own account, and in spite of temptation, or amid the
many opportunities of relaxing it, is an interesting one, and
awakens joy in every breast that can truly sympathize with
it. Do we see the righteous exalted, and the unscrupulous
baffled in their attempts to build their fortunes upon the ruin
of others ? — We rejoice. The defeat of all sinister, as well as
the success of all good and honourable principle, makes every
heart glad whose sympathies are still on the side of the right.
National prosperity, when based upon principle, is an occasion
of joy. We sympathize in the schemes of the benevolent for
national amelioration, and the patriotic for political emancipa
tion or national grandeur. The triumph of any public cause
over prejudice and interested opposition ; the success of any
great question which has long hung in the balance, whose ulti
mate success, however, you could confidently predict in the
sure triumph, in the long run, of every good and righteous
measure, quickens the pulses of joy in every heart. Has a
nation a just quarrel with its enemies — is war, however to be
deplored, inevitable — are thousands slain in the struggle — do
we see the contest maintained on the most deadly fields ;— but

332 THE EMOTIONS.

has justice triumphed — has liberty gained a just victory — have
the enemies of freedom and of right been overthrown — and have
inestimable blessings been secured to generations ? — We rejoice ;
a national triumph is decreed ; public rejoicings are proclaimed ;
and we feel, as lovers of the right, as patriots, a joy which even
the disasters and miseries of warfare cannot wholly prevent.
Nor is it different if the scene of action is more limited ; if the
interests are less public ; if, instead of a nation, it is a com
munity that is benefited ; if some signal blessing has accrued
to a mere vicinity : — it may not involve such mighty interests, it
may not embattle nations, but it may be some real public good,
notwithstanding — the triumph of some measure of economic or
social wellbeing :• — we make the cause our own — our individual
feelings are enlisted — joy is the pervading feeling, and our
own joy is augmented by sympathy with the joy of every one
around us. We take an interest in the struggle for freedom
when a nation is throwing off its fetters, and awakening to the
rights of the species, entitled to self-government, and having
a deep stake in those measures of social regulation, which are
to be imposed, it may be, upon generations. The promise
that was in the first dawn of the French Revolution, sent a
thrill of joy through those nations which themselves possessed a
rational amount of liberty, and was hailed as the precursor
even to them of a better day. That joy was destined to be
fatally overcast, and to be quenched in blood ; but the dawn
of promise was not the less bright, or hailed with the less satis
faction. There is a promise even now of a brighter era ; and
the social condition of the nations seems to be receiving a
mighty impulse in the quickened intelligence of the people —
in the diffusion of enlightened principles of thinking and of
action — in the interest exhibited in the questions of a right
political economy — in the more extensive recognition of a just
philosophy, and of scriptural truth, — and who does not sympa
thize with such a prospect ? Tyranny — despotic sway — arbi
trary institutions, which have so long oppressed the nations,
and bound them as under a frozen spell, must give way, and
be tossed by the swelling deep of popular fury, till those mighty

THE EMOTIONS. 333

icebergs have melted into their elements, or broken into frag
ments. The apostle of freedom seems to be on his mission to
the nations, and the star of Kossuth may be the harbinger of
a brighter day.*

There is this difference between joy and the emotion we have
already considered, viz., cheerfulness; that the former may often
be a false and improper feeling, the latter never. This very
circumstance justifies, we think, the view we have taken of
cheerfulness. Cheerfulness will not exist but in a well-regu
lated mind, and it is not the result of any one event, or any
single occasion.. It is a general state of the feelings: joy is a
specific emotion, springing from a specific cause, and we are
capable of feeling joy from altogether wrong causes. We may
rejoice in evil. ' There is a malicious joy, sinful joy, or joy
springing from malicious motives, sinful sources. There may
be joy in the result of a scheme of villany, as much as of one
of justice and philanthropy. There is a malignant joy in evil
for itself. The tyrant exults in his schemes of oppression — he
experiences joy when his projects of tyranny take effect ; and
what sends a thrill of horror through millions, it may be, of
his subjects, is an occasion only of joy to him. Whatever may
be the favourite passion, if it is gratified, joy is at least the
immediate consequence. The heart is thus to be regarded as
truly evil. Were it not so, it would have pleasure only in what
is good. No better proof could be furnished of the heart's
depravity than that it finds pleasure in evil. To be able to
rejoice in what should give pain to every rightly constituted
being, is the most satisfactory evidence that we could have of
a wrong, of a morally depraved state. We would expect from
a rightly constituted moral being joy only in good. It would
be impossible for such a being to love evil. Evil would have
no place even in his conceptions. The doctrine that man is
unfallen — that his nature is not vitiated — that the evil that
exists may be accounted for by example, and the influence of

* This was written about the time of Kossuth's arrival in Britain, or his advent
in America. Subsequent events are but illustrating the grand views which he
then enunciated.

334 THE EMOTIONS.

circumstances, besides involving the inconsistency that that
example, that these circumstances are themselves without a
cause, must imply that evil could exist in the desire, or be an
object of gratified contemplation, without the heart being
depraved, which were an impossibility. All malignant emo
tions must have an evil source from which they spring, an evil
heart in which they reside. Malicious joy, therefore, is a
melancholy proof, as it is itself a melancholy instance, of human
depravity. The heart is too prone to rejoice in the misfortunes,
perhaps even in the misery, of others. We take pleasure in
their grievances, in their sufferings it may be. " There is a
malicious tendency," says Kant, " in the human heart which
verifies the maxim, ' that in the misfortunes of our best friends
there is a something not altogether unpleasant to us.' " This
disposition may be restrained, but its tendency is seen.

Joy may thus be perverted, and be derived from the most
opposite sources. True legitimate joy, however, ought to spring
only from a proper source, either innocent or positively virtuous.
It was originally one of the moral feelings, or connected with a
right moral state. Joy in evil is one of the lamentable effects
of the Fall. From a capability of rejoicing in evil to a certain
extent, no mind is free ; and it is only the faith of the Gospel,
and the charity consequent upon it, that will expel the last
remnant of malignant feeling from the heart.

Joy, when legitimate and virtuous, we need not remark, is
one of the pleasurable emotions — the most pleasurable of them
— but it is itself capable of degrees. The highest joy is exul
tation, rapture. Spiritual joy is the highest, as it is the holiest
species of the emotion. Joy arising from any moral cause
must be nearest to it ; and intellectual joy must be assigned
the next rank, and is one of a pure and high description. The
author of Festus says, —

It is fine

To stand upon some lofty mountain thought,
And fed the spirit stretch into a view."

That pleasure is experienced by the student, or the man of
letters, when some truly valuable thought or truth is perceived

TilE EMOTIONS. 335

or apprehended by the mind. The pleasure of the moment is
like that of reaching some eminence, from which the eye
stretches into the illimitable distance, and rests upon plain
and valley beneath, crowded with objects that interest as they
fill the gaze.

The joy that springs from a moral source must be of a more
elevating, or a purer kind still than that which is merely intel
lectual. It fills the heart with a more satisfying, a fuller
emotion : it may not be so exquisite as some instances of
mental or intellectual pleasure, but it is more satisfying ; not
so transitory, and full as it is abiding. The moral must always
transcend the intellectual : it is of a nature indeed that the in
tellectual makes no approach to.

Joy is not a feeling which we can at any time command.
The circumstances which beget it are not within our own power.
It depends very much, like cheerfulness, upon the general state
of the mind. A melancholy must be less susceptible of it than
a cheerful state. All the tones of the harp must be more easily
brought out when there is nothing that jars. Still, joy will
visit the loneliest or the most desolate heart : cheerfulness, re
quiring more permanent causes, may not be looked for, but the
impulses of joy cannot be resisted, and they come in spite of
ourselves. Some melancholy may be so deep, that even joy
speaks to it in vain, or no circumstances can rouse it. The
heart is chained in a dungeon either of its own making, or
from which it cannot emerge at its own will. Spiritual serenity
or joy is the only light that can penetrate such a gloom — as
nothing but the emancipation of the Jews from their captivity
could make them take their harps from the willows, and it was
the Lord's song which they then sung. When God breaks the
fetters of the soul, there is a new song given to it, and it walks
forth in the light and joy of Divine liberty. Spiritual joy can
at no time be said to be unattainable, as the causes of it are
permanent, and the want of it must be entirely on our own
part. Other joy is fluctuating, because the objects of it are
evanescent, the causes uncertain. Events are not always tran
spiring which produce it. Not even the moral sources of joy

336 THE EMOTIONS.

nre continuous or lasting. But the spring of spiritual joy is
ever full ; and the blame must be with ourselves if we have
it not always, in all circumstances.

The corresponding opposite emotion to joy is sorrow. It is,
perhaps, worthy of remark, how each emotion should have its
counterpart or opposite ; for cheerfulness we should have melan
choly ; for joy, sorrow ; as to meekness, we find opposed anger ;
to hope, fear. It would seem as if the mind was capable of
existing in opposite states, and that between these opposites
there was every manner of degree, constituting the whole emo
tional phenomena of the mind. But the interesting circum
stance is, that the mind is capable of such opposite emotions,
while yet it is only the one class of emotions that is consistent
with an originally perfect or sinless state, a state in which
moral evil did not exist. This sinless state is the only one re
concilable with the condition of a good and perfect Creator.
How did it come, then, that when the conditions of creation
altered, when evil crept in, when this new state took effect, a
corresponding and opposite emotion to every several emotion
originally possessed, now had place in the soul, or, as occasion
offered, developed itself? This antagonism of emotion is
worthy of notice. If it was in the original provision or consti
tution of our nature, it shews that such a new state as arose on
the introduction of evil, was contemplated by God, and that
He endowed us with an emotional capacity accordingly ; or,
are we to suppose such an antagonism inevitable, and does each
emotion pass into its opposite by a law of its own, or in virtue
of its own nature ? We can hardly avoid adopting the latter
of these conclusions. It seems as if the shadow of evil ever
attended upon good, except in the case of that all-perfect Being
who can suffer no change in His nature or attributes. With
Him is no variableness or shadow of turning. Good and evil,
happiness and misery, are not antagonisms of His nature. He
is absolutely good, and absolutely happy. To suppose a change
were to suppose Him not God. But with the creature it would
seem as if change were a condition of his being, and that it

THE EMOTIONS. 337

must be by an extrinsic and foreign power, if all change is kept
away from him, if he suffer no change. It is by prevenient grace,
it is supposed, that the angels which have never sinned have
been kept in their first estate. The peccability of the creature,
and the chance, or rather the likelihood, that he would have
fallen at some time or other in the duration of an immortal
existence, have been made the foundation of an argument in
vindication of God, in reference to the introduction of evil into
the world, or into the universe. The creature, it has been con
tended, unless upheld, unless prevented by prevenient grace,
must have fallen at some time or other. There would appear
to be in the constitution of the creature, then, an adaptation to
this very state of things, to this liability to err. The angels
sinned, and were expelled from heaven. Our first parents
sinned, and were driven from paradise. No sooner had these
events happened, than the other side, as it were, of the emo
tional nature, of each emotion, was displayed ; and for joy there
was sorrow ; for cheerfulness, or, as it must have been then,
serenity, peace, there was disturbance, tumult, disquietude, shall
we say melancholy ? Milton, not inaccurately, perhaps, repre
sents Satan, in his Address to the Sun, as if struck with a
feeling of melancholy, or possessed with infinite regret at his
change, saying, —

" 0 had His powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised
Amhition !"

Again : —

" Me miserable ! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ?
Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide ;
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
0, then at last relent : is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?"

The great poet, then, supposes Satan touched with something
like mdanclwly, at least, with regret, in recalling his former

338 THE EMOTIONS.

estate. More strikingly is this done when looking upon his
compeers : —

" Millions of spirits for his fault amerced
Of heaven, and from eternal splendours flung
For his revolt,"

Milton says of him : —

" Thrice he assayed, and thrice in spite of scorn,
Tears such as angels weep burst forth ; at last
Words interwove with sighs found out their way."

The devils in hell " believe and tremble :" do they look with
no regret to those seats from which they have been cast ? Do
they never think of their former happiness, and contrast with
it their present misery ? Do the radiant glories of heaven never
flash upon their gaze — are these never present to their me
mories, amid the horrors of that place to which they are now
consigned ? There can be no doubt that in the case of our first
parents, at least, regret, melancholy, soon followed upon their
transgression. Keinorse, no doubt, at first, but soon, when that
was softened by repentance, melancholy at their loss, at their
immense loss, would find a place. Sorrow would fill all the
chambers of the soul : how deep ! how overwhelming ! We
say it would be an adaptation to his nature, to the nature of
the creature, that he should be capable of sorrow upon his fall,
when, from a sinless and happy condition, he was plunged into
one of sin and wretchedness. Not only was this an adaptation
of his nature, it was part of his nature as a creature. Good
and evil are not more counterparts, or opposites, than joy and
sorrow ; joy must attend upon the one, sorrow upon the other.
Was the creature capable of evil, fallible ? — he was capable of
sorrow. Sorrow, while yet he was unfallen, was like the dark
side of the planet which no one sees till it is relieved against
the light of another which it eclipses. Joy was the first state ;
sorrow is that which comes over it, which eclipses it, which
seems to come out of it. Just the opposite of what produces
joy is the occasion of sorrow. Let such and such an event
happen, and joy is the immediate result ; let the opposite event
happen, and sorrow is the result. And so many kinds of joy as

THE EMOTIONS. 339

we enumerated, we might enumerate as many kinds of sorrow.
Does any turn of good fortune produce joy ? — the reverse pro
duces sorrow. Do we rejoice when our efforts for good are
prospered ? — we are sorry when they are baulked. Do we
rejoice at any new discovery of truth — at any successful experi
ment in science — at the solution of any difficult question or
problem — when some interesting view dawns upon the intellect,
or fine fancy, or imagination, flashes with pleasing delight upon
the mind ? Do we rejoice in moral good — in the triumph of
virtue — in the defeat of wickedness — in the success of any
righteous cause — at the predestined issue of every struggle for
right — at the anticipation of freedom for the nations — at the
prospect of the millennium of this world's happiness ? The
opposite, or what seems to delay the fulfilment or attainment
of these, produces sorrow ; and does not the mind languish,
pine, at least, in joylessness, when cut off from all the resources
of intellectual gratification, or no thought visits it sufficient to
awaken anything more than ordinary emotion ?

There may be malignant sorrow, as there is malignant joy.
The day which declared the abolition of the slave-trade in
England was a joyful one to the benevolent heart of Wilber-
force ; to many, who had no sympathy with the slave, and
who derived profit from the traffic, it produced unmingled sor
row. It spoke to them of gains lost, — of opportunities of traffic
cut off, — of the horrid delight which misdirected passion, or
passion set upon the most unlawful objects, affords to him who
is so unfortunate as to become its victim, or simply delight in
evil, as no longer possible, or attainable. To the tyrant's heart,
the most annoying and unwelcome of all tidings is that which
conveys to him the intelligence of the happiness of his subjects
in spite of all his tyranny — perhaps the escape of some victim
of his oppression from bondage, or from the execution of his
merciless and murderous mandate.

There is an occasion of sorrow so peculiar as to be worthy of
forming a distinct subject of observation, — we mean the death
of friends. This event is so peculiar as to claim sorrow almost
exclusively as its own emotion. So peculiarly is it the emotion

340 THE EMOTIONS.

of such an event, or appropriate to such an event, that the
emotion in this instance has its appropriate garb, and has had
in simpler ages, and among simpler people, its appropriate ex
pression. The sable weeds of these Western countries, and the
white vestments of the East, are assumed whenever death has
broken the circle of friends, and called a family or circle of
relatives to mourning. No event is so striking in all its cir
cumstances as death. It carries away from before our eyes the
object of our affection and love — it extinguishes a life that was
as precious to us as our own — shrouds in oblivion a being, an
existence, that has no equivalent to us — and makes us desolate
in a world that was so late blight with happiness. In a state
where the feelings are less sophisticated, and less under the
control of sober reason, a peculiar cry is raised for the dead.
In Eastern countries there are hired mourners and minstrels,
whose duty it is to " take up a wailing/' or make appropriate
lament for the dead. We express, in every way we can, our
sense of the bereavement with which death has visited us : we
decorate the places of the dead — we raise the monument — we
mitigate the horrors of the grave by the flowers with which we
strew or plant it, and by the emblems of immortality we cause
to grow. Death was undoubtedly the crowning evil which sin
introduced into the world. Scripture seems so to recognise it :
" By one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin,
and so death has passed upon all men, because that all have
sinned." Death is the grim tyrant that shakes his sceptre over
every individual of our race, and that will claim all for his
dominion or his prey. We must bow our heads in death, and
the tribute of sorrow we have paid to others may be rendered
to us.

We have spoken of melancholy as distinct from sorrow.
The reason has already been given in the antagonism that we
have noticed as existing in the emotions, so that the considera
tion of one emotion naturally leads us to the consideration of
its opposite. Melancholy was contrasted with cheerfulness as
a less violent sorrow, and sorrow accordingly is opposed to joy
as its more appropriate counterpart.

THE EMOTIONS. 341

If we look at the final causes of our emotions, we find none
for those which suppose a previous perfect state. They were
their own end. Every end was subserved in that state by
things as they were, and of each by itself. It were vain to ask
for the final end of any of the virtuous emotions, or of the
emotions growing out of these. Each was its own end ; but
the glory of God was the end of all, or God's glory in the hap
piness of the creature. Man was created in the image of God,
and just as the attributes of God subserve no end, can subserve
no end, but must be considered as absolute in their nature ; so
was it with the attributes with which God endowed man.
They, too, were an end to themselves, but God's glory shone
in all, as his own perfections were reflected or illustrated.
There was nothing beyond that perfection. It could not be a
means ; it shone absolutely, and in the lustre of those glorious
qualities, even in the fair form in which God had placed these,
His image was displayed. It might be said that the proper
end of love, or gratitude, was, that God might be loved, and all
sinless beings, and that the sentiment of gratitude might rise
in return to God for His benefits. Undoubtedly that was the
very nature of the sentiment or feeling, — was it the end ?
Were they not proper in themselves ? And was not God glori
fied in the very feelings or emotions ? It was to subserve an
end, however, that man was rendered capable of the other
emotions — the counterpart or antagonist emotions — for they
could never be an end — just as evil could never be an end.
Evil was permitted in the universe of God for some purpose,
and those counterpart emotions were necessary to, or inevitable
in a state of evil, or where evil existed. A final cause can be
seen in those counterpart emotions. In a perfect state no end
is needing to be accomplished ; all is accomplished, except in
the case of the physical part, which was to subserve the spiri
tual in man. The intellectual, too, might be regarded as sub
servient or ministerial to the spiritual: not when considered as
created in the immediate image of God : viewed thus, it was
an end itself ; its only end could be God's glory. But as infe-

342 THE EMOTIONS.

rior, and actually ministerial to the spiritual or moral part of
man, the intellectual did and does subserve an end, but its
proper end was not that it might subserve that end, but it too
was a part of the Divine image. It is now that we see the
subordination of means to purposes in the region of man's na
ture. Before, to reflect God's perfections was the only end. God
created the whole of man's spiritual nature for this purpose. It
was in God's entire image that man was created, and as a perfect
image of God one part was not to subserve another, but all was
the expression of God's nature. Now, when man is no longer
the reflection of God's nature, when that is no longer accom
plished, and other objects are to be accomplished, adaptation
and subserviency come into view. Matter is subservient to
spirit — must always be — and there are adaptations in matter;
for matter, although bearing the impress of God's perfections,
was not the image of God — was not an end. The state of the
soul now admits of adaptations, and subserviency of one part
to another — of final causes, because the original design of God
has been disturbed, and man no longer reflects his image. A
variety of purposes has now to be served. Variety, instead of
unity — that unity being the image of God, and God's glory in
that image — has now place. That variety requires provision for
it, adaptation to it. New final causes came into play besides
God's glory. That was no longer the end of man's being.
He sought out ends for himself — " he sought out many inven
tions ;" and God having still His ends to accomplish, adapted
means accordingly, and made man's nature still subserve the
great end of His glory, in order to which, however, he had to
subordinate or arrange lesser ends, and adapt to these adequate
means. The great end of our original emotions was God ; in
all other respects they were their own end. They served no
subordinate purpose, each terminated in itself; each was for
itself. Love did not exist for joy — no, nor for obedience ; the
emotion of gratitude did not exist in order to its exercise, but
for itself; it was proper ; it was a necessary emotion springing
out of the circumstances of obligation to the goodness of the
Creator. Love to the creature might be supposed to exist

THE EMOTIONS. 343

not so much for itself as for a final purpose — for the reciprocal
exercise of the sentiment, and so for the happiness of the crea
ture himself ; and in the case of the emotions of beauty, of
sublimity— of admiration of the works of God — the happiness
of the creature might be supposed to be their end. But even
with respect to these, may we not maintain them to have been
an end themselves ? Do we not see a worthiness in themselves
to be an end ? Were they not worthy for their own sake ?
What kind of constitution, or order of things, would that be in
which there was no reciprocal love among the beings capable
of such emotions, endowed with an emotional capacity ? Such
beings must have been as good as inanimate, insensible to any
feeling of mutual regard. The condition of the world must
then have been altered ; it would not have been social but iso
lated existence. Or rather, it would not have been intellectual
or spiritual, but merely material existence ; or it would have
been intellectual apart from the emotional. Grant an emo
tional nature, and we cannot conceive of such a nature without
the reciprocal affections, or their opposite. No more can the
emotion of beauty or sublimity be regarded as a means to an
end. These emotions have some real object or quality on which
they terminate. They are themselves final. It is something
real that inspires them. They have their proper object. That
object indeed is not in the creature, except as put there by the
Creator, or as a reflection of what is in the Creator ; but it is
in the Creator; and would it be possible to contemplate the
qualities which inspire these emotions without having the
emotions ? What is their final end then ? Are they not their
own end ? They all heighten indeed the love of God, and de
votion to his glory ; but do they exist for this ? do they not
exist for themselves ? Our original emotions, therefore, may
be taken as final ; they were to subserve no other purpose.
With regard to the sentiment of the beautiful, for example, it
were a degradation to it, as well as inconsistent with what
reason teaches us, to make it a means and not an end itself.
In treating of the Beautiful, Cousin says, in words so apposite
to our purpose, " The last theory we shall examine is that

344 THE EMOTIONS.

which confounds the beautiful with religion and morals, and
consequently, the sentiment of the beautiful with religious
and moral sentiments ; according to this theory the end of art
is to make us better men, and to lift up our hearts to heaven.
That this may be one of the results of art I do not question,
since beauty, like goodness, is one of the forms of the infinite ;
and to raise us to the ideal, is to raise us to the infinite, or to
God. But I affirm the form of beauty to be distinct from the
form of goodness; and if art produces moral perfectness, it
does not endeavour after it, nor does it set that perfectness
before it as its end. The beautiful in nature and in art has
no relation more ultimate than itself. Thus, at a concert, on
hearing a lofty and beautiful symphony, is the sentiment I
experience a moral or religious one ? I seize the ideal, which
is concealed beneath the number and variety of sounds that
strike my ear : it is this ideal that I call beautiful : but in this
aspect it is neither virtue nor piety. We do not say, that the
pure and disinterested sentiment of the beautiful cannot be a
noble ally of the moral and religious feelings, and that it cannot
awaken them ; but it must not be confounded with them.
The beautiful excites an internal sentiment, one distinct and
special and self-dependent. Art is no more the servant of re
ligion and of morals, than of the agreeable and of the useful ;
it is not an instrument, itself is its right end : do not suppose
I degrade it when I say it ought not to be the servant of re
ligion, I exalt it, on the contrary, to the heights of religion and
morals." This is the true view of all our original emotions —
the emotions of our original constitution : they do not sub
serve each other, they are for themselves. To contribute to
each other, or aid each other, is a different thing from being
created or designed for this purpose. That this may be a result
of the several emotions, we need not question ; but it cannot
be regarded as their end, their final cause. It is in the coun
terpart emotions that now we may trace final causes. As
originally constituted, all was perfect, all was complete. But
God is now educing good out of evil, and He is making the
very emotions consequent upon a state of sin, subservient to

THE EMOTIONS. 345

the most useful, and even beneficent purposes. It is now that
God's directing and overruling power comes in, and disposes
what would otherwise be unmitigated evil to a good design.
There could be no good, one would suppose, in the pain created
by the disturbance or want of harmony in the emotions. That
disturbance, or want of harmony, is fretfulness, impatience,
melancholy. But the pain of these emotions leads us to avoid
the causes of them — puts us on our guard against interrupting
the harmony of those feelings, in the very harmony of which is
happiness. It might not seem that sorrow would subserve any
good purpose. But God has made us susceptible of this emo
tion, no doubt, for the wisest ends. Let it be remembered that
this is now a state in which evil exists. Consequent upon the
introduction of evil, the counterpart emotions took effect, or
came into being : they had no place before in the soul ; but
then they immediately sprang up, and each like the alter idem
— or the counterpart of what had previously existed — a dark
side, as it were, of the other emotions. Had evil been allowed
to take its full effect, no good could have existed, could have
survived. Evil would have been predominant, universal ; evil
alone would have wrought, and it would have continually been
receiving its punishment. As it is, the counterpart emotions
are themselves partly punitive, partly the inevitable result of
the existence of evil. Evil is the cause of these emotions : all
may be traced to this source.

" Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree,"

is the invocation of our great epic poet :

..." whose mortal taste,
Brought death into our world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing heavenly muse."

But for evil, there had been no such emotions as those of
which we are now speaking. But God who can bring good
out of evil, can make even these emotions subservient to good.

346 THE EMOTIONS.

This had not been possible, however, but in connexion with
such a scheme as that, in connexion with which we have
already seen much happiness is consistent even in this state.
The conducting of that scheme supposes the reduction of evil
to good : it implies the bringing good out of evil. This could
be done only by a Divine and a Beneficent power. How God
operates in all His ways, may be for ever beyond our compre
hension ; but it is to this ultimate fact we are led; and the
when or where of His operations may be discernible, though
the modus we cannot understand.

We are led to make these remarks at our present stage, the
better to understand our whole subject, and that we may not
be dealing with our emotions as mere matters of speculation,
but that we may see they have a practical character and bear
ing. It is of advantage, too, at this stage, to bring out the
distinction clearly existing between our original emotions, and
those which were consequent upon a change upon our original
state — the state as we came from the hands of our Creator.
That distinction it is of importance to attend to, while it is an
interesting one, as shewing what were the emotions of a primi
tive condition — a state when evil had no existence, or existed
only in the shadow of creature peccability.

We may now defer the farther consideration of the final
cause of any of our emotions, till we have taken a review of
them all. We shall then obtain a more systematic, or a more
complete view of the ends God had to serve in these secondary
or counterpart emotions.

The emotion of cheerfulness, or rather the general state of
mind we denominate cheerfulness, throws its light upon all
objects, and upon all events or circumstances. The other
emotions we have spoken of are connected more with events
than with objects : they have their cause in these events, are
produced by them. The emotions of which we are now to
speak are connected more with objects than with events, ter
minate upon objects. We live in events, and we are connected
with objects. Our habitation, our place of residence, our

THE EMOTIONS. 347

country, the familiar objects of our home, the dumb creatures
that are subservient to our use, or minister to our amusement,
the family circle, our friends, our neighbours, our acquaint
ances, our several pursuits or avocations, our amusements,
recreations, or pleasures, — all form the objects on which cer
tain emotions terminate, or about which they are exercised.
The events and circumstances that transpire daily, or that are
ever arising, produce joy or sorrow, or excite fretfulness and
impatience, or are lit up with the calm sunshine of cheerful
ness, or again are steeped in the sombre shades of melancholy.
The daily history of every individual is made up of these events,
these circumstances, and they awaken such and such emo
tions in the breast ; and thus the tissue of life consists of those
events without, and these emotions within. We are ever in
the midst of such circumstances : we are ever encountering or
experiencing such events — sad or joyous, fretting, vexatious,
disappointing, or constituting the ordinary routine of life,
which takes, however, the tinge of a temperament more or less
disposed naturally, either to cheerfulness or to melancholy.
But the objects by which we are surrounded, as well as the cir
cumstances in which we are placed, beget their appropriate
emotions, and cannot exist without drawing forth these. They
are as necessarily the objects of these emotions, as they are the
objects of perception, or knowledge. The mind not only clothes
everything with its own intellectual forms, but invests every
thing with peculiar feelings of its own, or finds itself drawn
out towards every object with appropriate emotions and affec
tions. Thus the forms and perceptions of mind, and the emo
tions appropriate to the circumstances in which we are situated,
and the events which happen us, or objects with which we are
conversant, constitute our world, and are occupying or engag
ing us every moment of our waking existence.

With respect to the objects which exercise our emotions,
some beget a pleasing delight, or awaken aversion ; others
inspire and detain our admiration, or are indifferent ; some
call forth all the emotions of love and friendship, or excite
our hatred and hostility.

348 THE EMOTIONS.

Delight is that feeling we have in an object when that
object is especially pleasing ; but the pleasure or delight — for
the terms are nearly synonymous — which we have in any
object, may be various as the objects which appeal to this
emotion. To take delight or find pleasure in an object are
about synonymous expressions. Every object that can minister
to our enjoyment, that can give us happiness, that affords us
pleasure, produces delight. We have delight in circumstances
also, in events. It is quite appropriate to say, such an occur
rence gives us pleasure or delight ; and in this case delight is
a moderate kind of joy. Joy is a stronger emotion than
delight: it is more sudden, too, and evanescent. Delight
remains when joy has passed with the first few moments, it
may be hours, of any happy occurrence or event.* Joy sub
sides into pleasure or delight, just as sorrow upon any disastrous
occurrence may subside into melancholy. Joy long continued
would be unfavourable to the mind, and does not appear to be
consistent with the conditions of our being in this world — this
world as it is now constituted. It will be perfectly consistent,
we know, in the world to come. In God's presence there is
" fulness of joy" It has accordingly been provided that joy
should subside into delight — a feeling more consistent with
our present state. The same event which at first awakened
the most rapturous joy comes to be regarded more calmly, or
the emotion itself has its point of subsidence, arid takes the
more tranquil and milder character of delight. The fervours
of noon become the soberer lights of a sedate and tranquil eve.
Joy is the sky, wide, expansive, and bright with the mid-day
sun — delight is the same sky where the sun's beams are tem
pered ; only so tempered, however, that the very veil which
hides them is lighted with their radiance. Time throws its
veil over the event which produces unmixed joy, constitutes
that refracting power which diverts the rays from their direct
and perpendicular course. The event is not contemplated single

* Delight, rather than cheerfulness — what Dr. Brown calls gladness — is the
subsidence of joy.

THE EMOTIONS. 349

and alone, it is not alone in the zenith. Intervening media
come between, and it is seen through these, or gives its light,
yields its influence, with these interposing.

But delight terminates on objects, besides being awakened
by circumstances, or excited by events. We find delight in
objects strictly, in pursuits, in avocations, in the business or
pleasures of life. Some objects are indifferent, excite neither
pleasure nor pain, produce neither delight nor uneasiness or
aversion. We regard them with indifference. We are con
versant, or in contact, with them continually, and they awaken
no lively feeling or emotion. But even these objects are
capable of becoming sources of delight, as they serve our
purposes, and are associated with our familiar feelings. We
grow into a delight with the room in which are conducted our
daily studies, or which is the scene of our familiar emotions.
It gives us pleasure to enter it, and we do not find the same
happiness anywhere else. Every familiar object of furniture
appeals to the sentiment, or awakens the emotion. Our delight
rests upon even those inanimate objects which make our room
what it is, and make it almost all the world to us. Such is
the power of familiarity, and the association with our feelings
of every day and every hour — of every fresh appeal which such
objects in their unpretending and silent ministrations make to
- our hearts. It is thus that a thousand objects may become
sources of delight to us, all associated in some way or other
with our kindliest feelings, or exciting our gratitude. What a
pleasure does one's library communicate ! It may be small,
but it may be select — the very companions one would like for
his solitude, the very instructors one would choose for his
studious hours. The pleasures which study affords, the delights
of literature or science, or whatever may be the subject that
occupies or engages our interest, constitute, no doubt, the
greater part of the delight we derive from the volumes com
posing our library ; but there is a pleasure apart from this, in
the volumes themselves, in their very look, in their very pre
sence beside us, somewhat like the pleasure we derive from the
presence and companionship of those we esteem and love,

350 THE EMOTIONS.

though not a word may pass between us. It is obvious that
the pleasure derived from the contents of our books, from the
instructions they convey, and the ideas they inspire, is trans
ferred to themselves, just as we become attached to a friend
from the qualities he possesses.

The pleasure we are capable of taking in inanimate objects,
which are with us in our happier, or our more melancholy
moods, is seen in the delight we derive from the walks to which
we are more accustomed, and which we frequent with all the
passion almost with which we seek the society that is most
congenial to us, and that we find we can most truly sympathize
with. The familiar objects in these walks almost speak to us,
and they are truly not strangers to us, but friends. In the
same way, our native home claims our attachment to a degree
that no other place on earth does, and the cottage and every
object that marks the spot where we first drew breath are yet
associated with a pleasure which no other scene or object ever
yielded, or will perhaps ever be able to yield. This law of
our constitution is an exceedingly wise one ; for what happiness
does it not secure to us from the most familiar objects ? We do
not need to go far for our happiness. We have it in the objects
around us — in our native place — in our native scenery — in the
very room, or workshop, where we ply our avocations, or where
we prosecute our literary pursuits, or find our domestic plea
sures — in the walks we frequent, or more pleasing or customary
scenes that speak to our hearts — in the very implements of our
trade, and above all, in those treasures of knowledge which
have made us wiser and better, or from which we draw still the
inspirations of wisdom, and the suggestions and impulses to
good. We could conceive this law operating even in an inno
cent state, making happiness more happy, as it were, enhancing
objects and places more to the heart, even in paradise, and
throwing around objects a more familiar loveliness and en
dearment.

According to this law, it is not necessary that the objects be
of a high or exciting kind. Often the more homely, they are
the more capable of yielding this delight, of being the sources

THE EMOTIONS. 351

of this happiness, because more accordant with the permanent
feelings of our nature.

We need not remark that we derive delight from friendship,
that this forms a source of peculiar delight or pleasure. In the
esteem and affection of others we find the highest and the
purest enjoyment. We speak not of friendship itself just now,
we speak of the delight or pleasure which it yields.

It may be thought that here, as in the case of which we have
just spoken, we find the subordination of emotion to an end. The
principle we have at a previous stage laid down, perhaps, cannot
be borne out in every instance or particular, as, undoubtedly, we
can conceive the subserviency of such a law as we have spoken
of, the law, viz., that we are formed to derive delight from the
most familiar objects — objects which, but for this law, might not
be conceived capable of yielding pleasure : we may conceive the
operation of such a law even in paradise, and its subserviency
to the happiness of its inhabitant. In the same way, there
might be peculiar attachments, friendships, in a state of inno
cence, even when all were beloved ; but it will be observed, such
instances are the subserviency of a law of our emotions, not
of the emotions themselves. The emotions may yield such
pleasure, may be exercised in such a way, but still they may
be their own end. It is a law to derive delight from objects —
it would be a law, even in paradise, to form peculiar friend
ships, but still the emotions themselves were their own end ;
or, if in these minor departments, as it were, of the emotions,
these exercises of them in such peculiar ways, designed by God
for the greater happiness of the creature, we see a subserviency
and adaptation to an end, still the principle, in the main, will
be found a true one, and we may remark this subserviency as
the more peculiar in a state, where, undoubtedly, the emotions
for the most part existed- for themselves, and where the grand
and predominant end was the glory of God. It still remains
true, that if man was constituted in the image of God, he
was constituted absolutely in that image, and even happiness
could not be an end ; for happiness is rather the necessary
result of being created in the image of God, of the very na-

352 THE EMOTIONS.

ture and constitution implied in it. Happiness may have
been the motive of God in Creation, though not in the crea
tion after His own image — the creation with such and such
emotions.

We have spoken of intellectual joy ; delight in this respect
is more permanent, as pleasure in all cases may be more per
manent than joy. Joy, as it is a high, is a transient emotion.
It passes quickly away. Intellectual joy is produced by some
thing more than usual in the exhibition of mind, or the ex
pression of thought. It is a quickened and higher state of the
pulse when some loftier or more pleasing or more valuable
thought, or discovery, or truth, dawns or flashes upon the mind,
or when a thought receives some peculiarly happy expression.
The feeling of delight is more calm, is more permanent ; it is
synonymous with pleasure, and we know what intellectual
pleasures are as distinct from those tumultuous tides of emo
tion, if we may so speak, consequent upon some peculiar mental
or intellectual gratification. There is a higher intellectual
state than even joy, when the soul is rapt, as it were, in the
heaven of thought — as when the views and discoveries of
Revelation itself take the mind captive, and hold it for a while
in suspense and amazement. Joy is not the expression for
such a state: wonder, amazement, is perhaps the feeling.
" Great thoughts are still as stars."

Intellectual delight springs from a lower source than what
yields such high and transporting pleasure, a pleasure which is
at last absorbed in wonder, and finds its most appropriate utter
ance in silence. It is on this very account, undoubtedly, that
the higher kinds of poetry — the loftier species of composition,
attract fewer readers, and produce less permanent pleasure,
than what is more on a level with ordinary thought, and pro
ductive of more ordinary though yet pleasing emotion. The
poetry that touches the more permanent springs of feeling —
that pourtrays the homelier emotions — that goes into the heart
of domestic life, and conveys to every one's mind thoughts and
pictures which he can recognise, and which he feels to be true
to nature, is the most relished, and is always the most gene-

THE EMOTIONS. 353

rally and most frequently perused. Milton's Paradise Lost is
not so often read as Gray's Elegy ; and Shakespeare is a uni
versal favourite, because he is as true to all the feelings of our
nature as the most homely of our poets. Burns seems to have
rightly conceived, and happily expressed, the elements of popu
lar poetry, when he makes the muse, Coila, address him in these
words, recognising the true elements of poetry, while he is
gracefully denying them of himself: —

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I shew, -
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow,
Or wake the bosom melting throe

With Shenstone's art,
Or pour with Gray the moving flow

Warm on the heart."

The muse continues,

" Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ;
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws

His army shade,
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows

Adown the glade.

" Theu, never murmur nor repine ;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine :
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor kings' regard,

Can give a bliss o'er-matching thine —
A rustic Bard."

Intellectual pleasure, or the delight we find in intellectual
pursuits, is, then, of a more permanent character than the joy
springing from the same source.

Spiritual joy and spiritual delight are more nearly akin ; but
the same distinction may be observed here. Delighting in God
and joying in God can hardly be distinguished, for the one so
naturally passes into the other, the former into the latter. But
even here, delight in God is when the emotion is less strong ;
and here, too, it may be a more permanent feeling than the
other. Our emotion may not reach so high as joy, but it may
be delight. The excellencies of God may call forth the feeling,

z

354 THE EMOTIONS.

and that God as reconciled to us in Christ ; but the rapture
felt from the sense of God as our God, and as the portion of
the soul, all the higher states of the same experience — for the
experience is essentially the same, even when it may differ in
degree — may not be possessed, and may be far less frequently
realized. There is delighting in the law of God ; there is de
lighting in the service of God : in both cases the feeling is less
than joy, but it is of a more permanent nature.

The feeling or emotion of delight is, on the one hand, often
hardly distinguishable from joy, and, on the other, has fre
quently a very close affinity to an emotion which has yet to be
considered — that of love. In the former aspect of it, it is
distinguishable from joy as not so strong a feeling, as less
sudden, and as capable of greater permanence ; while, again, joy
is a feeling which is occasioned by circumstances or events —
does not terminate on objects, whereas delight may be produced
both by circumstances and objects, may have respect to either
in its origin. A certain event, or certain circumstances, may
produce joy, may excite this strong emotion, but the circum
stances or event may be such as only to awaken delight : the
feeling may be nothing more. If I were to meet a friend
whom I had not seen for many years, and who was yet very
dear to me, I am sure that joy would be the feeling ; were I to
meet him only after a brief separation, delight perhaps would
be the utmost of the emotion that I would experience. De
light is experienced in the ordinary intercourse of friendship.
Joy would be experienced were a friend whom we had unfor
tunately alienated or offended to become reconciled. The ex
pression of delight would be but a poor one, were such a meet
ing as we have supposed to take place, or such a reconciliation
effected. On the other hand, for friends to be always joyful on
their meeting would be absurd, though the expression of delight
on the countenance when, and how often soever, that meeting
may take place, is the very bond of the friendship almost — or
is the external index to us that the heart whose friendship we
reciprocate, is worthy of our regard, and is making that cor
dial response to it which is almost the utmost that we wish.

THE EMOTIONS. 355

We would uot say that we have joy in the noddy of a friend,
but we may have delight. We may say we have delight in a
friend — we could not say we have joy. Delight can he pro
duced by an event, but it may also rest on an object : joy is
occasioned only by an event or events — it never, properly
speaking, terminates on an object. It is the meeting with our
friend which is the occasion of our joy, our delight in him as a
friend is different: — all the affection, all the esteem, we feel
for himself, enhance the joy of the meeting, but it is the meet
ing which produces the joy. Regarded in this view, then, the
opposite of delight will be, not sorrow, but a modification of it,
for which we have hardly a word : displeasure, or dissatisfac
tion, perhaps, most nearly expresses the feeling. When the very
opposite occurs of what would give delight to us, we feel dis
satisfaction ; and yet that does not express the feeling, and it
perhaps can hardly be so well expressed as just by calling it
the opposite of delight. A certain event produces sorrow : we
can be at no loss for the word at any time to express this feel
ing. The emotion is clear and defined, and it has its appro
priate name. But when the feeling is merely the opposite of
delight, it does not amount to sorrow, we can only say we had
no delight, we had no pleasure in such an object, in such cir
cumstances. Where delight partakes of the nature of love —
attachment — its opposite is aversion. Instead of having de
light in an object, we have an aversion to it ; instead of pro
ducing our attachment, it excites almost our hatred. I take
delight in my books ; I feel them to be a perpetual source of
enjoyment ; they instruct, and it is pleasing to be instructed.
It is delightful to be laying up stores of information, to be
adding another and another to our already accumulated trea
sures. It is delightful to be getting new views, to be ex
ploring new fields of inquiry, to have the mind quickened, to
have presented to it fresh, original, and beautiful principles,
above all, principles of conduct, or principles which lead to
loftier and more satisfying views of God and duty — when
creation is enhanced, or its system unfolded. But some change
comes over the mind, some circumstance interferes with the

356 THE EMOTIONS.

pleasure we have from these sources ; instead of delight or
pleasure in what was so fruitful of the feeling, we experience
repulsion, aversion. The mind is under a disturbing influence,
and all delight is gone. The same with the friend whom we
have alienated, or who has alienated us from him — all delight
in each other, or in each other's society, is gone. We meet as
if we had never met — heart no longer responds to heart : the
cordial salutation is forgotten, and it is as if " a dreary sea now
flowed between."

These remarks may be extended to spiritual delight. We
need not make the application. We may but indicate the
peculiar phase of feeling, when, instead of delight in God and
His law, we experience the opposite. The mind is insensible,
dead. It is worse — there is almost hatred ; there is undoubt
edly for the time, enmity. There is actually hostility in the
affections. It is not here, however, as with human friendship.
Grace overcomes anew. The feeling never amounts, in the
case of the believer, to absolute hatred. There may be hos
tility, aversion, in the feelings, without hatred. Indisposition
towards an object is not hatred : the former may exist where
yet the latter has no place. When the feeling amounts to
actual hatred, it is the opposite of love, and cannot distinguish
those who have had the principle of love implanted by the
Divine Spirit, and who, — while they may waver in their affec
tion, and may even feel the old enmity revived to the extent of
aversion or hostility — just as friends may be alienated partially
without experiencing a total separation, — can never again har
bour or feel actual hatred to God. Misunderstanding may
arise between friends : a misconception may produce some
thing like the effects of enmity, and when the misconception is
cleared away, friendship and confidence are restored — the feel
ings flow in their usual channel ; so, the soul reconciled to God
may misunderstand, and therefore mistrust, Him, and enmity
is the sad consequence — a consequence which is removed as
soon as the misunderstanding or mistake is rectified.

Many causes may interrupt the pleasure felt in the Word of
God. The mind is not always so spiritual as to feel a desire

THE EMOTIONS. 357

for the truth, or to have pleasure in its revelations, but, like
the touching of a key in music, or more instantaneous — and
we know not whence comes the change — all the pleasure that
was ever felt, is as vivid, as true as before.

Wonder is perhaps the next emotion that demands consider
ation. The emotions we have hitherto spoken of are those
which constitute essentially the happiness or unhappiness of
the mental being, apart, in the main, from moral considera
tions, and as connected chiefly with a state of the mind simply,
or with external circumstances. All our emotions are affected
by the moral feelings, and cheerfulness, we have seen, depends
upon the proper regulation of these, and the harmony of all
the emotions ; but as yet the moral element has not been
directly taken into account — the moral feelings, strictly so
called, have not been considered. Cheerfulness itself is not
directly moral, though very much dependent upon a moral
state ; while, as we have seen, there is a constitutional cheerful
ness which is not so much dependent upon the moral state as
upon a certain habit or temperament of body and mind. We
are, at all events, capable of joy or sorrow, delight or its oppo
site, apart altogether from moral grounds, and solely connected
with external events or circumstances. The emotions we have
considered, then, we say, are directly the emotions of happiness
or otherwise, — cheerfulness, melancholy, fretfulness, peevishness,
joy, sorrow, delight, and the opposite of delight, for which we
have no term nearer than dissatisfaction or displeasure.

Wonder is another kind of emotion, and is not directly con
cerned in our happiness. It is not in itself happiness as cheer
fulness is, as joy is, as delight is. There can be no doubt it is
an original emotion of our constitution ; it is not one of those
emotions that came into being, or took effect, consequent upon,
the Fall. It belonged to our first, or primitive, condition.
We can give no account of a simple emotion otherwise than by
a reference to the circumstances in which it is produced or
experienced, and by an appeal to every one's own conscious
ness. Our own consciousness is the best interpreter or ex-

358 THE EMOTIONS.

plainer of all our original feelings or states. We have the
explanation, or account of them, if we do not seek an explana
tion ; and yet it is necessary often to attempt to define or
explain even our original and simplest feelings, though we
should be able to do no more than mark the circumstances in
which they arise.

Wonder, then, is that emotion which is awakened on the
contemplation of something great, or by what is extraordinary,
and out of the usual course of experience or observation.
When we have said this, we have perhaps said all that can be
spoken upon the subject, but this is not defining the emotion,
but merely stating the circumstances in which it arises. For
the rest, we must just consult our own consciousness, or our
recollection of what was our feeling in the circumstances in
which the emotion was experienced. What does our recollec
tion tell us of that feeling ? What does our consciousness say
to the emotion we then experienced ? The feeling in such
and such circumstances may be revived by the singular and
most important law of memory. No one can be at a loss as to
the nature of wonder who consults his own consciousness — for
who has not experienced the emotion a thousand and a thousand
times in his life, and is not affected by it almost every time
he opens his eyes upon creation ? There is nothing around us
or within us but is capable of exciting the feeling. Simple ob
servation of the objects or phenomena in creation would per
haps be all that would characterize the processes of mind, as
phenomenon after phenomenon, or truth after truth, evolved to
it in its progress from an initial consciousness to its furthest
point of attainment in science and inquiry. We could conceive
this. We could conceive no sentiment of wonder awakened at
any single stage of observation — every phenomenon evolving
to the mind as a simple phenomenon, event, or occurrence.
Or, which we do find to be the actual state of the case, the
emotion of wonder may be excited and experienced at a very
early stage of observation, and may accompany many succes
sive observations in the interesting progress. Now, it is worthy
of inquiry, whether wonder may not have been the first feeling

THE EMOTIONS. 359

which the mind ever possessed. The extraordinary may seeni
indeed to depend upon the ordinary being previously esta
blished or determined to the mind by a process of observation.
But would not the first feeling — the very earliest consciousness
— startle the feeling of ivonder from its recesses ? We call
that extraordinary which is now different from, or beyond, our
usual experience. And it may seem at first sight that this is
what actually or properly excites our wonder. The standard of
the wonderful is now the usual or the ordinary ; and, accord
ingly, in our definition, we have said that wonder is the
emotion which is produced by what is great, or what is extra
ordinary. But does the feeling, after all, depend upon a
standard of what may be pronounced customary or ordinary ?
Is it not common enough to say, What is not wonderful ?
and may not the sentiment of wonder depend upon no standard,
but be an independent feeling, capable of being excited by
whatever we observe ? For what is the common fact brought
under our observation, or rather presented to our reason, by
any and every single observation ? Is it not creation ? and
that is the highest wonder. Every phenomenon, every law, is
a wonder, whether we consider it independently acting, or
directly dependent upon the Creator. Is it from the ordinary,
then, that we judge of the wonderful ? or may not the won
derful be absolutely so — what, in other words, is capable of
exciting the emotion of wonder irrespective of any standard ?
The explanation of the matter seems to be, that wonder was
the common emotion, till from the stated and regular progress
of events or phenomena we ceased to wonder ; and then that
only obtained the name, or was supposed to be wonderful,
which was beyond the ordinary or usual experience. An event,
or circumstance, or phenomenon, is not wonderful surely, merely
because it is beyond the usual course of experience. In such a
case the emotion would not be an absolute one. The event, or
phenomenon, may be wonderful in itself, astonishing in itself.
Is it the comparison with the ordinary that makes it wonderful ?
That this is a sense of the term we do not doubt, and that the
sentiment is capable of being excited by the very imusualncss ,

360 THE EMOTIONS.

or unexpectedness, of the phenomenon or event, we can as
little question ; and, accordingly, we have said that the won
derful is what is extraordinary, as well as what is great. We
contend that there is something absolute in the wonderful, and
in the appropriate emotion ; and very frequently when we use
the term extraordinary, we are not judging by a standard,
we are not referring to a standard at all — we are expressing
our absolute sense or judgment of the wonderful. We ap
peal again, accordingly, to the common enough phrase,
What is not wonderful ? — and what is more than the phrase,
the actual sentiment accompanying it. We do feel that
there is nothing almost on which we turn our eye, no
phenomenon of matter or mind on which we fix our observa
tion, that does not deserve the appellation of wonderful. Are
not the stars as ordinary objects of observation as any other ;
and can they ever cease to be wonderful ? Is not the flower
wonderful when we make it the object of our contemplation ?
Creation is wonderful, and that is the fact observed in all
phenomena. It may be said, that creation excites our wonder
because it is out of the range of our experience : we see no
instance of it ; we see everything as it exists, not as it
is created. Allowing this to be true, yet when our reason
brings to us creation as a necessary fact, or condition of being,
is it wonderful because it is something of which we have no
experience, which we never witness ? Is it the singularity of it
that makes it wonderful ? This were absurd to maintain. It
is wonderful in itself, and must ever be wonderful.

The wonderful, in the first place, is something absolute,
nay, the alone wonderful is, and must necessarily be so. It is
a secondary sense of the term when we apply it to what is
merely extraordinary, according to the etymological meaning
of that word. Everything is wonderful to a creature mind,
because it implies creation. Are we to make our own ex
perience the judge in every case of what is wonderful, or the
standard by which we judge of it ? We might still ask, whence
the emotion. It may be said, we have been made capable of
the emotion in such unusual circumstances, or with reference to

THE EMOTIONS. 361

such unusual events or phenomena. Then, it is an arbitrary
arrangement, and the emotion is not absolute. We are apt to
say that the stars are wonderful — those shining worlds that
come and look out upon us from night to night from their own
far distant orbits or places in the heavens — because they are
altogether different from the objects with which we are daily
conversant — from the stone beneath our feet, or the flower that
beautifies our garden. But we turn to the stone, or to the
flower, and we find as much that is wonderful in these humble
objects, — they are just as wonderful when we direct our attention
to them as the stars themselves. Whence their being — whence
their laws — what their purpose or their end ? The truth is.
the sentiment of wonder attends us everywhere, if we only
allow ourselves to reflect. We are never without it. Every
phenomenon excites it. We wonder at every law that we see
in operation. Only the petty events of human life, everything
that is of man himself, is not wonderful, and it is only when we
see God in anything that we do wonder. It is His law, His
power, His wisdom, His operation, for that is uncreated, that
begets our wonder. Whatever leads to Him is wonderful ; and
everything leads to Him, if we only follow the course of our
thoughts, and there we are lost in wonder ; we contemplate
infinity, eternal, creative, might or energy.

The unusual, then, is not the source of the wonderful, though
the emotion is undoubtedly felt at the presence or experience
of the unusual. WThat is extraordinary in this sense excites
our wonder. We pause at the occurrence of anything extra
ordinary. Some singular phenomenon has been observed —
some meteor in the sky, or some phenomenon upon the earth,
which has never been seen before ; it cannot be accounted for
by any ordinary laws or appearances. Surprise or astonishment
is first felt, and then wonder. Dr. Brown makes a very accu
rate distinction between these two feelings, or, as he regards
them, two aspects of the same feeling or emotion, in saying
that the former is experienced upon the occurrence of the
phenomenon ; the latter when we allow our minds to dwell
upon it, and endeavour to trace its causes, or to account for its

3G2 THE EMOTIONS.

occurrence. We think such is a correct analysis with respect
to the different aspects of the emotion, if it is one emotion, and
a precise distinction between the two states, as distinguished
from one another, if the emotions are different. We wonder
whenever we begin to explain or to account for the pheno
menon ; it was surprise before. But wliy is the latter wonder,
and the former only surprise ? Dr. Brown makes the difference
to consist in the length of time during which the emotion con
tinues, in the one instance, and the exercise of our inquiring
faculties connected with the emotion in that particular instance ;
while in the other case, the emotion is momentary, and there is
no such exercise of our faculties combined with it. a When
the emotion arises simply," Dr. Brown says, " it may be termed,
and is more commonly termed, surprise ; when the surprise thus
excited by the unexpected occurrence, leads us to dwell upon
the object which excited it, and to consider in our mind what
the circumstances may have been which have led to the appear
ance of the object, the surprise is more commonly termed
wonder, which, as we may dwell on the object long, and
consider the possibilities of many circumstances that may have
led to the unexpected introduction of it, is, of course, more
lasting than the interesting surprise, which was only its first
stage. Still, however," he continues, "though the terms, in
this sense, be not strictly synonymous, but expressive of states
more or less complex, the wonder differs from the surprise only
by the new elements which are added to this primary emotion,
and not by any original diversity of the emotion itself." Now,
we think, the two emotions are entirely distinct. Surprise is,
indeed, first felt upon the occurrence of a new phenomenon,
and then wonder ; and it is a true account of the latter to say,
that it is when we begin to seek a cause for the phenomenon,
that we may be said to wonder. But surely it is not tltc seeking
q/'the cause that constitutes the wonder, or that as combined
ivith the first feeling — surprise. If the two feelings were the
same, no mental process could make them different. And yet
we feel them to be different. The emotion of wonder is when
we connect the phenomenon with its cause, and see a new

THE EMOTIONS. 363

instance of divine power, a new law or mode of the divine
operation. Surprise is not this, it is the feeling on the inter
ruption of wonted phenomena, and of our experience of these.
Wonder is when we seek after a cause, and are led to the original
cause of every phenomenon, marking but a new phase of His
operations, who " worketh in all" Surprise or astonishment is
the feeling when our wonted experience is interrupted, and even
it may be said to be a momentary reference to the eternal and
unchanging Being that is operating in all phenomena — a new
appeal from Him to our mind, a new message, or messenger to
us from His dwelling-place. Wonder is when we ponder the
message, when we attend to the appeal, and when we are led
to the Being who makes the one, or who sends the other. We
mark Him in the event. It is mere surprise if it does not go
this length. Wonder is essentially an emotion leading to God,
to the Infinite. We can wonder at nothing which does not
lead to the Infinite, which does not display the attributes of an
Infinite Being, or infer these attributes by a process more or
less recognised. The process is not always recognised, but it is
gone through notwithstanding. We see God, or our minds are
suspended before an invisible presence. The veil is not lifted,
but God is behind it. He is behind every phenomenon — in
all, over all, through all

It is not denied that there are some objects, or phenomena,
more wonderful than others. If this were not the case, there
would be no degrees of the emotion. Everything would be
wonderful, and alike wonderful. The fact of creation, in itself
considered, must be as wonderful in any one case as in another ;
and, accordingly, when we confine our minds to that, we find
the least particle of matter as wonderful as the mightiest planet
The operation of any of the laws of creation, if we contemplate
it, is capable of suspending the mind in wonder : but some
may be more amazing than others, for at once their simplicity,
and the extent to which we perceive their action — their simpli
city, and the stupendousness of their effects — and may, there
fore, fill the mind with greater wonder, more awe. Such, for
example, is the law of gravitation, as compared, perhaps, with

364 THE EMOTIONS.

the law of adhesion, the law which unites the particles of
matter. The law of crystallization, again, is perhaps more
interesting than that of simple combination — the law of growth
more than that of crystallization — animal life more than vege
table — spiritual being again more than animal or material.
But the question is not about the degree in which our wonder
may be excited, but as to the emotion itself. What is the
nature of it ? — and we do find our wonder excited, not by the
unusual or uncommon, but by the wonderful. The emotion is
an absolute one, and has its own object. An object or pheno
menon is wonderful, not because it is uncommon, but abso
lutely. Are we to say, then, that creation is the fact we admire
in every instance of our wonder ? We think we are warranted
in saying so — that is, in respect to all phenomena which be
long to creation, and not to the department of Providence. In
the case of phenomena which are traceable to any signal
changes in the laws of creation themselves, or in the operations
of Providence, it is the Divine power that we have for the
object of contemplation, and that calls forth our admiration.
The kingdom of grace, too, has its wonderful facts and laws ;
but in nature — in the kingdom of nature, as distinguished from
the kingdoms of providence and of grace — what we contem
plate, any time that our wonder is called forth, is not the ob
ject, or phenomenon, or law itself, but creation in that object,
or phenomenon, or law. This may seem a very extraordinary
assertion, and it may be asked, with something of the very
emotion under consideration, if we cannot admire, wonder at
the flower, or contemplate the star, or let our astonishment
survey the heavens, or travel over the vast deep, without
marking creation at the moment in any of these objects ?
But let us attend to the state of our minds at those times
when these separate objects may be before our eye, and
drawing forth our admiring or our more awful regards: is
it not the creative power or skill in all, that suspends our
astonishment or excites our wonder ? Do we not look beyond
those lines of delicate beauty — that admirable arrangement of
parts — that exquisite symmetry — that marvellous adaptation —

THE EMOTIONS. 365

that perfection of form and of colour — to the creative power —
to the infinite mind — visible in all these — present to the rea
son — almost seen by the eye ? And when the stars spangle
the firmament — when the glorious canopy is hung with these
orbs of fire, each sparkling in its own place, and letting
down its drops of beautiful light upon our world in the very
affectionateness of loveliness ; or when it is not their beauty
but their stupendousness that we contemplate — their incon
ceivable distances — their vast magnitudes — their mighty revo
lutions — their amazing speed — their countless numbers, — does
even the professed atheist stop short of God ? — is God not
acknowledged in the very wonder which he experiences, and
which he cannot help expressing ? — while the devout believer
in God, and worshipper of His perfections, feels that it is not
the orbs he is admiring, or their revolutions, or distances, or
velocity, or beauty, or numbers, but God in all, or the perfec
tions which planted those planets in the heavens, and bade
them shine. Does the sea not speak of God — of His controlling
power — of His present and almighty agency ? Those rolling
waters — circling round every coast, encompassing the earth, ever
heaving, never still, bearing the same voice in their restless
agitations, as they break on the shore, or when the waves meet
no object but themselves, and sink as they rise in their own
unfathomable depths — speak of God. If they call forth our
wonder, our wonder is at the power that is visible in them, at
the God who created them, and who orders their every motion.
When spread out like a crystal pavement, or when lashed into
tempest, God is equally there ; and the connexion of such a
mighty effect with the more wonderful cause — the behests that
that sea must obey — the power that originally appointed it its
bounds, and that keeps it in its channel — that gave it such a
law as it follows in its least movements — and the knowledge
that it is taking its commands from God in its stormiest moods,
— these are the objects of our wonder as we gaze on the calm or
on the agitated deep. It is truly when we do not allow our
selves to reflect, that we cease to wonder. The emotion would
have but a limited sphere for action, if it was called forth only

366 THE EMOTIONS.

by what was uncommon, or out of the usual course of experi
ence. We cannot lift our eyes to the heavens without the
sentiment of wonder — we cannot look upon the earth without
wondering at its varied aspect, and seeing a thousand objects
that awaken the sentiment, in the structure of every plant, in
the beauty, majesty, or serviceableness, of every tree, shrub,
flower, in the different orders of the animal as well as vege
table world, in the mineral kingdom, in its marvellous strata,
in its history, its records of prior states, dating into eras too
remote to calculate, almost to conceive, in man the lord of
creation, in the gradation from the lowest to the highest of
animated beings, till reason crowns the apex, and shews a
superiority in this last link in the ascending chain which marks
the immense distance at which the moral and intelligent wit
nesses of God's power stands from all His other creatures, — in
the harmony of all, the adaptations reigning through all, and
the ends accruing from all, or subserved by each. We do not
say we are always attended by wonder, but we might be ; and
instead of its being the unusual that is the cause of the wonder
ful, it is the usual that prevents the wonderful from operating,
or producing all its effect upon us. It would be foolish, indeed,
to pass through the world with idle astonishment at every object
that met our gaze ; but why ? Is it because the phenomena we
meet with are not as deserving of our wonder as ever ? Have
they ceased to be wonderful because they have ceased to be
new ? or does the law of wonder only come into operation when
a phenomenon is contemplated or observed for the first time ?
Certainly not — but because the wonderful only loses its effect
upon us ; it seems to be intended that it should be so, for were
the sentiment of wonder uniformly appealing to us, or felt on
all occasions, and in connexion with the commonest observation,
we would hardly be fit for ordinaiy action — our attention would
be drawn off from the most necessary engagements or occupa
tions, and, in the uniform excitement of the mind, we would
be incapacitated for taking part in any of the affairs of life.
The phenomena are as wonderful as ever ; the same qualities
that excited our wonder are there, and we have only to pause

THE EMOTIONS. 367

upon them anew, to feel the same sentiment as fresh, as
powerful as before. It is not the newness of the observation
that produces the emotion, but the frequency of it may blunt
the emotion, or render us so far insusceptible of it, or insen
sible to it. We are not, however, literally insusceptible of it, or
insusceptible of it in itself. Let us but escape the influence of
custom, or frequent observation, by fixing our attention upon
the phenomenon, or by contemplating the object, and our
wonder will spring up anew, and perhaps as vividly as ever.
No doubt, freshness, or novelty, has its effect, and it may be
difficult to recall, or to feel again all the vividness of a first
impression, of a new emotion ; but this is the case chiefly with
objects or phenomena that are not so much wonderful as start
ling, which are out of the ordinary course, and which therefore,
in the first perception or observation of them, excite surprise
because of their unexpectedness or novelty. Surprise, no doubt,
heightens wonder, but it is distinct from it, and the truly won
derful never loses the power of appealing to this sentiment.
The same poet that wrote, —

" There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
Tt is not now as it hath been of yore, —

Tuni wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more,"

could also exclaim, —

" And, 0 ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ;
I only have relinquished one delight,
To live beneath your more habitual sway."

There was not the original freshness, it may be, in Words
worth's later contemplation of nature — the same novelty. He
had not the same passion in his admiration, the same intense
excitement or delight — but his emotion from nature was even
more deep. He lived under her more habitual sivay, and,
while surprise had no share in his emotion, wonder mingled

368 THE EMOTIONS.

even more powerfully in it than ever. " The innocent bright
ness of a new-born day" was " lovely yet." All that awakened
the deepest sentiments of the heart was present still in every
object that excited his love and admiration. The flower could
give him thoughts too deep for tears. This points, indeed, to
the theory, that as years grow, which " bring the philosophic
mind," we find external objects but the index of thoughts
which connect themselves with these objects, and are accord
ingly suggested by them whenever we behold them. But is
there nothing to excite wonder in the observation of " the
innocent brightness of a new-born day ?" Is there nothing to
wonder at in the contemplation of the flower that gives thoughts
" that do often lie too deep for tears ?" Wordsworth would
not have said so. That emotion was as vivid, as powerful as
ever. All the qualities to produce it were present ; and sur
prise, or the freshness of first observation, could be distinguished
to his mind from the profounder feeling which any phenomenon,
attentively observed or surveyed, is capable of producing. Any
thing truly wonderful rather grows upon the mind than loses
its effect ; and when we contemplate creation in any object, we
have that which can never cease to inspire our wonder, let the
object otherwise be ever so insignificant, or ever so common.
Let us observe but any law in nature, and that is sufficient at
any time to detain our wonder, to suspend our amazement.
Other suggestions, and other sentiments, may mingle in this
emotion, but this emotion is vividly felt. Wordsworth had
thoughts connected with the flower that connected themselves
with the Creator of the flower, and he recognised the same
Being upholding the meanest flower that upheld himself ; and
he saw the same law of decadence in the one as in the other.
Can the Alpine mountains ever lose their power of producing
wonder ? or the Heavens, either by night or by day, cease to
be wonderful ? or the ocean in its grandeur ? or the solemn
woods ? or the one vast earth ?

We thus distinguish between wonder and surprise, and also
astonishment. The first is a permanent feeling, capable of
being excited at any time, and is excited by what is absolute,

THE EMOTIONS. 369

what is wonderful. The others are excited by what is unusual,
unexpected, and, it may be, at the same time, impressive, or
partaking of the quality of the wonderful. Surprise may be
felt where there is nothing of the quality of the wonderful, if
only the object is strange, unlocked for, unexpected. If the
event is very unusual, very unexpected, and in itself in some
measure wonderful, astonishment is the effect. We may be
surprised by a certain course of conduct, if we were not looking
for it, or could not have expected it : we are astonished if in
the circumstances it is also wonderful. In the case of the
wonderful we always go into the law that is in operation, or
we recognise the Great Being that is present, though not seen
to the bodily eye. Some principle of action, unexpected, and
in the circumstances wonderful, will produce our astonishment.
We express our astonishment : we do not say merely that we
are surprised — we are astonished. Amazement is a greater
degree of astonishment : in both there is always something of
the wonderful, and united with that there is the circumstance
of unexpectedness, uncommonness — the circumstance of being
out of the usual course of experience, or beyond our present
power or rules of calculation. In surprise, astonishment,
amazement, then, the circumstance of unexpectedness is an
important element : it is almost all that has place in surprise,
for when wonder mingles in the feeling it becomes astonish
ment, and when it mingles in a still greater degree, it is
amazement. Dr. Adam Smith's view of the distinctive natures
of wonder and surprise is so far correct, we think, as respects
surprise ; and the view we have presented of wonder may be
detected in his explanation of this emotion. Dr. Brown finds
fault with Dr. Smith in the view he gives of surprise, and
justifies his own theory in opposition to that of Dr. Smith.
" We wonder," says Dr. Smith, " at all extraordinary and
uncommon objects, at all the rarer phenomena of nature, at
meteors, comets, eclipses, at singular plants and animals, and
at everything, in short, with which we have before been either
little or not at all acquainted ; and we still wonder, though
forewarned of what we are to see."

2 A

370 THE EMOTIONS.

" We are surprised at those things which we have seen
often, but which we least of all expected to meet with in the
place where we find them ; we are surprised at the sudden
appearance of a friend, whom we have seen a thousand times,
but whom we did not imagine we were to see then."

For Dr. Brown's commentary upon these views we refer to
his Lectures. He makes the surprise to differ from the wonder,
in the examples given by Dr. Smith, not in virtue of the
circumstance to which Dr. Smith refers the difference, viz., the
strangeness in the one instance, and the mere unexpectedness
in the other. According to Dr. Smith, the proper object of
wonder had never come under our observation before, or but
rarely ; the object of surprise may have been often seen before,
but not in the same circumstances, or not in the place where
we meet with it : it is this mere unexpectedness that produces
surprise, according to Dr. Smith. Dr. Brown makes the dis
tinction to consist in, that, in the one case, we can easily find
an explanation of the presence or occurrence of the object or
phenomenon, at the time or in the circumstances — in the
other, this is not so easily ascertainable, and our minds are
therefore suspended in the state of wonder, and the interest
and curiosity to find the law of the phenomenon, or the
account of the particular appearance, is a main element,
according to him, in the emotion. Now, we have before
objected to an intellectual state being itself a part of an
emotion. This undoubtedly Dr. Brown makes the interest felt
to ascertain the law or explanation of any phenomenon or
appearance, as blending with the continued emotion of sur
prise : this, according to Dr. Brown, is the utmost of the
emotion of wonder. But the emotion is not in the desire to
find the law, but it is at the law : — it is not in the surprise
awakened by the phenomenon, modified by the interest felt in
its cause, but it is at the phenomenon ; and this seems to be
recognised in Dr. Smith's words : — " We wonder at all extra
ordinary and uncommon objects, at all the rarer phenomena of
nature, at meteors, comets, eclipses, at singular plants and
animals, and at everything, in short, with which we have

THE EMOTIONS. 371

before been either little or not at all acquainted ; and we still
wonder, though forewarned of what we are to see." It is not
their rareness that excites our wonder — that may excite our
astonishment — it is the phenomena themselves, wonderful in
themselves. Dr. Smith confounds wonder and astonishment ;
but he seems to recognise the proper occasion and explanation
of wonder when he says : — " We still wonder though fore
warned of what we are to see." Why do we still wonder
though thus forewarned ? evidently because the phenomenon
itself is wonderful: it is not its rareness that makes it so.
Surprise, however, seems to have its occasion in unexpected
ness, and is owing to that circumstance alone ; or if there is
wonder, it is wonder at the laiv of the unexpectedness : the
unexpectedness may be wonderful, unaccountable. If the
object or phenomenon itself is also wonderful, astonishment, or
even amazement, may be the appropriate emotion. In the
following words of Dr. Smith, we have the description of aston
ishment rather than of wonder ; and it is given with all the
felicitousness of that delightful writer. We are still indebted
for the quotation to Dr. Brown. "The imagination and
memory exert themselves to no purpose, and in vain look
around all their classes of ideas, in order to find one under
which it may be arranged. They fluctuate to no purpose from
thought to thought ; and we remain still uncertain and un
determined where to place it, or what to think of it. It is this
fluctuation and vain recollection, together with the emotion or
the movement of the spirits that they excite, which constitutes
the sentiment properly called wonder, and which occasions that
staring, and sometimes that rolling of the eyes, that suspension
of the breath, and that swelling of the heart, which we may all
observe both in ourselves and others, when wondering at some
new object, and which are the natural symptoms of uncertain
and undetermined thought. What sort of thing can that be ?
What is that like ? are the questions which, upon such an
occasion, we are all naturally disposed to ask. If we can re
collect many such objects which exactly resemble this new
appearance, and which present themselves to the imagination

372 THE EMOTIONS.

naturally, and, as it were, of their own accord, our wonder is
entirely at an end. If we recollect but a few, and which re
quires, too, some trouble to be able to call up, our wonder is
indeed diminished, but not quite destroyed. If we can recol
lect none, but are quite at a loss, it is the greatest possible."
Dr. Brown justifies, from this description, his own theory of
wonder : he calls it " in its chief circumstances, a very faithful
picture of the phenomena of wonder." It appears to us, how
ever, to be a picture rather of astonishment than of wonder ;
for wonder undoubtedly is not confined to what is new, and it
is not accompanied by those signs which usually express them
selves on occasions of surprise and astonishment, but is for the
most part a quiet and still, as it is often a profound emotion ;
or its expression is not restless, but generally fixed — not dis
jointed questions, but speechless silence, or calm and grave
exclamation.

Admiration is somewhat different from either surprise, aston
ishment, or wonder. There is, however, wonder in admiration.
The very derivation of the word seems to point to this. We
must be cautious, indeed, in always admitting the derivation of
a word as indicating its proper sense ; for words might be em
ployed without much philosophic discrimination, and where
there was only the supposed quality or attribute which the
word was intended to denote. Unquestionably, there is in
admiration what is not in wonder ; and if there is anything of
the same emotion or feeling as in wonder, it is much stronger
in wonder than in admiration. Excellence is the proper object
of admiration — excellence of some kind ; and it is the nature
of it, or law implied in it, that is the proper object of wonder.
We admire the excellence ; the law or nature of it may excite
our wonder. Admiration is a sort of mental approbation
accompanied with an emotion, modified by the kind of excel
lence which we approve. We admire physical, intellectual,
and moral excellence. Each of these may be the object of
admiration : what is under it, what produces that excellence,
the hidden law, not the obvious result, excites our wonder, or
is what properly makes wonder a part of our admiration.

THE EMOTIONS. 373

When I contemplate a beautiful or a sublime scene in nature,
I admire it, — I cannot help my admiration ; wonder mingles
with that feeling, — wonder at the laws in operation, and that
conspire in producing the feeling, or in making the scene such
as awakens my admiration. The admiration and the wonder
may be distinguished ; the excellence, either in the beauty or
the sublimity of the scene — that is, the beauty or sublimity
itself — is what begets my admiration. The obvious result, the
secured effect, the appeal to the sentiment of beauty or subli
mity within me, is what excites my admiration. To feel the
sentiment of beauty or sublimity is, in this instance, to admire.
I admire a fine picture or statue ; to have the just sense of all
the laws of art — or my appreciation of nature, with the love and
the aspiration for the ideal — gratified ; this, again, is my ad
miration in this instance. If it is moral excellence that is con
templated, my admiration is just the sentiment of approbation,
which the moral excellence awakens, with the peculiar emo
tion that accompanies, or is involved in, the sentiment. There
is not only the approbation of what is right, but there is the
appreciation of what is excellent ; the action, or the virtue,
not only obtains my favourable or approving judgment, it
secures my admiring regard. Every species of excellence com
mands admiration ; and the admiration is just the approbation
which that particular kind of excellence is fitted to awaken,
with the corresponding emotion or feeling. In many cases the
emotion will be little or nothing beyond the simple approbation
— or it will, at all events, be much less in some instances than
in others. We may admire a piece of mechanism, or some
useful invention ; we admire it either for the admirable con
trivance which it exhibits, or for the useful purpose which it
subserves ; it is obvious that the emotion is far less here than
where it is beauty or virtue which is the object of contempla
tion. Still, there is as unequivocally admiration, as in the other
instances. The peculiar feeling of excellence, or the appreci
ation of excellence, whether it be beauty, or utility, or morality,
ascending even to uncreated excellence, is admiration. It may
be, contended, that there is a sentiment or feeling beyond this,

374 THE EMOTIONS.

superadded to it, more than approbation, even with its accom
panying emotion ; but what it is more it will be difficult to say.
This, indeed, is no argument that there is nothing more ; for of
none of our simple emotions can we give any account but such
as consists in pointing to its object, or referring to the occasion
of it, and our consciousness may tell us that there is something
more than the peculiar sentiment which any particular kind of
excellence excites ; there is the sentiment of approval and
admiration besides. Perhaps the wonder we have spoken of,
wonder at the law of the peculiar excellence, blending with the
other emotion, may give the difference. Our wonder at the
law of the excellence blending with our approbation, may be
what constitutes admiration. I look upon a fine landscape ;
the sentiment of beauty is awakened, but along with this there
blends some deeper feeling which goes into the cause of the
beautiful, not to ascertain it, but wondering at it ; this is, per
haps, what we denominate admiration. In the case of virtue,
we are struck with the example of the peculiar virtue — at the
power of principle — the strength of self-denial — the omnipo-
tency of affection — the might of high-souled patriotism or
generosity. The peculiar excellence produces its appropriate
emotion — each kind of excellence its own emotion — each virtue,
even, a distinct emotion — high-toned integrity — self-denying
generosity — heroic patriotism ; and this, accordingly, rather
bears out our view, for we shall find our admiration as varied
as the object we admire, but the one feeling common to all,
viz., the wonder that mingles in each instance, which, being in
itself a uniform emotion, gives that kind of uniformity to the
sentiment so varying in other respects, and hence, in all the
instances, the one name, Admiration. As varied as is excel
lence, physical, intellectual, moral, so varied is admiration as
inspired by it. I admire in each case, but the feeling takes its
tone or character from the kind of excellence. The feeling is
stamped with the impress of the object which awakens it. The
object claims the feeling for the time being ; it makes it its
own, and impresses its own character upon it. If I look up to
the noble cupola of St. Peter's at Rome, my admiration for the

THE EMOTIONS. 375

time is stamped by that object ; but my eye rests upon the minor
proportions of the building — though still grand and imposing,
my admiration immediately takes a different mould, for it has
a different object of contemplation. I am attracted by the
works of art that occupy the interior ; the paintings of Michael
Angelo, in the Sistine Chapel, compel my gaze ; new aspects of
admiration develop themselves ; and when from these creations
of genius, I turn to the genius that produced them, — when I
think of Angelo — the architect at once and painter of St.
Peter's — the transcendent powers which he displayed — the
creator of that temple which emulates the heavens, to which it
rises in august majesty and sublimity, — " this the clouds must
claim:" — do I not find my admiration still farther modified,
though still admiration ? and what shall I say, therefore, of an
emotion so varied, and yet so uniform, but that it is the appre
ciation of separate excellence, with one element common to
every instance of the emotion, a certain wonder that blends
with the appreciation, so that, while the appreciation is dis
tinctive, the admiration is uniform or the same ?

The very discussions regarding beauty, or intended to give
us the philosophy of the beautiful, shew that what inspires our
admiration is a law, something beyond the external form or
appearance. The mind is not satisfied with the outward, with
the mere figure, outline, surface, colour. It penetrates beyond
these ; it seeks an explanation in what the outward form or sur
face but indicates or expresses. There is the absolutely beauti
ful at last, but that consists in some spiritual quality indicated
to the mind, and having its original form or type in God,
the source of all life, and mental and moral excellence,
and beauty ; and whenever we attain to these, whether as
seen in the creature, or as traceable to the Creator, originally
conferred by Him, and depending upon Him for their con
tinuance, we have something admirable, we have at once
what inspires our admiration, and produces the sentiment of
the beautiful. The following passage from Cousin is to the
purpose : — " The inward alone is beautiful ; there is no beauty
except that which is invisible, and if beauty were not dis-

376 THE EMOTIONS.

covered to the eye, or at least suggested, sketched, as it were,
by visible forms, it would not exist for man. It makes itself
known by sensible traits, whose entire beauty is merely the
reflection of spiritual beauty. It is, then, only by expression,
that nature is beautiful, and it is the variety of intellectual
and moral characteristics, reflected by matter, that determines
the different kinds of beauty. The figure of man is of a grave
and severe beauty, because it announces dignity and power ;
the figure of woman is of a delicate beauty, because it reflects
kindness, tenderness, and grace. In each sex the beauty will
be different, only according as the expression differs. To the
examples taken from human nature, may be added those which
animality, the nature between man and the mineral, supplies.
It might be shewn, that the face of an animal is beautiful in
proportion to its expressiveness; thus the lion is the most
beautiful of animals, because its figure declares it to be king and
master, because all its movements suggest strength and bold
ness. If we descend from nature purely physical, to inorganic
and inanimate, even there we still find the expression of intelli
gence. Metaphysics teaches us that all which exists is alive ;
that the soul of nature shines through the thickest conceal
ment. Physical observation brings us to a similar conclusion :
Those bodies called inorganic, are subject to laws, and where
there is law there is intelligence. Chemical analysis does not
conduct to a nature cold and lifeless, but to a nature full of
vitality, — to internal laws as worthy of admiration as those
external ones discovered by natural philosophy. But without
being philosophers, we may contemplate nature in ingenuous
ignorance, and give ourselves up to the impressions it excites.
We have said, that both in men and in animals, the figure is
beautiful by expression, — by the shining forth of inward moral
beauty. Now, in the presence of the grand scenes of nature,
at the foot of the Alps or the summit of Etna, at daybreak or
nightfall, are you not filled with a sense of these awful spec
tacles, and do you not experience a sort of moral reaction ?
Does not the light of the sun, too, manifest intelligence ? Do
not the planets preserve among themselves an intelligent har-

THE EMOTIONS. 377

mony ? Do all these wonderful objects appear simply for the
purpose of being visible ; or does an intelligence direct the
courses of the stars, and make them all concur in one great
end ? I affirm that the face of nature is expressive, like the
face of man. If the form of a woman appears beautiful, be
cause it is the expression of gentleness and kindness, is it not
an expression of beneficence and of grandeur which constitutes
the beauty of the sunlight ?" Cousin continues : — " All is
symbolic in nature. Form is not form only — it is the form of
something — it unfolds something inward. Beauty, then, is
expression — art is the seeking after expression. We have re
solved the question about the unity of beauty. The beautiful
is one — it is moral or intellectual beauty — that is, spiritual
beauty, which, displaying itself by visible forms, constitutes
physical beauty and spiritual beauty. It is truth itself — it is
being — it is the eternal, the infinite."

Is it not evident, then, that admiration is the appreciation
of the excellent, mingled with something of wonder, for all
excellence brings us into the presence of the infinite ? It is
the faint shadowing of Him " who is wonderful in counsel,
and excellent in working." It is in itself wonderful, but still
as the reflex of a higher and an infinite Being. — " Lo ! these
are part of thy ways, but the thunder of thy power who can
understand ?"

Admiration may be excited by excellence of every kind ;
and it is never to be forgotten, that there is always some
thing beyond what is admired, till we reach the infinite. It is
like a part of infinite space: the infinitude stretches from
that point inimitably. We are always on the borders of the
infinite. It surrounds us — it invests us — it contains us. Is
anything true and excellent ? It is an emanation of Him who
is infinitely so. It was derived from Him — it points to Him —
it leads imperceptibly to Him. " Give me a truth," says
Cousin, " and I engage to find another more sublime and vast.
Give me a good action, and I will find a better one." It is the
same with all excellence. Hence it is, that the creature is
nothing, that God is everything ; that the creature is what it

378 THE EMOTIONS.

is, only in virtue of God, or of what God has made it. To
Him everything is originally referable, and to Him everything
must bring its own tribute of praise, or yield even its own
glory. The habit of recognising God in everything is taught
from a higher source than even philosophy ; but philosophy,
in its truest state, is coincident with religion. Were man not
fallen, philosophy would be but a part of his unfallen nature,
and there would be no distinction between philosophy and
devotion. To see God in everything, and to have the inind
moving in harmony with His mind, is the highest point that
even religion can attain. Christianity proposes nothing else to
itself than this. Christianity is a reconstruction of the original
constitution of man : it is this in the only way in which, so
far as we know, it could be done. With a regeneration there
must be an atonement, but with an atonement there must be
a regeneration ; and to the one the other is subservient, while
again the one is the ultimatum, or main object, and end, of the
other. In this scheme God's perfections shine out with a lustre
which they do not exhibit in any other of His works. Here is
a mystery. Here is an object of admiration. God is actively
present here: He has come down to us in the likeness of
sinful flesh : He has impersonated Himself in our nature ; and
all those attributes which, shining in the works of His hands,
bring us into such near contact with Himself, and constitute
the beautiful, the sublime, the true, the excellent, and awaken
so powerfully our admiration — have transcendent exercise in
the scheme by which man is again brought into favour and
union with God. Sin, indeed, moves over the scene : justice,
wrath, vengeance, pour out their vials ; but retiring far in the
distance we see a reclaimed universe, beauties for which we
have no name, glories unspeakable — heaven and the ransomed
throng — God and Christ — the visible glory of the former and
the human nature of the latter, amid the lustres of that
transcendent state, the centre of all — and circling round, the
hosts of angels and the redeemed. No evil shall again mar
God's universe ; holiness will lend its lustre to everything, and
take off the rebuke that was upon creation. Fair forms, and

THE EMOTIONS. 379

expression of beauty and of excellence, will move on that
arena, or be seen in those new heavens and new earth. To
the remotest precincts of the renovated universe, all will be
loveliness, all. admirable, the expression of perfect attributes —
not the shadowing of these merely where sin has cast its veil
over every object, and permits but an adumbration of what
may be, of what must be, in a perfect state. The types and
symbols of excellence will not be needed in the presence of the
great Author or source of all, or will be continued in a purer
form, and as but a further expression of what they represent.
But the great antitype, the original, will be contemplated Him
self: His beauties and glories will shine forth in a manner of
which we can form no conception ; and the highest, even infinite,
excellence will be realized to the soul without any interposing
medium.

Wonder and admiration, it will be seen, may subserve the high
est purposes of devotion. There is adoration almost in wonder.

" I have seen," says Wordsworth, in a characteristic passage, —

"I have seen

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract

Of inland ground, applying to his ear

The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell ;

To which, in silence hushed, his very soul

Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon

Brightened with joy : for rnurrnurings from within

Were heard, sonorous cadences ! whereby,

To his belief, the monitor expressed

Mysterious union with its native sea.

Even such a shell the universe itself

Is to the ear of faith ; and there are times,

I doubt not, when to you it doth impart

Authentic tidings of invisible things ;

Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ;

And central peace, subsisting at the heart

Of endless agitation. Here you stand,

Adore, and worship, when you know it not;

Pious leyond tJie intention of your thought;

Devout above the meaning of your will."

That piety, it must be allowed, is of a veiy equivocal kind which
hardly knows its own aspirations. And when we traced wonder

380 THE EMOTIONS.

to the invisible, and the infinite, we by no means meant that that
infinite was recognised as God. It might be, or it might not.
With some, it is the spirit of nature merely. It has no per
sonal being assigned to it. God is not recognised. Unques
tionably God and His perfections are the proper sequel or
conclusion of the mind, and to Him the minutest and most
insignificant object in creation might lead, if we were just to
our own thoughts. But there is much between the intimations
of God and God himself, and the interval may be allowed to
be occupied with anything or nothing where the desire is not
to realize God, but rather to forget Him, or exclude Him from
.His own universe. Agencies, spirits, or one undefinable spirit,
which has yet no personality, are allowed to intervene, or rather
are made the all of God — are rested or believed in, as if they
were the grand power and presence to which creation, through
all its parts, and in its minutest objects, testifies, if we would
receive her attestations.

The recognition and adoration of a Divine power, as mani
fested in the universe, seems to be essential in the case of every
mind formed to trace the connexion of causes and their effects,
and to feel the sentiment of wonder on the presence of any ob
served instance of causation. It is impossible to observe the
phenomena of nature without being impressed with the exist
ence of a being whose agency is traceable only in its operations.
The mind does not rest satisfied with the mere phenomena
which it observes ; it looks beyond these to the spiritual power
or presence which is at work, and which it cannot fail to mark.
An undefined conviction of some agency — something beyond
the material form or object, may be all that is realized or ob
tained, may be the utmost to which the mind goes ; but an
agency or power of some kind is felt to be an inevitable con
viction or conclusion, which the mind rather welcomes than
seeks to shun, and which is acknowledged in the manifold
impersonations of the varied agencies and operations in the
natural world, or just in the name given to them all, and which
seems satisfactorily to account for all — the spirit of nature. If
this spirit of nature is not God, what can it be ? Into what

THE EMOTIONS. 381

shall it be resolved as distinct from nature ? What idea shall
we form of it ? How shall we think of it ? In what manner
regard it ? It is better than absolute materialism, indeed, or
atheism, or pantheism, though it is a form of pantheism. It is
just to the poetic laws, if not to the rigorous decisions of reason
or philosophy, or still more properly, theology. Pantheism
is a monstrous creed, — that everything we see is God. The
doctrine is, either that God is matter, and its laics ; — for allow
mind, and we may as well go to God at once — and then it is
identical with materialism and atheism ; — or it is that matter
is God, and then it involves the monstrous or absurd position,
that matter may be spiritual, may be at once matter, and yet
not matter ; for what is implied in the supposition of a God ?
— is it not something distinct from matter, and a supposition
brought in to account for it, and for its varied modes of mani
festation ? The spirit of nature is a more refined idea than
this. If not questioned too rigidly, if not too closely taken to
task, it may hold a place in a mind that is not too rigorous in
sifting its conclusions, and that cannot satisfy itself with a cold
materialism. Nay, it allows scope for a poetic or an ideal
fancy in the very mystery of something which it is not sought
to explain, and which seems to brood over, or be present in, all
the operations of nature. The spirit of nature ! a poetic ab
straction — which gives a beauty to external phenomena — which
hovers innocently over every material object and material phe
nomenon — which allows us to be on familiar, yet respectful
terms with it — to worship it poetically, yet not religiously, nay,
which permits those who feel themselves to be endowed with
spirit, intelligence, lofty imagination, to have the advantage
over that which they profess to adore, to be themselves a sort
of gods, and dispensers of divinity ! Shelley no doubt took the
spirit of nature into his kind patronage, when he allowed it an
existence, and when he celebrated it, whether as " the spirit of
beauty," or " the spirit of power." To recognise these — to greet
the unseen spirit which is in the gentle breath of the zephyr,
in the secret operations of silent and invisible laws, in the
flower, in the grass, in the hovering atmosphere, with the

382 THE EMOTIONS.

mountain in its majesty, and the valley in its retiring loveli
ness, in the soft outline and aerial effects of the landscape, on
the sea in its calm or in its might — to see or recognise all this
is harmless, if we do not make that spirit oar divinity, if we do
not stop with it as God, if we are not content with a mere
poetical conception, and if in that spirit we behold but the
varied manifestations of a Being in whom dwells all beauty
and power, and who has created that beauty which we admire,
and invested phenomena with that power which overawes and
compels the homage.

" The awful shadow of some unseen Power,
Floats though unseen among us, visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower."

What is this power ? Could Shelley go no farther in the re
cognition of God — was he satisfied when he saw only something-
more than vacancy in the silence or solitude of nature ?

It is this irresistible impression of something beyond the ex
ternal phenomena which we behold, which has peopled the world
with deities, after the mind had lost the knowledge of the true
God. Everything became a god to the imagination, untutored,
and incapable of grasping the truth of a unity in all the varied
manifestations of nature : — the woods, the hills, the streams,
the air, the earth, the fire, the sun, the moon, the stars — each
had its god, or became a god to the imagination, seeing a mys
tery in all which it could not explain, but on the supposition
of some indwelling and presiding spirit. The very faculties
of the mind were explained or accounted for on the suppo
sition of a Divinity which had each under its charge or control.
Poetry, music, reason, or wisdom, — all were deified. What was
this but the misdirected tendency of the mind to behold God
in everything, which could not make this discernment without
running into the error of creating a god for every object and
every agency ? The tendency is an inevitable one, and proper;
for " the invisible things of God from the creation of the world
are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made,
even his eternal power and Godhead ;"— but it obeyed a false

THE EMOTIONS. 383

impulse when it made to itself a multitude of deities, each with
its several department. Reason was not followed, its dictates
were not obeyed or listened to, and the suggestions of imagina
tion were received, or the separate agency, invested with the
mysterious powers which imagination connected with it, was
reverently recognised and adored.

..." The imaginative faculty was Lord
Of observations natural."

But the suggestions of the mind, prompted by or associated
with the feeling of wonder, may be better directed, and guided
by higher wisdom. We believe that many, unaided by Revela
tion, have arrived at the doctrine of the Divine unity, and be
lieved in one God. Socrates did so, although in conformity with
the opinions of his countrymen he seemed to admit of subordi
nate deities, and said that they ought to be worshipped. We
might conceive many, while they did not boldly hazard their
opinions, arriving at the same conclusions in their own secret
reasonings. We cannot help believing that many whose opi
nions were never made known were secret worshippers of one
God, or sceptics at least as to the multitude of divinities which
were admitted into the Pantheon. It was one of the Athenians
that said satirically that " Athens was hospitable to the gods."
In Athens there was an altar " to the unknown God." That
this inscription was intended for the true God, is the opinion
of many of the ablest writers, Cudworth and Warburton among
the number. Cudworth, in his Intellectual System, expends
much learning to shew that the doctrine of the Divine unity
was common among the ancients, even among the people. It
would have been strange had this doctrine not been known
or guessed at ; for it seems as if the state of mind, when rever
ently recognising a Divine and pervading spirit of the universe,
must have been altogether opposed to the supposition, or
to the thought of a multiplicity of gods. But however this
may have been, that the reverence felt in the presence of any
recognised manifestation of Deity — the admiration at His mar
vellous operations — is the devotion, or a great part of the wor
ship, we pay to God, cannot be doubted. When the mind

384 THE EMOTIONS.

passes from His works to God himself, reverence, veneration,
not admiration merely, is the sentiment. Wonder is lost in
reverence, becomes worship. Awful veneration seizes the
mind. We are in the presence of the Creator, not of His works
merely. We realize an uncreated Being, whose works we con
template — these works so marvellous, so stupendous, so strik
ing in their exhibitions of wisdom and power. We adore :
Adoration is the sentiment we offer to this Being. A complete
prostration of our faculties, of our hearts before Him, is felt to
be called for — nothing less can we render. Mysterious, unseen,
uncreated, eternal, having no limits to any of His attributes,
by which any of His attributes can be bounded, incomprehen
sible therefore to us, except in so far as the nature, though not
the infinitude of His perfections, may be scanned or conceived
of! We know the former, because we ourselves have been
created in the possession of the same attributes, though limited,
very limited in extent — capable however of endless progress.
Man is the priest of God, because he can know God. It is the
priest's function to adore, to offer worship. All should be priests
to God. Sin has interrupted the priestly functions — the worship
is not offered. Christ makes us again priests unto God.

Besides subserving the purposes of devotion, to what gratifi
cation does not this emotion minister in the constitution of our
nature ! But was it implanted in our nature for this purpose?
or was it not absolute ? Was it not an essential part of our
emotional being ? Does it not belong to our position as crea
tures in the universe ? Could a creature, created with an
emotional capacity, contemplate either its own creation, or that
of any other being or object, without this sentiment ? Could
it be possible to be brought into contact with this great fact or
idea, without being filled with wonder ? There is in it, and
must be in it, to the creature, what can never cease to call forth
this emotion. Creation ! how wonderful ! Grant an intelligent
and emotional nature, and wonder could not but be experienced.
We might indeed have been created like the stone, or any of
the lower creatures, insensible, incapable of emotion, and in
capable even of thought, but we would not then have been

THE EMOTIONS. 385

what we are, rational and moral beings. We say so far as we
were made intelligent, and capable of emotion, there was what
was absolute in our nature, what could not but be, what be
longed to our nature, what was not intended merely to sub
serve an end, what was final, except that His own glory was
what God proposed to Himself in all creation. We do not
say that any part of our constitution does not subserve this or
that end, but that the final end was God's glory, while there
was what was absolute, and not merely provisional in our nature.
Our faculties have all an absolute character, created in the
image of God, and their grand design was, besides being an end
in themselves, that God's glory might be reflected in them.
That they accomplish subordinate purposes, is somewhat differ
ent from these being the purposes for which they were created.

The emotion of wonder does then minister to the gratifica
tion of the creature in a high degree. It is accompanied with
high delight. It produces a refined, in some instances a very
lofty pleasure. No gratification is purer than that which is
felt in the presence, or in the contemplation, of some great
phenomenon — some very interesting manifestation of the Di
vine power, or wisdom, or goodness — some stupendous or beau
tiful law of creation — some mark or evidence of God Himself —
in the possession of some interesting truth, some fine conception,
some happy or admirable expression of such conception in
language or art — greatness or excellence anyhow seen, contem
plated, or appreciated.

All the aspects of this emotion subserve a wise or fine pur
pose. We speak of an agreeable surprise ; and this might be
felt even in an unfallen state. The possibility of surprise is
inseparable from imperfect knowledge. Only to omniscience
can nothing come unexpected, or be unforeseen. In the case
of the highest unfallen intelligence, many things may awaken
its surprise, — come upon it with all the strength of novelty.
Astonishment, too, will often arrest or fix the attention of
these higher spirits that dwell in the presence of God. It is
not to be supposed that they will not have new truths to con
template ; that they will not be meeting with new and instruc-

2 B

386 THE EMOTIONS.

tive and wonderful manifestations of the Divine perfections.
An event will be to them as news. From this or that other
portion of the universe, no doubt, tidings will circulate as intel
ligence from a far country among ourselves. It will produce
surprise — it will beget wonder — it will fill them with astonish
ment. So would it be in our own unfallen condition — so is
it now — and the emotion subserves the most important pur
poses. In the first place, a fresh circulation of interest is kept
up in our minds, which would otherwise become stagnant
for want of novelty — a dull monotony — whereas now all is
constant and pleasing variety of excitement or feeling. Every
one knows the effect of monotony on the spirits, and how we
long after variety, whether in the occurrences of the day, or in
the scenery around us. Variety operates by surprise — it awakens
fresh interest — it produces a new current of feeling — and where
this is not experienced, the mind suffers. Languor, satiety,
weariness, often the utmost depression, is the consequence.
Ennui is where nothing new appeals to the mind, and gives it
a new direction, or a new object. The old wearies, palls upon
the spirits, and sameness absolutely oppresses. It is to escape
from this effect that amusement is invented, pursuits of varied
kinds are engaged in, enterprises of hardship or danger are
undertaken, the most imminent perils even are encountered.
War itself is often made a game of pleasure. Many of the
expeditions, which are the subjects of history, have been con
ceived and prosecuted, perhaps, to escape ennui, or just from
the pleasure of excitement. This necessity for variety, then,
the law by which we are gratified by change, — the power of
surprise, — has its bad as well as its good effects. It must have
operation in some way. The pleasure of the sentiment or feel
ing must be in some way gratified, though it should be in evil,
and in occasioning even the misery of our fellow-creatures ;
but its design undoubtedly was for good, and it is evil prin
ciple that gives this peculiar law of our constitution an evil
direction.

Another purpose of this emotion is thus happily described
by Dr. Brown : — " The importance of our susceptibility of this

THE EMOTIONS. 387

emotion of surprise of things unexpected, as a part of our
mental constitution, is very obvious. It is in new circumstances
that it is most necessary for us to be on our guard, because,
from their novelty, we cannot be aware of the effects that
attend them, and require, therefore, more than usual precau
tion where foresight is impossible ; but if new circumstances
had not produced feelings peculiarly vivid, little regard might
have been paid to them, and the evil, therefore, might have
been suffered before alarm was felt. Against this danger
nature has most providentially guarded us. We cannot feel
surprise without a more than ordinary interest in the objects
which may have excited this emotion, and a consequent ten
dency to pause till their properties have become in some degree
known to us. Our astonishment may thus be considered as a
voice from that Almighty goodness which constantly protects
us, that, in circumstances in which attention might be perilous,
whispers, or almost cries to us, Beware !"

" 0 for that warning voice," Milton exclaims in reference to
the Temptation, when he approaches this part of his great
Epic : —

"0 for that warning voice, which he, who saw
The Apocalypse, heard cry in heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to he revenged on men ;
' Woe to the inhabitants on earth !' that now,
While time was, our first parents had been warned
The coming of their secret foe, and 'scaped,
Haply so 'scaped, his mortal snare."

Astonishment neither delights nor warns; it confounds.
The novelty and the wonder together produce the most violent
emotion, which may have its pleasure, but the pleasure is lost
in the astonishment ; when it becomes pleasing, it is in the
wonder after the astonishment. How wise this arrangement —
how directly is wisdom seen here ! that while surprise is often
produced, and is attended by the happiest effects, ministering
to pleasure, inciting to activity, and exerting that control over
our actions by which we are prevented from precipitation, and
often preserved from danger, astonishment is seldom produced,

388 THE EMOTIONS.

or, at least, far more seldom finds its object. This emotion
would be inconsistent with happiness, and would make the
world come to a stand, if there was not a provision in the very
frequency of it against itself; that is, the frequency of the
occasion would make it no longer the occasion of such an
emotion. The repetition of the cause would make it no longer
capable of producing the effect. So nice are the arrangements
of Divine wisdom. The commonness of anything wonderful
does not prevent our wonder, but the commonness of anything
astonishing would make it no longer astonishing.

The analysis of wonder, or the particular aspect of it, admi
ration, seems to give us the precise emotion in the case where
the beautiful or sublime is contemplated, whether in nature or
art. That emotion seems to be nothing else than admiration,
but admiration stamped with the impress of its particular ob
ject. We have already said that admiration always takes the
particular impress of the object admired. It is admiration not
the less whatever may be the object : approbation of a certain
excellence, with wonder at the law of that excellence. The
emotion of the beautiful and the sublime, accordingly, is appro
bation of the excellence implied in these, with wonder at the
law of that excellence. There is appreciation of the beautiful
or the sublime, with Avonder at the law concerned in either.
The appreciation is not without the wonder : the two constitute
the emotion in the particular case. The particular excellence
gives a character to the appreciation ; it is the appreciation of
that excellence and not another. The character of the appre
ciation must be determined by the character of the excellence.
The appreciation of the beautiful or the sublime is thus a pecu
liar and distinctive state of mind ; and there is a peculiar
and distinctive emotion ; this is inseparable from admiration,
or admiration follows upon or is inseparable from it ; and ad
miration is appreciation of the particular excellence, with won
der at its law. We have here, then, a particular appreciation
with its appropriate emotion, and wonder : these seem to be
the constituent elements in the emotion of the beautiful and the

THE EMOTIONS. 389

sublime. The nature of the beautiful and the sublime them
selves is a different question, and one which has occasioned
much diversity of opinion and view. It is impossible, with our
present limits, to enter upon such a subject. Our concern is
with the emotion : if we have arrived at that, with its distinc
tive elements, the consideration of the object which excites it —
the law of the beautiful and the sublime, or of each distinc
tively — belongs more properly to another department of philo
sophy, viz., aesthetic philosophy, just as the consideration of the
object of the moral emotion belongs to the philosophy of the
moral nature.

We may but indicate, however, our view of the object of the
emotion of the beautiful and the sublime respectively.

The beautiful, and the same remark will apply to the sub
lime as well, is undoubtedly one, something ultimate and in
itself simple. Two questions may be raised respecting it : is
it in the mind, or is it in the object ? — and although simple,
one, is it so in itself, or is it a resultant — the resultant of cer
tain other emotional conceptions and states, or of certain powers
or adaptations in objects to excite these emotional conceptions
or states ? If we maintain that it is the resultant of certain
powers and adaptations in objects to awaken certain emotional
conceptions and states, we seem to answer both questions. We
shew that while it is a mental state, that mental state is the
result of certain powers or adaptations in outward objects, or
other states of mind, mental products — whatever, in short, is
objective to the mental state in which we have the beautiful —
certain powers and adaptations in these to produce the mental
state ; and we thus hold it to be nothing in itself, as one and
simple, but the resultant of certain powers and adaptations to
awaken certain emotional conceptions or states. And this seems
to reconcile the conflicting views in regard to the beautiful ;
for while some maintain that it is solely in the mind, this may
be allowed, but not irrespective of the power in the object to
awaken the mental state ; and while others maintain that it is
one and simple, something in itself, and ultimate, this also
may be allowed, but simple and ultimate as the resultant of

300 THE EMOTIONS.

certain powers and adaptations to awaken certain emotions, or
conceptions of emotion. This we hold to be Alison's theory,
and we hold it to be that of Cousin also, although he does not
seem to be aware of it, and he is regarded as the great opponent
of the association theory. The association theory, as it is called,
pre-eminently the theory of Alison, is not inconsistent with the
beautiful being in the mind; but also in the object; and also being
absolute, something in itself, one, simple, but as the resultant of
certain powers and adaptations to awaken certain mental states,
these mental states resulting in the mental state in which we have
the beautiful. Alison's theory has been either greatly misrepre
sented or misunderstood ; and the advocates of the absolute
theory are ever and anon, in spite of themselves, admitting all
that the association theorist would advance. Nothing could
be finer than the way in which Cousin traces the beautiful to
expression, to some conception of emotion, to the moral, to truth,
to the Eternal, to the Infinite. It is certain ideas, having their
prototypes in the Divine mind, but expressed in objects, or in
other ideas, or awakened by other ideas, that constitute the
beautiful. This, of course, is opposed to the sensational theory ;
but it is precisely Dr. Brown's theory — that the beautiful is the
power of the object to awaken the emotion — it is Alison's
theory that the beautiful is the resultant of certain adaptations
to awaken conceptions, which Alison calls conceptions of emo
tion, or conceptions of which certain emotions are the result,
and the result of which again is the one and simple feeling of
the beautiful : it is Cousin's theory, who regards the beautiful
as one and absolute, but who traces it up ultimately to the
moral, to the Eternal, to the Infinite. The difference between
the Beautiful and the Sublime is only in the character of the
ideas awakened.

We have considered those emotions which connect us with
events and with objects generally, which do not allow us to be
uninterested spectators of what is occurring around us, or to
survey unmoved the scenery of earth and heaven, or find no plea
sure in the objects which meet our view every day, and gather

THE EMOTIONS. 391

around them our familiar loves or hatreds, awaken delight or
produce disquietude, or it may be unhappiness, — which, on the
contrary, are alive to every event, and are awakened by almost
every object — which pervade life as waters the channel of the
stream, and invest everything with a kind of atmosphere,
coloured by the emotion which prevails — which fill the heart
with serenity, stir it with joy, excite it to wonder, exalt it to
admiration, prompt it to devotion, or make it the victim of
the disquieting emotions, from sadness or melancholy to the
profoundest sorrow, or leave it the prey of weariness and
ennui. But there are more powerful emotions than any of
these — emotions which take a stronger hold of the heart, move
it more deeply, are still more influential as springs of action,
and more directly concerned in the production of happiness or
misery. We refer to the emotions of love, of sympathy, of
benevolence, of gratitude, and to the emotions which accompany
our desires, which are distinguishable from our desires, and
may be called the emotions of the desires.

It was not intended only that we should be partners in, or
mixed up with, the events of life, and be capable of feeling
emotion in connexion with every object that met the eye, and
that solicited the regard ; we were to be more intimately associ
ated with our fellows, to have, in every way, a greater interest
in them, and in their fortunes, and to be capable, therefore, of
stronger emotions as respects themselves, and what concerned
them. Love, accordingly, is an emotion which has more directly
for its object our fellows of the same species, after that great
Being who gave to ourselves being, and whom it is our first
duty at once supremely to love, and reverently to adore. Love
is by far the most important principle or emotion of the soul.
It excels every other in value as in kind. Its object, if we may
so express ourselves, is more directly its object, than is the
object of any other emotion the object of that emotion. Cheer
fulness has not properly an object at all. An event produces
joy, an object awakens our delight ; but the object of love is
the object o/our love. We love the object. Pleasure or de
light in an object: joy at an event: is very different from the

392 THE EMOTIONS.

love of an. object, or from that object's being the direct object
of love. Not only is the emotion in this instance produced by
a cause, or, at least, awakened by an object, it terminates on
that cause; it has it for its object. Even admiration does not
so directly terminate on its object as love. We admire some
thing about the object ; we love the object. The emotion, like
every other simple emotion, is incapable of analysis. We may
state certain circumstances regarding it ; but the simple emo
tion itself cannot be described. Every one's own feeling of the
emotion is its only interpreter or describer. The last retreat of
any emotion, it is impossible to reach ; there is something in
the emotion at last — the very essence of the emotion — that
baffles all attempt at description or analysis. The emotion
remains yet to be described. Nothing more has been done by
all the efforts to bring out the emotion itself from its retreat or
concealment, than if no attempt of the kind had been made.
What do I explain when I say, that there is in love, or connected
with it, a " vivid delight in the contemplation of its object ?"
or further, " a desire for the good of that object ?" Do these
two elements make up the emotion ? The whole peculiarity
of the emotion consists in the kind of delight which is felt, or
there is something beyond this delight, while desire for the good
of the object is an effect of the emotion, not a part of it. The
kind of delight felt in the contemplation of the object, or iti the
object, is the very mystery. Delight and love as resting on an
object are not far separate, but love is rather the delight in this
instance, than delight the love, — that is, the emotion is rather
love than delight. Delight begotten by an object is a certain
pleasure, varying according to the object ; but when we speak of
delight in an object, we rather mean love for that object than the
delight which it produces or affords. We know that inanimate
objects even may awaken our love, a kind of attachment, and this
may be distinguished from the delight or pleasure which they
give us ; the one is delight in the object, the other is delight pro
duced by the object. The former, then, is just love ; and to say
that love is delight in an object, or in the contemplation of that
object, is to describe the emotion by itself. There can be no

THE EMOTIONS. 393

doubt that love both delights in its object, and seeks the good
of that object ; but is this the emotion ? We are not attribut
ing this account of the emotion, so far as it goes, to Dr. Brown,
as if he himself regarded it as fully descriptive. He says, " the
analysis of love, as a complex feeling, presents to us always, at
least, two elements ; a vivid delight in the contemplation of the
object, and a desire of good to that object." Where we think
Dr. Brown is wrong, is in making the feeling a complex one,
and these, two of its elements. The former of these, if not just
the love which is sought to be analyzed, is rather a circumstance
distinguishing it than a part of it ; the latter is rather an effect
or consequence of the emotion than an element in it. Dr.
Brown seems to have been sensible that his analysis was not
complete when he says, " the analysis of love, as a complex feel
ing, presents to us always, at least, two elements ;" he seems to
have felt there was something more which remained yet to be
described, and, in truth, the very emotion had yet to be defined.
The delight of love is not love. Love varies according to the
object on which it is fixed. Now there can be no doubt, that
in the general there must be some apprehended excellence in
any object which awakens our love, or which is the object of
our love. But in the case both of parental and filial love, it
often happens that the object of the affection is destitute of
those excellencies which call forth the emotion in other cases.
A parent, or a child, is often loved in spite of the absence of
these excellencies, and notwithstanding of faults and blemishes,
and even vices, which in other cases would altogether repel the
emotion. Is parental and filial love, then, to be made such
exception of, that it is not to come under the general description
of love ? Is it delight in apprehended excellence that consti
tutes a part of love ? or is it delight in the object irrespective of
such a cause, and whatever may be the cause of it ? If the
latter, then this, we believe, will be found just to be the very
emotion which it is brought to explain, or of which it is said to
be only a part. Dr. Brown says, " to love, it is essential there
should be some quality in the object which is capable of giving
pleasure, since love, which is the consequence of this, is itself a

394 THE EMOTIONS.

pleasurable emotion. There is a feeling of beauty, external,
moral, or intellectual, which affords the primary delight of
loving, and continues to mingle with, the kind desire which it
has produced." Now, the circumstance that parental and filial
love does not depend upon such a cause, might shew that the
feeling of love was something distinct from the delight arising
out of such excellence. Unless filial and parental love is alto
gether so different from the other aspects of the general emotion
that it has to be separately described or accounted for, it is
obvious that love may be something distinct from the delight
spoken of, and is not depending upon it for its origin. The
love and the delight, at all events, are easily separable, and the
former is something by itself. But it is quite manifest, without
any argument, that the delight inspired by excellence, real or
apprehended — by beauty, external, moral, or intellectual — is
distinct from love. This is perfectly manifest ; the former is, no
doubt, sometimes the cause of the latter, but it can only be its
cause, and we find the latter existing without any such cause.
A mother sometimes loves a child all the more for the very
defects which, to others, would be a barrier to love. Love sur
vives physical, intellectual, and even moral changes in its object,
and will often cling to its object the more fondly in all these.
We insist upon this no more than to shew that love is a distinct
feeling from that delight which Dr. Brown refers to, and which
is produced by some excellence apprehended in the object that
awakens our love. The two feelings are quite distinct: the
one is not the other : the one may produce, but not necessarily,
the other. How does it happen that the same excellence con
templated by different persons is followed by love in one and
not in another ? There is the same delight in the excellence
itself, but there is love in the one instance and not in the other.
Do we not see friendships formed, whatever may be the acci
dental causes which lead to them, between parties, who may
present the very same excellencies to others that they do mu
tually between themselves; but no friendship is begotten in
others, while between themselves it may be indissoluble ? No
matter how the different result is accounted for. such examples

THE EMOTIONS. 395

shew that the friendship ultimately is a different thing from
the delight in, or appreciation of, the excellence which may
have awakened it. All are sensible of the power of certain
attractions of character to awaken our esteem and affection ;
but this is not friendship. Or, is it the excellencies that we
love ? then the delight in them is the love of them. But there
is more than the love of the excellencies, there is the love of
the individual. This is that mysterious but admirable affec
tion which binds heart to heart, and makes life what it is in
those beautiful relations which subsist in families, among indi
viduals, and between the members of communities and social
bodies. Love has its reign in all of these departments, in any
of these relations ; and there is a more oecumenical or extended
aspect of the affection, in the love which links us to our race,
and which is felt, where there are none of those causes which
may interfere with it, towards all who bear the same nature
with 'ourselves. Bad as man is, and with such causes for
distrust and alienation, there is that which draws us to our
fellows, and makes us in the first outgoing of the heart, till
something cools or checks our ardour, give our unhesitating
affection to all who bear the name of man. It is a lovely aspect
of the emotion. Its beauty was recognised in the plaudits
which followed the utterance of that famous sentiment in the
Koman theatre : " Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto."
There is a brotherhood of the race, a family tie, which unites
all mankind together: the consanguinity is recognised in spite
of the larger family of which the race consists. It is still one
family. The evil passions of men, the weakness and imperfec
tions of our nature, and certain instincts or tendencies implanted
by the Creator, produce divisions and distinctions, and occasion
animosities, which would not otherwise exist. The family and
national relation are founded upon the wisest instincts, and
secure the greatest benefits. To the former especially, may be
traced some of the finest affections, and it may well be said to
be the very safeguard and cement of society. Accidents of
situation and of language produce communities and nations :
this, too, tends to the consolidation and prosperity of society : it

396 THE EMOTIONS.

is favourable to government, for even nations have to be broken
up into separate municipalities, each of which can alone conven
iently regulate its own affairs. Certain affections are created
which strengthen the bond that binds families and indivi
duals ; and the orderly and more efficient working of the whole
social machine is the general and beneficial effect. But these
very benefits are at the expense of others, and are not secured
without their evil consequences. The national distinction at
least is not without its bad effects. We question if the national
distinction was originally contemplated in the constitution of
our race. The family one, we believe, was. It is connected
with an original tendency or bias which seems to have been
implanted for the very purpose of securing this distinction, as
well as because in itself it is the occasion or source of such
exquisite happiness. Even in an innocent state, we have
already remarked, there might be peculiar attachments, and
heart might seek heart as now, to be knit together in closer
bonds than those which were common to the race. The law
of the race required this, while it was an admirable provision
for securing those sentiments which could have scope under no
other arrangement, the tenderest that can have exercise, and
which, in their very exclusiveness, seem to secure the wider and
more social sympathies with which they would appear to be at
war, or at least somewhat incompatible. And here, perhaps,
we have the explanation of that very instinct in which we see
the finest exemplification, in a modified form, of the particular
emotion we are considering, so peculiar an exemplification of
it as almost to have appropriated the name of the emotion
exclusively to itself. It was for this very arrangement, this
special union, this peculiar friendship, this tenderer attachment,
that the sentiment we are adverting to, the special aspect of the
emotion we are considering, was implanted in the heart. This
finds its gratification in the family relation, in the union of
husband and wife, in the personal love which binds such
parties, and where an exchange seems literally to be made of
affection and of interest. The one loves the other, and self is
merged in the attachment which each awakens. This might

THE EMOTIONS. 397

have been compatible with the larger or more universal love
which it was intended each should feel for another of the same
race. But had man continued innocent, it is questionable if
any other divisions would have had place. The scriptural
narrative of what occurred on the plain of Shinar seems to
favour this idea. National distinction was not known till
then, and it was in an imperfect and fallen state that God
found it to be necessary to break up the race into nations, and
scatter them by the interposition of a miracle over the earth.
This was best in the new condition that had arisen. The vast
confederacy of a united race would have perhaps been too
powerful for evil. We have this but indicated in the cause of
the dispersion. Unquestionably the division into nations broke
the power of evil, made man more helpless, and threw him
upon sympathies more limited in their range, and on that
very account more tender in their nature. The race would
have been a giant that would have defied God ; and the fable
of the Titans undoubtedly has its meaning. A universal com
munity seems to be possible only on one condition, that of un-
fallen innocence or restored innocence ; — otherwise the power of
evil, not the power of good, would be enlarged. The fraterniza
tion of the nations, without the gospel, is a vain dream. It is
when the kingdoms of this world have become the kingdoms of
God and of His Son that the true vision of the world's mil
lennium will be realized. This does not prevent the cultivation
of amicable sentiment and the diffusion of amicable principle.
It does not prevent nations from doing all they can for the
better modelling of their own institutions, and especially secur
ing their own greater enlightenment and improvement, so as
to secure and deserve all the benefits of a well-established
freedom. A right freedom will come in no other way, and
grasping at the name merely, where there is not the reality, is
taught by recent events to be worse than the severest despotism
that ever wreathed its chains round a people. Still, national
distinctions seem to have been but the least of several evils :
the evils of universal anarchy because of universal union, and
of greater power for mischief in the greater combination of

398 THE EMOTIONS.

mischievous strength. The union of our race, however, by
that bond which ought never to have been broken, is un
doubtedly what is abstractly proper, and what in the sanguine
hopes of an enlightened philanthropy we are allowed to antici
pate. The love of the race will be restored, and it exists in
some degree in every renewed heart. The gospel is the true
regenerator of our species ; for it is its object to implant anew
that principle of universal love, which is consistent only with
a state of unfallen innocence, or one of innocence restored.
When the source of enmity is removed, enmity itself will be
removed. National distinctions will not exist, or will exist
but as the separate municipalities under one government at
the present day, united under one empire, and that the empire
of Christ. That love, the absence of which is the occasion of
all enmity, will have exercise, having been reimplanted by the
gospel. Evil will have been taken out of the way ; the
regenerating power of the Divine Spirit will have changed the
nature in which now are the seeds of all enmity, and a
sympathy, divine, and incapable of infraction, will have been
restored. We now see the breaking up of that sympathy, or
the absence of it, where Christianity has not taken effect, and
nothing therefore but the most imperfect sympathies with the
race existing. National distinctions operate in the widest
extent, and in the utmost strength : how the nation will be
exalted — how its interests at the expense of others will be
promoted — how particular, even evil, institutions will be main
tained — how other nations will be regulated, so as to be kept
from doing harm and working mischief — non-interference ex
cept for purposes of despotism, — these are the objects which
nations generally set before themselves ; and the world seems
far yet from that consummation which the love of the race,
the love of our fellow as such, the love of man to man, will
ultimately secure. That consummation will yet be attained.
The Gospel will assuredly accomplish it. The unbroken love
of the species will be felt. Nations and communities will
exist under the reign of Christ alone, cemented by one uniting
affection, dwelling in harmony, having the same interests — the

THE EMOTIONS. 399

interest of one the interest of all — governed by the law of
Messiah the Prince, order and justice and every good secured
in the reign of universal love. This aspect of the emotion is
particularly interesting : how important to contemplate it ! — to
seek its dominancy, its universal diffusion ! It will be secured
only in the triumphs of the gospel. Wherever the love of the
gospel is implanted, there the love of the race is secured ; an
oecumenical feeling is engendered ; all mankind are regarded,
not with an altogether undistinguishing, but still with a true
and genuine affection ; — and the world, not our country, the
race, not our family, man, not the individual, become the
objects of our wide sympathies. Let individual instances of
such love be multiplied, and the world will be regenerated,
present a new aspect, be what every philanthropist professes to
seek, but which no schemes of amelioration, or political wis
dom, will secure apart from the gospel. The proscribed gospel
is the panacea for every evil which man in his perversity
would remove in every other way but the right one. Selfish
ness, indeed, regulates in most of those schemes which are
brought forward with all the array of political pomp, and
national muster, for the social wellbeing, in communities, or
more largely in the world. Tyrannies exist ostensibly for
government; but it is for the honour of a house, or the
aggrandizement of an individual. Civilisation ! it is royal
greatness. Freedom ! it is mercantile prosperity ; it is the
interest of a class ; it is the defence of an institution ; it is
the thirst of gold. Disturb not this law, for it will interfere
with such an interest — although that interest may be main
tained at the expense of human blood, or by the property in
human flesh. Enact this law, for it will secure such another
interest — one which may interfere with the rights of thousands,
and be the curse of generations. Has not legislation par
taken too much of this character ? The imperfection of human
nature, the limits to human wisdom, the difficulties presented
to all legislation, are the apology of many a bad law ; but
human selfishness must first be expelled, and true philanthropy,
true love to the species, implanted, before we shall see that

400 THE EMOTIONS.

uniform regard to the rights and the interests of the race,
which, in the one object which the gospel proposes, will at last
be secured.

While it was intended that man should love his fellow, and
the love of the race therefore was implanted in the heart, there
are lesser limits within which the emotion we are considering
was to have its sphere of action, and in its operation within
which we see a beautiful exercise of the emotion itself, and an
admirable provision for the happiness, and for the best interests
of the species. The oecumenical, or more universal, love is un
doubtedly the nobler ; there is something more generous, less
selfish, in the love which is felt for the race, in the sincere
outgoing of the heart towards all who wear the same nature
with ourselves, irrespective of any claims of kindred or nation,
and just because of community of nature, which we do not
recognise in the more limited exercises of the emotion. We
do not regard the philosophy of Pope's celebrated lines on
the order in which our affections spread, from the first mo
tion created by self till not only the whole race, but " every
creature of every kind," is included or embraced, as at all just ;
and not merely because he assigns a selfish origin to those
affections which are more exclusive or more limited in their
range, but because he would seem to account for every wider
affection, as it spreads, by the narrower or more limited affec
tion, and make the one a sort of extension or overflowing of
the other. This does not seem to be a just or philosophic view
of the affections. But a little reflection surely is necessary to
satisfy us, that we could not love our race merely because we
love our family, but that there must be an original and inde
pendent principle or affection directly bestowed by our Creator,
which takes in the whole race, or which loves our fellows as
such, without any impulse or assistance from a previous affec
tion. The philosophy of Pope's lines has long passed without
question, and on a superficial glance it seems quite unchallenge
able, but it is poetry rather than philosophy.

" God loves from whole to parts, but human soul
Must rise from individual to the whole.

THE EMOTIONS. 401

Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake,
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake :
The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds,
Another still, and still another spreads ;
Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace ;
His country next ; and next all human race ;
Wide and more wide the o'erflowings of the mind
Take every creature in of every kind;
Earth smiles around with boundless bounty blessed,
And heaven beholds its image in his breast."

This presupposes the love of family in every case where there
is the love of country and the more extended love of the race.
A case might be supposed where the family affection was never
known ; would the love of country, or the love of the race, be
impossible in such a case ? Doubtless, many have loved their
country, and their fellows, intensely, who never knew any
family relations. Certainly, mankind are born in families, for
the most part, and their earliest affections are exercised within
the family circle, and as their intercourse enlarges, their affec
tions take a wider range ; but it is not necessary to the new
exercise or development of affection, that it spring from some
thing prior, be but the burgeoning of something more limited.
It is possible, where there has been no family tie, where there
have been no family connexions, or these have been early
snapped or lost, the heart may be less exercised to affection,
may be less impressible, and less therefore of the love of the
species, or the love of our fellow, may be seen. The heart may
be hardened, from its affections not being exercised in those
more immediate spheres in which most have the happiness to
move ; and it may contract a selfish nature in consequence :
so selfish as to be insensible to any more refined or generous
sentiment. It may become even misanthropical, or at least
callous ; and many doubtless are the individuals, irrespective
of any such cause, that think only of self, that are never stirred
with any sympathetic emotion, are bound by no feeling to others
but that of interest, and would experience no pang at the most
wide-sweeping calamity, if they themselves were not affected by
it, or if it involved no matter of a strictly personal or selfish
nature. But these are the exceptions instead of the rule, and

2 c

402 THE EMOTIONS.

perhaps they will be found amoDg those who have had every
advantage for the development of the affections, as much as
among those who have had fewer advantages in this way. The
feeling of love for the species, is evidently the growth of no
other and more limited affection. It is an independent affec
tion. Were it dependent upon any other affection, it would
not be so uniform in its operation. We feel it to have an in
dependent source and action ; and it is rather first in the order
of nature, and the more limited affection after. We say in
the order of nature, not in the order of fact, not as it actually
happens, but as from a higher point of survey it ought to be.
Must not the claims of family yield to those of country and of
race ? Are they not postponed to the latter in all cases when
they come in collision, or when those of the former would bid
us defer, or would run contrary to, the latter ? For the most
part, it is within the more limited circle we are called to act —
it is within it that our affections more immediately move, and,
therefore, as more incessantly exercised, having more imme
diate and more constant opportunity of action, the limited affec
tion is the stronger ; it may be always the stronger, and wisely
so, but it is not the higher — it is not the more paramount ; it
lords it not so as do the others ; and when country and the
interests of the species call for it, it must give way. Eegulus
listened to the claims of country rather than those of family — of
wife and children — when he advised Rome to prosecute the war
with Carthage, and in spite of the tears of kindred, returned to
Carthage, where he knew nothing but death awaited him.

" Fertur puclicre conjugis osculum,
Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor,
Ab se removisse, et virilem

Torvus humo posuisse vultum ;
Donee labautes consilio patres
Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato,
Interqne mrerente s amicos
Egregius properaret exul."

If the love of country grew out of the love of family, could
these illustrious examples of patriotism be exhibited ? Could

THE EMOTIONS. 403

Horace have sung of a Regulus, or a Fabricius, or the Scauri ?
Could a patriot have lived in any age ? Must not the claims
of the prior affection have been always paramount ? The good
of the species too has in a thousand instances displaced every
narrower and more selfish feeling. The latter has never been
allowed to come into competition with the former, whenever
there was a clear call for a course of action in which the good
of the race would be promoted. It is evident, therefore, that
the wider affection is first in importance, and first therefore in
supposition, or in the order of nature. The more limited
affection is subsequent in supposition to the other. God has
implanted the larger affection in the heart, immediately. It
is the more absolute of the two. The other is more the effect
of arrangement, and a kind of economy which God saw meet
to adopt, which is subservient to very wise purposes, and to
the exercise of holier affections than would otherwise have been
exhibited, or would have been possible. Whether is the rela
tion of man to his fellow, or the relation of man to his kindred,
the more absolute ; for which relation chiefly does man exist ?
Is the larger or the lesser family the more important, of the
most consideration ? The individual who lives only for him
self, or his family, hardly lives for any purpose. What is self ?
What is family ? In an innocent state, they would have been
hardly considerable in comparison with the universal love that
must have pervaded the whole family of man. It would have
been tenderer, as we find it is its very nature to be still, closer,
dearer, but not by any means possessing the high and disinter
ested character of the other. Personal considerations mingle
in our more limited affections — it is the soul, the spiritual
being, purely, that is regarded in the other. We love the
being for his soul's worth, for what his soul is to us. In the
other case, we are so accustomed to regard the whole per
sonnel, to value the objects of our affection for what they
are wholly to us, that we make no separation : it is the
entire individual that we consider. But what are the rest
of the species to me, except as possessing immortal spirits,
and therefore as beings with an immortal stamp upon them ?

404 THE EMOTIONS.

Much more would this have been the case in a state of
innocence. In such a state the distinction between the family
and the race would have been much less than it is now, when
self so greatly predominates, and has so large a share in our
feelings and actions. We have reason to believe, then, that
the more limited affections were secondary to the other, or at
least are inferior in real worth and importance ; still we have
these more limited affections, and they are beautiful and im
portant in their own place — most beautiful, most important.
It is the love of the species that prompts to such noble and
self-sacrificing deeds. The disinterested man labours not for
his family merely, but for his kind. His most generous, his
highest actions, are for his species. He forgets his family for a
time. He says, — " I have higher duties to attend to." The
occupations of business, the pursuits of his calling, have their
stated hours, and must receive attention ; but they are all put
aside for the duties of a public nature. They are deferred when
public interests demand his time, when they solicit the regard ;
and a man feels that he lives not for himself alone — not even
for his family alone — but for the wide family of man. In these
interests, even the nearest relation is forgotten, is merged.
The wife, the husband, the parent, the child, are not regarded.
They become undiscriminated. It is with principles, not with
individuals — with interests, not with persons — with beings, not
with these in their circumscribed relations, that we have to do.
All such relations are forgotten in the wide and general regards.
Every man becomes the friend, the brother, of another. We
overlook those that have the nearest relation to us — we look
upon all alike. We carry questions of general interest into
our family as we would into another household, or among the
greatest strangers. Friends are nothing to us ultimately, but
human beings ; the greatest, the most important, interests affect
them not otherwise. But does this destroy the other relations ?
Are these lost ? By no means ; but the love of our fellow is
the greater. It is the more absolute — it is first, as it were —
it is prior in our supposition. God had respect to it before He
consulted for the other, or provided for the other. This may

THE EMOTIONS. 405

let us into the meaning of some of the statements of Scripture :
" In heaven, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage,
but all are as the angels of God :" — " All ye are brethren :" —
" Ye are all one in Christ ;" while the larger relation swallow
ing up the lesser, will make the sad separation of friends in
the next world hardly appreciable. The more limited relation,
however, still is a very important one, and it secures the most
beautiful exercises of affection, and the most admirable results.
It begins with that provision which was established at first for
the continuance of the race. In that law which God consti
tuted, by which a peculiar attachment is formed between the
man and the woman, we have the origin of the family relation.
This undoubtedly was a subordinate law ; and the source of so
much happiness in itself, it was connected with the mode
which God took with our race for its continuance and propa
gation. The love between man and the other sex is altogether
peculiar. It is the same emotion we are speaking of, however,
still in its essential characteristics. It is love, though love of
a special and peculiar kind. The properties that inspire it
account in part for its special and peculiar nature ; but this
will not all account for it. Let it be considered that love in
itself is absolute — is a part of that emotional nature with
which, as we were created in the likeness of God, He was
pleased to endow us. Love may be contemplated as an abso
lute emotion existing even apart from an object to exercise it
or call it forth. It is a state conceivable prior to the existence
of any being to call it forth. God was love in this absolute
sense, from the very eternity of His being, except as we may
consider the reciprocation of this affection between the persons
of the Godhead. Love is the necessary condition of a perfect
moral nature. Hatred would be the opposite of this. Nothing
could be the object of hatred but moral evil, or being so identi
fied with evil as to be its impersonation. God had only then
to call beings into existence to have objects for His love. His
love would be complacency with all that He had created —
every being, every object, the object of a complacent regard.
But that complacency becomes higher according to the object

406 THE EMOTIONS.

contemplated. We feel that we can regard with a kind of
affection even inanimate objects ; that our love, the absolute
emotion, rests upon them. All creation would thus at first lie
in the smile of God's love ; but in proportion as the being rose
in the scale of creation, the complacency, the love, would be
of a higher character, would rise too. Intellectual and moral
beings would be the objects of its highest exercise. Now,
when God created man at first, just such would be his nature
— the very condition of his being — he would know nothing but
love — hatred would be foreign to him — and his love would
take a higher exercise according as its object rose in the scale
of being, until God himself was its object, who would draw
forth its supreme and undivided regards. But God adopted a
peculiar procedure with respect to man : He did not create the
race at once, and He made the law of its continuance the
source of a new aspect of this peculiar emotion. Undoubtedly
there was something arbitrary in this. It was not absolute, it was
not necessary, as in the case of the other aspect of the emotion
already referred to. The new aspect of the emotion was some
thing special. It depended upon a peculiar fiat or arrange
ment of creation, — upon an arbitrary but beautiful provision
on the part of the Creator. Can we give any other account of
the affection which sprang up in Adam towards the helpmate
which God had provided for him ? Can we give any other
account of the emotion now ? It is the love of our fellow ; but
it is modified by the constitution or arrangement which God
adopted, and depends upon the will of the Creator. What
account can be given of the influence which female form and
beauty have upon the mind ? It is not accounted for by the
influence which beauty has upon the mind wherever seen.
That does not affect the mind at all in the same way. No
doubt we are affected by the one beauty in many respects as
we are by the other. Many elements enter into the conception
of the one that go to the conception of the other ; but why
love at last in the one case, while there is nothing of the kind
in the other ? What is love in this instance ? It is the love of
a being — it is the love of a fellow-beinjr — and that bein^ is the

THE EMOTIONS. 407

woman whom God gave to man. We can say nothing more of
this love than that it is a law of that nature or constitution
which God originally conferred upon us. It is the same with
parental love and filial love. Both depend upon an arbitrary
provision or arrangement on the part of God in creation. It
is more than love absolutely — it is love, but it is love again
modified. It may be said to depend upon the peculiar proxi
mity of relation in which the parties stand to each other. But
how does this produce the effect ? We can say no more of the
matter than that God has ordered it so. The love of a parent
to a child, and of a child to a parent, and again of the mem
bers of the same family to one another, — how shall we account
for this but by a peculiar will or fiat of God in creation, or in
those arrangements which He was pleased to adopt with respect
to our race ? The most admirable effects are secured both by
this and the other arrangement alluded to, which is a condition
again to the family relation. It is from such springs that the
social economy is conducted — it is in accordance with these
that it works. The effect would not otherwise have been se
cured ; and how otherwise could it have been secured with such
happiness to the species ? Of what delightful feelings, of what
amenity, of what order, of what virtue, are the arrangements
we have alluded to the source or the cause ! The love of the
sexes is as peculiar as it is strong. The happiness it inspires
is perhaps the most exquisite which God intended His creature
to possess on this side of time. It is not purely moral, but it
need not be separated from this, and the moral properties of
the affection, or which may mingle in the affection, or be asso
ciated with it, are at once the guarantee of its permanence,
and necessary to its very being. The emotion, we do not
forget, is the resultant of combined causes ; but we say, where
no moral element enters into the emotion, — where moral quali
ties are not seen and loved, the love can neither be genuine
nor lasting. It is soul, and the highest properties of soul, that
are the true objects of love. The body can be but the index of
these ; and it is when these attract through the external form,
that love is worthy of the name.

408 THE EMOTIONS.

We have spoken of love as absolute, and we have noticed
certain aspects of this emotion as depending upon an arbitrary
will, or arrangement in creation. Let us explain a little more
fully what we mean by love as an absolute emotion. Those
aspects of the emotion which depend upon an arbitrary will
and arrangement on the part of God still present to us love, but
it is love under a peculiar modification, having a special direc
tion, and connected with a special purpose. Love absolute,
presents no modification, and exists for no purpose but for
itself. It is, as we have said, the condition of a perfect moral
nature, and could not but be. It is a feeling of harmony with
being as such ; that feeling becomes complacency as it is allowed
to rest upon the object ; it becomes love as the object rises in
interest, or even as it may happen to excite our interest, and
still more as it develops excellencies of being, external, or men
tal, or moral. The one state of love exists ; every object, every
being, shares in its exercise : it has selected no object for
its exercise; but every object receives a part of its regard
as it comes within its sphere. In its most absolute character,
being is its object.

But the emotion increases with its object : the higher
the being, the higher the emotion. When God is its object,
it is the highest character conceivable of the emotion. We
might suppose angels next; and, doubtless, were we as con
versant with them as we are with our own race, and were
the relation of race lost in the one great relation of being,
this would be so. We see a modifying law even in the case
of the race as distinguished frorn other races. Our love of
the race, however, is the love of being ; just as the love of
family may be considered the love of being, apart from the
modifying circumstance ; but it is then not the love of family
but the love of being. The love of race is the love of being,
take away the distinction of race. The truth is, being is ulti
mately the object of love, and being should properly be regarded
only as higher or lower, apart from every other distinction.
It will ultimately come to this, or if the modifying circum
stances or arrangements connected with this emotion continue

THE EMOTIONS. 409

in a future world, being will then form the grand relation, and
the love of holy beings will be a far higher and intenser love
than any other.

If being is thus properly the object of love, there is a sense
in which a being may really be the object of our love, in spite
of moral qualities the opposite of excellent. This may be
affirmed, that a malicious being cannot be the object of our
love ; and those beings, accordingly, in whom malice has its
climax, are, and must be, the objects of our hatred. Hatred
to being can be met only by hatred. The malice of Satan, and
the other wicked spirits who fell with him, as we are taught
to regard their nature, excites our hatred even towards the
beings in whom such malice lodges. Direct enmity to good
can be met with nothing but enmity. It is the distinguishing
circumstance of God's love, that it loved not only its enemies,
but sinners. In what other case has such a love been exhi
bited ? This is made the very marvel even in Scripture of
God's love. Here we speak in ignorance, and can only wonder.
" Herein is love :" — " Herein God commendeth His love toward
us ;" these are the expressions which magnify God's love to our
conception. But where malice is not discerned, as it is by
God even in man, or where it is not seen in such distinct
and palpable form as in the case of the fallen angels, a being
may be loved though otherwise morally depraved, or desti
tute of those excellencies that may be supposed necessary
to awaken our love. That being has not forfeited our love
by a disposition that cannot but call forth hatred. Towards
God he may have exhibited all the qualities of enmity, of
hatred ; but it has taken no active shape against all that is
good, and the love of being, therefore, has still room to
operate. That state of love is not repelled by what is in
direct opposition to itself. The absolute emotion, love, still
rests upon its object ; wherever it finds being it finds an object
on which it terminates. It is here we perceive the nature of
that command, " Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself ;"
and again, " Love your enemies." These are commands, be
cause the love of being, as such, is an essential condition of a

410 THE EMOTIONS.

perfectly moral nature : we are to love our enemies if they are
not the enemies of all good.

The qualities of being enter as an element into our estimate
of being : they are not properly the object of love, but rather
the being in whom they reside. Moral and intellectual quali
ties give an immense increase to the emotion.

In this way it is, we think, that excellencies of character
operate in connexion with this emotion — not the first object of
love, but augmenting it, or giving rise to an especial love, and
making the emotion, hardly traceable, or not directly taken
notice of, peculiar and strong. It is no longer the absolute
emotion merely, it is an emotion strongly felt, because of those
excellencies which augment it.

This view of love as absolute may seem inconsistent with the
idea of love delighting in its object ; for it may be said that
to delight in an object is to suppose some grounds of our
delight, and that this is inconsistent with the notion of an
absolute emotion. Now, it may be maintained that love does
delight in its object, but the delight is the accompaniment
not the cause of the emotion, while the emotion may have
primarily an absolute character. We think this primary
character of the emotion is the highest and most honourable
aspect of it. Its high value is seen in needing no cause to
excite it — in being absolutely without cause. In the case of
God, it is a state supposable even without an object. We may
hardly be able to conceive of such a state, but it is exemplified
in our own case, when just as object after object appeals to our
love, we do not find any new emotion springing up, but just
objects coming within the ecope of an emotion already existing.
They become the objects of a love which may be said to have
existed before it had these objects on which to be exercised.
This is the absolute view of the emotion, and it may be pro
nounced its highest state or character. Its object is being as
such ; it does not need a cause ; it includes all being, even our
enemies, and the only object it cannot love is the enemy of good
— not our enemies, but the enemy of being. It is the crown
ing malediction of Satan, and those who are involved in his

THE EMOTIONS. 411

condemnation, that they are the enemies of being, and that
they are hated of all being. God has given them up, and no
being still on this side of such a doom, especially no pure and
holy being, can love them.

Excellence, however, does awaken our love, or enhances it,
and then the emotion has a stronger character. We then love
not only being, but the excellencies of being, or we love being
all the more because of such excellencies. We admire the ex
cellencies : we love the being in which they reside. It were
surely singular if the excellence of a being did not render it
the more loveable, did not increase the emotion which was at
any rate felt.

Causes, we have seen, of an especial kind, modify the
emotion, give it a peculiar direction or aspect. In the case of
parental and filial love, the peculiar relation there augments
the love, nay, gives it altogether a peculiar character. The
peculiar and arbitrary arrangement secures effects which are
connected with such an arrangement alone. No other con
ceivable arrangement could give the love the aspect which in
such cases it possesses. The love implied in friendship, also,
and the love of country, or of one's nation, are peculiar aspects
of the emotion, and are connected with an especial provision
on the part of God, or adopted by Him in assigning us our
constitution, and making provision both for our happiness and
the accomplishment of His own purposes. In respect to friend
ship, indeed, it might be supposed that it is but an instance of
the stronger emotion produced by especially recognised excel
lencies. But there is something more ; there is a special provi
sion in our constitution for friendship. We shall speak of this
presently : meanwhile, we guard against its being supposed that
friendship is but the emotion of love called forth, or awakened,
by peculiar excellencies, and deriving intensity from these
excellencies. This may often be where no friendship springs
up, nay, where friendship, from disparity of rank or age, and
other circumstances, is impossible. We do often love in a
peculiar manner, because of certain excellencies contemplated.
We cannot help loving the good, the amiable, the excellent, in

412 THE EMOTIONS.

a peculiar manner. They excite our peculiar regard ; and
thus, in addition to the love of our fellow as such, which must
be an absolute emotion, there are those instances of the emotion
where it has peculiar excellencies, if not to awaken, at least to
augment it. Our absolute love is receiving perpetual addition
from such a source. Excellencies of character, amiable quali
ties, are not so rare that we have not perpetual excitements to
this especial aspect or exercise of love. There is not an indi
vidual, we believe, in whom we do not discern some qualities
especially to be loved. There is generally some amiable trait
or another appealing to our sentiment of love. Love, in fact,
would be a far more prominent feeling, did we do justice to
what is loveable in character, as we are apt to observe or trace
what is unaniiable. This is not to make us insensible to what
must and ought to excite our aversion ; but far more justice
might be done to the actual virtues or excellencies in others
than we find to be the case. Bad qualities must excite our
hatred, and what is unamiable cannot be lovely : but is there
nothing to excite our love, nothing to praise, nothing to call
forth our commendation in the most unamiable, or those whom
we are apt to regard as such ? They, in truth, are the most
unamiable who are least disposed to allow what is amiable in
others. It is the selfish disapproving spirit which of all others
is the least lovely.

Two of the modified aspects of the emotion remain yet
to be noticed — (and we merely advert to them here, for
they, with parental and filial love, more properly come under
review in the discussion of the virtues.) We mean the love
of friendship, and the love of patriotism, or the love of nation
or country. It is necessary merely to advert to them now,
to recognise their place under the special emotion we are
considering.

We have said, then, that friendship is something more than
a special love produced by special excellencies. That is not
friendship. That is only the love of our fellow heightened by
peculiar excellencies. Of such an exercise of the emotion there
may be many examples : we may have many calls for such

THE EMOTIONS. 413

exercise of our love. Nay, it is hardly ever but being exercised
in this way. The heart is glad to recognise those virtues and
amiable qualities which ask its especial love. And such a
feeling is a very delightful one. But friendship is something
more. It is a feeling of peculiar attachment which grows up
in the mind from causes which are not always easily discerni
ble. A conformity of disposition, a congeniality of character ;
but, above all, whether there may be the former or not, an
actual consultation of each other's feelings and interests, and
these in the nicest particulars, with frequent intercourse, seem
to be what make up friendship, or go to produce it. If
a person uniformly consults my feelings, enters so far into
my sympathies, seeks my good, and, notwithstanding faults
and imperfections, seems really to bear and cherish a re
gard for me, I cannot help feeling friendship for him, and
my friendship is the peculiar feeling of love and confidence
which his actings and sentiments towards me excite. If I
act towards him in the same way, cherish the same senti
ments, and exhibit the same conduct, he feels a friendship
for me. The friendship seems to consist in the mutual re
gard, forbearance, and confidence. Was there any peculiar
constitution necessary for this ? Undoubtedly there was.
We enter not upon the explanation of this now : we advert
to it to shew how friendship, or the love implied in it,
comes under the instances of modified love. It is not the
absolute emotion : it is that modified by the peculiar provi
sion in our constitution and circumstances for this more
special love.

Nation and country, in the same way, appeal to our peculiar
love. Patriotism is the consequence. This also belongs to the
modified emotion, or modified instances of the emotion, and
depends likewise upon some peculiar law or arrangement of
our constitution. It is love modified by a cause. It has not
its action absolutely. The peculiarities of this emotion are
very interesting — the whole circumstances connected with it,
and the effects flowing from it, or secured by it, these present
subjects most inviting; but these, and the emotion itself, would

414 THE EMOTIONS.

more properly come under consideration when treating of
patriotism as a virtue.

The love of God, also, it will be seen, is a subject which, in
all its bearings, and viewed as a duty, does not come under
consideration here. We have adverted to the place which it
holds in relation to the emotion generally, and have seen, while
it is an aspect of the absolute emotion, is that emotion height
ened by all the excellencies peculiar to the Divine Being, and
is therefore the supreme love of the heart, is the highest aspect
of the emotion which can be considered, or which the emotion
presents.

We have already spoken of the opposition or antagonism
that exists in the emotions, and we took notice of the circum
stance that this must be characteristic only of the present state
of human nature, and that the antagonist emotions must have
taken effect, or come into operation, consequent upon the fall
of man from his original integrity or perfection. The circum
stance of this direct antagonism, the direct opposition of emotion
to emotion, is worthy of remark, as exhibiting something more
than a peculiar provision by God for the new condition that
had arisen, something like a necessity in the case itself, so that,
•whereas certain emotions were appropriate to a state of perfec
tion, where no moral evil existed, as soon as moral evil did exist,
each several emotion had its opposite, or exhibited its antagonist
state. It was like the shadow of evil coming out of good. It
was like the dark side of a planet relieved against the light of
another which it eclipses. It was like some undeveloped pro
perty in a substance requiring but a cause to bring it into activity.
Bishop Butler puts the case thus : In introducing his sermon
upon " Resentment," he says, " Since perfect goodness in the
Deity is the principle from whence the universe was brought
into being, and by which it is preserved ; and since general
benevolence is the great law of the whole moral creation, it is
a question which immediately occurs, 'Why had man im
planted in him a principle which appears the direct contrary to
benevolence ?' Now, the foot upon which inquiries of this

THE EMOTIONS. 41.3

kind should be treated, is this, — to take human nature as it
is, and the circumstances in which it is placed as they are, and
then consider the correspondence between that nature and these
circumstances, or what course of action and behaviour respecting
those circumstances any particular affection or passion leads us
to. This I mention, to distinguish the matter now before us from
disquisitions of quite another kind, namely, ' Why we are not
made more perfect creatures, or placed in better circumstances ;'
— these being questions which we have not, that I know of, any
thing at all to do with. God Almighty undoubtedly foresaw the
disorders, both natural and moral, which would happen in this
state of things. If upon this we set ourselves to search and ex
amine why He did not prevent them, we shall, I am afraid, be in
danger of running into somewhat worse than impertinent curi
osity. But upon this, to examine how far the nature which
He hath given us hath a respect to those circumstances, such
as they are — how far it leads us to act a proper part in them,
plainly belongs to us : and such inquiries are in many ways
of excellent use. Thus the thing to be considered is not,
' Why we were not made of such a nature, and placed in such
circumstances, as to have no need of so harsh and turbulent
a passion as resentment ;' but, taking our nature and condi
tion as being what they are, ' Why, or for what end, such
a passion was given us.'" The passage we have quoted is
characterized by the usual wisdom and discrimination of the
author ; but it will be seen it seems to be taken for granted,
that we were not made more perfect creatures than we are, and
loere not placed in better circumstances than we actually find
ourselves ; at least it makes no allowance for any other case ;
and the inquiry that Bishop Butler accordingly limits himself
to, and seems to think we have alone to do with, is not, " Why
we were not made of such a nature, and placed in such circum
stances as to have no need of so harsh and turbulent a passion
as resentment ;" but, " taking our nature and condition as being
what they are, ' why or for what end such or such a passion
was given us/" This is too low a view to take, and does not
meet the demands of the case. We were created in a more

416 THE EMOTIONS.

perfect state ; and the question ought to be, Whence this new
character of emotion, whence this adaptation to the new state
of things that had arisen ? We have indeed nothing to do
with the question — Why God permitted evil ? but it is an
interesting question, Why all the benevolent and happy emo
tions had just their direct counterpart, or rather opposite,
when evil did arise ? It may not be possible for us to answer
the question, but it is Xmdoubtedly one of an interesting
nature. It is interesting to inquire, whether it must be so ?
or did God adapt our nature to the new constitution of things ?
The latter is evidently Bishop Butler's view. The object of his
sermon — one of the famous sermons in which Butler's views on
moral questions are set forth — was to settle the nature of re
sentment, and to trace the design of it, shewing that it had a
wise design, and was exactly adapted to our circumstances,
being intended to meet the case of man as exposed to injury,
and given as a safeguard against it. " It is to be considered as a
weapon," he says, "put into our hands against injury, injustice,
and cruelty." Similar is the view presented by most moral
writers. Dr. Reid says : " It is sufficiently evident, upon the
whole, that this sudden or animal resentment is intended by
nature for our defence." Butler not only speaks of sudden re
sentment, but of deliberate resentment, or anger. "It pre
vents," Dr. Reid continues, " mischief by the fear of punish
ment. It is a kind of penal statute, promulgated by nature,
the execution of which is committed to the sufferer." Dugald
Stewart says : " The final cause of instinctive resentment, was
plainly to defend us against sudden violence, (where reason
would come too late to our assistance,) by rousing the power of
mind and body to instant and vigorous exertion." " We are
formed to be malevolent in certain circumstances," says Dr.
Brown, " as in other circumstances we are formed to be bene
volent." " The moral affections," he says, " which lead to the
infliction of evil, are occasionally as necessary as the benevolent
affections." And in reference to the circumstances in which
the world is placed, he asks, " What is it which we may con
ceive to be the plan of the Divine Goodness ? It is that very

THE EMOTIONS. 417

plan which we see at present executed in our moral constitu
tion. We are made capable of a malevolence that may be said
to be virtuous when it operates ; for the terror of injustice that
would otherwise walk, not in darkness, through the world, but
in open light, perpetrating its iniquities without shame or re
morse, and perpetrating them with impunity." In all of these
quotations there seems to be an entire overlooking of the ori
ginal state in which man must have been created : the several
writers do not seem to have thought that this was a matter
which bore in any way upon man's state now ; and their prin
ciples have reference only to the present appearances and emer
gencies of our nature, regard only the provision which God
has made to meet the case of our nature as we now find it, and
of the world as it now is. Butler's inquiry at most is, why we
were not made better than we now are, and placed in better
circumstances, or rather he deprecates such an inquiry at all ;
and the proper point of interest and attention with him is —
taking our nature and condition as being what they are,
what purpose does such and such a passion serve in our
constitution ? This unquestionably is an immediate prac
tical question, and it is as such, undoubtedly, that Butler
proposes it ; but it overlooks the nice point — one of philoso
phical interest at least — how our emotions happened to take
the opposite character, or each to have its counterpart or an
tagonist, as we actually find to be the case, when that event
occurred, which it is an entire solecism in philosophy to overlook,
and which changed the whole aspect of our nature and of our
destinies. It is an absurd as it is a great mistake, to omit all
reference to man's primeval condition in those questions which
now come within the domain of philosophy. It were like
attempting a science of geology without looking at the primeval
conditions of the earth. So far as we know, the laws which
regulate the movements of the heavenly bodies have been undis
turbed since the beginning of time, and therefore the science
of astronomy is unconnected with any questions as to a previous
order of laws affecting the motions of these bodies ; not so with
geology, with the internal history of our earth, and that science

2D

418 THE EMOTIONS.

were altogether defective, if it overlooked the evidences that are
presented of a former state of existence, nay, of the successive
revolutions through which our earth has passed. Equally de
fective is that philosophy which has man for its object, which
takes no account of his primeval state, and the mighty revolu
tion that took place in his nature, when, from a perfect and
sinless, he became a fallen and sinful creature. The whole
aspect and character of philosophy is affected by this radical
defect. This will appear more particularly in those questions
which have regard to the very nature of morality, or virtue, and
of the moral principle. The point on which we suspend our
interest or attention, at present, is the new aspect which the
emotional phenomena presented as soon as moral evil had place
in the universe, or affected our nature. We might even carry
the question up to the case of the angels, and see the same
phenomena under the same modifications in their case, for
their spiritual nature is the same, in all essential particulars, as
our own. We must, indeed, look at the subject abstractly, and
apart from the case either of the angels or of man, except that
it is in our own case that we actually experience those emotions
of a new and antagonistic character, and we know of them in
the angels only by the informations of revelation. The abstract
question is, How, when evil took effect, such a change took place
in the emotions ? we do not mean why a change at all took
place, but why the change from the different emotions to ex
actly their opposite ? What is the philosophy of this ? or if
we cannot give the philosophy of it, let us, at least, mark the
interesting phenomenon. For joy we have the antagonistic
emotion, sorrow ; for confidence, fear ; for love, hate. Why
this ? Can we give any account of it ? Good and evil are not
more directly opposed than are the emotions, respectively, which
belong to the two separate conditions. The antagonism of evil
and good themselves is not uninteresting ; but it does not pre
sent so interesting a question as the same phenomenon in
regard to the emotions. And yet the latter of these may be
somehow connected with the former. The interesting question
that forces itself upon us, or that we cannot help meeting, is,

THE EMOTIONS. 419

Does such antagonism exist in the very nature of things ? is it
of necessity that there should be evil as there is good ? and do
the counterpart emotions exhibit some necessary relation to
those which were primarily existent, and belonged to a state of
moral perfection ? We by no means propound the question as
if it was one that could be answered ; we propound it merely
as one that necessarily arises. Bishop Butler's mind was of so
thoroughly a practical cast, that it would not entertain the
question even in the shape in which he could suppose it put,
namely, Why we were not made more perfect creatures than we
are ? or, " Since perfect goodness in the Deity is the principle
from whence the universe was brought into being, and by
which it is preserved; and since general benevolence is the
great law of the whole moral creation, why man had implanted
in him a principle which appears the direct contrary to bene
volence ?" And yet Bishop Butler admits, " this is a question
that immediately occurs ;" it is one which unavoidably suggests
itself. It is not, indeed, one with which we may have practi
cally to do ; but it is one we cannot help putting. In like
manner, we think it is as inevitable a question, how the
emotions which were all of one kind at first came to exhibit
what Butler describes as " the direct contrary character ;" or,
at least, why emotions the direct contrary to those originally
possessed arose. And this question seems to be connected, as
we have said, with the nature of the antagonism between good
and evil themselves. That \ve can perceive a wise purpose
served by the change does not satisfy the mind. We, at least,
contemplate the antagonism as worthy of our observation. That
antagonism is singularly recognised in the words of the tempter
to our first parents in the garden : " Ye shall be as gods, knowing
good and evil." Good they knew already. Evil was the other
aspect of knowledge, and that they had yet to learn ; and it was
the attribute of God to know it. It could be known by the crea
ture only from experience, and better, the tempter seemed to
think, to incur all the effects of it, than remain ignorant of it.
We but indicate this — we do not dwell upon it. Such, how
ever, are the two hemispheres of knowledge, and, we may add,

420 THE EMOTIONS.

of being also. Is it sufficient to consider our malevolent emo
tions without connecting them with such a view ? All practical
views may rest satisfied with the case as it is, without seeking
any explanation, or connecting it with anything further — any
thing recondite in the principles, or the very nature of things.
But it is by no means adverse to the practical to attempt at
least the speculative solution of any question, carry it up to
the furthest limits of inquiry, and look into the mysterious and
unknown. It is interesting to approach the verge of that un
seen, unknown region, into which all questions of vital moment
stretch. It may be a perilous gaze, but not if we know to
rebuke any farther inquiry, and suspend any farther interest —
if we can say, " hitherto, but no farther." Apart from any such
interest, or the particular source of it, it is but philosophic to
carry our inquiries as far as we can, and a high philosophy will
rest satisfied with nothing short of this. It must approach at
least " the shaded territory," — it must " look into the majesty
of darkness." The matter, then, which we regard as so inter
esting in respect to the emotions, is the transition from the
one set of emotions to another — the nature of that transition,
and the grounds of it — in connexion with the circumstance of
antagonism to which we have adverted. Whence the transi
tion ? Why that antagonism ? From what region did those
opposite emotions spring — did they take effect ? Whence the
new aspect of the emotions, corresponding exactly to the oppo
site state of things that had arisen — every emotion in the new
state suiting its corresponding emotion in the previous state ?
Love, hatred — whence the change ? There can be no doubt,
we think, that the emotional nature is such that good and
evil, presented to it, awakens two sets of emotions, and ex
actly the opposite, according as the evil in any case may
be the opposite of the good. Good has its corresponding
evil in every particular, perhaps. The emotions answering
to the former, accordingly, have their opposite emotions an
swering to the latter. We have seen the opposite, or con
trasted emotions, in every several instance in which we have
considered the emotions hitherto. No doubt, the very nature

THE EMOTIONS. 421

of the emotional capacity supposes the change, corresponding
to the different objects or circumstances appealing to it. It is ac
cording to the attitude of the mind what emotion it will exhibit.

O

Evil, annoyance, suffering, calamity, are not the objects or causes
of joy, delight, cheerfulness, or the circumstances which directly
comport with the emotion of cheerfulness. They rather awaken
sorrow, vexation, melancholy, fretfulness. The objects or sources
of the former are of a pleasant or agreeable nature, having in
them the element neither of moral nor temporal evil, — at least
good preponderating over the evil, in a state in which we find
good and evil so variously blended. Good is the preponderating
element in the former, evil in the latter, and, if not directly
moral evil, at least temporal evil as the effect of moral evil.
All good awakens only the good and happy emotions ; all evil,
the evil or unhappy emotions, or those emotions which are
either unhappiness themselves, or the causes or sources of un-
happiness. It is thus that love and hatred are distinguished.
Being is indeed the proper object of love, and we love being
absolutely. It must be allowed, therefore, that the absolute
emotion, love, or love in its absolute state, has not directly good
for its object, but still its object is good. Being is good ; we
invest being in itself with an attribute of good. It is essentially
good, for it is essentially valuable. It has a value to the mind,
which we cannot divest it of but by annihilation, and we can
not even contemplate annihilation without an utter recoil of
the mind and all its feelings. Still it is not the good of being
as such which awakens the emotion, or is the object of the
emotion — it is being itself. Love is an absolute state of every
moral nature, having no cause, but resting on its object abso
lutely, irrespective of cause. In this absolute character of the
emotion, it has properly no opposite. Hatred must have a
cause for it. In a nature utterly lost to good, indeed, it takes
the shape of hatred to all good — to being itself. Being to such
a nature is evil. Hatred may thus be said to belong to evil as
love belongs to good. Evil, however, must have been first in
supposition, then hatred, whereas love was contemporane
ous with good. But love rests upon more than being : it

422 THE EMOTIONS.

rests upon good being — it peculiarly loves it. The qualities
of such being augment the love. In this aspect of it alone
can love have its contrast in good beings. What is its ob
ject with them ? Evil being. All evil is hateful to them, but
more properly all evil being, for evil is but a quality, and
must have being in which to reside. The quality is rather
the object of disapprobation, aversion, moral dislike. The
hatred of being is distinct from this : it is called out by the
contemplation of qualities, but itself rests upon being, not
upon qualities of being. The operation of hatred in such na
tures is limited to moral evil, and that as existing in being,
or to being in which moral evil exists or exhibits itself; and
this is perhaps the only contrasted emotion which such natures
are susceptible of, or exemplify. Such natures do not exist
within the sphere of evil, and have no experience of it. Doubt
less they are cognizant of the revolt of that portion of their
own number which fell from their original estate, and they are
not ignorant of our destinies ; but it would be rash to say that
they were capable of all the emotions which actuate those who
are themselves placed within the sphere of evil. We cannot
contemplate them as affected with sorrow, for example, or
moved to hatred in general, or except when the revolt against
that Being whom they love and serve, is in some way the object
of their thoughts, or is brought before their attention. They
can know nothing of disappointment, vexation, melancholy.
The contrasted emotions are unknown to them. Shall we say
they are even influenced by hatred ? Such natures, however,
as exist within the sphere of evil, and which are themselves
evil, though not utterly lost to good, exhibit all the contrasted
emotions, and hatred in all its forms ; only hatred has not
reached that malignity which a nature utterly abandoned
manifests : it does not yet, perhaps, hate being as such. Nay,
it is capable to a certain extent of hating moral evil, which
an utterly lost nature cannot do. The emotion of hatred,
however, has ample enough scope as regards being, with
out supposing being itself — or all being — the object of it in
such natures. And just the opposite of those qualities that

THE EMOTIONS. 423

augment love, awaken hatred. The excellencies of character
which intensify the former have their contrasted properties
which awaken the latter. We love the virtuous qualities,
or the being in whom they reside : we hate the vicious ;
and the emotion is too apt to terminate upon the being ex
hibiting them, or in whom they dwell. Take any object
of love, and you will find its corresponding object of hatred.
We except from this remark the case of the modified exer
cises of the emotion, which are instincts of our nature, and
which are implanted for peculiar purposes. In all the un
modified exemplifications of the emotion, we have the contrast
we have pointed at. Let any virtue adorn the character of an
individual, shall we not find the opposite vice in another ?
We love those noble exhibitions of integrity, of honour, of
generosity, of patriotism, which history records, or which ob
servation furnishes : we hate those cases of dishonesty, of selfish
and contracted spirit, with which the world abounds, and which
the history of the world so plentifully illustrates. All narrow
ness, all selfishness, all illiberality of sentiment and of conduct,
all ungenerous, or worse, actions, necessarily beget a degree of
hatred towards those who are capable of them. And vice,
profligacy, moral evil, in every shape, — must not these be the
object of our aversion, and draw forth our hatred, even to
wards those who are the subjects of such qualities, or exhibit
such tendencies ?

While love and hatred terminate on being, or have properly
being for their object ; they have also their exciting cause in
the qualities of being. Hatred must always have its source
there ; for it is not absolute, and must have a cause. Hatred
came indeed with evil, and the more evil a nature, hatred
becomes inwrought with its very being ; still, it must always
have some exciting cause. Love, on the other hand, may be
absolute ; but it, too, may have its exciting causes in the quali
ties of being — we mean a special love. We have already
adverted to this, and we repeat the observation, that we may
point out what seems to be a very natural explanation of the
phenomenon. We are formed to love that which gives us

4'24 THE EMOTIONS.

pleasure, or with which our pleasure, or gratification, is in any
way associated. The feeling of pleasure, or the emotion of
delight, excited, or ministered to — love naturally follows, has an
immediate relation to the former. Much of this goes into the
modified aspects of love, but is not all their explanation.
Stronger love and stronger hatred, and special love and special
hatred, however, have their explanation here. Hatred, though
one, takes a variety of character from these specially exciting
or operating causes. Love, though absolute, has also this
varying tinge from its special provocatives. The kind of
quality exciting our admiration, or awakening our pleasure,
gives an impress to our love. The same with hatred. So in
timately do our feelings meet and blend in their operation —
preserving their original character even while they take their
character in part from the feelings which mix with them — like
the waters of a stream coloured by the tributaries that flow
into it, or the ingredients that mingle with it.

Anger, indignation, resentment, envy, revenge, may be re
garded as modifications of hatred, or somewhat akin to it.
Distinctive characteristics may be marked in each of these, but
they all partake more or less of the emotion of hatred ; they
are all contrasted with love. Hatred blends in each of them.
Love retires for the moment, and what can be left but hatred ?
I am indignant at some injury inflicted, at some act of moral
wrong, — can the person perpetrating the wrong, or inflicting the
injury, be for the time the object of love ? and can we separate
between hatred and indignation ? The same with anger, re
sentment, revenge, envy. That there is more than hatred is
obvious ; and that the hatred but glances, as it were, in the
emotion, is allowed, but that there is hatred, we think, must
be admitted. Hatred for the time actuates, reigns, has posses
sion of the heart. Indignation is just hatred, or exhibits just
hatred. Anger, resentment, revenge, frequently unjust hatred;
the last always undue hatred, or hatred improperly exercised.
Envy is always improper, and the hatred that mingles in it
uncalled for, unjustifiable. If I am entitled to be indignant, I
am entitled so far to hate, or hatred must necessarily mingle in

THE EMOTIONS. 425

ray indignation. If my anger or resentment is just, my hatred
is just: but revenge cannot be just to the extent that it is un
due, and that the expression which revenge takes for itself is
improper. Envy can, in no way, and to no extent, be vindi
cated. We by no means identify these emotions with hatred ;
but something of hatred mingles in all of them, and they stand
in the same relation as hatred to the original emotions of our
nature, and especially to the emotion of love. They contrast
with love as hatred does. They are incident only to a state of
evil : they belong to such a state. Hatred so far characterizing
them, they have been called the malevolent passions or affec
tions. Most moral writers, however, as in the case of all the
antagonist emotions, have failed to recognise their origin, as
traceable to a state of moral evil. They have, for the most
part, been contented to regard our present condition as the
only condition of our race, in which we ever existed, or
could be supposed ever to exist ; and our passions or emo
tions they have considered as just belonging to our nature;
they do not inquire how that nature came to be vitiated.
Dugald Stewart, indeed, speaking of our malevolent affec
tions, "hatred, jealousy, envy, revenge, misanthropy," says,
" It may be doubted if there be any principle of this kind
implanted by nature in the mind, excepting the principle of
resentment, the others being grafted upon this stock by our
erroneous opinions and criminal habits." He allows at least
resentment to have been implanted in our nature, and he gives
no opinion about the origin of our erroneous opinions and
criminal habits, as if these were a mere matter of accident.
Whence these opinions and habits ? If these are the cause of
our malevolent affections, for the most part, what was the cause
of them ? Surely the subject was not one to be dismissed in
such a summary way. Dr. Brown, again, justifies, and even
sees a wise and benevolent provision in our malevolent affec
tions, never questioning for a moment but that they were
original emotions, and accounting for the worst of them only
by good running to excess. " The last desire," he says, " in
our arrangement that we are next to consider, may seem,

426 THE EMOTIONS.

indeed, at first, to be inconsistent with these delightful feelings
of social regard, the importance of which I have repeatedly
endeavoured to illustrate to you, though to those who have felt
them, as you all must have felt them, they do not require any
argument to prove their importance. The desire which still
remains to be noticed, is our desire of evil to others, a desire
that bears the same relation to hatred in all its forms, which
the desire of happiness to others bears to all the diversities of
love. It is an element of the complex affection, not the mere
hatred itself, as the desire of diffusing happiness is only an
element of the complex affection, which is usually termed love."
Dr. Brown thus makes hatred a complex affection, including
the desire of evil to its object, as he made love a complex
affection, including the desire of good to its object. We
think both hatred and love are simple emotions ; but love
seeks the good of its object, and hatred its evil ; and while
all the forms of love take different directions of active bene
volence, hatred mingles in all the emotions of active male
volence, if it does not prompt them. But Dr. Brown continues :
" I have already, in treating of the simple modifications of
hatred itself, anticipated the remarks which it might otherwise
have been necessary to offer now, on the importance to the
happiness of society of this class of our affections, while society
presents any temptations to violence or fraud, that are kept in
awe by individual and general resentment, and that without
these guards which protect the innocent, would lay waste all
that beautiful expanse of security and happiness which forms
the social world, making a desert of nature, and converting the
whole race of mankind into fearful and ferocious savages,
worthy only of inhabiting such a wilderness. As the whole
system of things is at present constituted, in other respects,
therefore, it is not of less importance that man should be sus
ceptible of feelings of malevolence on certain occasions, than
that he should be susceptible of benevolence in the general con
cerns of life ; and man accordingly is endowed with the suscep
tibility of both. Like our other emotions, however," Dr. Brown
adds, "our malevolent wishes, important as they truly are,

THE EMOTIONS. 427

and relatively good as a part of our general constitution, may,
as we know too well, be productive of evil when misdirected."
Now it is obvious, from the whole tenor of this passage,
that Dr. Brown regards the present system of things as one
which was adopted apart from any such event as man's
apostasy, and in which, being the system adopted, it be
hoved to provide such safeguards in our constitution as would
prevent the evil effects proceeding from principles or parts
of our constitution which are not accounted for at all.
These are allowed to exist : there is no attempt to account
for them, but certain provisions may be discovered in our
malevolent affections by which good is secured, and this is
the whole account of our moral constitution which a certain
class of writers give. This, we maintain, is very unphilosophic,
as well as coming far short of the real necessities of the case.
This is not the point of view from which to regard our moral
constitution, and the circumstances in which we find ourselves
placed. We should take into account our original condition :
we should look at the change which has passed over our nature,
and we may then admire the peculiar modification of our emo
tions, which made them what they must be, or what it was
necessary they should become, in the altered condition that had
arisen. Therefore, we speak of our original and our antagonist
emotions : in the present instance of our benevolent and male
volent emotions, as we before had our happy and unhappy
emotions. The prior state of man is a postulate in all moral
questions. That good may be educed out of these counterpart
emotions is not doubted ; but the first wonder is, why these
counterpart emotions at all ? Why this antagonistic state to
one of good ? This is the question that suggests itself on the
very threshold of all moral discussion. Moralists have, for the
most part, shut their eyes to it, or contented themselves with
the most indirect allusions to, and awkward solutions, or rather
evasions, of, the question altogether. We recognise the previ
ous and original state : we mark the change which has taken
place — we refer the one set of our emotions to the one, the
other to the other condition ; and no system of compensation

428 THE EMOTIONS.

merely, or balancing of opposites in our constitution, is suffi
cient to account for the phenomena as observed, or explain
what is so obviously supposed or implied, namely, a prior and
a present state of our race, the former good, the latter evil,
the former one of moral perfection, the latter one of moral
degeneracy.

In what are called our malevolent affections, then, we recog
nise a desire of evil to the objects of them, that desire greater or
less according as the emotion or affection is more or less strong
at different times, or the affections may be more or less malevo
lent. Indignation may be stronger at one time than at another ;
envy or revenge is a more malevolent affection than indigna
tion. Stewart hesitates about putting resentment among the
malevolent affections : in the same way he might hesitate about
indignation. But, undoubtedly, a certain malevolent wish is
found in each of these: hatred, as we have said, glances in
them at their object. We do not say it may not be j ustifiable,
but, at all events, it is there. It is in jealousy, envy, revenge,
that we see that hatred, or that malevolence, in its worst
character, and in its evil exercise.

Indignation may have either personal injury or general moral
wrong for its object or exciting cause. Resentment is confined
to the former, is felt only on the occasion of personal wrong or
injury. Butler confounds the two. He speaks of indignation
and resentment reciprocally, or as synonymous. Stewart, again,
seems inclined to limit the term indignation to the feeling ex
perienced at the wrongs or injuries of others, and resentment
to that awakened by injury or injustice done to ourselves.
Resentment seems thus properly limited, but indignation, it
appears to us, may be felt in either case, and the term is pro
perly applied in both. We resent that which affects ourselves :
we are indignant at that which affects whether ourselves or
others. There is a clear distinction, not only in the use of the
terms, but in the feeling experienced, or denoted by each. It
is to confound the two, to use them indiscriminately, or to re
gard the emotions as one. Even when the emotions have injury
done to ourselves as their object, they seem to be somewhat

THE EMOTIONS. 429

different : they undoubtedly are different. Stewart says, " We
are so formed that the injustice offered to others, as well as to
ourselves, awakens our resentment against the aggressor, and
prompts us to take part in the redress of their grievances. In
this case the emotion is more properly denoted in our language
by the word indignation; but, as Butler has remarked, our
principle of action is in both cases fundamentally the same ;
an aversion or displeasure at injustice and cruelty, which in
terests us in the punishment of those by whom they have been
exhibited." We do not think this view is warranted by the
nature of the feelings of which the two terms are expressive.
The exciting cause in both cases may be the same — injury done
by another ; but the feelings differ according as the injury
affects ourselves or others, and even when it affects ourselves,
our indignation seems one kind of emotion, resentment a dif
ferent one. Indignation, in this latter case, has more regard
to what is moral in the action than resentment ; resentment
has more regard to the injury suffered, contemplates it more,
while what is moral in the action, or in the actor, is hardly
looked at, or is not so much considered or thought of. Stewart
says, — " Kesentment, when restrained within due bounds, seems
to be rather a sentiment of hatred against vice than an affection
of ill-will against any of our fellow-creatures ; and, on this
account, I am somewhat doubtful whether I have not followed
Dr. Reid too closely in characterizing resentment, considered
as an original part of the constitution of man, by the epithet of
malevolent." This remark would have more properly applied
to indignation, had Dr. Reid included it among the malevolent
affections, which he does not seem to have done. Resentment
is the only term which he employs, and he does not seem to
speak of indignation. His description of the former indicates
in what sense he understood it : — " Nature disposes us, when
we are hurt, to resist and retaliate. Besides the bodily pain
occasioned by the hurt, the mind is ruffled, and a desire raised
to retaliate upon the author of the hurt or injury. This, in
general, is what we call anger or resentment." This is regard
ing the injury inflicted as a physical one, and the whole of the

430 THE EMOTIONS.

remarks upon the emotion have regard to it in this aspect.
But we may resent an affront as well as a bodily hurt or injury
— a moral injury as well as a physical. We may resent injury
done to our character, to our reputation, to our feelings. In
dignation would be at the party offering the injury, or affront,
or wound ; resentment is for the injury, or affront, or wound.
Indignation regards the state of mind, or feeling towards us,
of the party inflicting the wrong ; resentment regards the wrong
itself. Indignation respects the morality of an action ; resent
ment respects the effect or effects of it, although indignation
may be the stronger as the effects are greater. We may thus
properly demur to the propriety of regarding indignation as
one of the malevolent emotions. If the view we have taken of
it and resentment respectively be just, there can be no hesitation
about the latter ; but if even in the former there mingle to
any extent the desire of evil to the object of the emotion, as
unquestionably there does, then there can be no propriety in
excluding it from the same class of affections, merely because
there is more regard in the emotion to the morality of the
action, or the motive of the actor. It is the desire of evil to
its object which renders an emotion malevolent. The term
malevolent, indeed, is apt to be taken in a bad sense, and often
has the signification of malicious, — indeed, such is its common
acceptation ; but, in its philosophical acceptation, it may be
understood in no other sense than as wishing evil to the object
of an emotion, let it be indignation, resentment, revenge, or
merely instantaneous anger. Perhaps the classification is not a
happy one, as it includes under one name a virtuous indigna
tion and justifiable resentment with the less worthy passions
or emotions, from the meanest envy to the fellest revenge. A
classification which would confound feelings so different, may
well be regarded with distrust ; but still the emotions do all
agree in one common feeling, of desire of evil to their object.
The justifiableness or unjustifiableness of that desire, or the
length of time it may endure, or the particular aspect it may
take, does not alter the fact of the desire itself, and of its being
one of the distinguishing circumstances of the emotion. We

THE EMOTIONS. 431

have referred them all to that class of emotions which derive
their character from the absence of love, or from a state of
mind which is the opposite of love. Love, we have said, retires
for a time — it is not felt — it does not distinguish the mind —
and what can be present but hatred, or a feeling very much
akin to it ? Love, present and active, cannot consist with any
one of those emotions to which we are referring. Love with
draws that these may reign, or the sudden invasion of these
may displace love from the heart. There are the two opposite
states, love, and any one of these emotions. We have been so
constituted as to be capable of both, or our moral nature has
undergone such a change, that where love had its seat, any one
of these emotions may exist by turns, and may have even the
sole sway or dominancy. Indignation may consist with an
innocent state, and is perhaps felt by holy intelligences against
evil, and the abettors of it ; but how far this may be allowed
to disturb those pure intelligences, or how this feeling may
consist in the Divine Being himself with an unruffled calm,
and with a nature ivhich is emphatically love, and can only
feel anger at evil, it is difficult to say. With ourselves, we
feel the presence of the emotion, while it lasts, to be incon
sistent with the exercise or feeling of love. To be indignant
with any one, is for the time not to regard that individual
ivith love. There is hatred for the moment, let that indi
vidual at other times be ever so much the object of love.
The presence of the malevolent feeling is more directly ob
served in anger — still more in resentment — still more in re
venge; and envy and jealousy would rather, undoubtedly, see
evil to their object than that they themselves should be baulked
of the good they covet or desire, or of which they dread the
dispossession or the loss. Indignation wishes evil to its object :
Kesentment seeks it. A momentary desire of evil to its object
blends in indignation ; is identified with it ; seems inseparable
from it. We conceive a wrong done ; can we wish well to the
party whom we conceive guilty of the wrong, or know to be
the actual aggressor, or inflicter of the injury? It maybe
a momentary feeling, and may be corrected by other feelings,

432 THE EMOTIONS.

or by the considerations of reason, that come in to modify all
our emotions ; or if we were to ask ourselves what evil we would
wish, we may, indeed, be at a loss to say : we would not be
very well able to say what kind of evil we would inflict, if we
had the power, were the means of inflicting it as instantane
ously in our hands, as the indignation is in our hearts ; but
that the desire of inflicting it, or of its being inflicted, is ex
perienced, can hardly be doubted. When Brutus rose in
patriotic indignation against his very benefactor, but against
the enslaver of Rome, he withheld not his own hand from the
act which for a little while at least preserved to his country
her ancient freedom : but only for a little while ; for Rome
was willing to be enslaved when she crouched to the Caesars.
The indignation of the patriot, or of the friend of liberty in
every form, does not shrink from inflicting suffering on the
tyrant who has made so many suffer, and would gladly see
some retribution upon those who have been the oppressors of
their fellows. The invocations of indignant humanity have
always been for vengeance on the oppressor. Nor is it possible
to see wrong done without wishing it returned upon the per
petrator, or the perpetrator in some measure overtaken with
punishment. It cannot be otherwise. It is the very object of
the emotion to secure the punishment of injury, or to be itself,
without the need of punishment, the vindicator of the helpless,
and a protection against personal wrong and suffering. It is
an emotion adapted to a system in which evil exists, that evil
may not be unlimited, but have its restraints — that injury may
not rim riot — that high-handed injustice and tyranny may
have their checks, and each one may be the defender of himself,
and the protector of others. It is an unseen guardian of the
right, and of happiness, whether individual or social. It is on
the side of good. It is the unrepealed statute in favour of
virtue which the Fall has not obliterated, and which became
indignation when the approbation of what was good, or the
perception of what was right, suffered infraction. It is the
judge within the breast ; it is that judge recording his decisions,
and making proclamation against all aggression, and wrong,

THE EMOTIONS. 433

and injustice. It is God's voice in behalf of the sufferer, making
every man his brother's keeper. It is the approbation of right
in a decision which takes the form of a feeling of the heart as
well as a dictate or perception of the understanding. It is the
loud outcry which nature makes, — a nature which, permitted to
survive the wrecks of the apostacy,or the Fall, presents something
of its original integrity, and now stands up for all good against
evil, making itself heard when it can do nothing more, urging
the law of right when power or violence would overbear it, or
injustice would deprive it of its own. It anticipates judgment ;
it goes before punishment. It is the man within whom we
dare not rouse, whose wrath we foresee and avoid. It is our
own decision against aggression already recorded for the benefit
of others, that they may not provoke our displeasure as we
would not incur theirs. All this has been ascribed to resent
ment. But resentment, as we have seen, is rather the personal
emotion, and respects always the injury done rather than the
motive of the agent doing it, or the morality of the action.
Indignation is more general ; it is felt at wrong whether per
petrated against ourselves or others ; and it is the morality of
the action that is regarded, rather than the action itself. Now,
while resentment, undoubtedly, operates so as to prevent injury
in the same way as indignation, the latter is far more influen
tial ; for resentment is only the feeling of the person injured,
while indignation is the feeling of society, or of impartial
spectators, as well as of the individual more immediately con
cerned ; and that must always have a greater effect than where
the sense of personal wrong and suffering may be conceived
directly to operate, where it is the judgment or feeling regard
ing the action, rather than the mere irritation or feeling
produced by its effects. We are always more influenced by the
judgment respecting the morality of an action, than by that
regarding the action itself, or its effects. We feel the one to
be the opinion regarding ourselves, the other to be that re
garding what is beyond ourselves, what may not be a part of
us at all, if we cannot condemn ourselves in respect to our in
tention or motives. An action is ours as it is dictated by a

2 E

434 THE EMOTIONS.

motive, and according to the nature of the motive will be the
nature of the action. When a judgment is pronounced, then,
upon our action, it is then that we feel ; it is then that we our
selves are called up for judgment ; but when the effects of the
action merely are regarded, it is not we who are arraigned but
the action, and though the action may be resented, we are not
punished. There may be indignation in resentment, it may
sometimes blend with it ; but it is not resentment itself that
will secure the effects of punishment. We resent suffering-,
we punish evil. Resentment fails of its effect by having so
exclusive a regard to the injury suffered, looking to it, taking
vengeance for it. It is where the morality of an action alone
is considered that a decision pronounced upon it, either in the
way of a feeling which it awakens, or by the punishment to
which it prompts, that the decision, whether in the feeling or
punishment, is regarded. Now, it cannot be doubted, that
resentment takes but little account of the morality of an action ;
and it is when along with the resentment there is indignation,
that the resentment, or its expression, has any effect. Indig
nation may be too strong a term for the feeling in many cases
where there is resentment ; but disapproval is the same, in
such cases, as indignation in those cases where the ground of
disapproval is enough to awaken indignation. Moral disap
proval, or displeasure, with the motive of the action in view,
is always the reason why we feel sorrow for an action, and why
the wrong retaliated, or the punishment inflicted, is efficacious.
Eesentment is otherwise mere revenge. Revenge, indeed, is
but strong resentment. Resentment is revenge in but a miti
gated degree. It is when indignation and resentment are
combined, or when it is indignation that punishes or resents,
that the influence of retaliation in any case is felt ; it is then
felt to be not mere retaliation, but a proper return for injury
inflicted. But the indignation itself operates where there is
no actual return of injury, but merely the indignation which
any action may awaken. This is even stronger than punish
ment, more influential in checking wrong. Punishment, as
suffering, may be little cared for, and it is the displeasure or

THE EMOTIONS. 435

disapprobation of our fellows that \ve really feel. What makes
suffering punishment is that very disapprobation : it is the
relation of suffering to wrong, and to the estimate of that
wrong. It is the evil of an action written in its punishment.
Otherwise it would be mere suffering : it is an action called up
in suffering that makes it punishment : in other words, it is
suffering for what is justly pronounced an evil action. The
disapprobation or condemnation of the action, therefore, is the
main part of punishment, and the fear of that, and not the
dread of mere suffering, is what operates so powerfully in re
straining from evil. The former will be found by far the more
influential feeling. Both may come to be disregarded, but while
any moral feeling remains at all, the former is the stronger ;
and where this is not so, where all moral feeling is blunted, it
will come to be a balance in every case, when a wrong action is
about to be committed, between the physical benefits that are
contemplated, and the physical sufferings that may accrue from,
or may attend upon the action, in the way of punishment. It is
to be remarked, too, that indignation consequent upon an action
is the feeling not only of the individual suffering from that
action, but of all who are spectators of it, or who may come
to be acquainted with it ; resentment, that of the individual
suffering, unless we take resentment in the wider sense of in
dignation, as seems to be done by Butler and by Stewart.
Indignation is the resentment of society as well as of the party
more immediately concerned — resentment in the feelings, may
hap in action. And if the condemnation of an action is its
punishment, how is the punishment increased, multiplied so to
speak, when the indignation not of an individual only, but of
multitudes, is what is felt, or is what is apprehended ! Indig
nation against wrong, then, or the inflicter of wrong, is truly
the avenger and safeguard of society : it is the moral estimate
of an action that is its reprover, and the restraint upon its
commission — our own moral estimate, and the estimate of others,
the latter often where the former would not be enough. The
tribunal which this estimate erects prevents, by the appeals
which the mind itself is constantly making to it, a thousand

436 THE EMOTIONS.

actions which would otherwise be perpetrated without restraint,
and without fear. And the very parties who are kept in check
by such a tribunal, are themselves part of the court which
others are fearing. They are capable of the very indignation
which they apprehend. They themselves are a part of the
universal court of appeal ; and not only the living sit in judg
ment in that court, but all who have lived, or shall yet live.
The universal conscience of mankind is appealed to, and their
disapprobation is supposed. It is the most august tribunal,
and the most solemn that can sit, until that in which, while
there will be one presiding Judge, the universe will also pro
nounce sentence. It is the court of conscience, — a court which
may be extended from one's own individual sense of right and
wrong to the sense of every moral being. It is not needing to
carry its sentence into execution — its sentence is enough. The
fasces borne by the Koman lictors prevented, perhaps, many an
infringement of those laws whose combined strength, and whose
sentence they typified. Far more influential is the silent prin
ciple of which we are speaking, anticipating judgment, and
making all moral beings the judges.

The relation which anger bears to this emotion, is that of an
element in a more complex state or feeling. Anger is a part of
indignation ; but in indignation, there is the moral element
which is not in anger. Indignation is anger excited by a moral
cause. Anger may not necessarily regard the morality of an
action, — may be produced irrespective of that. The injury or
suffering experienced may awaken anger, without the motive
being taken into account which led to the infliction of the injury,
or which was in the action inflicting it. In this it is like resent
ment, but anger may be felt for injuries inflicted on others, and
is a part of the indignation then experienced, if we not merely
contemplate the injury, but the motive or morality of the action
producing it — is the sole feeling, when we confine our regards
to the injury. It is, with respect to injuries inflicted on others,
what resentment is in respect to injuries inflicted on ourselves ;
or at least it contemplates the same object, the mere injury
done. Resentment is not only anger, but is anger seeking the

THE EMOTIONS. 437

return of the injury upon the person inflicting it. In this, we
have said, it is mitigated revenge. Auger mingles in all these
— is a part of them all — of indignation, resentment, revenge —
and yet it is a feeling by itself, and may be considered apart
from the more complex feelings in which it mingles. All our
emotions are ultimately simple ; and though we may speak of
a complex emotion, and of elements mingling in them or con
stituting them, there is an ultimate or resultant feeling which
is simple, is itself elementary, and deserves and receives an ap
propriate name. It is thus with what, in one point of view, may
be called the complex feeling of indignation — it is thus with
resentment — it is thus with revenge. There is an ultimate feel
ing peculiar in each case (unless we regard revenge as just
stronger resentment} which is simple, and is itself indignation,
is itself resentment, is itself revenge. Revenge, even considered
as but a stronger feeling than resentment, takes a peculiarity
which appropriates to itself its own name, and may therefore be
said to be revenge, and not resentment. It is thus, too, that anger
takes a character apart from the feelings in which it mingles —
is by itself — is anger — and is not indignation, is not resentment,
is not revenge. All the emotions are thus separable, however
they may blend, and ultimately we perceive, or are conscious of,
an emotion, which is properly called by one name, and no other.
Anger, simply, also operates in protecting us from injury,
and as a general safeguard in society. We dread the anger of
others, while we may not altogether excite their indignation.
We may often provoke anger without calling forth indignation.
In the lesser actions of life this is often the case. The provo
cation may not amount to a cause to awaken indignation, but
it is sufficient to produce anger. When there is nothing moral
in the action — when it is merely against us, opposed to our
interests or our feelings, without involving any moral blame,
or at most the blame that we attach to carelessness or inatten
tion, the emotion produced is anger. Butler speaks of anger
and sudden resentment as one ; and what Butler calls sudden
resentment, Dr. Reid calls animal resentment, as an emotion
shared with the lower creation. We question the propriety of

438 THE EMOTIONS.

this term, for we would rather be inclined to suppose that there
is something in the lower animals frequently akin to reason,
than to suppose that any of the emotions in man are simply
animal, or the effect of a blind irrational impulse. The
lower creation undoubtedly frequently exhibits anger where
there is no provocation ; and the roar that may wake the
forest, may be nothing more than the effect of a blind un
reasoning instinct. And yet who knows what wrong, or what
challenge, the inhabitant of the desert may be proclaiming,
when its voice fills the wilderness, and makes every lesser beast
of prey hasten to its den ? It is always unsafe to reason
from the lower creation to our nature, for what portion of
reason they may be imbued with it is impossible for us to say.
We may safely affirm that no emotion of the human mind can
arise without a cause in a conception of some kind. The seat
of the emotions is reached through the intellect. A conception
always accompanies a feeling, and is the immediate cause or
occasion of it. In the most absolute emotion we possess, there
is the conception of being, and of the value of being. We do
not say that is the cause of the emotion, but it is at least prior
to it. The emotions belong to a department distinct from the
intellect, and there must be a spring in themselves, or in the
emotional nature ; but still, as the immediate occasion of the
emotion, some conception is necessary, otherwise our emotions
would have no object. And this may explain the connexion
between truth and a right state of the emotions, and the rela
tion which these reciprocally bear to each other. Truth may
be necessary to the right emotions, but the emotional nature
must be itself right before truth can have its effect. Without
this, truth may awaken the very opposite emotion from what
it ought. A conception is always prior to any emotion, but
the most false conceptions may be entertained, or truth may
not be rightly perceived, just from the influence which the
emotions, or a state of the emotional nature, may have upon
the intellect. What is necessary to our present purpose is,
that in the blindest emotion, there must be some conception
which is its cause or its origin. It is owing to the very

THE EMOTIONS. 439

derangement of our moral nature, that we cannot always say
what is the ground of our anger, or the cause of any of our
emotions. Why is anger sudden ? Why does it seem to be a
mere animal impulse or feeling ? Because of the very derange
ment to which we have adverted. In that derangement we
can hardly distinguish sometimes the cause of our emotions or
feelings. We might in vain seek for it. The immediate cause
we will for the most part be able to trace, but its connexions,
or relations, to previous causes, may be past our reckoning ;
and yet these, too, are not always so undistinguishable or
imtraceable as we may suppose. Is sudden anger awakened ?
Is it without a cause ? Does it appear a mere animal impulse ?
We have only to look a little more narrowly into the circum
stances, to perceive a conception of injury of some kind. Even
an untoward accident or circumstance begets the conception of
injury. That conception takes possession of us in spite of our
selves. We animate even inanimate objects, and we conceive
them capable of doing us wrong. Or this, perhaps, is not so
much the state of mind as some vague, undefined, impression of
a kind of fate or destiny attending every misfortune or chance
that befalls us ; and the idea of fate or destiny will always be
found to be that of some being, and that a spiritual being,
powerful for good or evil. In those cases, therefore, where
injury comes from inanimate objects, we either animate these
objects, or we conceive an agency present in them, of which
they are only the instrumentality. Both Keid and Stewart
incline to the view that we have a momentary belief that the
object is alive. We wreak our vengeance upon it in conse
quence. We suppose for a moment that it has life and intelli
gence, and that it designed us wrong. So active, indeed, are
our imaginations in ascribing life to inanimate objects, and in
endowing them even with qualities proper only to rational
natures. Dr. Keid supposes that this is so much a tendency
of our natures, that it is not till reason corrects the tendency,
as individuals advance in years, and nations advance from
rudeness to civilisation, that we do not really believe inanimate
objects to be endowed with life and intelligence ; and it is by a

440 THE EMOTIONS.

momentary relapse into the belief of earlier years, or of a ruder
state, that we ascribe life and even intention to the inanimate
objects by which we are injured. " I agree with Dr. Keid,"
says Stewart, " in thinking, that, unless we had such a belief,
our conduct could not possibly be what it frequently is, and
that it is not till this momentary belief is at an end that our
conduct appears to ourselves to be absurd and ludicrous."
There is indeed something very like this momentary belief — but
may there not be something more than this, and not merely
a relapse into the belief of a period of infancy, or of a ruder
age, but the actual belief of a hidden agency in the inanimate
object ? and our emotion is at that agency, that unseen power,
that untoward luck, of which some unfriendly spirit is the cause
or principle. We rather think this is the explanation of those
apparent caprices of temper, that anger that we feel even at in
animate objects, and which, when the momentary rage has spent
itself, appears so foolish or ludicrous. Accordingly, we do not
merely wreak our momentary vengeance against the object ; we
blame our fate ; we think of some luck, or chance ; we have the
idea that some hostile agency is at work, or has sought our
injury. But is not this owing to a wrong state of the emotions ?
Is it not a quickness and irascibleness of temper, or impa
tience of contradiction, in which we arraign the Providence
that guides the minutest event, but arraign that in the infidel,
or almost atheistical, spirit, which is not separate even from the
Christian, and from the best of Christians, in whom the natural
tendencies of the mind are not wholly subdued ? We forget
the agency that is present in the minutest event, and think of
some other which we dare impugn, and, like Jonah, we do well
to be angry. But whatever the cause ; that even inanimate
objects excite our anger as they may be the objects even of our
hatred, no one can question. It is not the child only that
wreaks its vengeance upon these objects, and that will cry for
very vexation when it is baulked of its puny revenge ; but
grown man will often indulge in like freaks, and we may break
the instrument in pieces that has occasioned us suffering, or
that has caused a little annoyance. Much more is the emotion

THE EMOTIONS. 441

not objectless, though sudden, when it is a rational agent that
produces our anger ; the suddenness of the emotion does not at
all infer that it is a mere blind impulse, a mere animal resent
ment. There is a conception of injury in the most sudden
passion or anger. Butler makes a distinction between injury
and harm in the case of sudden anger, and makes injury what
excites resentment, and harm merely what produces anger.
"Sudden anger," he says, "is raised by, and was chiefly in
tended to prevent or remedy mere harm, distinct from injury."
That anger has not the same regard to the motive in the case
of any injury inflicted, or harm sustained, as resentment, taking
resentment, as Butler does, in the sense of indignation, is true ;
but there cannot but be some regard, also, to the cause of the
suffering, call it harm or injury ; and without perceiving any
thing very marked in the motive of the actor, or having distinct
regard to that at all, still, a conception of blameworthiness of
some sort in the agent causing the harm, is entertained in every
case of anger. The motive is not so palpably a bad one as to
produce indignation, still some blame is attached to the agent,
and till that conception is corrected, if no blame does exist,
there is anger. In resentment, in the same way, there is not
the same regard to the motive of the actor, or to the nature of
the action, as in indignation ; but there must be some regard
to these. When we speak of indignation having regard to the
mind or feeling of the actor towards us, and resentment to the
wrong inflicted rather than to the motive of the party inflicting
it, we mean chiefly regard to these ; for it would be as incor
rect to separate from indignation all regard to the wrong
sustained, and to say the feeling had regard only to the pro
ducer of the injury, as to say that resentment had regard only
to the former and none to the latter. We may notice the
chief elements in both emotions without regarding them as
single or alone in them. Even sudden anger, then, is founded
upon a conception of injury to some extent. We never regard
the actor or agent as altogether blameless. When we come to
do so, all anger, all resentment, ceases. In the case of those
who retain anger, even when it has been shewn that there was

442 THE EMOTIONS.

no blameworthiness on the part of the agent, in the injury or
suffering inflicted, that there was not even carelessness any more
than malicious motive ; it is because some thought of these still
remains, and, perhaps, the mind may be unwilling to be con
vinced that no injury was intended, or that there was no
culpable negligence. Still, in anger and resentment as distinct
from indignation, there is more regard to the injury inflicted
than to the inflicter ; the mind dwells upon the one more than
the other ; in the case of indignation, it is possible that the
malice or wicked motive of the inflicter of the injury may be so
much the object of attention or exclusive regard, as to prevent
almost any feeling of the injury : all our feeling is that of con
tempt, or pity, or indignation towards the injurer. Any strong
emotion has often the effect of rendering the mind insensible
even to suffering, or to any other object of interest or attention.
The mind may be so absorbed again by the pain or injury sus
tained, or endured, that it is only a general regard at all that is
had to the motive that inflicted it: we conceive only an injury
meant, and we feel that injury in all its poignancy. Whenever
the mind rests upon the motive and the party cherishing it, on
the actor and the state of mind or feeling by which he is actuated,
the sense of indignation is awakened in all its strength. It will
easily be seen, then, how all of these emotions, while perfectly
distinguishable, are yet so mixed up with each other, and may
therefore so readily be confounded. For the most part, the
feelings will distinguish themselves, and we will be able to
apply the appropriate term in the case of each. Anger, how
ever, is a term which may apply to all the three, and accord
ingly is so applied, and is never very carefully distinguished.
We may make the distinction, however ; and correct language,
a strict and accurate use of terms, is always proper. Wrath is
a stronger term than anger, and may be properly used for the
strongest degree of that emotion. Anger, we have said, as
well as indignation, is a defence against injury, and even before
injury is contemplated. It operates secretly, and by anticipa
tion, against the encroachments of wrong and inflictions of
injury. Anger, even though there should not be indignation,

THE EMOTIONS. 443

and where also there may not be resentment, is dreaded, and
deters from injury or mischief. The anger of a party whom
we have injured, or against whom we have meditated injury, is
not to be causelessly encountered. We shrink from it : it is
painful. It cannot be provoked without suffering. To meet
it is often too much, and we are therefore careful of exciting it,
and unwilling to encounter it when excited. It is thus that
society is protected, that this one principle throws a barrier
around every person, erects a bulwark of defence everywhere,
and at all moments, guards property and character, puts a
weapon of defence in every hand, and makes every member of
society amenable to another for his conduct. So wise are the
provisions which the Almighty has adopted, making the very
mechanism of evil itself — a passion incident only to a state of
evil — the instrument that works its cure, or preserves against
its more violent outbreaks. The sanctions of law are not a
part of law, but they secure its administration or its observ
ance. The emotions we have been animadverting on, are not
a part of right, but they secure it in a state in which it would
otherwise be but little consulted, and might be overborne.
" There is a principle in our mind," says Dr. Brown, " which is
to us like a constant protector, which may slumber, indeed, but
which only slumbers at seasons when its vigilance would be
useless, which awakes therefore at the first appearance of un
just intention, and which becomes more watchful and more
vigorous, in proportion to the violence of the attack which it
has to dread. What should we think of the providence of
nature, if when aggression was threatened against the weak and
unarmed, at a distance from the aid of others, there were in
stantly and uniformly, by the intervention of some wonder
working power, to rush into the hand of the defenceless a
sword or other weapon of defence ? And yet this would be
but a feeble assistance if compared with that which we receive
from those simple emotions which Heaven has caused to rush
as it were into our mind for repelling every attack. What
would be a sword in the trembling hand of the infirm, of the
aged, of him whose pusillanimous spirit shrinks at the very

444 THE EMOTIONS.

appearance, not of danger merely, but even of the arms by the
use of which danger might be averted, and to whom conse
quently the very sword which he scarcely knew how to grasp,
would be an additional cause of terror, not an instrument of
defence and safety ? The instant anger which arises does
more than many such weapons."

Anger acts as a barrier against itself. When it would be too
strong, when it becomes resentment, when the resentment is
undue, the anger of others is kindled, their resentment against
us is awakened, and we restrain anger for the fear of anger. The
effects of unbridled rage would not be the least of evils, even in
a state where anger is necessary to protect against evil. The
injury which anger would inflict, would often be worse than
the original injury which it resents, did it not fear the anger
of others, and were not the very principle a check against its
own too violent ebullitions. " When resentment," says Stewart,
" rises to cruel and relentless revenge, unconcerned spectators
become disposed to abandon the cause they had espoused, and
to transfer their protection to the original aggressor." Anger
then becomes injury, and the greater of the two. Parties change
places ; the original aggressor becomes the injured person, and
the same passion comes to his aid as before flew to the assist
ance of him who first sustained the wrong. So nice is the
balance of the emotions, so admirable is the provision in nature
for securing the preservation, and effecting the happiness, of
individuals and society. But while a sense of wrong remains
in the human constitution, the wrong which anger inflicts must
be as amenable to it as any other, so that the simple principle
of society, or of a right and harmonious state among moral
beings, is just the moral principle itself, which, seeing evil in
any shape, has its indignation, or its anger, aroused, and seeks
its expression in righteous resentment.

Dr. Brown divides the emotions into the immediate, the
retrospective, and the prospective. Every emotion is thus
regarded as founded upon, or arising out of, some conception,
either of a present, or a past, or a future good or evil. All the

THE EMOTIONS. 445

emotions which have a present object for their cause, or on
which they terminate, are classified as the immediate emotions,
and these again are considered as involving, or as not involv
ing, a moral feeling or affection. To the former of these are
referred love and hate, sympathy with the happy and with the
miserable, pride and humility : to the latter, which he considers
first, are referred cheerfulness, melancholy, wonder, mental
weariness or ennui — the feeling of beauty and its opposite —
sublimity and its opposite. The retrospective emotions are
those which, in Dr. Brown's own language, " relate to objects
as past — the conception of some object of former pleasure or
pain being essential to the complex feeling." These are sub
divided as they relate to others and to ourselves. The former
are, anger for evil inflicted, gratitude for good conferred : the
latter, simple regret and satisfaction — regret, when there is a
moral element in it, taking the aspect of remorse ; satisfaction
that of self-approbation, or what is termed a good conscience.
The prospective we shall speak of when we come to consider
them as we proceed in our own classification or arrangement.
It will be seen that anger, in Dr. Brown's arrangement or clas
sification, is among the retrospective emotions. The principle
on which we have proceeded hitherto has been irrespective of
any feeling of time, or any reference to the object as present,
past, or future. We were led rather to consider the emotions
as belonging to our original nature, or as they must be con
ceived to have belonged to our original nature, and the change
that took place in them, or rather the exact counterpart emo
tions that arose on the introduction of evil, and as evil, accord
ingly, and not good, was the cause or object of the emotion.
Thus, we considered cheerfulness, melancholy, moroseness, fret-
fulness, peevishness; joy, sorrow; wonder ; and the modifications
of this latter emotion, surprise, amazement, astonishment, admi
ration, adoration ; love, hatred, indignation, resentment, anger.
" There have been almost as many different arrangements of the
passions," says Sydney Smith, " as there have been writers who
have treated on the subject. Some writers have placed them
in contrast to each other, as hope and fear, joy and sorrow.

44G THE EMOTIONS.

Some have considered them as they are personal, relative, or
social ; some according to their influence at different periods
of life ; others as they relate to past, present, or future time."
We have not only given the emotions in contrast, but we have
sought, so far as this could be done, the principle of this con
trast, in the change that has taken place in our moral nature.
It is in connexion with this that the contrast in our emotions
possesses any interest. It is not merely as a principle of
convenient arrangement that we have noticed the contrast,
but as really founded in some principle of our constitution.
We recognise some emotions as essential to our emotional
nature, or as likely to have belonged to our original emotional
nature, and we have taken notice of those which, when evil
came into being, or took effect, assumed the directly opposite
character, or were directly the opposite of the other. The
circumstance of time in reference to the emotions is not a
very philosophic bond of connexion, or ground of classification.
Cheerfulness, for example, we have seen, has properly no object
at all, past, present, or future ; but is just a general state of
the mind, accountable by no circumstance, except a virtuous or
moral state, and a certain equableness or harmony of the affec
tions or the emotions. Melancholy, again, has as much refer
ence to the past as to the present ; for it implies disappointment,
and disappointment has reference to the past ; and so far as
melancholy is a present emotion, or immediate emotion, it has
no object, but, like cheerfulness, is a general state of the mind,
resting upon nothing, a result rather than any direct or imme
diate emotion, that is, an emotion having any direct or imme
diate object. Sorrow, too, may be regarded as distinct from
regret, and yet the event that has awakened it may be in the
past. It is past, if it was only yesterday. The loss of fortune,
or the death of a beloved relative, is the object or occasion of
sorrow, though it happened years ago : it is not the object of
regret simply, in any proper use of the term. The object of
anger is no more a past object than that of sorrow : the object
of anger may be every whit as immediate. The emotion is the
stronger the more immediate its object. And when the very

THE EMOTIONS. 447

cause of it is before us : when the weapon has but dropped
from the hand of him who has inflicted the blow, or aimed the
murderous stroke : when the word has just passed from the
lips of him who has insulted us, or wounded us in our tenderest
feelings: our indignation or anger is at the strongest. Our
prospective emotions, again, are rather desires than emotions,
and the emotions accompanying them are, as we have said, the
emotions of the desires — that is to say, there is a feeling which
we call by the distinctive name of desire, but there is always a
peculiar emotion accompanying the particular desire ; let it be
the desire of wealth, or the desire of power, or the desire of
knowledge ; and the particular degree of the desire, or in which
the desire is felt ; and again the degree of certainty as respects
the attainment of the object of our desires, as hope, expectation,
or mere possibility, or even utter despair. There is an impa
tience connected with strong desire, which is not felt when the
desire is calm or less lively. In anger, again, as a modification
of hatred, as we have seen, there is a certain desire of evil to
its object. Dr. Brown separates the two, and makes anger
strictly retrospective. The desire of retaliation, he says, is as
much a desire as any other. This is true ; but it is still a part
of anger, or it characterizes anger : is anger, then, retrospective
or prospective ? Again, anger and the desire of retaliation,
when strong, constitute resentment ; and is resentment a pro
spective emotion ? Is there not a resultant feeling out of these
two, anger and desire of retaliation ? — how much of it is
retrospective, and how much of it prospective ? Aristotle,
according to Seneca, makes anger a desire of paying sorrow for
sorrow. This is rather resentment. There is the injury felt ;
there is desire of evil, or of punishment, to the inflicter of the
injury : these two blend in one, or result in one, emotion, for
which we have invented the name of resentment : though there
is complexity, there is resultant simplicity, and that is resent
ment. Now, this feeling is as much retrospective as prospective.
So closely are the two elements in it united ; so much is the
resultant emotion one, that Dr. Brown himself says, — " But
though in our minute, philosophic analysis, this distinction of

448 THE EMOTIONS.

the two successive states of mind is necessary, it is not
necessary, in considering the feeling of resentment in its
moral relations ; and in the few remarks I have to offer
on it, I shall, therefore, consider the instant displeasure itself,
and the desire of returning evil as one emotion." We are
inclined to think there is a resultant emotion we call resent
ment, which, in Dr. Brown's own language or phraseology on
another subject, is virtually equivalent to the two emotions or
feelings mentioned, but in itself simple, as the emotion of a
simple substance, mind ; just as a complex idea is said by Dr.
Brown to be virtually equivalent to two ideas, while it is in itself
one or simple, because it is the idea of a simple substance, mind.
Time does not seem to be a part or element in our emotions,
or is not a circumstance in any way distinguishing them ; or,
if regret and desire are to be considered as emotions, time is
only an influential element as respects them. The one has
essentially reference to the past, the other to the future; it
would not be regret without a reference to the past ; it would
not be desire without a reference to the future. Time itself
mingles as an element in these states, or so far gives a character
to them. This cannot be said of any of the other emotions.
The desires, however, we are not inclined to regard as emotions ;
they constitute a state altogether peculiar, and to which we give
the distinctive name of desire. There are emotions accompany
ing the desires, but the state of desire itself may be separated
from the emotion.

We have proceeded in our arrangement of the emotions, or
rather just in our consideration of them, on the principle that
we have already so often stated, because no one circumstance
seems so to distinguish the emotions as to allow of a philosophic
ground of classification, but the grand one of belonging to our
original emotional nature, when we are called to take notice of
the change that has passed upon that nature, and the peculiarity
in that change, so that, for the original emotions, we have, in
every several instance, their exact counterpart, exhibiting those
contrasted emotions which have afforded a ground of classifica
tion to some writers, without the explanation derived from

THE EMOTIONS. 449

considering them as counterpart. Along with this, however,
there is a certain order, in which our emotions may be con
sidered according to the way in which we regard the emotional
being, as susceptible of happiness, and now of misery ; capable
of being affected by objects or events ; receiving impressions of
the infinite, and, therefore, feeling wonder, and admiration, and
the emotions of beauty and sublimity ; being linked in social
relations to his fellows ; imbued, therefore, with love, or having
also now the capacity of hatred ; experiencing indignation, and
moved to anger or resentment. Thus, instead of having the
relative and social emotions, we have the general emotion of love,
and we recognise the modifying circumstances affecting that emo
tion ; while hatred, indignation, resentment, are traced to their
origin in the moral evil that now exists in the world. Here an
other emotion of a most interesting nature solicits our attention,
the emotion, namely, of Sympathy ; compassion for the sorrows,
and interest in the joys of others ; indeed, community of senti
ment or feeling with any emotion that may actuate another.

We are so constituted as to share in the joys, and now
also to feel for the sorrows, of others. Not only do we feel
joy and sorrow at events happening to ourselves, but a great
part of our joy or sorrow is in the joy or sorrow of
others. Our emotions communicate themselves; the very
emotions with which we are inspired become the emotions
of others, and theirs as well communicate themselves to us.
We give and take in this reciprocation of feeling. The joy of
another becomes my joy ; the sorrow of another becomes my
sorrow. This is a very wonderful law of our constitution.
We might have been so constituted, that the circumstances of
others would not have affected ourselves at all. This would
have been, however, to alter the whole emotional nature or con
stitution ; for it is impossible to conceive of love which did not
sympathize in the joys or distress of its object ; and this spring of
our emotional nature touched, what would remain ? It is on this
account that it is so difficult to speak of the final causes connected
with our original emotions, which seem rather absolute in their
nature, and incapable of being other than they are. We may,

2 F

450 THE EMOTIONS.

however, perceive what is wonderful and admirable in our
constitution, even regarded as absolute, and not created merely
to minister to subordinate ends. Most important purposes are
ministered to, even if we should regard our original nature
as absolute. What is this but allowing the perfection of that
nature after which we were formed ? God's nature cannot
work but to admirable effects, and the same with those natures
which He has created like Himself. ' Sympathy is often a
modification of love, or rather one of its effects. Is it possible
to love a being without rejoicing in his joys, and sorrowing in
his sorrows ? Let us remark here, again, the strict antagonism
in consequence of the existence of evil — though in the same
feeling — joy in the joy, sorrow in the sorrow of another. Sym
pathy in such cases is an immediate effect of love. It is a
separate principle, no doubt, even in such cases, but it is in
timately connected with love. And, accordingly, it will be
found that our sympathies are the stronger as our love is the
stronger. We sympathize more with the joys and sorrows
of those we love than of those who are indifferent to us, or
who are loved only as part of the race. In consequence of
the universal feeling of love, there is an equally universal feel
ing of sympathy. We have only to see joy and suffering, to
sympathize with them. As the circle of our attachments nar
row, however, our sympathies grow in intensity. We are not
likely to be greatly affected by the joy or sorrow of a perfect
stranger ; but let that individual come within the range of our
sympathies — let the love of our species have scope for opera
ting — let it in some way be excited, and we sympathize in
the joy or sorrow which before was comparatively indifferent
to us. It is a beautiful law of sympathy, that we sympathize
more in the sorrows than we do in the joys of others ; and this,
too, is an effect of love. Love may be contented if others are
happy, though they should not be very joyful, but it feels
uneasy at the least pain of another. How are its sympathies
called forth at any overwhelming sorrow ? How does great
suffering appeal to it ? Every addition to the suffering aug
ments the sympathy. This can hardly be said of joy. We

THE EMOTIONS. 451

would almost share with the sufferer a part of his woes. Gladly,
at least, would we do anything to mitigate the pain, to assuage
the distress. This makes us run at the call of misery, and
makes every man the helper of his fellow. How is every
consideration sunk — how is every hardship endured — how is
every peril encountered at the cry of distress ! Let it but be
announced that life is in danger — that a fellow-creature is
drowning — that the treacherous element is dealing with a life
that is no more precious to us than as being the life of a fellow-
mortal — and that but a few moments longer and that life shall
have perished, — how do we risk our own lives to rescue that
one ! We see a fellow-being, that is only a fellow-being
to us, in a building fast sinking under the devouring element
— we see that but a moment or two and all chance of escape
will be gone, — how intensely do we desire that deliverance
could be extended, and with what interest do we watch the dar
ing effort of one of the spectators who rushes through the flames,
or, in the only way that safety can be effected, puts his own
life in jeopardy rather than that other life should be sacrificed !
We feel more for the sufferings than we do for the joys of
others. We could pass a place of festivity without a sensible
addition to our happiness ; we could not pass a lazar-house, or
a sick hospital, without a strong emotion for the sufferers within.
This may be explained by the very obvious law of love itself, with
out supposing it to be connected with any special provision of our
nature ; — the law that love is satisfied if its objects are happy,
without feeling much more by any additions to that happiness,
while every additional pang to misery is an additional pang to
its own sorrow or sympathy. The beautiful law of love itself,
however, is worthy of being noticed ; and it is the law of that
nature which created ours in its likeness, and whose happiness
consists in seeing happiness diffused — whose goodness is in the
very diffusion of that happiness, and whose righteousness or
justice alone it is that can contemplate misery.

Philanthropy is the name given to that more extended
sympathy which leads us to take an interest in the joys and

452 THE EMOTIONS.

sorrows, not only of those more immediately appealing to this
sentiment of our nature, but of mankind at large. The chord of
sympathy vibrates in unison with the remotest event or cir
cumstance affecting our fellows, whether that event be joyous
or sorrowful. In the consideration of the emotions of joy and
sorrow, we have already given illustrations of this : it is through
the principle of sympathy that these emotions come to be awak
ened in connexion with such events. It might seem to be in
venting a new principle to account for these emotions, in such
cases, when we have already the capacity of the emotions them
selves to account for them : the capacity of being affected by
such emotions on the occasion of such events, might seem to
be all that was necessary to account for the emotions. But the
very peculiarity of sympathy is the capacity of being affected
by the joys and sorrows of others. It is not sympathy when
we experience joy and sorrow merely in themselves. We joy
in the joy : we sorrow in the sorrow of others. It is not won
derful that we should be affected with joy or sorrow by events
befalling ourselves ; but that we should rejoice with others, and
weep with others, is the peculiarity of that principle or pro
vision of our nature we are now considering. It is accountable
on the principle we have already explained — namely, the love
we feel for others, which leads us to take an interest in them,
and in all affecting them, very much as if their interests were
our own. It is impossible to love another, and not feel inter
ested in all that concerns him ; and, accordingly, our sympathy
in the fortunes of others, or events affecting them, is just in
proportion to the love we feel for them, or for the species gen
erally, of which they are a part. That a certain love towards
the species is experienced by all, and is exhibited in the
thousand ways of mutual regard and interest which intercourse
with our fellows gives opportunity or occasion for, is abun
dantly manifest. It is when any causes give a selfish direction
to our nature or our feelings, that we experience less of that
love, and accordingly evince less of that sympathy. Where
the feelings are unsophisticated — where nothing stifles or in
terferes with our love, our love will be general and active, and

THE EMOTIONS. 453

all its sympathies will be prompt and genuine. Some natures,
however, seem to be more imbued with this sentiment than
others — to have a more instinctive impulse of affection for
others ; and they, accordingly, exhibit wider and warmer sym
pathies towards their fellows, or for all that concerns them.
Nothing is more manifest than that there are natures more
loving, more generous,' more unselfish, than others — less influ
enced by considerations for self, looking less to personal inter
ests merely, incapable of being selfishly bound by personal
regards alone. There are those again who have the first law of
their nature — we mean the love of self — so strong, that it is as
steady in its operation as if it were as right and praiseworthy,
as it is unamiable and altogether reprehensible. Their sym
pathies, accordingly, are not so lively, so ready, or so extended.
But there are those who seem to be born with so strong a love
for their species, that it seems to absorb the personal feeling
altogether, and almost to exclude the love of self. Self seems
hardly to be thought of. Others, and not self, seem to be ex
clusively the object of their regards. To think of self, seems
with such natures to be a fault as great and as odious as the
too exclusive consideration for self will be pronounced to be in
other cases. Every feeling takes the direction of regard, not for
personal interest, but the wellbeing, the good, the interests of
others. How others fare, how their wants may be relieved,
how their sorrows may be alleviated, how their sufferings may
be mitigated, how their good may be promoted, is their grand
concern. Their own interests may be allowed to lie in abeyance,
or they trust to their being promoted without too exclusive an
attention to them. This may proceed even to a faulty excess ;
but undoubtedly it is an excess of an amiable kind, and in the
more amiable direction. Philanthropy is the ruling passion or
principle in such hearts, with such individuals : philanthropy
is the name we give to their wide and active sympathies. You
will find such persons actively employed in every good cause —
at the head of societies, organizing institutes, founding, or get
ting founded, benefactions, advocating great social rights, plead
ing for the abolition of oppressive laws, denouncing tyranny,

454 THE EMOTIONS.

traversing continents, and perhaps compassing the globe itself,
for the advancement of those objects with which their life
is identified, and the wellbeing of humanity commensurate.
Howard is the great example of this class ; and the number of
those who exhibit the same spirit on a lesser scale, is not small.
The great principle of philanthropy, however, it must be
allowed, is the love of the species which the gospel implants.
That there are strong sympathies with the race, apart from
such a source or cause we have seen, but this insures it. And
then the principle takes its highest, its noblest direction, the
diffusion of the gospel itself, the advancement of the spiritual
interests of the race, and with that every other good follows.
This does not exclude attention to every inferior or subordinate
interest connected with the good of our fellows ; the former is
only paramount ; every other has that portion of regard be
stowed on it which its relative importance demands. Howard
was a Christian, a sincere believer, a disciple of Jesus. The
mainspring of his movements was the love implanted by
the Gospel, taking control of all his actions, and making
the native love of his heart break through every obstacle,
carrying it as an irresistible tide over all opposition, and mak
ing way for itself where discouragements would have baffled
the ordinary principles of action. The love of the Gospel, not
the mere native benevolence of heart, carries it where every
inferior principle would give way. Marvellous examples there
have been, indeed, of mere natural philanthropy — the strong
native impulse of a heart touched to all the sympathies of our
nature, and so finely touched that no appeal is resisted, and the
heart beats to every tone in the " still, sad music of humanity."
A strong will, perhaps, co-operates with a benevolent heart,
and the philanthropist is formed. But he is pre-eminently the
philanthropist who promotes the spiritual as well as temporal
wellbeing of his fellows ; and we see such a one wherever we
see one who truly seeks the spiritual good of his fellows in the
humblest way. Selfish feelings are so far modified in every
case where the grace of God has been received ; and there is
in the desire of the heart to convey the Gospel to our fellow-

THE EMOTIONS. 455

men, and to bring its great truths to bear upon their lives and
hearts, the germ of that philanthropy which animated the
Saviour himself. We are speaking of the emotion, we are
not now insisting upon the duty of philanthropy, or of sym
pathy with the wants and the miseries of mankind.

So predominating are the evils over the good in the condition
of the world, that there is perhaps more demand for the exercise
of sympathy with the former than with the latter ; and hence the
names of the particular sentiment. Sympathy and philanthropy
have been almost exclusively appropriated to the common feeling
we have with the sorrows and sufferings of others. These, we
say, have almost exclusively appropriated the name. Philan
thropy, indeed, has almost no aspect in the other direction. A
philanthropist is one who addresses himself to the removing of
the miseries of mankind. These may be on a larger or a lesser
scale : they may be isolated, the miseries or misfortunes of in
dividuals, or they may belong to a society, to a people, to a race,
and be bound up with institutions, laws, governments. The
philanthropist takes the wider survey : he addresses himself to
evils on that large scale ; he seeks to rectify laws, to purify the
systems of legislation, to correct the abuses of governments, to
reform institutions, to remove the evils that afflict the race.
The patriot does this in his own country. But there are those
who regard the world as their country, and who seek the remedy
of evils wherever found. Mere benevolence has a more limited
range ; and, accordingly, it has more immediate and more con
stant calls for its exercise. Benevolence is a more limited pas
sion or feeling, but it may be raised to philanthropy: it is
capable of taking the wider range : it is not a feeling different
in kind : it is the same feeling viewed only in a more limited
exercise. Sympathy, benevolence, philanthropy, all are aspects
or operations of the one feeling, and love is the generic virtue
leading to them all. As we have said, it is impossible to love
without seeking the good of the object of our love ; and if we
love our species, we will seek the good of our species. This,
then, we take to be sympathy in its more limited and wider
range. It takes in the whole of mankind, but it feels for the

456 THE EMOTIONS.

individual who appeals to it ; and perhaps may be the more
intense the more individualized its object, the more within the
sphere of our immediate regards. It is a law of sympathy to
be the intenser, the more that it is fixed on a single object, or
has a single object for its cause. It is thus that in all vivid
pictures of misery the object is individualized : as in Sterne's
captive ; and when the orator or the poet would convey the hor
rors of war, or depict any other evil, an actual or supposed
example is made the subject of his vivid portraiture. How
finely does Campbell select the Congo chief to individualize his
picture of the miseries of the slave-trade : —

" Lo ! once in triumph on his boundless plain,
The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ;
With fires proportioned to his native sky,
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ;
Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone,
The spear, the lion, and the woods his own !
Or led the combat, bold without a plan,
An artless savage, but a fearless man !

The plunderer came ! Alas ! no glory smiles
For Congo's chief on yonder Indian isles ;
For ever fallen ! no son of Nature now,
With Freedom chartered on his manly brow !
Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away,
And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day,
Starts with a bursting heart, for evermore
To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore !

The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell
His guardian angel took a last farewell !
That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned
The fiery grandeur of a generous mind !
Poor fettered man ! I hear thee whispering low
Unhallowed vows of guilt, the child of wo !
Friendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbour there
A wish but death — a passion but despair?"

The same individualizing takes place when it is a picture of
joy that is to be conveyed. The sympathies are divided, as it
were, when we think of misery or joy in the mass, when a
nation, or community, or race, is their object. But having
individualized our sympathy, we can then multiply the feeling
of joy or sorrow awakened to any extent ; and carrying it over

THE EMOTIONS. 457

a race, or a nation, or a multitude, involved in one common
misery, or feeling one common joy, we obtain all the vividness
of the individual feeling, and all the largeness and overwhelm
ing strength of the multiplied emotion.

It was a noble sentiment, " Homo sum, nihil humani a me
alienum puto :" it was a correct enunciation of the emotion or
principle of sympathy in its widest exercise. Too many discard
the sentiment, and have contracted their feelings to the narrow
est bounds, if not entirely to selfish interests. The tyrant, the
oppressor of his race, the man who steels his heart to the groans
and cries of the victims of his cruelty, or who heeds not the
misery he creates, if so be that his own selfish objects may be
promoted — knows nothing of the sentiment, has never known
it, or has learned to forget it. Who would not prefer the
Roman's feelings to the splendid career and destinies of the
greatest tyrant that the world ever saw, to retain that senti
ment amid chains, rather than to forego it with a kingdom or
an empire at our command. Tyrants and oppressors have
come to need that sympathy which they denied to others, and
have sought the refuge they would not extend to the neediest
of their subjects, or the most helpless of their victims.

Sympathy is felt not only with the joys and sorrows of others,
but with any emotion they may for the time be actuated by.
We are capable of experiencing the same emotion, of being
actuated by the same impulse. We may sympathize in the
anger, as well as the grief of another. We cannot be thrown
into the company of others for any time without an inter
change of feeling ; unless the emotion reigning in any case be
so strong and absorbing as to refuse amalgamation, and to
draw all into itself. Any violent emotion will do this : like
the larger of two globules of water, the lesser will run into «£,
not it into the lesser. The larger always attracts the lesser :
this is true of bodies ; it is also true of the emotions, or the
stronger emotion has the power of making the lesser yield to
it, and our minds come under its influence ; it may but to
a very insensible degree come under ours. There is, however,

458 THE EMOTIONS.

a certain influence exercised by the weaker emotions on the
stronger ; as there is a certain degree of attraction exerted by
the lesser body on the greater ; so much so, that the least
particle of matter is not without its influence on the sun. A
person under strong rage feels the influence of a third party,
and perhaps suspends that anger for an instant, which would
have fallen in direst effects upon the victim or object of his
fury. It is in this mutual or reciprocal influence of the emo
tions, and of all the emotions, that the harmonious, or more
harmonious, operation of this part of our nature takes place —
the play, the mutual interchange, of feeling and sentiment is
effected. Were there not this amalgamation or assimilation,
even so far as it takes place, society would present a far greater
disparity of sentiment than exists, and we would have emotion
at war with emotion, instead of that accommodation, or run
ning into each other, of the emotions, which we find actually
to obtain. Were a person to retain his own emotions, and
never be affected by those of another, — were this the law with
every individual, where would be that melting down of the
feelings, that fusion of each separate emotion and interest, and
of all together, which makes society what it is, and renders it
useful to mingle in the world, were it for nothing else than
that our individual emotions might lose their individuality,
or become somewhat mitigated in strength, and relieved by
other feelings or emotions that blend with them, or divide
with them the empire or possession of the heart ? Much of
this amalgamation, indeed, depends upon a compromise, a tacit
compliance with the pervading feeling of those around us — of
the society in which we move, or the individual into whose
company we are thrown, or with whom we may associate. We
are often compelled to suppress our peculiar emotions, even at
the dictation of common politeness, or out of regard to the
feelings of others. Others do the same by us. There is a
mutual restraint and accommodation in this way, without
which society would be at perpetual jar ; and the business of
life could not, any more than its pleasures, proceed or be enjoyed
for a single hour. But besides this accommodation, there is

THE EMOTIONS. 459

the actual influence of sympathy itself — feeling blending with
feeling, emotion passing into emotion, and from one to another,
by this fine law of our nature. And when any emotion is very
strong, when it takes the predominance, when it cannot yield
for the time — if that emotion be legitimate, we yield to it, we
feel drawn into sympathy with it, it becomes ours, and we are one
as it were for the moment with the actual subject of the emotion.
We are fired with the patriot's rage — we may know something of
his noble enthusiasm — we can kindle with his ardour — we can
denounce the oppressor with his eloquent and burning words —
we are carried away on the same tide of strong and indignant
emotions. In short, there is no sentiment or feeling with which
another may be actuated in which we may not sympathize,
and into which we do not enter, by that law of our nature we
are considering ; and this brings out more distinctly the pecu
liarity of this particular law. It is undoubtedly a distinct
emotion of the mind. It is closely connected with the more
generic emotion of love, when it is the joy or the sorrows, the
happiness or miseries of others, that we sympathize with, —
very often the very effect of that love. But this cannot be the
source of the emotion when it is with any other of the emo
tions — as anger, for example — that we sympathize. The emo
tion, in such instances, is a distinct principle, and is directly
experienced when any such emotion in others is the object of
our contemplation or regard. The emotion operates directly
in such instances, in virtue of a direct law of the mind, or of
the emotional nature. In the case of joy or sorrow, we think
love has a great deal to do with our sympathy, — not that the
capacity of sympathy is not even then a distinct principle, but
that it is often the effect of love.

Very much of our sympathy depends upon the vivid conception
we have of the cause of the emotion with which we sympathize.
That cause cannot be realized even to the mind without the emo
tion appropriate to the original cause itself. It is impossible to
realize, even in conception, the cause of a particular emotion or
feeling, without in some degree participating in that emotion or
feeling itself. The cause of the particular emotion may not affect

460 THE EMOTIONS.

us at all — it may be altogether unconnected with us — but our
conceptions give us it, as it were — bring it in some sense in
connexion with us; — make it for the time a cause affecting
ourselves — and we feel accordingly, or are inspired with the
emotion which such a cause always produces, as if it were in
reality one affecting ourselves. But the question arises, Why
should a mere conception of the mind have such an effect ?
How should we be capable of the emotion arising from any
cause, when that cause is merely realized to us by the imagi
nation, as it were, or by the conception ? That is the very
peculiarity of the principle we are considering, and which we
call by the name of sympathy : it is a law of our constitution,
like any other law. It is just here that we observe the pecu
liarity of this law of our nature. The conception realizes to us
the cause : we would not otherwise be capable of feeling the
emotion appropriate to that cause ; but we might have the con
ception of that cause without the emotion, if we had not the
capacity, or were not distinguished by the law, of sympathy.

Our sympathies with the general emotions will depend very
much upon constitutional tendencies, upon the peculiar sen
sibilities with which we are imbued. The emotional nature
itself may be quicker in some cases than in others, and the
susceptibility of the reflex emotions may, therefore, be greater,
more lively. Again, we may be more constituted to sympathize
with one kind of emotion than with another. The nature may
be the more or less irascible, more or less generous in its tone
and sympathies — and accordingly, we shall be the more or less
liable to sympathize with the angry passions, or with the gene
rous emotions. Habits, pursuits, professions, will mould our
sympathies. We sympathize even with the most ordinary
moods of mind ; and even with appearances in outward objects ;
according as these are indicative, however, of one or another
emotion, or supposed to be the sign of such emotion. It will
be seen, therefore, that this is a state or law of our constitution
which is seldom but in operation. Our feelings are ever taking
their hues from the feelings of others ; are more or less influenced
by them ; so that the general state of feeling in society is just the

THE EMOTIONS. 461

result of the emotions circulating from one to another, — is the
prevailing emotion of each, and yet the compound effect of all.
The very tastes, the very predilections of others, become our
own, and we communicate ours to them. We seek, however,
the society of those with whom we have a community of taste
and principle. The cultivation of the mind, too, will give a
tone to its feelings which will meet with its answering tone
only in those of similar cultivation. We prefer the society
of those who are of similar pursuits, similar habits, similar
tastes, similar cultivation, with ourselves, — who can converse
on the same topics, relish the same subjects, and perhaps
entertain the same general views and sentiments. With what
delight do we converse, do we associate, with such persons !
Their society is a restorative, a cordial, to the mind, and
all ages have their companionships. We seek a congenial
age, if we may so speak, in our companionships, as well as a
congenial temper, and a congenial mind. Every society has
its own friendships, every pursuit, every trade, every profession,
every period of life. We sympathize even with the aspects of
nature, as these are indicative of certain feelings, whether
essentially, or by arbitrary circumstances of association, and we
enter into the very mood of external creation. All nature
speaks to us, has a voice and an aspect that we understand.

..." The wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky :"

the air, the earth, the water, all changes, and all seasons,
speak to the mind, and impress their peculiar lessons, or beget
their appropriate emotions. And we communicate our feelings
again to outward objects. All nature is joyous or sad, as we
are so ourselves. Half of its power over us is from ourselves.
The internal mind is imaged on the external world. It has a
power, however, intrinsic to itself. We could not make a
cheerful sky sorrowful if we would, and that it does not in
spire us with joy is from the state of our own minds, which
would refuse any appeal whatever to our mirthful or joyous
feelings. There is something in the voice of a brook which

462 THE EMOTIONS.

stirs the innermost emotions of the soul, placid, steady, deep ;
in the sigh of the wind ; in the dash of the ocean ; in sunshine
and gloom ; in calm and tempest : our mind feels in all, has
an emotion corresponding to each. Such is the law, such is
the power of sympathy. What a power does it exert in uniting
society ! What a bond of connexion ! What an amalgamating
principle ! And through it, nature itself is animated, intelli
gent, full of sentiment, and the inspirer of the finest, and the
most delightful, sometimes the most exalted, emotions.

Generosity, or kindness, and gratitude, are the emotions that
come next in course, and they also belong to the generic emotion
of love, have their rise in it, or connexion with it ; for generosity
is love in action, while gratitude is love answering to generosity.
Love seeks the good of its object ; it prompts, therefore, to acts
of generosity and kindness. Were love an emotion confined to
the heart, without going out in action, it would be of very little
use, however pleasing or agreeable. But it is not so confined ;
it seeks the good of others. It prompts to deeds of active
benevolence ; it leads to all generous or kind actions. Kind
ness is just love doing good. Gratitude is love repaying that
good, or answering to it : it is the corresponding sentiment to
kindness, has relation to the same generic virtue or sentiment.
We may, indeed, shew kindness where we do not love, and we
are required to do so even to our enemies ; but it is a loving
nature that does so. It seems to be essential to gratitude, how
ever, that there should be active love ; love in the very emo
tion, and while the emotion lasts. Is there not here, again, a
beautiful relation, and dependence, among our sentiments ?
How fine is the interchange of kindness and gratitude ! How
delightful are both emotions ! Any act of true kindness,
where this feeling is really experienced, is as much a source of
pleasure as the greatest personal good experienced by ourselves
can be. It is a pleasure to shew any kindness, to be the cause
of any good, to be the means of any happiness to others ; and
the feeling of gratitude is only inferior to it: it is a direct
pleasurable emotion. It has been said by high authority, " It

THE EMOTIONS. 463

is more blessed to give than to receive." But any one who has
felt the pleasure of gratitude will acknowledge it to be a plea
sure, and one of no mean kind. There is no inferiority implied
in being the object of kindness, and there can be no painful
sense, then, in gratitude. The object of our kindness, now,
may be the object of our gratitude again. We may require of
him the kindness we exemplify. What is life made up of but
an infinite number of acts of kindness and returns of gratitude ?
What would life be if this law of kindness and gratitude were
not recognised ? The greatest of all benefactors must be the
Creator ; and to Him the greatest gratitude is due. He is the
first object of love ; and He is the highest object of gratitude ;
for all excellencies centre in Him, and the greatest blessings
flow from Him. But every inferior benefactor is the proper
object of gratitude ; and if he is a true benefactor, he exempli
fies in his deed of kindness the active influence of love. There
is a way in which a benefaction may be done, which makes it
no real kindness. It is the spirit of the action that gives it all
its worth ; and our gratitude will be found, accordingly, to
correspond to the nature of the action which may seem to call
for it. It will be the greater, the more kindness has been in
the action, the more it has been really prompted by kindness,
by love. The amount of the benefaction \\ill influence our
gratitude, where we have reason to believe there has been real
kindness, real love in it ; but where there has been this, it is
not the amount of the benefaction that will measure the love.
The love itself will be the grand element of consideration, and
our love will answer to it, and our gratitude will be love respond
ing to it. Here, again, both emotions are ultimate, simple ;
but they have an obvious relation to the more generic emotion,
love; and as the one is love doing good, the other is love
answering to that good, and just in proportion to the love
discerned in the state of mind which prompted to the good
done. WTe are not grateful for mere good done, we must
perceive kindness in the motive that prompted it; as generosity
is not merely doing good, it is love or kindness in the act, or in
the disposition leading to it. We refer to the emotions just

464 THE EMOTIONS.

now ; the morality of the two states of mind, and their corre
sponding actions, or expression, come under another department
of a moral course. They have a moral character, and come
more properly to be considered after the consideration of the
moral element itself.

We now come to that state of mind we denominate Desire.
This we regard as a generically distinct state of mind from
emotion simply. Emotion and desire are not the same ; they
are specifically different. Both Stewart and Eeid consider the
desires separately from the affections, as distinct states of mind.
Dr. Brown, ;on the other hand, ranks the desires among the
emotions, classifying them as the prospective emotions. If
desire, however, is an emotion, it is so peculiar, or specifically
distinct, as to take a different name from all the other emotions.
We do not speak of the emotion of desire ; we speak of desire,
or the desires. There is the general state, or phenomenon, of
desire ; this is a characteristic of mind, and the desires are
called so, because the one state or phenomenon, desire, may be
directed towards different objects. Dr. Keid enumerates the
three desires ; the desire of power, the desire of esteem, the
desire of knowledge. Stewart's enumeration is, the desire of
knowledge, or the principle of curiosity ; the desire of society ;
the desire of esteem ; the desire of power, or the principle of
ambition ; the desire of superiority, or the principle of emula
tion. Dr. Brown, again, considers the desire of continued ex
istence, the desire of pleasure, the desire of occupation, the
desire of society, the desire of knowledge, the desire of power —
which he considers under the division, the desire of direct
power as in ambition, and the desire of indirect power as in
avarice — the desire of the affection of those around us, the
desire of glory, the desire of the happiness of others, the desire
of the unhappiness of others. The last of these enumerations
will be allowed to be very complete. We would, with all
deference, ask, If it is at all necessary to make a specific
enumeration of the desires, and if it is not more philosophical,
to consider desire simply as one of the states or phenomena of

THE EMOTIONS. 465

our mental constitution, and to consider any object whatever
as the object of desire, if it yields pleasure and confers happi
ness, or secures some good ? Desire is properly one state ; and
that has as many objects as there are supposed sources of
happiness, or objects capable of conferring delight, or produc
tive of good. Is it possible to enumerate the desires, or bring
them under any classification ? For example, the desire of
rest is as much a desire as that of occupation ; and the desire
of study as much as that of knowledge. Kest, surely, will not
be included under the desire of pleasure : it yields pleasure,
indeed, but it is a distinct object of desire, — and why
not include the desire of occupation under the same class ?
The pleasure of study, and the pleasure of knowledge, are dis
tinct pleasures, and they themselves, therefore, are distinct
objects of desire. Then, what Keid and Stewart call the desire
of esteem, Dr. Brown includes under the desire of the affection
of others : they seem, however, to be distinct, and the desire of
the affection of others, neither Eeid nor Stewart has taken any
notice of. The desire of fame, again, is with Stewart a modi
fication of the desire of esteem ; with Dr. Brown, it is a distinct
desire, or a modification of the desire of glory. And how are
we to distinguish ambition and emulation ? Is ambition no
part of the desire of superiority ? is it only a modification of
the desire of power ? The desire of superiority and the desire
of power are distinct according to Stewart. It would be dif
ficult to say whether ambition is a modification of the desire of
power or the desire of glory, or identical with either. What
ever gives pleasure, or is regarded as a source of happiness —
falsely or not — or confers good, or may effect it, is an object of
desire. Dr. Brown has taken notice of the desire of continued
existence, which is not included in the other classifications.
This is undoubtedly one of our desires ; for existence itself is
felt as a pleasure as distinguished from non-existence ; is pre
ferred, with all its pains and sufferings, to non-existence, or
annihilation. But why enumerate this as a distinct desire,
when it is an object of desire, as being a source of actual plea-

2G

466 THE EMOTIONS.

sure ? With some, it may be an object of desire, chiefly
because it affords an opportunity of doing good ; and yet the
desire of doing good, the desire of usefulness, is not taken notice
of, except it be involved in the desire of power, under which
aspect Dr. Brown makes pointed and beautiful allusion to it.
Here, again, we have a distinct or separate desire included as
an element in another. The desire of doing good to others is
not to be regarded as in itself the same as the desire of power,
or as in any way belonging to it. It is more like the desire of
happiness to others, which Dr. Brown also specifies, but it is
not the same, for the desire of the happiness of others is not
always the same with the desire of conferring that happiness.
We may desire this too, but the former is independent of the
latter, and may be felt the most strongly when there is the
least means to accomplish our desire ; the desire of the happi
ness of others, therefore, is distinct from the desire of being the
actual producers of the happiness. The desire of doing good
to others may often be the opposite of the desire of their
happiness, their immediate happiness. Our moral desires,
again, are a distinct class of desires ; as the desire of the happi
ness, and the desire of the virtuous conduct, of others, the
desire of the true, the desire of the just, the praiseworthy, the
good. The Apostle exhorts to covet, or desire, the best gifts :
this was moral desire. In addition to anything — any quality,
object, situation, circumstances — being a source of pleasure, and
occasion of happiness, and consequently desirable, — the honour
able, the excellent, the fair, in one word, the virtuous, the good,
may be the object of desire. Our desires, in other words, again,
may have for their object whatever is good in the sense of
producing happiness, and whatever is good in the sense of
being virtuous or excellent. We would not attempt, then, a
complete enumeration of the desires ; and as desire itself is
very much moral in its character, a moral state, or involving a
moral state, or very intimately connected with such a state ;
while there are moral desires ; we prefer deferring the considera
tion of this characteristic of our nature, till after we have con-

THE EMOTIONS. 467

sidered the moral element itself. This, we think, is demanded
by the very nature of the phenomena of desire. If there is
anything moral in desire ; if it involves or supposes a moral
state ; if, at least, in a moral being, it can hardly be separated
from what is moral in the general state ; and if many, or most,
of our desires are directly moral in their character, or involve
a certain degree of morality — as with the desire of power, or
ambition, the desire of superiority, or emulation — we must
obviously know the moral element, be able to recognise its
presence, and estimate its amount. We enter upon the con
sideration, then, of what is moral in our nature, as just another
aspect of our nature ; and we enter upon it at this point, be
cause it is just here that we see the influence of that part of
our nature, characterizing our desires, and now lord of the
ascendant, as it were, or asserting its control over every other
part of our complex being. We now, however, pass out of the
PHENOMENAL MERELY, into the moral, out of the laws of our
constitution merely, into the laws of duty. The questions we
have to do with have now an abstract value, and are out of our
selves, as it were, although the states or laws of mind by which
we deal with such questions, or are concerned in them, are
strictly phenomenal, and belong to the moral part of our con
stitution. We have hitherto had to do only with the pheno
menal. We have now to do not only with the phenomenal
but with the dutiful, if we may so speak; not only with the
" esse" but with the " oportet" The additional element that
comes under our consideration is one of grand and paramount
importance, and gives a distinct character to this part of our
being. So important is it, so distinguishing, that it takes man
out of the category of mere existences, and connects him with
the universe of truth, and not only truth, but moral truth, im
posing upon him a law, and that the laiv of duty. Man is now
not only a mere being, he is a moral being ; has not only a
place in creation, but has a part to perform in creation : he
not only lives, and thinks, and feels — he wills — and not only
wills, but wills according to a law of right or wrong. And

4t)8 THE EMOTIONS.

this law is not arbitrary, it 'is eternal ; it is not imposed, it is
a part of his very nature. It belongs to every moral being,
enters into the essence of a moral constitution. It is the law
of duty, the law of right and wrong, a law of eternal and ab
stract propriety. It is true, it is our moral nature which pos
sesses this law, which admits of it, which gives it concrete
existence, or actual power and bearing, or application, and
which discerns and appreciates it : but the law would be the
same in abstract right and propriety, though there had never
been a moral nature to apprehend it, and though every moral
being should at any time cease to exist. We have, therefore,
a very distinct subject of consideration from any that has
hitherto engaged us. Had we dwelt upon the abstract rela
tions of number, and magnitude, and figure, or lines and super
ficies, we would have come into a region of the abstract, and of
necessary and eternal relations. " Why is it," says Whewell,
" that three and two are equal to four and one ? Because, if
wre look at five things of any kind, we see that it is so. The
five are four and one ; they are also three and two. The truth
of onr assertion is involved in our being able to conceive the
number five at all. We perceive tins truth by intuition, for we
cannot see, or imagine we see, five things, without perceiving
also that the assertion above stated is true.

" But how do we state in words this fundamental principle
of the doctrine of numbers ? Let us consider a very simple
case. If we wish to shew that seven and- two are equal to four
and five, we say that seven are four and three, therefore seven
and two are four and three and two. Mathematical reasoners
justify the first inference, marked by the conjunctive word
therefore, by saying that 'when equals are added to equals,
the whole are equal,' and that thus since seven is equal to
three and four, if we add two to both, seven and two are equal
to four and three and two." We introduce this extract to shew
that the determination of a question of numbers depends
upon abstract truth ; and all questions of numbers depend
upon abstract truth, intuitions of the mind ; and not only

THE EMOTIONS. 4(J9

so, but inconceivable, nay impossible, to be otherwise. It
is the same with abstract relations of rectitude. These do
not depend upon a constitution ; it is not because the moral
constitution is so and so ; it is not because we are thus consti
tuted, or God himself is thus constituted ; but they are so and
so eternally, of themselves. We could not conceive them other
wise, nay, they could not be otherwise. Everything else may
be said to depend upon a constitution or nature, if not the
created constitution or nature, yet the constitution or nature
of the Eternal Being himself. Everything else may be re
solved into being and the laws of being. But the relations
of number and magnitude, and the abstract relations of right,
are eternal, or are impossible to be conceived, and even to be,
otherwise than they are. The mind refuses not only by a law
of its oiun, but by all law, to conceive or to judge otherwise.
But how different, again, these relations ! The one class have
a bearing upon ideas alone ; the other suppose moral beings
among whom the relations reciprocate. There is in a moral
relation what necessitates the supposition of being ; or there is
in the authoritative force of the sentiment what will not allow
our minds to suppose that the truth perceived is a relation and
no more. There is & practical power in the sentiment. It has
an authoritative voice within us which makes us feel our
relations to being, and such relations as we dare not disregard.
It is here that consciousness cannot be mistaken. There can
be no discussion about the truthfulness of its intimations. The
feeling within now is such that no dubiety rests upon it ; it
is practical, overwhelming. There is reality here if nowhere
else. We have got out of the world of shadows into the world
of realities — of mere consciousness into authoritative conscious
ness — consciousness which speaks aloud, which enforces itself,
which does not admit for a moment of questioning, which will
not allow debate or parleying, which unites us in relations not
to be broken with our fellow-beings, while it makes us realize to
ourselves our own substantive existence and importance. This
is Kant's " practical reason," and it is interesting to notice that

470 THE EMOTIONS.

it is just at this point that Kant gets back to the world of
actual existence, when he had hitherto contended, and on the
ground, as he thought, of the most rigid demonstration, that
all that we knew was but our own consciousness, and that it
was the forms of mind alone that gave to us the external world,
or external existence.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL NATURE.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL NATURE.

" Now," says Morell, in giving an account of Kant's philo
sophy, " the best, the most satisfactory, and by far the most
useful part of the Kantian philosophy is to come, that, namely,
in which he sets aside the results of speculative reason by those
of the practical reason. The immortality of the soul, the
existence of God, and all such superseusnal ideas, cannot, it is
true, be demonstrated ; but, says Kant, our reason has not
only a speculative movement, it has also a practical movement,
by which it regulates the conduct of man, and does this with
such a lofty bearing and such an irresistible authority, that it
is impossible for any rational being to deny its dictates. Ideas,
therefore, wliicli in theory cannot hold good, in practice are/
seen to have a reality, because they become the cause of human
actions, — an effect which could never take place, if there were-
not some real existence to produce it."

This extract points to the difference that there is between
the speculative and the practical reason, or reason when
directed to speculative subjects and the same reason when
applied to practical. In our dealings with merely speculative
subjects, we may allow our minds the utmost latitude, and go
all the length of the most rigid metaphysics, stop short of no
conclusion that abstract speculation thinks itself warranted to
draw : but when any practical question arises, when especially
the dictates of duty are heard, when reason speaks out in the
voice of conscience, and when the intimations of consciousness

474 THE MORAL NATURE.

are concerned with moral obligation, we have no hesitation in
admitting these intimations ; and reason in moral decisions
sets aside all cavil about existence, either personal or other
wise ; and we no longer demur, but carry out boldly our con
victions, as if the intimations of our consciousness could not
for a moment be called in question. Morality is the grand
determinator of all speculative questions : it cannot admit them
for a moment: it issues its own authoritative commands in
spite of them : it does not take them even into consideration :
if there is no outer world — if ideas are everything to the mind —
if the mind's own forms are all that can be predicated, or can
be known to exist, — still duty must be done, its demands cannot
be deferred, and the external being, and the external world,
are the objects among which the relations of duty are recog
nised, and the arena on which these relations are to be practi
cally acknowledged. It is somewhat singular that the question
about an external world has always been discussed with refer
ence to external matter alone. It might well be admitted that
our consciousness in reference to it might be a subject of doubt,
and that we were warranted to admit nothing more for certain
than the internal feelings and states of consciousness ; that, so
far as we knew, these were all that truly had any existence ;
that a material world, with all its phenomena, were so many
phantasmagoria passing through our own minds ; — but the
minds of others, the influence they have upon us, the intelli
gence communicated from them to our own, the flash of
mutual recognition, and, still more, the duties we owe these
other mental existences, or spiritual beings, in a world, or
system, of which we are only a part, seem to put all speculation
about an external world at an end ; for if we cannot but admit
mind to exist — if we cannot deny it — if the intercourse of
mind with mind, and the paramount demands of duty in an
especial manner, render every tendency to stop short with a
negative, if not an actually sceptical philosophy, impossible or
absurd, why should there not be a material world without us,
corresponding to the informations of consciousness, or impres
sions upon the self-conscious being, as well as that spiritual

THE MOKAL NATURE. 475

world, of which we become cognizant through the interchanges
of intelligence, and communion of intelligent minds ? We
cannot deny at least mind to exist. Why deny matter ? Is
our consciousness with reference to the one a whit more autho
ritative than our consciousness with reference to the other ?
Can any laws of mind be regarded as more authoritative than
other laws ? What is there, after all, even in the demands of
duty, that make them so irresistible as respects the convic
tions of being without us, and the claims they have upon us ?
Is all speculation to be determined by this, and to be deter
mined by no other intimations of consciousness ? There may
be greater power in the intimations of consciousness now, but
is there greater truthfulness ? Is it not the same self-conscious
being still ? We are satisfied, however, with the admission,
that now we have an irresistible authority, that we have an
appeal which cannot be resisted, that conscience depones to an
external world, and an external sphere of being : duty has its
relations, and these are external, or suppose external being.
Undoubtedly, there is a power in moral convictions, in the felt
relations of moral duty, which nothing can gainsay, and
nothing can silence. It is wisdom to listen to its voice,
though wisdom might have come earlier to the determination
of such a question, and a less authoritative and powerful appeal
might have sooner satisfied the mind in reference to a subject
on which all consciousness should be authoritative.

The moral in our constitution, it will be seen, therefore, has
a very great importance, and asserts a very great power and
control. It determines a question, according to Kant himself,
that were otherwise undetermined, or that but for it, for the
practical in our nature, had remained undetermined, and would
have admitted of no solution. We would still have been in
doubt as to an external world, and all its phenomena ; they
might have existed, or they might not. We are no longer in
doubt : we have practically to do with that world : it makes
practical demands upon us, and we are now recalled to cer
tainty, to actuality, to unmistakable existence, to a world that
we were disposed before to let go, to dismiss from the category

476 THE MORAL NATURE.

of being, and resolve into the mere phenomena of conscious
ness. This is a great effect. It was candid in such a philoso
pher to admit it. We may remark the superior certainty that
moral consciousness, the intimations of duty, give to our feel
ings, while we had no such tendency to let go the external
world, merely from the difficulty of passing from a state of
consciousness to one of actual cognition or belief — while to our
minds the intimations of consciousness in every state of it was
regarded as decisive or irresistible. We do feel that we have
to do with less mistakable matter: that we have more cer
tainty ; or, at least, that there is less possibility of appeal from
the intimations within, and the demands that we recognise
from without. The moral and spiritual being — the faculty
belonging to such a nature — is authoritative and paramount ;
the infinite destinies connected with the possession of such a
nature do not admit of trifling, are grand themselves, and
assume a grand importance — make us feel a reality which
characterizes in the same manner no other feelings; so that
while we could look abroad upon the world, and admit the
possibility of its being all illusion, we cannot for a moment so
deal with our spiritual and immortal nature, and with those
duties that it imposes, and those destinies it implies.

It is worth while remarking this peculiar characteristic of
what Kant calls " the practical reason." It was a solution to
Kant himself of what ought never to have been to him a
problem. The informations of consciousness ought to be au
thoritative in every case. There is a difference between the
erroneous informations of consciousness at particular times, as
under a hallucination, or in a dream, and the stable informa-
.tions of consciousness upon which all proceed, and which we
' have not at particular times merely, but at all times, uniformly,
whenever our minds and senses are in the circumstances to
receive such and such impressions. Kant himself owns the
authority of the " practical reason ;" but wherein is our con
sciousness now distinguished from our consciousness before ?
What makes the difference ? There is no difference in the
nature of the consciousness ; there is a difference only in the

THE MORAL NATURE. 477

strength of it. Nothing can be more absurd than a negative
philosophy, in spite of all the demonstrations of German
metaphysics, or the apparent difficulties in which Berkeleian-
ism involves us. How absurd for a moment to doubt the '
informations of the mind which God has given us — of mind at,
all ! It comes to be a question at last, what is certainty itself?
Let the philosophers who refuse to believe in the informations
of mind, given in our consciousness, determine what certainty £
is at all. What kind of certainty do we need other than we
have ? What other kind of certainty can there be ? What
is the certainty of demonstration, but the certainty which our
mind gives us, which our minds allow ? Is it not mind that
appreciates that certainty as much as the certainty of sense —
or moral certainty ? We cannot see that we have ground for
believing anything, even a demonstrative truth, if we have not
ground for believing in the clear and distinct informations of
consciousness. It was a true test of existence which Descartes
laid down, namely, the clearness and distinctness of our ideas. )(
What else is the test of demonstration ? We allow, however, the^
superior force of our moral convictions, of moral consciousness.*
There is something, no doubt, in the manner in which a moral
principle announces itself, that speaks of being ; that depones
more authoritatively in respect to other existence?,to other beings.
To recur to the extract from Morell, — " Ideas -which in theory,
cannot hold good, in practice are seen to have a reality, because'
they become the cause of human actions, — an effect which could
never take place, if there were not some real existence to pro-ii
duce it." We might be disposed to ask the absolute philo-'1
sopher, Why this is an effect which could never take place,
unless there was a real existence to produce it ? May not the
effects in the region of morals be as much an illusion as any
where else, and may not all real existences be as little credible
now as ever? What is there in a moral feeling that makes x
existence credible, or likely, when it was discarded before ?if
Nothing, surely, more than the greater authority and vividness^
of the feeling. This is all the difference. But will authority
and vividness decide the question, where Descartes' distinctness

478 THE MORAL NATURE.

and clearness were not enough ? They might not, certainly ;
but they may come in to help the criterion which Descartes
laid down. The additional distinctness, the additional clear
ness, if there can be said to be these — at all events, the addi
tional authority, may well strengthen our convictions of an
external, even a material world. It will be found that philo
sophy is never true to itself when it seeks more than con
sciousness depones to ; but that it is perfectly true to itself
when it receives all to which consciousness does depone. To
question the informations of consciousness, is to set up an
arbiter which we have no right to appoint. Consciousness is
our arbiter. Mistake, deception, false inference ! we have no
right to use the words ; we must believe as we are informed.
True, all is consciousness ; but our belief is consciousness, too,
or is as much a law of the mind as consciousness. We are
conscious of the belief: — Shall we discard that consciousness,
and trust implicitly in the other ? It is the consciousness of
a belief ; the other is the consciousness of a certain impression
) or sensation. Is the one consciousness any less true than the
other ? Consciousness itself is not to be believed — must be all
an illusion, at this rate. It may be said that a belief is autho
ritative, as a part of consciousness, but that it is not authorita
tive as a belief. It is a mere consciousness. What, then, is
the good of our consciousness ? Does not consciousness itself
infer the belief in the truth, or in the existence, of at least that
consciousness ? Are we not warranted to believe in that ? We
are not, if a belief of the mind, as such, is not self-evidencing
or authoritative ; and, if we are not warranted to believe in our
state of consciousness, the last subject of belief is taken from
us, and there is nothing in which we can believe. There is
nothing between us and the most absolute nihilism, which,
accordingly, is the result of an absolute philosophy, and to
which some of the German philosophers hesitate not to come.

We make these remarks in connexion with the new depart
ment on which we are entering, because of the peculiar nature
of that department, and the assistance which it seems to lend to
the interests of a positive philosophy, — a service recognised by

THE MORAL NATURE. 479

Kant himself, — too candid a philosopher, it would appear, to
reject an evidence when it was so plain and authoritative. It
is a peculiarity of the moral department of our nature, which
strikes the mind at any rate. We shall have occasion, as we
proceed, to mark the authoritative voice of conscience, its
supreme majesty, and the evidence that it yields, that we are
not alone in the universe ; that we are bound up with a system ;
that there are other beings besides ourselves ; and that exist
ence, and the relations of existence, are not mere fictions, but,,
if we may so express ourselves, the truest verities.

After the course of inquiry we have prosecuted, it will not ap
pear surprising if it is ultimate facts we have to do with in the
moral, as well as in the mental and emotional departments of
our nature. In any department we but carry up our discussions
a certain length, and then stop, unable to penetrate farther,
and resting in the ultimate facts or laws of our minds at which
we arrive. Can it be otherwise ? We do not know what we •
are inquiring into, when we would ascertain anything farther1
than appearances, or more than what any being, law, or nature,
is as it appears to us. Is this not all the Ontology that is*
possible ? Arrive at the most ultimate, the most elementary
principle in our constitution, and is that not needing to be<
accounted for ? and what is ontology except just things as they
affect us ? We cannot speak of the nature of the Divine
mind, and Divine knowledge, but we might be warranted to
ask, If there can be any ontology beyond what things are as
they appear to the Divine Being himself ? Things are just as
they appear, and more elementary principles or elements may
be known to an omniscient mind, but the very last element
would seem to be just an element of being or of truth. The
essence of being, for example, the substratum of qualities — must
not that be just what it seems, or, more properly speaking,
what it is seen to be ? We admit there is an essence or sub-,*
stratum in which qualities inhere, and which is known, pro- i
bably, only to the Divine mind, or, at least, is not granted to!
our knowledge here. But grant that essence known, and what

480 THE MORAL NATURE.

would it be to us other than it was seen to be ? It is the same
with those ultimate facts of being, and principles of truth,
which are subjects of our knowledge : What are they, and
what can they be, but as they are seen or known ? Need we
quarrel with this limit of our knowledge ? Or does the fact of
knowledge having a limit somewhere undervalue what we do
know ? or is a principle depreciated in worth because it is an
ultimate principle, or because we can say no more about it than
that so it is ? We know nothing of the essence of being ; arid
we know nothing of the qualities of being further than as these
qualities affect us. But is being, and are the qualities of being,
nothing on that account ? Shall we deal with these as we
would with illusions merely ? No ; we cannot say what they
are other than as they impress us, or as we may have an idea
of them ; for we have an idea even of essence, or substratum,
such as that idea is ; but we do not, therefore, deny them to be —
as Berkeley, and the German Idealists, would — but believe them
to be something, and what, at least, they impress our minds
with being. What conceivable necessity is there for defining
a quality to be more than what it appears to us, or than just
as it affects us ? Is not that the very thing to be described ?
We wish a certain quality described ; we say, then, it is that
which affects us in such and such a manner. Is not this all
that is necessary — all that, perhaps, can be ? We might ask
if qualities appear to the Divine mind other than they do to
our own ? What can be beyond the quality besides the quality
of affecting us in such and such a way ? Time, Space, Power,
or any elementary idea — is there anything in it beyond what
itself is seen or recognised to be by any given Intelligent ?
What could that be — is it likely that there is anything more
than what our minds are capable, even now, of informing us of,
or representing to us ? It might, without irreverence, be ques
tioned, if the Divine Being has any other knowledge of these
than we ourselves possess. More precise ideas the Divine
Being must possess, but are they not still of the same kind with
• our own ?* What can power be to any mind other than that

* See Note C.

THE MORAL NATURE. 481

which produces an effect ? what could be more precise about
that idea than just what we have here said of it ? If there is
more to be known of it, it must be not as power, but as something
connected with it, distinguishing it, arid making the idea of
power more vivid, perhaps, and more complete than that which
we possess. Power of itself must ever be that which produces
an effect. How power operates, one, and yet varied, in all the
different manifestations of it, may be inconceivable to us, and
may admit of more definite ideas, and must be clearly compre
hensible to the Divine mind, — but power itself, can it ever be
other than that which produces an effect ?

When we come, accordingly, to deal with the abstract prin
ciples of right and wrong, we say it is not wonderful, if here, too,
we have something ultimate, and, indeed, abstractly speaking,
it were strange if in all knowledge there was not something
ultimate, something beyond which nothing farther could be
known. Must not this, we have already asked, be the case
even with the Divine mind ? Must there not necessarily in
every case be a last element of knowledge ? Is this to limit
the Divine knowledge ? It is not. And the question just
comes to be, If there is something so evidently unexhausted in
what may be the object of our knowledge, that, although we
cannot go any farther, there must evidently be something
further which remains yet to be known ? It seems to be a
gratuitous assumption that this is the case. It has been the
custom with philosophers, and with those who are not philoso
phers, to think and speak as if there must be something beyond
every subject of knowledge, which can be apprehended only by
the Divine mind, or as the Divine mind chooses to reveal it, or
make it the object of knowledge also to others. This is the
origin of Ontology, and of all questions to elucidate the hidden
nature of being, and of the principles and laws of being.
Something more is sought for, or is inquired into, than being
as it is, or qualities as they affect us, and principles as we can
appreciate them. In no questions has this tendency been more
seen, and produced more discussion, than in regard to the
nature of right and wrong — the standard according to which

2e

482 THE MORAL NATURE.

we judge of it, and the nature of that principle by which we
form our judgment. The tendency here, as in regard to the
other parts of our nature, and indeed to being and law gener
ally, has been perhaps a natural one ; as much so, at least, as
in any other department, or in regard to any other object of
inquiry. To determine the precise nature of virtue — of the
moral principle, of the moral element — was no more than a
natural tendency, surely, and might well be deemed as worthy
a subject of inquiry as any other ; more worthy, by how much
the subject itself is more worthy, more important. But as
respects this subject, there was a greater danger of the tendency,
; perhaps, than as regards any other; for if to seek to penetrate
beyond an ultimate law or principle be always dangerous,
landing, as it does, in a professed scepticism, or in a vague
unsatisfactory doubt, and even in some cases leading to a
rejection of all knowledge whatever, and therefore plunging
into the abyss of nihilism ; the evil is augmented when it is
moral principle, or the law of morality, with which we have to
deal, inasmuch as a moral principle, or the law of morals, is of
far greater importance than any other ; and to involve the
mind in doubt or uncertainty here, or again in a state of entire
abnegation, is to insure the most undesirable and the most
disastrous consequences. Here especially is it dangerous to
refuse assent to a principle of the mind itself, and to what that
principle asserts and demands of us. It is a more sacred and
precious element we have now to deal with ; where, if the fine
ness and sacredness of the element escapes us, through a too
eager and inquisitive desire to bring out that element itself to
view, we have sacrificed all that was valuable and dignified
and exalted to a speculative tendency, and have gained
nothing in the additional information we have acquired, or in
the supposed light we have been able to throw upon the sub
ject. We have only found out our own ignorance, while we
have not added to, but rather diminished, the weight of our
principles. Virtue is like a fine essence that will not be
analyzed without escaping in the hands of the experimenter.
y. That there are eternal distinctions of right and wrong, who

THE MORAL NATURE. 483

can for a moment doubt ? How vain to inquire into the
ground of these^as of any abstract principles whatever ! It is
different when we inquire into the nature of any complex feel
ing or law of the mind. We have then to determine the
elements which go to compose it. This may be at once
interesting and useful. To fix the nature of beauty, for ex
ample, we may consider all the elements that are either
involved in the emotion or feeling, or that are connected with
it, and if we come to any ultimate principle, it is in vain, and
it were foolish, to attempt to go any farther. Why it is that^
any object appears beautiful or otherwise, may be a question ^
comprehending distinctions, and requiring analysis of certain*
complex feelings ; for the emotion of the beautiful, if ulti-*
mately elementary, and incapable of analysis, has yet muclif.
connected with it which it derives from other feelings, into*
which we may inquire, and which we may with interest inves
tigate. But the ground of moral approbation — the distinction^
between right and wrong — is essentially an ultimate question/*
and can admit of no analysis : and farther than the distinc-/.
tion itself, therefore, we cannot go. Is this to do away withX
the distinction ? By no means. It remains in its own im-i
pregnable stronghold, from which nothing is able to dislodge
it. There are many circumstances, however, connected with*
the distinction, which it is important to remark, as we would
remark the circumstances characterizing any speculative or
practical distinction whatever, and calling for more particular
remark, the more that the distinction is one of great and para
mount importance. The distinction in our minds between
right and wrong, as every phenomenon of our nature is calcul
ated to do, leads to the inquiry, What is the amount of the i
distinction — what is the nature of it — why do we regard this />
as right and that as wrong ? But no sooner was this inquiry**
started, than it took different shapes, which were after all one
in reality, or resolvable into one and the same, but which, from
the different terms employed, as the question took one form or
another, created, and still occasion, considerable confusion. ]f
we were to limit our inquiry to what is the nature of the dis-

484 THE MORAL NATURE.

tinction between right and wrong — what is the ground of this
distinction ? we would have a very precise object in view. But
when we ask what is the standard by which we judge between
right and wrong, how do we recognise the distinction ? what
again is virtue ? and what is that faculty within us by which
we determine what is right and what is wrong — what is virtu
ous and what is not ? — all these separate inquiries, involving,
in the main, the same element, or resolvable ultimately into the
same inquiry, were still different, and led to great confusion, by
being discussed as one, or by the terms employed in the differ
ent inquiries being regarded as interchangeable. Let the in
quiry be, What is the distinction between right and wrong, or
what is the ground of that distinction ? and it will be seen we
inquire into an abstract principle, and we might soon perceive
that we are no more able to determine that principle, or to say
anything more about it, than that it is ultimate, or that so it is,
than in the case of any of the ultimate laws or principles of our
minds, and of any of our original and elementary ideas. We
perceive the distinction — the distinction presses itself upon our
attention in spite of ourselves ; we cannot destroy it if we
would ; but it is ultimate : it has no grounds for it beyond the
nature of the distinction itself, or at least we cannot perceive
;the grounds. But when it is asked, What is the standard by
: which we judge of right and wrong — what is the standard of
V right and wrong ? — we are in effect asking, What is the ground
V of the distinction between right and wrong, or, in other words,
V what is the nature of right and wrong ? But then, the mind,
in its inattention or inadvertence, introduces arbitrary standards,
formed upon certain views of right and wrong ; and thus the
question is transferred from the distinction between right and
wrong, or the ground of it, if that can be found, or, if the dis
tinction is not ultimate, to something else, some characteristics,
or circumstances, connected with the distinction, which we
conclude to be the ground of the distinction itself, and which
we accordingly regard as the standard by which we estimate it :
and we seem all the while to be inquiring into the nature or
i ground of the distinction itself. In like manner, when the in-

THE MORAL NATURE. 485

quiry is into the nature of virtue, we may seem to be inquiring
into the distinction between right and wrong — the nature or
ground of that distinction ; and we fix upon certain circum
stances connected with virtue, characterizing and distinguish
ing it, which we pronounce to be of the essence of virtue itself,
and which we call the standard of virtue, according to the par
ticular circumstance that we may fix upon. The term virtue
carries the mind away from the real object of inquiry, namely,
the nature of right and wrong, the distinction between these,
the eternal characteristics of the qualities themselves ; and it is
easy to find something distinguishing so undefined a term as
virtue by which to describe it, and in which the thing itself
may be said to consist. Then, again, we inquire into the
nature of the moral faculty. We ask, what is that according
to which we approve of an action, and disapprove of another ?
and we say it is this or that quality in the action ; and the
moral faculty is that by which we recognise that quality, while
the quality is that which constitutes the morality of the action;
or the moral faculty is a sense within us, and the morality of
an action is its correspondence with this moral sense. This too
removes the question away from the true object, and fixes it
upon, it may be, some arbitrary quality, or makes right and
wrong dependent upon a certain sense within ourselves. The
proper object of inquiry is, What is right and wrong in itself —
what constitutes the distinction — can we find anv ground of it

•/ O

— can we lay down any principles or reasons why we pronounce
an action right or wrong — are there such principles either dis
coverable, or at all — or is the distinction ultimate, and can we
find no ground of it beyond itself? This seems to be the
proper question ; and the standard of right and wrong, and the
nature of virtue, are just the Tightness and wrongness of an
action itself, perceived to be such by the mind ultimately ; and
the moral faculty is the judgment, with the accompanying feel
ing, by which we perceive this distinction, and by which it has
such authority over us. Sir James Mackintosh, at the com
mencement of his " Dissertation upon the Progress of Ethical
Philosophy," has pointed out the confusion which has arisen"

486 THE MORAL NATUKE.

from the blending of the above questions, and from not keeping
in view the true object of investigation. The different theories
upon the subject of morals, therefore, cannot be regarded as
theories upon the same subject at all, although they are so re
garded — as theories, namely, having in view the determination
of the nature of virtue, or of the distinction between right and
wrong : the nature of the moral faculty merely comes in as sub
sidiary to this, at least professedly so ; although with those again
who exalt this faculty into a moral sense, their main object is to
settle this, and then an action takes its character according as
it is regarded as in unison or not with this inward sense. This
diversity of object creates great difficulty in dealing with the
opinions and views that have been entertained in this depart
ment of inquiry, for no two writers almost have precisely the
same object, while at the same time their own remarks are not
confined to one object, but take up by turns every one of the
questions that we have hinted at above. We must endeavour
to extricate the real object of inquiry, and form a right esti
mate of the different theories, according to the real point of
view from which the question was considered in them, whether
their own precise question, or the general abstract question of
morals or of duty.

That the mind recognises a distinction between right and
wrong in action, is undoubted. The mind as certainly pro
nounces between these two qualities as between any two quali
ties, between numbers, or between the comparative magnitudes
of bodies. The relation of number and magnitude is not more
certainly appreciable by the mind than the relation of right
and wrong. In any theory of morals, then, or any attempt to
determine in what consists the morality of an action, the ques
tion simply is, What is it which gives to us the Tightness and
wrongness of an action, or whereby we determine it to be right
or wrong ? What is the ground of this distinction ? Is there
any ground for the distinction appreciable by the mind ; or is
the distinction ultimate ? When we say that an action is right
or wrong, have we any ground for saying so beyond the right-
ness or wrongness of the action itself ? Can we explain why

THE MORAL NATURE. 487

it is right, or why it is wrong — give any reasons for pronouncing
it so ? Now, it would seem that no account or explanation of
this can be given, but that we perceive at once the quality of
lightness or wrongness apart from any such explanation ; in
other words, that the distinction is an ultimate one, and that
the best reason for the distinction is the distinction itself.
Why should we seek a reason ? The distinction is cognisable
by our minds in itself, and depends on nothing else. It is not
because this or that is so, that an action is right or wrong ; it
is right or wrong in itself. To abstain from injuring our
neighbour is right, not on any ground that we can assign, but
in itself absolutely. The moment we seek for reasons for act
ing in this way, we degrade our action from its high moral
character, its own imperative obligation, and make it something
else than an action implying moral obligation ; or, if the rea
sons we assign imply moral obligation, it is still because of
some Tightness or wrongness, which requires us to act in such
and such a way ; and thus the question is still as to Tightness
and wrongness, and not as to anything else. Do I say I should
not injure my neighbour, because he is my neighbour — because
he holds that relation to me — the question recurs, Why should
we not injure any one holding this relation ? Why should we
abstain from injury at all ? Is there not a propriety in doing
so apart from all reasons beyond the nature of the action itself ?
The previous obligation is considered or felt before there is even
time to entertain any other question. If we act in any case
from other reasons than those of moral Tightness and propriety,
the action is not a moral one, or it is morally wrong, because
it is not performed with a view to the moral lightness of the
action, when it ought to be ; nor can it be all one, whether it is
done from a moral principle or not, provided it be done at all.
Moral principle demands that it be done from a regard to the
Tightness of the action, not only to be morally right, but if it
would not be morally wrong. Negation of principle is wrong
principle — is itself wrong. I am required to act in such and
such a way, from a respect to the Tightness of the action itself.
No other motive should influence me. The authority of the

488 THE MORAL NATURE.

action, its lightness, should be my sole motive, or my para
mount obligation. This is the obligation of duty. The right-
ness or wrongness in any case should be all — is the highest rea
son. The mind is capable of apprehending right and wrong ;
the perception of this relation as much belongs to it as that of
any other. But there is something in the nature of the relation
which is in no other. Any other relation is but an object of
perception, or, at most, the perception, is accompanied but with
an aesthetic emotion, or an emotion peculiar to the perception
of the beautiful, or, more generally, the imaginative or ideal ;
but this is accompanied with the feeling of obligation, or the
strong feeling that impels to duty. The feeling of obligation
arises out of the very nature of the action ; it belongs to the
distinction between right and wrong ; to the perception of that
distinction. The perception of the distinction carries with it
the weight and the force of duty. It is not to weaken the
distinction between right and wrong, to suppose such a feeling
accompanying the perception of it. The perception is not
the perception of a mere relation, it is of a moral relation, or
the relation of right and wrong ; and that perception, when it
is just, is never but accompanied by a certain feeling or emo
tion. Were we to see a person deliberately inflicting injury on
another, from whom he had never received any provocation,
the mind would perceive at once a wrongness in the action ;
nothing required it ; no law demanded it ; it was contrary to
the relation in which the party injured stood to the party
injuring, that of never having done injury to him, given the
slightest provocation : the action, therefore, is essentially wrong.
There was no relation whatever, it may be, between the parties :
Why should there be that of unprovoked injury and unmerited
suffering ? No reason could be assigned for this ; nothing could
explain it. But this incongruity or inconsistency is not all that
we perceive ; there is a wrongness, a moral wrongness, a wrong-
ness that excites disapprobation. In like manner, any act of
fraud — taking that which is not our own — which is another's —
so that we use that which he had the right to use, is surely to
introduce a new relation, making one's-self the owner of what

THE MORAL NATURE. 489

was not really his own, and acting as if the real owner was not
the owner : But whence the peculiar idea of right and wrong,
and why, in this mere perception, the feeling of moral dis
approbation ? It is obvious there is something more than a
perception of a relation ; the relation is that of right or wrong :
it is something which we at once pronounce wrong, in the
instance supposed, and is accompanied or followed by a moral
feeling. Brightness and wrongness, respectively, imply this
feeling ; it would be merely a perception of incongruity other
wise. The morality of the action is something more than its
incongruity. Many actions are incongruous which are not
wrong, and excite no moral disapprobation. Whence the
wrongness ? whence the moral disapprobation ? The wrong-
ness is the moral incongruity. And here all the peculiarity
lies in the moral element — moral incongruity. Incongruity we
can understand ; inconsistency, unfitness ; but what is moral in
it — the element which allows us to call it moral incongruity ?
which allows us to speak of it as wrong ? This is the very
point in the question. And we are thus, undoubtedly, brought
to an ultimate law of the mind. It is the mind itself ultimately
that determines the good of an action. It is good, and the
mind perceives it to be so. The mind does not make the action
good : it is good independently ; but we can give no reason for
its being so, and it is the determination of the mind itself that
allows us to pronounce it so. It is the decision of the mind
depending upon no assignable grounds ; and ultimate, or what
reason sees necessarily to be. To go farther than this would
be to seek a reason, which would itself require a reason, and so
on infinitely. There must be ultimately something appreciable
by reason which needs no reason for it, for which we could give
no reason. A relation is appreciable by the mind irrespective
of any reason ; it contains its own reason ; it is self-luminous,
self-evident. Relations are what are appreciable by the mind,
the matter of the mind's thoughts ; and while there are rela
tions that may not be seen but in virtue of simpler ones,
dependencies of truth upon truth, there are simple truths
which do not admit of proof — relations, ultimate, for which we

490 THE MORAL NATURE.

can give no account. This is seen in every department of
truth, and in moral truth as well as any other. Man is an
intellectual, an emotional, and a moral being, and in respect
to each department of his nature, there are ultimate facts or
laws beyond which we cannot go. To seek a reason for any of
these, would be to seek a reason for reason itself, or a law for
law itself. " The main principles of reason," says Hooker,
" are in themselves apparent ; for to make nothing evident of
itself to man's understanding, were to take away all possibility
of knowing anything. And herein that of Theophrastus is
true : — l They that seek a reason for all things do utterly over
throw reason.' " If I ask why an action is right, it is impossible
to give a reason ; and I. can perceive that its own rightness is
its highest reason — that it were to degrade it, to seek a reason
for its being right. That the relation of right and wrong, as a
relation, is of the same nature as any other, is perfectly obvious,
and it differs from any other only in being a moral relation, or
the relation of right and wrong, and the object therefore not
only of perception by a percipient agent, but of moral approba
tion or disapprobation by a moral agent. We not only perceive,
but we approve, what is right, as we not only perceive, but
disapprove, what is Avrong. The relation of rightness and
wrongness, however, in itself is appreciable by reason : it is the
peculiarity of the relation that makes it further an object of
moral approbation or disapprobation. The peculiarity of the
relation excites a certain emotion in the moral percipient.
What can we say more of this, than it is in the nature of the
perceived relation to do so, and of the moral nature to experi
ence that emotion in every such case of a perceived moral
relation ? That we possess a moral nature is not more wonder
ful, surely, than that we possess a nature at all. He that
formed us, formed us with that nature, and we have but to
mark its operations, and obey its dictates. Nor, because we
were so made, is our nature arbitrary, might it have so been or
not. If it were arbitrary, then were God's nature arbitrary,
and moral distinction were a thing of creation. But it is not
so ; moral distinction is eternal, and God made other natures

THE MORAL NATUliE. 491

like His own, moral in their constitution, and capable of moral
discernment. The distinction which such a nature appreciates
is one of eternal value or import, and independent of God
himself. It is one intrinsic, eternal, and not constituted or
created. Were it to depend even upon the nature of God, it
would lose half its worth — might we not say all its worth ? —
for its value consists in being of eternal, intrinsic worth, and
therefore that to which God's own nature is conformed, al
though eternally and essentially so. The distinction is such
that there cannot be a moral nature without appreciating it,
and there cannot be a perfect moral nature without being
entirely conformed to it. A moral being apprehends the dis
tinction, and a perfect moral being is in unison with it. It is
like any other relation that pervades any other being : it is
the relation of that being, and, if an intelligent being, appre
hensible by it. Could we conceive matter intelligent, it would
be perceptive of the relations pervading it: all intelligents
perceive the relations of mere intelligent being, and all moral
beings perceive the relations of moral being. To possess a
moral nature, is to possess a capacity for deciding between
right and wrong — perceiving the distinction, which is ultimate
and eternal. Ask a reason for it, and none can be given : it is
like any of the relations of the mind which are ultimate. Does
this detract from the value of the distinction ? Is a principle
less right because it is ultimate, and we can assign no reason
for it ? If it were so, would not this suppose an infinite series
of reasons to constitute the worth of one ? — for arrive at any
ultimate reason, and what constitutes the worth of it, if every
principle up to it was worthless unless we could assign a reason
for it ? or why may not some principle at an earlier stage of
the series be the ultimate one ? The distinction is not the
less a distinction that it is ultimate. It is perceivable, and it
is authoritative. The mind appreciates it, and it comes with
all the moral weight of a moral principle to the mind, asserting
its own intrinsic and eternal value, and commanding conformity
and obedience. The very distinction is a law to every moral
nature : it is the most authoritative law in itself that could

492 THE MORAL NATURE.

possibly be proclaimed or promulgated. It is the eternal
voice, speaking in eternal distinctions. That voice rises above
every other, and demands an obedience in virtue of its own
commanding authority. No other can be heard in preference
to it, or before it. God himself has given place to it, as it
were, and put it before His own authoritative command. lie
has done so by constituting us capable of perceiving the dis
tinction between right and wrong. This was not merely that
we might perceive the propriety of obeying His command ; it
was that we might perceive the propriety of that which He
commanded, and which He commands, because it was eternally
right in itself, and because His own nature is immutably con
formed to it. It is not His will that gives it authority, else it
would have no authority prior to His will ; and His will would
be but an arbitrary appointment unless there were principles
on which that will was based. It is the appeal which God him
self makes in His own Word : " Shall not the Judge of all the
earth do right ?" — which would have no meaning unless there
was a standard by which His own actions were to be tried.
His righteousness is one of His attributes ; and it is one which
He peculiarly vindicates, and which He peculiarly sets forth as
distinguishing His character, arid forming the ground of His
procedure. It marks His dispensations, it characterizes His
actions, it is embodied in His law, it will guide His decisions in
the last great day. That righteousness is what He appeals to
in all His varied dealings with our race. It was to vindicate it
that the scheme of redemption was devised ; for otherwise God
could not be a just God and a Saviour. In the contempla
tion of the completion of that scheme, speaking prophetically
and by anticipation, He says : — " I am well pleased for my
righteousness' sake ; for I have magnified the law and made it
honourable." The death of Christ exhibits the law in an aspect
in which nothing else could, even that of eternal and unswerv
ing obligation. Till this, it might be capable of a question,
whether it might not be relaxed. No ; such a question could
never be entertained, and the grand problem \vas, How God
could be just in justifying the ungodly, how His clemency could

THE MORAL NATURE. 493

reach the sinner ? for the law could not be relaxed. It bound the
Almighty himself, and He could reconcile love and justice only
in the substitution and sacrifice of His Son. It is not too much
to put this law, then, not above God, but in a place of authority
in which it can be regarded apart from Him, and as of eternal
and immutable obligation. It is the law of eternal right and
wrong, which must govern all moral beings, and from whose
claims or principles the Divine nature itself is not exempted.

Though the distinction between right and wrong must be
regarded as eternal and immutable, and the law founded on it
of independent and immutable obligation, there is a high sense
in which the law, is the law of God, deriving additional autho
rity from its connexion with Him, and possessing an additional
value, in consequence, to every moral being. That law had no
concrete existence but in God ; and though we can recognise it
as of abstract and eternal obligation, and having its authority
in itself, on the ground of its own Tightness, or in virtue of the
distinction which no being could create, but which must be
eternally true or just, it had a concrete existence in God from
all eternity; and, sovereign among the beings He had made,
they must be under subjection to Him, and the law of eternal
rectitude must bind them not only by its own authority, but
by the additional obligation which it derives as being the law
of Him whose creatures they were. The law of an empire is
the law of that empire, though the principles on which it is
based be eternal. The law of eternal rectitude is the law of
God's nature, and He has adopted it as the law of His govern
ment. The relation of the creature and the Creator necessarily
infers obedience and sovereignty — sovereignty in the Creator,
obedience from the creature. This is as eternal a principle as
any other, and belongs to that law which, one and indivisible
as the law of right, has as many aspects as there are relations
of being to which it applies. The law of moral right is one,
but it contemplates in its sweeping authority every relation in
which beings stand to each other, and takes its aspect accord
ingly. Does God stand in the relation of the Creator to His

494 THE MORAL NATURE.

creatures ? The law of right guides Him in His relation to
them : the same law guides them in their relation to Him, and
to each other. Their relation to Him is necessarily that of sub
jection, and if subjection be that relation, obedience is its duty
and expression, and the law of right must control and direct
in that obedience : it is therefore the law of God. and must be
obeyed in obedience to Him, as well as from obedience to the
law itself. The relation in which God stands to us, and in
which we stand to Him respectively, ought never to be for
gotten. It is a solemn one ; and it does not at all follow that
it is to be disregarded in recognising the eternal obligations of
the law of right. We are God's subjects, and we are to recog
nise His authority in every duty, while we recognise the claim
of duty itself. Undoubtedly, the law of right has its own in
dependent claim, but God is to be recognised also, onr subjec
tion to Him, and His right of sovereignty over us. It is never
to be forgotten that He not only has, but asserts a right of
sovereignty over us, that we are accountable to Him, and He
is pleased to be regarded as our sovereign and our judge. It
is surely an act of infinite condescension on the part of God to
recognise this relation, and to assume us into such a relation
with Himself. Having endowed us with such a nature, He
takes cognizance of our actions, and will at last bring us to
account. As we were at first created, and in that innocence
in which we at first came from the hands of our Maker, the
same subjection, springing out of the same relation, required or
inferred the same obedience ; but obedience alone was known,
and no final judgment could be necessary when the law had
not been broken, and God's authority had never been resisted
or disowned. Then the law was obeyed in the spontaneous
acts of the soul, and God's sacred authority was felt, and was
secretly delighted in. The obligations of the law would be
recognised in no other way than as they were felt : resistance
would awaken no challenge, and hardly authority would be felt
at all in the spontaneousness of that obedience that would be
rendered. The law would truly then be that of love, or just
the conformity of a nature to every moral obligation. Obedience

THE MORAL NATURE. 495

to God would be obedience to the law. In rendering obedience
to the latter, it would hardly be felt that any obedience was in
the case, and love and reverence would be the only feelings
towards God. It is now, in our fallen state, that obedience to
God is more direct, and more observed, and that He gathers
up the principles of moral rectitude, and imposes them as a law
upon us. Before, it would hardly be recognised that he was
the lawgiver, just as among the unfallen angels it will be the
law of universal love, of pure and holy natures, who know no
thing of evil, and are superior to it. Direct obedience to God
in those services He may require, is altogether different from
obedience to the law generally, and obedience to it with a
recognition of subjection to God. It is because of the chal
lenge that the law makes upon us, and the resistance it
meets with, now that we are evil, that it is felt to be a
law, and that it has actually been promulgated by God ; for
the law in the heart would never have been felt to be a
law, and would have rendered any authoritative promul
gation of it by God unnecessary. It would not have been
a law in itself, and still less would God have found it ne
cessary to issue it as a law from Mount Sinai. Before, it
would not even be the distinction between right and wrong,
for wrong would be unknown, and right would be the spon
taneous choice of the heart. It is now, accordingly, that it
seems to be at all extraordinary to say, that the law of right
is independent of God himself, for He has now authoritatively
promulgated it, while before, He had written it only on the
heart. He has challenged it as His law ; He has made dis
obedience to it, disobedience to Himself; and He has shown
the consentaneousness of His own nature with it, and made
its cause His own. He has put His will directly in the case.
Before, that will was directly proclaimed only in the matter of
the command enjoining our first parents to abstain from a
certain act. Now, it is authoritatively promulgated with the
whole law, and the authority of His will, His command, is
given along with the authority of the law. When He created
moral natures capable of moral distinctions, that was the law,

496 THE MORAL NATURE.

although the supremacy of God, His right over the creature,
was felt so as it cannot be felt now, and a holy obedience was
rendered to God just in the spontaneous performance of every
duty, and in direct reverence and homage. But the law is
now more directly challenged by God as His own, and He has
directly imposed it, by His own authority, upon man. It is
His law now pre-eminently. He has published the rule of life
— He has put it on the tables of stone — He has given His im
primatur to it. It was lying broken and neglected : He has
taken it up and vindicated its integrity. What He trusted to
be done in the nature which He had created, He now insists
upon being done when that nature is no longer impelled to
wards it by spontaneous obligation, by an unfallen will. The
law is maintained in its integrity — it is still held up to the
creature. The juncture required such a promulgation of the
law in connexion with the scheme, which is intended not only
to vindicate the law, but to save the transgressor. The com
mand to our first parents, by which they were put on their
trial, was an arbitrary one, as if His right of command could
not have been so well seen in any other way. He must show
His right of command, and put our first parents upon trial.
The spontaneous preference of the right, or rather conformity
with the law of their being, would have otherwise had no pro
per trial. It was by an arbitrary command that God showed
His right to obedience. We cannot understand all the nature
of that transaction by which God put our first parents on pro
bation, and on which the destinies of onr race were made to
hinge ; but most probably it was, partly at least, that other
wise no proper test of obedience could have been proposed.
An arbitrary law was necessary ; for the eternal law of duty
would have been obeyed for itself, and there would not have
been the same possibility of challenge, and consequently means
of probation. The harmony of their natures with all that was
in the usual course of rectitude, would not have allowed of the
same test as an arbitrary law. Nothing would have stalled a
doubt in their rninds as to the propriety of obedience, or the
right in any one instance to dispense with known obligation.

THE MORAL NATURE. 497

Now it is different. The law of eternal right itself must be
published in the form of a command. There is disinclination,
where before there was inclination, to the law. The law itself
is no longer in the nature of the moral being : it is a law from
which the moral being is in revolt, although He may still
recognise its authority over him. If God is to maintain His
authority, then, the law must be published as a command. It
must be promulgated authoritatively from the throne of God.
It has been so promulgated, and therefore it is that it is now
especially regarded as the law of God, and not the law of
eternal right merely — especially regarded, for it could never
but be the law of God. It has obtained re-enaction from
Him — it has been revealed with new sanctions — and those
sanctions are connected with it, which were formerly con
nected with an arbitrary command only. The penalty of
transgression could never be other than death, but that
penalty was not made knoivn in connexion with the eternal
law of right, but with the arbitrary statute promulgated in
Eden. It is now the penalty of the law itself, and is lying
upon every transgressor. Hence the re-promulgation of the law.
It was added, because of transgression. Still it must always
have been the law of God, as the creature could never but be
amenable to the Creator ; nor had it ever any actual existence
but in God. The true state of the case was, that the creature was
under the law in itself ; it had eternal and inalienable authority
over him ; but the creature must be subservient to the Creator,
and bound by His authority. The law had eternal and intrinsic
application as respects the Divine Being himself, but then, He
was under it to no one, but was Himself eternal and supreme,
existing alone, and of His own necessity of being, till He was
pleased to call other beings into existence like Himself, with a
moral nature like His own — His subjects, because His creatures;
while the law, in virtue of that very moral nature with which
they were endowed, possessed intrinsic and independent obli
gation over them. The importance of the law, then, as God's
law, is not in the least abated by the recognition of its inde
pendent claims. It is still God's law in the sense we have

21

498 THE MORAL NATURE.

described, and it only derives additional claims by being recog
nised in its independent authority. There was, undoubtedly, a
long period of our world's history during which the law was
not yet promulgated, as it was from Mount Sinai, but it was as
good as promulgated in the penalty that had already over
taken disobedience. The transaction in the garden was like a
promulgation of the law ; for disobedience, though it was
disobedience to an arbitrary command, was visited with the
penalty which had been threatened, and which could never
have been just, had not the arbitrary command, as given by
Him who had a right to enjoin any statute that did not in itself
contravene the law of eternal rectitude, possessed, when once
enjoined, the obligatory nature of an eternal law. It is quite
obvious that God claimed the obedience, and had a right to
claim the obedience which the law itself enjoins : Was not the
law then virtually promulgated ? But more than this, being
the law of God's nature, the law by which He himself was
guided, and the creature being subject to God, the law could
not be broken without God himself being dishonoured, and
His authority despised. Still further, God having created
moral beings, endowed them with such a nature, it was tanta
mount to the imposition of a law, and a claim of authority on
His part, which they could not resist without incurring the
penalty of disobedience to Him. To make a piece of mechanism
with certain laws, and for certain purposes, is to expect of that
mechanism the very kind of work for which it was designed,
and is to promulgate the law of that mechanism. So it was
with God, when He created beings with an internal law of
rectitude, a law like that which regulated His own nature ; it
was to promulgate that very law, and disobedience to it could
not take place without disobedience to Himself. Creation was
tantamount to legislation, while creation itself involved auth
ority on the one hand, and subjection on the other. And it is
when contemplated in God himself, that the law assumes a
concrete value, and appears an actual laiv, being the law of a
living Existence, the law of an Eternal Being, regulating His
nature, and therefore, surely, rightfully claiming authority over

THE MORAL NATURE. 491>

every other similar, though created, being. We now perceive not
only its own intrinsic value, but its value as the law of a Being so
great, and so holy, and so holy from His very conformity to such
a law. We see the law in God, and that enhances it mightily
in our estimate, while it surrounds it with a majesty derivable
only from Himself. The law is not an abstraction, it is the law
of being, and of a Being inconceivably great, and infinitely
glorious. It is a principle of our nature to estimate the con
crete above the abstract ; and when we see this eternal law in
God, how is it magnified in our estimation ! — how is it en
hanced ! — what a value do we put upon it ! — how do we love it !
This accounts for the superior value which every one who loves
the law at all puts upon it as the law of God. It has a con
crete value. It is loved even for the sake of Him whose law it
is. Angels love it the more on that account. The claims of
God are allowed in the claims of the law, and the holiness of
the one and the integrity of the other are blended in the same
idea. It is thus that the admiration of the law is begotten in
a renewed nature on earth : it is seen in God ; it is beheld in
His administration ; above all, it is contemplated in the work
of redemption : it is then that it is signally perceived to be
God's law, and every renewed nature values and esteems it the
more. The admiration, accordingly, of saints and angels, is the
admiration not of an abstraction, but of a law of God's nature,
and a law which He has authoritatively promulgated — which
He has promulgated in the very nature with which He has
endowed them, and by which He has called them to an eternal
rectitude and holiness. We cannot wonder at the Psalmist's
estimate of the law, so remarkably declared throughout the
Psalms, but especially in the hundred and nineteenth Psalm.
It is the law of God ; it is the law of all holy natures ; it is a
law of eternal right. It was before creation, because it existed
in God ; and could we conceive God not to have been, it would
have had an abstract existence capable of being seen as soon as
any moral being existed. It is its abstract nature, its Tightness
independent of God, that makes it so valuable in itself; but it
is its concrete nature, as the law of God, that enhances it so

5UO THE MORAL NATURE.

much in the estimation of the moral creature. As an eternal
law, as the law of God, it claims the admiration of every moral
being, and it will reign supreme as the law of heaven, when
God's ways are vindicated to men, and when God himself will
be enthroned in every heart.

We have said that the law of right is one. It is the obliga
tion of right. There is the eternal distinction between right
and wrong ; and to appreciate that distinction is to come under
its obligation ; in other words, the nature that can perceive the
distinction is also bound by it, and must either observe the
distinction, or incur guilt in disregarding it. The distinction
cannot but be approved of, but it must also be complied with,
or obeyed. If it is not complied with, an eternal distinction is
contravened, and it is a distinction of such a kind that it
cannot be contravened without guilt, or moral blame. This is
the grand peculiarity of the distinction. Any other relation
may be disregarded, and no result follow, but perhaps some
practical inconsistency and inconvenience ; but the relation of
right and wrong cannot be disregarded without guilt, without
moral blame. And this is owing to the very nature of the dis
tinction, and is to be attributed to nothing else. If it is to be
referred to some ground of the distinction itself, this is at once
to find a ground for the distinction, which we have already
seen cannot be ; and it is to find the morality of an action and
of the actor, not in the Tightness or wrongness of the action,
but in some other relation which is supposed to make it right
or wrong, but which is not itself the relation of Tightness and
wrongness. Nothing obviously can constitute that relation but
the relation itself, and nothing can constitute the guilt of vio
lating it but the guilt of such violation. The law founded upon
the distinction, therefore, is the one law of right. It is one
and indivisible in itself ; but, as we have said, it takes as many
aspects as there are relations of being to which it applies. The
Apostle James recognises this oneness of the law, when he says,
that he that offends in one point is guilty of all. He has broken
the law. The Apostle John seems to recognise this oneness, when
he says, " Whosoever committed! sin transgresseth also the Imv,

THE MORAL NATURE. 501

for sin is the transgression of the law" And again, it is the
law that is magnified when God says, " I have magnified the
law and made it honourable." The same view is entertained
in respect to human law. Multiplied as are the laws of a
kingdom, almost infinitely varied, applying to every diversity
of circumstance and of action, they are all included under one
name, are regarded as the laiu, taking, however, different aspects
according to the diversity of application. When any particular
law is broken, we regard the law as broken, and the violation
of a law would be nothing unless it was the violation of the
law. It is the majesty of the law that vindicates itself. It is
indeed the majesty of a law, but the majesty of a law as the
one law of right, or a particular modification or aspect of that
law. A law would be nothing otherwise than a rule. The
particular law comes under the general law of the kingdom,
and, if a just law, the general law of rigKt ; fur all human
legislation ought to be founded upon the general law of right,
ought to include its principles, and embody its sanctions. We
have thus a further illustration of the infinite divisibility of the
law as respects its application, while it is yet the one law of
right. " The science which teaches the rights and duties of
men and of states," says Sir James Mackintosh, " has, in mo
dern times, been called ' the law of nature and of nations.'
Under this comprehensive title are included the rules of mora
lity, as they prescribe the conduct of private men towards each
other in all the various relations of human life ; as they regu
late both the obedience of citizens to the laws, and the autho
rity of the magistrate in framing laws and administering
government; and as they modify the intercourse of inde
pendent commonwealths in peace, and prescribe limits to
their hostility in war. This important science comprehends
only that part of private ethics which is capable of being
reduced to fixed and general rules. It considers only those
general principles of jurisprudence and politics which the
wisdom of the lawgiver adapts to the peculiar situation
of his own country, and which the skill of the statesman
applies to the more fluctuating and infinitely varying cir-

502 THE MORAL NATURE.

cumstances which affect its immediate welfare and safety."
Godwin thus traces the science of " Political Justice" to the
Science of Morals. " From what has been said, it appears
that the subject of our present inquiry is, strictly speaking, a
department of the science of morals. Morality is the source
from which its fundamental axioms must be drawn, and they
will be made somewhat clearer in the present instance, if we
assume the term justice as a general appellation for all moral
duty." It is plain, therefore, that there is one law to which all
law may be referred ; and that can be none other than the law
of right, whose seat has been said to be in God, but rather is
in every moral being, though primarily and chiefly in God,
and in Him not so much as a subject of the law, but as the
lawgiver, or at least as co-eternal with the law, and not under
it to any other being. Man is not only under the law but is
in subjection to^nod, and to obey God is to obey the law in
God, or as the expression of His will, with the superadded
authority belonging to God himself as our Creator. The
obligation of right thus takes a concrete form : it exists in the
shape of a command, and a command from one whom the law
itself teaches us to obey. It was not, however, always a com
mand even as coming from Him. It was rather just authority
recognised in a relation which implied it, and which the crea
ture was bound to regard, and could not fail to regard as long
as his nature was unvitiated. The recognised supremacy of
God — the felt subjection to Him — the willing obedience to
moral right, would be all the law, or promulgation of law, that
existed from the first, and that could be needed. God did not
need to issue a command: the command was in the heart. The
law was in the very preference of good — in the very ignorance
of evil. It is now that a command is necessary, when the crea
ture is in rebellion against the law, and would disobey rather
than obey it, would shun it, would despise it, would trample
upon it. Resistance to it renders a command necessary, com
ing from the Creator, who would guard His own law, and vin
dicate His own authority. The sacred sanctions of the law
itself must be enforced by an imperative issuing from the

THE MORAL NATURE. 503

Divine throne. God must take up the cause of that law which
was now despised and broken. It was so much His law, the
rule of His government, that to permit it to be broken, was
not only to permit the law itself to be dishonoured, and His
own authority contemned, but all moral disorder to exist, and
to spread without limit. The obligation of right was the law
of His own nature : could He permit it to be contravened at
pleasure among His creatures, thus suffer unlimited evil to
prevail, and His own authority to be set at nought by those
who were dependent upon Him for their very existence ? — let
anarchy reign, and subject Himself to the charge either of
connivance or weakness ? This was impossible ; and, accord
ingly, He promulgated the law, issued it in the form of a direct
imperative — a series of commands — no longer suffering it to be
a mere principle in the heart, but directly enjoining it, making
at the same time an admirable classification, or summary, if
we may so speak, of its duties. This promulgation was made
on Mount Sinai, to the Jews in the first place, and through
Moses their leader, their legislator under God. It is something
interesting to contemplate God making direct promulgation of
His law, the eternal law of right, and in such circumstances as
we find attended that event. He descended upon a mountain
which burned with fire, and amid darkness and tempest, and
with the sound of a trumpet : " And when the voice of the
trumpet sounded long, and waxed louder and louder, Moses
spake, and God answered him by a voice." In ten precepts or
commandments God summed up the whole law. Now, the
question comes to be, What is the law of right as respects these
ten commandments, and how may it be summed up in these
few precepts ? The law of right, then, as respects these ten
commandments, is just that law applied to the circumstances
in which man is placed, and the relations which he holds. The
same law, in its particular modifications, could not apply to
other moral beings, because they are not in the same circum
stances, and do not hold the same relations. Duty is one, law
is one, but its modifications are varied, and as varied as the
relations of being. The prime idea to be insisted on in refer-

504 THE MORAL NATURE.

ence to the law is its essential sameness as respects the law itself,
the rule of right, while it may be endlessly diversified as respects
the beings to whom it applies, and the relations and circum
stances of these beings. The law of right is what binds all moral
beings, but the duty of one moral being is not the duty of another,
because their circumstances and relations are different. The law
of right must have a different application to the creature and
the Creator, to angels and to men. We know not the relations
that may prevail among other moral beings, and the modifica
tions of the law as respects them must be altogether beyond our
cognizance ; but we can appreciate the relations among our
selves, and in the moral law or decalogue we perceive the
application of the rule of right to these relations. It is just
the law of right applied to these relations, taking a direction
or application accordingly. For example, the First Command
ment is, — " Thou shalt have no other gods before me." We
perceive at once the Tightness of this, but it is a Tightness
which can apply only to creatures ; and it will apply to all
moral creatures as well as man. The first part of the moral
law regulates the applications of that law to the duties owed
to God, and, in two of the Commandments at least, owed by
man to God ; for the Second and the Fourth Commandments,
respectively, are not such as we can conceive applicable to
angels, for example. The injunction of pure spiritual worship,
contained in the Second Commandment, and the prohibition
of representing God by external forms or resemblances, which
may not be so at first, but which always degenerates into idol
worship, cannot apply to beings who are under no temptation
to such a kind of worship, or who could not possibly worship
God otherwise than as a Spirit, being themselves pure spirits,
and inconversant with external material forms. And how could
the injunction of the Fourth Commandment apply to beings to
whom it was a perpetual Sabbath, or who knew no other devo
tion of their time and their faculties than to the service of God ?
To worship God alone, to have no other gods before Him,
arid to reverence His names and titles — if He has any among
purely spiritual beings — His attributes, His ordinances — if there

THE MORAL NATURE. 505

are any such again among purely spiritual beings — must be a
duty or duties alike applying to spiritual beings with men. It
will be apparent how the law, as directed to the duties which
have God for their object, takes its aspect from the peculiar
nature of the moral being to whom it applies. This is obvious
as respects our own race. The same remark is to be extended
to the other part of the moral law — that is to say, the law
here again is modified by the nature and circumstances of the
being to whom it applies. The law of right as respects crea
tures must affect them in a twofold manner — as regards their
duties to God, and as regards their duties to one another. We
have seen how it may be modified as regards the former ; and
the slightest attention to the second table of the law, as appli
cable to man, will show how it is modified also as respects the
latter. It would be needless to dwell upon this particularly ;
it is enough to advert to it. That the moral law is a summary
of all the commandments that could be issued embodying and
enjoining duty, it would not be difficult to demonstrate ; and,
when considered in this light, it is wonderful for its compre
hensiveness, and admirable for its provisions. In this point of
view it bears evident marks of its divinity, and it excites the
admiration of every renewed nature, as it must of every moral
being. When we allow our minds to ponder it, what compre
hensiveness, what justice, what Tightness ! How productive of
the best interests of the moral being — how provident in respect
to his good ! It is eternally so — it was not created so. It was
not made so by God. But how does such a view bespeak the
character of God himself, enjoined as the law is by Him ; nay,
His law, having its eternal concrete existence only in Him,
being, as the law of right, the very law of His nature, a tran
script of His own holiness, and the law of moral beings, whom
He made in the image of Himself ? We cannot surely suffi
ciently admire a law of such rectitude, and a summary so com
prehensive and so complete of all that the law can require.
Alas ! it is the very impossibility of admiring it that renders
the authoritative promulgation of it in the form of a law, or of
specific commands, in our present condition, necessary. Other-

506 THE MORAL NATURE.

wise, there would have been no need for such a promulga
tion. The law would have been obeyed in the felt sense of
right, without any injunction or command. The sense of
right would have been itself a command, or it would have
been the tendency of the moral nature irrespective of com
mand. No law would have been when all was inclination,
nature. Do the angels obey a law ? They obey their nature ;
not blindly, indeed, not unintelligently, but still, more as the
dictate of nature, than from the obligation of law. Of God we
can only speak conjecturally, or only as we may conceive His
nature from the knowledge of created nature ; but in Him, too,
there must be a calm preference of the good ; although, as He
is capable in His omniscient mind of conceiving evil, or dis
obedience to law, there must be a stronger preference of it,
approbation of it in contradistinction from the wrong — a power
ful revulsion from the evil in the very preference of the good.
It is thus also in the case of a renewed nature: it is an
approbation of the good, not an impulse to it merely. There
is the knowledge of good and evil, which was the fatal dowery
of the Fall, with the preference of the good, which is the effect
of the new creation. We may perhaps assert that there is a
stronger appreciation of the good in a redeemed nature than in
one that never fell. The law has perhaps a far higher character
to such a nature. There is greater means of admiring its scope
and seeing its excellence — there is disapprobation of the evil as
well as approbation of the good — the revulsion from the one,
while there is the tendency to the other. Angels, no doubt,
must know the evil ; for they cannot be ignorant of the revolt
of Satan and his angels, and of the inhabitants of this world ;
but their knowledge cannot be such, as an omniscient being,
on the one hand, must possess, and a redeemed being, or one
who has himself been a subject of the evil, on the other, must
have acquired. But where the new creation has not taken
effect, and just in the natural state of the moral being here on
earth, it is, as we have said, the impossibility of admiring the
law, the want of any right appreciation of it : it is this which
rendei-s the promulgation of it by authoritative command

THE MORAL NATURE. 507

necessary. This gave occasion for its promulgation at all, and
its promulgation by authoritative statute. It would have been,
otherwise, but the law of right felt in the heart, and obeyed
without any knowledge of wrong. To the wrong there would
have been no bias, and to the right there would have been no
need for a command, whether to stimulate to obedience or to
enforce obligation.

We cannot help admiring, with some exception, the point of
view in which Kant has put the subject of moral duty. He
makes duty " the necessity of an act, out of reverence for law."
This law must be the perception of right ; for " an action done
out of duty," he says, " has its moral worth, not from any
purpose it may subserve, but from the maxim according to
which it is determined on ; it depends not on the effecting any
given end, but on the principle of volition singly.'"' It is a good
action as it is the result of a good volition, or its moral worth
depends upon its being the result of a good volition. A good
volition, or a " good will," he had before traced to reason
alone ; and reason was given to man mainly in order to a
" good will ;" for the other objects of reason might have been
more surely gained by another principle, as that of instinct,
which would have been more unerring, and more certain in its
operation. A " good will," then, is a will choosing what
reason alone offers for its choice, or proposes as worthy to be
chosen. What can that be, but the right'/ The law which
duty obeys, then, is the law of right. " Duty is the necessity
of an act, out of reverence for law." Kant maintains the
action must be done for no ulterior end, but purely from rever
ence for law : it must not be done even from inclination merely,
or mere inclination will not make it done from duty. The law is
what makes the action right, and infers the duty to perform it.
" Towards an object," says Kant, " as effect of my own will, I
may have inclination, but never reverence ; for it is an effect,
not an activity of will. Nay, I cannot venerate any inclina
tion, whether my own or another's. At the utmost, I can
approve or like ; that alone which is the basis and not the
effect of my will can I revere ; and what subserves not my

508 THE MORAL NATURE.

inclinations, but altogether outweighs them, i.e., the law alone
is an object of reverence, and so fitted to be a commandment.
Now, an action performed out of duty has to be done irrespec
tive of all appetite whatsoever ; and hence there remains
nothing present to the will, except objectively law, and sub
jectively pure reverence for it, inducing man to adopt this
unchanging maxim, to yield obedience to the law, renouncing
all excitements or emotions to the contrary.

" The moral worth of an action," Kant continues, " consists
therefore not in the effect resulting from it, and consequently
in no principle of acting taken from such effect ; for since all
these effects (e.g., amenity of life, and advancing the well-
being of our fellow-men) might have been produced by other
causes, there was no sufficient reason calling for the interven
tion of the will of a reasonable agent, wherein, however, alone
is to be found the chief and unconditional good. It is there
fore nothing else than the representation of the law itself — a
thing possible singly by intelligents — which, and not the
expected effect determining the will, constitutes that especial
good we call moral, which resides in the person, and is not
waited for until the action follow."

To this it may be excepted, that it is to deprive virtue of all
feeling, and separate it from all motive, or, if reverence be a
feeling of the mind, as undoubtedly it is, there cannot be said
to be obedience to the law as such, from a simple representation
of the law itself; but the mind is influenced by a certain feel
ing of reverence for the law. Kant saw this objection, and
accordingly he says in a note, — " Perhaps some may think that
I take refuge behind an obscure feeling, under the name of
reverence, instead of throwing light upon the subject by an
idea of reason. But although reverence is a feeling, it is no
passive feeling received from without, but an active emotion
generated in the mind by an idea of reason, and so, specifically
distinct from all feelings of the former sort, which are reducible
to either love or fear. What I apprehend to be my law, I
recognise to be so with reverence, which word denotes merely
the consciousness of the immediate, unconditional, and unre-

THE MO11AL NATURE. 509

served subordination of my will to the law. The immediate
determination of the will by the law, and the consciousness of
it, is called reverence, and is regarded not as the cause, but as
the effect of the law upon the person. Strictly speaking, reve
rence is the representation of a worth before which self-love
falls. It cannot, therefore, be regarded as the object of either
love or fear, although it bears analogy to both. The object of
reverence is therefore alone the law, and, in particular, that law,
though put by man upon himself, is yet notwithstanding, in
itself necessary. As law, we find ourselves subjected to it with
out interrogating self-love ; yet, as imposed upon us by our
selves, it springs from our own will, and, in the former way,
resembles fear — in the latter, love."

Where Kant errs, we think, is in not admitting love to be a
part of reverence, or as possible to be felt towards the law as
reverence itself. Love does seem to be a part of reverence, or
is as much in the mind for the law as reverence itself. In all
reverence there is a certain degree of love, and, without love, it
would be mere fear. Kant seems to have recognised this when
he said, — " As law, we find ourselves subjected to it without
interrogating self-love ; yet, as imposed upon us by ourselves,
it springs from our own will ; and, in the former way, resem
bles fear — in the latter, love." The love to the law may be
even very strong, and surely it is not the less virtue, or con
formity with duty, if love be in the feeling or in the act,
although reverence may be the predominating feeling, and love
may not be so distinctly traceable. The truth is, the right
does inspire love as well as reverence, and moral approba
tion includes love. Kant all but defines reverence to be a
combination of fear and love. There is reverence for the law,
but there is also love for it. We have already distinguished
between love and delight, while we have noticed the resem
blance of the two feelings. Love has more properly being for
its object ; delight may have either being, or the qualities of
being; and we also take delight in circumstances or events
that happen to us or others. Delight, therefore, may be rather
the feeling than love, when the law is its object ; but that

510 THE MORAL NATURE.

there is something more than reverence, or that this feeling,
whether we call it delight or love, blends in the reverence that
is felt for the law, is obvious on but the slightest consideration.
There is not only veneration for that august principle, which
ought to command obedience in all time, and in all circum
stances, but there is a certain regard of affection towards it —
the law being riot only venerable, but amiable. There is a
certain moral beauty, as well as augustness, in the principle of
right, and the one as necessarily inspires delight or love, as
the other begets awe or reverence. This is not to destroy
the Tightness of the principle which awakens both, and
awakens both equally ; nor is it to bring the principle down
from its high a priori character as a principle apart from
any sentiment it may awaken, or with which it may be ac
companied. It would seem to be necessary, in order to moral
approbation being real, that there should be love as well as
reverence for the law : it would be otherwise a distant rever
ence, not approval : there would be assent to the rightness of
the law, not approbation. Distant reverence is at most a cold
feeling, and it is not properly approbation till there is love.
An assent may be given to a principle or an action while there
is even aversion to it, and this may be called approbation, but
we make a distinction between this and hearty approbation ;
and the latter alone is what is worth while in a moral being,
and may be regarded as true or real. It is common enough to
say, we heartily approve of such and such a principle or action ;
and otherwise it is not the approbation that duty should com
mand or principle should draw forth. Love seems the most essen
tial feeling of every right emotional nature, and surely it cannot
be wanting, it ought not to be wanting, when duty is its object,
or the law of right. " It is of the greatest consequence," says
Kant, " in all ethical judgments, to attend with most scrupu
lous exactness to the subjective principle of the maxims, in
order that the whole morality of an act be put in the necessity
of it, out of duty, and out of reverence for the law, not in love
and inclination towards what may be consequent upon the act ;
for man and every created intelligent, the ethical necessity is

THE MORAL NATURE. 511

necessitation, i.e., obligation, and every act proceeding there
upon is duty, and cannot be presented as a way of conduct
already dear to us, or which may in time become endeared to
us, as if man could at any time ever get the length of dispens
ing with reverence towards the law, (which emotion is attended
always with dread, or at least with active apprehension lest he
transgress) ; and so like the independent Godhead, find him
self, as it were, by force of an unchanging harmony of will
with the law, now at length grown into a second nature, in
possession of a holy will, which would be the case, the law
having ceased to be a commandment, when man could be no
longer tempted to prove untrue to it." Kant, in the first part
of this passage, seems to confound love to the law, and " love
and inclination towards what may be consequent upon the act"
— any moral act, which he maintains ought to be done strictly
out of reverence for the law, and not from any such inclination
or love ; but in the latter part, again, he seems to intend the
love of a pure moral nature to the law itself, which he recog
nises as possible in the Godhead, and which would be the case
with man only when he became like the Godhead, possessed of
a holy will. Now, love to what is consequent upon any act
corresponding to the law, is very different from love to the law
itself, and surely if love to the law is possible in any moral
being, it must be possible in any other ; and this is exactly
what we believe obtains in every perfect moral nature, an
" unchanging harmony of will with the law," " a holy will," in
respect to which it may be truly said, " the law is not a com
mandment," since the moral being is not " tempted to prove
untrue to it." We believe this was the case with man before
he sinned ; this is the case with angels ; and it will be the case
with man again when his nature is renewed. We have already
spoken of such a state in the case of the angels who have no
temptation to sin, and who know of evil only by report. The
law has not the effect of a commandment to them ; it is hardly
felt to be a law : it is an unchanging harmony of will with the
law in their case. Kant obviously recognises this as a state
possible ; and this is the state then which ought to be contem-

512 THE MORAL NATURE.

plated, as this is the perfect state, and Kant should have remem
bered his own definition of an " imperative :" " an imperative
is then no more than a formula, expressing the relation be
twixt objective laws of volition and the subjective imperfection
of particular wills, (e.g., the human)." Where there is not
this subjective imperfection, the objective law, as an imperative,
will be no longer necessary, and to this state man is progress
ing, as it is already the state of every holy being. Kant seems
to draw a distinction between holiness and moral rectitude, the
former of which he seems to confine to God, while he regards
the latter as what more properly may be ascribed to the crea
ture, or every finite intelligent. The former does not suppose
duty, the latter does. With the former he would regard love to
the law as consistent, with the latter not. Duty supposes only
reverence to the law, and excludes, and must exclude, according
to Kant, love to it. Now, there seems to be some confusion here,
for he spoke of a holy will as possible even in man, an unchanging
harmony of will with the law grown into a second nature ; but
to carry out the distinction between duty and such a harmony of
will with the law, he again supposes such a harmony as properly
true or characteristic only of God. " The moral law," says
Kant, "is, for the will of the Supreme Being, a, law of holiness,
but for the will of every finite intelligent, a law of duty." The
confusion which is obvious here seems to have arisen from an
incorrect idea in respect to duty as obedience to law. Either
Kant's own definition of duty is incorrect, or the law of duty
must be the law to God, as it is the law to all other intelligents,
or moral beings. " Duty is the necessity of an act out of reverence
to law." Has God no reverence to law ? Is there no such
sentiment in the Divine nature ? If not, what is the sentiment,
if we may so speak, with which the Divine nature regards law ?
Let it be according to Kant's own expression, a law of holiness,
it is a law : What is the sentiment with which it is regarded ?
If Kant should say love, then law is an object of reverence to
every moral being but God. What is august to others is not
so to God. But must it not possess the same intrinsic qualities
to God as to others ? Is it because He is so great that it can-

THE MORAL NATURE. 513

not be so regarded by Him ? But can the greatness of the
Being contemplating the law change the abstract properties
of the law itself ? Is it merely from the point of view from
which it is regarded that it is venerable ? Does the fact that
it is a part of God's own nature render it the less venerable ?
Surely it is as venerable still. Has it not an abstract propriety
even to God ? What is it that binds His own nature to a
certain course of action ? We call it not duty ; but it is the
same reverence for law that actuates any moral being, and in
that reverence He has reverence for His own nature. " Shall
not the Judge of all the earth do right ?" Is there not an
awful respect for His own righteousness ? That is seen in all
God's procedure, and in all the language of Scripture respecting
His righteousness. No reader of Scripture needs a quotation
to shew this. How august must it have been in the eyes of
God, when He accepted the sacrifice of His Son for its vindica
tion ! But why, then, is the name duty inappropriate when we
speak of God's reverence for the law, and conformity to it ?
Simply because — and this is what Kant seems to have failed to
notice — the term duty, as being applicable in our minds to the
obedience we owe to the law, and that springing from the re
verence we owe to it, has an aspect towards the law not in itself,
but as the law of another. God, as Creator, is regarded in the
regard which is had to the law by the creature. The law imposes
its own obligation, but we do not forget, at the same time, the
authority which God has over us, and we remember that we
are amenable to Him. Kant takes no notice of this element
in duty, but this, after all, is the only difference between the
relation of the creature to the law and that of the Creator
himself. It is a law which every intelligent recognises, but it
is a law, for obedience or disobedience to which, the creature is
amenable to the Creator, while the Creator is amenable to no
one but to Himself, or at the tribunal of His own perfect
holiness, or absolute rectitude. We hold, therefore, that the
law of holiness, and the law of duty, are essentially one as re
spects the regard to the law ; and the only difference is, that in
the one case the holiness regards the law singly, in the other,

2 K

514 THE MORAL NATURE.

duty regards God besides the law, or respects the law under the
feeling of responsibility to God, as well as amenability to the
law, or rather responsibility to God for the way in which the
law has been kept.

If Kant, then, thought that in the law of holiness, as " the
moral law for the will of the Supreme Being," there might be
love to the law as well as reverence, but that in the law of duty,
as the same law for the will of every intelligent, there could
only be reverence, we are persuaded he proceeded upon a
wrong view of duty, as distinguished from what he calls the
law of holiness ; and the admission of love into the sentiment
of reverence, or as co-existent with that of reverence, can never
alter the nature of law, or bring down its prerogatives. It has
as much supremacy as ever, and is as entirely abstract, and a
priori, or before all motive or excitement to action.

Kant discusses the question whether love can be a part of
the sentiment with which the law is regarded, and so enter
into the constitution of duty, or rather obedience to duty, as if
love to the law, and love to effects, ulterior, arising out of
obedience to the law, were the same. We can never admit the
latter into obedience, as forming any constituent element of it ;
or when any ulterior object is aimed at, it is possible that that
may be sought in obedience to law, as when we may benefit a
friend from the duty of friendship, or perform a filial act from
the regard had to filial obligation. But the law of friendship,
and the law of filial duty, may not be the direct object of
regard, but the ulterior consequences : it may be those that are
more directly had respect to ; or love to the being, and not
love to the law, may be the motive of action ; and so far, there
fore, it is not duty, but a mere subjective feeling. But what is
to be maintained is, that love may be a feeling of the mind in
respect to the law, as much as reverence : all its beauty, and
hold upon the affections, may be felt as well as its majesty and
awfulness ; and we may no't only bow with reverence before it,
but regard it with the sentiment of love. Strange, if it were
only an object of reverence — that law which is holy, but which
is also good, which calls forth the innermost approbation of the

THE MORAL NATURE. 515

heart, which it cannot reach without surprising love from its
concealment, if love did not rather start forth to meet its
appeals. Can love be withheld where there is a beauty which
takes the heart captive, a loveliness to which the heart cannot
refuse homage ? Eeverence for the law, mingled with a cer
tain affectionate regard, is what constitutes moral approbation.
It would not be moral approbation without both of these. In
regard to the law of right, therefore, or just the distinction
between right and wrong, there is first the perception of this
distinction, but along with this, as we said at an early stage of
our remarks upon this subject, there is a certain feeling, or
emotion, with which it is never but accompanied, and which
feeling it is that impels to duty. The perception of the rela
tion would be a mere perception : it would never be a principle
of action. Feeling or emotion is the only motive principle.
Mind gives us judgments : feeling or emotion produces action.
And here again it is necessary to guard against the confusion
that is apt to arise in respect to the precise question at issue.
The question with which we are now dealing is as to what
constitutes moral distinction — what is that of which we approve
or disapprove ? But this leads us to consider the relation of
the mind to what is thus approved or disapproved, and the
state of the mind in the moment of approbation or disapproba
tion would appear to be what we are determining when it is
really what excites our approbation or disapprobation, and not
the approbation or disapprobation itself. Then, again, the
necessity of the action, or the obligation to perform it, in other
words, duty, moral obligation, is neither the quality that pro
duces approbation, nor approbation itself, but something that
arises from the relation between these two ; or it is the obliga
tion to perform a right action, which the moral intelligent
perceives, in which perception again there is the feeling of
obligation, so that it would seem that the obligation is not
independent of the feeling, while the feeling could not be excited
unless there was obligation; and the ability to perceive the obli
gation, again, depends upon the perceived distinction betioeen
right and wrong. So blended are the questions. The first

516 THE MORAL NATURE.

question to be determined is as to the nature of right and
wrong itself. That we find to depend upon an ultimate
principle of the mind — not that this constitutes the distinction
between right and wrong — but that we cannot describe it
otherwise: it is a distinction which the mind perceives, and
by an ultimate principle of the mind itself. The distinction is
not created by the mind, but the mind ultimately perceives
it ; that is, perceives it without being able to give any account
of the perception. Ultimate ideas or principles -are those
which the mind can give no account of, but that is not to say
they are the creation of the mind itself, or there is not that of
which they are the ideas. It is obvious, however, that we can
describe that of which they are the ideas, only by saying that
it is what produces these ideas in our minds, or that of which
the mind obtains such ideas, in virtue of the very nature of
mind. Such is the idea of moral distinction, of right and
wrong, and, we may add, of the obligation arising therefrom.
Both the distinction and the obligation are realities, although
the mind ultimately perceives them. We have already adverted
to the confusion among moral writers from the commingling
of these different questions. What we have endeavoured
hitherto to establish is the distinction between right and
wrong, although we have been necessarily led to take in, or
touch upon, the other questions ; for they are all related. The
distinction between right and wrong is the eternal law which
the mind perceives, and which imposes obligation upon every
moral being. The mind does not perceive this law, however,
without an emotion accompanying the perception : and the
feeling of obligation is in the very perception with its accom
panying emotion.

We now then ask, What is moral approbation and disappro
bation ? and we have already so far determined this indirectly,
when treating of the question, What is the distinction between
right and wrong ? The latter is the only question we have
directly determined ; this now demands some specific notice.

Moral approbation or disapprobation, then, is just the senti
ment with which we regard the distinction between right and

THE MORAL NATURE. 517

wrong — the judgment, or particular idea, with the accompany
ing emotion which that distinction awakens in the mind.
Every idea of the mind is not accompanied with emotion, but
this is. The very nature of the relation perceived occasions
this. It may be asked, How does a mere intellectual percep
tion produce an emotion in one case, while it does not in
another ? But may it not be fairly asked, on the other hand,
if it is a merely intellectual perception. It is an intellectual
perception, but it is an intellectual perception of a moral rela
tion. The thing perceived is good or bad, and we cannot per
ceive this without emotion. Such is our nature. A judgment
pronouncing right or wrong, and an emotion accompanying
that judgment : such is moral approbation or disapprobation ;
a relative idea of right or wrong, and the corresponding feeling
or emotion. The law of right produces a sentiment of high
regard — reverent but also affectionate regard ; but then without
the judgment as to Tightness and wrongness, or the relative
idea of right and wrong, it would not be approval or disapproval.
There is the judgment, and the emotion accompanying it. We
perceive that an action is right or wrong, but we not only per
ceive this, but we have a certain emotion accompanying our
perception. That emotion is reverence and love — or it is
aversion and contempt. The very perception of right begets
the one, the very perception of wrong the other ; and the emo
tion is as instantaneous as the perception. We call this moral
approval or disapproval — moral praise or blame. And it
matters not whether the right or wrong is seen in ourselves or
others, so far as regards the single state of approbation or dis
approbation ; still that state is a judgment, or relative idea of
right or wrong, and the accompanying emotion. We pronounce
judgment upon ourselves, as we do upon others, and either
approve or disapprove, blame or praise. The additional feeling,
when it is upon ourselves that we pronounce judgment, is some
thing distinct from the approbation or disapprobation : this is
first ; and then there is the distinct and superadded feeling.
When we approve or disapprove in our own case, there is more
than the feeling for the law, or for the disregard to it, there is

518 THE MORAL NATURE.

a feeling which is personal, and of which none can be the sub
jects but ourselves. That we ourselves are concerned in the
action which we approve or disapprove, begets either satisfac
tion, complacency — or compunction, shame. We are not speak
ing of the faculty which gives occasion to this just now, or of the
law according to which it arises ; we are speaking of the feeling
itself. Immediately upon self-approbation or disapprobation,
there is the additional feeling in question. This, however, is
distinct from the approbation or disapprobation which is pro
nounced or felt in connexion with conformity, or want of con
formity, with a law. The latter is approbation or disapprobation,
whether this conformity or nonconformity is seen in ourselves
or others. We judge of ourselves as we do of others, or we
judge of an action, and feel moral approbation or disapproba
tion, whether we ourselves or others are concerned. Regard to
the law is the same in both cases ; the law, the distinction of
right and wrong, is what objectively presents itself to the mind,
and the mind feels all the reverence and love of which we have
spoken — or it is impressed with all the aversion and contempt;
and the feelings which in any abstract case, or any mere con
templated case of conformity or want of conformity to law, we
would experience, include the actual doer of the action which
we approve or disapprove. We approve or disapprove of the
action, and the action becomes the object of the feeling. The
love and reverence for law terminate upon conformity of action
with it, and again upon the actor in whom that conformity is
seen ; and the same with the opposite sentiment or state of
mind. There is first the law itself contemplated, then the
action in which the law is concerned, and then the actor by
whom the action is performed. We feel for the law itself at
once reverence and love ; these terminate upon an action, then
upon the performer of the action, and just as the case may
arise, or present itself to the mind.

What are the feelings with which we regard the right, —
a right action, — or the performer of a right action ? It is
obvious that all these are contemplated, or had regard to, in
every case of moral approbation. It is in vain to say that

THE MORAL NATURE. 519

an action is nothing apart from the actor, and that the right
of an action is nothing apart from the action. The mind
contemplates these separately ; and, at all events, the right, as
distinct from the action that is right, and the agent that is acting
rightly, is a separate object of contemplation, and involves a
relation that is abstract and eternal, or there is no relation of
the mind whatever. Ideas are nothing, if they are not ideas of
the mind, but as they are the ideas of actual objects, or having
existence in actual objects. The abstract idea of right is what
is first present to the mind when we contemplate a right
action, and without this idea the action would be an action
merely. It would be an agent acting, but it would excite in
us no moral emotion, for it would awaken no moral idea ; but
awakening that idea, the Tightness of the action, the action, and
the agent, are all present to the mind as separate ideas, or
blended in one complex idea. We recognise and approve the
right — we do the same by the action — we do the same by the
actor ; or it is the right, strictly speaking, that is the object of
approval ; and the sentiment with which we regard the right,
seems to be felt for the action, and again for the actor. That
the law of right is itself first regarded, is obvious, for there
is an idea of right, and it is this which awakens the moral
emotion ; and either the action or the actor may be the object
of that emotion, as that idea is clearly explicated to the mind,
or possessed by it. The emotion is the result of the conception
of right. It is true that this conception cannot be formed in
any supposable case of action without regard to the agent, but
the abstract conception grows out of the circumstances of the
case. It is such and such an action — it is an action involving
such and such a principle, and, contemplated with relation to
the actor, it must be done from that principle. It is, in other
words, right itself which awakens the emotion ; and we now
consider particularly the elements of that emotion. These, as
we have seen, are at once reverence and love, love either being
an essential part of reverence, or always accompanying it. The
right inspires reverence ; it begets love. Could we suppose a
case in which love was not felt towards the right ? Reverence

520 THE MORAL NATURE.

may be the most prominent emotion ; or respect, or awful
regard, may be more distinctly marked ; but where there is
true moral approbation, there will always be love. It might
be asked, Where then is the distinction between the approba
tion of a pure moral nature and one that has sinned — that is
no longer pure — and whose perception of right, if there is any
such perception, is hardly accompanied by any moral emotion
— or if so accompanied, where can be the difference between the
two natures ? The difference may lie in the degree in which
the emotion is felt, and that may allow of a radical and essen
tial difference of moral condition even where there is not such a
difference in the moral nature. The heartiness with which ap
probation is rendered, or just the degree in which it exists, may
arise from an essential difference now in the moral state. Of
the right, there must be some remains in every moral being
both as regards the perception of the right, and as regards the
emotion towards it. In devils, or reprobate spirits, this will be
seen in the immense regrets that will be entertained for the
loss of their former state, — the loss of good. A distant and
awful reverence, and a love that would fain make goodness
their own again, if it were possible ; that would prefer, at
certain moments, the good to the evil ; will distinguish even
them. How would they climb the heights of virtue again if
they could — how would they regain their lost honour, and the
purity of that state whence they have fallen ! The vexation of
a lost spirit will be partly the impossibility of ever being, what
there is no moral nature that would not prefer being, upon a
whole review of its own state, and that of others, whether the
good contemplating the evil, or the evil contemplating the
good. The eternally right must command the approbation,
and in that, so far the love even of reprobate or lost spirits.
Why is it that it does so even among men ? Their nature is
depraved enough — their bias to the wrong is sufficiently strong
— but among the most morally depraved of our race, there are
remains of a better state, and in them love to the right is not
altogether extinguished. Let the better nature speak, and it
would speak for virtue — let it have scope, and it would love it ;

THE MORAL NATURE. 521

but the depraved nature obtains the sway, or it is but in partial
preferences that the original moral nature is seen. We think it
is no hazardous statement, then, to say, there may be love for
the right even in a depraved moral nature, although it exists
along with a love for the wrong, and the latter greatly predo
minates. Here, again, we have to determine our question with a
view to the original nature with which man was at first created,
the first supposable state of every moral being. It is not what
man is now that must determine any moral question, or what
those spirits that kept not their first estate may be : we must
conceive of a moral nature as it must be, as abstractly it must
be regarded ; and no moral nature, without ceasing to be such,
can so change as to lose what must be of the very essence of a
moral nature, so that when it contemplates the right it must
possess in degree the same emotions with which the right must
ever be contemplated, or the right cannot even be apprehended
at all. Is the question, How man in his present state regards
the right ? Then, we either view him as unfallen, and the
question in that case is. How absolute moral nature regards the
right ? or we view him as fallen, and his nature vitiated, and
then we look at his nature as it is, the same as ever in all essen
tial particulars, in its essential elements, though now having a
vitiating element in it by which the wrong is chosen in prefer
ence to the right, though, yet again, the right, when it is an
object of contemplation at all, may both be loved and approved
of. The question is, What is the absolute moral emotion ? How
is the right regarded by a moral being ? and surely it is not
man as he now is, or rather fallen spirits as they now are : it
is not by a reference to either of these that the question is to
be determined. So much of reason, and even of a moral nature,
remains within us, that we can determine the question abso
lutely, and apart from existing elements that might seem to ren
der any absolute solution of the question impossible. We seek
in our moral nature, in spite of its fallen state, for the very ele
ments which are to determine the question. We examine our
moral preferences : we take the moral emotion even as it is ; but
we are able to go up beyond these, and consider what the emo-

522 THE MORAL NATURE.

tion must have been, what it ought to be ; and in both ways we
come at a determination of the question, though the very mixed
elements with which we have to deal do create confusion, and
render it uncertain what is the precise criterion we have adopted
for our judgment, or what is the nature of our solution. Reason
does inform us, in spite of any fault in our experimental data,
(for reason can go beyond these, or the absolute relations of
ideas are independent of them) ; — reason, we say, informs us
what the proper moral emotions must have been, viz., rever
ence and love ; it informs us of the right itself; and it is an
a priori, absolute truth, a truth which mind as mind must
possess, must abstractly present to itself — that the right is wor
thy of reverence and love. The right must inspire these emo
tions ; they are appropriate to it : we cannot contemplate the
right without experiencing them ; nay, it is worthy of them.
In saying it is right, we are saying it deserves to be regarded
with these emotions. The right is not merely a relation, it is
a relation of a moral kind : it is such a relation, that when we
judge of it, we are at the same time judging of the emotions
with which it should be regarded. Reason determines both of
these for us apart from experience. It cannot apprehend the
right without perceiving in the very apprehension the emotions
by which it should be distinguished, or which it must command.
But in determining these emotions we are not determining the
right ; the right is what is worthy of these emotions, not merely
what excites them. The right is an object of perception, not
merely ivJiat produces an emotion : it is an object of reason,
not of feeling, but so an object of reason that it cannot be seen
without feeling: it is perceived, but it cannot be perceived
without emotion. That emotion is clearly one both of rever
ence and love — high but affectionate regard. Love is in the
emotion. The beauty as well as the high integrity of the
right is seen : all its loveliness, as well as all its authority.
There is a moral beauty as well as a natural, and the moral
is often an element in the natural. It is when the moral is
conceived along with the natural, or is suggested by it, that
the natural has all its effect. It often renders that beautiful

THE MORAL NATURE. 523

which would be plain or positively ugly. Much of the sen
timent of the beautiful depends upon our moral state. It is
in the emotions of the one that we have the groundwork of
the other. Man is capable of the sentiment of the beautiful,
because he is capable of the sentiment of the moral. Now,
what is lovely must attract love. The good, the right, must
inspire it. Hence the love which the law of God inspires in
the heart of a believer, in the regenerated soul. " How love I
thy law !" " Thy law is my delight." Love is felt strongly
to the law when the soul is renewed, has undergone the re
generating operation of God's grace. It is then that it is loved,
loved with a strong and predominating feeling. It has the
pre-eminence now ; before, it was little loved, or it was over
borne by the love of sin. Now, it is loved in preference to sin.
The love to it, as the love to God himself, becomes the master
principle of the soul. Now it is that we see moral approbation
in its proper state, not feeble, not fluctuating, not temporary
merely, but taking the control of the soul, the most prominent
feeling in it, ruling its other feelings, and commanding the
sentiment, " How love I thy law !" — "Thy law is my delight!"
Wonder and love blend. " Thy testimonies are wonderful."
There is an appreciation of their Tightness, for the Psalmist
esteemed God's testimonies to be right, and they rejoiced his
heart. Will not love inspire the angels when they fill heaven
with their anthem — " Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ;
who art, and who wast, and who art to come ?" Will they not
love the holiness which they celebrate ? Will they not delight
in that law which binds them in admiration to the throne of
God : that law of goodness which they are ever fulfilling,
which, as we have already said, exists in them more as a nature
than as a law, but the abstract Tightness of which too must be
apprehended by them, otherwise we would not find them so
celebrating the holiness of Jehovah ?

We have thus presented such a view of moral approbation
as its nature has seemed to demand ; and we have kept it apart
from the discussion of right itself, — as what follows upon the
perception of right, and not what constitutes it. A certain

524 THE MORAL NATURE.

emotion accompanies the perception of what is right ; the right
is the object of that perception. We perceive the right ; we
experience the emotion ; and the perception and emotion form
our moral approbation. The perception is as necessary as the
emotion : the emotion is as necessary as the perception ; and
the right is not the right because it inspires this approbation,
but it inspires this approbation because it is right.

We now seem to be in circumstances to determine the nature
of the moral faculty, or conscience, which would appear to be
nothing else than just the capacity to perceive the right, and
to be affected by the moral emotion which accompanies that
perception. If we seek for something else distinct in the mind,
as the faculty in question, we either just arrive at a supposed
original faculty, which can be nothing else than that power of
judging of right, and being affected by the appropriate emotion,
or we seek in vain, and we discover no faculty beyond the
capacity of moral judgment and moral feeling. The moral
faculty, conscience, with all its mighty influence, is just the
power of perceiving the right, with the emotion accompanying.
The faculty of conscience, however, is more properly spoken of
when it is the capacity of moral approbation or disapprobation
as respects our own actions, or moral states, in which case a
distinct emotion accompanies its exercise. In addition to the
ordinary emotion accompanying the moral approbation or dis
approbation, there is a feeling which is altogether peculiar, and
[which feeling it would seem it is that has given rise to the
idea of some separate faculty as what constituted conscience.
Does the faculty consist in that peculiar feeling ? Is conscience
a feeling merely ? Is there not moral approbation or disappro
bation implied in it ? Is there not a judgment pronounced as
well as an emotion experienced ? Could there be the emotion
without the judgment ? It is plain that the peculiar emotion
in question will not account for the phenomena of conscience,
in which there is as certainly a judgment pronounced, as in
any case of judgment whatever.

Even when conscience takes cognizance of abstract right
merely, or of the actions of others, it has something of a per-

THE MORAL NATURE. 525

sonal character : that is to say, there is in the regard which is
had to the Tightness or wrongness which we approve or disap
prove, in the approbation or disapprobation which we experience
or pronounce, a regard to the Tightness or wrongness of our\
own decision, and our approbation or disapprobation in this »
case is pronounced, or is felt, under responsibility to that review ',
which the mind institutes or takes of its own moral judgments. *
We approve or disapprove under an appeal, as it were, to the
moral judgment within us, and submissive to a review from
that internal court. Conscience, then, ultimately, is the moral }
faculty, or the faculty of approbation or disapprobation, deciding f
upon ourselves, and even upon our moral decisions. In respect
to moral principle in the abstract, or the moral actions of others,
we often say, — we cannot in conscience approve of such and such
a principle, of such and such a course of action ; we feel our
selves amenable to the tribunal of our own minds in the
1 decision we pronounce. Simply, it is moral approbation or
disapprobation when it is not upon ourselves we pronounce ; it
is conscience when it is upon our own actions that we decide.
We often, however, say, our conscience approves or disapproves
of such a principle or such an action, when the principle is
abstract, and the action is that of another. Are not moral
approbation and conscience in this case one ? Is it not con
science pronouncing upon the principle or action ? It will be
found, however, that what is meant in such a case is, that
conscience would pronounce such a decision, were the principle
our own, or were the action performed by ourselves. We have
respect to ourselves in such a decision. The decision more
properly is, conscience will not allow me to entertain such a
principle, to perform such an action. Conscience has therefore
a personal reference even in such cases ; it is a moral decision,
whether ourselves or others be the object ; and, therefore, there
is strictly no distinct faculty in operation when it is even
conscience more properly that is at work ; it is nothing more
than moral approbation in either case ; but in the one case, it!
jis moral approbation deciding upon ourselves ; in the other, it
! is moral approbation deciding upon others ; or when we speak

f>26 THE MORAL NATURE.

of conscience deciding upon others, it is moral approbation with
a view to the scrutiny of conscience as to whether that appro
bation is right or wrong. It is very evident that conscience is
nothing different from the moral capacity or faculty by which we
pronounce an action to be right or wrong ; it is the capacity of •
moral approbation or disapprobation ; and all that distinguishes }
it as conscience is the peculiar emotion that accompanies any j
instance of moral approbation or disapprobation when we our
selves are the object. There is an emotion accompanying every
instance of approbation or disapprobation, or the approbation
or disapprobation is a judgment with a moral emotion — a moral
judgment, or the perception of a moral relation. In the case
of conscience, there is an additional emotion, a certain com
placency, or satisfaction, on the one hand, or the absence of
this complacency, or dissatisfaction, on the other. Conscience
would seem to be nothing more, as distinct from moral appro
bation and disapprobation, than the peculiar happiness that is
felt when we ourselves are the object of our moral approbation,
or the peculiar pain when we are the object of our moral disap
probation. The happiness or pain attending the moral appro
bation and disapprobation when ourselves are its object, would
seem to give us conscience. The grand peculiarity of all moral
decisions, the moral judgment, is the same in every case, and is
nothing different in conscience from what it is in simple moral
approbation or disapprobation. The appropriate emotion, too,
which accompanies every case of simple approbation or dis
approbation, is only modified, when it is self-approbation or
self-disapprobation, by the object being self rather than another.
It is reverence and love, however, or if not love, complacency,
as much as when others are the object of our approbation ;
disesteem and aversion, as much as when others are the object
of our disapprobation. We may regard ourselves with a feeling
akin to love, as we may also with a feeling akin to aversion ;
complacency is, perhaps, the best name for the feeling in
the one case, dissatisfaction in the other ; that dissatisfaction
rising sometimes to the strongest displeasure. Self-respect and
self-disrespect are not more common terms than the feelings

THE MORAL NATURE. 527

which they denote are well-known feelings. Now, these feelings
or emotions, respect and complacency, or disrespect and dis
satisfaction, cannot be entertained towards ourselves without a
happy or agreeable feeling, or a painful or disagreeable feeling.
In these latter seems to consist the peculiarity of conscience.
It admits of a very easy explanation from the principles we
have pursued in determining our mental constitution hitherto :
we have seen certain mental states, certain emotional states,
and now we have certain moral states, constituting the mental
and moral phenomena ; and what should surprise us in finding
a mental decision or judgment, or an idea of a peculiar relation,
an emotion accompanying, and either happiness or suffering
resulting, especially when the emotion in question has respect
to ourselves, or rests upon ourselves as its object ? When we
have thus explained it, however, we do not detract from its
high and commanding power and authority. The moral deci
sion, and the happiness or pain accompanying it, is a principle
of prodigious power. In a moral decision, there is that which
might govern the world, were every other power equal, or pos
sessed in equal degree — a peremptoriness of authority which
cannot, and ought not to yield to anything whatsoever — not
though the whole world wrere in opposition. How does Butler
speak of this principle ? " Thus," says he, " that principle by
which we survey, and either approve or disapprove our own
heart, temper, and actions, is not only to be considered as what
is in its turn to have some influence ; which may be said of
every passion, of the lowest appetites. But, likewise, as being
superior, as from its very nature manifestly claiming superiority
over all others : insomuch that you cannot form a notion of
this faculty, conscience, without taking in judgment, direction,
.superintendency. This is a constituent part of the idea, that
is of the faculty itself: and to preside and govern, from the
very economy and constitution of man, belongs to it. Had it
strength, as it has right, had it power as it has manifest autho
rity, it would absolutely govern the world." All bow before
the authority of conscience. It controls the strongest as well '
as the weakest, the highest in rank as well as the humblest in

528 THE MORAL NATURE.

station, the mightiest equally with the most insignificant. The
t moral decision, with the accompanying emotion, is what none
;can disregard: it may not be listened to : its voice may be
stifled : it may be overborne by the force of temptation, or it
may be silenced amid the clamours of vain ambition or the
solicitations of selfish desire : but it can be so only for a time,
and conscience will be heard when every other voice is hushed,
'and when there is nothing to solicit, or to draw away, the
mind from its immediate demands.

We need not wonder at the power of this principle, when
we recollect that it is mind itself in a state of approbation or
disapprobation, and that, when itself is the object of its own
approval or disapproval. The mind itself is the object of its
own moral judgment. There is here, however, again some
thing ultimate. We cannot understand the mysterious con-<
nexion between a moral perception and a moral feeling — the
perception of a moral relation, and the feeling of a moral
emotion. The connexion between these two is beyond all
effort at explanation. The connexion is, doubtless, not arbi
trary. There seems to be an appropriateness between the
perception and the feeling, a necessity from the very nature of
moral distinction and of the moral being : but that necessity
itself it would be impossible to rationalize or explain. We
may not resolve it into an arbitrary constitution or appoint
ment by the Creator. Our own nature partakes of all that is
absolute in His ; and the distinction of moral good and evil,
and the emotion accompanying the perception of that distinc
tion — the reverence and love for the good, and the contempt
and hatred for the evil — cannot be arbitrary in Him, but must
'be absolute. How peremptoiy, how authoritative, is the
' distinction ! — how mighty, how puissant the emotion ! In God,
it must be an infinite recoil from the evil, an infinite love and
admiration of the good, consistent with a calm and undis
turbed tranquillity in the contemplation of both. So vast
must be all the states of the Divine mind, that disturbance
or agitation is at any time inconceivable. The infinite happi
ness of infinite holiness — that is, the happiness and holiness of

THE MORAL NATURE. 529

an infinite being, is conceivable ; but disapprobation and hatred
of evil, without any disturbance or interruption of tranquillity,,
is what we can have but the faintest conception of, if indeed
we can have any conception. In the creature, however, the
moral emotion must be accompanied with the greatest delight
or happiness, on the one hand, and the most exquisite misery
on the other — where the subject of the emotion is himself the
object of it : that is, where the being is the object of his own
approbation or disapprobation. How great that happiness,,
how exquisite that misery, every one can in some degree say
who has felt himself the object of his own moral approval or!
disapproval. Self-approbation, self-condemnation, are the names i
we give to these states of mind; and we call that conscience]
which gives us either state. It is the power which approves prj
condemns in our own case : it is the power which approves ori
disapproves our own actions or moral states, with the peculiar
feeling which belongs to such approval or disapproval.

The influence which this principle has upon our other states, N
— mental and emotional, — is worthy of remark. It exercises a'
prodigious effect upon the whole mental economy. A right
state of the conscience is of wonderful importance just to the
ordinary processes of the mind — to the very correctness and
vigour of the understanding. An approving conscience admits
of the understanding being unfettered and free, and the action
of the understanding consequently is unencumbered and ready.
It is free to act, and it acts freely. The effect of an accusing
conscience is to disturb the mind, and when the mind is dis- i
turbed it cannot act promptly. It is to fill the mind with
thoughts, which occupy it to the exclusion of others. There is,,
in the very unhappiness of the mind in such a state, an arrest
to thought. Thought itself is painful, or it is felt to be worth
less. The importance, therefore, of maintaining a good con
science must be obvious, were it for nothing else than to allow
of the unfettered action of the mind. It is far more valuable
on its own account. For a moral agent to transgress the line
of right, is an evil of which the magnitude cannot be con
ceived, simply because it is evil. To be capable of transgress-

2 L

530 THE MORAL NATURE.

ing the right, is a disaster, all the consequences of which cannot
be measured. Evil in any amount, — that is, evil at all, — is a
worse event than the greatest amount of evil, and is far more
to be deplored. A moral nature that can transgress the boun
dary of duty, is a sadder calamity, — an object more to be re
gretted far, than any degree of evil to which that nature can
attain. To incur the condemnation of conscience, must then
be something greatly to be deprecated, yea, infinitely to be
avoided. The provocation of this master principle of our nature
is a folly to be shunned with all the energy of which we are
capable, in a state in which the conscience itself is depraved,
the moral nature vitiated. With the utmost effort it is im
possible to keep the conscience pure, or in every case to obey
it. The desires and tendencies of our nature lead us to oppose
it. Sentiments, in themselves good, become evil, from the
degree in which they are indulged, or from the direction they
are allowed to take. Our compound nature, body and soul,
operates to the prejudice of the latter. The spiritual is brought
into captivity to the sensuous. Still conscience is paramount.
{It is fitted to guide us, if we would listen to it, not without
permitting us ever to do wrong, but for the most part to
direct us to do right. Even then, indeed — when outwardly we
conform to the dictates of conscience, there may be wanting
that entire homage to it which makes an action purely moral,
and which, with the regard to God, which every moral being
should cherish, 'and which conscience itself requires, makes an
action acceptable in God's sight. Still it is much to listen to '
the voice of conscience, even when there may not be that pure
reverence for law, and love to good for itself, which alone are-
of any account in a true moral action.

Here it is that the relation of conscience to action, and to
the other principles of our nature, comes in and demands
attention. Moral approbation and disapprobation, the estimate
of law, the perception of right and wrong, with the accompany
ing emotion or emotions, infers duty, or moral obligation. It
at once infers these, and imposes them, for the perception of
these is to impose them, or exact them. The obligation of the

THE MORAL NATURE. 531

moral agent to perform certain actions, is not created surely by
the perception of the obligation, for it must exist before it can
be perceived ; but the perception of the obligation implies an
obligation in itself, or makes it obligatory, if we may so speak,
to comply with the obligation perceived, and imposed upon us
from without, or in virtue of law. What have we then in all
these states and conditions, external and internal ? We have,
right or law, the obligation of these, the perception of them,;
the love and reverence consequent, and the obligation arising
from the perception of right, and the consequent perception of {
obligation. The two species of obligation, that of law, and
that which the perception of law implies, unite in one ; and
duty may have regard to either, as the case may be, as we
have regard ourselves to either ; or it may regard both, and
is then the result of both. Conscience is just our moral na~i
Jture perceiving law, approving of right and disapproving of
'wrong, with the peculiar satisfaction or pain which is expe
rienced when it is of ourselves we approve or disapprove ; or,
when it is others that excite our approbation or disapprobation,
or abstract right or wrong, our approbation or disapprobation,
as given by conscience, is given under responsibility to that
inward monitor, that is to say, to another approbation or dis
approbation which the mind passes upon its own judgments ;
in which case we have the additional phenomenon of a pecu
liarly painful or pleasing emotion. It is obvious, then, that
conscience, while it is not a distinct principle or faculty of the
mind, is, as the faculty or principle of moral approbation or
disapprobation, still characterized by an emotion which is pecu
liar, and that because we ourselves are in such a case the object
jof the moral approval or disapproval. It is also obvious that
^this faculty or principle must have a peculiar relation to all
the other principles of our nature, and to our outward actions.
The nature and extent of this relation we must now endeavour
to explicate as we best may, and as the difficulty of the subject
will permit. We are here brought into connexion with the
active principles of our nature, the springs of action ; and the
desires, and the will therefore must be formally considered.

532 THE MORAL NATURE.

(We thus consider the desires as principles of action, and in
strict connexion with the moral part of our being. The will
is a distinct principle, and one of the most interesting pheno
mena of our constitution.

We have already adverted to the distinction between the
emotions and the desires, or desire as one generic state of mind,
of which there may be different objects, giving us the different
desires. The emotions, desires, and appetites, constitute the
active principles of our nature, or the principles or states of
our mental constitution which lead to action. Man was de
signed for action. Had he been created to exist as an indi
vidual, and not in society, — as a meditative recluse, and not
having a part to act in his relations to his fellows, — he might
have been constituted otherwise than he is. But his nature
shews what he was designed for, and the design or inten
tion of his being required such a constitution or nature as
that of which we actually find him possessed. His emo
tions bind him to his fellows, while his desires and appetite*
impel him to act whether for private or for social ends. The
appetites terminate upon the bodily wants, and are more
bodily than mental. So far as they are bodily, they are shared
in common with the lower creatures, being connected with
much the same physical constitution, and serving much the
same physical purposes. But man has a higher than a mere
physical nature, and was designed for higher than mere phy
sical purposes. While it is a physical nature that connects him
in visible relation with his fellows, while it is man in his phy
sical being that we see moving in society, and fulfilling all the
purposes of social existence, we see something beyond that
physical being, and it is what resides and animates and actuates
within that makes him what he is, constitutes his higher nature,
and shews us the true end of his creation. On his multifarious
errands, in the multifarious objects he has to accomplish, in the
eager pursuits which he prosecutes, in the social affections and
social desires which he cherishes and evinces, or in the private
or personal affections or emotions with which he is actuated,

THE MORAL NATURE. 533

we see his mental or spiritual nature ; and it is in these we are
to behold those marvellous principles, principles of marvellous
power, which make life action, and fill up its brief space with
the busiest passions, the most exciting interests, and the most
momentous events. Emotions and desires develop themselves
in constant succession, and are never but in operation. The
mind is a magazine of passions, emotions, desires ; or it is a
fine mechanism, and these are its motive powers. The emotions
we have already at some length considered. The desires are
more directly our motive principles. The emotions, indeed,
are not motive principles, but as they are connected with the
desires. Compassion, for example, or sympathy with the suffer
ings of others, would lead to no action but for the desire to
relieve the sufferings with which we sympathize. It is the
latter part of our nature which is truly the impelling prin
ciple, and which leads to action. The emotion begets the
desire, and therefore is an active principle : it is not the proxi
mate, but it is the remote principle of action. Without the
emotion of compassion there would be no desire to relieve
suffering, but without desire there would be no action towards
its relief. There are emotions which are not connected with
desire at all, and these do not lead to action. When we rejoice
in the joy of others, we do not experience any impulse to action
of any kind, but our emotion is its own end, or terminates with
itself; or again, if it leads to action, to express or communicate
our joy for example, it is through the medium of a desire to
let our joy be known, and make others sharers of it ; or this
is hardly action in any proper sense, but the mere utterance of
joy. Anger does not lead to action until it becomes resent
ment ; and love is a separate emotion from the desire to benefit
the object beloved. Still, as our emotions are followed by
desire, they are counted active principles, and spoken of as such.
The desires, however, are more properly the active principles,
and the emotions are so only as they awaken, or are con
nected with desire. The desires are the effect of the emotions ;
of certain emotions ; for every emotion does not awaken desire.
The desire of life, or of continued existence, is the result of a

534 THE MORAL NATURE.

certain enjoyment of life, or of an emotion or feeling of plea
sure, of which life is the immediate cause ; or it may be the
result of the combined emotions or feelings of happiness or
pleasure, which go to make up the enjoyment of life. No one
emotion may be the cause here, but many combined emotions,
all concurring to produce a certain pleasure or happiness, of
which the love of life, and the desire of its continuance, are the
consequence. It may be questioned if there is the love of life
for its own sake, or except as it is connected with the experience
of a certain happiness. The same with the other desires ; for
how could any object be desirable but as it had been found to
be connected with certain pleasurable emotions, or with an
estimate of its worth or importance, which is equivalent to, or
is itself, an emotion ? The desire to do good, or for good to
others, is the effect of a certain esteem, or appreciation, or love,
for the object whom we wish to benefit, or for whom we desire
the good. Any one of our desires, therefore, it would seem,
must have been first preceded by a certain emotion, before the
desire could be awakened, or to make the object or end desir
able. Our very emotions have been divided into primary and
secondary ; the strict philosophy of which, however, we would
be disposed to question. The objects of certain emotions may
not be primarily or immediately the objects of these emotions,
but may be so only though the medium of other objects, with
which other emotions are connected. The social affections are
thus traced, for the most part, to the medium of intervening
affections. We experience a certain pleasure in the company
of others, in their esteem, their confidence, their conversation,
their kind offices ; this begets the love of society, and the love
of social intercourse. Is it, however, the emotion that is
secondary here, or the object of the emotion ? Is not the
emotion the same, that of love or enjoyment, as in other
instances of it ? and it has now just a new object through the
intervention of other joys, or through the medium of other
objects of enjoyment. Perhaps the love of knowledge is the
result of certain emotions, and the former, simple as it may
appear, may not be felt till these other emotions have been

THE MORAL NATUliE. 535

first experienced. But here, again, we have only a new object
of love, and the emotion, in its own character, is the same
with any other example of it. Many objects may thus be
secondary while the emotions are not strictly secondary, but
the same in their essential nature, whatever may be their
object. The desires, however, seem to be secondary to the emo
tions, or only consequent upon the emotions. We would not
have the desires but for the emotions. The emotions make
the objects of them desirable, or awaken desires in connexion
with these objects in all time coming. We believe this is
the true account of the desires, and instead of their being emo
tions themselves, prospective, or however we may denominate
them, they are distinct phenomena, and are consequent upon the
emotions — the result of the emotions. We have, accordingly,
the desire of life, the desire of happiness, the desire of esteem,
the desire of gain, the desire of honour, the desire of power ;
for these are all felt to be desirable, and are felt to be so from
having been the objects of certain emotions, having been con
nected with certain agreeable feelings previously. Desire is a
distinct phenomenon, and results from an object having been
felt to be desirable, that is, from having been the cause or
occasion of certain happy or agreeable emotions, or an emotion,
such as that of admiration, awakening a certain estimate of
worth or value, and producing the desire of possession. Some
of our desires are made secondary, in the sense of being
secondary to other desires, such as the desire of wealth, as the
result of the desire of power ; and the desire of power, again,
as the result of the desire of doing good. That these desires
may be secondary, in that sense, in certain cases, may be
allowed ; but that they are often as original as any of our de
sires, since all are consequent upon certain emotions, we think
is obvious, and they are secondary only to the emotions out
of ivhich they spring. A certain happiness has been associated
in idea with the possession of wealth, whether the happiness
springing from power, or distinction, the superior esteem of
our fellows, or the command of the luxuries and enjoyments of
life. The happiness resulting from all these sources, or from

53G THE MORAL NATURE.

any one of them, is the immediate cause of this desire. Desire,
we would say, is the consequent of happiness experienced, or
worth appreciated ; except in the cases of resentment, and the
desire of good, or of doing good, to others, when it is the result
of anger or of love, the desire of evil to an object apart from
provocation, when it is the result of hatred. Desire, we think,
may be traced to one or other of these sources ; anger, when it
becomes resentment ; hatred, when it expresses itself in the
desire of evil to its object ; love, when it desires, or seeks,
the good of its object ; a feeling or experience of happiness,
or a certain sense or appreciation of worth. Desire is en
tirely a secondary phenomenon of our nature, and seems to
be consequent upon one or other of these sources or excite
ments.

The opposite of desire, is fear ; or at least that is very nearly
the antagonistic state to desire. As we desire those objects
which we have found to be connected with certain good, so we
fear those objects which we have experienced to be connected
with certain evil. Certain objects may be terrible, and capable
of awakening at once, and of themselves, the idea of evil, and
consequently producing apprehension, or inspiring terror; or
the connexion of terror and terribleness with these objects may
be the effect of very rapid, and very early, associations — as in
the case of a precipice, with which the mind will be able at once
almost to associate danger — a storm — an enraged animal — or an
infuriated fellow-mortal — a person whom we have provoked, and
who has the will and the power to hurt. Nelson, when a boy,
was once found sitting on a rock by the sea-shore, during a storm,
and when asked if he had no fear, he asked in reply, what fear
was, for he had never seen it. There seem to be minds to
which fear is a stranger, and which may meet every evil with
equanimity and courage. Courage is the power of meeting
evil, or anticipating it, unappalled, and without apprehension.
And as evil is physical and moral, so we have physical courage,
and moral courage. Minds possessed of the former are not
always possessed of the latter. The explanation of this may
just be in the different kinds of apprehended evil. Physical

THE MORAL NATURE. 537

evil may have no power to appal or terrify a mind that would
shrink from the encounter of his fellow-beings incensed, or
otherwise armed with power to hurt. The reverse, too, is the
case. Physical evil may be dreaded by those who would feel
nothing in the encounter with their fellows, but would rather
rejoice in the opportunity of combat, whether in the arena
of debate, or in the struggle of principle. However this is to
be accounted for, it is seen in multitudes of cases. The physical
frame and the moral constitution may have respectively to do
with it. Confidence in one's integrity and motives may im
part moral courage to those whose physical constitution would
tremble in the face of the smallest danger.

That fear and courage are principles of action, and very
powerful ones, we need not stop to show. We might dwell
upon them more at large, as emotions of the mind, or rather
states, which have their origin in the apprehension of evil, and
in the necessity to encounter it ; but this would occupy us too
long, while what is important is to see the connexion of these
states with the other states of mind, especially as principles of
action, and taking their place among the principles of action —
the emotions and the desires.

Hope is a modification of desire. It is desire with some
prospect of the attainment of the object desired. It is desire
modified by this prospect or likelihood of attainment. And
according as the prospect is strong, the hope will be strong, till
it amounts to expectation, and again to certainty, when it
becomes absolute confidence. Desire is in each of these states
of mind, and there is greater or less certainty of attainment.
The feeling resulting, however, would seem to be something
more than a mere modified feeling. We cannot allow hope,
expectation, confidence, to be nothing but desire modified :
there is a resulting feeling which we call hope, which we call
expectation, which we call confidence. We have repeatedly
adverted to the circumstance of a new feeling, springing out
of other feelings, the result of these combined, but constituting
an entirely new feeling in itself — the resultant feeling being
simple. So it may be with desire modified by a particular

538 THE MORAL NATUEE.

idea of certainty, either greater or less : the result may be an
entirely new principle or feeling.

Such we take to be the states of mind we call hope, expecta
tion, confidence. They are distinct — simple — resultants of other
states. They are intimately connected, however, with desire,
as the result of any combination must be with the elements
that enter into it. What admirable principles these are, espe
cially hope, and just because of at once the certainty and un
certainty that enter into its composition, all are aware. The
value of the principle is almost lost, at least in the same direc
tion or use of it, when it becomes expectation, confidence. It
is when there is uncertainty, and yet hope, that the mind values
the principle that sustains it in the absence of every other. It
is in the uncertainty, that the principle which bids us yet hope
is prized so much, and is so important as a principle of our
constitution. The mind would droop otherwise — would give
up the object as lost, as unattainable. This principle bids it
hope — bids it still look forward. There is, indeed, in the prin
ciple, a certain calculation of probabilities, and it seems to
depend upon plain enough matters of fact, prosaic enough
circumstances ; but this does not detract from the nature of the
feeling or principle itself. It is an animating principle, and
plays a most important part in our nature as a principle lead
ing to action. By means of it we struggle against difficulties —
we yield not to disappointment — we still anticipate success.
We act as if the object were ours, or as if we knew it was to
be ours. It is the great painter of life, the anticipator of future
good. What is at any one time in possession is but little, and
perhaps still less worth ; but the future is ours, and that has a
worth above all the present, because it is future. Experience
has not yet undeceived the mind. It is also the happiness we
next look to when all else has failed, or when we are weary at
least of the present. Hope sustains the mind when there is
almost no room to hope. It cheers the captive in his years of
confinement, and bids him still look for release, though the
hope should be as feeble as the light that penetrates, or hardly
penetrates, his lonely dungeon. It makes the wronged bear

THE MORAL NATURE. 539

his oppression, if anything could reconcile the mind to the
degradation of injury. It mitigates every evil by promising
future good. It mingles in the very experience of good itself ;
for, if we had no prospect of its continuance, or could not hope
for other good, the good \ve presently enjoy would often be
come the worst of evils, from the very apprehension of its loss.
Fear is thus opposed to hope, as well as to desire in its more
simple and elementary state, and takes a different aspect ac
cordingly. It is the fear of losing what we might hope to
attain, in the one instance ; it is fear of evil, just as there may
be the desire of good, in the other. The kind of evil appre
hended in the two cases is different : in the one it is negative,
in the other it is positive ; in the one it is the losing or not
attaining a good desired, and in some measure expected;
in the other, it is a positive evil that is apprehended, and
apprehended with some likelihood, or at least possibility, of
its actual occurrence. In all hope there is some degree of fear,
otherwise it would not be hope, but certainty, expectation. It
is made up of expectation and uncertainty, as we have already
seen it to be desire, with some prospect of attainment, — that is,
with more or less of certainty, or rather probability of attain
ment. The very fear gives impulse to hope in the struggle of
the mind to overcome its fears, while the intensity of hope, or
the desire rather that mingles in it, gives strength or poignancy
to fear. There is a reciprocal influence of the two sentiments
or states : The very hope leads us to fear — the very fear makes
us still hope. Such is our nature, that one state catches strength
from its very opposite ; at least, so is it in the alternations of
hope and fear. Coleridge has beautifully expressed the com
mingling of these sentiments, and their mutual influence, in
the stanza which occurs in his Genevieve : —

" And hopes and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long."

A great part of the principle of hope, it must be confessed,
may be said to consist in the unwillingness of the mind to

540 THE MORAL NATURE.

negative its own desires, or to renounce them altogether. In
some cases it may almost be said to be just the persistency of
the mind in its own desires. It may thus be questioned, in
some instances, whether any degree of certainty, or rather pro
bability, is necessary to admit of the principle of hope, or in
order to its being cherished. In many cases there is no proba
bility connected with the sentiment, or admitting of it, and yet
it is cherished. The faintest possibility, however, must exist,
and is enough for the exercise of the principle, or the existence
of the feeling. Does the captive cease hoping that he will yet
see the light of heaven, and be restored to the blessings of
freedom and of life ? The very possibility of his being so keeps
alive hope, or allows of it. The mind will not say to itself,
" It can never be ;" " It may be," is its utterance, or state, or
sentiment. It may be — and how much depends upon that
may be ! — years of captivity, and the mind's existence through
all ! Hope is the state of the mind answering to the possi
bility of an event, when that event is desirable. The same
event looked at according to the different degrees of probability,
when it is desirable, produces hope or fear. The possibility of
it allows hope, the possibility the other way produces fear.
Let the object be not desirable, and the order of the sentiment
is exactly reversed : the hope is, that it may not be realized :
the fear is, that it may. Some minds are constitutionally more
prone to one of these sentiments than to the other. The pro
bability, or the improbability, is what is seized in some cases
rather than in others, by some minds rather than by others.
Constitutional differences will account for this, as for many of
the indications or appearances of mind. The constitutional
differences of minds is a subject but little understood, and
perhaps incapable of being appreciated. The physical tem
perament undoubtedly has something to do with a phenomenon
which is seen every day in the most ordinary events and
circumstances of life. The sanguine, the desponding, or less
hopeful, represent two classes of individuals. Judgment, too,
in many cases, may control the hopes that might otherwise be
cherished ; and this makes the cautious and the prudent

THE MORAL NATURE. 541

character ; as the hope that goes before judgment often makes
the rash or the imprudent. In leading to action, it is often a
beneficial principle — hope that anticipates judgment, and will
not wait on its decisions — and the judgment is often in the
very hope that leads to success, the hope being the confidence
of the mind that it will succeed, or that there is no room for
doubt or despondency. The judgment is one of the mind,
made previous to any actual case that may arise, that by the
requisite effort anything within possibility may be accom
plished.

Youth is chiefly the season of hope. " In life's morning
march" all the energies are active, and the future promises a
thousand objects to exertion. The desire and the requisite
effort seem all that are necessary to command the very object
of every several wish. No defeat is anticipated : the elements
of defeat are yet unknown : the obstacles to success have never
for a moment been taken into account. Life is yet unex
perienced, and between the present moment, the present wish
or anticipation, and the realization of all that is anticipated or
wished for, there is no interval, or but one to be filled up with
the requisite exertion. How important all tins is to effort, and
just at the time when effort is most necessary, when the pre
paration has to be made for the future, when the mind has to
be trained, when the equipment has to be secured by which
the whole life is afterwards to be characterized or distinguished,
will at once appear. The stimulus of hope is more necessary
at that period, because the feeling of duty is not then so strong,
and the considerations of judgment do not weigh so much in
the balance.

Hope is a principle which pertains chiefly to a world in
which good and evil are mixed. The good allows of hope ;
the evil prevents, seldom permits, certainty ; and the mind
desires good, at least some good. Good of some kind, the
mind sets before it. In our present state the mind puts good
for evil, and evil for good, but an object must be apprehended
at least as good before it could be desirable. It must have
been associated in the mind with some idea of happiness or

f>52 THE MORAL NATURE.

worth ; and it matters not, however wrong the idea may be.
A false idea of happiness or worth may be as capable of pro
ducing desire as the most correct : it is necessary only that
there be such an idea. Dr. Brown has certainly a very singu
lar doctrine on this subject. He makes the good that consti
tutes desirableness just the relation between the object and
the desire. He expressly makes the distinction between such
a good, and physical and moral good. His own words are, —
" I must request you to bear in mind the distinction of that
good which is synonymous witli desirableness, and ofwliicli the
only test or proof is the resulting desire itself, from absolute
physical good that admits of calculation, or from that moral
good which conscience at once measures and approves. That
which we desire must indeed always be desirable ; for this
is only to state in other words, the fact of our desire. But
though" we desire what seems to us for our advantage, on
account of this advantage, it does not therefore follow that
we desire only what seems to be advantageous ; and that
what is desirable must therefore imply, in the very mo
ment of the incipient desire, some vieiv of personal good"
" Desirableness, then," he adds, " does not necessarily involve
the consideration of any other species of good, it is the
relation of certain objects to certain emotions, and nothing
more ; the tendency of certain objects, as contemplated by us,
to be followed by that particular feeling which we term desire."
This is surely a very arbitrary view of desirableness, or what
we desire as good — merely its relation to desire itself — the
tendency of certain objects, and that merely as contemplated
by us, to be followed by that particular feeling which we term
desire. Is there nothing more than this even in those instances
of desirableness which Dr. Brown refers to ? — nothing more
than a relation between an object and desire — the tendency in
an object to produce desire ? Is there not some conceived of
happiness or worth connected with the object, or which it is
capable of yielding ? There plainly must be ; and we can only
wonder at a view which makes the good which excites desire
nothing, or nothing more than a relation between any object

THE MORAL NATURE. 543

and the subsequent desire. Good of some kind, physical, in
tellectual, or moral, must belong to the object, or conceived of
as belonging : otherwise no desire would ensue, and the object
would at least be indifferent to us. We are so constituted as
to desire happiness, and appreciate excellence of whatever kind ;
and whatever is associated in our minds with these, may be the
object of desire. Either as capable of yielding happiness, or as
possessing worth, must an object be desired, if it is desired at
all. This remark has regard to the one class of our desires.
We have already recognised that class which springs from the
emotions of love and hatred — the desires, namely, of good or
evil to the objects of these emotions respectively. We alluded
to a certain desire towards the good or evil of their object when
speaking of these emotions, thereby giving rise to the bene
volent and malevolent affections respectively. We find our
selves brought to the same distinction when now speaking of
the desires. We recognise this second class of our desires just
as we could not overlook them, when speaking of the emotions
from which they spring, or with which they are connected.
Now, it is just from overlooking this class of our desires, and
fixing exclusive regard upon the desires connected with our
own advantage or happiness, that the selfish view of human
nature, or what is called the selfish system of morals, has been
adopted or entertained. Had due prominence been allowed to
that emotion of our nature, by which it is undoubtedly charac
terized, or we have no emotions at all — we mean the general
emotion of love, the selfish system would never have been heard
of. For, though there is such a principle as self-love in our
nature, and man must act from that principle as well as from
others, there is as certainly the principle of love generally ; and
love to our neighbour is but a modification, or but a part of
the general principle. Love is an original and essential state
of the emotional and moral being ; and to deny its existence,
or exercise, is to take but a very miserable view indeed of our
essential constitution. The truth is, our constitution has been
looked at from a wrong point of view altogether. Everything
shews us that it ought to be regarded from the grand stand-

544 THE MORAL NATURE.

point of the essential moral nature. It is not what we now
are : it is what we must have been. It is a poor consideration,
what is the aspect which our nature at present presents. Even
that will be found consistent with all that the absolute view of
our moral constitution requires us to think respecting it ; and
leads, or may lead, to the absolute view ; but in itself it is far
short of what we are required to regard or consider in respect
to our moral constitution. Taking this view, we find that love
is a part of our nature; and benevolence is but the outgoing
or expression of that love. That benevolence is a part of our
constitution, was settled in the most satisfactory way by Butler ;
and in his own profound and ingenious manner of treating a
subject, it was shown that benevolence was as independent of
self-love, as was any other principle whatever. Because hap
piness was an object of pursuit or desire, we were no more
warranted to conclude that there was no benevolence in our
constitution, than that there was no other passion or affection.
The sum of Butler's argument is thus given in his own words :
" Happiness consists in the gratification of certain affections,
appetites, passions, with objects which are by nature adapted
to them. Self-love may indeed set us on work to gratify these,
but happiness or enjoyment has no immediate connexion with
self-love, but arises from such gratification alone. Love of our
neighbour is one of these affections. This, considered as a
virtuous principle, is gratified by a consciousness of endea
vouring to promote the good of others ; but, considered as a
natural affection, its gratification consists in the actual accom
plishment of this endeavour. Now, indulgence or gratification
of this affection, whether in that consciousness, or this accom
plishment, has the same respect to interest as indulgence of
any other affection ; they equally proceed from, or do not pro
ceed from, self-love ; they equally include, or equally exclude,
this principle. Thus it appears that benevolence and the pur
suit of public good hath at least as great respect to self-love
and the pursuit of private good, as any other particular passions
and their respective pursuits."

" Every particular affection, even the love of our neighbour,"

THE MORAL NATURE. 545

Butler had previously said, " is as really our own affection, as
self-love ; and the pleasure arising from its gratification is as
much my own pleasure, as the pleasure self-love would have
from knowing I myself should be happy some time hence, would
be my own pleasure. And if because every particular affection
is a man's own, and the pleasure arising from its gratification
his own pleasure, or pleasure to himself, such particular affec
tion must be called self-love ; according to this way of speaking,
no creature whatever can possibly act but merely from self-
love, and every action and every affection whatever is to be
resolved up into this one principle."

But satisfactory as this mode of putting the subject is, we
think a higher view may be taken, by considering the absolute
emotional and moral constitution, and there we find love one
of the highest, the very highest principle of our nature. How
poor is the question whether benevolence be one of the prin
ciples of our constitution ! If love is the grand principle of an
emotional and moral nature, benevolence is but a consequent
or effect of that principle ; for benevolence is but desire for the
good of the object whom we love. What is the worth of the
selfish system when we take this absolute view of our nature ?
Can it be maintained for a moment ? Does it not proceed just
from not considering our nature from this absolute point of
view ? And then, there is the further advantage of this absolute
point of view, that in the anomalies which our nature now
presents — in the selfishness, for example, which our nature now
exhibits, as distinct from self-love, which, in the sense in which
that term is to be taken, must belong to our nature, or form a
part of it — we see traces of the Scriptural doctrine of the Fall,
and we can account for all such anomalies accordingly. But
we are not directly discussing the selfish theory of virtue at
present. We notice the selfish view of our constitution merely
in connexion with the subject of our desires — those two classes
which spring from the conception of good, happiness or worth,
or from the love of our fellows — the one class arising from
something desirable in the object, the other being in itself pure
benevolence, and arising from the emotion of love. What is

2 H

546 THE MORAL NATURE.

desirable in an object, either as contributing to happiness or
connected with the idea of happiness or pleasure, or as valuable
and worthy of pursuit, awakens desire : the love of our fellow
is attended by the desire for his good : the one is the desire of
possession from the idea of good to ourselves ; the other is the
desire of doing good to others, or for the good of others, from
the love of others. Self-love is the principle of the one, bene
volence of the other. We naturally desire our good ; we as
naturally desire the good of others : and the one is no more a
selfish principle than is the other. Selfishness is when we seek
our own good, and not at all the good of others, or our own
good to the exclusion of the good of others, qr even to the
detriment of others. Butler has made prominent distinction
between self-love and selfishness. That we are capable of
selfishness, or an exclusive regard to our own good, is manifest,
and is too frequently exhibited. This arises from the derange
ment of our moral nature, and is something entirely distinct
from that nature itself. That may still be determined upon
apart from such derangement, and the derangement no more
allows of a theory of our moral nature than would the de
rangement of a piece of mechanism allow of a theory of that
mechanism, should its nature come to be inquired into.

Whatever promotes happiness, then, or is regarded as ex
cellent, worthy, or valuable, is the object of desire, or may be
the object of desire. Happiness must be taken in the large
sense of whatever begets or is connected with pleasure, or
certain pleasurable emotions, and ivortli or excellence is an idea
we cannot analyze ; but yet it is something more than a rela
tion between any object and a desire; just as good, and Dr.
Brown recognises physical and moral good, is an idea which we
cannot analyze, and which Dr. Brown would not resolve into
a relation between an object and desire. We shall thus have
the general desire of happiness, and the general desire of worth —
the desire of good, and the desire of evil, to our fellow — the last
desire being incident to a state of moral derangement, in which
we may properly desire evil to others in the way of punish
ment, or desire it not as a punishment, but from the malignant

THE MORAL NATURE. 517

principle that now reigns in the heart. Under this general
classification may be enumerated those desires which have been
specified and treated of, by certain writers, as the grand and
prominent desires of our nature.

It seems altogether unnecessary to dwell upon the particular
desires, if we have seen their relation to the other parts of our
nature, and the influence they were intended to exert as prin
ciples of action. It is of the utmost importance, however, to
notice the aspect they now present, in connexion with the
peculiar character they must have exhibited in an unfallen state,
— to consider, in other words, our desires now that we are fallen
beings, and what they must have been, or what must have been
our state, when our nature was unvitiated. The desire of
existence would hardly have room to exercise itself when death
had no place, and the possibility of non-existence was not con
templated. That desire is awakened, in recoil from a state
which we call death, or non-existence. The desire now leads
to the employment of every proper means to preserve our own
life, to the duty, in other words, of self-preservation, or all
lawful endeavours towards it. The imperative, or command,
to this effect, is contained in the Sixth Commandment of the
Decalogue. It is not difficult to see a reason for this command
in the law re-promulgated from Mount Sinai. Respect to life,
to our own, and that of others, becomes a duty in a state in
which it is liable to be impaired or destroyed. " Thou shalt
not kill," was, accordingly, the authoritative injunction issued
by Jehovah from His pavilion of clouds and thick darkness.
The desire of existence, however, or the love of existence — for
the one is the effect of the other — if it is not essentially the
same state or feeling — is now, without the command, a strong
enough principle, to secure, for the most part, the preservation,
by each, of his own life. There may not be the same respect for
the life of others ; and hence the command, in the form in
which it is couched, has more direct reference to the life of
others than to our own. In an unfallen state, life, as we have
said, would be the only supposable condition, and the impulse to

548 THE MORAL NATURE.

take it would be an impossibility. The desire of life would not
be one of the desires, for nothing else would be known or
conceivable.

It would be much the same with the desire of happiness.
That could not be an object of desire which was the only state,
and the opposite of which was not, and could not be conceived
of. We could conceive the desire of different degrees of it,
and different modes of it, and the desire would be more akin
to the desire of pleasure, as that now exists : it would be the
desire of accessions to happiness, which still would be perfect
in its degree and kind. There would be nothing like the desire
of honour, or ambition, the desire of excelling, or emulation,
the desire of wealth, in any degree, much less when it amounts
to the degree of settled avarice. Perhaps there might be dif
ferent endowments even in an innocent state; and an innocent
ambition, or emulation, would be conceivable, but nothing like
what we have in the exercise of these passions or feelings now.
It is in a state like that in which we now are, that we see room
for the exercise of these principles or passions, and it is in our
present state, accordingly, that we find pride as one of the
emotions of our nature. Vanity is a modification of pride, and
envy the result of both. The desire to be great is, undoubtedly,
one belonging to a fallen state, for, in another state, the idea of
greatness, except the greatness of God, would not be entertained.
According to the idea of greatness, we have ambition, pride,
vanity, the fear of ridicule, and the sense of shame. False
shame, and false delicacy, spring from the same source, but are
connected with a wrong judgment of the mind. Bashfulness
may have its origin in this state. What would the desire of
power be — which implies the desire of sway or influence — when
the only rule would be that of love, and when none would ex
ercise a greater influence than another, but such as would be
consistent with the law of love, would be accorded without envy,
and exercised without arrogance ? Love would be the pre
dominant feeling ; and the only desires consistent with such a
state, or conceivable in it, would be the desire of good abso
lutely, and perhaps the desire of knowledge. The desire of

THE MORAL NATURE. 549

good would take every direction in which good manifested itself,
or could have exercise. It would take two prominent forms,
the glory of God and the wellbeing of our neighbours, which,
even as it is, is the twofold division of the law. The love of
God, and the love of our neighbour, are pronounced even now
to be the fulfilling of the law. Whatever that twofold love
would prompt to in any state would be the fulfilling of the
law, and would be the accomplishment of all good. The char
acteristic of our desires now is their selfish direction, not to the
exclusion of what remains of that love absolute which is the
condition of all perfect being, but still existing and exerting its
influence over the whole emotional and moral nature. How
this element took effect it is vain to inquire, but that it does
exist, and has operation, is too plain to the most superficial
observer ; nay, so conspicuous is it in its operation, so
marked in the motives which actuate mankind, that the theory
of a universal selfishness has been resorted to, to account for
all actions whatever, even the most apparently disinterested.
It is this element that is present in all those desires that are
now characteristic of our moral nature. Man would now build
his happiness upon the ruins even of that of others. He would
be accounted superior to his fellow — he would influence or
control his neighbour, bear rule, wield authority, have obeisance
and homage, command the resources of pleasure, and be at
tended by all the insignia of power and emblems of greatness.
As soon as the vitiating taint affected his nature, desire took
every one of these forms. His nature became susceptible of
every one of these desires. Not native to his essential being,
they became his, part and parcel, if we may so speak, of him
self, as soon as he had lost his innocence ; and, accordingly,
what we now see is the restless desires in all those directions to
which selfishness prompts, and of which personal happiness,
and personal aggrandizement, are the object and the gratifica
tion. Why should happiness be so eagerly sought, but that it
is felt to be a want ? Why should pleasure be so eager an
object of quest, but that happiness is so rare a possession ?
Why should man seek superiority over his fellow ? Why should

550 THE MORAL NATURE.

he aim at power, dominion, authority, distinction in any form ?
These are not the aims of pure moral natures. It is in a state
of being like what now obtains, that these become objects to
the mind. Man is now an end to himself. He must be great,
honoured, obeyed, esteemed above his fellows, the object of
their envy, attract their notice, wield the sceptre of empire,
command the voice or decisions of senates, by his arm, or by
his eloquence, sway the destinies of nations ; or he must be
increased in wealth, acquire the goods of this world, catch its
favour, enjoy its smile, draw its admiring applause, and be the
centre round which its affairs and interests revolve. Fame is
desired even in the pursuit of knowledge ; — that which should
be loved for its own sake, on whose self all the mind's interest
should be set, and even that not too much or too fondly, is
cultivated for the fame which it brings, or, more sordid, for the
wealth it may acquire. The walks of merchandise, the busy
mart of trade, the path of gain, the course of fair and honour
able competition, where nothing, however, is sought but the
advantages which it brings, or the prize which it holds out, are
frequented and pursued, as if these were a proper arena of man's
exertion, the proper objects on which man's energies were to
be expended, or for which they were to be devoted. War is
the field for the ambition of man: conquest, the renown of
victory, the motions of armies, battle itself, the laurel, " blood
nurst and watered by the widow's tears," — these call forth the
ardour of ambition, and the interest of martial passion, which
is contented that millions of lives should be sacrificed rather
than its own high achievements should be baulked, or lust
of empire defeated. Then we have the thousand avenues of
pleasure : the true object, happiness, is not attained, or attain
able, and the substitute, pleasure, must be sought in its stead.
There is not an object which may not be made to minister to
this, or in which pleasure may not be sought, or some gratifi
cation proposed to the mind. All this is in the absence of
happiness, or in the want of true delight. The mind is put
upon false objects of pursuit, that this desire may be gratified.
Anything rather than vacancy, stagnation, or the weight of

THE MORAL NATURE. 551

ennui, weariness, disappointment, or the load of the world's
misery, or the world's anxieties: hence the chase, the game,
the party, the walks with nature — which one might suppose
entirely distinct from pleasure as an object, — the pursuit after
literary or scientific objects.

Art itself may have the vitiating element, being prosecuted
for some ulterior end, not because it is itself an end ; not for
the love of the beautiful simply, but for the applause of the
world, for the voice of fame. Self is the vitiating element in
all our emotions and desires. That there is a line of right,
perceivable by the understanding, and that to go beyond it is
to transgress : that right and wrong are diametrically opposite :
that the one can never be the other, and that our minds
perceive the distinction ; cannot for a moment be doubted or
called in question ; — but self will be found in all instances of
transgression ; for though the law may be transgressed when
some other object than self directly is to be subserved or grati
fied, self is so far in the action, that the law is not regarded in
its supremacy, and self, or personal will, is put above law.
Selfishness is consulted ; for it is selfishness : there is emotional
self even when actions are done out of regard to any other
authority than that of law. Take the case of an individual
bound by the rules of his order, sworn to obey them, volun
tarily coming under their authority, and confessedly preferring
these to known right — is there not personal will here — is there
not self in such restraint, in such obligation, irrespective of
law, and in defiance of the only rule of obligation ? The exact
vitiating element in wrong actions cannot be determined. All
that we can say is, that it is a bias to the wrong rather than to
the right ; and that has an import of inconceivable and pro
found importance, which we can never measure or apprehend.
To be capable of wrong, of doing wrong in a single instance, is
a vicious state, or involves a moral depravity, which may not
stop with one transgression, but which may include all trans
gression. Any act, or even any thought, of transgression,
implies moral derangement, depravity, a nature evil, and the
source of evil. We do not need to determine the origin of

552 THE MORAL NATURE.

evil — a question beyond any faculties but those of God him
self — which no mind, perhaps, can take cognizance of, but that
of the Omniscient. Facts we must admit even while we can
not give the rationale of them. Our natures are now vitiated,
but what is the vitiating element we cannot say : all we can
say is, that evil is preferred to good. We can so far see the
evil tendency in the proneness just to follow our own desires,
and to put self above every other consideration. The desires
now take a selfish direction, and objects are sought by the
mind, apparently legitimate, which could not so much as be
conceived of in a right moral state. Our desires are for the
most part vicious, in that they are away from God and from
good, and set upon other objects altogether. Objects arise, are
now proposed, which could not have been even thought of
before. What is almost any object pursued, compared with
the grand object for which the moral being ought to live ? It
is true that our compound being requires us to pursue, or to
attend to, objects that have directly no moral character in
them ; but they become moral when done with a moral design,
or when they are means to an end, and not themselves the
end, and ourselves the means. To make self an end, and our
selves a means — that is, to make selfish gratification the end,
and ourselves a means to this gratification — seems to be one
great circumstance in every action that is evil, or which trans
gresses the right : an evil action transgresses the right whether
or not, but we may observe this circumstance in all wrong
action — ourselves made a means, and self an end. Our selfish
desires are the vitiating element in action, though what is the
cause of our selfish desires, it may not be possible to say ; and
why the gratification of our selfish desires in certain ways is
morally evil is not to be determined, but is an ultimate point.
We see, therefore, the relation of our desires to good or evil ;
the active principles of our nature constituting the motives to
action. The desires are the active principles, and they are the
motives to action in every instance where the motive is subjec
tive, and not the adherence to law. The adherence to law is
the only right motive. We are far from saying that the glory

THE MORAL NATURE. 553

of God, or regard to God, may not mingle in that motive : for
the law and God, or the authority of God, are so identified
that the one seems hardly separable from the other. And yet
they are so, and obedience to God himself is required by a law
cognizable by our minds. Still, reference to God undoubtedly
ought to be had in every action that we perform, for we are
not only under law, but also under God ; and His authority is
paramount, and is in truth the only actual or concrete autho
rity with which we have to do.

We perceive, then, that there are active principles in our
nature — that the desires are these principles ; and that it is only
when there is obedience to law, rendered from a regard to law,
that we are acting irrespective of desire, though still under the
influence of motive ; for reverence for law is motive, and the
reverence for law is always accompanied by love to it. The
relation of our desires, then, to law, to conscience, to moral
obligation, is very obvious. At first, love to God and to our
neighbour would be the controlling principle, the paramount
motive in every action. Everything would be done from this
principle, from this motive ; and hardly law itself would be re
cognised. Conscience would then be but the law of love, in
unison with all that is good. Since evil took effect in the
world, a brood of desires sprung up in the mind which had no
existence before ; and many of what are called principles of
action, are essentially vicious principles, would have no exist
ence, and can have no existence, in a perfect state. Those
passions which are designated by the name of noble — emulation
itself, the purest of them perhaps — have more or less of the
taint of evil, because they more or less are selfish, or have re
ference to self. Where it is the emulation of excellence, where
it is the ambition of excelling in good, the principles are right;
but then, they are just resolvable into the love of excellence — of
good ; and superiority will not be an element in them at all :
excellence, good, themselves, will be the only element ; or the
love of these. Now, conscience is the appreciation of the ex
cellent, or the power of appreciating the excellent, the good ;
and every desire is taken cognizance of by conscience, and is

554 THE MORAL NATURE.

approved or disapproved according as it is in accordance with
the standard of the excellent, the good ; and the action, of
course, springing from the desire, is thus excellent or good, and
is pronounced so by conscience. The authority of conscience is
the authority of law appreciated by the mind. The law is per
ceived, and it is felt in its might and its integrity. Obligation
arises out of this, and it is the obligation of law, while there
may be love and reverence for it. We perceive the obligation :
it becomes also a matter of sentiment or feeling. Both are in
the apprehension, or sense, of obligation. Now, our active prin
ciples ought to be under the strict control of the perception of
the right, or the feeling of obligation. Whatever our desires
may be, they should be suffered no farther than conscience
approves, and the perception of right allows. And from the
view we have presented, we shall perceive the harmony between
strictly ethical views, and the view of our nature and of duty
or obligation as given in Scripture, or by revelation. We see
there that the only principles of action are love to God, and
love to our neighbour ; and everything inconsistent with this
is sin, is morally vicious. Allowance is made for no other
principles. All is reducible to these. The law is not then a
nonentity. The authority of law is not thus a nullity ; but if
we act from these principles, law will be embodied in every
desire and every action ; and the distinct aim of Scripture is
to reduce the heart and conduct of the now vitiated moral being
under these principles. And do we not find, accordingly, when
the nature is reduced under these two principles, every other
principle is discarded, or is subordinated to them ; and, instead
of ambition, the love of praise, the love of money, the love of
pleasure, even the love of existence — the love of God, and the
love of our neighbour, are the grand and paramount principles ?
Under subordination to these, the others may be allowed ; but
they must be subordinate : these must be paramount. We
must not love ourselves, but in subordination to the love of
God, and we must love our neighbour as ourselves — that is, the
love of ourselves must not be such as to be inconsistent with
the love of our neighbour. The selfish principle must not dis-

THE MORAL NATURE. 555

place the social. The two are compatible, and they ought to
exist in harmony. It is common to say, that a certain degree
of ambition is right. This is questionable, if ambition is the
desire of greatness or distinction. This can never be directly
the motive of a pure moral nature. The question is, Is great
ness in the creature consistent with the laiu of right ? Can it
be consistently desired ? Is the desire of greatness a right one ?
Is it for the creature to seek to be great ? The idea of great
ness is altogether inconsistent with the position of the creature.
Moral greatness is the only kind of greatness that can be legi
timately sought — and this is seeking excellence, not properly
greatness. What has the creature that he has not received ?
and his position is that of subordination to God ; and the
measure of the endowments which God has conferred on him,
is, and must be, the measure of his greatness. Emulation is
somewhat different from this, for it has more directly in view
the excellence in which pre-eminence is sought ; but in so far
as it is a desire to excel others, not for the sake of the excel
lence, but for the sake of superiority, it is wrong, and is in
cluded among the works of the flesh which are condemned —
emulations, wrath, strife. It is the excellence that should be
sought, not the superiority. The love of money, again, is said to
be the root of all evil, and they that would be rich fall into temp
tation. It is obvious that those principles which are generally
regarded as legitimate ought to be brought to the standard of
the two we have mentioned ; and measured or regulated by
them, we have the proper criterion of their Tightness, or rather,
under the influence of these two principles, the others will have
very little power over us, or will fall into their appropriate
place. What was regarded as legitimate and even praiseworthy
will then be viewed very differently, and the law of the Chris
tian will be the law of eternal rectitude, the law originally
written on the heart. Many fine examples could be brought
of all these principles reduced into subordination to the two,
the love of God and the love of our neighbour — duty para
mount, and that twofold love the grand controlling principle of
action. And that is always an interesting and attractive ob-

556 THE MORAL NATURE.

ject of contemplation, an individual, who would otherwise have
been ambitious, as the expression of the world goes, loving only
the right, or seeking to bring every motive in subjection to it,
and loving the right chiefly in loving God, and his neighbour
as himself. We have such an example in Colonel Gardiner
after his conversion, who had the very soul of the hero, but
whose every action after his conversion was regulated by the
love of God and his neighbour : in Wilberforce, who could have
climbed the loftiest heights of ambition, but in whom every
high thought was brought into captivity to the obedience of
Christ, whose grand controlling principle in those actual tri
umphs of statesmanship which he achieved was not the ambi
tion of statesmanship, but the love of God and his fellow. The
highest in rank have cast at the foot of the Cross their earthly
honours, their crowns and sceptres, and they have acknowledged
that God alone is to be exalted.

In considering the emotion of love, we were led to take the
view of this emotion as absolute, but capable of being increased
by the excellencies of being which may be contemplated. We
held that this emotion belonged essentially to every moral being,
and the love of our neighbour, of course, must be but the exer
cise of this principle or affection in that range of its exercise
which takes in our fellow-beings as its objects. That these
should come within the scope of its exercise is surely not won
derful, if it is a principle or affection at all. The only question
is, Does this principle exist in man's nature as fallen, or as we
find it, or has the principle been obliterated in the ruin which
has overtaken our nature, or in which it has been involved ?
That all traces of it are not lost, is a truth which may be
admitted in perfect consistency with the doctrine of the total
depravity of our nature. That depravity consists in some essen
tial characteristic which has only to have sphere or opportunity
for development to exhibit itself in every individual of the race,
and to whatever extent moral evil may go. We shall find, for
the most part, the same grand essential characteristics of moral
nature in all. There may be, therefore, an essential element
of depravity consistent with partial development, and with

THE MORAL NATURE. 557

much of the original nature which has thus undergone a
change. How it is to be explained we do not take it upon
ourselves to say, but the fact again here is indubitable. We
are not surely to deny the existence of love to our fellows, and
to maintain that self-love is the only principle now remaining
in the heart of man. Are we to maintain that every patriot
and philanthropist, and disinterested, or apparently disinter
ested person, has been acting under a delusion, and that the
estimate of their patriotism, disinterestedness, philanthropy,
was a mistaken one ? Too much of mingled motive, indeed,
may be detected in the best actions, but the love of country,
the love of the species, the love of our neighbour, though not
so pure and perfect as they ought to be, are still found in some
degree, and are powerful principles of action. Self-love may
co-exist with these, and in some measure gives strength to
them. We are to love our neighbour as ourselves ; as we love
ourselves, so we should love others, — not in equal degree, but
because we love ourselves, and others are the counterparts, as
it were, of ourselves. The golden rule is, " Whatsoever ye
would that others should do unto you, do ye even so to them ;"
and our Saviour adds, " This is the law and the prophets." To
love others, therefore, and to love ourselves, to do good to others
and to seek good for ourselves, are by no means incompatible
principles ; and these and the love of God are the real and
only legitimate principles of action ; or others must be in sub
ordination to these, must never be so strong as to frustrate or
be inconsistent with them. No motive or desire should be so
strong as to lead us to act incompatibly with the love of self, the
love of our neighbour, or the love of God. The desire of esteem,
or of the good opinion of others, is almost a necessary effect, or
at least concomitant, of the love of good itself. To be reputed
what we are not, if we truly love good, is what no one would
choose, but what every heart shrinks from. The love of the
good opinion of others may, therefore, be nothing else than
the desire to be estimated at the worth of the good that we do
love. It may be a light matter to be estimated by man's judg
ment — at any standard, when brought into comparison with

558 THE MORAL NATURE.

God's judgment. But it is not a light matter to be estimated
at a lower standard than one's own appreciation of worth, of
the good, the excellent. To desire the good opinion of others,
then, is often nothing else than an aspect, or a necessary effect,
of the love of good itself. The desire of fame, or applause, or,
more humbly, of praise, may be in some degree explicable on
the same principle ; and in so far as it is not a desire to be
great, but a desire to be estimated by a standard that we may
form of excellence in any department of useful and honourable
exertion, from the very love that we have of that excellence, it
is not an improper principle. The love of praise for itself, and
not according to a standard that we may set ourselves, and
which we may have reached, is always wrong, and is unworthy
of any mind. This is the love of flattery, not true commenda
tion ; but it is still a homage to good. To be indifferent to
the good opinion of others would argue a mind insensible to
good itself. Shame is a modification of this very desire ; it is
the feeling when we have forfeited the good opinion that we
value ; it may be the feeling when we have forfeited our own
good opinion. One's own approbation is more valuable than
the approbation of all others, and conscience is a faithful
principle, taking strict cognizance of the minutest action by
which we may depart from the right. To be capable, in the
least degree, of acting in such a manner as conscience con
demns, of making ourselves, in any degree, a subservient means
in order to a selfish gratification, overlooking the while the
paramount claims of conscience, is to incur our own disappro
bation, and to fill us with a stinging sense of self-reproach.
To be a means is contemptible, and is unworthy of the dignity
of a moral being. To act not according to duty, or with a
regard to duty, to gratify desire, to stoop to act beneath law, or
inconsistently with its claims, with its rigorous demands, its
uniform rectitude, its unyielding authority ; to have forgotten,
in ever so slight a degree, its high and paramount obligation ;
may fill the mind with the most painful and humbling sense of
unworthiness ; for between rectitude and the slightest deviation
from it, there is an infinite distance. It is difficult to know

THE MORAL NATURE. 559

sometimes where evil begins, but the moment it begins con
science takes cognizance of it. And the principles of conduct
are so mixed, that we may often, we do often, transgress, find
ourselves in evil, before we are aware. A most praiseworthy
motive or intention, the very generosity of the heart, may be
the neighbour, or the instrument of sin, be on the very border
land of evil. A sinful motive or state is often as near a strictly
moral and good one, as the intermingling elements in any com
pound are to each other — often like the advance or recession of
the tides, which every moment may see, now below, now beyond,
the mark of advancing or receding progress. Hence the neces
sity of keeping the heart with diligence, of watchfulness, — a
department of conduct which we are not aware that any system
of morals condescends to take notice of, and which was reserved
for the law of Scriptural holiness to enjoin. How often, by un
guarded words, by idle thoughts, by incautious and inconsiderate
actions, may we transgress law, and occasion self-reproach, call
forth the condemnation of that inward monitor that will not
remit its vigilance, however we may remit ours ! The very
thoughts and intents of the heart come under the inspection of
conscience, and may expose to its reproaches. A hardly-formed
desire or purpose may be as much taken cognition of, as one not
only formed, but carried into act. It must be so, for the very
purposes may be evil, and must be under the surveillance of
conscience. The desires even are thus cognizable by conscience,
those springs of action which may give the character to action
itself, and in which we may discern good or evil, though action
should never follow ; the desires themselves being accounted
worthy of approbation or disapprobation. And this leads to
the question, What part the will has in those states or actions
with which we connect moral blame, to which we ascribe
moral culpability ? Is moral blame really attachable to our
states of desire, or our purposes, where there may be no action ?
The will is that phenomenon which makes the difference be
tween these three, there being more or less of will in a
purpose, none directly in a simple desire, and will being
present in every action ; action, where it is unconstrained,

560 THE MORAL NATURE.

being in every instance the result of a volition. To the ques
tion, whether our desires may be deserving of moral blame,
if evil, we think there can be but one answer, and that is, that
all evil must deserve moral blame, and the difficulty in the
case of our desires, when evil, is not whether they deserve
moral blame, but where the blame is due. It may be thought
if the desires are evil, the blame must be with the desires, or
the subject of these desires ; and therefore the question may
seem to admit of a very short issue, and to admit of but one
conclusion, that the individual who is the subject of the desires
must himself be culpable. But it is to be remembered that a
j desire is but a state to which the subject of the desire may
give no consent, and which may be in spite of himself. A
desire is of the very essence of a being's nature. It might
seem, therefore, that an evil desire must be the desire of an
evil being, and that that being must be responsible for all that
its evil in him, or in his actions. And so it would be, were that
evil nature the effect of his own choice, and had he been the
cause of that evil nature himself. Now, was man the cause of
his own evil nature ? In one sense he was, in another he
was not. He was, through federal representation ; he was not,
directly himself, by his own immediate act. The question
comes to be, then, how far does federal representation make the
act his own ? And here it must unequivocally be admitted
that such a constitution does make the act truly his own, and
that for his state now man is responsible ; that even for evil in
his very nature he must be held guilty ; — that his states are
his own, and must be chargeable upon him as blameworthy, if
they are truly such in themselves. But this very view of the
matter shows that volition, will, is necessary in order to moral
culpability ; for it is will that makes any state our own ; with
out volition, any state would be as little our own as the state of
another being. Our nature now must be regarded as ours by
our own consent ; otherwise God would never have adopted
that arrangement or constitution of things which He did. He
would have put every individual on trial for himself. Man
would not have been made dependent upon his representative.

THE MORAL NATURE. 561

A covenant-relationship would not have been established, but
each individual would have been tried on his own merits, on
his own power to obey. If this view be correct, and if we must
say in reference to all God's procedure, that He is righteous in
all His ways, and holy in all His works, then man is responsible
for his very nature ; and the doctrine of Scripture is that of
original as well as imputed guilt — the guilt of our nature as
well as the guilt of imputation. Man, undoubtedly, is respon
sible for his very desires. They are his, and must be regarded •
as his. In the government of a righteous God, it is not con
ceivable that where there was no guilt in any sense, any being
under His government could have been involved in the moral
evil to which guilt attaches, and all the consequences to which
that evil leads. We would be Avarranted to assume, then, even
did we not see to any extent the rationale of the procedure —
which we do — that wherever there is evil there is culpability.
Had man been created with an evil nature, there would have
been no culpability, for the evil would have been the work of
the Creator, the effect of His own creative fiat or will. But
such is not how the matter stands between God and His crea
ture, and we are not left to such a supposition as this. Accord
ing to the idea we must entertain, then, man is culpable — he
has involved himself in evil and in all its effects — his depraved
nature is his own, is attributable to no one but himself ; and
for all the acts or characteristics of that nature he must be
responsible. An evil desire, even, must be guilty in the sight
of God. It is more directly culpable, however, if entertained,
and accompanied by an act of will — and the relation of a will
to an act is what we must now explain.

The will is that phenomenon of mind by which we allow or
assent to any act or state, whether of the mind itself, or of the
body with the mind, — that is, of our entire nature. Every act
is a result of will, and will is necessary to every act where the
agent acts freely. Like all our other ultimate states, it cannot
be explained, but may be intelligible enough without explana
tion, as it is a subject of every one's own consciousness, about
which every one's own consciousness is conversant daily arid

2 N

562 THE MORAL NATURE.

hourly. It is understood, because it is a subject of conscious
ness. We know what will is, because we obey it. We can do
nothing without an act of will. If we act, it is because we
will to act. A determination of the will, or rather the Avill
itself, or the will willing, must precede any act that we perform
ourselves, and of which we are, therefore, the real agents. The
most simple acts are the results of a will, or a volition, as an
act of will is called. The general phenomenon, or principle, is
different from that phenomenon or principle in exercise, or any
single act of the phenomenon or principle. The one is called
the will ; the other an act of will, or a volition. The general
law, or phenomenon, or principle, acts in a particular case, and
that is a volition. It is a will, or a single act of will, as the
other is the general phenomenon, or law, or principle of the
mind. The peculiarity of this phenomenon is, that it com
mands or controls the other phenomena of the mind, and that
our whole compound being is under its influence, and would
be nothing, or but a mere automaton otherwise ; nay, not even
an automaton, for the will is necessary to all the voluntary
movements of the body. It is by the will that the hands move,
that the limbs walk ; that we look, that we listen, that we
speak, that we think. Without a volition none of these would
take place. It is the ivill, therefore, that makes us active
beings, and capable of regulating our actions. Will, however,
is not a mere principle, like the principle of motion in the
external world ; it is under the direction of reason. Eeason
directs, will moves. There is a certain influence of the will,
however, over the operations of mind itself. By a volition, or
an act of will, we may make one thought, or process of the
mind, more the thought or process of the mind than another ;
and, by doing so, either make that thought more distinct, or a
link to other thoughts, or that process more the process of the
mind, at the time, than another, according as it may be our
purpose to reason, abstract, imagine, compare, remember,
generalize, or whatever may be the purpose or object of the
mind. The influence is only indirect ; it has connexion with
the purpose we have in view ; and that, by the operation of a

THE MOKAL NATURE. 563

volition, or the continued act of will putting the mind in a
particular state, or operating upon certain laws of mind itself,
these laws proceed in their own way until the result is attained,
or the process is accomplished. It merely sets a law of the
mind a-working, and we continue or suspend the law at our
pleasure. It has the same influence over the emotions. We
may, by an act of will, and by the influence which it has over
our trains of thought, secure a certain emotion ; we may, by
the same act of will, prolong that train of thought, and so pro
long the state of emotion. It is true there are states of mind
which are inimical to certain emotions, and under these states
no train of thought that by an indirect volition we may com
mand will secure or be attended by the emotion ; or the train
of thought itself may not at that instant obey the volition, for
the train of thought as much depends upon the emotion as the
emotion upon the train of thought, after the train is once
awakened. If, when that is the case, the emotion ceases, is
stifled or repressed by some foreign cause, some other and alien
state of mind, the train itself ceases. Our thoughts of imagi
nation are possessed only in the element of emotion. They
are ideas of emotion, or connected with emotion, without which
they could not be. Let an adverse state of mind, therefore,
frustrate the emotion, and the thoughts themselves would not
proceed in their train. A hostile emotion, or state of mind,
prevents even ordinary thought, trains of reasoning itself, and
the associations by which we have the phenomenon of volun
tary memor}'. The will, therefore, has not absolute command
over the mind, or states of mind ; it depends itself upon states
of mind, particularly states of emotion. These may be hostile
or helpful, and influence the will accordingly. When the mind
is unfettered by any enslaving thought or passion — when it is
unengrossed by any absorbing emotion — when it is free to act,
then, under the influence of a volition, it will act vigorously, or
its laws will be proportionably powerful. The will, however,
has a wonderful effect, when itself is strong, in counteracting
the influence even of adverse states. We speak of a strong
will, a strong determination. There is unquestionably such a

564 THE MORAL NATURE.

phenomenon. The will itself seems to be stronger in some
individuals than in others. It is this which constitutes a firm
character. Many circumstances may concur in strengthening
or giving decision to the will, as different elements of original
character may go to compose a vigorous will and a decisive
character ; hut, undoubtedly, after all our analysis, we shall
arrive at some peculiarity in the phenomenon of the will itself,
or of a state, an ultimate state of the mind, of which an indo
mitable will is the immediate result.

Now, the connexion of the will with our active principles,
with action, and consequently with the right and wrong of an
action, is obvious. Our active principles are the prompters to
action ; but without the will, without a volition, action would
not follow. A volition is consequent upon the active principle,
and volition is the immediate precursor of action. Action
follows upon the volition. Unless volition followed upon
desire, no action would take place. There may be a state of
desire, which does not result in action. There must always,
however, be some volition in the mind, else we would never act
in any way ; and the volition supposes a preference to some
mode of acting over another, or a preference to acting rather
than not acting. It has always a positive and negative charac
ter, therefore, — it is a preference to act in one way rather than
in another, or a preference to act rather than not act. The
preference, however, is before the will, or volition, and is in
the preponderating desire of the mind. There is a judgment
in the preference as well as a desire, and the two go to con
stitute that state of mind which leads to a volition, and hence
to action, and is therefore called a motive — is the motive to
action. We never act without a motive ; and a motive is just
a state of desire, along with a judgment, producing preference,
and leading to volition. There is always some element for
judgment in connexion with desire. It may be an aesthetic
judgment — a judgment of taste — but desire is never but ac
companied with some judgment, founded upon some judgment,
some conception of happiness or worth. The judgment is
often emotional, as our estimate of happiness or worth depends

THE MORAL NATURE. 565

upon some emotion that we connect with the particular circum
stance or object, but it is a judgment that the circumstance or
object will be connected, or is connected, with that emotion,
and the desire of the circumstance or object follows upon the
judgment. But may not worth and happiness themselves, in
their abstract character, be the object of desire ? and this may
seem to imply no judgment, since worth and happiness are
ultimate ideas. But is it not a judgment, that happiness or
worth, is desirable ? while in every ultimate idea is there not
a judgment ? — it is an ultimate judgment, but it is a judg
ment. It must be allowed, however, that here the desire
appears as ultimate as the judgment, and does not seem to pro
ceed upon it. But this does not alter the general truth, that
in respect to what will confer happiness, or what is worthy, or
valuable, there must be a judgment of the mind, and that this
is necessary before any object or circumstance, or circumstances,
can be the object of desire. But still further, there may be a
judgment of the mind, whether the desirableness is such as
ought to be gratified, and there is a review, therefore, of the
desirableness itself, and a judgment whether the desirableness
itself be desirable. There may be different grounds of desir
ableness. What may be desirable in one respect, may not be
desirable in another ; and if the non-desirableness in the one
respect prevails over the desirableness in the other, even the
desirableness itself is not really desirable. We prefer some
thing on the ground of some other of the active principles of
our nature ; even while certain of our active principles would
lead us to a different choice, makes something else really the
object of our desire. The volition follows upon the stronger
preference, or rather upon the preference ; for the one object may
excite stronger desires in one direction, while it does not excite
the stronger upon the whole. It is the strongest desire upon
the whole that leads to action. The prevailing desire may not
have very much of the aspect of a desire : it may seem rather a
judgment merely, that a certain course of action is the best;
but a desire follows that judgment, and the reason that it may
be less lively than the other is, that it is the desire, perhaps, of

566 THE MORAL NATURE.

advantage, of worth, something valuable in the estimate of the
mind, — the desire of value, not of happiness. When an object
promises immediate happiness or pleasure, it excites a livelier
emotion than what promises only advantage or good. We
would prefer our happiness to our advantage, although ulti
mately our happiness may be in the direction of our advantage,
and not of what seems to be our immediate happiness. Hence
the conflicting motives, and hence the prevailing motive is not
always the liveliest, although it must be the strongest. A
motive is a judgment and a desire. Where it presents to us
happiness, it is lively ; where it presents to us advantage, it
may preponderate, but it is not so lively. It is still, however,
the stronger. The motive which the mind obeys is the stronger
to its. It is possible to prefer our happiness — immediate happi
ness — to our advantage, and actually our greatest happiness ;
and though the one motive ought to preponderate, the other
does. In this case, our minds seem machines actuated by no
reason, obeying some law or impulse : it is reason, however,
preferring the gratification of an immediate desire, or a weaker
conception of good, because it promises greater happiness, to
obeying a stronger conception or view of good, because promis
ing advantage and not immediate happiness. It is reason
allowing the preponderance to one object of desire rather than
another, from the liveliness of the desire, and not from the
superiority of the object. Here the state of the desires must be
considered.

It is by an inductive process strictly that we arrive at the
state of the desires : we may perceive abstractly what they
must have been, or what they ought to be. As love is the only
supposable state in a perfect moral being, the desires would be
in harmony with this state, and would in no case be incon
sistent with it. Desire is consequent upon emotion, and
according to the state of the emotions would be the state of
the desires. The prevailing emotion will give the prevailing
desire. If we suppose then Love the prevailing state of the
mind, Desire will be in harmony with it, could not be incon
sistent with it : there could be no desire inconsistent with this

THE MORAL NATURE. 567

reigning affection. All being is the object of love ; but the
excellencies of being excite a proportionate degree of the prin
ciple or feeling. It is the nature of the principle to be stronger,
as the being on whom it rests rises in excellence, moral, intel
lectual, or physical. Moral excellencies chiefly call it out ; but
moral and intellectual excellencies together will awaken a
greater degree of love than moral excellencies singly. Physical
qualities are the object of love, or are connected with the exer
cise of this feeling or principle, only by arbitrary appointment,
or as they are the index to us of intellectual and moral quali
ties, or suggestive of conceptions with which are associated
certain feelings — conceptions of emotion as they are called —
and from which results, therefore, the emotion of beauty —
the object of love when seen in rational being ; of admiration,
or a kind of love, when seen in other being. Ultimately, it
is the intellectual and moral excellencies, indicated, or sug
gested as mere objects of conception to the mind, which are
the objects of love, and the feeling is modified by the physical
qualities which indicate or suggest these ; or, by a peculiar
constitution of our nature, there is a feeling of which physical,
intellectual, and moral qualities, are the combined cause or
object. Being, however, as such, is the proper object of love ;
and spiritual being excelling physical — nay, as the only per
manent and indestructible being — must be loved above physical,
and prior to it. The Supreme Being must of course be the
supreme object of love, as in Him all excellencies centre, and
from Him all being and excellencies take their rise. While
He is possessed of awful attributes, He is at the same time
characterized by every amiable perfection. He is essentially
good, and good is the object of love : goodness inspires love.
It is God's love to the good that insures, if it does not con
stitute, His justice. Moral beings possessed of the same quali
ties as God, must, like Him, be the object of love. Now, this
state supposed, love being the absolute state of the emotional
being, all desire would flow in harmony with it: no desire
would be cherished, or could be known, which could not consist
with love. The law of right, too, in a perfect moral being,

568 THE MOKAL NATURE.

would influence the desires — secure a certain state of the de
sires. Nothing would be desired but in harmony with it,
which it did not allow or approve. The excellent strictly, as
well as the amiable, would be regarded. The right, the just,
the good, the true, would be the object of reverence, as well as
the lovely of love. All this supposes a perfect moral state ;
and in that state the spiritual would be paramount to the
physical, the wants of the soul to those of the bod)'-, or not so
much the wants, as the proper objects, of a spiritual nature,
superior to those of the physical. Every desire which had its
source from the body, or terminated on the body, or was partly
physical and partly spiritual — that is, supposed the physical as
an element in the desire, or as necessary to its gratification —
where the result was a mental or spiritual one, but the physi
cal, whether our own physical nature, or the physical frame
work by which we are surrounded, and which ministers to our
pleasure, or subserves our uses, instrumental to the result —
every such desire would be subordinate to what was strictly
spiritual. The first desire would be towards the source of
being and the centre of perfection. The approbation of that
Being, and His glory, would claim the first desire of the mind ;
excellence itself would claim the next. All spiritual objects
would fill the mind, and obtain its homage. Spiritual com
munion, the interchange of mind, of feeling, of love — high
intellectual and spiritual intercourse — would be a principal
object in the desires of a rightly constituted moral and spiritual
state. The body would be in subjection to the mind : its
wants would find their object, would meet their fulfilment, and
they would have no tyrannizing sway. No inordinate desire
would exist. The pleasures of sense would not have come to
exert that power or predominance which is implied in the
term, but would be moderate, not only under strict regulation,
but having no tendency to go beyond the strictest bounds, to
exceed by the slightest degree — like the natural play of the
fountain, welling from its spring, but never rising higher than
the force below impelled its waters. A predominance of
higher aims, of spiritual objects, of spiritual pleasures, would

THE MORAL NATURE. 569

preserve the due subordination in the physical wants, would be
a surrounding law acting along with the law of the desires
themselves, and insure a perfect equilibrium, or the just action
of the physical and the spiritual. The two elements would be
kept in harmony. Better than the laws which establish the
equilibrium of the elements without us — the fine and pervading
action of the surrounding air — would be the laws of the spiritual
being when yet unfallen, the subtle but powerful influence of
the spiritual nature, pervading, surrounding, commanding,
regulating.

It is different with the desires now. The rectifying principle
of love has lost its influence, or it no longer exists in that degree,
to take the other principles of our nature into its regulation, or
to exercise over them its mighty control. The right is now
but imperfectly recognised, and the physical usurps it over the
spiritual. The moral derangement which we have all along
supposed, and which must be admitted, is seen in the desires
as well as the emotions, must be seen in the desires if in the
emotions. Tlie way in which objects, and all being, are re
garded now, is the effect of the moral derangement we have
spoken of. We have seen that selfishness is the vitiating taint
or element of our now moral state. Grod is not the supreme
object of desire, as He is not now the supreme object of our
love. Our desire is not now naturally for His glory, nor for His
favour. We do not now love other moral beings as we ought

o o y

or as they should command our love. The spiritual nature is
in abeyance to the physical, and the law of right has but a
feeble hold upon our regards. Selfishness is the pervading law
that operates within us, and our desires take a direction accord
ingly. God is little or not at all thought of: our fellow-beings
obtain not that amount of interest which they should command:
we accord them just as much as may be consistent with a para
mount regard to our own interest, or happiness, or pleasure.
The right has little weight with us as moral beings, is deferred
to the pleasurable or the agreeable, if not, as it too often is,
to the wrong or sinful. Selfish gratification, honour, power,
pleasure, displaces everything else, and is sought in a thousand

570 THE MORAL NATURE.

ways, in a multitude of objects and pursuits, often conflicting,
and seldom in harmony. We go towards one object, and we
find we are baffled by another : we seek on one road our hap
piness, and we are met by another : the ways cross, and we are
bewildered or led astray. We have our object in view, and
something intervenes and plucks it from our grasp, or puts
another desire in the very place of that which was but this
moment dominant. The moral nature is not one, simple, con
sistent. It is not spiritual, holy. It has not God as its great
and central object — His glory as its end. The love of spiritual
being does not actuate, or but feebly ; and by starts, not con
tinuously and powerfully. Subjective right yields to objective
motive or desire — is made to defer to an object which promises
pleasure or gratification of some sort. And yet the law of right
does exercise an influence, and modulates our desire. It still
exercises a sway in our constitution. It has not lost its influ
ence altogether. Some of its power is felt. Conscience takes
cognizance of our states, and desire is amenable to it. Hence,
what we often see, desire restricted by desire, because controlled
by conscience. The desire is one way ; conscience comes in
and turns it another way, or imposes another desire, and that
is paramount, because it obeys conscience, though it may not
be the strongest of the two feelings, the prevailing desire, not
the strongest feeling, or not accompanied by such a vivid emo
tion. The conflict among the desires themselves, or the objects
of desire regarded as objects exciting desire, apart from subjec
tive law, gives us another cause of the conflicting desires which
are so common an object of observation in our moral nature.
Pleasure interferes with pleasure ; one pleasure is the rival of
another: honour conflicts with honour: we have contending
passions: the mind at one time desires one gratification, at
another, another. At one time the spiritual predominates over
the physical ; at another the physical over the spiritual. At
one time ambition is uppermost, at another pleasure. The
higher part of our nature predominates now, the lower again.
Sin is no barrier to our gratification. Law is cast aside : the
authority of God is despised : what can restrain from the

THE MORAL NATURE. 571

accomplishment of our object ? Gain, sensual indulgence,
bodily appetite, pleasure at the expense of duty, even the
refined pleasures of the intellect rather than the spiritual ex
ercises of the soul, — these are preferred, or dispute it with the
sense or feeling of right, and too often carry it over the latter.
The vitiating element of self does all this — the entrance of the
one powerful element of sin. Driven from his centre, — the
object that should fix and retain his regards, and that would
take up every other law of his nature and control it, — man is
now a wandering star, having no orbit, no centre ; having
desires as multifarious as he has conceptions of the true, the
good, the desirable — as he has appetites, as he has passions, as
he has mental objects, as he has ideas of pleasure, as he has, or
would have, means of gratification and sources of enjoyment.
" This is next to a miracle," says Pascal, " that there should
not be any one thing in nature which has not been some time
fixed as the last end and happiness of man ; neither stars, nor
elements, nor plants, nor animals, nor insects, nor diseases, nor
war, nor vice, nor sin. Man being fallen from his natural
state, there is no object so extravagant as not to be capable of
attracting his desire. Ever since he lost his real good, every
thing cheats him with the appearance of it ; even his own
destruction, though contrary as this seems both to reason and
nature." False conceptions of good, of happiness, lead to a
wrong estimate of objects and pursuits, as securing happiness,
invest them with a false importance, or appearance of good, and
consequent desirableness — and these are desired, accordingly,
to the exclusion of what should rather excite our desire, or be
the object of our appreciatory regard and quest. And amid
the multifariousness of his desires, there is not one that fixes
his attention, perhaps, for any long time together ; at least,
most men are fickle in their desires, as they are wrong in the
objects of them. In some instances one predominant desire
greatly carries it over every other, and is able so to fix the
desire, that that becomes a ruling passion, and draws every
thing else into subserviency and subjection. In such instances
there is often a surprising degree of consistency and steadfast-

572 THE MORAL NATURE.

ness as regards the object of desire, and efforts towards it, and
plans to secure it. We see the ambitious man bending every
object to his ruling passion, pursuing one straight course
towards it, never swerving : there are no conflicting desires
with him, no varying motives ; there is one steady purpose, and
nothing will stop him in its pursuit, or deter him in its prose
cution. Everything is sacrificed to this one object ; it is not
too much that blood should flow, that misery should be the
consequence, that multitudes should suffer for the sake of that
one desire, of that one individual.

" What millions die that Csesar might be great !"

In other instances, or even in the same instance, with respect
to other objects, the utmost fickleness may be evinced, and
desires may be as conflicting as the warring elements.

" Of contradictions infinite the sum,"

a man may veer to every point of the compass in the history
of a day, and his life may exhibit the same consistency in
change. The rectifying principle of the desires is alike want
ing in both cases. In the one it is consistency in evil ; a
ruling passion has so taken possession of the mind, that while
the passion itself is evil, its predominance, and the consequences
to which it leads, are terrible. In the other, it is not only the
absence of good desire, it is inconsistency even in those which
are frivolous or sinful.

The desires, considered as regards their objects, or the
source from which they spring, may be viewed as moral,
aesthetic, or physical — the last including the appetites. Desire
is a state consequent upon the conception of something good or
worthy, and an emotion appropriate to the good or the worthi
ness which is contemplated ; and good, or worthiness, is either
moral, sesthetic, or physical. The aesthetic is the beautiful, or
that which belongs to the department of the beautiful, in
nature or art. The aesthetic includes all those emotions which
spring from the contemplation of the beautiful, or the fine in
nature or art. That we have these several departments, or dis
tinct kinds, of emotion, or of an emotional nature, is obvious.

THE MORAL NATURE. 573

Our moral and aesthetic emotions are too common and familiar
to need to be pointed out. The physical is not so much the
region of emotion as of feeling, and the feeling is not so much
mental as bodily, and hence the desires springing from this
source are rather appetites than desires. Many of them, how
ever, too, are strictly desires, not appetites. There are bodily
wants or pleasures which do not belong to the department of
the appetites — such as the pleasure simply of motion, of action,
of recreation. There is a bodily pleasure, too, accompanying the
contemplation of the beautiful, or every instance of the aesthetic.
But even when our bodily pleasures do not belong to the region
of appetite, and approximate more to that of the esthetic, still
the feeling is not so much emotion, as just bodily pleasure ;
and what is emotional in the state, is owing to the sympathy
of the mind with the body, and the tendency to a mental state,
consequent upon a bodily. Where the state is entirely mental,
where we have entirely the moral, or the aesthetic, desire is
consequent upon a conception of good, or worth, or excellence,
and the accompanying emotion of pleasure, or approbation, or
estimation. The moral desires are all those which have moral
good or worth for their object, whether moral good or worth in
itself, or that in connexion with the character or actions of
others, or good in the more generic sense to others, the desire
of which is moral. Every desire after virtue in ourselves or
others, or for the temporal good of others, is moral. Have we
such desires ? Are we characterized by desires which have
virtue for their object, and which really seek the good of others,
wish well to others ? Undoubtedly we have such desires. We
have already seen that there is still remaining moral good in
our nature ; that though that nature is radically depraved,
though there is the germ of all evil in our nature, evil has not
proceeded so far as to exclude all remains of good : all moral
good is not utterly lost. The nature is essentially depraved, or
it could not be depraved at all, but the depravity has not gone
so far as to negative or annihilate good. There are the remains
of good. We see a ruin, not utter destruction — a principle of
evil at work, riot unmitigated evil. There is that amount of

574 THE MORAL NATURE.

good even in our nature that we can approve tlie good, we can
love it, or estimate it, and we can desire it both in ourselves
and others. From the same cause we can still desire the tem
poral good of others. Our natures are not utterly depraved,
nor are they utterly malignant. Where depravity has pro
ceeded all its length — where there is no remaining good, or
approbation of good, there the malevolent passions or feelings,
the malevolent desires, may reign undisputed, may alone exist.
But this is not the case with man yet, with our moral nature;
and, consequently, whether we have the benevolent feelings or
not, whether we are characterized by benevolent desires, admits
of no dispute. The selfish theory of morals we have already
seen to be inconsistent with the truth. We have seen this in
directly when considering our absolute moral nature, or the
moral nature as it must be considered absolutely, and as it now
is. We find the same when now animadverting upon our
desires. It is impossible to deny a certain benevolent state of
desire, or certain benevolent desires, if we admit observation
to have any weight in our moral reasonings. It is as certain
that we have these desires as that we have the malevolent
ones. There is no more doubt about the existence of the
one class than there is about that of the other. Both are
subjects of observation and of consciousness: we observe
both, we are conscious of both. Our moral nature, there
fore, gives us our moral desires, and these moral both as re
spects morality itself, as the object of desire, and because
wishing either good or evil to our neighbour, in which case we
have the benevolent and malevolent desires. Our nature is
capable of both, exhibits both. Love, we have seen, has not
altogether deserted the mind, is still found among the affec
tions. But the mind is capable also of hatred. The moral
change that has passed upon the moral nature has brought
with it the disposition, or the tendency to the disposition,
which is the opposite of love : in other words, there is now a
capacity of hatred as there was formerly only love. That ten
dency is inevitable in the change that has taken place in the
moral state, the disposition having its objects or exciting

THE MORAL NATURE. 575

causes ; but it is also characteristic of a fallen nature, and is
often exhibited without a cause, or has its cause in the internal
moral nature itself, in the wrong state of the affections, which
may cherish hatred where there is no exciting cause without.
According as the one or other of these emotions predominates,
therefore, there is the benevolent or malevolent affection, the
desire of good or the desire of evil to its object. There are the
benevolent and malevolent affections, and there are the bene
volent and malevolent desires. It is properly the desires, how
ever, that are so characterized, and the affections are charac
terized as benevolent and malevolent, because the desires are
so close attendants upon the affections. Love, in all its exer
cises, desires the good of its object ; and in these modifications
of love we have the benevolent affections. Hatred, in all its
exercises, desires evil to its object ; and in these modifications
of hatred we have the malevolent affections. It is truly the
desires, however, accompanying these affections that are bene
volent or malevolent, and therefore we more properly speak of
the benevolent and malevolent desires, than of the benevolent
and malevolent affections : the latter wish good or they wish evil
to their object : it is the desire for good or the desire for evil to
the object of a particular emotion or affection. These desires
may be justifiable or they may not: in both cases they are
called the benevolent or malevolent desires. There is a state
of mind in which benevolence prevails, a character of mind of
which benevolence is the predominating state, and although
always amiable, it is sometimes unjustifiable. There is a state
of mind again in which malevolence prevails, or a peculiar
character of which malevolence is the predominating emotion
or desire, and it is not strange if it is sometimes ill-directed,
or without a cause. We are not, however, dealing with the
morality of these affections or desires ; we are remarking upon
the state of the desires, and we find the benevolent and male
volent element in them, and have accordingly the benevolent
and malevolent desires. The virtuous and vicious desires also
indicate a certain element, and suppose a certain state of the
desires. The benevolent and malevolent desires may be charac-

576 THE MORAL NATURE.

terized as virtuous or vicious ; but properly the virtuous and
vicious desires are those which terminate on something else than
evil or good to an object — which, however, are in accordance
with, or in opposition to the law of right. All the desires be
longing to the virtues which reciprocate in the relations of life,
the relations of family, of friendship, and the wider relationship
of humanity; the personal virtues, temperance, chastity, truth,
contentment, justice, and honour, are the virtuous desires: the
opposite the vicious. The moral desires belong to the moral
nature, and are amenable to law.

The assthetic desires are those which are connected with the
emotions of beauty. Taking beauty in its widest sense as in
clusive of sublimity, the picturesque, or whatever appeals to
the eesthetic emotion, — that is, whatever may have less or more
of the beautiful and the sublime, and the picturesque — be made
up, more or less of each, or any two of them to the exclusion
of the third. There are desires which have their appropriate
gratification in these qualities, or objects possessing them.
There is the love of the beautiful, the sublime, and the pictu
resque, and there is the desire for them, or for gratification in
them. This desire finds its gratification in objects of nature,
and in the works of art. All nature is filled with beautiful,
and sublime, and picturesque objects and scenery. We can
hardly lift our eyes but they light upon such objects, such
scenery, of surpassing loveliness, of imposing sublimity, of sug
gestive picturesqueness. We may be ever meeting such objects,
encountering such scenes. It but requires us to have an eye
for the beautiful, the sublime, the picturesque, to be perpetually
gratified. Nature is not stinted in its beauty, or in its sublime
and picturesque scenes and objects. It has delighted in them
all ; and it hardly sketches a landscape, rears a mountain, or
throws up a rock, but it has secured one or other of these
effects. In its trees, in its plants, in its flowers — in its rivers,
in its lakes, in its oceans — in its waterfalls and cascades, it has
made provision for them all. Art is the imitation of nature,
and it, too, secures the qualities which are the object of the
aesthetic emotions and desires. In painting, sculpture, poetry,

THE MORAL NATURE. 577

music, we have all these qualities ; and, accordingly, we have
scope for these emotions, and incitements or objects of these
desires. The desire may often amount to a passion for these.
In some, the passion is for one of them more than for the rest.
Poetry and music claim the most numerous and devoted ad
mirers, indicative of their superior excellence, and more uni
versal qualities. Painting and sculpture are more imitative
than poetry and music ; and there is nothing in the merely
imitative to produce great delight, while they are outdone by
what they imitate. Nature must ever surpass art. But poetry
and music appeal to the loftiest thoughts and emotions of the
soul — so may sculpture and painting, but the imitative is
what is most obvious in them ; and it requires great mastery
in the arts to make the permanent and the poetic envelop
their productions, as something separate from the very produc
tions which they render so attractive. On this very account
the productions of painting and sculpture which secure the
poetic are all the more praiseworthy, and of higher character,
as works of art. The aesthetic emotion insures the aesthetic
desire. The emotion of the beautiful and the sublime makes
us seek its gratification, and delight in the object which mini
sters to it. The painter, the sculptor, the poet, the musician,
are strongly characterized by the aesthetic emotion, and strongly
actuated by the corresponding desire. This produces enthusiasm
in a particular art, and leads to excellence in that art. The
aesthetic emotion and desire are cherished and gratified where-
ever the beautiful is made an object of cultivation, and is
sought, in whatever department, or in whatever direction.

The physical desires give us the appetites. They have their
source in the body, and their objects in all that ministers to
those wants which are a part of our physical nature. They are
legitimate, but they may be carried to excess ; and to become
the slave of these is to subject the mind to the body, reason to
impulse, and the intellectual and the moral to animal states
and sensual gratification.

The desires are consequent upon emotion, as emotion is
consequent upon some conception of the mind, and all go to

2 o

578 THE MOliAL NATUKE.

make up motive. The will follows upon motive, aud leads to
action. We are now in circumstances, therefore, to consider
the relation of will to action, and to enter upon the considera
tion of the question as to the freedom of the will.

A conception, or judgment of the mind, an emotion, and a
desire, constitute motive. Motive is so called from its con
nexion with the active decisions of the mind, or with the acts
of the will, and the corresponding actions of intelligent moral
agents. In the active moral being we observe the phenomena
of a judgment, an emotion consequent upon that judgment,
or along with it, a desire, a volition, and then following upon
all, an action, or actions. That these several states are observa
ble, and may be received as certain, as the actual phenomena,
in every case of the action of intelligent moral agents, is indu
bitable. A certain feeling or emotion accompanies every judg
ment where action is in question, or accompanies certain of our
judgments : a state of desire is the consequence : a determina
tion of the will follows, and action is the result. Action is the
putting forth of a certain power, however, or through whatever
instrumentality, that power is exerted. There is action with
purely spiritual beings, although they do not act through the
same instrumentality as spiritual natures which are also cor
poreal. With corporeal natures there is the employment of
physical agency for the accomplishment of their volitions, or
will acts through the agency of matter. But in action, what is
to be observed is, the mental decision, the emotional state, the
act of will, and the exertion of power. The last of the strictly
mental conditions to action is the decision of the will, or the
act of will : the exertion of power is not strictly a mental
phenomenon, it is the phenomenon of active being. All prior
to this is within the being itself, belongs to the internal pheno
mena — action is the being not internally, and by one of its
states or operations, but in its whole being putting forth a
power, which has its effect or result without itself. Now, as
necessary to every action, there are the strictly internal or
mental states — including the judgment, the emotion, the desire

THE MORAL NATURE. 579

— and the act of will. These are all internal, and precede, or
are necessary to, every action. Action is the consequence of
these ; and the question is, what is the relation of these to
action, or what is observable in these as antecedent phenomena ?
There would seem, from the very statement of the phenomena
themselves, to be the relation of a judgment to an emotion, the
relation of an emotion to a desire, the relation of a desire to
will, and the relation of will to action. What is that relation
in each case ? That it is that of cause and effect between the
judgment and emotion, and between emotion and desire, we
think, cannot be doubted. That certain judgments are fol
lowed by certain emotions in every case of these judgments, is
plain to every observation, and this is enough to show the
causal connexion between the two. The difficulty here is, that
the emotion seems as immediate as the judgment ; nay, the
judgment is hardly distinguishable from the emotion, or the
emotion absorbs, as it were, the judgment. Still there is
plainly a judgment distinguishable, and the connexion of the
emotion with the judgment may also be traced. The judgment
that an action is right is as clearly a judgment as any other;
and but for that judgment we have no reason to believe there
would be the moral emotion. The judgment, again, that an
object is beautiful, may seem less a judgment and more an
emotion : the element of judgment is not so clearly distin
guishable in tliis case. And if the theory that makes beauty
in itself absolute and ultimate be correct, — if beauty does not
depend upon any associated conceptions, — if it is not through
these conceptions which an object awakens, or is associated
with, in our minds, that the object is beautiful, but beauty is
an ultimate attribute which admits not of analysis, there
would not be so plainly a judgment in this case, and it would
seem more an emotion, or the judgment would be in the
emotion : the emotion would be the judgment ; — like the
judgment that an agreeable taste is agreeable, or a pleasant
sound is pleasant. The emotion in that case would not be the
effect of the judgment : the judgment would only testify to the
emotion, or would be in the emotion : it would be a judgment
that such an object is capable of exciting such an emotion :

580 THE MORAL NATURE.

the object would in such a case be beautiful. Such we do not
take to be the proper theory of beauty ; and we prefer the
theory, that the emotion is the result of other emotions, these
being the result of certain conceptions or judgments — the con
ceptions of purity, of tenderness, of fragility, and suchlike —
which conceptions having their appropriate emotions, the con
ception of beauty, and the emotion of beauty, are the result.
Even in such a case, then, the emotion is the result of a
conception or judgment. Purity is a judgment : tenderness is
a judgment : fragility is a judgment : simplicity is a judgment :
modesty, honour, riches, pomp, power, are all judgments of the
mind ; and it will be found that the emotions with which
beautiful and stately and splendid objects respectively are
contemplated, has its connexion with one or other of these
conceptions. These conceptions, then, are some way or
other the cause of these emotions. The judgment that an
object is capable of conferring pleasure, or yielding profit,
that such a pursuit is capable of ministering to our happiness,
or promoting our good, is accompanied, or followed, by an
emotion, corresponding to the pleasure, happiness, or good con
templated. There is the relation of cause and effect. That
such an emotion, in the particular case, should be accompanied
or followed by desire, seems a natural consequence, if we can
form a judgment of what is natural, or to be expected, in such
a case, apart from experience, or what is usually observed. It
is observed in all such cases, that the emotion is accompanied,
or followed, by desire — the desire of possession, or attainment,
or enjoyment. Profit or pleasure is accompanied by a certain
emotion in the contemplation ; the very conception insures the
emotion ; desire is the immediate result. In many cases,
indeed, neither would the emotion follow upon the conception,
nor the desire upon the emotion. The prepossession of the
mind with other objects, other pleasures, other desires, or just
a certain regulation of the mind itself, may frustrate or pre
vent both the emotion and the desire; or the emotion may
be experienced without any desire of possession or enjoyment.
But that is owing to the operation of other causes, not because
there is no connexion of cause and effect between the concep.

THE MORAL NATURE. 581

tion and the emotion, or between the emotion and the desire.
A cause is followed by its effects only in circumstances the
same as those in which it has been followed by these effects.
There is nothing in causation to warrant the expectation that
it will be followed by these effects in circumstances different.
The state of the mind is a necessary element in the causation
implied in the connexion between a judgment and emotion,
and an emotion and desire. Certain emotions, again, which in
one stage of them might awaken desire, in a higher degree of
them have no desire connected with them — are too lofty or too
pure to have any effects beyond themselves, and are themselves
enough for the mind ; they are self-satisfying. It is always so
with the higher kinds of beauty, and with the emotions of
sublimity : the mind rests in the emotion ; it would desire
nothing beyond it. Indeed the emotion may be too great, and
the desire may be to escape from it, or that it were not so
oppressive. But allowing the causal connexion, in any instance
of action, between the terms of the series so far as con
sidered, is it the same connexion in the last link of the series
or chain ? — is there a causal connexion between the desire and
the will ? — is it cause and effect which obtains here ? That it
is so in all the previous part of the series, may be admitted —
that there is causation hitherto, may be allowed. Is it causa
tion when the will follows upon desire ? It is here, we think,
that the whole stress of the question regarding the freedom of
the will lies. It does not seem causation in the same sense
between the strongest emotion, or the prevailing desire, and
will, as between a judgment and an emotion, or an emotion
and desire. The will is not the effect of a desire in the sense
that a desire is the effect of an emotion, or an emotion the
effect of a conception or judgment. Or taking the motive
conjointly, as including the judgment, the emotion, and the
desire, still it is obvious to every one's own consciousness, that
the will does not follow upon that, precisely as an effect follows
upon a cause. The will follows reasons, inducements, but it is
not caused. It cannot in any proper sense be said to be so.
It obeys, or it acts under inducement, but it does so sovereignly.

582 THE MORAL NATURE.

It is not a slave, or a servant, it is a sovereign. For the mind
to will, is for the mind to act, and to act sovereignly, without
control, though guided by law, or influenced by motive. It
chooses to act : it wills. A motive precedes it, and it follows
the motive, acts under its influence ; it is from a certain motive
that the will decides in any particular way, it would not decide
that way but for that motive ; but it is still the phenomenon
of will that we are contemplating, and it is the very nature of
will to be active and free. Whatever is active is free : all else
is caused. Will is the only phenomenon of our nature that is
active. There is what we call the activity of mind, the spon
taneity of mind ; but that is a different activity from the
activity of will : it is the activity of nature, not the acti
vity of being. The peculiarity of will is that it is the being
that wills ; in everything else it is only the nature that is in
operation, that acts, or that is the subject of phenomena.
When we will, it is we, in our personality, and as beings, that
will ; not in our subjectivity, but in our personal activity. The
being is acting. All else is phenomenal in our nature ; this is
not phenomenal, this is being acting. It is the being that
wills. We have a motive, we have an inducement, but it is
ive that will. To obey a motive, is not to be controlled ; it is
still to be active, and to be active is to be free. Even with the
strongest motive that could operate, to obey that motive is to be
free ; it is to will, and that is freedom. It is enough that in the
act of will, if the will is controlled only by a motive, there is
freedom, in the very nature of will. The will does not determine
itself: it may be allowed even that it is determined by motive :
but still to will is to be free ; or it is to act ; and if we attend
to the idea implied in action, we have the essence of freedom.
What other freedom could be desired ? If we are under any
kind of restraint, or constraint, it is in our circumstances, and
in the kind of motives that bear upon us, or exert their influ
ence. But in willing, there is essential sovereignty or freedom.
Reasons for action every being must have. The reasons may
be capricious and foolish, but still they are reasons ; but in
following them the will acts : it is not an effect, or it is an effect

THE MORAL NATURE. 583

of so peculiar a kind as to be like no other, and to vindicate for
itself the title to be called active from its source, that is, from
itself. No other effect is active in the same way, or in any
way. It is in our will that the being is seen : in everything else
we have but the phenomena, or the subject of phenomena. Will
is the being in action, choosing to act, and acting. The being
is in the will. The will does not control motives : it does not
even choose between motives : it follows or obeys a motive, a
motive prevailing at the time — the strongest motive ; but in
doing so it wills, and that is activity, freedom. In willing I
am active, and therefore I am free. That, as we have said, is
the only freedom conceivable. Every other freedom would be
caprice, blind chance, unreasoning fate or accident. Freedom
is freedom to obey motive — for the will to obey motive, or to
decide in obedience to motive. In that consists essential free
dom. The motive which the will obeys is influential, but the
will acts, and that is its freedom. It is unlike any other effect
proceeding from a cause. It is not a self-determining power:
it is activity : that is the phenomenon which the will exhibits,
and which is sufficient to claim for it freedom.

The activity of the will amid motive influence is clearly dis
cernible, and is the phenomenon presented in regard to the
relation of the will to action. In all action there is a motive,
and there is the operation of will : there is influence ; but there
is something that is more than influence, which is not inde
pendent of influence, and yet is beyond it, and separate from it,
which influence cannot touch, is in a sphere by itself — and that
is the activity of will. It is allowed that there is motive in
every instance of action : it is allowed that there is also will,
and it is in the distinct nature of these that we have the two
terms of the question as to freedom and necessity in the will,
or respecting the freedom of the will. All writers on that
question recognise both terms. And it is necessary in regard
to both terms to remember what these terms are, and that they
are recognised in the question in their separate and distinctive
character. Influence is recognised, and yet the will is recog
nised. Now, if there was riot something distinctive in these

584 THE MORAL NATURE.

two elements in action, why should they both be had regard to,
and why should we have the question at all as to liberty and
necessity in moral action, or in all action ? What is the ques
tion as to the freedom of the will ? Why should there be a
question as to freedom of action ? That question obviously
could not be raised, unless there were some phenomena of our
being that admitted of it. We would never raise the question
as to the freedom of any of the material agencies in the uni
verse, the action of merely physical nature. It would never be
made a question whether the planets move freely — whether they
have freedom of action. Action is not properly attributable to
them at all, or to any physical agency, or it is the action of
physical law. The will presents a totally different phenomenon.
Intelligent and moral beings present totally different phenomena.
But in their nature we see still the operation of something like
laws, that is, something that proceeds in a course in virtue of
a nature or constitution, and in which there is the action of
law, not of volition — not of voluntary being, of voluntary agency.
We discern also, however, the action of volition, of voluntary
being : there is presented the phenomenon of will; and it is the
existence of the two that gives rise to the question we have
stated as capable of being raised — as actually raised. That
there is will in being otherwise exhibiting mere laws of being,
is the phenomenon presented in the case of every moral nature.
That the two, will and the mere laws of being, are distinct ;
that will is something more than the mere laws of being ; is
obvious from the very name given to the one as distinguished
from the other. The one claims to itself the name Will as
distinguished from the laws of being merely. It would not
be worthy of a distinctive name, it would not assume to it
self that name, were it not something different from the other.
The name is freely accorded to it. The difference indicated is
recognised : nothing is more recognised than the grand peculi
arity of will. "We observe," says Edwards, "that choice is a
new principle of motion and action, different from that estab
lished law and order of things which is most obvious, that is seen
especially in corporeal and sensible things ; and also the choice

THE MORAL NATURE. 585

often interposes, interrupts, and alters the chain of events in these
external objects, and causes them to proceed otherwise than
they would do if let alone, and left to go on according to the
laws of motion among themselves." The distinction is recog
nised in that drawn between natural and moral inability, or
between physical and moral necessity. If the phenomenon ex
hibited in the will was the same as that seen in the causal con
nexion of any two events, there would be no room for any such
distinction. There would be nothing then but physical neces
sity: it is in the peculiarity of will that we have ground for the
recognition of moral necessity as different from natural or phy
sical. " When I use this distinction of moral and natural neces
sity," says Edwards, " I would not be understood to suppose that
if anything comes to pass by the former kind of necessity, the
nature of things is not concerned in it, as well as in the latter.
I do not mean to determine that when a moral habit or motive
is so strong, that the act of the will infallibly follows, this is
not owing to the nature of things. But these are the names
that these two kinds of necessity have been usually called by :
and they must be distinguished by some names or other ; for
there is a distinction or difference between them, that is very
important in its consequences." It is true, Edwards adds :
" which difference does not lie so much in the nature of the
connexion as in the two terms connected. The cause with
which the effect is connected is a particular kind, viz., that
which is of a moral nature ; either some previous habitual dis
position, or some motive exhibited to the understanding. And
the effect is also of a particular kind ; being likewise of a moral
nature ; consisting in some inclination or volition of the soul,
or voluntary action." But in this very qualification the differ
ence is recognised in the nature of the connexion as well as in
the terms connected. The difference does not lie so much in
the one as in the other, but it lies in both. And in stating the
difference in reference to the terms of the connexion, Edwards
says : " The cause with which the effect is connected is a par
ticular kind, viz., that which is moral in its nature. The effect
is also of a particular kind, being likewise of a moral nature ;

586 THE MORAL NATURE.

consisting in some inclination or volition of the soul, or volun
tary action." The distinction, again, is very strongly recog
nised when stating the nature of moral inability. " It is
improperly said that a person cannot perform those external
actions which are dependent on the act of the will, and which
would be easily performed if the act of the will were present."
Here the will is the grand circumstance in order to action. The
action could easily be performed if the act of the will were present.
The act of the will. Will is an act, and there is no natural
inability to action, if the will would act. The moral state is
such that the will does not act. There is activity, however, in
it, and it as well as motive is necessary to action. The activity
of the will cannot be overlooked. " It is a new principle of
motion and action different from the established law and order
of things." The great difference consists in its activity. It is
far from the nature of a mere effect. The least attention to
our own consciousness will tell us this. It is an effect so far
as it is under influence, but it acts under that influence by an
activity of its own, derived from nothing without itself. The
mystery of the will spontaneously acting, and yet in obedience
to motive, is one which cannot be explained, though it is very
obviously a subject of consciousness. No argument whatever
can bring the will within the category of ordinary effects. That
it is partly an effect ; that, in the language of Edwards, " it
always is as the greatest apparent good is," may be admitted ;
but that it is in itself, when it acts, active, and not a mere effect,
is most obvious. It is so unlike an effect, that even when we
would classify it among effects, the mind forbids us to do so. We
vindicate to it a distinct nature, even when we say that it obeys
motive. Why Edwards' measured or well-weighed language —
that " it always is as the greatest apparent good is ?" Besides
Edwards' own explanation of this language : " I have rather
chosen to express myself thus, that the will always is as the
greatest apparent good, or as what appears most agreeable, is,
than to say that the will is determined by the greatest apparent
good, or by what seems most agreeable; and because an
appearing most agreeable or pleasing to the mind, and the

THE MORAL NATURE. 587

mind's preferring or choosing, seem hardly to be properly and
perfectly distinct:" besides this explanation, may there not
have been the sense that the will was not properly an effect, so
that to speak of it being determined was hardly allowable in a
definition ? At all events it is a more correct mode of expres
sion to say that the will is as the greatest apparent good is,
than to say that it is determined by the greatest apparent good.
We would accept of the former as the true account of the
phenomenon rather than the latter. The logic may be all
against us when we would attempt to vindicate to the will an
independent activity, beyond the sphere of motive, though still
influenced by motive, and even obeying motive — but obeying
motive as a sovereign obeys law, or a capricious sovereign, even
when most capricious, obeys impulse, passion — but there is a
department of inquiry which logic does not reach — when we
go up to the ultimate states of our mind, or phenomena of
our being. There we pause before the intimations of con
sciousness, and admit an authority which is prior to reason
ing. As it has been expressed : " the holy ground begins
where demonstrations fail." The most rigorous logic may tell
me, that all that I am sure of as actually or certainly existing,
is my own consciousness, or states of consciousness, but I
believe in an external world notwithstanding. I rest in my
intuitive convictions. It is as good as an intuition that the
will is active even when obeying motive — spontaneously active
— having its law within itself. Nothing could be more con
clusive than Edwards' argument to prove that the will has
no self-determining power. Nor is it for a self-determining
power of the will that we contend, in any of the senses which
Edwards so triumphantly shows to be impossible ; but an
action along with motive, and that action within itself.
It is for the asserter of unconditioned subjection to mo
tive to explain the peculiar nature of will according to his
theory. It will not set aside this to show, by the most irre
fragable logic, the connexion of motive with will. The peculiar
nature of will stands out notwithstanding ; and if it is an
effect, it is an effect in which there is all the nature of sovereign

588 THE MORAL NATURE.

control, sovereign action. Why do I refrain from imbruing
my hands in blood ? Is there nothing to be allowed to the
will in this case ? Is all in the motive ? Is all in the feeling
of honesty that prevents me using my neighbour's property as
my own, plundering where I cannot possess ? Is there no
activity in the will here ? The motive influences, but the will
acts ; or the being wills and acts. It is an unworthy represen
tation of the will to regard it in these instances as a slave,
bound in fetters by the motive — or as submissively lying at the
feet of motive, even though the high and regal one of integrity
or mercy — honour for the property, or regard to the life of
others. While the influence is felt, the will still acts. It is
not a passive effect : the emotion is so to the conception, the
desire to the emotion ; but the will is not to them all. It
refuses to be so regarded — to be classified with the phenomenal
merely. It is being that wills, and if it wills from motive,
there is nothing like a passive effect here ; but there is rather
an active state in which being does not deny motive, but ex
hibits a higher phenomenon — will.

The phenomenon of the will as possessed of activity, and yet
under the influence of motive, as having its cause in itself, and
yet in some sense caused, is seen in other departments besides
that of the will. It is seen in the spontaneity of mind, or the
action of mind ; where there must be independent activity ;
and yet altogether independent activity, absolute independence
of cause, is inconceivable in a system of created existence,
where we must recognise the First Cause as necessary to all
existence — the originator and sustainer of His own universe.
We recognise an independent activity in mind, without which
created mind would be inconceivable ; for the very idea of its
separate existence, — that is, of its being created, and not the
creator — supposes this independence, or separate action. But is
the separate action of created mind not under causal influence ?
Is it not in the chain of causal connexion ? Is there any de
partment of the universe out of the influence of causal con
nexion ? We see, therefore, the very same phenomenon in the
spontaneous action of mind as we see in the will, only the

THE MORAL NATURE. 589

action of will is higher in its kind than even the action of
mind — is not the same — is more action, if we may venture the
expression. The same phenomenon may be contended for in
all subordinate causes whatever, only the kind of action — the
independent causation — becomes less conspicuous, and not of
so high a character, as we descend from the will of intelligents
to mind, and from mind to the causes which operate in matter
— from voluntary agents to mental action, and from mental
action to material causation. Unless we adopt the theory out
and out of mere sequence in causation, we must admit the
possibility of subordinate causation, for that possibility can be
denied only on the supposition of the impossibility of causation
at all. If causation proper, and not mere sequence, is the
account of connexion in events, then subordinate causation is
possible ; for it is as possible for the Creator to create causes
as to create effects. Mind can never be a mere effect ; it must
be regarded as itself an agent. There is the spontaneity of
mind : — What do we mean when we speak of that ? That the
mind acts as mind, will not be denied by any one who allows
it an independent existence. Is there not independent action
here ? There is nothing more plain than that there is a sense
in which all independent agencies have an action in them
selves, and have the law, or cause of that action, in themselves.
This may be said of the meanest agency in the universe. If
we do not admit this, we must hold that creation is but a
system of sequence — a chain of connected links — every one of
which derives its influence from the first, and has no other in
fluence, no other causal action ; or we may hold that the universe
is every moment one effluence from the Divine Being, and is
nothing but as it is that — rays of the Divine influence, the ex
pression of divinity, the outward form and vesture of deity. This
is Spinozism. Or, with Malebranche, we may maintain the
universe to be nothing else than an uninformed structure, all
the changes and evolutions of which are but God operating
through occasion, and on occasion, of the very changes, which
yet are nothing in themselves but as God operates. We con
fess we see nothing between the admission of subordinate

590 THE MORAL NATURE.

agencies and Spinozisru ; no other view is rational or intelli
gible. The doctrine of sequence is as untenable as that of
occasional causes, nay, is one and the same ; for matter must
be allowed to be something, otherwise Berkeleianism is the
true theory ; and if matter be admitted, it is the occasion for
the Divine will to operate in the production of every effect.
Now, either this is very useless as a system of the universe, a
very absurd method of the Divine Being arriving at His effects,
operating in and through a material frame, the essential
qualities of which, and no more, are independent of God : all
else is the Divine will ; or, the universe is an effluence of God.
The more rational view, certainly, is that which admits of
subordinate agency and efficiency ; which is the view also that
most commends itself to the understanding of all, and to the
understanding of the very theorists who would argue for the
other views we have stated ; it is what they in the moments of
unbiassed reason will feel and admit. But while this subor
dinate agency is acknowledged, and cannot be denied without
one or other of the above consequences, this subordinate agency
is still in some sense dependent upon God : it was derived from
Him, and in a sense could not exist without Him. The plant
has its growth from the root, and exhibits a wonderful appara
tus for its nourishment and progress to the full development of
stem, branches, and flower, and its successive renewal from
season to season — resigning its honours in winter, to exhibit them
in new beauty as the agencies of another spring revisit it.
What is that internal apparatus ? What are these agencies ?
Are they nothing ? Have they no independence ? God is
indeed in all, over all, and through all ; but not surely in such
a sense as that all is God. And yet, in what other sense can
it be, if there is no independent agency ? In the theory of
occasional causes, and that of sequence, at least matter is an
agent, if it is an occasion, and if the doctrine is not embraced
which resolves matter itself into phenomena of our own minds
— the doctrine of Berkeley, and of the Germans ; but admit
this agency, and why not admit any other ? Every subordinate
agency holds of God, but it is an agency ; it has an independent

THE MORAL NATURE. 591

action, or there is no subordinate agency ; and Spinozism, and
Pantheism, are the true theories of the universe, making God
to be all, or all to be God. In this view, then, subordinate
agency is absolutely necessary in the universe ; and there must
be a consistency between independent subordinate agency, and
yet a Divine agency on which that subordinate and indepen
dent agency is still dependent. This looks like a contradiction,
but it is a contradiction to which our reasons must succumb.
It is what we observe: it is the phenomenon exhibited in
creation. Creation is the Creator calling into existence agen
cies besides Himself ; to give them independent action was not
surely impossible, otherwise God is still all, and Creation is, as
Spinoza makes it, the effluence of God, and nothing apart from
Him — but a mode of the Divine action, and not distinct from
God. Was it impossible for God to create other agencies
besides Himself ? Is there no way in which an inferior agency
may exist, and yet be derived — be continually deriving ? Is it
impossible for anything to exist but God ? Must God be all
being, if there is any being which seems apart from God, which
is at once thus apart, and yet not apart ? This seems a far
greater contradiction than that which allows an agency apart
from God, and }-et not independent of Him ? And when we
ascend to intelligent agency, to man the voluntary agent, is
such an agent, is such an agency, also to be denied ? Can it
have no independent existence ? Is there not action in such
an agent ? Is man a part of the Divine Being ? Is his
separate existence lost ? Is it merged in God ? Does man
not live and act ? Has he no action ? If he has, What is the
active power ? Is it motive ? Still, there is action following
upon motive. What is the active power now ? What acts
when the motive prompts ? If the necessity of causation is
still insisted on, we hold the possibility of action even under a
certain kind or amount of causation — action independent under
causation — influenced, determined, not absolutely caused —
obeying the cause, or rather the influence, but obeying that by
a certain activity, or by choice. There is a higher kind of
action in the will than in mere mental spontaneity ; and yet

592 THE MORAL NATURE.

spontaneity is action of its kind, dependent upon the same
cause that is in all, over all, and through all, and yet inde
pendent — action, not a passive effect. This must be still more
claimed for the will. The activity of the will is the activity of
the being : Spontaneity is the activity of mind ; and the action
of the one is far more action than the action of the other. The
action of the will carries with it the understanding, the emo
tions, the desires : the action of the mind is in the mind itself,
and is not so much the being acting, as the mind in spite of
the being. Is this action, then, the peculiar action of the will —
to be resolved into an effect merely ? Is it an effect just as the
emotion is an effect — the desire is an effect — and the whole
motive is an effect of circumstances, or is determined by causes ?
It cannot be said so. It cannot be said that the will, or the
action of the will, is determined by these : it is determined im
part by them ; but the will acts, and its activity is within'
itself, and from itself. It was constituted an active power ;
but it is now active in itself: it takes its action from nothing
foreign. The Creator has endowed it with activity, as He
endowed it for action. Motives may influence, but they do not
control it ; or they do not control it to the extent of setting it
aside as an active power, or destroying its activity. When we
will, we choose, and that is not properly an effect. An effect
is not active in relation to its cause ; but the will is so, if it
have a cause. It exhibits the phenomenon of activity in
relation to the very motive which it obeys. It obeys it rather
than another. It determines in reference to it, that it is the
motive which it will obey. There is undoubtedly this phe
nomenon exhibited : the will obeying, but elective, active, in its
obedience. If it be asked how this is possible, how the will
;, can be under the influence of motive, and yet possess an inter
nal activity — we reply, that this is one of those ultimate
phenomena which must be admitted, while they cannot be
explained. No ultimate fact is explicable. The causal con
nexion in events, and yet the separate agency in them, in every
', separate event or causation, is a matter which our reason
/apprehends, although it cannot comprehend it. There is not

THE MORAL NATURE. 593

an agent in nature, there is not a separate independent cause,
which does not exhibit this phenomenon. Must it not be much
more true of the will ? Is it to be but a link in a chain of
sequence ? We cannot admit even ordinary causation to be
so : far less what is so near an approach to causation in the
Divine mind itself — to the very action of the Divine Being.
And may not man have been made in the Divine image in this
sense as well as any other : nay, was this not the distinguishing
feature in that image, that he was created with a will, having
its independent activity, although still bound in the chain of
causes ; and therefore under those motive influences which,
while they do not constrain the will, secure its action, and
secure its action in a particular way ? —

" Fast bound in fate, left free the human will.1'

This view of the will is finely expressed in these two sentences
of Sir James Mackintosh : — " How strongly do experience
.and analogy seem to require the arrangement of motive and
volition under the class of causes and effects ! With what
irresistible power, on the other hand, do all our moral senti
ments remove extrinsic agency from view, and concentrate all
feeling on the agent himself!" This is not more true than it
is finely put ; and it seems to contain the whole question as to
the freedom of the will in a few words. The solution of the
apparent contradiction is just in the impossibility of explaining
any of the ultimate facts of our consciousness : or if this is not
the reconciliation of the difficulty, it reconciles us to the diffi
culty. Both terms of the apparent contradiction we may
admit — and the reconciliation of them we may leave to other
and higher intelligences — and perhaps the reconciliation is
seen only by God himself. We perceive the same contradiction
in all causation ; if it is a contradiction, if it is not rather a
fine harmony.

We seem to have arrived at the conclusion that the will is n
power which is acted on by motive, obeys motives, and which
yet has an activity in itself, which it derives from nothing
external. It acts, and in this it is altogether different from an

2P

594 THE MORAL NATURE.

ordinary effect ; so different as not with any propriety to come
under the description of an effect. It is in its activity that its
grand peculiarity consists, and in that we have the distinguish
ing peculiarity of an active agent. We distinguish between an
agency and an agent : an agency is a law or a power ; an agent
is a being possessed of will. If the will came under the descrip
tion of effects, there would be nothing peculiar to it as will ; and
it would be merely a power or agency, like any other power or
agency in a train of causation or sequence, or a power in no
higher sense than the powers that operate in matter. The whole
conditions to the constitution of an intelligent and active agent
present something altogether different to the contemplation
from the powers and agencies that we observe in matter. The
whole phenomena of an intelligent agent might lead us to
expect a different kind of action, or mode of action, from what
obtains in material agencies. This might be expected prior to
the findings of experience, and to all argument. It might be
determined a priori that an intelligent agent will exhibit very
different phenomena from mere unintelligent agency. But
we might conceive intelligence apart from will: they are at
least separable in our conception. The very attempt, however,
to conceive them apart, brings out the characteristics of each,
and shews what they are in union. Keason obviously exists for
the will, or intelligence without action would be a somewhat
singular phenomenon. The proper sequel to intelligence is will.
A reigning intelligence without will, casting its glance over the
universe, comprehending all knowledge, without feeling or
action, is conceivable, but it would be somewhat useless in the
universe. Results are what are aimed at in the universe ; but
knowledge without action would give no results. If the will,
then, must be united to intelligence, if action in the intelligent
being is what is desired and looked for — when we have got that
will — when will is found united to intelligence, — Is it after all
to be resolved into a passive effect — a blind and obedient con
sequent of an equally blind and obedient antecedent, both links
merely in a chain of sequence or causation ? Is this all of an
intelligent agent ? Has will no higher character or prerogative

THE MORAL NATURE. 595

than this ? Was it given for no other purpose than this ?
Must we deem of it nothing more than that it is a term in a
chain of sequence, or an effect in a train of causes ? The im
possibility to determine the nature of the influence of motive
on the one hand, and of the action of the will on the other,
does not set aside the truth of these as being the actual phe
nomena in the case of every intelligent and active agent. This
is what we observe, and this is what is to be held up against
any conclusions however rigorous, or any arguments proceeding
upon whatever plausible data or premises. Still, neither is
motive denied, nor is action denied : both are seen, and both
are to be admitted. In the relation of the two consists the
nodus of this great question : the two terms of the question arc
both actual subjects of experience and objects of observation : —
what is the nature of the influence, and how far it goes to secure
the action : what is the nature of the action, or how it can be
action in the proper sense of the term, while yet obedient to
influence : the exact point at which action commences, and in
fluence no longer presses upon action — this, we say, is the nodus
in this question, whether it be called the question of the free
dom of the will, or the question simply as to the relation be
tween motive and action, the part which motive, and the part
which the will, have respectively in the case of all action. And
this is a question which does not affect one intelligent or moral
agent alone, or one class of intelligents, or moral agents, but all
intelligents, all moral agents, alike. All intelligents must have
reasons for their action ; these induce, so far control ; but the
intelligent is not a passive agent that acts only as he is acted
upon. He obeys motive, or has reasons for action ; but it is
action still, and that is altogether a peculiar phenomenon.
Will is like nothing else among the phenomena of being. We
do not deem it at all necessary to fortify ourselves in this view,
as we might by quotations from other writers. The view must
be judged of by itself, as it is within the compass of each one's
own consciousness to do. We have stopped short, it will be seen,
of calling the will an agent, but we have not denied the influ
ence of motive. It is in the nature of the relation between

59G THE MORAL NATURE.

these two that we have either freedom or necessity. Too much
has been contended for on both sides : too little has been al
lowed, by those who took opposite views, to either. That the
will is free, however, in the sense of having an activity in itself,
which motive does not reach, or impel to action, but which
acts from its own spontaneity or inherent power to act — the vis
matrix being in itself — is what may be maintained at all hazards,
and to all effects. The action of the will is the grand thing to
be insisted on. It is true, it is in the right state of motives that
we have the right moral nature ; but the will is the grand dis
tinguishing property of an agent. It is in the will, as we have
before said, that we have the being. All else is phenomenal in
our nature. We see mind acting ; we do not see being acting.
That mind it may be interesting to contemplate. Its processes
and results may be fine and even marvellous : in the regions of
speculation, of fancy, of science, the efforts of mind may be
alike beautiful and interesting, and the most useful effects may
attend them ; but it is in the will that we have the being : it
is in volitions that the being acts : our volitions are, as it were,
ourselves. Are these mere effects then ? The man of will,
the man of action, always appeals more to our interest than
the man of contemplation merely, because we have more of
himself than with the man of contemplation merely. It is in
action that the being comes out. In contemplation the being
is within himself: he has withdrawn from others: it is his
mind, not himself, that is in action. Immediately upon volition,
as soon as there is volition, the being is there — comes forth —
gives himself to his fellows, or it may be is just acting for him
self ; but still it is the being. The will goes with all actions for
duty. It is in every moral act. Morality derives its very being
from the will. It was merely morality in the abstract before.
Moral truth may be contemplated, and the law of right and
wrong may be the object of a moral decision ; judgment may
pronounce the decision, and a moral emotion may accompany it,
but it is when it is acted, when the right or the wrong is in
act, that we have morality, or its opposite. Not till then have
we more than truth contemplated, morality in the thought — in

THE MOKAL NATURE. 597

the mind, not in action — not morality itself. As soon as it is
in act we have itself, and will must accompany every such act
— will in order to the act, and will in order to the morality of
the act. It is the will that makes every action ours ; and an
action must be ours, or the action of an agent, before it can
possess morality. This raises the question of the relation of
will to morality. Is the will necessary to the morality of an
action ? Is it necessary to morality in the thoughts, in the
emotions, in the desires, in the acts ? Must there be a state of
volition before there can be anything moral in the internal, as
well as in the external, acts of the moral being, for the mind is
characterized by action ? It is virtually an act wherever there
is a volition, or a state of the will. There is action wherever
there is will. Is there no morality, then, apart from volition,
or an act or state of will ? This question admits of an easy
answer as regards outward actions. It does not admit of so
easy an answer as regards states of mind, feelings, desires.

What are the circumstances in which any outward action is
performed ? It is only a supposable case, in which an indivi
dual is the instrument merely of an action, his own will not
being in the action, and the will of another being the real
agent. Such a case may be supposed. We may suppose an
individual putting an instrument in the hands of another,
and compelling him to perpetrate a deed of blood — the in
dividual thus compelled being as passive as the instrument
which he is made to wield. Such a case is often supposed, for
the purpose of illustrating the difference between freedom of
action and constraint. But such a case is hardly conceivable
in fact ; for what would be the use of employing another as
the passive instrument of our own action ? It would surely be
an awkward way of accomplishing our purpose, to employ
another as an instrumentality for accomplishing that purpose,
which our own hand after all, our own agency, effected. There
was but the employment of a double instrumentality in this
case, when a single one was enough. We ourselves were the
real agents. Where another is to be employed for effecting our
purposes, it is not the instrumentality merely of that other that

598 THE MORAL NATURE.

is called in — it is his agency. The object in any such case is
probably to divide the responsibility of an action, or to trans
fer, as we may suppose, the responsibility altogether from our
selves to another ; or to do by another what we may find it
unpleasant to do, or have not opportunity or means for effec
tuating ourselves. It is thus that tyrants often make others
the minions of their own will ; or, through fear or torture,
or by bribery, the will may be constrained or seduced, and
an action may be performed with the will, and yet with an
opposing inclination ; or with the will, if it had not been
under such an influence, likely to have been different. But in
all of these instances the will is present, and though under
a strong influence, which it may be almost impossible to
resist, there is will notwithstanding, and, so far as that in
fluence is concerned, the will might have refused, resisted.
The question as to the degree of morality in these instances
may be modified by the strong influence brought to bear upon
the Avill, which, if left to ordinary motives, might not have
been exerted, at least in the particular direction. But there is
will, and, in so far as there was room for will, there was action,
agency, and there was morality accordingly. Morality, there
fore, has direct relation to will in outward actions. Where
there is not will, the individual is a passive instrument merely,
not an agent, and there can be no morality in such a case.
An instrument can never be an agent, and an agent alone is
moral. In reference to those cases where the will is under
such powerful influence, it has been sometimes said that the
individual is not free — that in the actions which he performs
he is not a free agent. It can only be in loose and popular
language that this can be said, or that this way of speak
ing is admissible. The torture may be too exquisite for the
power of endurance to go farther, and the will may yield;
the fear may be too dreadful for the will to hold out, and it
may succumb ; the temptation may be too strong for the
will to resist, and it may be carried in its tide. But the
will, again, might have remained firm amid all the torture that
could have been inflicted, and fear that could have threatened,

THE MORAL NATURE. 599

and temptation that could have influenced ; and therefore
there was not actual constraint, — the will was free. It is in
the endurance of pain, and the superiority to fear, and the
despite of temptation, that the heroism and magnanimity of
character have frequently been exhibited, as it is in these that
they have scope for action. The will therefore is in every
action performed by an agent. It is easy to see, therefore, that
will must be necessary to moral action, since it is necessary to
all action. It is the will that makes the action our own. It
would not otherwise be action, much less would it be our
action. And it will be seen, it is not the will that constitutes
the morality of an action : that depends upon something else ;
the action is moral or not in itself ; the will only makes the
action ours. It is very obvious there could be no morality,
good or bad, ascribed to an action, which was not the action of
an agent, which was not action at all, which was mere instru
mentality. It is to action that morality belongs, and to action
the will is necessary. Will constitutes action, for the will is
active. But while it is to action that morality belongs, the
morality of action depends upon motive ; it is in motive that
morality resides. The purpose, intention, feeling, with which
an action is done, gives its character to an action. Morality is
in the agent, not in the action. It is what the agent does, not
what is done — what was in the intention of the agent, what
feeling he had, what motive he was actuated by ; it is this
which is the object of praise or blame, of approbation or dis
approbation. Motive, however, may be seen in the action, and
many actions are such that they would never be done but from
certain motives. We cannot contemplate them apart from the
motive. Or the circumstances may be such, that the motive is
apparent. We may often misjudge, however, in reference to
these, and our object always is to arrive at the motive. An
action supposes a motive, and it cannot be done without a voli
tion. A volition is supposed, of course, and to interpret the
motive, is to give its character to the volition. That the voli
tion could follow up such a motive, at once stamps the volition,
and gives its character, too, to the action. The action is there-

600 THE MORAL NATURE.

fore good or bad according to the motive. This transfers the
question, then, of the relation of the will to morality, from the
relation of the will to action, to the relation of the will to
motive. We have seen the relation of will to action, and in
determining that we have determined the relation of will to
motive, and of motive to will ; the question now is, how is the
morality of motive affected by will ? We have said that the
morality of an action is in the motive — that morality is in
motive ; how then is it affected by will ? The morality is not
in the will — how then does it affect morality ? Because the
will is the consent of the being to its own states or acts. The
formal consent of the being must obviously be a very important
element in the morality of its internal states or external actions.
Are these states or actions homologated ? have they the as
sent of being ? is the being in them ? are they the states or
actions of the being ? Now, it must be obvious, that in one
sense our very states, as well as actions, must have the assent
of our wills ; otherwise, we are mere machines, and our nature
is independent of ourselves. At first, as we originally came from
the hand of our Maker, this was the case ; our natures were
independent of ourselves ; they were a fine moral mechanism.
We had no part in our original constitution, and we received
it as it came from the hand of God. But having been consti
tuted with such and such a moral nature, and with a will as a
part of it, that nature obviously could not act without the will
going along with its movements : the will would never be
opposed to a nature in which there was nothing but harmony ;
and the action of the will would then be far more prompt than
it is now, when there are such conflicting motives and states.
And when that change passed over our nature, which has been
fruitful of such consequences, and which has given rise to
those very questions with which we are engaged ; for had man
continued upright, the question of his freedom would never
have been raised, but he would have done good without asking
if he was free to do it, and he would have cheerfully accepted
of the benefits of his condition, without asking how he came
by them, or rather with a thankful recognition of the great

THE MORAL NATURE. fiOl

Author of them all : when the great moral change passed over
our nature, could that take place without an act of will ? It
could not be with an act of our own will, but was it not with
an act of our great progenitor and representative's ? And if so,
do not all our subsequent moral states take their character from
this ? Our moral states are essentially either good or bad ; our
moral emotions must partake either of the one character or
the other. They were first in order, the will came after them.
Could the will constitute their morality ? If the morality is
in the emotion even after volition, and the will only consents
to it, and makes it as it were doubly our own ; being our own,
first, in itself, and now our own, secondly, by being homolo
gated, or cherished, — the emotion may be moral even where
there is no will. But there was a will upon which our whole
moral state, as that now is, depended, as previous to that it took
its character from the Creator, or His creative will. It was man's
own will that introduced the new state of the moral nature that
we find obtaining : it takes its character now from it, as it did
originally from the will of the Creator. A single emotion or
feeling, therefore, cannot now be cherished without its possess
ing a moral character either good or bad. It must be in the
very nature of the emotion — we speak of the moral emotions —
to possess this character. A moral emotion without a moral
character seems a contradiction. What can a volition do to that
emotion in itself considered ? The volition is but the consent
to the emotion : the emotion is moral in itself, whether good or
bad, virtuous or vicious. If the will could render an emotion
good or bad, it would have a transmuting power. It is not
denied, indeed, by any, that the emotion is good or bad, but it
is alleged that there is not guilt in the moral agent till there is
a will going along with the emotion, entertaining it, or assenting
to it. If the present state of the moral nature existed of itself
necessarily, or had been created as we find it, then an act or
assent of the will would now be necessary before there could be
guilt or otherwise, praise or blame : and even then, perhaps, there
could not be guilt attachable even to what was morally evil,
since our nature would in that case be independent of ourselves:

G02 THE MORAL NATURE.

this would undoubtedly be the case if our nature had been
created in that state. But our very nature, or the state of our
nature now, was the fruit of a volition, of will. Does not that
give its character, then, to all the subsequent states ? Do not
these take their character from the primordial volition that led
to them ? Their guilt is in their own evil nature, if they are
evil — evil being essentially evil, if the fruit of choice. We were
involved in our representative ; and his act — when he put forth
that volition, and ate of that fruit — was ours. His choice was
ours. Our moral state, then, has a choice, a will accompanying
it, fixing it upon us as our own. It does not need a new voli
tion to make every emotion ours, as it needs a new volition to
make every action ours. Our emotions are our own in virtue
of that primordial volition that occasioned the first apostacy.
The relation of will to morality is only in making the act, or
the state, our own. Let that be once determined, and then
morality is apart from will, and belongs to motive, to the
respect to law. It is the regard to law which constitutes an
act or a state moral. Now there is a regard to law even in
our pathological states, as they have been called — or emotions,
as well as in our actions, not immediate, but from that primor
dial volition which has characterized all our subsequent states,
viewing the race as having one character, and as included in
the great federal transaction. There is a disregard to law
lying under all our states which may be characterized as evil.
This is the very essence of the depravity of nature from which
evil action itself proceeds. There could be no wrong volitions
otherwise, and it is the revolt from law in our very nature that
constitutes depravity, and that surely constitutes guilt. An
emotion may be in revolt as well as a volition — a state as well
as an act. The tendency to evil must be evil ; all depends
upon whether that evil was our own, was brought upon our
selves, whether we involved ourselves in it, so that it is ours.

Morality resides in the motive, or in the emotions — in the
state of the soul, of which emotion is the first expression or
act ; nay, there is morality essentially in emotion ; an emotion

THE MORAL NATURE. 603

is moral. We here have reference again to the moral emotions ;
for there are emotions that are not moral ; and it is essential
that in the moral emotions there be morality. They are moral
in themselves, and an act of will is not needed to make them so.
An act of will only makes them ours ; in other words, the will
in conformity with the emotions, these become ours by being
not the emotions of a mere passive nature, but of an active
agent, recognised and acknowledged, — not pathological states
merely, but the states of a moral and responsible being, respon
sible at least to law, if not to higher being. In the creature,
the state would be first, and the emotions of that state sub
sequent, and the will would be subsequent to the emotions.
This would be also in the order of nature with the Creator him
self. But velleity, or the state in which the harmony of will
with emotion is demanded in the very supposition, would be con
sonant with emotion, and would not be a moment subsequent.
This velleity would be a part of the creature as well as emotion,
so that will would be in effect exerted upon emotion, even pre
vious to actual volition. It is when actual volition, however,
does take place, that the emotions are recognised, authentica
ted, and become more our own. There is this grand peculiarity
in regard to the emotions of our depraved nature, that these
are our own by a prior volition — a volition which sprang up in
the as yet unfallen being, in a manner which it is impossible
to account for or explain. Here is a volition which it would
be difficult to trace to any previous motive, the previous state
of the moral agent being one of perfect moral rectitude. A
wrong emotion first will hardly account for the phenomenon in
this case. There must have been consent in the very emotion
which first sprang up in the now fallen nature — fallen as soon
as that emotion took effect in the hitherto unfallen nature,
whether of man, or of the angels. There would be consent to the
emotion, for the very admission of the emotion would be consent.
It was an altogether new emotion — new, as contrary to the will
of God — while the previous state had been in harmony with
that will. Would not the will, admitting this emotion, be as in
stantaneous as the emotion ? The emotion was rebellion against

604 THE MORAL NATURE.

God — opposition to His command, or His law. Could that be
without a volition ? It is the will that makes emotion our own,
as respects agency, not mere nature — as respects an agent, not
a mere being. Wrong emotion prior to volition must have
been either created or spontaneous; in itself, in either case,
there must have been depravity, though not guilt. But a state
of velleity, or the will possible, must be conceived, along with
every state of emotion. Emotion and will are states of the
same being, and the one co-exists with and supposes the other.
It will be difficult to say what was the source of the depraved
moral nature, if not a volition. There must have been some
thing prior to this as causal, and that beyond observable causes ;
but that nature could not be our own without volition. It is
rather the moral state we have to contemplate, whether inno
cent or fallen, and that supposes both emotion and volition.
An emotion is moral, because it supposes volition, or there is
possible volition, or velleity* Volition does not make the emo
tion moral, but a moral emotion is not conceivable without
possible volition, or volition possible in correspondence with it.
It is not the will that makes the emotion moral, but a moral
emotion supposes the possibility of volition. The two states are
the complements of each other. The mind consenting to the
emotion, is will in relation to the emotion. The mind chooses
it, indulges it, does not resist it or bid it away ; or, if a virtuous
emotion, cherishes it, invites its accesses, strengthens it by
every consideration and every incitement. If the emotion has
an object, it will frequently contemplate it — it will have it
frequently before it — it will seek its intercourse or fellowship.
If it be a duty on which it rests — or pursuit of any kind — it will
delight in its performance, or eagerly engage in its prosecution.
If the emotion is that of benevolence, the will will be the
active, ever present, pervading, immediate spring and agent of
all its expressions. The emotion will be the regent principle,
the will the ancillary and executive, hardly separate or separa
ble. The emotion must will : or, let it be love — a farther re
move from will — the will acknowledges the emotion, allows it,

* \Ve ftdopt this word, if it has not the sense that we here put upon it.

THE MORAL NATUUE. 605

and if it too has commands, the will obeys, and it will shrink
from nothing by which its behests will be accomplished. The
will is the minister of the emotion, but not so its minister, as
not to be sovereign in its own acts. It acts sovereignly, it
takes up the matter for itself; it does not say to the emotion,
Be out of the way — but it forgets the emotion in its own ser
vices. It is predominant, it is the exultant faculty, it careers
in its course, and it asks not if it is obeying love. Such seems
to be the relation between motive and will, or emotion and
will. The morality is in the emotion, but what would the
emotion be without will ? It might be beautiful, but it would
want action — it would be the vital principle without the active
frame — it would be the atmosphere, or the steam, without the
agent which it moves, and which re-acts upon the moving
power by condensation and expansion, gathering the strength
into a single act, and, in the expenditure of that strength,
proving the expansiveness of the power. The morality is in
the emotion. Love, for example, is essentially moral ; it com
prises the law. Will could never affect love ; it can only in its
own way carry out its behests. Justice is essentially moral.
Will is but the severe minister of that stern Judge, with
the sword and with the fasces of authority and execution.
Let covetousness, or improper desire, be the emotion in the
mind, is there no blameworthiness till the will has put its
stamp upon the emotion, or followed it into action ? Is there
no blameworthiness till the will has received the emotion
into the mind, where it was before in the most incipient stage
— as on the very threshold, seeking admission — or as the very
germ of the emotion, which upon a single volition expands
into full blow ? Undoubtedly the emotion gathers into won
derful strength, compared with its incipient stage, as soon as
volition has taken effect. It has an expansiveness bearing no
proportion to its incipient state, like an essence filling the
chamber into which it is admitted. But there was immorality
in the first motion in the direction of covetousuess or impure
desire. The simplest state of emotion was wrong, must be
wrong. If it was inconsistent with the right, then it must be

(506 THE MORAL NATURE.

wrong : if it has an improper direction when will has taken
effect, it had the same direction from the first. There is no
new direction, and therefore there can be no new character
derivable from will. The state decides the emotion, and if
depraved, the emotion must be depraved ; and does depravity
infer no morality ? Does morally depraved nature infer no
punishment ? All this seems like repeating a truism ; but it
is a truism which has been denied by such high authority that
it seemed necessary to dwell upon this view somewhat at length.
" Having illustrated," says Dr. Chalmers, " the distinction
between the passive and the voluntary, in those processes the
terminating result of which is some particular state of an emo
tion, and which emotion in that state often impels to a parti
cular act, or series of acts, we would now affirm the all-
important principle, that nothing is moral or immoral which is
not voluntary/' Dr. Chalmers thinks that this " should be
announced with somewhat the pomp and circumstance of a
first principle ; and have the distinction given to it, not of a
tacit, but of a proclaimed axiom in moral science." If Dr.
Chalmers had taken into account the primordial volition from
which our depraved nature took effect ; and if his remarks had
regarded that volition — all our emotions characterized by that
volition, or connected with the guilt of that one act of the will
— the principle he announces might have been admitted ; for
undoubtedly guilt is attached to our depraved nature as spring
ing out of that one volition. How otherwise could there have
been depravity ? — and how can depravity be separated from
guilt ? A mere pathological state in which there is evil is impos
sible. This is implied in the very principle which Dr. Chalmers
announces. He says, " nothing is moral or immoral which is not
voluntary." Why draw a distinction, then, between a patholo
gical state and an active, in respect to emotions from which it
was necessary to resort to this distinction to exclude the moral
element which was otherwise confessedly seen and acknowledged
to be in them ? The distinction was in order to this exclu
sion. The moral element was otherwise there. Surely the first
emotion of covetousness is sin ; the first rise of evil desire is

THE MORAL NATURE. bOV

sin ; the first stirring of evil temper is sin. These may even
continue without an act of will : they may be pathological in
this sense. Whence their evil ? They are evil. If they had
been a part of the nature conferred upon us, guilt in connexion
with them may have been questionable ; and this leads us by
an a priori argument to the principle, that while evil could not
be created by the Divine Being, neither could it arise spon
taneously, without a volition in the very act which admitted it.
There must have been volition then. But it is not to this
volition that Dr. Chalmers traces the guilt of the emotions in
any case where guilt can be chargeable upon them, but to a
volition accompanying actual emotion. It is for this that Dr.
Chalmers thinks the principle he announces so important. It
is to draw a distinction between emotion thus characterized
and a purely pathological state, which he regards every emotion
to be where there is no volition blending with it. He says,
" Emotions are no further virtuous or vicious, than as volitions
are blended with them, and blended with them so far as to
have given them their direction or their birth." Evil in emo
tion is evil ; the question is, To whom is it attributable, to
whom does it appertain ? Surely to the agent in whom it
resides ? Created evil is inconceivable. God did not create
evil — whence did it spring ? We are at no loss to give answer,
if we take revelation for our guide. Evil is the fruit of the
first volition to sin. Whence that volition sprang we may in
vain ask. This is the root of evil — in what it had its soil is
the question. Whence sprang evil in man and in the fallen
angels ? What was the cause here — out of the chain of causes
—in the being and yet beyond the being ? What was the cause
before any perceived cause ? Whence the spontaneity of this
act — of the primal volition to evil ?

We have said that in the moral agent we perceive the phe
nomena of a judgment, an emotion, a desire, a volition, and
then following upon all, an action, or actions. Such seems to
be the order of the states preceding action. Let us endeavour
to realize the states or phenomena preceding the first volition

608 THE MORAL NATURE.

to evil. We are brought up to this in our inquiries iuto the
nature of will, and its relation to action and to morality. We
have seen that it does not constitute morality, that it only makes
the moral action our own, and that the morality is essentially in
the emotion prior to the will, in the desire, or the emotion and
desire conjoined, constituting motive. Even an emotion we
have seen may be sinful, being essentially an improper emotion :
the will cannot affect its real nature in any way. The will only
makes the emotion our own. An emotion where there has
been no volition concurring with it, or consenting to it, is not
ours in any sense. We see such a phenomenon often now in
our emotional states, or distinguishing our emotional nature ;
but these states, that nature, must be connected with the voli
tion which made the nature itself our own ; otherwise, it had
not been ours, and it is inconceivable that there could have
been any morality in such a case. It would have been purely
phenomenal, in no sense ours, or the nature of an agent. On
that very account it has been denied that there is morality in
any actual emotion apart from volition in our present emotional
states. This might have been allowed had no volition ever
made these emotions ours. Let them be ours, chargeable upon
us ; and if the emotions are evil, — that is, phenomenally so, or
in their own nature, they are evil as implying guilt, and attach
ing guilt to their subject. The question is, then, as respects
the first sinful state, or first volition to evil, Was that state
purely emotional ? Was the first volition to evil preceded by
an emotion ? and whether it was so or not, whatever was the
phenomenon presented, what led to it ? What was the cause ?
We have already supposed that the first state of evil could not
be purely emotional, for the very entrance of the emotion would
be a revolt from a prior holy state, or a state of harmony with,
or subjection to, the Divine will. The first emotion, of which a
volition to evil action was the result — supposing this to have been
the phenomenon — must have itself been accompanied with, or
been characterized by, a volition. At all events, in such a case,
if there was no accompanying volition, if the state was purely
emotional, it could hardly be conceived as having any guilt

THE MORAL NATURE. 609

connected with it. There was depravity, there was evil, but
there was no guilt. Guilt was not till volition took effect, or
till there was volition consenting to the state. An emotional
state prior to all volition, or to any consent of the mind, must
have been purely emotional, as much so as a sensation is a
sensation, or any of our involuntary states are involuntary. It
could not have been our own state, or the being was not in it ;
all was subjectivity. A consent at one time or other was neces
sary to make the emotions amenable to law, and the subject of
conscience. Evil cannot be conceived separate from will. There
is unquestionably a sense in which our present emotions, though
depraved, are not characterized by guilt till volition mingles
with them, gives its stamp or impress to them. It is the prior
volition by which these emotions became our nature, that makes
us responsible for them, and renders them in themselves guilty.
They are depraved — they must be guilty. How did they be
come so ? How did they themselves take their rise ? — first as
phenomenal, and second as guilty, or exhibiting a circumstance
of criminality or guilt ? What was the origin of evil emotion ?
Where was the point of change in the emotional state ? or
what was the cause antecedent to all existing cause, and out of
the nature of the being that changed ? Let the first state of
change, or in which there was change, be an emotion or a
volition, or a phenomenon exhibiting both, what was its origin ?
Whence did it spring ? what was its cause ? May we not per
ceive here something to determine the nature of will ? Is it not
in the spontaneity, the activity of will, in the cause within itself,
that we are to look for the cause unexplained of the change
in our moral state — that activity itself inexplicable, except as
we find an internal activity of the will — not irrespective of
motive, but still belonging to will itself — as we find this to be
a subject of consciousness ? Is it not to the w ill, rather than to
the emotion, that we are to look for the source of the change
in our moral nature ? At all events, what could be the cause
of a state which had no cause in any of the previous states of
the moral being ? Is it more easy to conceive of emotion un
caused than volition uncaused — uncaused as respects any actual

2y

610 THE MORAL NATURE.

state of the being prior to the emotion or volition to be ac
counted for ? Must we seek for a cause of every volition, but
may we suppose an emotion without a cause ? It comes to this :
An emotion uncaused, unless we take refuge in a state or phe
nomenon inexplicable ; and may we not have found refuge
in that as respects the causality of the will, in the production
of its own states or acts, its own activity ? — and may we not
rather find in the will a power that supposes a power of
choosing evil irrespective of motive, than in the emotional
nature a susceptibility of evil emotion prior to yet existing
evil ? Have not the Necessitarians of the school of Edwards
at last to admit a state which had no cause — was induced by
some cause extraneous to the being, or subject of the state for
which a cause is to be found ? Here, unquestionably, we come
to a phenomenon for which there is no accounting.

Different theories have been entertained respecting the phe
nomenon, sin, in the moral universe of God — the origin of
evil. It has been regarded as the shadow of good. In what
light the shadow is cast — good being the substance, and not
the light — or was it at once the light and the substance ? — this
is not attempted to be explained. Goethe asks, —

" Canst thou teach me off my own shadow to spring V" —

and Carlyle recognises more in that one question than in
volumes upon the subject of the origin of evil. We have seen
something like this in our counterpart emotions — not however
the shadow of our good emotions, or the emotions of an inno
cent state, but an opposite corresponding to its opposite. Evil
is in this sense the counterpart of good ; but that does not ac
count for it as a substance accounts for its shadow. Every
thing in the universe may have its counterpart or opposite.
We have already noticed a duality in creation, when we were
explaining the law of proportion as one of the laws of the mind.
That duality may exist in the moral as well as the natural
world, or rather it does now exist : are we to suppose that it
must necessarily exist '{ It exists in the conception, and it exists
possibly ; that is, good had its counterpart in idea, and evil was

THE MORAL NATURE. GIL

always possible : but does this account for it ? Does this give
us its origin ? Does this explain its rise ? We cannot refer it
to God without either supposing Him evil, essentially and eter
nally ; in which case it would not be difficult to account for
the origin of evil ; or supposing the change in Him, and the same
phenomenon in the Divine Being which we have to account for
in the creature. To avoid this, some have supposed two eternal
principles, the one good and the other evil, the one the author
of all good, the other of all evil, — the Manichean doctrine.
Others have supposed matter to be the evil principle of the
universe, eternal, untractable, incapable of being moulded to
the purposes of the Almighty, and therefore the source of all
evil. These were tenets of the Oriental theology, and were both
included in the general views of the Gnostics, a sect of philoso
phers, or theologians, who belonged to the East, and extended
their influence over the world. It was reserved for the Ger
mans to make evil the shadow of good, an ingenious enough
thought, but in so far as it goes beyond the idea of evil
being the counterpart of good, simply unintelligible. To dwell
upon the doctrines maintained or views thrown out on this sub
ject would be useless. All proceed upon the difficulty of account
ing for what had not its existence in God absolutely considered ;
for Schelling, according to Tholuck, recognised in God " a dark
primitive origin, and a glorified form of the same," a doctrine
as intelligible as many of the German doctrines. Not all the
doctrines of human invention can explain the origin of evil, or
account for a cause of what took effect in the mind while itself
had no cause, — was, so far as we see, without cause. In the lan
guage of Sir William Hamilton, applied to another subject, it
is just the difficulty, the impossibility, as he calls it, of con
ceiving an absolute commencement. If evil had not its cause
in any previous state, whether of emotion or volition, where
was its cause ? Out of the being himself ? This was impos
sible. If in the being, in what state, since it was neither in
the state of emotion nor in that of volition ? Is it not possible
that it was just in the activity of the will itself ? May not this
have been the origin, or source, of the particular emotion, or

G12 THE MORAL NATURE.

what led to the volition immediately prior to the first act of
sin ? May there not be in the will a power apart from motive,
and may not this very power, in the degree in which it exists,
have been the cause of evil, evil in the will itself, walling what
was forbidden, or what the moral nature of the very agent
willing told it was evil ? The active will umay have been the
cause of evil by willing what was evil. It may have been a
state of indifferency in the mind before : is it necessary to
suppose evil already in the will before it could will evil ? Per
haps not. The will may have been capable of choosing evil
arbitrarily, and the penalty may have been evil itself. This is
at least as supposable, and as intelligible, as an emotion with
out a previous emotion, or any conceivable state whatever as its
cause. Some, accordingly, have maintained that evil is a de
fect, that it is nothing positive, quoting the maxim, " Omne
ens positivuni est vel primuni vel a primo." This may be
maintained, perhaps, with respect to the first motion to evil ;
but evil itself surely is something positive. How positive evil
should have its origin in a defect, is the very question. But a
mere defective will, or a will choosing arbitrarily, without a full
view of the right, from a defective understanding, or rather
capriciously, and without a regard to reasons furnished by the
understanding : in this there was evil : but, from the nature of
the will, the first apostacy seems as likely to have happened in
this way as in any other. But perhaps it is best to leave the
phenomenon unaccounted for, and to acknowledge that we can
not account for it. It is satisfactory, at least, to have reached
something ultimate beyond which it is impossible to go. We
at least see that we cannot go further, and it is our wisdom to
suspend our minds at an ultimate point, and neither presump
tuously seek to explore further, nor complain because of the
limits set to our inquiries. So far we may go, we ought to go,
for our own satisfaction, and for a more intelligent comprehen
sion of the truths that are so interesting to us, as they so vitally
concern us. The limits to our minds may be acknowledged
without surely any derogation to their dignity, while it is in
the graceful acknowledgment of these that their true dignity

THE MORAL NATU11E. 613

consists. Kant, with his usual intelligence, and his customary
candour, says, " Evil can only spring out of moral evil, not out
of the mere limitation of our nature, and yet the original dis
position (which no one but man could injure, if this corruption
is to be imputed to him) was a disposition to that which is
good. For us, therefore, there is no intelligible ground whence
moral evil could arise." " Were our theologians of the ration
alist class," says Tholuck, when remarking upon these words of
Kant, " as honest as they deem themselves rational, they would
have followed Kant, and avowed their ignorance on this central
point. Were they sharp-sighted enough, (in case it seemed
disreputable to take their stand on the simple statements of
Revelation,) they would speculate till they reached the ultimate
point of speculation." Our remarks apply equally to the apos-
tacy of the angels and to that of man. We know not the cir
cumstances of the former apostacy ; we have Revelation to guide
us with respect to those of the latter. The temptation to our
great progenitors was, " Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and
evil." But how that inducement took effect in a previously holy
nature — the first rise of evil — is the insoluble problem. We are
undoubtedly brought up to an ultimate point. In what the
evil consisted — if the first state of evil, or towards evil, was a
simple emotion — it is difficult to say ; there must have been a
volition at least consenting to that emotion, nay, admitting it ;
the nature was not entirely passive : now, this volition, the act
of the will in the very emotion which it admitted, contempora
neous with the emotion, may have been arbitrary ; it is in this
that we seem to have sight of the possibility of the entrance of
evil emotion. Still, we are not beyond a point which is ulti
mate ; and without challenging the procedure by which evil
was possible and became a fact, we cannot deny evil to exist,
while our moral nature is not affected by the way in which evil
found a lodgement in the heart of man. This is a fact we have
to deplore ; evil we find existing, and that much more person
ally concerns us than any question regarding the origin of evil.
We see in the introduction of evil, however, an event of mighty
consequence and solemn interest, the rationale of which it is

614 THE MOKAL NATURE.

not at all necessary for us to give. Scripture even does not
give it. It relates the circumstances of the Fall ; it does not
satisfy our curiosity by explaining the Fall itself. How simply
does it relate that event ! — how simple the circumstances of the
event itself! — yet how momentous in its consequences ! How
great must the sin have been which involved such consequences !
In the Scripture account we have the only — we have the autho
ritative — statement of man's apostacy. Philosophy may specu
late : the Bible reveals — not the mode or nature of the change,
but the circumstances of the change. The great fact is told,
the modus of it is left unexplained. Redemption comes upon
the scene ; and Regeneration — the creation of fallen man anew
— is the grand doctrine of Scripture — the implantation of a new
will, new motives, a new emotional nature, the susceptibility
of holy emotions, desires, and the power of again willing what
is right.

APPENDIX.

APPENDIX.

NOTE A. —P. 76.

THE doctrine of sequence, as propounded by Dr. Brown, is worthy of a more
detailed examination, and we shall offer this by transferring to our pages the sub
stance of a pamphlet published by the Author in 1842, under the title, " Strictures
on the Idea of Power, with Special Reference to the Views of Dr. Brown, in his
' Inquiry into the Relation of Cause and Effect.' "

Dr. Brown's assertion is, that " the powers, properties, or qualities of a sub
stance, are not to be regarded as anything superadded to the substance, or distinct
from it. They are only the substance itself, considered in relation to various
changes that take place when it exists in peculiar circumstances." — (P. 16.)
Again, he asserts, " What substantial forms once were, in general misconception,
powers, properties, qualities, now are. In the one case, as much as in the other,
a mere abstraction has been converted into a reality; and an impenetrable gloom
has been supposed to hang over nature, which is only in the clouds and darkness of
our own verbal reasoning." — (P. 19.) " The qualities of substances, however we may
seem to regard them as separate or separable, are truly the substances themselves,
considered by us together with other substances, in which a change of some sort
is consequent on the introduction of them. There are not substances, therefore,
and also powers or qualities, but substances alone." — (P. 21.) These quotations,
we think, are sufficiently explicit as to what Dr. Brown's doctrine is. Now, how
does he support it, — by what mode of argument does he uphold it ? The amount
of his reasoning seems to us to be, — -first, that we cannot properly conceive of
powers and qualities distinct from substances themselves ; and, secondly, that it is
unnecessary to suppose them to exist, as, on his favourite notion of sequence, they
would, after all, be but additional terms of that sequence. The alleged inability
of forming any conception of power distinct from the substance possessing it, and
the facility of substituting the language of his system for the language of an older
belief, — the arbitrary resolution of all the ideas we can entertain of power, pro
perties, qualities, into those of state, succession, sequence, — seem to us to be the
whole of Dr. Brown's argument for the peculiar doctrine of causation which he
supports.

618 APPENDIX.

But it is no proof against the existence of power or efficiency, as a thing apart, or
different from the substance, or as lodged in the substance, that we cannot clearly ap
prehend it as distinct. We have seen that the idea of power arises in the mind at
a very early stage — if not sooner, yet contemporaneously with the first reference by
the mind of an inward consciousness to an external cause. There could be no such
reference without the principle of causality, or except in virtue of that principle.
But whatever the origin of the idea, it is one of the ideas of the mind, and the
difficulty of conceiving of power as a thing distinct from the object which possesses
it, does not, we humbly are of opinion, destroy either the force or the truth of the
idea. Might not the same difficulty of conceiving of the soul as a separate entity,
on equally just grounds, be an argument against our belief in the soul's existence ?
To justify any of our original ideas, it is not necessary that we be able to support it
by argument. It is generally received as sufficient in philosophy for our belief
in the external world, that we have that belief. Our ultimate convictions or feel
ings are what we have to retire upon in all the fundamental and most important
points of belief and of conduct. Without these, we would be without any principle
of belief whatever, — we would be compelled always to act by random. We cannot
prove the existence of the external world, — we, however, believe in it ; and nothing
could be surer than that belief. So, the idea of power is forced upon the mind at
the very commencement of observation ; and it is no argument against its truth
that we cannot state or define exactly what it is ; and it is altogether a refinement
in ingenuity to resolve it into nothing, or, at least, into a mere mental abstraction,
a relation, because we cannot hold it up to view, or give a clearer idea of it than
every one origimilly possesses.

We shall advert, for a moment, to the other mode of argument pursued by Dr.
Brown. He maintains that sequence is all that we actually observe, and he there
fore argues that this is all that really exists in nature. There is a succession of
changes in nature ; we have objects existing in different states or relations ; and
he contends that, as we see nothing more, so it is unnecessary to conclude that
there is anything more. It is altogether unnecessary, he holds, to introduce any
thing else into the sequence ; while, again, if it is admitted, it will form, after all,
but a part of the sequence itself, will be but another term in it, but another link in
the chain of succession. This is obviously forgetting what power is alleged to be,
so far as we can conceive of it. If it is anything, then, as power, the question
does not turn upon the necessity to suppose, or not to suppose, it to exist, but upon
the fact of its existence. It might be unnecessary: a mere succession of states,
regulated according to a fixed and adopted order, a law of invariable connexion,
impressed on objects by the Creator of the universe, might be all that was neces
sary, or might now account for the phenomena of the universe ; but the question
is, Is this all that exists, that actually has place V It is still alleged that we have
the idea of power, and it is no argument to disprove its existence, that the phcno
mena of nature maybe explained on another supposition. It was imperative mi
Dr. Brown to show that the idea is unfounded; and this was not to be done by an
ingenious speculation like that of sequence in events, however that might appear
to account in a simpler manner for change and phenomenon. But let us hear T>r.
Brown's argument in regard to the terms of the sequence. " If it be s.-iiil that A,
B, 0, the substances which, as antecedents and consequents, I formerly supposed

APPENDIX. G19

to be present in a sequence of phenomena, are not themselves all that exist in these
sequences, but that there is also the power of A to produce a change in B, vhirh
must be distinguished from A and B ; and the power of B to produce a change in
(.', which must in like manner be distinguished from both B and C ; is it not evi
dent that what is not A, nor B, nor C, must be itself a new portion of the sequence ?
X, for example, may have a place between A and B, and Y a place between B
and C. But by this supposed interposition of something which is not A, B, nor C,
we have only enlarged the number of sequences, and have not produced anything
different from parts of a sequence, antecedent and consequent in a certain uniform
order. TJie substances that exist in a train of phenomena are still, and must
always be, the whole constituents of the train." — (Pp. 22, 23.) Now, it is obvious
this is an entire begging of the question. The very assertion is, that power is
something which can never be a mere term in a sequence. The very idea of it is
opposed to its being so regarded. When, therefore, Dr. Brown asserts that it can
be nothing else, — that " by the supposed interposition of something which is not
A, B, nor C, we have only changed the number of sequences, and have not pro
duced anything different from parts of a sequence, antecedent and consequent in
a certain uniform order," he is assuming the whole point in dispute. Our assertion
is, that we have produced something different from^arte of a sequence. The very
idea entertained of power is altogether different ; it is essentially a different thing ;
and it is therefore quite gratuitous on the part of Dr. Brown to make it the
same, to make it but one of the links in a chain of sequence. The whole passage
is a fine specimen of what logicians term upetitio prlncipii." It is assertion
without argument.

From the connected phenomena of the material world, Dr. Brown proceeds to
those of the mental, and applies exactly the same arguments to these as to the
changes in matter, — a mode of reasoning which we have found it necessary to
object to, as altogether untenable and invalid. Power, we may not be able to con
ceive of, as it is distinct from the substance, material or spiritual, exhibiting it, or
except in relation to its effect ; and yet we may be able to conceive of it as some
thing belonging to the substance notwithstanding. What it is as distinct from the
substance, we may not be able to tell ; but still as distinct or separate, we may
both believe in it, and conceive of it. And it is as good argument for its reality, that
we have an idea of it, — as it is against its existence, that we cannot define that idea,
so as to describe the thing itself, of which it is the idea. Take the phenomena of
matter or of mind, viewed not as powers, but facts: how are we to describe them,
or form a clearer idea of them than we do of power, power itself, power in the
abstract, separated from any of its particular modifications ? What is combustion,
or adhesion, or gravity ; can we give any clearer notion of them than these terms
themselves convey ? So, we know what power is, though we cannot describe it
otherwise than as that which produces an effect; or, at all events, that we cannot
describe it otherwise, is no sufficient reason for discarding it altogether, as a thing
having no existence except in onr own thoughts. In this way nothing would be
permitted to have an existence ; and, farther than either Berkeley or Hume, Mo;is
themselves might be excluded from the category of being, and the universe would
be a blank ; there would not even be a mind to be the subject of such illusions as
\\<- d;nly experience, or illusions themselves ; for with the possibility of defining

620 APPENDIX.

even ideas, hud gone out the last spark of those embers which philosophy had
extinguished all to this remaining principle.

Dr. Brown deduces what he calls a test of identity from what he had, indeed,
before, abundantly shown, (but which we have not received as argument,) viz., —
that the language or manner of speaking in reference to power may be resolved
into another formula, reduced to equivalent terms, the terms of his theory or sys
tem ; and that test of identity is, that when we speak in any case of power, we
mean nothing more than that a certain phenomenon precedes a certain other ; or
that, at least, our language conveys no other information than this. We quote the
words of Dr. Brown himself. " When a spark falls upon gunpowder, and kindles
it into explosion, every one ascribes to the spark the power of kindling the
inflammable mass. But when such a power is ascribed, let any one ask himself
what it is that he means to denote by that term, and without contenting himself
with a few phrases that signify nothing, reflect before he give his opinion, and he
will find that he means nothing more than this very simple belief, — that in all
similar circumstances the explosion of gunpowder will be the immediate and uniform
consequence of the application of a spark. The application of a spark is one event,
the explosion of gunpowder is another ; and there is nothing in the sequence but
these two events, or, rather, nothing but the objects themselves, that constitute
what we are in the habit of terming events, by the changes of appearance which
they exhibit. When we say to one, that, if a lighted match fall on a heap of gun
powder, the explosion of the heap will be sure to follow, our meaning is sufficiently
obvious ; and if we have perfect certainty that it is understood by him, do we think
that he would receive the slightest additional information, in being told that the
fall of a match, in such circumstances, would not only be invariably followed by the
explosion of the gunpowder, but that the lighted match itself would also, in such
circumstances, be found uniformly to have the power of exploding gunpowder ?
What we might consider in this case as new information, would verbally, indeed,
be different ; but it would truly be the old information, and the old information
only, with no other difference than of the words in which it was conveyed. This
test of identity," he adds, "appears to me to be a most accurate one. When a
proposition is true, and yet communicates no additional information, it must be
exactly of the same import as some other proposition formerly understood and ad
mitted." — (Pp. 27, 28.) Here, again, Dr. Brown obviously takes an important point
for granted, viz., — that when we ascribe power to any object producing a certain
phenomenon, or whose presence, in certain circumstances, is attended by that
phenomenon, we mean nothing more than that, at all times, in the same circum
stances, that object will be the immediate antecedent of that phenomenon. This
is exactly what is denied. We mean much more than this. The more we reflect,
the clearer it appears, that what is meant in ascribing power to an object is some
thing altogether different from merely predicting that it will be the uniform and
immediate antecedent of a certain uniform and immediate consequent. We have
an idea of power distinct from that ; and we mean something when we say that the
object has power to produce the effect which actually follows its presence or applica
tion. Let any one but reflect on his own meaning when he speaks of power, and he
will see that antecedence and consequence does not at all explain it — is not at all
adequate. There is still something left which is not accounted for, am] for which

APPENDIX. 621

nothing can account but the notion of power. Whether we communicate any
additional information or not, just depends upon the amount of certainty or accu
racy that we attach to the idea of power, which, we have said, all men possess.
If we regard it as an illusion, then, instead of communicating any additional infor
mation, we are using altogether incorrect or unphilosophic language, when we employ
the term power. But if we do not regard it as such — if the idea we attach to
power is held, like any of our original impressions, to be accurate, however unde-
finable, or beyond the province of argument to establish, — then, if we do not
communicate additional information, we have, at all events, some different and
additional meaning in the words which we use ; and thus the test of identity fails.
May not Dr. Brown's test be turned against himself? " When a proposition is
true, and yet communicates no additional information, it must be of exactly the
same import as some other proposition formerly understood and admitted." The
proposition which ascribes power to the object, we would say, was the older of the
two ; and, therefore, that which speaks merely of antecedence and consequence,
must, if the two propositions are identical, take the meaning of the former, and we
are still left in possession of our old idea of power.

It is really an unsatisfactory, metaphysical kind of thing, which is left us, when
we strip the universe of its powers, and reduce it to the sort of skeleton structure
which remains, unanimated by one quality, pervaded by nothing, — a platform, a
mighty machine, moving, but without power or principle of motion ! But, it may
be, we arc misrepresenting the doctrine of causation, which has Dr. Brown as its
great advocate and supporter ; and, indeed, it would appear, from section fifth
(Part I.) of Dr. Brown's Essay on " Cause and Effect," that we are. But the truth
is, that we either misunderstand Dr. Brown's views altogether, or he is utterly in
consistent with himself. We shall show that he nullifies, as we conceive, all he has
been saying. He throws away his own doctrine, and boldly and uncompromisingly
asserts the very views he has been engaged in confuting.

It is obvious, that if the doctrine of sequence only is to be maintained, — if, not
merely all that we observe, but all that actually exists or takes place in causation,
or in the changes or relations of phenojnena, is simple antecedence and consequence,
as contended for by Dr. Brown, then we have nothing left but the material plat
form or structure of the universe ; and, instead of repudiating this consequence — a
legitimate one of his own doctrine — it behoved Dr. Brown to defend it, or, if un
tenable, to have renounced the theory which led to it. Again, it follows from the
doctrine of sequence, that what we have heen accustomed to term an event in
Nature, is nothing but the presence of certain objects in a certain relation, and,
consequently, we hold, (for a relation cannot imply efficiency, or if it does, it is
power only under a different name,) but an occasion for the will of Deity to operate,
on which that will intervenes, — inevitably landing us in a wider, or universal,
doctrine oft " occasional causes." Dr. Brown, however, repudiates these conse
quences, and, in doing so, most unaccountably, as we deem it, goes back to the
very theory he had confuted, — the ideas he had been labouring to overthrow. For
this there was no necessity. It was not so difficult to have admitted the above
conclusions, if the doctrine of sequence was true. We think, at least, that they
could be held. We shall show how this may be, afterwards. In the meantime,
we must justify our allegation in respect to Dr. Brown's inconsistency, by the

622 APPENDIX.

quotation of his own words. " God the Creator, and God the providential Governor
of the world," he says, " are not necessarily God the immediate producer of every
change. In that great system which we call the universe, all things arc what they
are, in consequence of His primary will ; but if they are wholly incapable of affecting
anything, they would, virtually, themselves lie as nothing. When we speak of the
laws of Nature, indeed, we only use a general phrase, expressive of the accustomed
order of the sequences of the phenomena of Nature. But though in this application
the word law is not explanatory of anything, and expresses merely an order of suc
cession which takes place before us, there is such an order of sequences, and what
we call the qualities, powers, or properties of things, are only their relations to this
very order. An object, therefore, which is not formed to be the antecedent of any
change, and on the presence of which, accordingly, in all imaginable circumstances,
no change can be expected as its immediate consequent, more than if it were not
existing, is an object that has no power, property, or quality whatever. That sub
stance has the quality of heat which excites in us, or occasions in us, as a subsequent
change, the sensation of warmth ; that has the quality of greenness, the presence of
which is the antecedent of a peculiar visual sensation in our mind ; that has the
quality of heaviness which presses down a scale of a balance that was before in
equilibrium ; that has the quality of elasticity of which the parts, after being pressed
closer together, return, when the pressure is withdrawn, in a direction opposite to
the force which compressed them. If matter be incapable of acting upon matter,
or upon mind, it has no qualities by which its existence can become known ; and,
if it have no qualities by which its existence can become known, what is it, of
which in such circumstances we are entitled to speak under the name of matter ?"
— (Pp. 83, 84.) Such is exactly the question we are entitled to ask Dr. Brown,
and to the views implied in which, his own doctrine of causation is directly opposed.
But again, — " That the changes which take place, whether in mind or in matter, are
all ultimately resolvable into the will of the Deity, who formed alike the spiritual
and material system of the universe, — making the earth a habitation worthy of its
noble inhabitant, and man an inhabitant almost worthy of that scene of divine
magnificence in which he is placed, — I have already frequently repeated. That,
in this sense, as the Creator of the world, and wilier of those great ends which the
laws of the universe accomplish, God is himself the author of the physical changes
which take place in it, is, then, most true ; as it is most true that the same power,
which gave the universe its laws, can, for particular purposes of His provident
goodness and wisdom, suspend, if it be His pleasure, any effect that would flow
from these laws, and produce, by His own immediate volition, a different result.
But, however deeply we may be impressed with these truths, we cannot find in
them any reason for supposing, that the objects without us, which He has made
surely for some end, have, as made by Him, no efficacy, no power of being instru
mental to His own great purpcse, merely because, whatever power they can be
supposed to possess, must have been derived from the fountain of all power. We
have seen, indeed, that it is only as possessing this power that they are conceived
by us to exist ; and their powers, therefore, or efficiencies, are, relatively to us,
their whole existence. It is by affecting us that they arc known to us ; and, if
they were incapable of affecting us, or — which is the same thing — if we were un
susceptible of any change on their presence, it would be in vain that the gracious

APPENDIX. 623

benevolence which has surrounded us with them, provided and decorated for us
the splendid home in which it has called us to dwell, — a home that may be splendid
indeed, as planned hy the Omnipotent who made it, but which must for ever be
invisible and unknown to the very beings for whom it was made." — (Pp. 93, 94.)

It is remarkable enough in these passages, with what facility L>r. Brown can
assume either side of the question, and contend with as much success against his
own doctrine as before he had contended for it. We are amazed at the instant
change of language and argument, and to find ranged on the side of views he had
been hitherto condemning, the very philosopher who had been opposing them with
all his peculiar ingenuity and force of reason. Why this sudden conversion ? But
it must be that we misunderstand him, and mistake his doctrine. If so, we are very
apt to throw the blame off ourselves upon him. We cannot charge ourselves with
any misapprehension of a doctrine so plainly urged, and so frequently reiterated.
If we understand it aright, it is, that all we observe in causation, and all we are
warranted to infer, is, mere antecedence and consequence, — a thing existing, and
another by an invariable relation after ; or one state existing, and another, either of
the same, or some other body, arising in consequence ; the absence, of course, of all
power being supposed. If there is anything in the doctrine at all, then, it is im
plied that there is nothing latent in any object, which, as powers, or properties, or
qualities, on the one hand, may produce an effect, or, on the other, have an effect
produced ; but certain objects or states in nature are connected together by an
invariable law, however that law has been impressed, which operates without the
necessary intervention, or supervention, of anything else, which may be called
power, or by whatsoever name we may choose. That this is the doctrine, we refer
to the reiterated statements of it by Dr. Brown himself. It is to discard all powei s
and properties, and leave nothing but the simple antecedent and consequent, (or
rather subsequent^ that Dr. Brown has produced his elaborate work ; to show an
invariable connexion, but that there is nothing like power ; or that " connexion " is
all the power we can conceive of, and that anything else is at once unwarranted and
superfluous. It may indeed be said, that that connexion is power, is property, is
quality, — is all the powers, or properties, or qualities, we conform any appreJtension
of; — but that is what is denied, and, keeping the above view of the doctrine before
us, we assert that it strips nature of powers, and properties, and qualities, and leaves
it a bare platform, an uninformed structure, matter without qualities ; which quali
ties, after all, according to Dr. Brown's own assertion, are all that we know of
matter. But Dr. Brown falls back upon the powers and properties of matter ; and
the purpose for which he does so, shows that he takes these words in the same
sense as all must do who speak of powers, and properties, and qualities at all ; and
what becomes, then, of the doctrine of mere antecedence and consequence, or what
is it but a mystification of words, since, after all, powers and properties and
qualities are supposed, and are in Dr. Brown's view just what they are in the view
of every other person ? Is it so absurd, is it so ridiculous, to denude matter of all
by which it is known, and does it involve so ridiculous a consequence, as that God
has created matter, or the universe, merely to be a remembrancer when He himself
is to act ? — Is this so absurd ? — then powers, and properties, and qualities must be
restored to the place from which they were by a previous apparently triumphant
train of argument dethroned ; and power, after all, is not a nullity, and all that

624 APPENDIX.

exists is not mere antecedence and consequence. We are not bound to say what
power is, and Dr. Brown himself has claimed for it an existence, although, perhaps,
he could not have defined it either.

We could desire no better answer to Dr. Brown's view of causation, than is con
tained in the passages already quoted from his work, and to which we again refer
our readers. In these passages, it is allowed, nay asserted, that it is only by
the powers they possess that objects without us are conceived or known to exist,
and that these powers are relatively to us their whole existence. Yet, all we per
ceive, and that really exists, is but a train of antecedents and consequents ! Dr.
Brovrn, of course, will not deny, that, although we cannot know anything of
substance but by its qualities, yet that there is such a thing as substance, or sub
stratum, in which qualities reside. But is this what Dr. Brown denies? Are
powers and qualities nothing distinct from substance, but substance only existing
in certain relations? "The powers, properties, or qualities of a substance," says
Dr. Brown, " are not to be regarded as anything superadded to the substance, or
distinct from it. They are only the substance itself, considered in relation to
various changes that take place when it exists in peculiar circumstances." Per
ceive then the strange incongruity in Dr. Brown. Powers are all by which sub
stance is known ; but powers are only the substance itself existing in particular
relations, by which it is that it becomes known to us. Whether then does Dr.
Brown believe in substance or in the properties or qualities of substance ? And
what is the force of the above passage, which contends so strenuously for powers
and efficiencies, as possessed by objects themselves, if all is to be resolved into sub
stance merely existing in particular relations ? It is not enough to say, that all that
we know of these powers, is substance existing in particular relations. The object of
the passage is to vindicate to matter an independent power or efficiency ; and to make
that a mere relation, is to make it no efficiency, or it is to destroy our idea both of
relation and efficiency. Or, perhaps, the true solution of the inconsistency — and
then it becomes not an inconsistency, but a veiled and dangerous error — is, that
power is only this relation ; and it was Dr. Brown's object to show that this was
all the efficiency both in God and the universe. It would have been more direct
to have come to this at once, as he does afterwards resolve the efficiency of God
into the same relation of antecedence and consequence, which he contends to be all
we can ascribe to matter. Power, in other words, is just this relation, and it makes
no difference where it is beheld, (we cannot say possessed,) in Deity or in matter,
it is the same thing ! Dr. Brown, then, is not inconsistent ! His object is to
repudiate the idea that matter has no independent efficiency, and in order to this,
he deprives both God and matter of all efficiency! — resolves that into a mere rela
tion ! It will be granted that Dr. Brown makes the will of Deity but an ante
cedent ; and we ask if that is efficiency ? Does it imply energy or power ? It is
Jill the power we are warranted to believe in ! Then we are not warranted to
believe in power at all ; and for Dr. Brown to claim for matter what he has even
denied to God, as before he had denied it to matter, is either an unaccountable
inconsistency, or palpable absurdity. There is either much error, or much danger,
in the view which allows efficiency in matter, as well as in the Being who gave it
that efficiency ; but tJtat that efficiency is only a relation, — a relation of invariable-
ness, — a something, at least, which is not power! We are not to suppose that there

APPENDIX. 625

is not efficiency in matter, or in the Creator of matter, but efficiency is but a
relation of antecedence !

We are the more surprised at this inconsistency, (if it is no more,) that it seems
to have been gone into in recoil from what is alleged to be the foolish error of
making the will of God all that is present in the operations of matter, and matter
nothing more than a sign, or remembrancer, to indicate when and how God is to
operate. It is against this that Dr. Brown strenuously contends. He says, —
" The doctrine of universal spiritual efficiency, in the sequences of physical causes,
seems to be only an awkward and complicated modification of the system of
Berkeley ; for as, in this view of physical causes that are inefficient, the Deity, by
His own immediate volition, or that of some delegated spirit, is the author of every
effect which we ascribe to the presence of matter ; the only conceivable use of the
inanimate masses, which cannot affect us more than if they were not in existence,
must be as remembrancers, to Him who is Omniscience itself, at what particular
moment He is to excite a feeling in the mind of some one of His sensitive crea
tures, and of what particular species that feeling is to be ; — as if the Omniscient
could stand in need of any memorial, to excite in our mind any feeling which it i.s
His wish to excite, and which is to be traced to His own spiritual agency." — (Pp.
95, 96.) Again : — " What is that idle mass of matter, which cannot affect us, or
be known to us, or to any other created being, more than if it were not ? If the
Deity produces, in every case, by His own immediate operation, all those feelings
which we term sensations or perceptions, he does not first create a multitude of inert
and cumbrous worlds, invisible, and incapable of affecting anything wJiatever, that
He may know when to operate, in the same manner as He would have operated,
though they did not exist. This strange process may indeed have some resem
blance to the ignorance and feebleness of human power, but it is not the awful
simplicity of that Omnipotence,

Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect ;

Who calls forth things that are not,— and they come."

Now, it seems not to be taken into account in these passages, that all the powers
and properties of matter, excepting what essentially belongs to it as such, must
have been derived from God, and that it is not so absurd to suppose the will of God
continually and universally operative, rather than any powers or efficiencies in
matter itself, as these were both originally bestowed, and must be incessantly pre
served by that will. We do not assert it to be so ; but we see nothing to hinder
its being supposed, without the risk, or deserving the charge, of folly. The great
point seems to have been overlooked, — What is the object for which matter was
created ? What purpose does it serve in the universe of God ? Now, it will not
be denied that, so far as respects all that was not essential to matter, all its second
ary qualities, in other words, God could have effected His purposes without them,
or by a different, even an opposite, arrangement, if He had willed, than He has
actually chosen. We think this will be admitted. Did it not depend upon His
will that matter possesses these qualities ? Can He not alter them at His plea
sure ? remove them, and modify them, as He may think fit ? It was not for these
that matter was created ; and if He has clothed nature in all the beauty, and con
nected with it all the utilities and delights, which these qualities give it, or invest

2R

626 APPENDIX.

it with, we may be sure, as it was the will of God that bestowed them, if that will
is not all their existence, their objects, at least, could have been served by that will
alone ; and in every sensation of beauty or pleasure, and every effect of utility in
the purposes of life, it might have been, after all, only the will of God that was at
work. Such cannot be said of the primary qualities of matter, — what essentially
belongs to it as such,' — what is involved in the very idea of it, and also, of all the
modifications or results of these qualities. These necessarily belonging to matter,
if the Creative Mind purposed to make use of them, to employ them for His own
ends, matter must be created. And for this cause it was, we say, that matter was
created, — that these worlds were called into existence, — that space was filled with
a material frame-work, — that suns and stars were launched forth, — and that a
structure so vast and complicated, of such mighty aggregates, yet descending to so
minute and evanescent forms, was reared in space ! Matter was a thing which
God could not do without, for the purposes of creation, and therefore He created it ;

" He called for things that were not, and they came !"

We say, then, it was not necessary, either for the vindication of Dr. Brown's own
views of causation from the consequences to which we have shown they inevitably
lead, — making the universe but a vast machinery, where all that is truly in opera
tion is but the will of God, and the masses of matter, or its minuter forms, but re
membrancers for Deity to operate ; or, in order to refute the doctrine of occasional
causes, as held by the followers of Descartes ; it was not necessary, for these
ends, to sacrifice all that had been previously laid down and contended for.
These consequences of the doctrine of sequence, even involving the doctrine
of occasional causes, without the reason for that doctrine, are not so absurd
as may be thought, or as Dr. Brown pronounces them, if we leave to matter
all the properties which necessarily belong to it as such. It is not so absurd to
suppose, with reference to every other property, that the will of Deity is every
thing, and that matter produces its effects, not from any possessed or inher
ent powers or efficiencies, but by the will of God interposing, as occasion offers
or requires, — at all times, and in every spot, pervading the vast mechanism, and
working out the stupendous, the minutest, results. With this, it is still consistent
to maintain, that matter was of some use, nay, was necessary, if it was to be cm-
ployed by God at all in creation. It is obvious, as regards all the essential pro
perties of matter, the purposes even of the Creator could not be accomplished
without it. With respect to everything else, all may be arbitrary ; but as respects
these properties, they may be pronounced independent of God himself. Matter, as
matter, could not be brought into existence, but as a thing extended, divisible,
possessing figure, solidity, &c., &c. ; and the purposes of a material creation could
not be served without extension, figure, solidity, &c. They are essential to matter,
not given to it ; matter is not matter without them ; and for these, if not for the
secondary qualities, and all the varied properties which are not among the primary,
it behoved that the material universe should exist. We think Dr. Brown, then,
inconsistent with himself, as we regard him originally wrong in the doctrine of
sequence which he holds ; and his inconsistency is the more remarkable, as the con-
rlusions which it was so much his object to avert, might, with certain necessary
restrictions as to the essential or primary qualities of matter, be fully admitted.

APPENDIX. 627

NOTE B.— (P. 97.)

Solidity, besides the sensation, and consequently the idea, of hardness, includes
the idea of rest. Fluidity again, implies the idea of motion. Solidity is matter at
rest : fluidity is matter in motion, or supposing motion.

NOTE C.— (P. 480.)

Dr. Chalmers has the following commentary on the words, " So God created
man in his own image." — " Let me make this use of the information that God
made man in His own image. Let it cure me of the scepticism which distrusts
man's instinctive beliefs or perceptions. Let me recollect that in knowledge or
understanding we are like unto God, and that in His light we see light. He
would not practise a mockery upon us by«giving us constitutional beliefs at vari
ance with the objective reality of things, and so as to distort all our views of Truth
and of the Universe. We were formed in His image intellectually as well as
morally ; nor would He give us the arbitrary structure that would lead us irresis
tibly to believe a lie. When men deny the objective reality of space or time, I
take refuge in the thought that my view of them must be the same in kind at
least, though not so perfect in degree, as that of God, or of Him who sees all
things as they are, and cannot possibly be the subject of any illusion."

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BF 111 -L93 1855

SMC

LYALL, WILLIAM,

1811-1890 .
INTELLECT, THE EMOTIONS,

AND THE MORAL NATURE /
BDC-2191 (MCAB)