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■^'^..

■---/^

'y^y

INTELLECT, THE EMOTIONS,

AND

THE lORAL NATUfiE.

INTELLECT,
THE EMOTlOJiS,

Atll}

THK MORAL NATURE.

EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO

LONUON, HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.
MDOCCr-V.

— ■ " » II . I. J ■■, « , .

n]«S

xr2 I

)

■DTlfBUaOH : T. C0U8TABUI, pb,5„r

TO HER HAJSaTT.

■

CONTENTS.

Introijuction,

fAGK

Mind and Matter, tlie two siib-
stances about which philoHophy
is conversant,
Importance of (h'stinction botweon

Matter and Mind,
Two classes of philosopliers, ac-
cording to the predominance
assigned in their systems to
Matter or Mint!,
Consciousness the only immediate

object of cognition, .
(."onsciousness the starting-point of
philosophy, ....
How the mind passes from a state
of simple consciousness to the
idea of self, ...
Descartes' Enthymerae,
The Gennan " Ego," . . '
The amount of De-scartes' Enthy-

meme. Fichte's formula, .
The idea of personal existence, the
first idea of the awakening mind,

II.

Origin of the Idea of Externality, .
Dr. Brown's account of this idea,' .
Remarks on Dr. Brown's account

of this idea,
Error of Dr. Brown in denying any

peculiar intuition in order to this

idea;
Special difficulty in regard to the

mode of communication between

Mind and Matter. .

.' \

14
14
15

16
16
16

19
21

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

III.

The Idea of Externality not that of

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

IV.

Muscular resistance as distinguish-
ed from tactual.

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

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

Other properties of matter,

Idoaofsul- mce. Substance and
quality distinguished.

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

This indicates the laws of our being,

The idea of Extension,

Wliat gives us this idea,

The ideas of magnitude and figure.

How the infant mind is concerned
in the attainment of its first or
primitive ideas, ...

28
29

30
31

35
35

39
39

40
41

OONTENTH.

Magnitude, Kgiire, distance, not ob-
jects of sight, ...

Illustnitions to show that these ,m-
acquired objouts of vision, or con-
nected with vision only by a pro-
cess of association, .

VI.

Primary Qualities of Matter,

Dr. Brown's view as to the primary

qualities,
The secondary qualities of matter,
Weight, or gravitation, a law ra-
ther than a property of matter.
Weight but the action of gravi-
tation,
The centripetal and centrifugal
forces the two grand and per-
vading agencies in the universe,
The secondary qualities of matter
but modifications of the primary,
according to Locke, .
Difference in the child's process of
attaining its ideas from this point
forward, . . . _ i

VII.
Idea of Space, ■ ■ . . I
Locke's account of this idea, i

Reid's account of this idea, . r

What space is according to the

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

Clarke, .... 5

Three particulars noticed by Cousin

in connexion with this idea, . 5:
Has space objectivity ? . . 5(

The idea of Time, 5c

Locke's account of the idea, . 55

Origin of the idea according to Dr

Brown, ..... 60
View of Cousin, . . , _ gj
Merit of Locke, according to Cou-
sin, in tracing the origin of this

idea, gg

Though the notion of time derived
from succession, not itself suc-
cession, . , . . . g4

Time absolute,
The idea of Eternity,

Idea of Power,
Origin of the idea,
Nature of the idea,
• Efficiency denied to power, .
' Barrow, Hobbes, Butler, and fier-
keley, quoted by Dugald Stewart
^ as denying eflBcioncy in power,
I The doctrine of Malebranche,
I Atheism of Hume in denying effi-
; ciency to power, . ' .
j Leslie's approbation of Hume's doc-
trine, ...
I Opposition of the General Assom-
j bly of the Church of Scotland to
j Leslie's appointment to the Chair
I of Mathematics in the Univer-
sity of Edinburgh, .
Brown's defence of Leslie, .
Hume and Brown's views respec-
tively, . , . _
Inadmissibility of these views,
The views of others, though de-
n.ving eflSciency to subordinate
cnfises, still consistent with effi-
ciency in the Great First Cause,
The language of Barrow, Hobbes,
Butler, and Berkeley, consistent
with the supposition of efficiency
ill power, although that efficiency
might not be detected,
The denial of efficiency in second-
ary causes, intended to lead to
the Great First Cause,
Language of Scripture in reference
to God as the supremo and uni-
versally controlling power or
cause, ....
Dr. Reid's view, (note.,)
Sir William Hamilton's remarks

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

number,

Metaphysics a " Prima Philosophia, "

TAUK
(J4

(!4

(;.'■>

07
(>8

68
»i9

70
70

7;i

76
76

■l

CONTENTS.

65
65

67
68

68
69

Whcwell it-KanlB tho Hiinple iileun

tt8 forniH of the understanilitiR, .
Dr. (JhiilmorB'N stricturo npoii

Whowcll,
UnroaikN upon iIk^ view which

niakiJH the simple ideas forms of

tho uiiderBtanding, .

VIII.

Peculiar character uf the prmary

or fundamental ideas,
I'rogrcHs olthe mind f.om this stago
diflbrent from r.il its previous

progress,

The pan wliicl- sensation, and the
part whici) mind, have, respec-
tively, ill our primitive or fun-
dament'ti ideas,
Sensatio'i, ,

Tho necessity of an intellectual
principle to account for the phe-
noaiena of mind,
Sonsalion still the first fact or law

of mind to Im observed,
I'ho question, When does sensation
cease, and a purely mental state
commence ? . . .
Important to mark this,
The tendency to forget mind amid

the claims of matter,
Materialism the result of too great
an eng.ossment in mere matter,
A materialistic tendency by no
means to bo treated as one not
possible, . , . _

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

spoken of as tho soul in Scripture, 94
Hoctrine of the ancient Epicureans, 94

IX.

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

t'escartes and Gassoudi fom.ders
of separate schools of pndosophy,

I ho Jrench metaphysicians for the

raost part followers of Gassendi,
iiocke claimed by this school

8!'
84

88
88

91
92

1)6
96

False grounds of this claim,
OaHHondi and Condillac quoted,
Injustice done to Locke ; his real

views, . .
Views of Malebranche,
The Enoyolopretb'sts,
Materialism consequent upon sen-

satioi alisra,
Results )f materialism,

PAfll

97
100
101

101
101

Intellection the antithesis of sensa-

, ,^'^°' 102

inteJJoctiou tho action of pure mind, 10.!)
The mind generally represented as

possessed of certain faculties, . 103
Tlie moro 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, ....
The moral and emotional part of

our nature a source of ideas,
The idiosyncrasies of mind, .
Clas'iflcation of the mental pheno-
mena.
Memory a property of mind,'a8 dis-
tinct from the spontaneous action
of mind, from the modifying laws
of mind, and from the principles

of mind,

Memory a property by which the

past is recalled,
Memory, according to Dr. Brown,
In what Dr. Brown's view is defec-
tive, • • . .
Memory necessary to every dis-
crimination of an idea, . .^.
This process of memory very rapid, 1 1 1
Memory gives identity to our dif-
ferent states of mind, or allows
us to recognise their identity, .
This law allows us to recognise the
sources of pain, and the causes of
ilaiiger, and secures the preserva-
tion of tho sentient being, .
Memory gathers tho larger cxperi-

106

106
106

106

107

108
109

109

111

112

viii

(ONTENTB.

onco neceasiiry for the purposoN
of intellectual uxistenue,
Proverbs owo their ori/iin to the
gfttliored experience which me-
mory treasures,
The scenes which memory por-
trays,

Peculiar characteristic of memory,
Memory will survive the grave,
New law of memory in the future

world,

The surveys of memory in the fu-
ture world

Imrt|,'ination blends with the opera-
tion of memory,
Memory furnishes many of its ma-
terials to imagination,
Different kinds of memory: the
question answered,— whether a
great memory and an enlarged
or philosophic judgment are com-
patible? .....
Memory assisted by attention, and
that by the interest taken in any
given subject, .

VAOK

113

114

114
116
115

116

119

XII.

By the phenomenon of memory the
consciousness of one moment
prolonged into the next, .

From this is obtained the feeling
of personal identity, .

Pei-sonal identity.

The precise question, .

The identity of the body.

The identity of the soul,

XIII.

Identity as a law of mind, .

122

123

123
123
123
127
130

134

Resemblance an H law of mind, . 135
Classification proceeds upon this
law i36

The law of contrast.

139

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

The boautiftjl 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
Difleronco Iwtween scientific and

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

166

168
169
172
191

206

The law of proportion, .
Considered under its diflbrent as-
pects,

The principles of the mind, .

Causality,

Qrneralization, ....

Deduction,

On the respective natures of induc-
tion and deduction, .

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. Prown's secondary laws of as-
sociation, 226

Remarks upon Dr. Urown's sixth se-
condary law, that "the iulluence
of the primary laws of suggestion
is greatly modified by original
constitutional differences," . 23(1

XVII.

Classifications of the intellectual
phenomena considered, . 238

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

Controver.sy as to the nature of
'(lefts, 248

CONTiSNTH.

fAoa
XVIII.

The ».i!ppo8ed faculties of mini! re-
solved into the phenomena of
mnsation and intellection as ex-
piftined in this work, . , 252

Conception, .
Abiitrat^tion, .
Judgment, .
Ileosoning, .
Imagination,

. 30S
. 861
. 266
. 869
. 370

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.

The emotional nature geherally con-

^ sidored, 279

The first essential condition of emo-

*'"». ••.... 291
Illustrated by thu views of the

Quietistr, 293

Cheerfulness, .... 294
How cheerfulness is consistent with

the existence of evil, . . 295

Cheerfulness distinguished from

B^'ety, , . . ,299

Christian serenity, . . 300

Cheerfulness distinguiahed from its

semblances 300

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

Melancholy, 3J3

Fretfulness, Moroseness, Peevish-
ness 323

^°y 328

Difference between joy and cheer-
fulness 328

The opposite emotion to joy, . 335
How each emotion has its counter-
part or opposite, . . . 33g

,^°™^ .338

i he 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, .
Delight, . . . . ,
Wonder,
Surprise and astonishment, .

Admiration

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

346
348
357

368
372

Wonder becomes worship when
God is its object, . . 394

Veneration, Adoration, . . 334

Pi'rposes bubserved by the different
aspects of wonder, . . 384

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

The emotions which terminate on
l^eing, 890

I^"^e,. 391

Love in its modified aspects, . 400

Friendship, 412

Patriotism, 413

The antagonism of the emotions

considered, . .414

The .intagonistic eniotiuiis 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, .... 423
Indignation and resentment distin-
guished 428

Relation of anger to indignation

and resentment, . . . 435
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 offcct of the reciprocal infiu-
encc of the emotions, . ,i,5«

CONTKNTS.

PAOE

Our eympatliies with the general
omotioiis depend upon constitu-
tional differences, . , . 450

Sympathy with the aspects of nar
t"re 4(51

Generosity, or kindness, and grati-
tude, 4g2

Desire, 4^4

Dr. Reid's enumeration of the de-
^••es, 464

PAGB

btewart's enumeration, . 4(54

Dr. Brown's enumeration, . . 404
Desire more properly considered as
one of the st_.es of our mental
constitution, and any object the
object of desire as it yields plea-
sure, or confers happiness or
S0< ..... 464
Transition from the emotional to
the moral part of our nature, •. 407

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 mcral nature ultimate, 479

The proprr .ucstion in regard to
the moral nature, or in a theoiy
of morals, .... 492

The confusion that has arisen from
the commingling of different ques-
tions, and treating them as
""e- •• ... 483

Right and wrong,

486

A relation appreciable by reason, 489
Yet no reason can be assigned for
rightness or wrongness : the re-
lation ultimate, , . . 49Q
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, . . . . 49Q

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, . . 599

The law of riglit as resjiects the
Decalogue, . , 593

The law of right in its different

applications, .... 594
Kant's view of the law of right or . .

, of'^uty 507

Error of Kant, . 599

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-

T,,*'""' • • • . .516

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

mental and emotional, . . 529
The relation of consci<)nco to the
other principles of our nature,
and to action, . . . _ 539
The desires as principles of action, 6.32
The relation of emotion to desire, . 533
The emotions divided into primary

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

"I'le,-. • ... .534
ihc desires secondary to the emo-
tions, . KQK

T,, ' , 000

I lie general sources of the desires, 536
Fear the nearest luitagonistic state
'" ''««'■'•'' 530

(-'ONTENTS.

Courage ; its aspects, pliysical and

moral, ....

Hope, a modification of desire,

Hope more peculiarly pertains lo a

world in which good and evil are

mixed, • . . ,

Dr. Brown's view of desirableness

as simply the relation between

the object and the desire, .

Indirett refutation of tlie selfish

system of morals.
Unnecessary to dwell upon the par-
ticular desires, .
Important to notice the aspect the
desires now present in connexion
with the character they must
have exhibited in an unfallen
•state, . . ^
The relation of the desires to law,
to conscience, and to moral ob'i-
gation,
The primal state, ...
The passions designated noble.
Emulation, . . . _
Distinction between the desire of
excellence and the desire of su-
periority, . . . _
Harmony between strictly ethical
views and the view of our nature
and of duty, or obligation, pre-
sented in Scripture, .
Does the love of our neighbour ex-
ist in our nature as fallen ?
The desire of esteem, wherein jus-

tifiable, ...
Distifiot from the desire of fame or

praise, • . . .
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 watchfiil-

,^ "«^« 559

llie very thoughts and intents of
the heart under tlic inspection
of conscience, ... 550

The desires thus cognizable by con-
science, 5_r,9

This leads to the consideration,—
What part the will has in thnss

rAGK

536
537

641

542
543

547

553
553
553
553

553

554

550

567

558

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

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

moral nature, .
Federal representation.
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,
Evil desire guilty. More directly
culpable, if entertained or accom-
panied by an act of will, .
The relation of will to an act to be

considered.
The nature of the will.
The connexion of the will with our
active principles, with action, and
with the right and wrong of an
action,
The state of the desires.
The desires, considered as regards
their objects, or the sources from
which they spring, either moral,
c-esthetic, or physical— the last
including the appetites, .
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, .
Bodily desires which are not ap-
petites, ....
The moral desires,

Benevolent and malevolent desires, 575
Virtuous and vicious desires, . 575

The restlietic desires, . . 575

The physical desires, . .577

The relation of the will to nctioni
and the question of the freedom

of (ho will, r,7Q

»i!o relation iH-lweon judgment,

PAOI!

559
560

560

560
560

561

561
561

564
566

572

573

573
573

MKHIMi

CONTENTS.

PAOB

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

these axidi win f , .581
Activity of the will, . . . 552
The phenomenon of the activity of
tlie tcill amid motive influence,
seen in other departments besides
that of tlie will— causal influence
and yet independent action, . 588
Relation of the will to morality, . 597
To morality in the emoticus, or
internal states, as well as in the
mictions 597

PAQI

606

Dr. Chalmers's view on this sub-
ject

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

INTKODUCTIOE

The precise nature and objects of Metaphysical Science have
been much misapprehended, and the science itself in conse-
quenee has suffered even in the estimation of those whose

IZ • '" T '""P''^"* ^ ^''^^'^^'- Metaphysics with
some IS another name for whatever is shadowy, inLlpable
obscure. It has been thought that nothing satisLtor^ can be
determined and no valuable results arrived at. Some have
regarded the metaphysics of one-^ge as chiefly useful in cor-

TZ r:'^''' '^^'^ °"^^* ^ ^' «t"di«d' -^cording

nhii rV .7 "^"^ ^""'^ ^S^'°«* *h« "^i^^^kes 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

Tit i:" f^'t''''^^ °*' '"' ^''"^"^«' *'^^* tl^^ ««i«"ce is
useful. It IS m 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 •_

« r^n""'-." '"Tf'"'' ^"^ ""'''"'''^ ^^ ^ philosophy," says he,
^ 18 an evil Man is sent hither not to question, but to work '

nS . ' ^""^''^ '*^*'' ^" *^°"ght were but the

picture and inspiring symbol of action ; philosophy, except as

perfect stote" this writer adds, " can it be avoided, can it be
dispensed with ? Man stands as in the centre of nlture ; his

^ , INTBODUCTION.

fraction of iime encircled by eternity, his haadbreadth of space
encircled by infinitude : how shall he forbear askin- himself-
what am I ; and whence ; and whither ? How, too, except' in
slight partial hints, in kind asseveiations and assurances, such
as a mother quiets her fretful inquisitive child with, shall he
get answer to auch inquiries?" Goethe, in .peaking of the
work,- Syst^me 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
dishke to all philosophy, and especially metaphysics, and re-
mained m 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 m 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 mentel analysis. Has mind no laws by
which It IS regulated ? Does it exhibit no settled facts which
may be made the subjecic of observation ? Have we no con-
sciousness by which the facts of mind may be marked and
recordea ? 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 a^ 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. Q

else to ite observation ? It is the thinking Being to which all
thought 18 amenable, to which thought owes its own being or
existence. Blast we think about everything but oureelves P
.v^e 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
wnter or speaker as he uttered these words. But in all gravitv
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 mmd 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 .:■ m these few
meas It 18 true that the sciences are independent of the
kno^edge of th s: but it is important to see the relation thai
our Ideas oear 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, m the obser^^ed laws and processes of nature. Car-
yle 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
ttn^ .T°? '! 'por^n^e-might well seem a contradic
tion. But the doubt is the doubt forced upon us by the neces-'
Bary limitation to our faculties-the ignorance is the ignorZ
necessitated by the liuiits set to our knowledge by the CreZ
In another state of being these limits ma^ be remov d or
greatly extended, and we may penetrate into the eTsence o
things, we may discern the nature of Being-BeingTnd not
n.erely phenomena may be unfolded: ontology-not mere

Sits tToTiT '? r^: ^^^^ '' ^' ^^«'--^' - "t"

mits to ou knowledge it is important to ascertain. The
universe, it is as important te 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-

IS It more important to know these laws and all thei^ possible
the'Sr;"; I 'T ''' '-""^^^°^^ "'^'^^ '--^« them, or
ledge of hose hmits first took the shape of scepticism- it
arose in that phantom form: philosophy was a shadow po'int-

deiv^T'"''^'/'''^*^^"^ ^^^ phenomenal: mattei was
denied . time and space were annihilated : power was but a
sequence; and in Germany, and M^ith many'ven in our own

Tnet? *^>V if ;"•*'' '^"^ "'^^'^ P^"-°Ph^' — es itls
a negation of all being save perhaps our own being, and that

of God. Or If among German philosophers anything redeems

allowed to the phenomenal, making it almost as good as the
actual, denying at one moment the actual, and r^sto W Tt the
nex, under terms which do not assert it^ existence bus^^

ibe nght state of mind, and that for which true philosophv is
valuable, is not scepticism as to the Actual but su Pendi
inquiry as to what the Actual is-diffidenc and mystery
surely the most appropriate states of mind for the creZ e-
everywhere in the vestibule of that divine temple wi;^

enshriL^nTe"^ ""'^' ^^^' ^°*^"^^^^-' where'trs I
that vP^l i I 'T" ''°'*""''^' '' «"'y ^thdrawn behind
th^t veil which envelops all his works. Hence we find Carlyle
himself writing :^« Much as we have said and moumed aboul

oriSt : T''^'^" of metaphysics, it was not witu
some insight into the use which lies in them. Metanhvsical
specu ation, if a necessary evil, is the forerunner of mucS

out'thn r^*"""""^' "^^^^ burn itself out, and b irn
out thereby the impurities that caused it ; then a^ain wiS

struggles painfully, m the outer, thin, and barren domain of

INTRODUCTION. r

the conscious or mechanical, may then withdraw into its inner
sanctuaries, its abysses of mystery and miracle, withdmw
deeper than ever mto that domain of the unconscious by
nature infinite and inexhaustible ; and creatively work th^re "
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 o- inquiry and creates
works unconsciously, and brings up though' from the de^
of Its own nature. « From that mystic region," says Carlyle
" and from that alone, all wondei., all poesies and rel^ons'
and social systems have proceeded: the like wonders, and
greater and higher, he slumbering there ; and brooded over by
the spirit of the waters, will evolve themselves, and rise like
exhalations from the deep." Will the mind eve arrive at that

aone? ^ 7''''^'*"'°^*^" self-existent and infinite mind
a one? Shall we ever cease to inquire into the phenomenal
or cease to wouder at the absolute ?* It is metaphysics at all
events that carries us to the absolute, and it is uXbtedly a
higher position for the mind to occupy than the inves%atL
of he phenomenal .imply. Carlyle withdraws his own depre"
ciaory estimate; and there could not be a higher praise of
metaphysics than what he has accorded to it. if is the 2nd
purpose of metaphysics to bring us to the absolute, aS to

Tth: s::: ':ti rr '' ^^-«*^^-^« *^e ph^nomenS

tor the sake of the absolute, or to determine the phenomenal
and see what is beyond, or look into the « abysses of Zterv

thatrsTe" -"^'^^^'^ '^'^^ Purposeof mVysiT nl^
that 18 the service which she performs. There is not a mZ

important and higher function'of the mind thirt of wo -

der, and we never wonder at the phenomenal merely it is

what ,s beyond, what is in, the phenomenon-its TtL the

• , It IS this that excites our wonder; and whenever we pass

* Wo opposo tlie Absolute to the
riienomenal, and wc leavo our readers
to determine the natiuc of each ■ that

they are to be distinguished seems hard-
ly to admit of a doubt.

" INTHODUCTION.

from the phenomenal, or suspend our minds in wonder at the
aw present m 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
trj 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 reverenn ., 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 18 beyond it, or in it. It not only leads us to the
unknown, to the actual, and suspends our minds in wonder
betore it, but it investigates what may be known : it interro-
gates mmd as to its phenomena, and takes the information
which mind yields to its own inquiries. Mind may be as much
tne 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 18 known to the mind itseh-intimates its existence, or
reveals its nature. Its very existence is the mind's intelligence
ot 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 acre 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 18 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-
reyealing, 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. m

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 ramd as worthy of observation as the external world'? Are
not ite phenomena as wonderful, and as legitimately a subject
ot 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 • ae subject of self-consciousness
It IS taken for granted that we know them ah-eady, 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
1 hen 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 18 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 mmds 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-
a though we could wield the thunder as we can direct its
electric element-although the sea were as obedient to us as
n child-although we could apply every law of nature to our
use ?-there is in a single moral though; what is intrinsically

INTKODUCTION.

more valuable than all nature together, with all its laws and
phenomena ; and the immense physical advantages resulting

If nnr ' Tr''^"^ \ ^"'"^^^^^ ''' ^'^'^y^ '^ the seiene!
tivaf^^d M " T"^ constitution is negleeted or uncul-
tivated Man may be too mechanical: he may pursue his
phyrucal objects too exclusively : he may have theV too exclu!
Bively before him ; and some attention to the being within
him-not withm him, but actually himself-might be of use

h.8 nature, and makmghim not the mere man of the world, or
of matter, but a epintual being capable of holding converse
wi h other spiritual bemgs, and moving through the world not

Ilv' r' r ,^ f "^''^ '^ '' ^^^ ^^^'•' but as having a
destiny above it, and that will not be limited by its duration.

are wLr rf^^ ^ r'"'' '' ^' ^"''^°' ^^^ ^'^ phenomena
rZ H ^^ "^T''^ '' ^*"^^^^- ^"^ ^"de^d they are

2 while this may not be very formally the case. We are all
more or less observers of the phenomena within us : we all take

St tutiZ" ^V •"' V'''^' P^^^^^ '"^ -^ --*'^^ fr-- or eon!

studtd L. V Tf'"'' ^'' '^' "^^"•i t^ ^' formally
studied in order to our being metaphysicians. We are meta-
physicians m spite of ourselves: we are philosophers wither
we know It or not. Shall we complete our accomUhme tst

with half-formed speculations ? Shall we be superficial in our
Knowledge, or shall we inquire deeper ? ShaU we observe mo e
c osely our mental phenomena ? Shall we make our own mind
he subject of study ? An enlightened curiosity would surely
lead us to do so. An enlightened wisdom tells us that

" The jyroper study of mankind is man;"

and man's epirittial nature m what truly, a» we have said con-

1ft r,f ,^ "'*'" '"'°^''^S0 of this ramiiios'iMf
ttrough all other kuowlodge, except such as is strictly physical
Were perpetually applying l„, of „„, ^y■,,„^^ J„P J "^'^

nmtetu 7 T'"',""""' '" "■''J'"'» -Jl-stitnsthat
nuy he „ut of very suhord, nate moment. Their appliealiou in

INTBODUeriON.

htorataro « constant and direct. Doca not history draw unon
the knowledge of them in its delineations of eh«acto IdT.^
...tement of the principles of action and modesSlV Bit
graphy cannot do without this knowledge T„ .!,„ . -.^
ossential-who would sway the n,il1f oti ^ ^"0^!"
counsels, or influence their pe™,sio„s. The "*"•„'„ te
statesman, by its view,, must know better the laws that will
be sa ntary and expedient, and the motives thatlyt ei
pccted to prevail in the government of men. The ZmoZ

bno to the vanous characters and capacities under his care
Poetry takes n.uch from this science. Many of its finest ^u'
aons proceed upon the subtlest perception or analj^s tf tw
mental states, and owe all their power over us to thi Critt
cam .s the application of the mind's law, to the writin- of

anil ^r' "="■ ^''^y °°» !» " ori"-^ "ho canTd
an author with appreciation. Do we not refer thi, or tral

ofTu/n t™ Tu '^ "^ ""-^P^Jence with this or th t tw

constitution ? It m the principles of our nature that we briuB
That Shakespeare wa, a metaphysician who can doubt » He

1 -T; • *"' ""^ '"'°'' 'he law, of mind, that he waJ
acquainted with the phenomena of our spiritual frameworks
obvious fr„„ hi, marvellous production,!^ We know not how
much of our ,pmtual being we are acquainted with ti 1 wl

Zld thTre'be -'"r """'r " ''"'="'"^^- '^'■' ""at""
would there be m knowing this ? The great bu..bear of

Calyle he evU which he deprecates-the clseioiis ta^H,
ncident to our imperfect knowledge. With a mnr, .,17 !
know ledge there would be the kno°wlcd J*o:r m ntaT™

to Sluink There is surely no harm in inquiry iteelf and if
we cannot arrive „t our knowledge in any otli wly 'in" lirv
.3 necessary. But the grand fault ,,.„ bin, thutlqiAy hZ

INTRODUCTION.

beon too much conjuctod i„e„ mind m a suLject, and not as it

» Wy. Our inquirie. have Wen too abstract mM h™

been v,e«d too mueh opart from the being noeseie<Tof it »

mther, a, not the being him«,lf. But mi,!d i, Teing 'ij

STJe,""' Th' '■" f " "'!"■ "■* » •'""^ » ""i '-^ ">«!
rama resides. The most essential part of our nature i» „n

body, united to a material organization. The knowledge of
mind IS Imng knowledge. It is the knowledge ofhvW^^^^^
not of an abstraction. It is in the concrete that minTouS

r r: lid" 't: " -i ^'.'^r ''''^-^ "^^-^ '^'^^''^^^^

Zli \T\- """"^ ""^''^ "-^""^^'^ "« ^ith the spiritual
world, and allies us to spiritual existences of a still hiVher
nature than our own. It is true we speak of m'nd fn the
abstract, and n studying our own minds we a^ ISy nl
mind ,, 1 believe in many of its propertieUa„g'2

mmd, nay the Divine Mind itself. But does that rendfr it
the less bang? On the contrary, does it not shew its suner

oTstr^'Tor^^ 'r? ^^'^^^^ it the t::!!^^

Z-f^f • . 3 ^^'' '^ ^'''''' ^ ^^^^'•^^ ite phenomena to
mark Its intuitions, to follow its processes, and to attend to i^

h^ghe emofonal and momi nature, is surely worthy of anv

Knowjeage idle— to repudiate it, or to r ndervalue it as nnt

h T\i °T'';''«''-" ^''^ '"" ^^'■•™^» in phi osophizTnZ
the highly Ideal and the low sensation«l-a„,«,jrat fault

action, or of bang acted upon, instead of viewing it as BeL

of a°fl:iH ^** " ■' "«"■'''•' '■''^'' tatlill «

Mf W ^' ,' !*™°*' ™*"'=<'' '««' ™ ""'io" within
ite If. Were mind viewed in the way we have indi.,t«l Z

id eZd'/trr'ft °°^ '^ "*"" '"' ™'"' "■"• --'^-5

Tt o,^„ij iu , , ■'^ t^naracter that it does possess with manv
It would then bo the study of the laws of ^iritnal hehu, and
that spiritual being in the eireumstances in which the mSd of

INTRODUCTION. j t

man iH found-linked to a nmterial organization, and oxpatiat-
And tl.en tho mental or iutelJectual strictly would not be

rnr:::^/TH''^ ^t-^*^^*^ ^^ oumaturiLthei::;!.'

and moral They are all parts of the same spiritual subst^tnce
How.hould tue knowledge of this not be living knowledge ?
The knowledge of external nature, indeed, is more livelyTfor
whatever aj. peals to the senses affects us in a more lively man
ner than what belongs to n.ind; and in the action 'ofTe
there is that without ourselves, which, awakening our interest
retems ,t with a vividness which the processes 'of mindrn:
not lay claim to. It is a law of our nature, too, that by
society we multiply ourselves, or diffuse our beiig; 'we stamp
our nature upon others and upon the univei^e; we give ou
ourselves; and the knowledge pertaining to exiernal'nlre
to experience, and to action, therefore, may be distinguished ^
hvmg knowledge; and experien^. and action may seem pr"
ferable to speculation or philosoph v ; but this does not by anv
means justify the contrast which Goethe has drawn between
philosophy, especially metaphysics, and the living knowledge
experience, and action, to which he gave himself iS recoil from'
the former. The knowledge of mind a. a concrete, in all ite
phenomena or workings, must ever be living knowledge-most
properly deserves the name,-while it is tht materialiorThat
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 thosTvery
paenomeca, the knowledge of which is despised, which make
up experience and action. Did we not throw o^r m ndHuI

scene be ?-what would experience and action be ?
Man was created for action, but knowledge is not opposed

have some effect m enabling us to act aright. Reliction is
the grand succedaneum here-the siiccedaneiim, now thrthe
power of acting rightly has been lost; and doe not Ret o^^
m a pecuhHr way call us to the knowledge of ourselves ?Des

INTUODUOTION.

it not call us to exercises in which all mir ar^i^Ai i u
are involved, and in re^^a to ^Lt^?: I" Sp^^rS
th«e phenomena should be known-that we ^^CIX
J«em between a merely mental e.erc« and an emolLnS
and spmtual or moral, to see where these meet, and X are
the,r distmgmslung characlerirtics ? The great subi^ ^f
s^es 7.7"""^. 7-*d ""h right i«:;o„ ^'o^'
TJT'JJ """t- J"<'8°'™'». the emotions, and the Will
And what ,s our higher spiritual being eonccrne<< with b„
the emotrons ? And the mutual aetion^f all the nartof o^
sp.r:tual framework is necessary to be t»ken into CuntT

THE PHILOSOPHY OF INTELLECT.

MiKD and Matter are the two BuistanceB about which all
phitaophy ,s ooaver™t. These two substance, may be ,^d
to dmde the un.verse. But what do we mean by a ™fe w
It m a very la,ge assertion, that these two substances div de the
unrnrse. What is meant by a substance? A suhstlnce as
the notion js suggested to us, according to a process which 41^

n wh,ch qual,to8 mhere, or which exhibits those phenomena
and laws wh.ch it is the business of philosophy I Z7kZ

s that wh,eh «,te* under certain gmlities, t?Je «mlme^
bemg the only proper object of observation. But it islmZ
«ble to make the term more intelligible than it is to evZ
m.nd ; and we can, with all safety, even .t this stage, supZ

m,ul are the two substances which divide the universe All
hat exists, all that we observe, is either matter or Jnd b
longs « a quality to the one or the other. But whTt h' tt
d^ mcfon, again, between these two substances ? wt et
statutes or marks the boundary betwixt them? But it i „„

no™ -rts Vh ""'TZ "■"• ^""^^ l'"™ - — -
knowS' i^^^,""^ W»")"lM-ct in kind. How do we
Know this ? How do we anive at this distinction ?

a dwL't " T^**' importance just to mark that there is such
8 distraction. In „,„ philosophical inquiries we set out wft

INTELLECT,

mmmm

thYdeaWio philo»phor account Lt^^r .r^^T^lt

ence of matter altogether anrl lini,i fU + -i. • "'^

real ty „r at least, that all we can know assuredly to S h

r:r^x^irtT:::Lr.=H:f£^^

assigned to matter or mind tha ,.r«] • • ^ ^^' ®

^rv..-; -11 1 , *"® predominance in their Rvs^pm

which we ascribp f a «,; a • • ^^ *"® phenomena

tains to It, and to mmd all that appertains to it ^^

it cannot be denied that consciousness, or the subieof nfn

I know that anything else exists fl,of fi '^. '*™' -"^^ do
mvRPlf ? T I. ^ . ' *"^* *"®''^ ^s anyth ng without

my elf ? I have sensations, impressions, ideas : how doTknol

thattheseareanythingmorethansensati;ns,impre:sTon;id^^^^

INTELLECT.

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, mmA— mental states, self-cognizant,
miimating 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-
mg with which life commenced, to the last with which it closes
could be made visible to any other thinking being, a certain
series of feelmgs alone, that is, a certain number of successive
states of the mmd, 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
. I' 1 , "' ^^^^r\g consciousness a separate faculty of the
mind, although even Dr. Reid says of it, « It is an operation
ot 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 oe analyzed or divided

INTELLECT,

But why Is consciousness so simole Imf i
state of the mind itself at fJT ' ' ''^"'' '*^«J"«t th«

feeling or thought beT g 1 entTTf ^' ^"^ ««'^«^^*'- «^-
be thus the prim% soulTaTl kl /^ ^"* ^^«-"-ess
which that vvhich we cal mnJ ^'^"^^^^S^-^he first state in
be this simple state of th nL ^r a'"'^' '"' '' conscio..ness
or, feeling itself present to the' mLTT "T *"" " ^'^^^^^'^
existence, how do we come to pass ^ ^^^°*'^^«°g its own
ness to anything withou^u seTes na^ to' ^^ate of conscious-
of which consciousness is a stte ? K Tf ^'^'^^ ^« *^^*
exist ? or how do I know th.ff "" ^' ^ ^°°^ '^at I

sciousness is my first stal how dV^^ ft' '^^^ ^'°"-
personal existence ? It is obvil= / ,*° '^^^^^ *^^ ^^^^ of
awakening, or being lessa, ^ """''-^l ^^ consciousness
personal existence PerhanTn J "''°"^P^^'«^ ^y, the idea of
sciousness than the idea of n '''"^ '"^ ^ ^^ ^ ^*^*« ^^^ eon-
I^et it be remarked it not T'f T^*'"^^ ^' ^-^^^^ned.
awakened, but the idel of existencf S/' ""' ^^ ^'^* ^^^^ ^
my existence as a person That r '"^.'''^ ''^^*^"^^' ^"^
be, enters the soul a SIup!. ""' ^^"*'''^^ *^^* ^ ^ay

from, or is immedi^tdy ctn ea ^n^'^'T *° '^ ^"^^P^^^^'
consciousness. This if f h? ^ . T""' ^^'^ ^''^ Pawning of
which is yet to b! id ti h Sh t 'fl ''' ^"*° '''' ^'^^^'^^
and all intelli-rence tC i^ ^ V "'^ ^' *^ ^^^^'^^ •'^» %ht
ingly, is the fir^ ttruthlL f' f ^'T' ^ ^"'«*^"««> accofd-
which he lays down itl tl f f "° ^''^' '''' «-* *™th
mind itself,' C^,,,?,; ^J^ ^^^T^^ ^ '--ement of the
famous enthymeme his bZ .1 !' ''"^"^^'' *'^^* ^^er this
assault, as iavolvfug "w n.;'^"^ ^' ^^'^^^^ ^-ersal
i"g what is styled in LoSe!;^-"''^'""^'^^
the very position to whiSil I \^-''" ^""''P"'" ^* ^« ^et
«tarting.point in her most ^Ts^^eZ T""^" " ''' '''^'
;f the «e^o" or the "me" !f tfe P? '^'"'■^- ^^^ ^^^^
"eogito, ergo sum" of ZesoaLf ThTr '"'•'""' ''^^ ^^^
says, « the me asserts itself "TJ • . ^f™^" philosopher
--tence." It is, in otW Ldf " ./;: '^ " I am conscious of
ou^-declares iteelf " It fXt /'.^''''J^^ existence speaks

" '« .)"st the Idea of personal existence

INTELLECT.

in the innermost recesses of the soul, and ut its earliest dawn
of consciousness. The idea of existence, of course, is a simpler
idea than that oi personal existence, but we do not seem to
obtain the one without the other. The idea of existence comes
with that of personal existence. Wt say that this latter idea
necessarily accompanies .he first act of consciousness, or at
least a very early stage of consciousness. It is that with which
I>escartes 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 / 18 already supposed in the "I think:" in other
words, the yam;' 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
objoctions 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
mdependent of all argument. « Je peuse, done j'existe," are
his own words, as given by Cousin, « est en vdrite particuliere
qm sintroduit dans I'esprit sans le secours d'une autre plus
generale, et indepen<kimment de toute deduction looique Ce
nest pas un prdjuge, mais une vdrite naturelle, qui frappe
d abord et irresistiblement Hntelligence "* ^^

Descartes' " Enthymeme" is just the formula of Fichte • " The
-e asserts itself" From that formula Fichte, one of the

into the mind wi o t .et,'"'' '"^"''">' ' """"""' "■'"''' '"^''"^

.no. gone... .J^X'Z^l:^ Si^l^""''^^^'"""'"^ "* "^ "-'^

INTELLECT.

subtlest of German luinds, constructs his whole system of
philosophy. His formula is nothing more or less than " I am
conscioua of existence," or, " I am conscious;" and the idea of
existence necessarily accompanies this state of simple conscious-
ness. The " me," in thn 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
imawakened powers. We cannot trace historically the })rogress
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
^or a time be occupied with this idea :— it would not bo imme-
diately let go, and every subsecjuent feeling or impression
would be referred to this persoJialifi/— 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.

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,
feelmgs 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 sowe-
thing distinct from self, something that was not seZ/- and
hence the idea of externality. The «nternal 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 veiy early stage of Being is un-
doubted. At least, of the idea of an external world, not all
the eflForts 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, althongli by a diflFerent 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
thoug^x 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 wliat 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 feeUng and
Its testimony to self, or to a being in which that consciou'sness
resides, is no more direct than its testimony to what is not

"— <*tw«i«ff«r»b«,

INTKLLECT.

self: the feehng in eithe:- case ia 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
miPd 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 ptage of our inquiry.

The idea of something external to self, then, has been
awakened. The exact process of this we have not stated.
Ihat 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 .e^/ would testify of what was not self.
IhQ positive supposes the negative. If there v.ere feelin-s or
impressions which awakened the idea of self, every other would
ot 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
selt, something external, arose. Extemaliiy 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 xoorld 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, everythino-
that did not crystallize with it, or belong to it, would fall off

We do not, of course, maintain that the infant mind would
ake notice of all this-would mark the process going on within
It. Wo; 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 metaphysinian

INTELLECT.

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
ascertam 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
18 as yet almost one with its own-yet in the thousand objects
\/hich solicit Its notice, and perhaps call forth its infant pas-
sions. So early is the idea of an external world-^Aa^ idea
disputed hy phUosophers-aihxmQd. 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 bo 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
mtelligence 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 I 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 H known object, which is either a mere
ins met, or very near akin to one : This motion is accompanied
witii a certain feeling,-ho repeats the volition which moves

INTKLLE(JT.

his arm fifty or one thousand times, and the same progress of
feehng takes place during the muscular action. In this ~.
peated progro^ he feels the truth of that intuitive proposition
which, m the whole course of the life that awaits him, is to bo
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
It he persevere in his voluntary effort, increases gradually to
severe pam, 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
l)ectation 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
resuxt 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, herefore, something unknown, which has its cause in
something that is not hi.-nself.

" I am aware that the application, to an inflmt, of a process

reasomng expressed in terms of such grave and formal

1 lulosophic nomenclature, has some chance of appearing ridi-
^ilous. 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
1.J 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 doc5 not form the proposition as universal and applicable

INTELLECT.

to cases that have not yet existed; but he feels it iu every
particular case as it occuiu That he does tru?y 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 maturer 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
now 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. Tiiere
is something which is not ourself, something whidi 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 manner I have

INTELLECT.

supposed, or (hfferenlly, there can be no doubt that it has
ansen long before the period to whieh our memory rea hes
and the belief of an external world, therefore, whethTr fmii
directly on an intuitive principle of belief, or/as I rather 1 nk
on associations as powerful as intuition in the period w i h
alone we know, may be said to be an essential part of our
mental constitulion at least as far back as that constitution
cnn be raade the subject of philosophic inquiry. Whatever it
raa> have been originally, it is nov.- as impossible for us to dis-
be .eve the reality of some external cause'of our seltion; a^
IS impossible for us to disbelieve the existence of the sensa-
K)ns_themse ves. On this subject scepticism may be ingen ous

nflt'io':! of ''""f- ""' '-'""^ ^"^' '-'''' '^ '^'^ ««- te"
internal belief of the sceptic, which is the same before as after

rather as I have before remarked, tacitly assumed and affiled
m tha very combat of argument which professes to deny T"

the tdet'T'T ^"? ^'- ^"""'^ ^*-"*"^«'^' he accounts for
the Idea of an external world by, or traces it to, the feeling of
resistence which the child experiences in stre'tch L o it'i «

~t ""'^^^^ T^ ^'^"^ ^''''' ^^^ -* hithe^o int^ !
uipted the accustomed series of feelings accompanying such an
act. The muscular feelmg of resistance, then, i the precise
occasion of the idea we are now speaking of, a cording 'toD
Brown. And it will be observed he ascribes it to no fntuitivo
f ehng, but JUS to the interruption of an accustomed trat of

nWmi T "7 °''"""^^' '''''''' '"*^-^P*-" arresting the

a ^he cause' "d "'f "^ '' '' ""^*'^^'^^ ''''' '^ -^ ^-'-If
as the cause. Dr. Brown's explanation of the process_of the

exact occasion of the idea-may be the true one ; bt when he

says here is no Mtion here-that it is not b^ any p culia

2"^... that we believe in m sometJun, .mIuX^^X

nil to have passed through the process as traced by br Brown

- .-ould ^k how could the belief be arrived at, Jep A, X

ilow could the mmd pass from the one state to the other ^o^th

INTELLECT.

such ccriainfy-mth a confidence that not all the arguments
of philosophy, or rather of i)hilo8ophic 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 stale
of conscicsness ; and the question arises, how is this new state
re/eired to somdMmj without as its cause? When we have
spoken of this new state as not referable to self, we meant in
ttsonytn, or cause~\\ is still a state of the one seh^conscious
Being: hoto does the self-conscious Being ref^r that state, no
longer to any internal, hut 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
It 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 sornething without or external. It is enough to
say that the mind ,s so constituted as to pass from the one to
the other; but what is this bat admitting an intuitive law?

I'^rr T "^""^ P^''°"^^ existence, it is a truth which
trikes the „und at once and irresistibly : so it may be said of

tntv d'V" '^'^rV''^^^ '' ^"^^^y the idea of exter-
nahty. Dr. Brown, therefore, seems to us, in his love of sim-

INTELLECT.

phcity, or desire to introduce no separate or independent law of
the mmd, 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 tahing notice of the inte^uption
oj om of tts accustomed sequences. Even when this way of
explaining the process is allowed, as furnishing the occasion on
which the belief of an external v orld, or the idea of exter-
nahty, arises, there still remains the most important part of
the process to be accounted for, viz, that hy xohich we pass
from an internal feeling to an external object as its came
Ihi . 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 tlie 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 behef in question. It is marvellous that this is not regarded
as satisfectory m all such nice questions, wheie the difficulty of
solution is felt and acknowledged, and that philosophers must
go farther, and trace the very laio U If in its very worUnq
ihe most umnstructed peasant," says Dr. Reid, "has as dis-
tinct a conception, and as firm a belief, of tlie immediate object
of his senses, as the greatest philosopher; and with that belief
he rests satisfied, giving himeelf no concern how he came by
this conception and belief. But the philosopher is impatient
to know how his conception of external ol-jects, and his belief
of their existence, is prod.iced. This I am afraid," continues
f>r. Keid, 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

ident law of
simple laws,
his process,
nterruption
this way of
occasion on
&• of exter-
ant part of
3/i we pass
> its cause.
ound of an
eve in our
ce, accord-
1 that con-
•f personal
I mind — a
iiped upon
)H8titution
elations to
r the idea
t regarded
ifficulty of
hers must

toovMng.
iis as dis-
ate object
hat belief

came by
inpatient
his belief
continues
ere there
3, and of

external
rccption

INTELLECT.

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. Eeid's writings, and it would be
supei-flnous to repeat them here. More or less respecting them,
whetlier 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
n{)on the necessity of accormting 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
refini.ig 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 witli 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 r^riides, it is supposed, in the sensorium or brain.
The question was, how could the mind perceive objects thus
removed at a greater or less dist/iuce ? On the principle that
nothing can act where it is not present—" sentirc nihil queat
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-
oxi)licable, 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

INTELLECT.

mmd with matter by a law, or after a mode, of which we can
give no account There is no need to suppose sensible spec es
as refined sensations, capable, while sensations themselves are
not, of passmg to the mind through the nerves-an ingenious
euough theory but wholly conjectural-nay, accounting '0^0!
tbmg; 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 mmd; but that is by a manner wholly inexplicabe
Ihe nund 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 theones that have been entertained on this very
subject-, ban 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 attemptmg 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
tar as could be dc.ne, the occasion of the idea and belief' or
crcumstances in which they arose, we wotdd have had a wiser
and be ter philosophy much earlier, and many difficult theories
would have been spared both the pains f the inventor, and
the labour of those who were called to unravel them, while the
absmd attempt of the highest, intellects to accomplish not only
what w^is beyond their faculties, but what their facdties had
no call to accomplish, where they were expen.ling 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 Desciirtes, and Locke, and Hartley, and the French Ar-

INTELLECT.

nauld, and even the greatest oi inductive philosophers, Newton
would not have heen 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, contemi.oraneously, but without, apparently, any con-
cert, Father Buffier— to set the question on its proper founda-
tion. " The comcidence between his train of thinking (the
French philosopher'^) 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 tlie plan of their works was in some measure
suggested by Ms; but it is infinitely more probable, that the
argument which nms 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 smiply of self-consciousness— the new feeling being some-
thmg altogether different from any which had either hitherto
been referred to self, or could be referred to self as its ori-in •
It IS therefore attributed to something else. Whether it" be
according to Dr. Brown, a feeling of resistance to muscular
acfton-or it bo some feeling among the many which the

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 i)rocess that the mind pabses
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 whicli it belongs. The law or consti-
tution of our minds leads to the reference or conolut-ion in
both cases.

Externality, however, as wc 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 tjikes 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 whicli are offered to its pnlate, or offended by the
nauseous potion which affection administers for its benefit.
He -3 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 ma^^er 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

jlous Being,
its cause, —
s infallible,
aw, the new
eling of the
thout as its
Tiind pabses
ction of an
ness to an
lid awaken
law of the
ve conclude
' an object
.in charac-
' or consti-
icluv^ion in

m external
n obtained,
externality,
nses of the
^Q tjikes in
liich salute
he texture,
regaled by
led by the
ts benefit,
lations, all
philosophic
)erate but
lell, might
le faintest
' the inner
e whether
3ordit)g to
3h excites
impossible

INTELLECT,

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 m 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 feeUng 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 7natter 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 tliat of hearing, we can have no difficulty : it is
obvious that from none of these— nor from all of them cora-
bmed-coiild we obtain the idea of matter. With respect to
the sense of seeing, for example, it can be demonstrated, a.id
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 aflfcct, the
eye from witliout, the varied quarties or objects of which it
seems now to be the organ of peicei.tion. 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~y<hich
seem to be objects of sight-^o he seen-\t has been concluMvely
shewn, are acquired by the sense of touch, and are now, apart
from the operation of that sense, mere inferences of the mind
m connexion with certain states of the visual organ The
theory is ihk -.-magnitude, figure, 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, rememboi-pd so

INTBLLECT.

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 thai
the eye sees is light in its different prismatic colours. It may
be obvious with a little rcliection, 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, stiiking upon the eye, would it ever awaken the
idea of a material substance ? Could the sounds that 5oat
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 :—

"Thy functions are ethoroiil,"

says the poet :-

" As if within thee dwelt a qlancii)q mind,
Orr/an of vision ! And a spirit aeriid
Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind ;
Intricate labyrinth, more ilread for 'thought
To enter than oracular cnve ;
Strict passage through which sighs arc brought,
And whispers for the heart their slave ;

INTELLECT. oo

And shrieks, that revel in abuse

Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air,

WhoHO piercing Hweetness can nnlooso

The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile

Into the ambush of despair ;

Hosannahs pealing down the long Tawn aisle,

And requiems answered by the pulse that beats

Devoutly, in life's last retreats !"

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

The fragrance that steals .^rom the garden, or is wafted on every
breeze that sweeps the bean-field, or shakes the hedgerow, seems
as ethereal. It ,s not to either of them that we owe our idea
o. matter ; it is to a sense more gross, more material, if we may

W J-f ^ ^ • f 'T^- ^' '' *° '^' «^^«^^i«»« of hardnJs,
sohdUy, we think, that we are to trace this idea. How the

mmd comes ultimately to have any of its ideas is a mystery

v^ch we do not pretend to penetrate,-an ultimate foct 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 oui'

Ideas although not the precise modus 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-

sa ions of touch-such as hardness, solidity, or what Dr. Br wn

ca Is the muscular feeling of resistance. The idea of matter

then rises m the mind, and this must be accompanied by tie

cognate, or co-relative idea of mind. It seems impossible th I

probably, that the idea of each, and the distinction between
both, takes place or is perceived. It is then that the firmament
^reared whi.h for ever divides the two-mind from maUer

i he ego, oi self, is merely the ego; it is nothing more till the
two ide.as, mind and matter, are discriminated, ^hen' indeed

INTELLECT.

iMI

■

mind is seen to be the ego, or self; or self is seen to be mmd,
immatenal, spiritual; and the not self, or that whicli 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
tdeali.st. 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 ok 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

IKTELLECT.

wc u d be .mphed lu the idea. We oppose tactual to uiuscular
resistance the latter being niore violent, the former beangth
me e resistance winch matter, in a more or less solid st^te offers
to the touch. Dr. Brown was the first, we believe, wh^ took
notice of muscular resistance as a distinct kind of sensation
different from mere tactual sensation. But there is a certaTn
amount o resistance in every tactual sensation, even whenit "
a fluid body tha is met or encountered. In physical philosophy
there is such a doctrine as the impenetraUlity of matter [hat
•s, matter may be displaced but cannot h^ penetrated. Matter is
composed of infinitely small particles-we can set no limi by
our understandmg at least, to the divisibility of matter to the
rninuteness of the particles of which it is composed, kch of
these, then, may be displaced, but cannot be penetrated When
we pierce a solid body, we only set aside, or remove from the'^
former place, its constituent particles, but each severd mrS
IS unpenetrated, and remains in all its integrity. Even in flu d
bodies then there is resistance. Matter, then as fir^ app;;f
handed by the m nd, would be something that offered a S
ance, however faint, to the touch. By and hv b.rl 1

Bevml ,,.eas would be aequired by the mind. Matter "odd
be somethiEg that was hard or soft, solid .- fluid Hardness
and softness, solidity and fluidity, w^uld be„-/„f IT
en And here the .dea ofmclstance wmdd arise. It would t

obtained the idea, or an intimation however faint inhered
The m,nd obtains the idea of them as pities; but aS
imply a «,Wmfa«. The substratum would be the utatent

med In like manner, the qualities of mind would be
referred to some substance or bein<. in whirbtL ° i j
some spiritual substance or essenr^o/lTet h™ X'
the qmltttes. In this case the idea of th" Beina- luhTl
not apprehe.*d a, n,ind-tor it is no so app^S:]'' 1 ^'i
.s distinguished from ««/^r-the idea of'^ht Betag!!'th,'

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 qualify would be obtained,
discriminated; and the mind and its qualities would be
Been to be distinct— the mind tho 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, 'how 3ver, as well as useful, to trice,
as far as possible, the development of mind— of that inner-
thinking Being, wliich, 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
thinVing principle— shall we no' 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 tincertainty may be granted or allowed, but scepticism
must be condenmed,— 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 murk their entire and essential difference, and
yet, in our present state, their mutual dependence, is what is

INTKLLKCT.

r, matter at

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 nieta-
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 examiued well the separate limits of n)ind
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 laios 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 shell-fish— ox that which
would take away all certainty from our beliefs, and allow
nothmg 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 no. conscious
of these laws ? Are ive conscious only of conscioicsness '^ If
consciousness, ai 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 .? Tiiere are two separate
states of consciousness, pointing to two separate sources or
quarters from which these states are derived, pointing to matter
and mmd. The one state of consciousness informs us of
matter, the other informs us of mind. Are both rot to be
believed ? It is in vain that the materialist or idealist en-
deavours to escape, according to his own fovourite tendency
irom 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 theorv. We qnp«tion if

•«M««

■MM

INTELLECT.

fjl

the author of the "Vestiges of Creation" is a beh'ever 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 philosoi)hy, 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 tfimely 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'
Bu* 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
<loes not./b.-m to itself m\nd or matter, but becomes informed

INTELLECT.

eliever in his

of mind and matter, und the qualities and phenomena of both.
As we have endeavoured to trace the progress of its ideas it ii
first informed o/its own existence— then of an external exist-
ence-then of the material qualities of that external existence
-m connexion, again, with this, its own immateriaUty or
spintuahty, its existence as mind, and of substance, as that in
winch 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 infoimed
ot 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 spl -' ■ .1
substances : we exist along with a material frame, ana k a
material world, and God has connected the dev^-lopment 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
certamly than of the other-although mind is itself, and matter
IS what IS external. There must be a more intimate feeling
mdeed, 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 itse., 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 m the ascertainment of the laws and the qualities, whether
of mind or matter-its own subjective self, and objective

i .•!

INTfiLLECT.

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 liardness and
softness, solidity and fluidity— the primary ideas, no doubt, of
matter. Consequent, perliaps, upon these -the first intimations
of qualities— or, contemporaneously, in the very ideas— vm
obtained the idea of substance, as that in which the qualities
resided or inhered. This woidd, 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, n^on' the first Inoidedge of qualities, or
stiggestion 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 feehng
of resistance. This substance tvithout v Id now be perceived,
or learned, to be extended. It wouL be ascertained to be
an extended substance. The idea of magnitude would follow—
dimension— that v\hich was contained within tlie 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 oi figure, again, would be awakened
and while the abstract idea oi figure would be obtained, matter
would be discerned to be something /g-wrec/, as well as possess-
ing dimension, magnitude, extension, hardness, softness. The
Idea of wa«er would now be pretty complete-those qualities
which are essential to it being now ascertained. Extension
figure, magnitude, hardness, softness, would note enter into
the conception of matter. We know not how quick the mind

INTELLECT.

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 mac^ic
measuring wand— these are not mere random processes or for
pleasure only: they are all parts of the process by which the
c nld 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 continuona
in no one direction, and every part of which is equidistant from
a common point. Now, although the mathematical definition
ot 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-

the scafto dmg by which it is reached. A long is soon dis in-
gu.shed from a short body, a high from a low, a narrow

lid nor . ui 7 '''^'*^ '^ ^^^'P^ ^^^ figure is discerned
and noticed, although it could not be mathematically described

other. Tins 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-
ne 8 and roughness will be contemporaneous probably with
•extension ; for as the latter is got by continued resistant

■t*«ilpwM«p<«ni»>'«->

INTELLKCT.

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 tliey would
were the circumstances of the two senses reversed, or by havino-
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 wc
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 wo 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 f^ohd, and another as fluid ? In like manner with liardncss

I irregularity
arity or irre-
hness of the
icquired im-
fan of vision
and so con-
n to be the
ig. Magni-
T described,
It is a pro-
lich the eye
re of bodies,
redible, but
f tlie visual
lal, and, by
example in
ciated, that
other, or to
do not the
;liey would,
f by having
le suddenly
I his blind-
his eye, as
icription of
3uch as wc
i'^ery move-
nt doubt,
pon sight,
le mind in
ih is often
e, will be
the latter
at solidity
not direct
an object
I hardness

INTELLECT.

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 tliought 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, wo might conclude
to proceed from the fall of some trifling body ; but if we sun-
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
s seen through water ! The oar of the bargeman appears' to
be bioken 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
rnuch nearer than m other states, and vice versd.f 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 encLpmen of 2
enemy not far off is an inference from marks that would escape
any o^ier eye. Time itself is measured by the trail 0?!
flying foe. It can be accurately told on what precise day they

* Tlio rajH of light, which are the
only pro])er vhjvrt of vision, are rcfnictea
to the eye, so tliat the inference of the
mind is ns in tlio case of really crooked
objects. The eye convoys the same intel-
ligence to the mind, or experiences the
saints sensations, as when an actually bent
orcnwkcd objed ispresentodtothesight.

t The mind judges from the dim-
ness of objects in a fog tliat they are
far off, while they have the magnitude
of actual n(!aniesH. 'J'ho inference,
therefore, is, that the object in very
large, because it is supposed to be dis.
tant.

INTELLECT.

■

passed over this part of their route, and how many days tliey
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
eight. 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 seea.* 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 go 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 :hese, because thev 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,
or that which allows of distance in all
directions; but diKtiuicc in any direc-
tion h but a line from a jinint on the

retina; distance tiicii cannot be seen ;

and multiply points upon the retina,
could that give us spate, or the measure-
nicpit of space?

INTELLECT,

reality is not denied-it is only that they are not seen that is
asserted. That figure, that magnitude, thai 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 I 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 yet 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 repro
sented as to deceive the keenest observer. The story of Zeuxis
and Panhasius 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 a^ong Fleet Street
an the Strand, the Thames, the new Parliament Iw
Westminster Cathedral, the very towers of St. Paul's itself
vvhich are supposed to be at your feet, and the interminable

* Certmn amusing speculations might
follow from tl.iH view-or results— couKl
we actually r :ark the process as it goes
on, the inf.-rences of (lie mind as they
arise along with the sensations of sight
In addressing a friend wc could only
say, I infer you to be so and so ; 1 be-

lieve you to be standing there ; I be-
lieve you to be of such a height, such
P form ; I believe you to have come in
euch a direction, to be going in such an-
other. All would be inference, belief
Only of colour could it be positively or
properly said, Isee that colour.

! i «(w ii j < a' ■

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
ot 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 aU the
animation and all the mind which mind itself throws around
even the inanimate scene, and which must be in the living
terms and actions which are transferred to the picture.

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

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 mformations of vision, or the ," irect objects
ot sight, are truly acquired perceptions.

* Addison. Letter from Italy to Lord Halifsx.

INTELLECT.

VI.

mIZ ^'Tv. *^"'' '^'"' ^"^'"'^ "' '^' ''''"^'^^^ ProFrties of
matter. These are extension, divisibility, solidity or fluidity
hardness or softness, and figure. Motion does noLeem to be'
aproperty of matter: it is something communicated to it no
belongmg to it. But the qualities enumerated enter into our
very conception of matter. It is by these qualities that matte
becon,es known to us. The properties of fragrance, heat or
cold, sweetness or bitterness, are not essential to matJer-they
do not enter into our idea of matter. We can conceive matter
totally destitute of them, as indeed it often is. Bu'matt
without extension or some degree of resistance to the touch
would be a contradiction. And there is more than our havTng
given the name. Matter, to that which discovers itself to u!
by these properties, which, according to Dr. Brown seems to
be the amount of a quality or qualities being primly or^en
tia to matter : they are so, according to him hoc2eZeZl
called that matter which possesses these qualities. If we had
^ven he name of matter to that which excited the sensation
of CO our, of fragrance, of heat or cold, of sound-these
according to Dr. Brown, would have been the prirr^ qualitS

tThe" • f "' 'r ""^ ^''' '^^^ ^-'^ capV7f ?nt mal
ing the existence of matter to us, which they are not. They

do not seem to be capable of intimating even anything externS
tons Itisnotto them that we have traced dther^he^a
of externality, or that of matter as a substance without us
Besides, they are fluctuating, varying, qualities. They may be

then to them, would be but to assign another name to qualities

tlTtWber'w"' for they could not themselves Ittte
that they belonged to an external substance. Or if thev could
xntimate this, there would be as many kinds of ma t rTs the e

r tit m'usr. "" °' *'^" "^" '''''''''' *^ ^" ^^''-
mt there must be some permanent or invariable qualities

before we can employ a name significant of them all or S

iiiriitiimM»ii

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,-a8 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.
iiut extension and some degree of resistance must always be
possessed-must always be present, and therefore it is that Dr
J^rown 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 ia
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 ofxohich
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 propertv of
resistance. The material framework by which we are sur-

m.\

INTELLECT.

rounded, including this world and these globes far into the
boundless regions of space, but presents fhese'two ^entt
qualities-extension and resistance. Wei<.ht or Tn 'T^
a law of matter, rather than a proper^ "^ WeXrb. l'';, "
action of gravitation which pervades aUmaWer a Z \ u
preserves the universe in ord'er, and but Tw^h XtM^
would rush into original chaos. No particle of 1 e7wluld
cohere to another: no planet would seek its centrror rX a
planet or globe could not exist. We would hav Curb's
dance of a toins,-and yet why that dance ?-why X™
all ?-and if stationary, by what law ? The trutH Tt t
impossible for our minds, at least, to conceive any othe; stote
of things han that which prevails; and we are lerinevitoblv
to a presiding mmd, the author, and upholder, of all the o^d^
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 pos t on
or xn ite harmonious movements. The centripetal, orTw of
gravitation is that which regulates the internal movements of
eveiy world ; and thus, as extension and resistance, wTtL^r

.0 these two forces, with their modifications, may form the two

secured, and order and action are maintained

Weight, therefore, one of the apparent properties of mnffpr
belongs rather to one of the two laws we hleCn" one? By

solid, or fluid, substance, and its motions are modifications of
he centripetal and centrifugal laws; these, at least are lie
two great general laws which guide its moti n, and keep ev ,
particle of matter in its place. A derangemeit of thiTaws
would, perhaps, derange the properties of extension and eSs7
ance ; at aU events, the former. It is by the coherence of he
partices of bodies that we have anything extended and Jay
not that coherence, and the laws of fluid bodies by which
respectively, we have solidity and fluidity, be T^ing ^ the

■^1

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 powere
rather than qualities of matter— he maintains to be as much
qualities as the other. Ho 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 mattsr. 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
naarking every feeling as it arises, attending to it, and forming
Its conclusions The process, as traced by Dr. Brown, by which

* It is by this doctrine that Locke
seems to fuvour tlie representationah'st
theori' of perception, as opposed to imme-

diate perception. Thiw, however, mijrht
fairly be regarded as a casual view,
rather than a selflcd doctrine of Locke.

INTELLECT.

ti.0 »imi,le,t idea,. VfTZZ' llLkl T ""?'■ "' """^ "^
to the idea in V^U^. w7Z u^:^T TT"' "' "'"''

give m tliis idea. It is very evident inZd , ^'T «^ ">
lion which Dr. Brown mali™ „f . ^' u • ' *"' ""^ ™PP»»'-
of an bfant would not of ili™tLr,"° "i'^'^ '" *e hand
simple idea of extension. If flfbll^i^/; ."''°»-. »' "•»
the feeling would be verv little IX^vl' . '" ""* ' <^
«en a le«r extent of tl Zt'lZd "' """''' ^ ''

iu fact, a simple tactual ^nS"; bLIT^Z'^'t'?-"'
a surface is different, and seems WeeSlti f""^ "^""S
the idea of extension Therl i, « 7^ "? J' "^ ™«S™«"g
ance, which surelv I inlt T j ™*»«'' Mng of resist-

neceiaryto'alS^; .^ wflX" r"'""'.""^ *»' '"
Dr Brown's account of thrr:^^'^^^- i»f - '»

f-on, Tn 'he°p '„n eSt''"rth' "'*"^> """-"-
attention to the differ™! ? ! ' .""^ '""T"'' "^ directing

it has mr>n^i^lzz.T:Zit:'T rr •"'""

them, and when now ,> Lo T I *^® ^^^ ^^ acquiring

its education z,::r'trcC;::fr? ^° ',° ='^*'"'

-n^ted and ..telligible l«^ul "'ffitle'r i ™ '"'" "
have been truly like tlmf nf o i -""^erto, its processes

the lettei. have to L ttn ' f"^"'"* P^"°^ ^^ ^'^^^ ^^^^«
gent reading. All he il "' ' ''^^' '^P^^' ^"^^ ^"^^"i-

been acquired atd not fh. '^ ""f' '^ '^'•*^"^ ^^«^« ^^^e
knowing, or in thell r '^"'" ^'^ ^^ "^^^ '* ^^^'^""t its
The eyt'ean now tike " IT'' ''""'^"^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^-.e.

and yet associated ■ ZTT ' '""'''' ^'^ discriminated,

...-..-L,rrj';:.;-s--i-::-i;

INTELLECT.

senses. But we are anticipating, and there are a few other
simple ideas that have not yet been accounted for, and which,
when obtfiined, 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 fiUing 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
ot space. It has neither colour nor figure to make it an object
ot 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 if. It could not move if there was no space. Its
situation. Its distance, and eveiy relation it has to other bodies
suppot^e space.' '

INTELLECT.

Such is tho origin of the idea according to these several
1 u osophex.. Locke separates the idea of 'pace frl hi U
sohdzty, by supposing a body moving out of it. place and no
other coming mto it. Reid says,-" A body could no ListTf
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 c^cup^C
space, and mofon. Dr. Reid ^ys,-« There are only two of
our senses 1^ winch the notion of space enters into the mind,

oft'^r T^ "f ' '" '^^^ be rather defers to an opinion

of B rkeley than adopts it. Berkeley held that there was a

vmble extension, and a visible space, as well as a tangilk, bein!

that xtent of the visual organ that wa. affected by the outwarS

object or space But we might as well speak of an audible ex-

nsion, and auchble space ; for, no doubt, there is a certain extent

of the organ of hearing affected by every impression which sound

makes upon i , and, perhaps, in proportion to the distance of

rock tlbl f "''^"^'"'^' '^ '^' ^'^' P^^^""'^^ ^'' ^« ^hen a
Hn J P .? . T ''"'' ^^'^' ^''S^'' '' ^ bell, like that of
Lincoln Cathedral, emits its tones. But we do not speak of
audible extension or audible space. The idea, no doubtT enters
tnr''"tl^r^^ *'"'^ "^'^'^^' ^°^ '' g«* P"«r to the power
mo r I ''' '' '"'""°^ ^S"^-^' ^^°-t"de, distence,
motion. It arises, no doubt, with the ve^^ notion of solidity

Lint TfTr f "''*''°- ^''^'' P^^b^b^^^' g-- '^' *-^«
account of It when he says,-" If we can have the idea of one

gives us tho idea ot {mre apace."

But when we have got the idea, what is the amount of it ?
Perhaps we may in vain put thU question. We quote a-min
the words of Dr. Eeid:-"B„t, though the notion of ^Z
seems not to enter at fi,.t into the mind, until it is iZZZ

laLTir °''-'"";' """' '"'' "^^ »- »*~'"-^r«

lemauiB m our conception and belief, though the objects wh oh
in toduced It be ..moved. We see no abfnrdity in , rpi^to'
"body tohoannihilated; but the space that containi'it ,^

^ilSX£.'^-j^ikmim'i*iBi0nK>mv0iih:mefiKm

INTELLECl'.

iiiains ; and to suppose that annihilated seems to be absurd
It 18 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
ot geometry, a science in which human reason has the most
ample field, and can go deeper, and with more certaintv, than
m any other. But when we attempt to comprehend the whole
ot 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 bemg grasped than that of space. « An immense
eternal, immovable, and indestructible void or emptiness I"
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 bo susceptible of
no better definition. Kant and the German metaphysicians
deny xts reality, and make it a mere form of our sensibility
1 his, however, is about as intelligible as space itself. It would
be as easy to und-stand the one as the other. Nay I have
some idea of space, however puzzling the idea, but J have no
Idea of what a form of sensibility is, distinct from the sensi-
bility Itself; and if space is to bo resolved into a mere state of
our own sensibility, then it is nothing. The mind will not
give up ,ts Ideas in that way. An idea must have something

INTKLLECT.

ling as

for wLich It stands. It is true the mind may conceive of what
never ex.sted: it may have the idea of a centaur an^a goTdea
mountain But these are mere combinations of ideas and the
xdeas of winch they are composed must have harth^p ot
ypes m reahty. It is not of such ideas that we speakbu"
those simple ideas that are forced upon us in spite of ours Ives
which we cannot d.vest oui^elves of, and which seem to reta a
possession of the mind only because there is that of which thy
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 attrihiUe, and contends that
as an attnlute must have a suh ^t, and we Cannot conceive th

ertelce^ri ''' ^'' '^'' ^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^«
But space as an attribute is as unintelli- Me as snace as r

r w'rf ' ""^^^'^^ ^'*^^^^ «^-« to^colraT^ea"
ing. We believe we must be content with the idea we have

and be satisfied that that exists which answers to the dea "f

onr minds Is that to be resolved into a mere fonu of though

or sensibility through which the planets wheel their courses in

orbits of such inconceivable extent, and the most distent boumls

of which are but giving up to the telescope, and to the calcu-

la ions of the lonely astronomer, planets hitherto undiscovered,

and tiaces of fields still more distent, studded with worlds the

more interesting that they are so remote ? The bird on its

free and noble wmg would hardly thank the philosopher for

westn tl'"""'?' " ''' ^" ^'''"^^'^ '^ ^y--^- I-PPoso
entlvoth. ri' r!"' or perform our journeys, independ-
en y of the philosopher's notion of space. We shall not allow
ourselves to be restrained by it in our efforts for the good of
ourjecies, or forget that the world only bounds the 'empire

We cannot help quoting the following characteiistic passage
from Dr. Chalmers .-" We cannot take leave of Mr. S
Th Tt r "-^ the homage of our grateful admiration to ne

:^^:r:^^t'^'^- ^^^— ^- two phuoso.

l>hies of acrniany and Scotland.

It is true that in his theolo"-y

iiiWWMiii

INTELLECT,

lie 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 havmg 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
senous conflict with a not uncommon sensibility ; for Fichte,
as we were pleased to find, though a metaphysician, and in the
most abstract form, so far 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 bis 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
lor 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

INTKLLECT.

minds in Germany and elsewhere are now running wild some
one having the talents of Butler or Cervantes were! a Se and
banrsh th. grotesque and outrageous foUy from the face of the

tion Tort '*Rf ";' *' "^'^r/' "' ^'"^'^ ^^^« ^°r« tolera.
tion for It. But it is now making frequent inroad within our

own borders; and we are grieved to find that Mr Whew"

expresses h.mse f as if carried by the prestige of the Germla

philosophy and its outlandish nomenclature. We are noJ^^^n

sure If Sir John Herschell be altogether frc: from it W

«hall exceedmgly regret if the manly English sense of fhZl

great masters in physical science shall pr^v to hTve bel in

the least yitmted by this admixture from abroad. In the lace

of the. high authority, we shall persist in regarding thwhde

of the mtermediate space between ourselves and the plant

Uranus as an objective reality; and when we read of th

plane trembhng along the line of their analysis' we sha

look still farther off, or still more objectively, to'the spice tha

IS beyond It, nay, and shall infer, with al confidence tha

there must be a force outside which is disturbing its movements

Me are persuaded that common sense prev!iled, and S

metaphysics were for a time forgotten, when, in he glorbus

fZr """ ^r'^' ''^^ ""'''''' *'- --fi«-t-n both o7aa
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

eTstenrir?r?°"^*'^"^ ^^^^ '^ ^^--^ ^'~y

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 wS

ever) side, the idea of sp^ce 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 bo : and it is in^nite, without any limits. It is i ot om
-n- that give us the idea of it: it swings up in oreZ

* North BritLsh Revicv. No. XII., ,,,,, 305-307.

INTELLECT.

With the idea of body in space, or motion through space. When
Dr. Reid says that there are only two senses through wliich 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 spt:je to contain it : it could not move if there was no
space. He calls it "an immense, that : ^ infinite, eternal, immov-
able, and indestructible void or emptiness." With Cousin space
18 objective or has ohjectivity, 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 perdst;'
he says, " m regarding the whole of the intermediate space be-
tioeen 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 iuhat is a substance 'i Can
we give any other description of it than as that which reveals
qualities ? May it not, then, be as intelligible a description 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 ideaf. cannot go
Thei-e 13 one difficulty connected with it, that it is eternal, and
mfinite, 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 m 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.

expression, "placeless as spirit." We cannot m all

yet so tllmg ,t as that he does not exist in parts and i« nnt
d.v.s,b,e as space is. And it is a thought o^f Z^t IZ

each of his own great inteUect, or which he arrived at bv a

ubtlety peculiarly his own, that while we caanoZrk ! lu

ter a, .nflmte yet ,n infinity there may be ^c. toiuow «7^

forever ,^uU.pl,inc,, so that go where we wiU theremay be

3ii:jrs:-;::,=:.-r,:;;™r£'

or a some have regarded the dissolution of the univers pSlv

Time.

^ Jme must ahvays have been as well as space. We do not
believe m xme, however, as objective, as having obiecdvitv Tt
18 a very daflferent idea from that of space. Space twL^
us: t.,,e IS neither within us nor without us' lli;f 1*
that time is merely a form of thought? And yet XtT
time? Let it check the vanity of specuhuLs thnT.
can^t define that of which they hL yJT^'JTiJZ

itteas m the mmd, that succession marked by the mind, and

INTELLECT.

with it growing up or arising the idea of time. Dr. Brown,
again, thinks that it is in acquiring tlie 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 marlced by the child, and the idea oftimegroios
lip. 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, sucli 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,— mther 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 tlie inner
self, repeated in the mind, frequently borne in upon it, and
thus duration or time accompanying every such idea or act of
menioiy— 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 meiuory, implied in self-

INTELLECT.

(il

con«io„8ne« the idea of ti,„e would necMsarily arise W„

ever k nd , it is not necessarj- to condcsn- ,d upon the mrtiV,,

oo»s«o«,, seems enough to gi . „. ,.,o idea ^ *^

1 hnd tliot this is precisely the view of Cousin. We cannot
refrain from quoting the parage in „l,ich he brini omW
view, so e,aet is the coincidence between the viewf we have
briefly explained, and those of Cousin, elabo.te^T;^":

d."l"l -" f f ''°*°'' '^"^'^^ <>'' ''"'P' "omme de I'orisine

de lidee de resp...e. DUinguez encore I'ordre d'acquTS

de uos id^ et leur ordre logique. Dan» IWre lo^que t

u™;s^tll ,"": '""T" '""'"""^"^ d'evenem^nl pr^

sion. Ote. ,a continuity du tel^ C S la ^ -bn^ne"
la nccessiondes evenemente, comme e'tant Ot* Cntinv.it
de 1 «pace ^t abohe la possibili.d de la juxtaposition "Set
coexistence dee corps. Mais, dans IWte chronologique el

.d& du temps qui les renfemie. Je no veux pas die Cle
acw/T' ^°" '''''"^' 1™ ■«"" ''^'"'» ™e idee cE
raent iidee dun temps qui renferme cette succession- i» L
seulement qu 1 faut bien que nous ayons d'aboTriion
de qnelques ^v,Snen,ents, pour que nous concevionrquf ^
evdnemen s sent da.s un temps. Le temps ea le Heu Z
evenements eomme I'espace est celui des c^rps.- qui n'auml
hdfe d'aucnn ove-nement, n'anrait ridee dJcun tempr g
done la condition logique de Kdoe de succession est dans i'idl

dtSeU^rrn."'"""'"-^^"^ ^» '* ^" -^ -

Ti^Z'^S ^""^ *™»''>»SiV>'= de la conception
necessaiie dn temps. Mais toute idee de succession est une

I '"" II I V II J*

IL.

INTELLECT.

acquisition do I'experience ; reste a savoir de (inellc experience
Est-ce ceUe des sens ou celle des operations de Tame ? La
premiere succession nous est-elle donnde dans le spectacle des
eveuements exterieurs, ou dans la conscience des eve'nemenvs
qui se passent en nous ?

" Prenez une succession d'e've'nements exte'rieurs : pour que
ces e'venements se succMent, il faut qu'il y ait un premier, un
second, un troisieme evdnement, etc. Mais si, quand vous
voyez le second eve'nement, vous ne vous souveniez pas du pie-
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, ^intervention de la m4moire est done neces-
satre 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 memoire 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 memoire, comine la mmioire
est la condition cfe Videe de succession, il s'en^dt que lamemih'e
succession nous est donnee en nous-mSmes, dans la conscience
dans les objefs et les pUiomhes propres de la conscience, dam
nos pensees, dam nos id^es. Mais si la premiere succession qui
nous est donnee est celle de nos idees, comme k toute succession
est attachee ne'cessairement la conception du temps il s' nsuit
encore que la premiere idee que nous ayons du temps est celle
du temps dans lequel nous somraes; et de m^me que la pre-
miere succession est pour nous la succession de nos idees de
meme la premiere duree est pour nous notre propre duree'; la
succession des e'venements exterr-.-s, et la durde dans laquelle
8 accomplis.ent ces e'venements, ne nous sent connues qu'apr^s
Je ne dis pas que la succession des e'venements exte'rieurs ne
soit qu une induction de la succession de nos idees ; je ne dis
pas non plus que la duree exte'rieure ne soit qu'une induction

INTELLECT. p..

notredurte propre A,™ f', r*'""' '" "'ncepUon de
nous est do„n& c'e,t k S„ "■ " I"™'*^ 'l"* 1"i

par nd& d'u'e' sucllTil'nltlwn"™ "! '"«^*^'^
space, but fr„„LLtgd'",,rrT"' ""'' °'

succeed one Zhiifr" V*™" "'M^-^ "'"* couitty
awake. ErflSn ' th«' "■"^'''*°<«"8;. »« '""S as he is

after anoZTn„rLa*?frrr;' "™"' ■''''"«' °-
Mea of succession audfLn, Y' '^°''"'*'=^ '" "'* *''«

succession TSecn M p ' '""""" ""^ r""» "^ ««"

mind, is thr^w^rd^J^""^ "' "-^ "™ "- - ««

confouud^. .0 s^Sorr s-s- -t-:

INTKLLECr

of time, or duration, with time, or duration itself. Wo 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— ui iu^. .; liimself has misapprehended Locke's
meaning. T.o;i e fjays;— -^ That wo have our notion of succes-
sion from tliis origmal, (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 iun:a in our understandings."
27ms ts 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 ia 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 he. 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

INTfiLLRCT.

not explain spacl But ^cZZUZZ i^?' " 7 ^^"■
seek an explanation. UQaerstand it if wo do not

Power.
Another of our simple elementary ideas i« ih , ^
It appeal., like those already considered by J If "^ ^''"'''^
acquired. It would seem L hT I n ' ^ '^^ ^e'-y early
observation of chan4 whether h""^"^ '"^^'^*^^ ^^ *he
suceession in the mS own dl /" "' '' ^^^•^^"*- ^he
the many instanceTof it Tn tt '^' "'' '' '^" '"'''^^^°" ^''^
the idea?^ Perha/s It' L ottc^^:"^^ "^^"^'^^ ^-•^-

one which has been freaupnfl7T -^^ ^^^ succession be

able in its operation tT? '''^'^' ^°^ ^^'^h is invari-

JustastheStrtimSs^;^^^^^^^^^

the mind, it bein^ mrhZ \, '"'^''«««^on of ideas in

its own ideas, r^K^^ ZL'st t ^'^ "^.-^^ ^ ^^^
without acquirinir the idP« nf f • ^ '^""^ ^^^^^^^al «elf,

as it wouIdV natural to referln"'' ^ "'^ *^^ ^'^^ «^ P^-^
ducing- them, theThanyf ^r^inX^r; ^
thought or of feeling fS^m. 7 • ^***^^' whether of

producing ti JrXh^rs^srTt r'™'°^ »

present to it, or even heto^llhTj ^^' ^* "" ""'"'^ "■"<>
would be fel , or eonceivrof Z T '"^""f "^ ■"'°<' ■« »»«'■.
Mi"g Pre.^t forTetir It St?^ "'"^ ™^
early question.-Whence th^,„ ,k 7. ' '**»» ^ » "ery

ings-what power h^;rot::ithef^I^'™*■''''" '"'■

tlie mind, that every effect mmf. •* ''° '"'""'<"' "f
e#icfe/ The idea Z^^.yf- v 7^ ^ '"^gnised to be

of certain ,„te™lT'««, ' "' ''°''' '" ""' '^''"™°»

there be Teh a"t "l tiln't r"!.""'^' ^^ ^'^^
whatd e,«,,„,,^^„--- t 'ke .d«. of ca„3eP Por

development of o„r idea. is^o:X ^t^tf of thl

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 a poioer 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, o. 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 bo awakened
by that which calls for the reference of a feeling or feelings to
Bomethlfig without. The idea oipoioer, or causality, is, that an
effect must have a cawse— 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 comcioumess 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.

one

in a state of simple consciousness r, ;
weots, that the idea mmtT. ?' '^"^ mauifesl, ot all

«t least ,■„ the vc^Tap^ ^17? '"?'°''^''' '^ «°"'*™.
the outward aud'thT faw^", "T^ ""■ '}"' '"""''- "''»

would bo surprised intc ' a i ,«,i ^ '"y^^^^^ff- The mind
or mther of exterual!:^, ;„ ■ '. -'^TJX' -'»"»' -H
OM might not take . ffert Tl . ° """^ '"°''- The
There would, perhaps b!-! d 2 ^T *"" ""> "'t^-

eimultaneousfor.thel^ic^o^VrvLdT"^'''^ """'^ >»
<f usality, aud then the idea of externXv ^' .*u ''"'"">"» "^
they would not be disti„gltd?h^t ',.'"" "'''!°'''°s'»"y
teruality would be the oeLion of both ' '"""^ "" ^^-

iXeat? ^t; :;X f t^ ■' r ■•■'"' f- *o
Of power ? What do w! ^ i * '' ''"P^^^'^ ^'^ t^e idea

in the p.ue,ittrxTm i,irrcL:?t-^^^^^

H™lroa;:fzL-''S7^^^^^^

Essay on Cause and EffertT'w •?''',""' ""■■ '''°™'"
Cause and Effect." Cousin cdk !^^T T "'° ^'""'o" "f
ie Cause" one of the Z ? ^ "'"' "' P"™' »■■ "l'M&

■»K and Z leh Z 1"°""°! ''*"»°S '° ""o human
>ife, and in the Zo f^h lolZ^^Vr ' " •'" '"""'"■
™ General Assembly of tV. rf*^ t . I^^ opposition which
John Leslie's anrointment 1 h °?~"''"'' °«'"^'' «° »''
University of ESumhlJ "'%r"''""'«oal chair in the
npparenti; esptut £ ^cSZ f T "' ""' "'■' '"-«<>».
lead to Aftei™ wS whit „1 ™°' "''''='' "oemed to

- t'he suSi'^aidlt'n':: "^i"^ "f'^^" >"» ™™
'heology reckons IT of s'ffid'nt" • "1 '" '''''''*l"'^' ""*

1(1

bo \ INTELLECT.

enough, that strong a 3 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 saj's, 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 })roceeds 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.

efflcienciea, 1 i w. of ^7/^? »t « °" "" ^^"'
>ve but see effects we ,1„ „„t ^""'"' '"?" "">*

lord " U nT, "Tt'"*^ ■""* ™~' '» I'ote his own

prouver quil nyaqu'nn vra Dion mrpp n,i';i «>

™.-e «.„se/. We Le these scripIi^sTZ '„.?.. ".THr

we live, and move, and have our being ■- and aj,"^ « Wl

"•uri'it :"; "I-;- T- ""• «"*-"■' ^-«-

w very much like a loo hteral interpretation of these state
mcnts We know that Malebranche was re„,arkable for hL"
He 'sue^ : r ■'""'"° '^ "^' '■^™ ^™" l"« doctrine from

plot, had nurcht r-th itr;: LI r*«:^:;',";:;f

natural agencies or «.„™. It was reserved f." H™ Js^;''

*-. v.-

'■:y, •■■■,'. •* X

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
inaintaining 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,

be attributed TtsZe ^ / « A^ '"f "^ """ "™"'

-t of the manner or 17^^ wh oh a" miT""' '^r

«upreme„ind,ope«tes either ooWft on bXp wT *'
I beseech you, do we aoquire an, idea of it ? W. ^ "'
sentiment or oonsoiouBnm. r.r *>,■ • "^^ '"'™ "»

Almighty himself willing whatever «em77„^' '." '^"^
creating or altering, by L .er^:^ ^^^^'^^''^X"' t

0. im,.na.™,^n Si ir att ^^ ^ eS."

Pf™ea.rey:t:^i;--:^^^^^^^^

t|on, the mtroduction of any ciroum'tance of Tupp" eS T

a ney aa , hi„g a closer bond of eoane.io7 woSd t

truth, funuBh only a new antecedent to be itself connrt^d"

Hume, then, denies all energy in the SunLr^-
™uch a. in .he gr.,«s. matter jlt iJt if'TgnoratLt;:
a suffiaent reason for deuyinc anvthhw n, fe "

, ^ uui u) lurnisii a new antecedeut in a

ii^'"'"' * ■

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
think 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 d I'outrance. There is no flincliing 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 efficiencij 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
instantaneousness, 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 ioill itself is the term in
the sequence, but tJuit 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 affect the matter much to say that

INTELLECT.

t/i the will there is efficiency ? The writers already quoted
with others that might be referred to, although they might be

i r,. !u^'"^ ^^'^""'^ ^" ^" ''^^"^^•^ causes,-although
they held that even these were but phenomena to be accounted
tor, 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 if
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
alJ, 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
speakm^ the effect is necessarily supposed by the supposition
ot the efficient cause, or any determinate cause by the supposi-
tion of the effect." This does not deny efficiency in the sup-
posed cause, bu^ merely that the efficiency is such that we are
able to predict the effect from the cause, or to determine, before
experience, the causo from the effect. It is only, in oth^^r
words, to assert our ignorance of c^cze« y, 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, infofm hin'
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. W!iat are causes, are to us
but effects, for they themselves have to be accounted for: we
cannot sec what is efficient in them, and it ])y no means takes

... J^. '~^^J,C:'M"--f!^i'mVM'-%'i;.i.,^., J.

INTELLECT.

1 t
PI

efficiency from them, that they have been produced, or called
into operation, by other efficients. Undoubtedly, it was a
wrong method of philosophi^ing, and must have led to injurious
results, to make the principle of efficiency itself the object of
investigation, mstead of the circumstances in which that prin-
aple operated. In the law of gravitation, for example we
may stete the law upon a well-observed induction: we state
the circumstances in wliich 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 m 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
natar^ minister et interpres, tantum facit et intelligit quantum
de nature ordine re vel mente observaverit ; nee amplius scit aut
potest, scientific mvest.gation 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 denv
powers, or efficiencies, however, in these circumstances, merely
because we cannot detect them, and because we must limit our
mqmries to the circumstonces themselves in which they
operate ? This was not what Bacon meant ; nor do we believe
It is what Butler raeant, 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 Beinc it C
quite possible to allow, and to contend for, the ublence of
efficiency in the agencies in nature, and yet hold to its exist-
ence m Ixod. This is quite possible, a.^d it mav be done fur

INTELLECT.

ot EToa'trf "^ 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 infeZ
agency was all that was at work. It is but a'more plou
degree, as it were, of the sentiment that would discoverTd
m 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 deligh' and occupation of

or the devout feeling implied in it, it is not uncommon to
notice the absence of all true efficiency in the phromena

of God. Accordingly, Dugald Stewart overlooking, as he must
have done the Atheistical tendency of Hume's vif;!!for Z
IS he demal of all energy in the Divine will but Atheis calT-
what have we left in the place of God, if efficiency is den ed
and mere antecedence is predicated ?-overlooking this ten
dency Dugald Stewart says, even of Hume's doftr n that
It seems to be more favourable to theism, than even the
ercrrit": «Pon this subject (the subje'ct of cause and
tfrL K T *''' ^''^^ "^^"^^ '^ '^'^> °ot only as

iJl ' Y V^' ''"'^°''^ °P^^^*^"g «ffi«i«^t cause in
mture, and as the great connecting principle among all the
various phenomena which we observe." Scripture tsTf
seems to point to this view in the words ah-eady quoted J" in
him we hve, and move, and have our being," and in th^ innu-
merable passages which refer the operations of nature to him
recognise him in the minutest as well as the greatest events'
whe^er m creation or providence. « He maketh his ange^
epirits 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 an icipatjon 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. 1 his seems to refer the retention of the earth in her

III

¥i

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
18 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 ?*

N0TE.-Dr. Eeid thns traces the idea: " It is ver,r probable that the very con-
ception or Idea of active power, and of efficient causes, is derived from our volun-
tary eftorts in producing effects; and that if we were not conscious of such
exertion, we should have no conception at all of ... cause, or of active power, and
consequently no conviction of the necessity of a cause of evcrv chan Jwhich wo
observe m 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. Rcid's Essays,) where it is viewed as an
original and native principle." Sir William Hamilton adds: "It is true how
ever, that the C07uciousn^s of our own efficiency illuminates the dark noiion 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 an.l positive notion of power." The impossibility of conceiving of an
absolute commencement is, in other words, the impossibility of conceiving of an
effect xoaJwutacaxu^e, is just the principle of causality; and this principle we
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 ulea of power or causality to the source to which we have already
referred it. AVe also remarked, that the idea would as yet be very undefined or
rudimentary; and Sir William Hamilton says, "that the canJusness .i Z
<non e^iency dluminatcs the dark notion of carnality" 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 n'otion of
power. We believe this is the true account of the matter. Others with

^■'Irt' '"'It *'■*'"' *''' •''"'' ^ ""'■ <^^«»«<=i°"«''ess of efficiency in ourselves
bir William Hamilton properly objects to this view, that it is assigning an em^
pineal derivation to the idea, a derivation which would never give us, or allow
the universal and necessary ti-utli or principle, that every effect must have a
cause. Wliewell says, " That this idea of cause in not derived from experience
we prove (as in former cases) by this consideration, that we can make assertions
.nvolvmg this idea, which are rigorously necessary and universal; whereis
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.

FNTELLECT.

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
Wo must content ourselves with the ideas we have of them
We may now, however, refer to Whewell's classiiication 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, aa 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 mutter, or rather the idea of cause
which 18 the basis of these :

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

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

The remaining sciences which Whewell enumerates, crystal-
lography, mineralogy, botany, zoology, physiology, and palati-
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

INTELLECT.

It is in tins sense that metaphysics supplies a kind of « prima

t iSt^ f "'•^' ^"°" ^^^^ *^« ''^'' ^^^'^-g'^ he bfcam

hi !S r T°'' '''*^'' 'h^" *h« ««^e"«fi« investigator
himself, either in the department of matter or mind.

Whewell seems, with Kant and the other German meta-

ul thf °^^ "'^^'^ "^"^^ *^' - superinduced

snace t^^ '^'''''f\^^^'^ *<> the mind by sensation. Of

applicable to our expenence, and arising from the nature of

SiZT *'" ""^^'^^ ^^^^^ '^^ ^ >-' ^^h-h ^h"

nals given by experience necessarily assume in the mind as an

rsTtir^t^ '-'- ''- '-'-''^^ -^-^' -^ - ^-

as weiri'T^r""* "^"'"'^ *^"* ^^ ""'' ^°^«hted to the mind
as well as to the materials furnished by sensation, (as by the
presence ,n space of a solid body,) for L idea of spTc'^th

be tW sC^^ *"f ' '"* '"^ °^^^"-^ rather seems to

be that space is nothing but an idea, nothing apart from the

x" spaTe l^r T""'r^ '^ *^' "^'^^ "P- -'«- -i«t-g

« Thril. I a statement to which we would not object:

Thus this phrase, that space is a form belonging to our per-

ceptiye power, may be employed to express tha! we l^not

ties " .7/.^- """''"'' .^'*^°"* ^^""^ ^^ ^«" ^ P^««i^e facul-
add , This phrase, however, is not necessary to the exposition
of our doctrines. Whether we call the conception of space a

any other term it is somethuu; originally inherent in the mind
percewzng and not in the objects perceived." WhewelUhus
P am y holds space to be in the mind perceiving indZtlntl

ot them IS but as an occasion, and not properiy as a cause. This
»B an important truth, one which is being more distinguished

INTELLECT.

at the present day, though we do not believe it to have been

Ttteir 1 ! "T "'" "^ '^"^^ - ^-S tolnrtional

m their ph losophy; we alhido particularly to Locke The

mode in which Locke traces the ideas shews plainly that he

understood the part which the mind itself has in ori^naHnl

he .deas. But because the mind is thus active bS^f

these Ideas have the ideas no counterpart for which they stand f

arc they Ideas merely? is Whe well's representation L St

one when he speaks of space being something origina ly fn

herent ,„ the mmd perceiving, and not in the obUSed?

Is this a con-ect representation ? We do nof fi;.i ^'''^'l^'^'^

he expresses h.msolf a, if carried by the pLt,ge „f th. G r
man philcophy, and its outlandish non.cnclaf are/' " We sha 1
persist • says Dr. Chalmers, '■ in regarding the whole oftte in
termedmte spaee between o„«elv^ and the planet Uratsl'
an object™ reality." Space, time, figure, eal „rl n f r™
of thought merely, or forms of the perceptive power but Z
reahfcs a though it is the n,ind which'^iv s rthe wL If
them It „ tme, therefore, that our ideas are tCy^ essenf
or the material of scienoe itself; but then theL d^rhZ
omehmg for which they stand, and are not solely del I
1. of the very essence of the idea that there k somethinr^.b
out the mmd of which it is but the idea. iHb a Mn^ 1;
.dea he mmd obtains it a. the idea ef somethingTwl to

reality. It seems the greatest absurdiiy to resolve all into
/cms of thought, er of the understandingf or belongL L 1
perceptive power. At this rate, what is here bclw!en us^j
the boundaries of the universe ? The ear of tbeTrona„ne
but a clumsy contrivance, when the whole of spacfL „ hin

Sf'moZ'rmesrir "" "'"'""■''-'"' «-d '-
01 modern times ? and how comes it that ships have been tra-
veling the ocean so long, that from the time of the A^onaut
to that of Columbus, and till the present hour, the sea hrbeen
the highway fer voyagers and adventurers of every kind and
many a noble triumph of nautical skill and pe, Jnal e tpris^

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INTELLECT.

Mii i

and danng has been achieved ? There is indeed room for a
Cervantes or a Butle:, 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 ne^d not surprise us so much; and what
wonder if he « hobanobbed with Pharaoh," or

" Dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ?"

Indeed, tu^ 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 !)
Jn Thebes'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 I
* * * * »

" fciince first thy form was in this box extended,

We hcv- above groiind seen some strange mutations :
The Roman Empire has begun and ended.

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

" Didst tbou not hear the pother o'er thy head.
When the great Persian conqueror Canibyscs,
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 mir.d 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.

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, ' ITiero was no matter '

And proved it-'twas no matter what he said-
Ihoy say his system 'tis in vain to brtter,

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 u.
into such v-agaries which are the fit olject of burlesque but to
shew the limits of truth and knowledge. If we aTL t^

^fer than ,f^ „f ^^^^ ^^ ^^^.^ nJlZle^

10 oe correct. Truth .s best seen wher. it is di,tinKrisl,ed from

taye all the firmer conviction of the reality of space time can
^hiy or power matter and mind, that their StyZ'Z
caUed .n queshon, and that I have set mj«=lf to ilTe int^
the mode of reasoning by which their realty has ZZuZ
t.one<i and thus know the trne grounds of my belief The^*
m, r e.^deas or informations of my -nental constitnticn ooZ"
car. dnve me from. I entrench myself within those beliefeo?
ide^ wh,ch my own miud gives me, and no subtleties or dffl
cul.es are of any avail to shake my convictions IM,T •
m.tive ideas, firs, principto, that «h™ rapped LZ
matters affecting „„r beliefs; and it would be inSti""
know the character and extent of our beliefs or IW nrf •
nature of our primitive ideas and intuitite on o«o s' ^
though no sceptical question had ever been raised.

INTELLECT.

I'il

ill*

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 would 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 stricHy 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 11, the mind, which assures us that every effect must
have a cause : in other words, such is the aature 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 givos 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 l-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
m all its original and primitive ideas. We have endeavoured
to trace it in its spontaneous action from its earliest state of

INTELLECT.

consciousness to the point at which we have arrived, when it is
now m possession of al! its original and primitive ideas. The
progress from this stage onward must be a very different one
from all beiore. 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 chrysaUs, 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 ini,o its own phenomena and laws. There
IS a great difference between the miad 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 st^e :>f its
history or progress. We confine our u.:.^, 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 acouired at the
early period— imconscious period, we might call it,\if the mind
conld 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 ser.sation. How do we know
this? Not from any report which the mind itself brintrs
from that early period, but from the obvious fact that the
mind 18 dormant at that early sta, ;, while we can perceive
trom the very nature of sensation, that it can at no time

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 pa-.-t 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— thai for example, which gives the sensation of
pam or of weariness— impressions from external objects are
conveyed to the brain, whUe it, ajain, communicates with the
mmd, 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
ic 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 bram is in a comatose state, all sensation is suspended
men the nerves of any one of the senses are lost, the sense
Itself 18 lost. Besides, the substance of the brain and of the
nerves is the same. The one would seem to be the gre»t reser-
voir, the other the canals or ducts, and the analogy is t. , more
complete that there are nerves communicating influence from
♦he brain, vital and motive influeuce, 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 fearf-uUy and wonderfully made •
marvellous are thy works, and that my soul knoweth right

:i.,

INTELLECT.

well." But the ultimate fact is what we have to do with— ^e
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 raraaining
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 comLiitted to his charge.
He knows that death awaits him ; he has been urged to
save himself, and y^t 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 ^\e 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 oomfort. But do we call those pereons
insane ? No ! we honour them as the excellent of the earth ■

INTELLECT.

admire their lives, and wish that, when the oc. osion 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
m t yet teken account of; some untiring, undying energy which
eludes mdeed, 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 maybe 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 j take these from it, either
wholly or m part, and it can no longer manifest its existence
m the same way as when these organs were perfect The
paralytic man would move his arm or would express his wishes
It his arm or his tongue would obey him ; and his frequent
impatience at their incapacity sufficiently shews that the riding
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 irdvidual to act rationally. This could not occur
were the brain and nerves, as acted upon by external stimuli
the only spring of man's wiU, for then ihe 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 m the sphere of the planetary heavens, but ivhen 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 prmciple which takes the senses under its own control

INTELLECT.

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. Tho 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
01 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 'e have seen, our most important
elementary ideas are obtained.

The mysterious connexion between mind and matter must
for ever remain uaexplained 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, M.( oil, 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

INTKLLECT.

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 nanie
they are designated, these form the material of all the know-
ledge which .8 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 /hat point does a purely mental state commence ? It
18 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-
moLa for our contemplation and solution, and in these we are
earned 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 aa well as corporeal beings, and that
ramd IS by far the grandest part of our being. What is the
state of incorporeal beings we cannot tell, but we are corporeal
being8,-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 bo assigned to the former ^hig
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
Ihe 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.

Will develop and promote our physical state merely-what will
carry forward man's physical wellbeing or happineL. We have
heard a distingmshed man of the present day ascribe to the
same source most of the infidelity and even athoism 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 b isiness 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
18 more cultivated; more interest is awakened in all that con-
cerns man as a spiritual and as an intellectual being: subjects
of a moral, pohticul, and literary character claim a large share
now of the public and popular regard. Literature appeals
entire y to the mental part of om- 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'
lae pohtical 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 ..rising 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
mmd and the soul must be caied 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 m history than the Imperial Charles. Napoleon's career
18 remembered chiefly in connexion with the brilUant qualities
of mina that were exhibited in it, while its bad aim and selfish
tendency are as freely condemned. What was generous and
great however, in th 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

INTELLECT.

Literature is teeming with rich and choice productions, and a
new epoch seeroi to be promised in the writings of a Baillie
and a Yendys. TheL>e 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 mJnd 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.

The more that wo make the spiritual part of our l)eing the
subject of our thoughts, that wo trace its phenomena, that we
tamihanze ourselves with its arcana and laws, the more shall
we see to aamiro aud wonder at in our mental constitution,
and the finer adaptation shall we discover hetween all the laws
of mmd and that economy in which we are placed, as well as
that material arena on which we are situated. Is it not inter-
estmg already to have seen the mode in which oi:r 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 it,«.elf ! It is hardly possible to say, whether the
way m 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, oi the tendency to materialize the mind
will be the more guarded against or repudiated. A material-
tskc 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 rendersd that work so popular,
but the same tendency which it met in the public mind ? It
IS a plaubible theory that mind is the result of an organization
so hue as wo 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
ot skill, this delicacy of provision and arrangement ? Those
slender filaments of nerves were surely intended for some men-
tal resnlt, 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

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 suhptance 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 tha grossest matter— like the blossom of
a flower, or its spirit fragrance— or like the marveUous 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 remit. True, sensation is tartly
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, « toto coelo ?" Oi^r inqmry 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 ttiteUec-
Hon; 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
sensatioi). Is it too much to affirm that we mark a total

INTELLECT.

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 seZ/"— 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 th3 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 s^ii itualizes 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
every 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

INTELLECT,

■A,

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,"

M^ho has cultivated and cherished that presence, and is indeed
hardly ever unattended by it, so that it meets him in every
patliway 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 ^.ith matter? They spurn it, th^" 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 18 a vast importance which is attached to mind when it is
spoken of as « the soul" in Scripture. How emphatic the e
words Jesus : « What shall it profit a man, if he shall gat
the whole world and lose Ms soul ; or what shall a man give in
exchange for his souU" What a price is weighed with it
when Christ himself gave his life a ransom for it I 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. S n^
ar that even the Greeks and Latins seem to have rocogS

Vuncii^lc~cf>prj, vov,, dvfic-mens, animus. We need not
remark hat e.,o, and animus are the vital principle, the sub
stance o the spirit in which the faculties reside, and that VpT.
cTr T'/t" P^^"' *° '''' ^^^•^^*'-' -^1 seem totnd :

stiU held that the bo,.1 was a dislinct principfe, comnoBed of
much ft„„ particle, than the body in which it ,;aidrd'^ They

INTELLECT.

were the materialists of ancient times. It i« in Scrinture
ckefly that the dignity of the soul is recognised. The slme
of redemption undoubtedly gives it a value which nothing e"e
could assign it in our estimation. ^

IX.

Philosophers have been classified according as they leaned to
a sensational or an idealistic tendency. MLriai a" th:
Ue2r7 "^"'^ •;*'' Transcendentalists are the extreme

the first m modern times who traced all our knowledge and
consequently all our ideas, to the senses, the objerof the

revt frf?T-?:f ^7 ^'^^ ^^^"'*^^ ^'^^^^^ This was
reviving he Aristotelian doctrine of intelligible species with
less of refinement in the images or species present to the mTnd
Gassendis admiration of the physical doctrines of Epicurus'
according to Dugald Stewart, « predisposed him to g vean
easier reception than he might otherwise have done to h^
opinions in metaphysics and in ethics." His opposition to
Descartes seems to have had something to do, likewise, with
his extreme opinions. j wim

OoulT ''' ^"^^ ^'T *''^"^' "''^''' ''S' 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-
ore, so far recognised the independence and immateriality of
he mmd aa to make his thmking the very ground of his
belief m his own existence. His famous doctrine of innate
Ideas, too hoTvever 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 com!
pages illamembrorum qua) corpus humanum appellatur I non
sum tenuis aliquis aer istis membris infusus ; non ventus, non
Ignis, non vapor, non habitus-Quid igitur sum ? res cogitans •

INTELLECT.

quid est hoc ? nempe dubitans, intelligens, affirmans, negaus,
volens, nolens."

Descartes and Gassendi became the founders of separate
schools of philosophy, and the modem distinction between
sensationalists and idealists loas formerly that hetiveen Gaa-
sendists and Cartesians. Most of the French metaphycicians
have followed Gassendi, 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*' Gas-
sendi or Gondii lac. 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
id£as, 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 cert un 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 betiveen the sensation-
alists^ and idealists, bettoeen those who refer the whole phenomena
of mind to sensation, and those who recognise an independent
and intrinsic power in mind, but for which even the part whidi
sensation has in our ideas would be to no purpose, and we
would never get beyond sensation itself. It may well seem

<.|

INTELLECT.

idea, and resolve every facu ty l „" y .Jtr™ f °"
butanewphaseofsensaliou This'dMrt ]' ""md, mto
quenaydidOondillao. Ihe for^ laid f^f,, * ' '> T*"'-
appear plainty lo derive it, 7lTZml °"'^8a
although voudenvths m= ■ ,^ ™ ""^ "™«»; nnd
oppoufnt ZXvQ^^'rS 3",- -"-S .0 hi.

i- =e„»u;; yet ^•sJliu.':^rsX^2irJT''
Since our knowledo-p k «n „u; ^ 1 , "^^^''^^^^ss, to be true,

ino„™ion from th?" tt^mTSilf ""'."f ^" '"""^ -
>mdergoe. various mfdiLZ^* L'T:;': ff '"^™"'''
eition, division amrlifinnfinr, 7 T a^^alogy, compo-
proce ses wTich itl If ' ^^^nuation, and other siinL
f ^^"""^"j wnicn It IS unnecessary to enumprflfp " n^ a-u .
mode of stating the same truth or docSe "!« ^c^ f'
are nothing more fli«n /^^ ^ uocinnc v is,— " Our ideas
fiPPm« ♦. vT ^ , tramformed sensations." The vIpu.-

»ga.n, was the same sensation somewhaT 21,1 ""r'

matter and substance; these were uShI /, ' '^ """'
only in the sense of LiZ, I . ' ^ "'">' «'« "eas
Plain thlf J 1 , , ° ''•""'/"^ai swaf/ras. But it is

ht;:t eaja oVrir'r'""" "^^ '■^ » »™>«°" «

the seusatit: w "jS^ls r^ rdtolT*'' ^'""'
a sensation * Substenop il • -^ ' ^*' ^^ ^"^ sense,

is mat.r, a spfeies'rirLr 1 frrXT°^"T' "^

but an idea !nd •/ '''''*^^°- ^^^^^ ^« '^<^t ^ sensation

tinct?r:'n^^;runi4^ I^ri^^eir^.r'l'^^d "^^^^^^'^^ ^«-
moving in space.) If time is a tranir ' .^ ^^^ °''"P^'^"^' °^
the result of a success Z of 1*^7^"^^.^^ «^°s^«on, it is so as

i-owas:i:^^.XrrdTsis'rr:,t7i?i'

* See Note B.

INTELLECT.

as leaning to such a theory that he has been censured bv r
recent writer on the history of philosopliy, while it has been loo
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 holdin-
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 thai those guarded modes of state-
ment, now 80 necessary, could be deemed rcqul'lio 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 phi osophical writers, and the mistakes fallen into and
errors either to be avoided or condemned, make it the moro
requisite ^ocke, besides, seems to have written as he would
- have spoken, without much care as to his phraseology or the
ai-rangement either of Jiis 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
latended to deny the acthity 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 mcta!.
physical writing, if we may bo allowed to say so, had not
arrived at that stage ivhm mch activity loas needing to he
pointed out, or to he 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
mternal states,-" le monde de la conscience." If ho is not so
accurate xn tracing the occasion of the idea of power, or caus-
ality, still he refers it to i\io p^-inciple of causality in the mind

INTELLKCT. qq

i« haa .0 ofton observed to ha™ b , °h'„t t^''^ I '""'■ "'"''
mine! cornea by the idea 071™ •' ft ^.T'^t'*'''''' *^
Locke that the principle is liS bv Ti , u^™ '""" "«»"»*
ha, been freqnen'tlylr^J „ etst U isT:"" '"T "',^'
and one that ™rmnts a nniver^,! LTri,, P"»f •P''' «"«.

the future, and therefore ^.^iT-ZTZeT^Z ^

::::tL'trrpe::2rtr''?"'"^^"^^'^-^

the first Stat-. J»Tf ^' ''"^ ^^ ^® «^^» either upon

injrs hithtfl • ? '''*^' P'''^^^"^ sensations, or feel-

spontaneity But jZt """"*" »"" »«''"'y »'

besides senLi,;nvit,^r°*°'"^,\*''"°'" ""-"^ <" '^^^

act .'If it be'S'e;:^;^^?;;- rc^.'^.'-^^er'^'^^r.'-'

;n .he pr thr,:nrhrco^i:x;i:7;--'>-

that ideas in iha iir.^„,„* j- '^'^^ *^ ''■"7 ^n, 1 conceive

which is sU,*Lp^tron°orlr 'Z''-^'''' ='"»«""'
the body, as preduIT:" IceptZ Zt " T' ''"' "^
It is about these impressSLCZ mderetanding,

objects, that the mZdZZTf^ T" °™™ l"^ »°'™<1

tions a we X"reenZ £ k '""^'"^ '"' '" ™* "P""^
ing, &c. P™"?""". remembering, consideration, reLu-

" In time, the mind comes to reflect imnn ;». .
about the ideas get by sensation „nf 7 i " «P«-«tions,
aneweetofideS whill !•»»•/ 'J*''*)' ""■•es itself with
the impressions thara«m.r "^ "^ ""'^"™- ^hese are

that a,^ e.*„W to Tmtd Zt^ "" °""™"^ "''J^"'^
«^% from ,^„ ;1S : ^ ^^^ —OS. ^o.

Thus the «.;t:pi?^:-„-sv^^^^^^

100

iNTKLLECT.

fitted to receive the impressions niude on it, either through the
senses, by outward objects, or by its own operations when it
reflects on them. ... All those sublime thoughts whicli
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 n .. one jot beyond those ideas which
sense or reflection have ofl'ered for its contemplation." Here
Locke speaks of poioers intrinsical and proper to the mind it-
self; lohile even xoith respect to tJiose ideas ivhich are got hy the
senses, or are " conveyed in" as Locke expresses himself, hy 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, witliout 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 gel
an idea. An idea is exclusively a mental product: there is no
lo7iger anything of sensation in it. Gassendi and Condillnc,
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 Giissendi 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 everytl ing
that either exists or happens. God is the immediate inspirer
of every thought, as he is the immediate cause of ev^ery event;
4iay, according to Malebranche, our minds themselvis exist in
God as matter in space. It was his jiiety that led him to ado|>t

INTELLECT.

101

he c„o„,y by » coup de nu.in, but it wa» at the rlk of li
osophy „„,1 everything el8e: common ,en«e pemhedfn tt
hne of approach or mo,le of a«ult, Co„<lilir™,e 1 con
uleraUe tune after Malebranche, a. the latter flourhedabont'

wVT r'^' ,"" ''■"" °' °"^»™'''- ConJillae was foi
owed by the E„cyclopa.li.l,, and what he began with maW

«t.o„ the only faculty of the mind, and ever, d"a buf

a transformed .on»tion, his follower cLrrie-J all *rWth

o^ an „nd>,gu,»ed and unmitigated materialism. Mind ™

lout Ihomme. Phye,ology became the grand study and „hi
losopher, were found expending the greaL effoZf oldt

Zu fTsIT °° r'' ""-^ *"' »" ™ ""' 'he acti n and
Z, ! r ""'™- *'™'' '"'""''le information no

doubt was h™ acquired in the department for which Fmnc^

tl™ ZZ t" ''"""'T) "^■' *™'°8-l science Bn"
d ubZv ,' 7'"r ""^ 'f """" ™''>'"'le truth, and un-
Kerelf L' !;".'T'':™ °- """ f*™' oontribui;! to the

lut on What were Mirabeau's dying words in the presence
of that very Caban,s who had taught that the nerves were all

said ZlLZ ^ I . ^''°'''" P"" ' " I »l>all die to-day "
saidMuabeau on his deathbed to Oabanis • "all that c.™L

s"e7,:^:r;o *° ";*^ """'^-^^'^ '- ^-f--- "° ™- "net

selt with flowers, to surround one's-sclf with mnsin fKof
may sink quietly into everlasting deep' ThTers in hi« H .'"'

vat,one. Cabanis recanted doctrines which he saw ;„ tL

n"X: td Trf.' '° ""^ "■"'■S'^' *atdea.h «s
eteiral sleep, and if he had contributed to such a state of

102

INTELLECT.

I ]

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

Iitellection 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 %ure, 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 fimulties, ether 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 m if it had no independent existence,
and the Germans were right in mahing 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
propoi-ties 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

INTELLKCT.

103

time they have their counterpart without. This independent

ate™ b/which «. c^i:':/r;iz:rrd:,s

. both as opp„«,d to M„«.tioa a, the iim law or \tote °f tt'
mmd, and to any view that would stop short of ~1
the operation o ,„« purely or simpiy, even in the SS
of our most rad.mentary ideas. We know that in the a" ou„t
of the or,g,n of our ideas, in any intellectual system exo",°t°„
tho« sensafonal ones in which our ideas are'regardeTbi^

m kcd that mmd bears the whole part, and that sensation but
acts as a prompter, or as (he occasion of the mind's opemtionV
-.s the suggestive stimulant, if we may so speak, nouS
approaching to the remotest resemblance to fn idea The

and an idea-the one partly a corporeal, the other strictlva
meaW product. We vindicate the separate integrity rfmnd
te d,st,nct nature, and its independent action. HavTn"„b'
tamed its simple ideas, which are the rudiments 5T4 otht
.deas, savmg those which belong to taste and to mo a duty-
what happens after that ? hut that the mind regards its stonl.
.dea, un,kr different modiiications, thus formi^gts conS
ideas, or its ideas variously related. i-oaipiex

&/'„■' T"' '° •■^present the mind as possessed of certain
fa ulties, to account for its ideas, and its varied phcnomta

aesciiptiou of different powers, and thus we have-Sensation
Memory, Judgment, Perception, Conception, Abstraction Genl'
ralization-what Locke calls Composition-Imasination S»

the laeulties, and seem to be employed bj Locke for the afore
generic term Judgment. Judgment is the faculty whih Pr

lorms them into ideas. A name is nothing, if we reuUv imd- ■
Stand what we express by it. But would we call t a ; lot;"
or operation by which our simple or elementaiy idr ar^

104

INTEM,KOT.

Obtained by tho 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
terni 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
taculties, in the way of discernment, comparison, composition,
or, more gonencaliy, 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,~cousideT it as cir-
cumscnbed 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 pre-^ent themselves to
it, or may be capable of being considered-it is, in short, intel-
lection ovemtmg in various ways, or intellection affected vari-
ously by limitmg circumstances, supposed or nctual 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 equilatP^al or a
Rcaene triangle. But the arbitrary or modifying circumstpnoe
or the line drawn according to a particiUar figure, w >• ■.• ^ in
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

INTKLLECT. jq^

mgnitnde.s by which spnro ,nay be lueasured. Tho propertio«

ence of the ,m.ver.e : the universe is the effect God ;« //
nay, it was creatln nV T ? ''* '' ^""^ 8t„pene..„s ;

analogy, the law of proportion ' *'^^ ^^^ °^

principle ,,, „Hch „„ gc„e.?/lt^ ^.^re^^i^^^^^^^^^
ti.e pnnaple on which all ™.„„,-^ property ^lingteS

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 cur nature does not
come under our ^resent 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 mdi 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 niiud. '

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 poiver, 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
sunple ideas, in which extended operation we see the laws
above enumerated, and those principles of the mind— causality,
generalization, deduction. We have tlie voluntary actions of
mmd, attention, abstraction. We have the state of t-
tion, and the properties of memory and association.

.' magma-

INTELLECT.

107

XI.

Memory though mentioned so late among the phenomena
which m.nd presents, comes first under our consideratlw^
^nt-ed it so late because it does not belong tty.f I
more general phenomena to which may be referfed many of he
men al charactenstics. We have called it a property of min^

hlmind bvTr '"^^ '''"^ ''' ^PonLr^VcLTo'f
n. kw« f ^.1 r u ^*"^^ °"' P""^^*^^^ ideas, the modify,

ing laws of the mmd, the principles of the mind and even its
voluntary actions ; for although voUtion may exe t an infl ence
upon memory, so that we may set ourselves to recall any pa
event, this is not so mucli a voluntary act of memory Z ml
mory influenced by an act of volition.' All ie ZZZ Tl
of mind, indeed, are just mind under the influence oftutiT

Memory.

anfoX?,"' "■"■""'"""J' »■"«'""« »mq«e, or distinct from
any other pl.enomenon of the mind. Nor do we call it a faculty

of mind irr"' *°" f"^"'"'"^ "^ "f «■= Phtnomtfa
will the scat of moral power ; and heuce it i. that what are

TwW ■ J, ""^ "^ "> P"''''"'" ™<' °P™«ve as to give

to what . nothing more than a succession of deas in the iS
the aspect of a faculty. Even what are calW our iud 4 nte
are brrt ideas variously combined or related, but when"* ,5
ourselves to compare onr ideas, or invite thei presence i, The r
«b.on,a„u connexions, we are said to exert L ^tTj dg
mei.t. Ill the same way when we set oureelves to recall a „™f
Idea or event, we ore said to exert an act of Imor' Z
what t,uly takes place in each of these instancesT T„ ea h
jauce we have but ideas arising in the mind aoeorfinTto
certam laws or according to a certain characteristic or pZ^rt"
of the mmd, under the influence of volition, or „„ „.t „7,.uf

108

INTELLKCT.

IVill 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 id. s according to
certain laws ; because having obtained an idea, tJiaf 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 i\\Q mm^ poivers ov facidties, an^ 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 tliat 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 whinh 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 arc 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 ^aw 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, we would
comider the mind simply under the regulation of certain laws.
IJnnkmg, 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 ftom 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 ^OM;er of the mind; with
It alone can we properly connect the idea o^ power. What
tiienis memory ? We say it is that property or characteristic
of mind by which the past is recalled. Dr. Brown resolves it
into a smiple suggestion, or conception, with a relative feelincr
or idea of time ; or that suggestion or conception recognised as
belongmg 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 tlie 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 expfain tho
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
nnnd ; 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 o)
mind. Strange, singular law or property !— the past present !
recalled ! The past revived to tho mind ! How shall we ox-
plain this law, or rather, as we have called it, proi)eity ? 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 nairated in history, or transmitted by any other
mearvs, 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 otir 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 histor'
to us ; it would have been memory to Napoleon had he lived
to peruse it. We remember only what is happened in our
own time, and within our own experience ; md in reference to
events that have happened in our own time though not within
our own experience, we rather remember when they happened,
than rememoer 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 i-! the past recalled ; in the other it is the
past conceived of

! %

INTELLECT.

Ill

But It 18 memory when the last moment is recalled-when
the last Idea :s 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 elementaiy ideas tiit
away as if it had ne^er been, the instant that it was expe-
nenced we would have no such ic'eas, and though the sensation
m ght be prolonged, still it would be prolonged in vain, for
only the sensation of the present moment would be known It
IS by o'lr sensations, or ideas, being retained in the mind as it
were, even when they are truly past, that that operation ;f the
mmd takes place by which an idea is produced, or new ideas
arise. How marvellous the process of the mind ! Memorv is
nece^saiy to every discrimination of an idea, and to every pro-
cess of discnmmation which is implied in reasoning The past
flows into the present, and makes part of our present thoughts

l/J^rT* ^rr' '^' '^' ^^^"^^^°* ''^^-^ 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 recoui^e to what he terms the doctrine of vi'rtual

equivalence. The mind is one and indivisible ; there cannot

Di. Brown says, be two thoughts or ideas in it at the same

time: the complex idea, therefore, is not two ideas-it is

a very difficult subject- we know not if it is a satisfactorv
explanation, an explanation, viz., of the virtual presence TZl
ide s in the mind at the same time. We may take it as th
best that can be given. In every complex idea that pheuo
menon is presented. But what shall we say of a past idea and
a present, and a process by which a new idea re^ut ? 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 Tn the

thew" :r '''"'- ""'"^^'y ^-^^ "P *1- thread frm
the past which IS to mix with the present moment, or the Z

1 'iTrt T""'^ ' '' *'^ ^^^^^ -^ *he 'woof of t
mind. It IS the two seen together in the mind that gives us a
new produo . And how rapia may be this process ! wlo 1
catch the electricity of the mind ? who can oW^.p .^c ^w'ft

! (

112

INTELLECT.

shuttle ? who can mark the blending thoughts ? Memory is
as reaUy m operation in the recalling of the past moment, as
in the recallmg of the past year, or the past twenty ye'ar'
And this 18 by far the most important act of memory_if we

-tor but for this, mmd 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

mpn J Tr*T. r^°"g«^ ^r ''^Peated 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 Laken a mental
act The mmd 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 oi-
state IS the -esult, and we have traced the progress from the
first mental act or state onwards till the whole of onr primitive
Idea, are obtained. Memory is that wonderful property of
mmd by winch one state of mind is recognised to be the same
with a past state of mind, so that tlie past and the present
become one, and we have a continuity of feeling owing to
which we hve 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^feell the
sensation of the present moment; but in pleasure or pain the
feeling is prolonged: the past is multiplied into the present

feelings What an important end this must subserve in the
constitution of our nature must be at once apparent. No two
contmuous feelings would be felt to be such, but for this law

we wonnT ""• "^^ "^"'^ ^"^'^ "° -^*--«d identit; :
we would ive in moments. The treasured experience of the
past would not be. Nothing would be dist nguished no

INTJOLLECT.

113

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

" Poor stumller on the rocky const of wo,
Tutor'd by pain ouch source of pain to know,"

would have no application. The first law of our bein--self
preservation-would have no existence : for how cou d ;e sett

recognised ? Or how could we know the sources of pain when
we knew only the pain of the present instant ? Melrvl^

the thread of their continuity, the amber in which they lie
the reflex act by which what is past is yet present This
a lows a recognition to take place it allows a Ten ll It
and where a mental act has been exerted there is knot
ledge. Mind is essentially formative: it gives un y cZ
sistency, character, to our feelinoN TI.a n. j^n^y, con-
becomes .eIf-c„„.c,o'us : the sen wteing" ^Z r,,,-'™""
the depository of sensation,, the posses«>r and dCnw^f
knowledge, Snch a law or arrangement it is thatt ZTthe
ve,y im^servafon of the sentient, eo„scious, intelhW atent
Pam becomes not only a sensation, but a reo«y,„-X„Xn

source . and by a law or principle of the mind which is to
come under o„r attention, we can predict it in connerion with
any c^stanees or con« of evente, or known c™ «

eltete a„rSLrV" "' '"" '»»"'«''A intellect::,
thTT , 'f'',"'^""' P^P-ess; that experience which is

ta^wS;: mat ' » :i Trt^i^ *' -^ """-"" *«'

knowledf r ' "«'"''"* Soes to constitute other

dutT thf ' M T"'"""' "'•»''' -J'' "1»«1' is our hVht in

114

INTELLECT.

t I

wise of every age aro our iiistructorH ; all nations levy wistloin

for our peculiar benefit. It is true, that memory extends only

to our own past consciousness ; but this does not liinder but

thnt the consciousness of otlicrs may be trcasuied for our good.

All proverbs owe their origin to this source: tliey aro the

gathered wisdom of ages and of peoples. How many obser^'a-

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 tho

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 sonie

mind : it gathers into consistency, and becomes a proverb for

ever. Some happy utterance luider some happy insi>iration

may give it form. How many such utterances are never caught

up I 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 aro 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 I
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 tho pLymates 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 conie 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

INTELLKCT.

115

tliat shull never be elKiced. fonnin.r while if .»,oi . , ..
Imagination. I oaa recollect a ran^ T tu ^ ^*:^'':
the western horizon, whose ontline, Varied al" ^tX^^^

" Scotland's northern battlement of hills"--

tu,« m the and.cape. The road which had these in vi^w
iiua-ination Tl,,-. f . " /'tto>™rds portrayed to the

worti/'in'rird: ""*'■■■:"" " "^^^ »^-'

I 1, , tender or excitiiit; scenes of which

I have ever read are ™tly connected wirt, one ench sn„T

ro7ch -stt^^^sr' irorthf: '-r ?-"'

ing the sepnichre, with the"'. ":i:[„*:/;rart si t
alway, to be re-enacted, often as I read of these elte CW
and Mary seen, to stand hefore me „„ that ver.pot T
leepmg g,,ards and the earthquake, ».„d the risini lus-th,
interw „f « eepnlclire and the watching an.4-a,d thl
Z'tlaTplat"^" """•'' '^"'^— " ^-ialiyas:l::i

]o,r „v. J • ' ' ^^ *'^^ place where we are fn

X:" ; t' hZlZi ':htic hi -' [Tr "'" "- -

to the redeenred wi„ he forgotteT'ot wl,',' rdi::'.?, ^'i;; E

lie

INTELLECT.

would aff'urd pleasure to the lost will Ikj swallowed up in the
overwh'jluiing 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 exei-cise so vast and so exalting !

Imagination often blendfc 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.

undouUed.,, takes up ,h^ :ZZU^:7^C''"^

Ihe Pleasures of Memory." as well as "Tl^n pj '.

Hope," „,.o the .ubjeoe of ^'oetio det^JXtT™™
with respect to both for the exereise of imn,ri„ation T^

r,7« of '""f^-ation in itself is pIc J„>' T^e je "tateZ
itself a source of rlplurlif .^.. , i f ^^ ^'''^''^ 'S

fact which is „:;^:Sb: ■ z'ticTVV ^ ""'™*°

able .0 i™„i„atio« i„ the •^^rittl-Zu''''-
delight-miist be essentially pleasurable lIT , *'™

unwilUn, e„ „.,,,„., „„^^ I ,Pi«* tlfa 'isl:™'"

the effect ™„st be a pleasurabk 1: iZ^u tt u^r't
■ng to add its charms o. lend its colou™ M? f ""'"
work itself, using its power of eteti: a^d rfsZl tl"'
the green spots in the past, like palm-^oves ° " ^^

" islanded amid the waste."

the'sallicutf: t '"r"', """"^ *« -'«*■' -«■

in its picture, the featu«l Inhf l! ^'"' "' '^ "'" »" "P
would produce pain If ? .! ' '"' ""-"""stances that

hood, I donrrSwi h b?" , '""" *° ^l""* "''"J' W"
."igh't chau» tTb ; in ,,^ t'"T7'' ""^-"'«'"'>i^.
pleasures of the p^ZSi ^T V^ "°"-'%the

liko a listed liel.1. ' f Zmo "In -■ " "■'"''- "™"^"'^'

' to recall uio smile ami ail that is

\i'

118

INTKLLKCT.

j)leiusing in the recollection of a parent, I forget liis 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
revivetl. Time, too, has undoubtedly a mellowing influence, a
softening eflPect, like distance in the landscape, or age on a
building.

" As tlic stem prnndciir of a Gothic tower
Awes lis legs dueply in its inorning hour,
Than whon tho shniles of time Bcrenely full
On every broken arch iind ivied wall ;
Tho tender iniiiges we love to truce
Steal from each year a nielnnclioly 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
promi^^e in the clouds : —

*' At summer evo when heaven's aerial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns tho musing eye,
AVhose sunbright snn)niit mingles with the sky V
Why do those cliils of Khadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure line."

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 memoiy 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 g.ay Hope her airy colouring draws."

Hope is a sort of -c.ieralization from the past, eitlier our own
past or tliat of others. It will hardly venture upon pictures

INTKLLECT.

119

winch the past does not warrant. The past and thn f„*
something hke the hon.on from ^hiJ'^lZr^^':''^^'^

TaZ of tl '^''':^'''ir ^""^^^^^«« ^^ »^«'- conceptions. Th"!
rert n W ^"' '''" ^"''^^''^ "P"^" «^^t«"als got from ex-
I^ne .ce. Hence the Muses are the daughters of m' Irv

18 very analogous to the creative faculty in poetrv Th Jf '
whether in externa nhttf ^ u '^^''^^'•'^"^ resemblances

Human Mind » but w« m, . Philosophy of the

t™ i„ addit,„; to ir hXX' "'"" " '"^'^ '^™"' "■■

i!i

imKmamimftm

W!»n

120

INTELLECT.

' \

t n

Memory, to be coraplete, 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 tlu power of memory.
This is a power or pro{)erty 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 tli' 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 isolateil facts which have no philosophic bond or

"X"

INTELLECT.

121

prmciple of connexion. Surprising instances of memory are
exhibited by nnnds 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 histor. and
the mmut^e 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
mmd of far more common or ordinary character. But, again
these particulars being bound together by no common pii^iple
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 retenhve. There are, however, instances of great
retentiveness even in the case of memories whose objects Ue
isolated, without any common bond. The phUosophic memory
again is generally not a ready one. It has regard to principled,
and It always takes more time to recall and arrange a prinlle
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, liurko was not a fluent
speaker, because his speeches were big with philosophic i.rin-
ciple and, accordingly, are the speeches which alone, of those
of all t e 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 hWits

expiied ''""'"'"*' '''"''" *''' ''"*''^' '' '^^'''' '^"« blazed tand

122

INTBLLKCT.

if)
If

I i

i !

A remarkable i.mtance of a susceptible or quiek memory is
related of Porson the celebrated Greek scholar, who is said to
imve been able to commit a whole newspaper to memory driv-
ing through the streets of Oxford. Sir Walter Seott a.r.in
almost never forgot what he had once read, and hewas a walk-
nig library of ballad lore and legendary story. Instar.ces have
been known of the whole Bible having been con.mitted to
inemory. How prodigious and how ready must be the memory
ot the lawyer, to quote precedent after precedent, and date dter
date, and to refer the jury or the judge to the very volume, and
the very hue of the page, where each is to be found !

The question whether a great juemory and an eidarged or
plnlosoph.eju.lgnient are compatible, is already answered • for
the cases in which they do not seem to be compatible are only
those in winch <h. remote analogies of philosophy occasion
some hesitancy or greater slowness in recalling the appropriate
objects ot the philosophic memory, while n,e objects of the
memory which seems to be greatest, merely from its being
most ready, are the less valuable ones of unassociated or dis-
jomted facts, which may have been retained, not from any
capacity ,n the memory itself, but merely from the habit of
lu.nd 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 an.azing extent of
mformat.on such as it is, which they possess, and command
over It which they at all times seem to .,ave, as to the peculiar
habit and predilections of mind by which such persons are
characterized.

Susceivtibility of memory is greatly assisted by altention, and
tMaihy 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 sloH^y acquired. Much, ahnost all, depends upon the in-
terest wh.cli the subject-matter excites. The true secret of
memory, therefore, is to have the interest of the mind en^m-ed

^'jKw

mTEf,LEC!T.

123

Tliat being the case, the memory will literally achieve won-

XII.

By the phenomenon of memory the conHciousness of one
moment is prolonged into the next. From this arises the feel-
.n^' of our jndividuHl, or as it is generally ternied, personal
tdtnMy. 1 he con^consncss of the one moment is recognised
ns the eonscionsness of the same being with that of the next-
ihejechn<j of identity comes in connexion with that ph^no-
rnenon, and rnay be inseparable from it. It is an intnition of
tie ramd Ihe first reference to a oomciou8 self m nothing
else than this feeling or belief of identity.

PkUSONAL iDENTITy,

Mncl, that i„ „,clc«» or trifling h„ been written and spoken
upon tl„» .„l,jeet. To mi,e „ qncntion a, to onr identity STt
,«^on,d, ,nd,v,d„al, or, a, Dr. lirown terms it, mental idCtt;

»en,« very al,,„„l: to ^„V.( to «« aVo«,<„c6 of ,elf-eomoi„„»'
nes,, or t ,e feel „g of personal identity, through all tl eTtaTof
or mental and phonal history, is very ditf^rent. It .""a er,
l.ttle whether we eall it personal or mental identity; sure y u"
uuneeos»ary to enter into any elaborate proof, as Dr. Drown an
others have done, to cvinee that identity, and to ma ^totaTte

mdiwd ual 8ell-eonsc,ou» bemg. Dr. !!„„„ espeeially l,„, been

aborate upon this snbjeet without mueh reason, ,rs wo mmb v

tl.n,k ; tor an identity of some kind, whether as the result „f a

the real sell_th„ eoul-cnnnot be disputed, and it were idle to
"rg- ".tl. any that would dispute it. There m7be some

^nllwrru""" '"""''.'"^ ■" T'»"-°" ".--»^ueer„,
.■ t mat :, r "™"°r =■" '' -••at w have to appeal to
m t be mattOT of all our primitive belief., even our belief in th,.

S^to o::„r'" ■""' ™*'; . ^•" ^ "-^ ^^^X

wnetner to oar organic or our th tikin-^ self is to i.i.f nn «« w
.l.«cu.,sion by u,aking it „sole» to disoC ' wti ',!,"„':

124

INTELLECT.

one how any question is settled, if ho is not, or if he does not
know that he is the same poi-son, 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 pas es,
from infancy to manhood and old age, and in all the states in'
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
pomt 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
arc 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 comtituted by the union of soul and
body; and the question seems to be, how this personality
remams 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 tlie 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.

126

mind is alive to all the solicitations of fancy, and the excur
sions of th. imagination f

Who would suppose that the soul of that infant is to wield
the destznies of empires, or is to unravel the myste e o^ tl e
umverse, or is to deal with the highest themes of hum"
thought, and awaken the admiration of the world by itsTs
covenes or by the splendour of its genius ? How differ nt tie
power of mmd at one period and at another I Was Sn at
sd.001 the same with Milton when he wrote the VaZ^eCt?
Was Newton when a sickly boy the same as Newton when he
^ote the Prmcipia, and determined the law of gravftatTon P
Who could predict a Cromwell in the brewer's sonf 71 Napo
eon m the youth at Corsica ? That mind, that c;n nL tfke"
in all the complicated aflfairs of states and empires maZll
correspondence almost too voluminous foras^Sm ,n
the case of others, to pemse, lead in a hundred batur;^
brace the minutest arrangements of the equipmenUnTm arches
ofarm.es, and of the etiquette of courts wield fhlT?!

suspended in amazement as well as in orJnP a ,

126

INTELLECT.

Second, the companion of u Villiers and of Chaiies 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 wliich 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 ridicu'e, 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 ? la 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 u\) ? 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-
sonality in such a case ? Which of the bodies will be raised

INTELLECT,

127

body; a' inoo^pSwe Cciir'T" "" °"" " "'""'•'"

TaTreti^ftjcreo)?. " W^ m,,ai. „„ . . ^ "^ nu filiation—

before the }n,^.:Tjl^'^ ZZaTf^ ''''''
mystery; we shall not all sleep but we «hJ^I ' V /°" '"
personality preserved in ./f ^' f ^7^. ^^^'^^^ l^« ^'hanged (the

twiniding of an eye at th Lf r^'^ '\ ' "^''"^"*' ^° *»^«

and this n^ortal n.ust put on irnl" i^fVo" TT-^'""'
ruptible has put on incorrunt ^n 1 1 .u- ^'" *'"' '^°''-

put on immortality then ZnT; T l'! "^'"''^ ^'"^^ ^^^«
that i. written, D;;hrs:alt ed u^u^ILT ^^^ ^^^^"^^
It IS in such a connexion, and in such a vL of it Plnn.
that the question of identity possesses any importance The
Identity of the soul cannot be doubted for a moment or
sion any difficulty. It passes through chants lit '*! oh °'''"
of state inconsistent with identif J wlwf ' f , ^^''°^^'
consciousno.. Me™„,,;,;L™rtC '':S; ^^^^^^ -
ever, moment in one, and every cbansre a„ \.7,T . "

A few more remark, will close this snbjeet, "

composed ; L respfcts tllT'. ! "" ^'""'"^'^ "^'"^'"^ '■ «
minnlest ,^f thZ therl f ' ' """''' ™ ""'"' "' ""«
identity. Tl e o^i^ta ' ,1°^ r" ', '""^ "°«'™ - «--

«™n.ment„ft.L-rr,'L1:tSt;LS:i^l:-

/fF"

128

INTKLLEOT.

particles for others which have passed away. A constant
change of this kind is taking plac^ 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 tlie
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 tlie 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 wlien first we gazed on it, and it will be the same
in form and aspect, perhaps, when it will be looked upon for

INTIil.LKCT.

'2'.)

tlie last time before it is enveloped in the final fires Thor. •
a law of unity even in respect to it, in the orde of itJ
and eomposition of its strata. So with our bodi ^ T"'
Jdentity xs preserved amid all their change it is h^ «"

its unity and 1^^^^^!^ bn t p7 ''""*"" *'"* ^^^^ ''
that mav be Onr !i °^ *^'' '*''"*^*"'-«' whatever

everywhere evidences of a uJtvJl^^hr''^' ""' ^°
80 far from exDlainin,' « V "'"*'*"'="' J""* ™

in vLcl an thir """^ "'"'='' '=°"»'""'«» P™™''"'^
n.i„<I He^e' Tao , t" ^ '■""'^' '' '""'"'''^' '" *<' Divine
with t,.f oytetrl t 7re:rn"'?.S° ^""' °?'°'"^
raw „p, and with what b dr ' ,% Si Tif f f

that which thou sowpst ,•« n^f • i , ^^^'^ ^o^'j

spects as before death Wi i ' '" ^" ^^^^^''^''^i re-

differ fron it but \T "'' °"^^ '''' «'^^« «f bodies

law which ar:::^ 'or tr,'^^^^^ ^r- -^ ^^^

Btitutes the personalitv irevlrv r. r'°'^'*^'""^^^""-
remain. We shall no be bff? ^^ ''"^^' '"''• ^^^^* ^^i'l
from what we were here Th! ^?f ^" '^' resurrection

body; thecomplete p Jt^^^^^^^^ '^^ "^"\^^ *° ^*« own
body will be reconstituted anL^^^^^^^^ '" '^' '''''

is this doctrine of identi'tv rl . J ""''' ®^ "^'^'^
bodies of departed i:e'sTrr " '"^^'^""' ^^^* *^«

living. For in arguing vth the Z7"" ''"'' '''"^"'^^'^ ^
ouin^ with the Sadducees in regard to a case

if I

130

INTELLECT.

proposed by thera, 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. Death, I will be thy plague I Grave, I will be thy
destruction 1"

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
soulj it is identity of substance, and as we have remarked, this
follows from its immateriality ; while again, its imraateiiality
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 mnst 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

he resurrec-
ipoken unto
,nd the God
God of the
Luke has it.
as if alive ?
they arise."
n of Christ
account of
His saints
lost even in
. them with
*" Awake
as the dew
will redeem
)wer of the
will be thy

om that of
sase of the
larked, this
raateiiality
its identity.
xnnihilated
lange to it
; it cannot
!/^^ cease to
'e seen, but
ir the same.
!8S. In re-
manhood.
With the
isciousness.
Tie that we
lemory can
ied herself
(isaction on

INTELLECT.

131

her mind with England, which, at all events l« not r.. ^ a -
lustory, but respecting which 'she wa " ;' " trTl .^
veiy mcoliercnt, and obviously very indZant L ^ ^
ness here was shaken from its throne ft irnk of "'"

with her real past was broken anSTf \ connexion

"«^""g to It. jjiit when the mind is fianf^ ,-fa ««+•
consciousness remains, and it feels itself t^l.n!i' '*\^°*'''°

everchi:^ "1* 7lr " T"" '■°""'"=™««y ? Could
often q„„tea soyiDg of Wordsworth'., '" '"

" The boj, i, ii„ f„|,„ „f ui^ ^^„

euccessire etoges of that lioi„„ rn •. u "Tougn all the

development rorh^lMtr^' . 'T "^'^'^ "» <■""«'

con.cio'us of i J TdeX The T° • ° "^ "" '""^' " '» '«'

intothefntnrew rM >rith III the"'-';'"" "'" «° "'* "
oon.oi„„™e.3-thri:l:!i /—-*-/- that

nes8. It i, this identity whioh will form TitT T

g~u„d of all our judgment. re.pelg oaCilTd To "•'
judgment resnppfi-no- no j u- ^ ourselves, and of God's

TheVndStdL Lto°f th^ '"r"'? '" ^^="»'-<' "" »»•
ceedupon every indWd°!l°/ •? .^^ ""'' ""^ '^<"«' "»' P™"
that idLtity T ,e ;tw il t '■ """ !''' """""^^^^ of
all ita past history the 7 L™ TI '*''" '" """ "»°'™'
starting into S 7- . '''"'''' ■°™»'y had fo,gotten

awakening elll 2't"'' "' l*"^ ""^""S '-»■■■ "r

1". or d^htCrn^h y :ir:*^r.td 'j'"° "r^'r

very sentence that is to prooeed fram^h?,r T." '" ""
and the happiness that :iirhtln!rknrnrt:r::in*:i„*l"^^'

imK".

J 32

INTELLECT.

xm.

We have ccnsidored tluit property of miiul by wliich 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 I
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
resr It ? 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 ; tliere 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

J-..

INTELLECT.

133

forms : I discern the properties of matter, I trace its laws- I
SCO reason as distinguished from wnreason, (if I may coin a
phrase) : my simple ideas are combined; space becomes magni.
tude, capactty: they are modi/ied; spa^e becomes figure ■
hrue gives me the notion of eternity ; these are further modi-
/erf; the properties of figure and number evolve: dimension
and tmie are measured : the position and duration of the planets
are fixed and calculated : their ,,eriodic 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 o. ; now-
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.
Jiut why do we call it intellection ? Because if we ask our-
selves, what judgment is ? we can give no answer but that it
18 a process of mind, or, in every single instance of it, an act of
minct by ivliich an idea arises or residts 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 movincr in
space, and it obtains the idea of space, what clearer notion does
It give me of this process to call it a judgmen f . 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
m like manner, when in a mathematical problem I construct
a c rcle or triangle according to certain requirements, or, in a
mathematical theorem, I prove that any two angles of a

!Zt.Z '?"'^^ ^''' ^'^''^^ ''''''^^' ^"g^^«' ^'^^^^ the
quare on the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to

t bleToTtb ""'''i"P'" ''^ ^^^'^^' ^° any mathematical
problemor theorem whatever: as respects the successive acte
of the mind by which the result is arrived at, the problem
a comphshed, or the theorem proved: what cleUr dLo'^y

calHhem :r: '' !'"' ^^^^ ^^ "''' *^^^"^ J<--^^^ than o
call them simply acts or states of mind ? This being irue 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 i spective 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
objectp 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 laios. 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 hr been established, or
must exist in the universe ; and the ii ,1, 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

o ^ect, are confused and supposed to be other than they are

ihe person who i8 the subject of this derangement or aberra:

.on exists m a world of his own. He is I prince-he Ta

ZrZl P^f «^«^^-J-'- has some high misL to

^tfre. h 7" '''^'' '"^J^^*^' ^''^ <^^«*hedin regal
ittire , he has a crown on his head ; he wields a sceptre -or
he IS required to announce some great truth, and all must

t 2; s" f •''.' "'■"' " '"^^^ *^ ^''^' *h-« -h-e

'ft- .'"''' '^ '' ^^' " >^^^«^^*^ «/^^'^^.- we say it is by
W. M^nd decerns these. And so with resemblLl and
con rast, so with analogy, so with proportion. The relations

tZl , ^^^'^ ""^^ ^' ''''^''"^ ^"^« ^^«"*'"*y ^»d diversity.
Ev nts 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 sedations and idea^ are
lecogmsed as the same at the different times of their bein.
prese.^ to the mmd. The law reigns among our internal st2s
as well as among external objects. It is thus that our internal
taes become ^..mm/na^ec^-their identity is recognised, and
thei^- diversity from other states is marked. Diversity, there-
ore IS the co-refe^e of identity, and the two form the ground-
vork of all the other laws, and consequently of all the other

Resemblance.
Identity, not individual identity, bat the identity of classes

clls'T ',*™r™"'"™"^' "■''««'• Objects exS
olas«s ; these classes have nearer resemblances to other claws

TronAt in ! , T'-rf™ """ --"Wanccs, cannot be
brought m contact with them without i>erccivinK them It
does not constitute them. There are re ombiances wW, i
«. mgeuuit, may constitute, as whou we pcccive a e o
Wancc between wit and an essence, „r betwL the sL«i .

•Wf*

13C

INTELLECT.

of wit and laughter, and the flash of the h'ghtning 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
Btill diversities, and perhaps, strictly speaking, we can never
arrive at a species infima, althougli 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
pm-pose served by difierent objects, agreeing in the purpose
which they served, but diverse in every other respect ; but in
such a case, thougli the useful object could be accomplished,
how could this be known ? Instead of a class being ihscern-
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

INTKLLIXT.

137

lespcctively recognised dewni """"I and matter are

ingsofconL-ouls^^detSaf .oT "'"■''» ■''^^Ming feel-
concerned, though n^n:;"!; ^^I^^'T °""''°«' '»
rather than identical Tl,. J ' *««'<"■« resembling

.esemhlanees that'tvaU a'rr^P^'t '" <'='="">8 thosf
qualities under clasLT We .et f,,""^ '"'* ™'"'"«^" »"
two generic substances which d vild T ''™''*'"S' """ "'e
»cl mind, that these were he I i '^T""-^ «"= matter
e-0'thing else ma, be indu e .' SllT.r''" *''
or spiritual. But the same law „, "T™ « » "'*" ""te™'

dassifl»,i„n, gives us ottrsZrlrer^* '"^ ™ *'^
rosemblancc, are detected, so thaf onf ; .'*" •"'■ ^"'"^
and the universe is reduced to ler ^"'^ "P^^ress,

hihils to the mind the order °tr ""'' " "' ^ " '^•
things exist to the in „d no mltl' '' .'"■''™'''- Hence

hut as animate and inau mate tr ^ T "f ""' ""'' 'P'"""''.
the orders, genera, p^rol' S "'" '"""""■"^ '«'<' »1'

'aiiied. Hoi, thi^ ZZ o L paXtl "'',"'•■ " -"^
»ay smi,.ly of an arrangement , Ir T '^ ^ "' P'"™ '" ""^
<'■• quahties which are s«n to e emh e »' f """^'' °y»''''

an original and intuitive prcrof'b°''''.''r'''', """"'''''« '»
'he Piinciple of .e„e.„/4- : ' ,;, *;eT;:i •' ", "'' " *
possoss i)roi)erties in eonm„m « "''"'^f "''JCcts are seen to

-head; ^..t .eneraS^^I^: tj^' '' 7^ "'^^-
"Pon an original law or princinle If r ^ . ' '""'^ ^'^''^'^^
to be considered hereafter M^ I ' "''"^- ^^ «'" ^on^e
«-t principle, thr l^ietifnT ^ "• f' •"''' *'^'^* ^^ ^^
'•"erring, according to which?,! j ', '"^°^' "''•'^^^^^'We ^^d
stances, we proceed to a ^ tl .^ 7^;';;--^^-^ -cun.
tl^ese circumstances appear ,r T' ^ f "'^J'^'*^ "^ ^^^'^^

objects belong to one cfass'^^ n '■"'^"^^'" ^'"^* *»'«««
which characterize that class a" ."^'.'" '"/^^ *he particulars

H'.persedes the necessity of observin!! /l' " .7 ''^' ""■"^'' ^"^^
" class before we ventu o to d, ;' (V 'f ^•"''^"''^'^ «^

ciasMry. (Jassihcation would he

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 gramiaivorous 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

If ^4

i'M

INTELLECT.

139

that i« acting or operating as mind acts or operates Wp .
more easily conceive power, in matter than we ^n in t ."
In any one instance of the mind's «>,.. ^ "^'^'^-

mind that we perceive or t Zt^^/^;,'"™'';^
power ■„ operation ; and it, phenomena Za^^n.t '
teio laws, characteristics, or pronerti™ „f J- T ,„ f '*''"
it i» different. We can c„„n """'• ^'"^ ™'te

even although w^seem toT Zr!;? "' "''"'" '""^"^ '•■" "-
to what is iateriti Tw^ *;; °^^'"g »™*»g »pirituj
that seems to be in mZ Zl J^^ T- ?l '*^'^' ""^ ""'j' P»«r

po.er„rwi,,x^Ttlt::T:::^'.;;:;*^^^^

ing an act of will This wp ao,, • "" J"^'^ willing, exert-

aoy othe. of the'mentS Z^^^Z aU^ ' T '''''
see that in any of fhe vhemm.lTT • ^ ^'''"*'' ^^ ^^^

which is actin. or exhib tTnrr u'""^' '' '' *'^^ «^^"^ ^^^^^f
to exert an act^if^/dgt^^^^^^^ ^^ *^« --d

of felt or perceived refaTion or l'^'"? *" ^^'^* ^° « «<^te

or according to whillt ' r. '^■!:* '" *^"* ''''' ^^ ^hi<^h,

ftgam, the states in which objects exist r^l, ^'■"'''* P"'*'
themselves, or to one ano£ Sw*^"' '^.^^*'«"« ^"^^'^g
those states. ^^'^^''^st, opposition, is one of

CONTKAST.

l^as oecome o.^o.eV.b;.. For inTtence t '"'^ *^" ^*

a« height dinnnished to Tee tt «? 7? ^ '""^ ^' ''^^^^^^

what is lowin oneposition or pit ?"; ' '"'' '""■'"^^'^'
in another. The same wifb Tli f comparison, may be high

of right and wronrTi fe i nT; T ''"'' '' ^^ °"^ ^^^^
fore contrast is jutt a diff 1^/ "*' '*'"^^^^' ^^"^ ^^ere-

auality. Uglineslotdettrvlt'T^Va'd "T ^'^"^ °^
or less .rem the law of beanW « ' J . '^*'°" S''^^*^''

^rfssisssvssrtrifmmmmmm

140

INTELLECT.

1 ^ The sublime may sink by a less rapid gradation into the ridi-

; cnlous, 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,
Aiid \vrithed him to and fro convolved, so sore
The griding sword, with discontinuous wound,
PaBs'd through Iiim :"

while we are told that Moloch,

" Cloven to the waist, with shattor'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 spini ual beings, and produce the
most disastrous effects — this is undoubtedly ludicrous, and we
are forced to laugh when Satan thus addresses his compeers : —

" friends, why come not on these victors proud?
Erewhile they fierce were comiiig ; and when we.
To entertain thcin fair with open front
And breast, (what could wo more V) propounded terms
Of composition, straight they cliangcd their minds,
Flew off, 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 absolutciv ludicrous, but

INTELLECT.

.t mu8l be a lowed that the sublime and the riJi „l„u, ar.
very elose „e,, hbour,. The »me proximity i» InT Z
descnption of Satan's flight through ehaos Zl Z f -
admissible. The poet might indut som^ ^ Th: frnZ

-her ™gh„ or ^elti:;^^' ™ ^S^? ve^ o'r
.«>us e,rc„„sta„ees amid the war of the elemen J, Se h^"

.h»r T, L°™'" *™ ■• "■"' ""= P-"" "0 'J»"M fit t w„^
that e„„M happen was too good for snch a messenger of m"
chKf. We have another illustration of the same Approach of
opposrte or contrasted qualities, in the hideous fig,°„ef
on omeof our most beautiful styles of architeoturT an^ffl

=trs;e'"m:^::^rTS:s:f^r~^^

Some law ™J have JLVLZT:!:'' ST:lZ
snblime made at* o^ T teTw' "I '°"'"""" "" ""^

gradation. Wh^s L„ n ;-^ ' ^ """' """' '" °'*'"'"'

HMIIWVI

■rap

142

INTELLKOT.

Berious,— ludicrous when it was given in fiction. Don Quixote
excites your mirth, because he never excites your pity. There
is a gradation from the suWime 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 gov^d
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 exi?^ in the universe. What state of things would that
be m which no one object resembled another, nothing was
similar or homogeneous, but everything diverse or heterogene-
ous 1 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

INTKLLKCT.

that chaos out of which the present order of th. ., •
sprang ? Can the minrl o^«„ • n *"® universe

or existence ? Tf « '°°'''^' °^ '""^ ^ «tat« of bein<.

must have its hke Pprli„n« fK r''^''^"^a»ce. Every object
monad of matter there arp n fl^nn. i "Keness. lo each

illimitable. The numbL £ . f" 'u' ^'"^ """^ •"= »»

not only what no man could nu.o^t^r T T ?'"°'' ""^ "^
But how much farther Zl 1 ' • """^ '"' incalculable.

of systems, binds them tot her B„ °™'i'""? ""' """j'
to our own planet, how^autf , the ,1^:," "f ""J '"'"^
to thk law I All is beautiful harmony wrroT' """^
.oaven, and wo ^e one vast flrmamenT W Z h m''"

see its ordcrrr,^i:elTir T^''*'"'™'^*- ^e
"3 .=erb. t«es, So^lltLil/S ^^ ^

among fhe diff^t ol;" /irS^ '"" »■"»'»'"«

Stances, in our world Th...\ f . ''*""^' °'' ^ub-

«-r identity, and tt thfirm oTan -1 7™"'""' "
rustle of the riMnini- ™;„ * .i ^'* """& or the

orash of the tl Ider frorth. M "^' "' ""^ «'"' »■■ «"«
ing vapour, we ha^a ^u"; ^ZIT'^I^ '" *^ «-'•
".-rm and under which^ lll^tS^ ZTaSi^

"»»St=;.,i:;:ir;"^'"^' '■**-'•*•■«. .^ .».i.. ^

144

INTKLLEOr.

III

of its operatiou, mighty as the void or interval between the ex-
tretues 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 cf 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 jdeasure 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 loolcs 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. Eveiy
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 Chamonn; fi . ^

the other to the spirit at least of nutuT Th^m' °°' *' ^"''
Coleridge's miad was one of deep anS Lfd n TT°" "^'^
solemn and lofty devotion :_ Prostration, yet of

" "7! '^™ " '=''"™ to Btay the morning star
In hm steep cour.o ? .So long he «een,« to panne

On thy Law uwful head, O Sovran Blunc!
Ihe Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Ravo ecaselessly ; but thou, most awful forn. -
R.sest from forth thy silent sea of pines
Howmlentiy! Around thee and above,
I>eep .s the air, and dark, substantial, black
An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it '
As_w.thawedgc! But when I look again,

^''•yhabUaUon from Eternity!"

Coleridge closes the hymn thus,—

" Tl'ou, again, stupendous mountain ! thou
1 l.at as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upwanl from thy base,
Shnv travelling, with din. eyes suffused with tears
Solemnly seomest, like a vapoury eloud, '

To nse before mo.-Iiise,0 ever rise;
R.se l.ke a cloud of incense from the Earth '
Ihou k„,gly spint throned among the hills, '
Thou dread an.bassador from E„rth to Heaven

And toll te stars, and tell yon rising su^.
Earth wHh her thousand voices praises God .■•

wo"teirT^^ -^ -- -taphysieal, yet

^-everlLoStid^^r^-:^:--^^-^^

''^^^•^^d^^'ells apart in ituranjumi,,j^
f "^ote, serene, and inaccessible ■
And this, the naked eountenanee of earth

TaTtt \r;- """■ 'r ^"""'^"' '""""»-•"«.
■ii-acn the advertmg mincL"

• • • . " The secret strength of things.

Silence and solitude were vacancy?"
K

-f*

14G

INTELLECT.

.^1

I '

Christopher North muses in his own peculiar way among his
own Scottish hills or mountains : — " What an assemblage of
thunder-riven cliffs I This is what may bo well called Nature
on a grand scale. And then bow simple I 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. Wo
are about six feet high, and everybody about us about four
thousand. Yes, that is the four tliousand feet club ! Wo 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 I"

Some of the moat 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 mindfid 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 I"

— 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 ; wlio looks down to us from the sky,
and who besets our very path !

t<
n
b(
in
fr(
in

INTKLLBXT,

1-17

AtiALOUY.

be..-.™ objects or cil„r, " ' • }u '" ""' " """"'Wance
relation which tile ■" T . '" ""'™''™' •"' '■» "»
">insel.e. Themin/ifiu "'™"'*f« bear to Home-

circumatiinces in wliid, (!,„.. ' ''' "'" "''Jeets or

«re connected, »Iy t hTl'tT"""!' ^ "'"■ "''^1' «hey
"mple, may bc^orpar«I „, ut*™"''"-, ^ "">. f- ex-
Cerent effecta or JZZ toll " "T"""""' '° "» '"f-
I' is the mariner'" nt^ 1 ""• ""'' '» » >»"J-oarriage
vehicle of tra„rte„;"e': the mo7r7 '. " " *" "™'«'*
There is „o direct re emi ] ""*"' f"* "' *e worid

the analogy i, vorvlw "^ '"T" '"' »'"> » "«=■■, but
•heirsonre' t el ^ g^ ^ j"";" '''.''^ "» both regard^ in
resemblance between 1 X 1 '•',"• ^''""' '" "" direct
b'.t the analogy hold, whT» ' ""' '"'"'^ "■■ S""".

and their subsfqu^nt llth andT'"." ""' '"""""^ "^ >'°">
nature and proWde„ee°Sr b mff . '']" '"'"«''°™ "^
dom of grace, but as re^rdltl, ^ ""^^ ^""^ *« ^ng.
are the same a„d\CX™' M^ ""'' ''''' ^"**' *fy
the one to be'tbose wL^w Ztt' fu"?'"" "■"■"'' P^™<1=
words, „e may expect ofildtbr*""'' "" """^ ■• '" »«her
rnnning through tlrall Id ir" ""TP'"' "^ '"■"-'J'"^
dation of Bn.ler-, famous ar™lf' """""'"S'^' '» ""= f->™-
«o the constitution Td eoSTnlr "'r'"^^ "' -"P™
laws have often a snrp,|»Z ° w '■ *'''"™' «"'' "oral
tendencies or their ZS '^^k "-"= ■" respect to their

filar in themselves. ~i's one ' IT" ''^ "o^' <>«-
'»* the natural and mordj rWs Z t , "™' '" ^^'^^
•0 connexion with permanenev ™ ,' ''"""^ "''P-O""'
trees which are longest rfr-' '?'^''""""' "f result. The
in vigour, and are .^Lrdlt t """f *'" """""'y' "« '""gesl
The flower soon regies ^h^*;T '"' "■"' ""J-'i"

■-«eems to start into f:i,ta;„\t;rrSnoJt

-'MKMM

mmmmm

148

INTELLECT.

'/''

■

but for a day, and where tliere raay 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 he 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 pi'ogress, 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 ha'l 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 Prisons, 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,

ess in its
1 the case
ould have
and, as it
3ear to be
les. The
)onest ex-
flourishes
3 exhibits
ows with
ling expe-
iccretions,
)i'omise of
' a spring
not simi-
e body in
ning, and
ler. The
loks from
the uni-
nd in its
s rapid as

n science
nple, and
ice. The
mce, Bug-
md led to
kable dis-
the appli-
self along

him the

ictures of

f a period

still seen

ibservance

its level,

INTELLECT.

149

suggested a mode of introducing that element into cities from
almost any distance with comparative ease. Cl y a HmS
c^n be assigned to the applications and discovers founded
upon the law of analno-v Tu^ "'si-uvenes lounded

exlcn<i.:„g til, hlrZl,i„f^f ,T «" ™ """Wog "-d
vonienceofman • '^ " umubjected to the con-

sit «S/ "T'^T '"""°»™ '"^^ •» «■'• '» be the
g.eat scientific, as ,t ,s the great poet:c faculty. We shonH

; iTnS' rt"" '°;'""'' *° ■-' °^'"*8^ '»^^= -'

an/thf 1" ir^t'/'trrh' r- ^"'°^°''^'"

min,q j,^ ' o^es which rule in the poetic

^0 :: o^'^^, -f^^^J JP>ica«ons; in the other, it i^
cf„ '-iKftt'iiea m a law of nature under varied rirpum

:«::: rBrr-'lS l^aS ~t't ^" re-
connected with snch „ .,hjecT::e att S'scit^rutr

t^k iC to t LT' r M™"""" ^-"'i-tio'a that Z

apphc'aSn There ' '! « r« '"^ ^ "''"""«« '"■"' "

"ttalogy drawn "bv Sh I ' f "■""' °'' ™'"y '" «'«

=y drawn by Shakespeare m the often-quoted passage,-

. . . . " She never toW her lovo,

But let conrealuu.nt, like a worm i„ ,he bml,
*ood on her damask cheek."

But who does not recognise the beauty of the a„alr.

?y not-

"JWfJ Pj tL

150

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 nionumout,
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,
ivhose conception the poet was realizing in his.

Resemblance gives us direct comparison : Analogy, tJie com-
parison of effects or relaiions. 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, iniismuch 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 u{)on the mind, therefore, with some surprise.
Shakespeare, and all our better poots, abound in analogical
comparisons. The conceits of our older wiitcrs 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 tnuk in this piece o/ffround,
And madi' a i/ardni there far those

lf7(M irniil herlis for their wound"

INTELLECT. ^ ^-.

• • • " He, above the rest
la shape and gesture proudly eminent,
&toodkkea_ton,er: his form had not yet lost
All her ongmul brightness, nor appeared

Less than archangel ruined, and the excess
Of glory obscured: as tohen tl^ sun new rism
Looks through the horizontal misty air
Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon,
Jn dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and roithfear of chanae
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so yet shone
Move them all the archangel."

Here the mind is left to the dim effects of the sun in th.
which we are acquainted to produce :_ elements with

■ • • . " His form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Le^sthan arcliangel ruimd, and the excess
OJ glory obscured."

™p".se of «o„g, he sa,,,-"It is Y *e™ t a" hf "« °

0«sia„! that he th r mot 1- wtil^; t, °' ""!"°«^ »
thy oouree when tl,. j t ' "'""""^ <'<'«' *ou retire from

must have '' dI 1^^^ , ^' r""^'' '" *^™» """ *«

"l.c»l<» of «c «,!,; f^ '„'" "'" *'«''"' -"'Brirf?" Oman

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 surpiise, 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 struggles oftlie siara with llc/ht."

ThQ 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
cliase in the shadows of the clouds over the mountains ; they
sigh in the breeze, or murmur with the tides of ocean. It is
tLuS that nature has a voice and preaches to us, or spreads its
not obscure lessons before us in almost every object that meets
our gtize. 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 tlie literal truth that is now poui-ed over every object ' for
analogies will be ever new, and bidden 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 ilhistrating and enforcing, moral truths. The
natural and moral worlds, as we have already remarked, seem
to be pervaded by principles very much the same. They have
the same Author, and it would seem as if He had stamped the
same mind upon both ; or as if those perfections by which He is
cliaractorized could not fail to leave a oneness of impi-ess on all

INTELLECT.

153

to which these perfections gave birth, h there not somethinir
.n the lo une.s of the vaulted heaven iike the felZmt
ness in the human soul .P Do not the heavens Vmbohze
greatness, vastness of idea, expansiveness of thoulhT^nd of

or u the still lowlier flower ? Do not some flowers court the
hade and seek the hiding-places of creation ? Some aj^n

flow r ? thP " M '^' "'-'' ^^^ ^^^^^^■"'"^^^ i- the sun.

flowei ? The rose is said never to be without its thorn while

ben kept „pon its motions. The question occurs he"e Whv
both in the natural and the moral world, .in ,u i ' , ^'
grow w„e,. tl.e „„Uer a. noTcl™ X ^ wLI ^
when „„ „ff„,, i, „„ae to keep them down ? Do I noHnf
a mora ruth ,„ the attractions of the sphores-in e ebb Id

Snnfi, 1 i ^'*t"^S shadows mock the evp P

r::^:r::rh:dt,rx-^r.:-£

i^l: "oet aajs?- "' °' ""'"" *™"«'>-' ">« »W« yea!

" I lovo to view these tl.ings with curious eves,
Ami inoraliz;! :
Aud in this wisdom of tiie Ilolly-ti-or

f 'an emblems see
Wherewith perchance to n.ako „ plo„Ha,.t rhy.uo
One which may profit in the afto!. (!,„,. ^ '

"v'-*? ^^-^n^^-'k ifiViSfimiimnBsamtvmuimfm

154 INTELLECT,

" Thus tliou^li abroad I might appear

Harsli and aiiHtore,
To those who on my leisure would intrude

Reserved and rude,
Gentle ut homo amid my friends I'd lie,
Like the Ingh leaves upon the Holly-tree.

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

Some harshness show,
All vain aspt'rities I dny by day

Would wear away,
'J'ill the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Ilully-tree.

" And as when all the summer trees are seen

So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober line disjilay

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

" So serious should my youtli 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 rigliteous," 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 whicii 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 tliem : 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 vcsemhlance— there was analogy— when Christ said, " I

INTELLECT.

155

i^veiy oraiicn in me tout beaiclh not fruit he tatpi',
away, and every branch .hat beareth fruit I,e pueth it th
It may bring forth more fruit " H, >.- fi,. i i % '^^'^ ^^> '^"'^*
»ay, in the .pirit of thij llo^ " Fof^t^HT ^^^'^

iievv Doay. ihou sowest not that body tliat sh-ill ht t !

now chained to ea h teto "'I T'^ "'"= ™ *^ '»^^.
more .piritnal re!fon ' "° '°'""""'°' "^ " '"gk" ™<1

primitive ide* or the r r!!! , "*. f "''''^ i" »<»"« of our
Take any erm„le„?!yfr' "'* ''"*'''*«^ ^'-''^'y-

-u be ft^rtii Te r^"' r'T^r-f r,'."™"''

instance in which it ^.T T ""^'"Jual object or

resemblance and a„aW i, L >"" "'*™"° ''»'«™

"V t ' i i^W fcjIWWWr

mmmm

156

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.

PROrORTION.

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 '^Uher m^ay 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-
nitude, the proportion of degree, the proportion of number,
the proportion of arrangement or disposition of |>arts ; 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 objcut, 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.

157

r measure.

or I make my calculations, and I find an eaual.'fv rp. • .

words extent in ni ^ .■ o^eadth, however, in other

ae^ree, oi the measure is expressed by dearee Wp rr.o i

g-erio i, the ,Mea n^niWe l,d, ! el"\ */ "T":'*' ^°
".agnitade is fairlj. anproprile Ifh ,lt ?, "^ '""''• ^'"''

or t!,e magnitude olTn:,2ly tl'^' "^S^tado of space.
n.eMapp,ioaHe to U^L, anZalirthV ■"""""-
po*.«e, and heat is J„ei4 to J^f Z^^Z:

■<w

ir^s

INTELLECT.

■

we do not rnoasiue, but wc estimate tliom. In the same way
wc form our gauf,'e of moral qualities, and oven spiritual <iuali-
ties. The Apostolic injunction is not to think more highly
of ourselvt iliati .. ought to think, but to think soberly,
nccordir .iS Ood hath dealt to every man the measure of
faith ; aiij lie says of himself, — " We dare not make our-
selves of the ntnnbci', or compare om-solves with some that
commend themselves : but they, measuring themselves by them-
selves, and comi»aring 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 (pialities 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 hath not shall be taken away even that which ho seemeth
to have." God's dispensation of grace is in some proportion to
our improvement of what has already been imi)aited ; and the
right improvement even of what is before grace seems to have
the ])romise 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-

IXTKIJ,KOT.

ir>9

ir lueiisure.

iHtior. ihat theory ,« indeed disputed: we noticP hZ

trees-in the growths of tirevariouLlirae'r^fr^
Belves-in the laws of evaporation: ^^^^^^^

and repnls.on-pokrity-in the centriZnl ? ^"'*^
laws-in the adaptations to the want" ^^^^^ T '"'""^^

trihes and siihstances f h.f r. i , "^^ ""^ *^® ^^"ous

in the law of g^oX^^^ ^:,*''''^* ^«'"P««« the earth-

-in the balat: g o t L: ^ 7^'-^'"^ «— nt
asks Job, "Dostthon tnl., r, ''^"'""'^ to which God
wondrou; ^^oZofZnl^^^^^^^^ f ^'^ ^^-^«^ the

all tliese what proporHol do w ^ t '^ knowledge ?"-in
position and uda aC- Turthe .""'' 7^^ '''''''''''-
ganic strnoture-^hat proporU T r^^^^^^^^^^^^ 7 7 T

the proper ^istretr irnTr:^;!^^^^^^^^^^^^^ -^-
symmetry n,ay be included under t^elr. ^'T''''^' ^^^
portion. In the disposition of pLL how ^'"'"u *'™ P'^"
toone another and to n ', P^''«' /however, with reference
, and to a whole, synimetry has regard to the

* This proportion has been regardedlv „„ i-
Sunmer as subserving tbe propel „fl ^ ' """ "^tf "*'''" °'- I----" ho has
advancement of soei^-aL. t;: S JT^!^''^ ^^^'^ '"^ ^''^' ^^■"'""

( I a U(Hl.—See Records of Creation."

IGO

INTELL^:CT.

balance preserved between these parts, in number, position,
magnitude— as the two lef:js ot nn animal— the two wings of a
fowl— the two fins of a fish. The two wings of a liouse are an
instance of sytnmetiy. A single i)illar to a door, or gate-way,
would be unsymnietricjil. The branches all on one side of a
tree would be unsyrametrical ; 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 tlie other two, and the
symmetr} 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 I'eaction,
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

INTELLEC'I'.

Ifil

exce« Every 8w«,t!„i.h7„ .■''* " ''^°"'' '^""V Meet an

There seems to be a re "•°'l™tion with ite life"

Malthurt ,loelri„e ir, the ,^u^ °", 1!"^ °' '^"O"™ "f
wl>e. therefore it I ' ,;.?!" 1™" '°'°"""''' •'"™*''
■noted: " If riches i„creaL ' h J " "' «•'»% inti-

I would not say th^ Ef,,,^ V f • °°"^='' """ »'<= *««."

the mathematician have t^oed all Zolhe™ P °"" ' ""'" ""'

inte^tin^ s„hjec?tf^:;trp,att' Si^'d"/"'"'""-'
syraruetry. Synimetrv ,•« r,..^ , , "^"'^ '« different from

there 4 be the p;^^^^^^

there . n^ot nr^r^^IZZ^ "^h^r '"^ '' '''''^
the branches of a trf-P L^ /"^«™ii;y. ihere is symmetry in

portion betwe:lthe Ch :nT.tt°'",''r ' ^'"^ " '"-
«nd the sh,m. There tasvmr. .'i""''' ''"«™ "« Po'»l»
- the part, of a cap W •Xr"'^ '" "'^''"'■■"S °f a column,
and the entablatoe and W ''?'"'"" '""^^™ «>o l»»e
fange of column, on 'each side T.h t *f ""^ '»*• ^he
symmetry; therelatirnof h s/tot r,'J' °' '^'«'*"'' ™
The proportions of Gothfc alw^.^ "^ ™ P^P"*'""'

those of Grecian but Xv .T If ""^ '" ""^ '"f^^nt from
?™d and imp^tag t'oZ' "7°"'™'; ">^«»"ore
p™,,or,ions of E.;;ian °'u; 7™ ^aste and classic. The

»ith the Hindoo;;" mass" erv'?.' "' """» " *^ ="««
of Gothic, lofty 'and ZltlV;?^*^'''''' ^^^"nt, those
L«-or -ould overnwe and Ld "P''' "^ ™*'^ a""

rather than solemn Xt tho e o" aV™ f' ^"""■^'
Connth, a chastened and refl d wtfcThr'- '?"' """

' wniic the mmsters and

■Ml

162

INTELLEC'l'.

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 some idea of them from the i)ictures 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 Rome 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 be,

Of earthly structures, in His honour piled

Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty,

Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled
In tliis eternal nrk of worship undefiled.
" Enter : its grandeur overwhelms tlice not ;

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

Kxpaiided by the genius of the spot.

Has grown colossal, and can onl^ find

A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined

Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou

Shalt one day, if i'ound worthy, so defined.

See thy God face to face, as thou doHt now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow.
" Thou niovest, br.t increasing with the advance,

Like climbing some great Alii, whiih ijtill doth rise,

Deceived by its gigantic elegance ;

Viistnuss vhich grows, but grows to haruionizc,

INTfiLLEcr.
All mu«ici.liuitN immensities;

Thou Heest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break
io separate contemplation, tbe g^-eat whole ; "

And as the ocean many bays will make,

That ask the eye-so here condense thy soul

lo more ammediate objects, and control

iliy thoughts until thy mind hath got by he.rt

Its eloquent proportions, and unroll

In nughty graduations, part by part,
Ihe glory winch at once upon thee did not dart."

able in the for^^t ^^^^^^^^ Proportion observ-
with the proportions of LJ, I ,,""'"""• Who is not struck
destined for the serriot anZn "" ""'"""^ """'' «<"! ^'

beauty, and swiftne™ whose W ""u"™" »' """g'h,

scour the plain ■ „2 ' saT), 'T *'"' ""'' «" ■« ""'r

hesmelIe«uhe'teleafroff?h:"f'''/''?*'Ha.halanJ

the shoutings." A /ooUfte w pt;;!?'^ ^"P""'' ""^
among the trees of «nm. .^^^P^^S ^'^^e lawn, or reposing

li-Cand hral jrrns'rnTso'^'!' ™* *- '»'-"'
image of beautv ^.n^ J , * ®^^' ^^^'"s the perfect

mere outward shape or fo™ B,^ „„ f "'!, ""' ^"^ *''"
combination of svinmelrv „^' • '""' ^° ™ »e the

triumphs so gr J™ rh,™'T'"''°''° '=™P'^'«' »>> »«
■•' that the pfinW and tt T .° ?""■ ^^^ingly, i, ;» „„

a»d put Jh tb; r st t h d '' "" '""*"' *'™^ "««-
conception nobler hantl' I r'°^' " """''' W'»'-. f™"- »

'"e realit, eee™ t / o Tnl^Ii " T' "T '""' "'»'
artists, h-ke the ancients ZTt\ '°.P°'°' '"• l^ian
beauty. rronortio„T v '"'™ """«i »' 'kis i,lea)

their Lenrd?u^,n "™T "'"'^ °' P'''""''- ™

or their marble, ^Z dslttr' "l""' "^'^ ^»™

Uistuib the minutest expression of

16.3

iiliidaiiM

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 fathbr'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 I^ord of the unerring bow,

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 injniortal'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,
" to two words which continually recur
in this discussion, — they are, on the
one hand, nature or expetieTKc; on the
other, ideal. Experience is individual
or collective ; but the collective is re-
solved into the individual ; the ideal is oih
posed to the individual, and to collective-
ness: it appears as an orig'nal conception
of the mind. Nature or experience gives

me the occasion for conceiving the ideal,
but the ideal is something entirely dif-
I'erent from experience or nature ; so tiiat,
if wo ap})ly it to natural, or even to arti-
ficial figures, they cannot fill up the con-
dition of the ideal conception, and we are
obliged to imagine them exact. The
word ideal corresponds to an absolute
and indei>endent idea, and not it a rol-
lective one." — SfP Cousin on Beautv.

INTBLLECT.

165

" But in his delicate form-a dream of love,
Shaped by some sditary nymph, whose b;east
I^ongd for a deathless lover from above
And madden'd in that vision-are expr^st
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd

Remind with in its most unearthly mood,
When each conception was a heavenly guest-
Amy of ™mortaiity_and stood,
Starhko around, until they gather'd to a God -

to LL pel" 7ict ritadrjlr ""' *""
teresting landscaoe whp<J,«. "*''^' ^ ^^''^ "nin-

not make anllrestl S ^''°*'''' ^' ^ ^"^^^^ ^^^ does
and spires, wlnrfiU thp^f '^ '?* ^"' ^*^ ^°*><1"« ^ov^ers

make a picture it Z ZIT ] '' '' ' "^°"^'^* ' '^^ *«
the sky must be strchedl 17 T^ ''' ^^^-Vorts, and
it«elf is not a picture thoulr^^. "^'J'' ^^"* ^'^«« ^^
and sublime po'et^,:; thelV^ho^' '' '^""^'^ ^" '^^-^^^"^

" '^''"'' '■*« ™°'es8 pillars deep in earth "

II "^^^t!".!:^ \-^ -d combinations

graceful all I ^""^'""P"' ^ow admirable, ho'.v

^^^onl^^^^^^^ thoughts, and secures

serious in Lp;sitioV:iru t trud. ^l^^' " ^*^^^- ^he
tfce gay upon the seriou and v ^t' '^'" "P«" ^^e gay, or
fancy, will be linuted to L^ pr " er T""'' '"' *'" P^^^ ^^

in their proper proportion Ckep^^^^^^^^^^ ff '^ ^"'"^«"^^
observance of each style., : ,-ln n7 ^ ! '*^^' ^' J"^* *he
tatiou to the subjecl in h J Tn ' ^^ '"^^^^^^ «''«?"
predominance of Le oneflcult/crT' °"^'' ^'^^^^ ^ «
others. It i. all • ^.ning o7 t Tin ' '°"'' ^"'"^*'^«' ^^^^
H fine fcaUnc "2' "I t "" 'rnagmation ; or there i.

.^wei-s. I^ It word« m fit places" is the

i Srr i ni i i i iMwirtrmr i ,^,^.,,^jjj

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 tjiken 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.* Hudibraa, perhaps, is his sole rival. It waa to m^:ick
the only real thing of the age that Butler's Hvdibras 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
honoured knight ; wiien speakiig of
those who from their enthusiasm in any
Cfcuse — even a right enthusiasm in a
right cause— are tliought " to occupy
a dubious frontier space betwixt the
rational and the insane, are assigned to

that class of which Don Quixote is tho
time iraraemorial commander-in-chief"
If this can be ?aid of a right enthu-
siasm, what shall be said of an enthu-
siasm altogether misdivected, and out
of proportion ?

INTELLECT.

1C7

f«™^ upon b/'rr^ho-'nr : rivrr^''"'

fre^lo™, are thtnoVe tf Zljr l?:"^':; ""I '^">'°-
in citable subordination a d Tm form 7bt "' "? ""' •="
which seemed to be bmt.n ,1 V '"^ ''"™ony

subordination. The herT thT *" -fT"^ ™™'' '" *at
stand in beautiful hannr; lift', "'"^''«™» '"f"™-,
their patriotism andThel Tl ™' »■'<' 'k^^ heroism,

which'suooeedinC dtretS. "°"""'° '"^ ""^'^'^^ '»

oair!n''tre't;nrand'"f *? '™ "'''"'' »"«" '-P'-
aud'mind Ju nt ° d d at "" '^i ""^ ™"' "^ ""'"'^
which opeU, the mMltCroV;;*'*^ •" ''""*™' ""^
di-ersity, re.-eml,!:>nce ^ontlt anl "" """""-^entity,
not only the ,tl„ii„r „f , , ! ' ^°^^' P"-<>P»«ion. There is

ob.iects,-the relation of"!™ an e eonl t tf '^'■™"
tion,— but there is tlie I«w ™ .• ' ™"'"'"'' "na'ogy, propor-
e^ist respectively!^ la! l-T "« !" "'"'* «"" "lations
to the Dfvine ^.tiVlT'tZT, "'""' '" ^'* ^
the Divine rniud, these reWonXe threJ^r'"''^''" '^
ward realty: nnd our min^. "aw then existence in out-

Divine, are flMlpJrcS/lrT,'" ""^ '""«= "^ *«
pereeivo them, at Xe entetTi i« "' °"°'^ """■"" ^"^
would have to underl a tf. l 'V°.°°°' ™™tituted. Mind
-■ations; and In f :e „pe" rf t'T "»V'°,I--ive these

we have seen, in referenee .„ ""■'^»^V- Derangement, as
these laws, o wU o^l ° ".' ' '""' ''■'"" "''»

are not se n or r o'n "d » ''" " """■'"=' '" ""'" '''™'

.-theniiLto%rrd;-t:rtr4„r;r

liH

iMiiiiKi

168

INTELLECT.

shall touch the Bpring, 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, injagination,— while the induence 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 eveiy proper or real instance of it, a neio 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 clas8.
These are properly principles of the mind,— the mind purely.
The word principle, " principium," means a first truth. In
ffisthetics, 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.

li tt

INTELLECT.

169

general prmi J *' ''"™S "^ '='»'«l"«i™» i«m

Causality.

prior to its development rr"^ '. " "" '"'■«' '"»

to a prheiple of .he mind w'e i„e tblv do^ TU^^""*"*
what different %m our ooucludiug .•„ leZmce J« " •T'"

"ia theli;;\ reTrrortiaTof "K ^^'-^

not bo present, or Z!T^ 1Z'"'1 '^"'^ ^'""'^
tr.eeaWe,-thu is someth" ng ^iCnt ! 2,7^ T '™ >>«
comise a principle i„ opJiZTCltZ , "' ""
«.onsness, self, the external world a„ tted?T' ""-
oogDit on. The cam, ,\ a. i ■ ! ' . ™ °"''"'' "''jec's of

We k„o; there L'Tthath''^""'*''''' l"^ ''''™™red.

'hat eve,, effecLrharatrbTl'"'" ^^•'-•>'^'

have eluded our search or deteTS n^ °""',""'^ "« ^''

>■ •«. Consdousness, self an ~ ??r^'' " "^i'*

™st themselves be the ob et^^f X i«o 'orT^"'"'"^'
the objects of cognition at «n ^ ''°«'".f™> »■• thejr are not
*nce, is the object f col „ l""^' I'f, '"' P"*'""!"' m-
m not yet be discovered "' "'*"'" ^^ ''™« «•»*«

oau«.' its'Ti;,:' "r"'^ "? "" ^'^"^ *' »"»' have a
We Principi;rt h e Z. C" '° *^ "'-veiy of c„» J
"■^st in the mind prior to 2 r""""°'' ™'"' <•«» ""t
«-n- together, tha7.re ^ItrLtria;^^

i'-tr'taniiMiiM

■HHIHIMl

W i ll i II

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 irora the existence or observation of
an eflPect. Nor is this a first truth precisely in the same sense
that the truths of assthetics 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 rigut and wrong, or beauty and
deformity. The distinction betv^een 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 sesthetic judgment, the contempla-
tion of the very object which is beautiful, or the reverse ; but
the perception of a came 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 enre.

INTELLECT.

171

18 in the refer-

^ a Liebig and a Faradaylf dZt * "^"IJ «"""'■
oilktions are oteerved in TJ°J ° '"^'^'" '•"J'- 0'"

n."3t beacau,e;Tnida™ ^ »;^' ■ '«;"°?»=" k»o» too
to calculate the d stance nni, ^ . , ^"■"" *' themselves

™ at work-teU t^ iw °; ''"°™» ""^ ««' 'l>at either
telescope is poi ted ,„ S ° » ?'',Pl»"et, and when the

pearanL in thl tl 'L^ sit the'T-f ' ■ ^^'*'" "P"
inquiry. and the circ„lati„7of 2 «„ H "^"t^" '""' *^'
means of mitigating disease and „ T 'I '''™™rf; the

art becomes a scieni^^^^^rirth:"""';-.''"',*^ ''^^""S
investigate the causes of ^l!! '• P"'"""' ^onomist,

condition ; andTn%s'mad:°r '" "" '""' ""<• P°'"«
social and political Jdiieil' ^ "" "'"'"'' ^y "'■'* the

astir with »! rf" f i :7er'- •''^""'' '■»

"■ent. No principle is more „c«ve i the ZT'.^ 'T"'"
under our consideration u • / ^ ^ *^*^" ^^e one

iisping his wo4 r dUe:: ';: Ti'v^ r' '•«'

his meaning. The child 1 o. . ^ *° "'''^^^ ^"o^^n

bas his the?^ ofT 1: "onT™ r ;r"" " ""' ""' "«
posed them to be oneni„™ th" \ \ ' P'™" "omente, sup-

was«n. CampbcEli^r^^tttr^ ^^^^

" ^f ''«'» «« to ^y cl.iIJ],ood's sight
A midway station given, '

For liappy spirits to alight

Betwixt the enrtli and heaven "

oft^T 7m Thaftilf' 1 r *''•'•' «- »-*"»

inquire the use I 1 '^ ""^ -"f ' ™riosit, does it
thought himself but a ehi d „„ .h! '"/' ^'"' ^°"'°"

of truth, gathering a few pebble* l^^'Tt" *,' «""' °"«^''
-'%ti,a. certain scienLharXi::™^:^-

172

INTELLECT.

are unfolding their wonders before the eager investigator 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

i 1

INTELLECT.

173

the prLoipfe, .ha. it r««:nf ; T"''"P™'«'-P™
by like effecb. Bui (he MfaTi. h '^?""' "' "* *'"°™''
i" opemtion i„ every ^eT„'' /f" "" ""PP"" » """'e
to .hi. conclusion Tpctltl ?" m T ''°" "•" "'■"' "^P
after an io.crval of a ^^1 nu^T "A™ "^^ '™ ^'^'' »»*
"■«e again-wl,y am I hd tl h r u ""' """' "» "•"■^.
cau^a. work »',»«, 11^'!™*°' ""^ '» " «■/»«
our horizon ? This ^1^ ' -T"?""' "'"" "' "'<' «■"> to

ceeOs u,„n the "prfL^fcX fuTT,;™"- "^ i' '•'°-
principle, too, viz that win, V^.f^' • ^'^ ^^ a distinct
number o/obimtions of a 1 '^ '^'^^^ observation, or a

a -i/'om caul aZ^^^^^^^^^ '^'^[^ ^'^-P-ation of

Newton general zed trelarnf' '^'!f "".''' *^ ^^^/om effect.
tion of tht falling of a'apple 'uTZ '"" *'^ ^^™-
the uniform operation of a kw\ "'^ ^"^ ^'^^^ *^^^« ^as

of all bodies^al Lekint al .' '' ^" *^' ^^™^^«^ "^o«o««
body. How wide wTs hat .^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ by the greater

had hit upon by a fo^, sZsZ'''t:''f *^^ ^^ ^e
and most original association^ar^^^^^^
creaHve power of which we have "^"^^.7 "^ • '' "
through which that law had operation f TV '^^^^P*^^'^-
zation the widest perhans thTw ^'' ""^^ * ^''^^'^^^~

have been Newtor!!! 1 1^ Xnt h "^'^J ""«*
such a generalization ? Surelv ^f I . ^m^ned upon
n^ortal to entertain a thouS 'L v. "'"' P''^^**^^ *«
<^ined it at this moment Or ' .. 'u^' "^'^^^ ^^^« ^^^r-
Pride P Wa. he he'ebroug tlce t f "''V'" *" ^°'*^ ^-
of nature, and when heTeheld Z, T^ " ^''^' «^«^«*

has styled « contrivance ntrfl """^""P^" "^ ^^^* ^owper
feel in the presence of thf it P^^^^^^^ "'*'^ ^^^ ^^^ he
power and v^isdom of wy^rl^SP '°' "^^'^^ *^^
dawned upon his mind ? Tf ^""*"' an expression had

™h a n^nd aJ ha FranMnT. ''"'f i^' '^P^'"^'^ -*

raomen. gladly die, when! ' ° W Z "'^ T''' "" *»'

phenomena of the clouds int^ hi S^emlization of the

Clouds mto .he one principle with which he

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174

INTELLECT.

fv "I

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 ue 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 v. 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 ice 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

INTJELLECT,

175

a manner, or in connexion with sn^h nfv.

nund, as allows the mind alwZ f^ .'' ^"""'>^« ^^ the

with the same result. 1 S f '"*'"^'"*° '^' '^^^ ^ause

as it fell from the tree; why iti^" S ? 'S' ^^ "" ^^^^^
I'lg on our horizon at a partimln. 1 f ^^^ '"" appear-

again and again, allow o'f^l,^^^^^^^^^ ^f *^^t not oncelbut

-«ing. And it will be observed Sk'°" '''^''""^ ^''
at the same time, serves to establ 2. K ^PP'''^'''"^ repeatedly
pearin, at tkat time; lltl^:^ '^X^r ''^ ''' "^-
general conclusion is at once obtained *^Thf T'^' ^^'
of an apple falling gives us the fact of ts 2r ''^r^'''''""^"
observation of the sun's risimr nr!l ' '/«^^^«J7. but the one
particular time, does not giv! u ITIT^ *'^ '°"^- ^* «
time, but the one fact ot hi haviL ^'' ''''"^ '' '^^'

two or three observations If hL n'"l"''° V^""' *""^' ^^'
of, and we generalize that t 1^ T^ '"' ^' ^P^^^
phenomenon ascertained, we genereirit • k'?''"'' ^'^"^ ''
It requires more observiions 2n 7^. ' ' '^ '°°^^ ^««««
fact or phenomenon. It Tsfo^t f "" ^'' '^' ^''<^^^^

cases we generalize more qucSrthan''r^^^' '''^' ^« '^"^^
the precise phenomenon clbS a't T '" "^^^"^'^^^^
than in other sciences, and the .Tr "'^ °^ore accurately
rapidly. Get the precipe then f ''''''" '^^'' ^^^'^ very
- immediate, since a ^'3!^!""' ^'^'^ ^^^ ^--alization
To see that cause, is alrldy to ;^„X"%*r '^ '"^ ^P^*-'
of an isolated fact, it is the causfof? \ '' °'* *^^ ^^"««

we have porcei>.ed, or thTw!rf '''"''• ^^' ^'^"^^ that
effect in all simila; ci c m taTcerr '""" *° "« ^^^ «-«
effect in all similar circumsL^es ^tir "" "^"^'^ '^
wjll be uniform in operation ,-. !' '^ '^ ** ^"^^ that

The mind apprehenr:t~rt :^„7'T' ' ^^^^^*^^ -^•
come. This we take to be Z 1 , ^^'^^^ ^° ^" time to

Induction and gen raL^^^^^ ^''"1^*^ of generalization.

«ame, but more pro^T „Tucf "^ ' -'^^ *"^^ ''' »««d' -« the

tion of facts or inlnc's tot 1 ''^^^^'^^ ^ ««"--

Thi« observation of instl H nr'^ T^^^^'^'^^^'^ Proceeds.

nstances is, properly speaking, induction

MMHPI

mmmmm

mmm

17fi

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 ia 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 " novxim
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 kid 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 evex^ 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 ^ere carefully to be collected ; and Bacon iays
down rules, which he calls " iustantias," which were necessary
to all accurate observation, or induction. These rules, or
" instantiffi," 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, and let these be ascertained with sufficient accuracy, with
all the accuracy which the " instantiae" will secure, and there

INTELLECT.

177

T^X:^^-^:Tt ""' ."" *^ -' »'• '"o woA

wiii be a, oertab I a to of ir' T"""" """^ '^ >"d
upon conjecture was batrl ""1^ If I ", ^^-'^^^ b„iU
It was like tl,e deception mbM „ ' !u '"' °° '»''"*>tion.
beguile, .he favcllcr fn he d« t an"l ."'">»?'»■•<'. which
"' tta. point in the diatatce whle ,t?"' ? " ^° ""'^
even like that-often not »„ !i • *™"'' '" '«'■ Not

a figment of the fata ah ,& 7 '" ''»"™". ""Ut liker
-J being. Nothing ™ "o e™.*' '^'""^ "''■'=l> «a™ it fern
nothing too ridicuta to be a ht^ o?'"!-,'"" '""^'^~
Baw, that if we were to Jenera t °^ Ph.loaophy. Bacon
rightly ascertained and well esTa S, ! ,"""' «™'""^'^^ "P™
was as distinct from scie""ast , f ""'^ ^'""=y

of which it gave the ZLZ I '"" '" «'<'»'r'»m that
What an adfance, acoTnTv 1°™"* "' ^^'™»Won.
gave the lawl DisJoverseS t^ ^!'!°r ""''"'"«<' P-oor.
track on which alone it oln" n ! t "" ' '""■ Th'^ i» the
advance to conquest 1 ,t!, '^T'' ' °° ">'» ^d you may
m her laws uS ^ot rrr:r ^i J*« ^ -.-

rrM'srr:uj"\"™' ^"^ """^~

horseK Voum^iClriert"'','" '^ '"""^ "^ -"««
«cori tho.e instances r^hitrvoTr''""''- ^°" """'
Von must submit to the l^ll7 ™ " ""' ■><» ''■»• voice,
her phenomena. All Is .f *°1, 'T ""* «=°™ «» ''»
»ponse will come-thl Z till/ i™ ^^ °^""^' ""'' ""« «"
will not deceive. There LI'T'* "f "^*'' I'l'«°°'"er,on
™eet. It is a reveMo" sooC. ."^ '•* ""■"" ""'* °''"'"

Such is the law or princin e 7 ' "' f "' '"'"»'"'^''-
rably is it adapted tJtheZ^ «™f '""'™- ^ow admi-
cuuot conceiv^ of towL^ w^'u 7°'^"™^ ' ^«
amve at a general truth, what truth 1 u "' '"'™'' ""'''
■f we could not arrive a "t in th ™ """'= »*■' ""d

of observation, however xt^i'' "^' " ^". b.v any process

Nature, or the'authorof naTuh'as™''' "! "™ «' "?

™tly for us. By the n r„ cinr' , ?'*'"' ™«™ differ.

y tae principle we have been considering we

;:l

lif

178

INTKLLKCT.

get general views from partieular observations. The luiiul
takes possession at once of a truth from a very few instances,
it may be, of its exemplitication. And it is possessed with
more certainty, pcrliaps, than if we had gone through the
whole range of ex[)eriment and observation, were that possible.
For in the one case we have an unerring intuitive law of mind
to depend upon ; in the other, wo could not be certain that in
such a nuiltiplicity of observations we had rot 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 certai:ily made, open up the whole
vista through which we would otherwise have had to travel,
and cuuld never have travelled. Nay, at ihe 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 riot 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 tliat 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 plienoraena of the same kind, but it tells us that the future
will be as to-da3^ It predicts the future with the same cei-
tainty that it tells us of the present. We confidently look
forward to the same phenomena, the same results, as 've have
already observed or ascerttiined.

What puiposes of life does not this principle subserve ?
Without it life would have been too short for tiiose inductions
which \vould 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 wouW have been able to affirm only with reference to the
l)ast, and would have had no certainty with reference to the
future. Generalization takes the future into its own hand.

INTKLLe(X

"'"' a<Briiw ivilli jic-rfcct

171)

'"cto,.i„.i„ci,,i„, iimCZTtZi^fl •" ""^ i"""™!-

'ime coding. New W. gLXt on r °' °''"'™«''°' ''"'"
to the past instances of gfaritlfen ° * °°' "'''™"''° ■"""Ij'

10 come m the same circumsb.n/« "«<^™W predict ,„ „ii ti„,e
'" 'ife may be said ,„ ICd „! ?" ™1/™'''" '«"o«
«nmo„est implements we "e 3 f f"™''^""'™- In the

'!- s„mogeLr„Ii.«ti„:i 'S;^ ™"' ""™™"' "«* °'
'ion often where we think theTi, ' .. ™ " " ""» »''«"''-
""<1 ''l-os. intuitive knowled ° w "l'"* ""'^ "»" f™"'"
«» « matte., of conrse mn ,„„;,„ "JT' *'"'' ««« «'«■
ing on,. „„.a„„en,en.; To ^^wit: t *'; ""?. » ""^P'^
<lo »ot imagine that we are tl! """^ '° ""'" '■''»'. «

""'•^"tion ; so, in the piaci" T^ T- "" ™''°''-»"' S'="-
':»", we think not that' w: h"ave Xnt't'o^.h T"^'' ^°''-
"on m so simple an act. Who thin •, „^,l , '"" °* 8'-''vito-
." recovering himself from a shock wl • , 1 ,'"" "^ Sra.iU,tio„
those nice movements by wl ich aoT , "" ™°'™'' " '"
"•aiiting npon ^ narrow bridH ll ^ "'°' " P'^™'' "'

Ifoge us into the ah s 2,^ T'j^f ^T "! '"'^ »'«P «..ld
of those laws which a nice li f- ™f "°'° '" """Mnkiog
!"">. "Ot as laws, bnt a cntm? ° ''"' ""'^'' '■™il'" to
traJo, or to be fbllo^d i„ t ™ ""JT-'" "^ *^'»' '" >"«
»oty blacksmith never h^Jrf'Lt ''- '"'trumcnts. The

h« JW not observe it wherinl'r'T."';''""™"-''. ^"^ "
f .« his arm, brawnj „s u 17 He7 ,'"'"'°"-''' "' ™"W
though it has not fikon he sneeffi / '"'^^'i " S^-^^fction,
Pmctieal observation uL' 1^1 °™ ""^ » '''''• "'"y a
Shrewd inductions harbeenri T'^''"'" «■»«.
"■Pyosed to be done than to f^l '° """"'"S """^ «■»
■■» of superior sagaci y ^ i ° t*? t^^ J^ f^P«™n«. The
CTor th,at ,nav be tnr„» „,• ' """^tion of life, what-

"u'y the p.,rtLdrr„ xtrrd*" r t"°' ^"^* -

«fod upon or improved, con.tS » T v"'"' '" '""'"S ">«»

''' -' ™'- -- -' rro;-^^^^^^^^^^

180

INTELLEC!'!'.

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 loorld. Moixims
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 wouic^, 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

f . 181

certei,, provisions for the „ur„l f • • ™'='°''''' »'■'' "i*

J„ivor„„s, -ge„or:tKje„rSth''1 ''^^' "'^
of animals under the name of thl ^^e classification

t'-ey belong, as quadrupeds htfs\T"\ "7^"''' *^ "^^^
generalization depends merd vS ! '' '^'' *'• ^^« «"«
ti-e other upon tlie priSe '^ ^f'''''^'^ resemblance^
dered. In the latter Jhr 1 ^ '^'"^f^^*'^^' already consi-
treating of the law of tTe mid , 'f -T °^^^^'^^^' ^^^^ ^^en
blance, we regarded it as « at n "^ t-'^ ^^ ^''^'^'^ ^^^em-
ceeded; but we then remark rth"f'^ generalization pro-
than a perceived resemblance fb ' T «°°^«thing more

we have endeavoured trexl;?'; Tu^'' P"""?^^ -hich
to consist in the detectln ^1" T T '^^^ '''' ''^^
prediction that such a cause wTi T' ^"^ *^« '''^^^^
^vhen it will be attended Lt '^' ^' ^^'^"^ '-^^ ^o^Ic,
Classification, therefore, t dill' f"'''''""^ '^''' '' '^''''^

upon a irerceived resemU,m» tl,„ • P^weds merely

nation, sail, even txT^ri^^l » T^"'^' "" e^™""

conai»te in the application o;'„eJt! ^7''""°"' ^ "
or qualities wliich have eomJhT • *" °''J'* »■■ being"

stance ofresemhlance ore 15"!'" ""°"°"' "'' " ™""-
™hsta„ces resembling faTrtail™' T f """ '° «'■"'"» "■•
"Pplied to the circumstanLl T- r''™'"". »"<i are only
qualities or muZZtobZ^ ^ ''*"'^'''' " "> *=
aese circumstances. tL r ss 1 T '"'■^"'' "" """^ ^''-''le in
nothing further, or ft mav be T T,™^ '^ """"'=="«' «*
la«- of which w iJe "11,?^ ™* """ f'^'P'" «
oomprehension undir afu^lVt"' "'"' "'"'"'' '<»«'« ^ »
.ne« resemblance The t^mM ''r/°' ""P""'' "P"" »
»u»e,a„d thatcanse nrfST ''"*.*° ■"'°'' «» ™"=
oteerving mi„d the certair "f\f °P™"°"' »™'es to the

";^::^:fr:tr?"^^^^^^^

182

INTRLLECT.

ill the case of every such animal, that it will he cfirnivoroiir.
So with nmny of our general terms, they ile])en(l upon a gen j-
ralization, strictly speaking. Certain strata of the earth have
uniformly been observed in certain relations or positions : the
generalizing process or law of the raind, or principle, gives m
a cause, or supposes some cause in operation, and we afHrm
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
tixed cause, and we have the classification accordingly of the
lymphatic, the nervous, and the sjxnguincous temperaments,
and their corresponding indications in health or disposition.
Clapsificati(;n simply, that is, whether it proceeds upon merely
felt or perceived resemblances— or depends upon the generaliz-
ing princii)le— emi^loys and demands general terms. The mind
is led by an inevitable law and necessity to classify, and general
terms are its imitlement or means by which this is done. Even
wore we not inventing or employing general terms, tlie 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 wliich the classification should be designated ? The great
purposes of classification, and of general terms b\- which wo
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 diistinet name, when
should our vocabulary be completed, and how could we master
our vocabulary ? Proper names aie so called because they
are the names of individuals ; and it is necessary to have these ;
because the law of identity is not lost in the law of similaiity,
and we have need often to recognise individualr- in their iden-
tity, or individuality. Hence John, Thomas, Tiondon, Paris.
But i>r()|)('i' names, or nouns, are very few in comparison with

INTELLKCT.

183

of beinff is unhoiinrlp,! m i, ""''''*' "" ^^ith tjie universe
ri<lge cxprfflso, it " "t l " i "•" ■*"'"■ "''=»• ■" Cole-
thi, petty Jeie aid e* "^ ^^'''"''•"•° ""'"«' '"'«'^'» "f

onr beins " But in t),;, ' f noon-tule mnjosty of

«l.irituar oi„: Id .J',"*"'""' 'T"" ""'■"*'™ »■■<' ''»'. »"<!
limite,! mav t tl,„ . ^"^""^ comprehend all. How

need to e%rel= itw Wetni'^t^ " ' """, *^^- "'" ^™

™ple the feeling,, lZ to God? fr™''?'""™' '""'
tlieadmirationofone„»7 ■ . , ' '" °"* ""'e''. »■><!

..™.e that eo„3.Iter:he Vn : 'ttL: T "^ '^™ "■
re»en,hl.„ce, and not that fealureT anient '^'^ff ^

eithe.we. ^fZlT^Z^C^i^ ''"""\'"'

r>oii"tra:rx7:L;ir:ir!r '- *-* -

hereditary ohar- rter a thT 7,' " *" "' ""''«"' "'"1

n>ai„tai„^d Zt. VS^^' :*;7*" ^^''^'^
-e™, every gen,, or .peeieChad a r:.:.:*; t"gf:r

■!

184

INTELLECT.

species, existed af*art from the individual objects atDong which
the resombhinco which occasioned tlio general term was found.
It was not merjly 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 tliey 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
rei)resscd, and the stamp of Galileo's foot upon the ecrth, 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, ret." 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 wiiich 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 sh(>w 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 Po; e's exquisite lines— was the pupil and
abettor of Roscilinus. 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
icmind the Nominalists that names were not everything ; but

INTELLECT.

185

prcsnion that the truth mii.t 1,. ' ""™'> "' """n "le ira-
.loctrine from wl.ich „t a- - '""^ "" "'""^ °'-

a n.„,„ent euspecttag th„t S " t """'."Pp-te. without for

.«.,.hatb„th'o.tro'm«n °b^™ „7J';";"«^^^^

of the Iteah-sts had been heU Z 7T^ , ^'"^ ''°°'"°«

oouidihi„kabuTwtrh:7:'"„''r;'r!' *■" "- "i""

typo without if,elf ke J„ ' ". """'"'^ "' P™*""
Uieory, could think about ri' ''"'« '" ""= ""■n™"

it. own ideas. ZlTZVj T'T''' "'"■■ ""'""^ b-'
matter of ,.„e.^ Jit Vh'ltr'tl*™""'"' '" «"'

idea ofwben general terms r,:e:pl'^ther'"'' '"'I '"
a mountain, for example, was spofen rf? Tf . T' " *""•
or tree, or mountain, wo^ n3 thef th ''^'.P**'^"'" ■■!'<»•,
"as that river, or t«, or mountah fit" f' °' "'""S'"
ri«r, or tree, or mountain, bTZto of a„Vl V".". ■"*•""
appellative be generic and „1,^ .? ' ?^ '^' ""'"a™ or
thoughts, wbatdoes the at If the" :; "'''T' "' *" '"'"^■»
represent ? It does not reL '° ""= P"'""'''"- ««

e4!rn,T („ »t-?P'^'*™'«°3'actoal object or existence
external to the mjnd and perceivable bv .«.„«•?
existence without the mind ? hT , ^'" '' ""

doctrine was that it h,d 1 \ f ""' "» Prototype ? The
independent'of «^ S 'in?""' ""' " '"■' '" ''"■"»»=«
it «s thought that what IW ,T °' "''"'^ S''™"' " *=«.

cl« in oom'mon ;„: a th^t"3!^^^^^^^^^ f '"''"^' "^ '^^
notanobiectofsen*. „„ . • , '""' "=''^«. and though

indcpendin, aftlTob'ieZ S °''"'™' °' '•'^ "''■'^> ■'"'J -
Adopted by ttl cl oolmen 1 "'' ,"' f *" ™' "^ P^^P*"-
and not „n^ irXe L'b be * f ""'" "' ^™'»"''.

'--ehe„,,aswer::tr:;;:;rtb:^:it-:::

ISG

INTELI-ECT.

y,i

ol" gonoml ideas, or those itleaw indicated by general terms : ^vo
mean by tlieir real existence, the existence of that which cou-
stitntcd, or was thought to constitnte, in ev y case, the essence
of the indivichials of a chiss 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 tho
matter of general terms the object of ouf 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 ikmotimj a circumstance of
ngrccmrvf, but a term which, applicable to an individual, might
bo extended to every individual which had the same properties
or chiu-acteristics 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 ciaicurring in tlie same properties. The same
with river, mountain, quadruped, and any other general term.
This opinion was maintained with great acutencss and ability
on the part of its supporters, but was mrt with the keenest
opposition from the Realists, enlisting even fJl the rancour of
njligious animosity both in favour and against it. It has gained
supporters even in modein 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 " tmiversal a
parte rei" has disappeared with the equal absurdities of a former
age, or former ages. Tlato, and y^ristotle, 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, liowever, has obtained its
adlierents at the present day, and among these we find tln^
brightest names in i)hilosophy, such as Berkeley and Btewavt.
It would lie an endless task to follow out or discuss all the

INTKLLKC'T.

187

opinions of philosophers on every mihiorf H.,.f

itisH„fficienttonoticc^Xt2ion ' ""T '"'""*'' °" «^'''^-

fomourownindependnt^J^Z'Ti^^^^^^^

to bo connected with certai 1 vlw on the U TT '''""'

and also with pecuh-ar views resp c in the n "' 1 ^'"^"'=^'
Nominalim., iadc-d mn«f ,1 f ° P'''''^'' ^f reasoning.

Which 8tew;.;t!:21'tl„ri'"V'""'''^^

common nouns Eitli,,r it J, f, * "' ''PI»II'>'i''cs or
-n indivl.,„a,, and'.i;! 1 ;::.'; Z fnj* f ? """^ '"
.».lism i, n, true. ,r , 'V"''''!''?' » "•""">' <"' Nomi*

N.^, is i. » th,.'j;; :„:::, z:„frL°: r ^""■'""•

<•'■ tho nan,o „f ,u, individual ? No d„ul,r,„ ''"?"""'
worn th,« f„™„a; but even witlf^^'^™' Zf "T"' '™"
liecame gcrjcral terms tl,m, . , "**"' "''"■' 'hoy

lint what 8i«ll bT^id ,f'tL" t " " '."''■"« "'■"S'--™..
h«vo had but for thi»t „;,..""'' !'"* "" ^""M ■'"■"

^-•M..«io„.a.e,i„,„?: rjirNX i^^rv'''''

can we say perception of u-reen,ent ihvT' ^/'^'^ ^I'^^^uig,
P-Iy applies to External ol ^cr Wc ,1 i'^k'" ""'"' ^'■"
oftheniatteris, tlwu the nl d isfiZ ' '^" I'^'oper view

in this sense) the a-a-eom .n. Z,'' '"'^""''^ ^^'' P^^ceive

"i-l or perceived, the na.rd S i^ Jf" ^"T " ""^'-
<^r perceived resemblance Dr K In °^ ''ecogrused

.oseniblance. We confess u A '''^'' '* " ^'^'^""g ^^

-i tl'« mi,.d altogether to a otho f ^' ^'^ """^''^^ ^'''"'^

Phenomena. VVc> do .'.ot ll /'''^'''"^^^^"^ ^^ *''« ^nental
nn'lKoidspakeof. Jo .]'''' '""'•''' '^''' ^•'"^" ^-^ko
-*• the Sinn Htv elir " ',"' "" ^^'*^ ""^ resen.blunce, or
idea as dist l^t^V^^^^^ ^^^^^^ *'-^ they regarded ti.at

-ough, allow of ;;::;:r;!^:;r\.]?'^;^^

'f "".lorstood in theion^c d" t e n d'o i t" 'T'"^'^''^

--i-'on.e.e.odr_;:r'5n;:;;:;r:r^r'"

ll.s

188

INTELLECT.

sense, the doctrine of the Conceptualists is not open to the
objection which Dr. Brown brings against it. The doctrine of
the Gonceptualistf, as opposed to both the Realists, and more
immediately the Nominalists, is, that general terms are the re-
sult ofgemral i(kas, 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 ? Noio, this general idea is the object of the mind lohen
loe^ employ a general term. And hence the name Conceptu-
alists. With them there was no real thing independent of the
mmd, and apart from the resembUng objects or qualities ; but
the resemblances among the objects or qualities «?ave 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 objectb thus seen, and observed to resemble, and reference
undoubtedly would be had to the agreement or resemblance.
Dr. Brown takes excei)tion to the phrase, general idea, and holds
that we have no such idea, that there can be no such idea; but

INTELLECT. , ^^

TO liave a feeling of resemblance ; there is a fcl. > .• ,
relation of reso™blanee, and we call a I'l-J* "tr "■"
name or term amonff whiVK fK„* 1 1- J^^^^ '^y the same
with Dr. Brown only wfththl If'^ '''''''■ ^^ ^^^^^
believe anythingUreCJatnr^^ *'^' "^ ^« -^
and that our pers^LToH Tn 'P^"''' "^^^^^^ i^^/'
more * ^ ^ ''' *^' Conceptudiste meant nothing

the .ind and 41^:1^:^^^:^^:^^^^^^^^^^^
a resemblance existed • thpra h„ i, , ^ ^° ^^^^h

fte general tern, istat'a t™ tSn^".*"" t° ,'''" *"'
das, of resembling i„divid„.i".?:f' *°" "<lmduals to a
the term was expfe "f™ of ! '• ^*' °^'»' "ho held that
or perceived rerbra:;^^ rmTn':"^.:!'''''' '""r"^'

.1.™ ma„»U SestXTr^reer jrir' '
circumstance of resemblance may b, LT^ , , """""^
spect to the genu, animal tSy a^ the 1T ' T" "'* '^
again, among quadrupeds therare divC^rt """f """^ ' >""
to these dive,.itie,, it is th gemrand Tt "' " ''"' "''J""'

pod ; but having observed ev™;'artionhr of ""n ' ''"'»''™-
can be detected and s„^- F , " "' '^^""•''moo 'hat

certain cCbl\rn?ag:usl'rrr .^^-^ ^-"' »
a...wecomet„TZ:te:nr:^-:-tS?.

• Dr. Brown snrely does not sinn.Iify
he„,atterwhe„ hoc-alls it, not an id„,^
uta fooling of agreement." Either
thiH (ochng is something or it is nothing

If.t.8_son„.thing, then is it anything
n.o,-e simple or intelligible than a gene

ral idea, or an idea of agreement ? For

tiiegonerttl idea is not understood to be
anything more than an idea of „g,eo.

ment, or resemblance, in certain parti,
cuiars or characteristics.

wwif riiiiit

iim

INTKLLKOT.

accordingly, is not a species, but a genus, and the summuiu
genus, as it is called. The genus animal, for example, is a
species in relation to being in general, and hemj is tlie 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. Foi' 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 tiie
naturalist, who nevertheless proceeds as confitlently in his
classitication as if he had seen tlie animal making the spring,
or tearing the vitals of its victim. It was by such a process
that Cuvier made tliose wonderful classifications which asto-
nished the scientific world, and gave a new method tor ascer-
taining the age of the earth. This, combining with the rigid
observations of geology, laid the foundation of a new science,
viz., pala3tiology as applied to the earth. Fi'om 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 poiiod anterior to the world's present exist-
ence. Geologj 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 i)rocess, and to the analysis of the process, as involved
in the principle of deduction, we now direct ouriselves.

oak.

'N'TliLLiJoT.

191

Deduction.

■^p^^:^'Xzz:^si;::f:'i •■

otect ,M,st havo a cause, a,„l wo pi d ^ S "'"'.^'J'
cause,; t.e „™ci,,Io„,,„«,,„,i„,^P Mta by .1,^""; °'
tlie conv,ct,o„, tlie intuitive conviction Z- "'"'''-'™'>'
mi observed ..henomonon .,m„ ' '" ""■>' ™» »*'

ti,at can. .Lt LiTf r:e7;::er:: cV-r*' "-^ "-"

into a law or fact: the ,»ineil T,I , , ^ ^^^^ "'■ generalize

i..« .0 which, fron, wi.aVrt :tt;rw::ftrnf

same must be true of ,.i.„n- :, r ■ , , T' ^> '""' *e
obtain our reas™Ls_ "? ';""" °' """ '^'' "■"' «

this a ,„i..cip,e™ 5 esT d ve Z rT""""' ■''°"- "
the mind ? Is it „„t hfee a tt m .^s !'lt wt T'''"' "''
a c ass must bo true of „,. ,■ ■ , ''^ "' "'"'' " "™ "''

- -ce to this i:\:„:^rzr;" ;: I'e "* r ■: . '"

of classes; or indivichnls ,nnvY , *''f ^'^^^'^ arc two kinds

w^s, eit,;. b, cii^Sri^rt w '"'" ;• ''-■' ^° ^^^

have made the distinoHr ]T ^' ^ ^'"'''■^^'^^*^°«- We
«enerali.atio„;^4 r^rm :Tjr:i: ^T"-- "'

term tree all object:"^ l" t^Lrr 'T"^'' ""^

i»tis; cSt elmew;"'-. «'* <"'*™'l d'aractcr-

tl..,ienemenXe.t:rC.:refhI^
characteristics „f these phen !„:* B^t t tl """f ™
we sc„erali.c in the pr^r nl," o. of ft T "'""

generalization we veu urc uno ! S f ■ " """

one eta of ii^ts fron "nXr e ;^ of fhcT ™' °' '" '"'"
i. truly a prediction : we^iiirrs" tl „gt CerX" ''
wlucli we have merely once it n>av 1.. . r ! *''"''

Mhepas. Ko,„fthre:p::tttVrTinr^^^^^^

'aMifeA>fe-aaaKytjA|||h|ljjg^^

192

INTKLLECT.

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 re^teat 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— every 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
ma^ 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

because wo have all /" ^

mortal: the general imJh ^!'''''*^'^'? *^« truth that mm is

ralization is, fsT^LrrlfteT " ^ ' r^^"' ^^^ ^--

individual or plrticllrt? -f '^ '^ *^^* generalization b

or truth, ZttZ oT "' '"" "^"^ ^/-i>.o^o.^Wo.

^ee. ...;f. «ii^ t;:.r ^ei :rj:' ^n^- ^^ '--

of a general, or an individual out of « i t ^^'^''''^^' °^*
particular because of a genem' we affi ^?' ^' ^^ "^^"^ ^
individual because we c^uTd^ffi f ™ ^ *™*^ ^^'P^^^^^g ^«
do I know that anv bnl ,f '^ '' '"'^''^^^ ^ «^^«- How
IsitnotobvbuslPTnSe: th^^*^*^.*^^ *^^ -*^ ^
of gravitation ? A gen lu^^^^^ T ^'^^^P^^ °^ ^^^

but it is a general tS in '' ""'^ ^ ^^'''^ ^^ ^^t^s,

in particular Zta^^^^^ ^n consequence of which we affirm it

divided or paS d 0^ \> '^ "'^ ' '^^'^ ""^''^ ^"^ ^^

tate to the earth • thTnSrf , ''' *^'* ^" ^^^'^^ g'-avi-

;viii g-itat;t th:tr ^^^^^^^ '' ^^«; *^^«^o^^

former? Does it tint ™.i . „ ''' '' ™ '"'tor rootasBeo! « the
«pon it ? iZw tl twrh?".^"'" ■'- "' ■^'^ '* ■"" depend
cause I know thlTthT ™ ^l"" "'" ?™*"' '" «« "'»"'. te-

enabfea .e totetT ittlhtirnr'S;::';;' "'"'^ " • "
of asserting a coneral trnt), tl, 7 , ™ " " ™}'' "deed,

or m^^£^o^^77t^^^il:\^f':' '"' P""- ™'»ce
For instance, when I snv Iw " n *"« °°' ""'' "f" «'<««■
"John i, mirtal™! affirm ° T t T "■" °'"""'" ""-^ "dJ,

" »"' is mortal," or that « ml^?l ■ ^ ' """^ ' '"' *"'
-d then add. that « .1 is" ? "^^^i:^^''

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 oi' mortals, but he possesses that
nature of which we have generalized the truth, that it is sub-
ject to mortality. How rl'> 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 coaimand 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 c 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

iNTBI.LRCT.

19.5

to this that such oonfusoil „„ i •

reference .„ deduction a„1 toirT- ""''""' l"-™" '•>
l-e the true process of iaTo'i,^. "■» 7' »«■" ■« Purporting ,o
elass is a number of hdwS. ] ^' ;"'*'"' """ •>«"'« »
pwess of the mind „Ct' .°u''°° ™""°' '«' » '^

-gnising the truth, la;; L:;:d'orfer"-" '™' """■

mdmduals of that class It ^11 . ,u "' '" ""^ "^ ">«
tional process of .he mi'd ; nor is ttf th 1 ""' " ""' ''^*-
t»t,o„ of dedncion-in other lords f d'^^" 'T "'""^"-
to drawing inferences in resnectT'- "'.'^f?'"'"'" ^<= ^nflned
individnala of a Cass me^ if ir wf 1'^ ,!^" ^''-' -
foundation of Mill's objection tnlh ,, • '"'' '"^'' »' "'e
tive reasoning. Mill is the " ^ *^°'' °' '" ''«'"=-
fogism as : process Tf ItoZ Zt "r^"' ■"' "«■
the ablest exponent of the view« 7^,^; ! '""J'-estionably
He takes an original view inde^ •'!;,'?' "t "f *>•" 1«ion
»ud Campbell, and Stewart and R ',"''•'"'■ ^'" !'»«>=<•.

tially the sam'e ground vL that 7".' "'* '" " ^ ^™-
i» al,^dy contoed IZo gtlrll' ."'• "' *= P"*"'"
be educed by a process <rf r^/ ,1' °,°' "'^'""S '»
of a minor premiLin otr~ Vdii' n''""'™
reasoning were confined to whl^ »!' , deduction. Now, if
class, the objection wouU be ' 71 ,f /"'"""'^ °f ^
claims of the syllogism or dcduclion , l ■'" "S"'™' ""o

of rea«,„i„g, o anything more T "°°°*'^'' " P™«

oxhibiting t;,ith. But we Z air" ." ""^' °' """^S «'
properly applies to ^niJl^Z t:ZZa f' "t"'™
« traly a process of reasoning or infeen^ r ' """' "''"' "
our example:-" All men afe m W ' " j„b "' "™'' *"
The objection is, that the latter „f« ~ " '" ^o'"."
toined in the fomer, and tha the ?.'''• ''"''"''°''' '' "°-
Proves what had alreadrbeen I-IJ >T " ""'"^ '"' ''
The syllogism i„„„,,^{^-^--^^.n *» general premiss.

Sencral premiss the trnth sum,,««7, T u ' "'"""o' '" 'he
'" the conclusion. D duc2 then ''™""'" "" "' <'*"ood
zoning What reasoning tHln^'thrr' P™""' "^ ™-
->■■ Mil. consistently c^jLti:^;' '' 11;,^^:". '»

2m-

196

INTELLECT.

plied in gcneralizalion. 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. M'.ll says it is contained
in it, if the syllogism bo " 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
oHgin 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 ihoni with hira ; 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, Vv'hence 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 nmst be r.rawn,
and into these they may be again lesolved, for a general truth
is but an aggregate of particular truths, — a comprehensive
expression, by which an indefinite number of individual flicts
are affirmed or denied at once. But a general proposition is
nv~"t merely a compendious form for recording and preserving
on the memory a number of particular facts, all of which have
been observed. General, zati on is not a process of mere naming,
— it is also a process of inference. From instances which we

INTBLLKCT.

197

ofcorved, together with all that wo bfe™! "*,"' ">™
m ono concise exDreHninr, • .„ i i T °'" ouecrrations,

.ion, for making r:S"X''nc:t°rf """ ™'™"-
are compressed into ono short sentcnl ""™'™ '»««■

Tho^ra^drer'o.rerT''"'''' '™"' ""^ •'"* ""°"° »'l
ease the'cxpertoem had h f ■? """ ""'"^ "' » "hoso
Wellington^ CtaMiko tl,» '/"'' """ "'^ ^uke of

'hrough thegone2 t armr'ar::?^ '"""" "'"'
mcdiato rfage- hut it i« n, , ^ , °'"'^' "^ "" 'n'er-

the descent Iro'n, ^5 1 ^re D.Vot W "Ir °' '"^ ^™«'
.•»/««cc resides. The infe ence tfi Y1 °^°' """ ""^
»««« that all men art mo fe, "wtff*'". "''™ " have
merely deciphering onr owT^te, " ™™ '^''"''"'» '»

been arrived at in the genemlilliol ,, "i""".'''" ™""'"J'
Duko of Wellington if „ , f u ""'^ ""'«• That the

whenweconSSTrmrnn'rof^or' IT" ""^'■'^«''
all men are mortal ■' Thl :„f • ^"^"^ "'»'«°«» «"at

a^rted that all men arfmotlr °S " T""^ "'''" ™ '"''^
would be at issue with MiTlT, in „I ' !.' ''°''" "' "'''''> "«
general tn,th arrived at bv he'nr * ^ g^^neralization, or

«on,ameremem„3tdTr.°:hT*''°'«r"^'--
i» merely deciphering our own note^' "'■.^V™'""' """""'»
a tme account of the matter Th, 7 °°' ''™ '" ■"=

were, repeated in everv imtt f Se^erahzation is, as it

say, 18 the peculiarity in evcrv instZr 7' ™'^' "o "ould

.--. o,.o/„ .»L.,^!-;t:;^^cS;^

198

INTKLLECT.

case: there is truly a new generalization in order to tliat case,
or before we can assert the proposition in that case. There ia
nothing like the reference to a memorandum. Let us transfer
the case to ourselves. How do we know that we are moitaj
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 i Mortality is inseparable from the possession of
humanity: it is inseparable from me: why? because I am
I)088e8sed 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 genei-alization in order to a par-
tiaular. According to Mill, there can be no inference whai-
ever; for all infenence is, and must be, deductive. Even
m 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 throut^h
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 (he flame he will be burnt again!
He believes this in every case which happens to arise; but
without looking, in each instance, beyond the presc:-t ca^e.
He IS not generalizing; he is inferring a particular fr,n : :v.
ticulars." Those who have already traced the progrct, ox 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

WTELLECT.

199

como to have if ^^m^v/uctp" wT' T "? "
gonemi prmciple, th»t every effect must have Iclte A»

....top,a..Thel;K^i^^^^^

mto he m„.4, »„<, there i, genemlization hem. The ide,

ray pam, but there is a cause of mv nam I'n ♦v,^ «

undeveloced Tni !,„ tha generUmng proces,, however

wm he allowed that .hen generic, ^l 1" C ij t

lA. a mnicnar. Ihere le the generalmm vrinad^
m every instance of genemlimlion. We connectflr^t
menon with a ^use, and we c^fldent^Ste the tit
phenomenon in all dmikr cmumBtan J. Ther^conld ^2
Sttr-'T '"•' '".'■""^ °f ™* " P^cipleo 1 .iind

toCuS "h n't "' "■ 'r""' -P«*»'»PerationTare
in chUdhood . I^ut no generalization takes place without it

No miBtake, it seems to us, could be "reater thu„ t„ ,i .

wo re..on from particula.,, whether in inCtt ISv"
<l..ot.ve rea»,nu,g, ether when wo generalize, or whrl" J^t

iWB'

2(}0

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 raind 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 proceoses when
all the parts of the process are not very distinctly marked, and
the transitions and - tages of the process may be too subtle to
detect. The operations of the njind 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-
perienc , 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 om-selves 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
raistakmg here of the mental processes, a most unaccountable
mattontion to the real operations of the mind, in the crn^os sup-
posed. Even when we rcfison from ourselves to other people
or from oi.o person to another, although we do not tbrmally

INTELLECT.

201

general principle i„ view I^d that J T^' " '''™ '"'* »
made to take the place « ZtJ^J TT^' I"" >« -o'
In such cases we ^ aS C '""'; °' «=''™' -"™™-

«.wa^ the effect „fa;SprZ3r*-:^rT„'"

:e!:::;rerttt=f' .''■•^-""^"-""Ct-

was there nottac ^ Z , '" °'"' °" ""^^ "''"""5' ?
there was, doTe tt ZfiT"" T^"''''"" ^ »»<'''
instance o .r ow^ca e afrln 1 °.™°'™' " <■» ™ "»'
oxe»plif,iog soL T;; of di^dTaSdlr ^ ■f'"''^''' "
providential nrran,remcnt» IS i ' °''' " ""^ >«. "f

general ..aximsP-^rciithr '''™/'' «■« "^ff-t of

persists m it, and with muoU k«o * n , "^^^^^S^*- But he

.ion. refuting hi^^ai? tt J^Se [olt'tr 'f '■"■"'""-
po.ed, and in his manner of luting the^ * "stances sup-
thc village matron » he sav» -LI. u .. " """ ""'y
tion upo? the case' of a"' ' hbi; IhM """^ '° ° ™™''"«-
evil and its remedy simnlvl tZ ™"'.P''<»'»''nees on the

what she accounts'thtTicLt^tw "°d"'''°'V
v.lI.«o matron suppose some gencr^ o.l« ^' .,, "'' """ ""=

:Si:::™rts£9f^-^^-

guide onrleivosi/thTsarwr.tnr? IT *° ""' "^^
experience, and retain it, impZrfon, stronl ? "" '""'"'™
m this manner a very considlble pX oS^^^^^^
<ih,ch wo may be utterly incapable of i,,.V:f J'"'?"'™'.

cathiK to othcra At„,„ Ik I Jnstifymg or oommuni-

-CthcJZeri^^i'^i:-::—^-

202

INTELLECT.

K ■

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 reconuite, 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 diflfer-
ently. He says, " This ; 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 other^
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 hot 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, mgeneralized (?) 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 exphiin the success of his movement : this is

INTELLECT.

203

possible, though a warrior, taught in the srhn.l f
even while he has nevev^uJ.^ . of experience,

hardly be so destitute If^^^ ^^uU

that he acts merely from thl pv '., * '* ^^ '"PP^^^d

cesses or good fortu e stTl ^7:^'^^^'^^^ of past suc-
principlesP-doZn^t anH-'' *^''' very examples his
does he notknow at least thatth V"^ of principles ?-
success in the 2tint! '^ ''"^^ °°* ^^'^ commanded

or with r..:^T^z:a:z:::^'t^^tr^-^

or such a Z7.ZTZT ^'^^^P^^^^g "«. to act in such

""J', IS itselt a generalization. We s«v fn m,_ i
every such instance of procedure „:n 1, .* j j ""''^ '
eucoess. The verv examnl. • ^ """'"''^ '"* '^

or is a genemtai,: The" I ^r""' °' ', Sene«Ii.atio„,
hero? No; wo no "er do ,oTp r"""" '^''"" P^'"™'™

ouiar would be an anoL^ IZm nol^ i "' '^ " ^""-
our mental constitution. We Lva iwvl '" '^~*''«> «*
or genera, p^positions. tI s HeT-^^^r" ''".°"P''»
reason. Call it what you please i .fT ?■ '''«™»'^"»* »f

of the naind; let infcrLce ne":; otur blrir °r^^^^^^^^
agenen.1 truth or principle is iryrtheVronSTr^'i
every conclusion of the mind The mind J ^ ""''

some general principle. Tht is tL '' ^ "P ^

feeli: Whate^ stTtes t^'ni^o ^prei'VIe™""*'"-;

be a general proposition conveying a cenoral f r fi \ 5

niont Wo flipn fr«,>, ^u , fe^"^ra' "uth or state-

nt. Wo then from the general statement assert the parti-

204

INTELLECT.

cular, respecting which we wish to conclude. This may not be
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 eflfects : or a cause will be followed by its
eiFect : 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 liku 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,
orfeio 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 ; Sv
far as it is an observation of physical phencraena, the inference
applied to that observation, like an algebi c sign or formula
applied to a quantity lohich may he put in v place, we get for
our conclusion the physical phenomenon.

It is necc-^sary 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 i„
pnncples, as things exist in classes. Nothing, is isolated n

must all being The principles of the mind are the germs from
which all truth intellectual, ..thetic, moral, religiLrevo^^"
except such re igious truth as must hav 3 its revelation ablTa
i rom these principles truth, ever enlarging, may expand TtlTe
mnd. he circle may have no bounds, or circle may extend
beyond cxrcle mdefinitely-ever new consequences mayTvelop
themselve^new applications of all the subjects of thou' bl-
and eternity may not see the limit, as undoubtedly it will not
to the developments of truth ;-one principle or general ruth

g.vmgoutanother-one particular truth combininglithanother
-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.

?ri '\lJ^'yV'^^^^^^ saying of the famous Harvey
quoted by Whewell in his '' Philosophy of the Inducti^^:
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 universal to particulars; yet that
very comprehension of universals in the understanding, springs -
trom the perception of singulars 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
trom 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
ot mduction, which consists not in the collection of facts merelv
singulars in the sense," but their colligation by the concep-
tions of our own m^nds-i\^^t is, the generalizations by which
tlie facts are explained, and are hound together, as it were,

\clop ludcfinitoly, is tt luuaraous to tlio Uivino minrl v ^

conjecture tliat all truth may be traced

200"

INTKLLECT.

■si »!

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, hut
by the mind. The conclusion is not contained in the premises
but mcludes them by the introduction of a new generality. In
order to obtiiin our inference, we travel beyond the cases which
we have before us. We consider them as mere exemplifications
of some tdeal 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 18 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 oan 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 exmipiificatlons of some
ideal case. In other words, if we may venture to put an inter-
pretation on Whewell's language, agreeable to the doctrine
whicu 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 oneration of that
cause ; we try to find out that cause, and, having found it the
induction IS complete. The discovery, or the finding ou't of
that cause, is the invenHon which Whewell speaks of as an

INTELLECT.

207

: princiHty of the act o'fWon SL" 2LT"'''
inductive inferenpp " « a uu l • requisite m every

He says a.^^ 7. o'/^^^^^^^^^^^^

n!w ^ '■; Tv ' ""^ ''' ""^^ ^* ^« ^J^^t this Step of which we
now speak the invention of a new conception b vt; in
ductive inference, is so generally overlooked that it halwl"
been noticed by preceding philosophers " Th« fnl ^

tation from Whewell ^.^^^Z fa'ht' -^Xf Id
It will be seen to be in accordance with that which wl' have
presented, while it will still farther bring out or explilte Z
real process of induction. After the wLs first qtfo d fr^^^^
this distinguished philosopher, he proceeds to say ^^ We Z
a standard, and measure the facts bv i^ • nn7 v,- , ^7*"^

e«uaple, that a body left to itself will move on Sraltoti
velocly not because our senses ever diselosed to us a bjf
doing lus, but because (taking this as onr ideally we flS
that all actual cases are intelligible and explicablerLlnfof
the conceptron of force, causing change and motion Td ef
erted by surrounding bodies. In lite manner, wc s'ee wt
stnkmg each other, and thus moving and stoppik acdS
and ret^rdmg each other ; but in .-11 this we do no ZZ bf

■8 a cre8.ion of the mmd brought in among the facts in order
to convert their apparent confusion into orier,-2 Leminl

This the conception of mommlnm gained and lost does • Tnd in

by induction, some conception is introduced, some idea is
app led as the means of binding together the facts, and tba
producing the truth." In these examples given by Whewdl
orany other example .bat may be adducedahe coLe^^r^
/««,., the conception of momentum, or an; other eonceptlf

208

INTELLECT.

UH tho cfvse may be, is just tho supposed cause of which we have
uH alon- spoken, to whicli the mind is led, on the presence of
tho observed cases, and which having been discovered, or in-
vented, as Whewell expresses it, is tho induction or generaliza-
tion in the particular ctuso. The subject is still furtlier illustrated
by Whewell. « Hence," ho says, " iu every inference by induc-
tion, there is somp conception superinduced upon the facts ;
and we may henceforth conceive this to bo the peculiar import
of the term mdnction. I am not to be understood as asserting
that the term was originally or anciently employed with this
notion of its meaning, for tha pccvHor feature jmt pointed out
in induction, has generally been overlooked. This appears by
the accounts generally given of induction. " luduction " says
Aristotle, "is when by means of one extreme term y:o infer the
other extreme term to be true of tho middle term." The case
which WheweU takes to illustrate his meaning, as to what
really takes place in induction, and to shew the imperfection of
Aristotle 8 view, is the elliptical motion of the planets round
the sun. It uas Kepler who deteimined this motion of the
planets. The case then stands thus,-Certain phenomena are
obsei-ved :n 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 Kei)le
at last hit upon elliptical motion as the cause; tlmt cause
accounted for the peculiarities in the motion of these planets
Jiut what was true of these planets was true of all the i)lanets
and the elliptical motion oi the planets roun.l 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 thev exhibit
That cause is found in their elliptical motion round the sun"
iiut the cause that determines the phenomena in the case of
these planets, determines the same phenomena in the case of
tne other planets; the mind at once refers the law which is
true of these to all the planets ; the iuforence is geueralizeil •

INTfiLLECr.

209

the invented conception becomes t. hiw \r
Aristotle,- by meaJs of one extrem Ln, J' ""'''^^'"^ *"
Ma., we infer the other ex rerZ eZticd™?' ^'"'^'
true of the middle term, planets. As' t^Z C'm '^
clescnbe elliptical orbits roun.l the sun and as wTl '. "'"'

to ^ chlacteri j;lf;:^^^^^^^^^^

of them are characterized we ^et fh. Jn^ . ^ ""'' ^">^
»U planets „,„vo i„ e,„>;»"Za 1^1 it " ""*™" *»'
Mercury Ven„s, Mors = all the planets:
E .pticd motion is the motion ofMoreury, Venua Ma™-
EIhl.t.caI mot,o„ i, tlie motion of all the plane™ '

Now, Whowcll remarks upon this that "A,.:.t « ,
taattentior, enti.ly to the e'videnee'of I int n^ TZ

:t:r,:rr:pthLht:?t;r„''"' 't "^^ "-"

t.on of ellipses, wh,eh is the other extreme of the sy iSsm ?

the statement of the svlloiHsm i, tl,„ ; i . ' '

l\r. 1 u , ■^J'"°g'8m 13 the important step m science

We know how long Kepler laboured, how hard he fo^.I,/ 1
many devices he tried, before he hit ipon this It 2 ^t 7
t e? T ^^ "J^"'"" """^ ■""er second extern t^'

^peciT.^ „rob::ur^";rh:"^j::rrj ?^

pren» that .Mar. does describet\,teTo„:dTs:n-h:

* That cannot be in the inductive
syllogism, l.„t in the syllogism snbse-

quent to tlio induction, and evinclnntU
truth obtained.

'^Jti^-*

'2W

IN'I'KLM'X"!'.

does not hesitate to guess, at least, that in this respect ho might
convert tha 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 oi 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 suppo8e 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 tho
premiss to our inductive inftrence ; 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 proccQd 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

211

«nd s„ch -ike j^r'crSi:^,':^'^"';"^' ^°*»"^'

cLemist.,, the induction, are of the oth 'kinS -Tr' '"'
sought for, and not tl,e mere phenomena ' ™''"' ""

irom this account oflnduction it will' be seen .h»t :> ■ ,u
great instrument of science Tt „,-n i, ' '' " ""o

still scope for n„oSl Tc^i Zl^V^"^''' "^
invention-ov the concentinn • , ' Whewell calls

ourobservation-to thrir™ T'"''™'"' "P°" "'o «>* »f
oasc in point the" the ind 7 "'^" """^ '='"'«' "^ «'0
'liscovery of s m »,s ^ , ," ""V''* «'°™'» '» ""o

»«", *i» hypothrisTti:';!: r:f .f;r™°"- ="■'

or established b, actual ITcuTat^; "C1h^-]f™«.
hypothesis or theory nnrl tl,..,.^ • ' ** '^ ^'^^y

no actual discover?^' mL^p " "r."' ^'^^^ '''^'^-*-"'
stage-waiting for an \2J . ""T' ^'' ^'^ ^^ ^^^'

some hypothe^-s '"' '' ^°'' ''^^ establishment of

science he woulj h,t .r the v'™/!- *' P''^^"' ^'^'^""'f
philosophizing whicl he Jv! Tf™""" '"' """ «>'*» "f

•lid not invent but nf J.- 1 '™'"™''"' of inquiry, which he
into men's han* h! m -m "'""'"' *" "»"• He put it

the roposito;! wh"l"ttad soT"- "^''""«'' " °°' "^
the concealment of wWch ft Ld ' "^ "'™"'«"'M: ""y, in
pccted ,0 exist. It *t e mi:dZ:r":" " '""Z™-

;ns',::i^';;rrrtenTt ^--ra:ui:

*e mcwoll.-" Philosophy „f the Ifdnrt-v- Q; ' -i ^ '

t ,? iiie ji,cincti\f hciencps, ' vol. ii. p. 328,

212

II.

iNTKLLECT.

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 tlio 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 conckisioh 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— che 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 tl.o n„«, •
pojnt, and to all similar cases. Ther/is a nil proclZT

nducc.duponthefactsotob.ervation-acor.ceptiorfl?ndXt
conception we are led by the deduction that silently !ukeX1^e

^nourm^nds. There is a cause here. Every 11 t^Z

attended by it, effect in all similar oircumstanc s wTat s

tl.at cause P We invent a cause, or we discover i^ The

u^^reffrt"".^'" ''■ ^'''' ^^"^^ ^'^ '^ ^^^^ ^y

unifoim effect, will operate in all similar circumstances in the
Bame way : .uch and such is the cause here : we may 7x^00
m all circumstances the same as tho.e now under observitiln
and a, , a by the same etiects. This is .he I7u t^^t^^
mveuted cause or pheromenon will be found in all similar
circumstances, or will distinguish all similar case«

Induction and deduction, then, are not so opposed as at fi«t
.ght they may appear. In every inductive pii ess there sc^
duction, and the difference between this and ordinary dlctb^^
IS m the cn-cumstances in which the deduction takes^t e am"
the result which it gives. But the peculiarity of tl at Tu
Hgam, . not ow.ng to anything peculiar in the deduct on bl^
the pecuharity of one of the terms, it being really Ua

tl tlrm T " Tf '" °' *'" """^- ^"* t^- invention
this term, this mental creation, is not a part of the inductive
principle, though so essential to the inductive proce 7 Thi!
ni^ntal ac , creation, or invention, as it really is,'is truly won
clerful in Itself. It is in such acts, as it is in the kindred act

st:"r«:;:f "' ''T^ r power of onginal mlndst

seen. lo give to airy nothing a local habitation and a name"

s very much a lied to the act of the philosopher's we have b^en

^nsidenng " How little of Newton's train of thought^ says

oTthTi iTfT^^^^f ;."' '' '^'^^''y -^-ested b^, the fa«
ot the HppJe I If the apple fall, s. id the discoverer, why should
not the moon, the planets, the satellites fall ?" « HowLe we »
^ys Whewell, ''in these cases, (the cases of invented ideas Uo
discover such ideas and to judge which will be efficadous i^
lead ng to a scientific combination of our experimental data ?
lo tins question we must, in the first place, answer, that the

214

INTELLKCT.

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 sa^-acity
which belongs to the genius of a discoverer; and whicb "vvhile
It supplies those distinct and appropriate conceptions whicli
lead to its success, cannot be limited by rules, oi expressed in
definitions."

In deduction a siinila.- characteristic of mind is seen in what
IS called tlie 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
pi-emiss, 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
tliought have been traced or accounted fnv, 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-

INTELLKCT.

215

stratum of onr primitive ideas, all our other ideas are obtained
Pe..onahty, externality, matter, mind-with their serraepo
pert:es--space, time, power, number, motion: 7T^eT.v
Clements all our purely intelleetual id^as are composed Into
hoj many combinations may not these elements be thtwn b^
he laws and principles of which we have given the accrunt ?

2t'Xoir '"^'l^M^"^ -ythey'not present i-
I the^nV 'T *^"' ^^'''''^^ S'^''' ^ Classification of

a I the ciences according to our elementary ideaa And if tho

physical sciences can be classified according to tTeseevex^ot
who IS conversant with thought at all must'be awa'e liov luc,

or cnaiacte . These form the wide field for the moralist and

he theologian. What are the discussions of the Ttud n Zt

the statesman concerned with but human interests and human

character? What constitutes history but the narrative ofTha^

XTtl T"'- • ^''' ^°^-- ^^« groundwoTl; ,^!
^u tist, 01 the poet s creation ? It need not surprise us that ou^
elementary ideas are so few, or that out of them we can lav
such an unlimited variety and multiplicity. It ml serve L
11 ustrate this subject, if we think of the endless combination
which the Icttei. of the alphabet may assume. Of Zv manv
words . any one language composed, and yet what limit caTwI
et to the order m which these may be arranged ? MeTZl
been speaking and writing every day and every hour of the dav
and wherever there have been human beings who can maintain
an intercourse by language-in how many instances have t
am words, in the same order, been repeated ? What a vari ty
m the human countenance out of a few features-in the hiTman
voice from the same orgau-in human disposition with the
same essential elements I It seems to be the triumph of Div nc
power and wisdom to serve the greatest variety of ends with '
the fewest means. A few laws make up the systL of the uni
ve..e; but how endless their modifications ! lo is"t with mind
and Its Ideas. The elementary ideas can easily b numbered

;; vi : zr^'' '^t "'^*^ ' ''^^^^ ^»-* >-- -

"niveisc for their scopo-that scale the throne of IX-ity^that

216

INTELLECT.

wander through eternity-that take in the multiplicity of created
objects-maa 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 v hich 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 plauets 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 agam ne only in its application, and as a theor\ ,f science '
for the ideas of which the theory was composed must of course
havo been previously possessed. The idea of atoms was not
new, It 18 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 now idea to moral science
or rather to that department of theological science which has
to do with the evidences of Revealed Religion, when he brought
out the analogy of Revealed Religion to the constitution and
course of nature; but it was new only in the aew 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 quostion of ultimatu atdiiis was
(liscuHseJ even nnioiif;- the ancients, and
is not yet sottlotl. DHlton's theory pro-
ceeds, or was stated by Dulton himself
as prooeedinft upon the Nupposilion of
atoms being ultimate. lUit AVhowc.
shews that it is enougii for the theory

tiiat the atoms bo smaller than the small-
est observable i)artieles. The question
as to whether atoms are ultimate is the
most ctirious and puzzling perhajis in
metaphysics, and no one shews more
strikingly the limits of our faculties.

INTELLECT.

217

ou .t ^ay bo, with lavM. profusion o/embodtt 'ie "T
Oision new analogies, new resemblances, new and l^nw^
proporfons; but any really new elemen ary ideas „rO
what infinite combinations is not music coLZ 'p T
the combinations in eveiy several nldyTbr / v l"!?
sure of music consists in the detection of ideas whLZf
P««d formerly in other combinatiouV and wh h Z^
us m the new, produce a pleasiiKr recoimil on wbTl !^ '
a stnvnge and delicious seLtiou°or S'^f t i^^'T""
;.»elf furnishes an illustration what varieVmay^ Protc'cS
by a lew elementary sounds. The range of the musidl Zf

Ct It IS ,1,!^ I ""■'"■' """ -'""' "f"™^ '' ^ensational-
tiat It IS (he fine harmonies that uftect the sense and n„t .I,„

.acas that stiiUe the mind, or impress the tart burwto

Zutr" H^""''°"' "" "''"»^' "'"'»'" «- vistas otolh
and f«, ling that are opened up-that vanish into the infinite
to dehght while they detain, but please most when tL
lead us beyond this lower sphei^, and leave us on tie crv
margin of the infinite and the eternal. Perhaps the flntt 2
of onr m.nds-of our intelleclual states we mean-is when w„
hardb. know the value and limita of our own thoughI_m,do
up of elements so simple, but stretehing into distaSccT^S
we cannot measiire-into which we can but gaze. The idea
of the Divme Being is one which we cannot'fnlly toke in-

a modification merely of our ideas of Beiug, Spirit and be
atuibutcs of Spirit: but how vast l-h„w Scomp'hll'
-how immeasurable! E..istence, but ^rfAvr^Lc-spi t
mdependentof matter,-power, but omnipotent power i-'T^l^
do, but infinite wis,iom,-dumti„n, but eternal .Iraiion™"
presence in space, but omnipresence f Matlon,-

tio™ rl' It 'T' "' "'"t^"'' composed-of such eombina-
lions or modifications are they susceptible-iuto such infinite
distances may they stretch. mnniu.

>l i 111

Iflii

218

INTKLMOt'T.

We Hliiill ndd licro thorn imrte oi' Whowell's chissification of
the scioncos IouikUhI unoii ideas, whicli wo omitted before, as not
liaviug obtained our niodiliod ideas, the ideas modified by the
laws of niind, and the prinoiiiles of generalization and deduction.
AVo give the classification now entire, and in Whewell's own
words, and it will bo easy to recognise those sciences that are
dependent upon our primitive ideas, and those which take their
rim from Iho ideas modified by the laws of mind.

"1 shall have to speak," says Whewell, "of the ideas which
ui-e the foundation of geometry and arithmetic, (and which also
regulate all sciences dei)ondiiig upon those, »is astronomy and
mechanics,) namely, the ideas of space, time, and niunber. Of
the idena which the secondary mechanical sciences (acoustics, op-
tics, and thermotics) involve, namely, the ideas of the externality
of objects, and of the media by which we i)erceive their qualiti js.
" Of the iileas which are the basis of mechanico-chomical, and
chemical science ; y>olarity, chemical affinity, and substance ;
and the idea oi' .vfmmcfri/, a necessary part of the philosophy of
crystallography.

" Of tho ideas on which the classificatory sciences pioceed,
(mineralogy, botany, and zoology,) namely, the ideas of resem-
blance, and of its <jradntions, and of natural affinity.

"Finally, of those ideas on which the physiological sciences
are founded, the ideas of sciiarato vital powers, such as assimi-
lation and irritability, and tho idea of final cause.

" We have, besides these, the jiahutiological sciences, which
proceed n.-inly on the conception of historical cjuisation."

Obviously, then, the sciences which depend upon our modi-'
tied hleivs OS their basis, are ciystallography, of which, in this
classification, the idea of synunetry is the basis, and the classifi-
witory sciences, of which the basis, according to Whewell, are
the ideas of n'semblance and its gradations. In all the rest we
recognise our primitive ideas; for even vitality is a species of
{wwer, and historical auisation is but time and causation com-
bined. yit.)dity, however, is power in combination, and so
likewise is historical causation ; it is causation or power in
condanation with time, and the destinies or changes of being,

INTKLLKCT.

219

or existence; so fhat physiology and patetiology may be said
to depend ,n a eertum way upon our modified, and not simpv
our primitive, ideas. I '^

XVI.

We have now to attend to those laws of association in our

vc y mouifications and combinations of ideas which we have
noticed, and, indeed, to all the processes of mind.

AsKociATioN OP Ideas

"oHung ,uoro than antacodenco „,„1 consequence in cvcl L
perfectly vaM. Tl,e events in such a cL a.^ llin ^

ciUMtion and tlie or.gu,„l luineipL of causality, as it is „f
»u I, u„i,„,t.u,ce ,„ ti,e ionnalion of o„r original ideaVllld
not be oxcuded from the la>vs of subsequent s„t«fo„ t

Its c,u.M .^ Does not a cause immediately awaken the idea

t : ;f : rv- ""' ."--'t °" *= p""4ie of pS ;

CO tiguity? As a lauicjile or law of connexion wc have

«■ «,at ca„sal„.y, or causation, is the very principle t gZ-

a zalton, or cucnmstance in our mind, which lei to gcnC

.a afoi Causality is something far more important ar,l

"diuentml than contiguity in time Tnd place "^ '

.. i

220

INTELLECT,

I'orhiips, 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. Causalitij is the grand principle in the formation
of our original or primitive ideas ; mid it, with resemblance,
analogy, contrast, time and i)lace, 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
coiifi(/Hif// in time and place is something dilllrent from the
simple ideas of time and ploce ; 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 conkMu-
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 iispects of our ideas, then, in their original jtate, and
under the difterent modifications, become the laivs according
to which they arise in connexion. The ideas, as they are
obtained, seem also to he retained: the same laws which
gave us our ideas become the bond of their connexion. The
law of resemblance^ fir 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 if I })erceive 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
resemblinij object. When I chance to come upon a landscape
bearing a close resemblance t(. one I have seen before, in the

INTELLiiCT.

221

order of nature I am first capable of perceiving? or beinL^
struck w,th the resemblance; but again/the prest^ce of ht

the other Ihe mind exists in a staf-. of percel/ed resem-

viZ^m r: " ' «"-I>^^^^"*y of the mind, besides Tn
yitue of winch the presence of the one piece of scenery or its
a oa . followed by, or accompanied with, the thought' of til
otiiu. Iho one is said to recall or suggest the other- bnf
ohviously if the mind could not exist in thf state of a p "cdve"
resemblance, there would be no such recalling, no -nch asso
ciation or suggestion. The capability of the mind existing in
a state of felt resomblanco, as Dr. Brown calls it, is first sup-
posed, and then the suggestion, or just the connexion, takes
p ace-the connexion is the sngrjestwn. 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 mmd, or capable of being associated : so with resemblin.^
olyects, so with contrasted objects, so with all existin- or pei^
ceivable analogies-so with proportion, so with cause and eftect
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
wuh it, the oak or the elm which shadowed our father's cotta-e
ihe temperature which regaled and imparted health to tie
sickly frame under one clime of the earth, recalls the invigora-
ting breezes and delightful sun of a clime the sa.ne, thoucTh in
a separate and far distant region. On the other hand" the
sunny c ime of the south recalls, by the force of contrast, the
CO d and ungemal skies of the north. The mind of the tra-
veller 18 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

INTKLLEOT.

the infusion of a better principle and spirit into tlie theory and
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. Keserabling 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 ol" 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 raind'st mo of that aiitmnn noon,
When first wo met upon ' the banks
And braes of bonnie Doon.' "

After some connecting links of thought the writer says,—

" I've stood beside the cottage bod,

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

" And I have stood beside the pilo,

His monument— that tells to heaven
Tho liomage of earth's proudest isle
To that bard-peasant given."

INTKLLECT.

223

Tho pilgrims who are attracted by Burns' fame,-

" I'i'P'-f.ns whoso wamlering feet have presserl
llie Switzer's sr.ow, the Arab's sand,
Or trod the piled loaves of the west,
My own green forest land.
"All ask tho cottage of his birth,

Gaze on the scene.) he loved and snng,
And gather feelings not of earth,
His fields and streams among.
" They linger by tlio Donn'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 Bvron's mi,„)

vhen wandeung ami,l the ruins „f R, J „„d ^Z And

tee, aga,„, ,t was not contiguity of place, but p ac lii^

The rums were the connecting link „itk ages long g^e Zl

and „e o„ „„. h„, ,„„^ ^^^^ ^^^=_^^ wiZ L^C

■og their mcmones on all future ages. The same Zllr
connexoo „„, ;„ „,e n,i„d of Gibbon,°whe„, aLT h tins

and tall of .hat Empire, whose magnificent monuments he was
contemplating. In these instances we have . It • ttn!^
place mingling with those of time, place s^gesttanrmeTl

vve nave seen how anahrji, operates on our trains of thought •
and tt ,s tho law „fp,^o,.,^,. ^^ j, » «' »';8^.

wellTs in « 1 T"'"*' ""'• '""■"^«»1 calcuirt oH
G veto tie „ ■."■f r™"* °™ "'"' ""l""™™'' of the artist.
ihZ 1, v"°* '"■'^° proportions of a building and

with, their fit tag proportions. State to the mathematician

r prtircr"?"™'.""' "-^ '"""''^ ^ -"»™S

properties have their immediate place in the mind. It is said
of Sir Isaac Newton, that he could see the steps in a d mon

mitLdtoit T T"T°'"''""'•'^™'P'''"■°"P-°«"&»b-
n.ltted to It. A redundancy, or a defect, in colour, a false proper-

J. a

224

INTELLECT.

tion or a wrong disposition of ligiifc an<l shade, is immediately
singled out, and becomes the subject of animadversion, while the
perfection of these in the great masters is the subject of unceasin<-
panegyric. These links of connexion aro endless. By means
of them the mind is confined neither to time nor place but
realizes all time and all place. Links of association connec't 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 thou-ht".
bounds have their resemblances and contrasts, and the power
of association in words is illustrated in the connexions and
multipUed ramifications of language. It is thus that etymolo-y
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. Ehymin-
IS an exemplification of the same law ; it is the association of
resemblance which is the law of rhym-'ag. And nothing almost
attords 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 pleasin^ 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 anaJoffy, 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 ori-inal

-bT

INTKLLECT.

225

caustitution of mind ; aud tins leads us to enumerate and to

x^t-r '■"°" ""■ "■■"""■' ^-"*- '"■' °f — '"

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 Du-^ald
Stewart we find some remarks very much the same with those

Pliilo ophy of Rhetorac, some of the circumstances specified as
operatmg upon the passions, ure just those which Dr Brown
has enumerated as influencing the primary laws of association.
Dr Brown, however, has undoubtedly the merit of concentrate
ing the remarks wh.oh lie scattered in other authors, as well as
addmg hose which are strictly his own ; and his cl ssifica ioa
rnay well take ,ts place beside every statement of the laws of
a ciation already g ven, and which, with relation to these

primary laws of association.

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

" The first circumstance which presents itself, as modifyino-
the influence of the primary laws, in inducing one associate
conception mther than another, is the length of time durin '
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

renewed '" ^'''P^'^^"" ^« *^ey have been more frequently

" 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 feehngs are associated
more closely, as each has co-existed less with other feelings

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

22(;

INTELLECT.

cnces, whether these are to bo referred to the luintJ itHclf, or to
varieties of bodily toniperament."

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 tliinl 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. Tlie 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.

Proximitv 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 tiiey are yet
living who had a part in it, or were witnesses of it."

INTELLKCT.

227

Virgil introduces Mimxs when commencing the narrative of
he events t u-ongh which he had passed, and espec a7y ob
connected with the taking and final ruin of T.-oy,_

saying,—

" 'I'rojanttH ut o[ws ct iHrnontabilo rpgniim
Krufirint Dimai,"

" qunquo ipso ini«errinia vidi,
Et quorum purs magna ftii."

This is Dr. Brown's fourth circumstance of subordinate
association : " In the fourth place, the feelings are conned
more strongly, m proportion as they are more or less recent"
JnJ^ to^chingly introduced in the recital by the discip-'.
going to Emmaus of the events connected with Christ's d.uth
when interrogated respecting them by Christ himself: " And
besides aU this, to-day is the third day since these things were
done So recently had the events transpired; no wonder
events ' '''" '^"^^'^ ^^'^ comnling' about the^

rPop!r T' 'T ™P^«««io««- When the circumstance is
recent, nothing almost can dislodge it from the mind. It is
he one absorbing thought. It may be a joyful one-then it
preads gladness through the air, and makes nature itself
jocund : the heart calls upon every object and every being to
^mpathize 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 be .re this they had been
overwhdmed w.th 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 t
be tne enemy of the nations, aud Britain stood in « the Ther-
mopy. of the world," were hailed with universal enthusiasm,
and formed the one subject of thought and discussion among
a^l 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

,Mii^'

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 oti onr
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 tl ssociation, 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°vhere 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 8pot itself-to see the very scenes which Bums 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
poets memory. Doon was the Doon which Burns had made
famous; its "low tiees"-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 birtli to James Montgomerie. We visited the cot-
tage m 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 I What is there in such connexion
ot place? Why are our associations so vivid' when standing
on such spots, and looking upon such scenes ? Can we tell ?
VVe can only give the fact, or point to the phenomenon itself.
VVe 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. ^olumba hangs over
I like a spell. It has a dilFerent 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
man regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived
the benehts of knowledge and the blessings of reliHon To
abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible
it It were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible.'
V\ hatevcr withdraws us from the power of our ««n«G« what^>ver

"T*

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, indifterent and unmoved, over any ground
which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. The
man is little to be envied whosft 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
as mfluencing 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.
Kelation 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 enumer.. :d. 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 and body-differences both in mental and bodily
temperament-cannot bo doubted. This is a subject greatly

INTELLECT.

231

dwelt upon by phrenologists, and it is perhaps in faking notice
ot 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. WelsJi, 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
attect h,s 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
he whole of his moral condition, the grand remedy is applica-
ble. But It ,s rather the intellectual, or purely mental, idiosyn-
crasy or bias, which is referred to, and which we have now to
taice 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
18 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.
Ihis predommating direction cannot be said to have been
overlooked in mental philosophy, but undoubtedly phrenolo-y
has called attention to it much more prominently than was
ever done before, although still it does not seem to belon^r
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 tern-
penmcnf, which is partly bodily and partly mental. Hon.

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 m
distingmshed 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 const^-tution 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
lind those who are not contented to absorb themselves entirely
m their claims, but who have a mind to look to matters of more
permanent interest, and to whom knowledge, and the pursuit
ot knowledge, m 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 h-imble tradesman
indulging predilections of mind which are independent of his
position and his calling. « The pursuit of knowledge under
dithculties" IS not so uncommon a specfaicle as it was once, or
tlie 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 l)reak through every obstacle, and the

INTfiLLKCT.

233

that we find the best In t V S™"""° ™"'' "W™**,

diflfeient tracts wW.h 1 7 ?■ t ''^™"'"°° J ^t look at the

of others, learni,,.. of othoj I^T '°'°''' PWlMophy

topies of theology ™ fto ^UTc. ' "'* °f "' "-^ P'*""^

direction of historv in ZT T '"''' "«"" '«'^« «»
«t"Jy. Thev lovHo Jn ','° ''™'7 °*« P'-^uit or

"ote the events tl^ev"" "I"";; ""^ P""'.' »'! «•» more re-

areanti^narr^ilrd::^ "^l^^T' f^™

Willianr Gell t tl e sit^TTr::' '"^ '""""« °' " «-
Pompeii, would almL ! . T^ ^' '"'' """'"8 *" "^^''^ o(
it -m the san e bent iT ™,r '^"^ «""«"ers,-as
of science, tha dire ted ^eL'", °' '" °"™ "'« '■"<=»'»
gators in the tr^^ of1„ ' """JP^-'S and patient investi-

naturally have „ b», one"''^ * *'^ P™'""* M'"*
part, 4wn. btfou^/^X^rtTth""' '" '!'' ™'
a" aeoordl-,, to that Has, and" l,.: to^pi^ ^ler::;!:;;

* In Lord Byron's r>;„.„ ^^ . ^ J

* In Lord Byron's Diary tl.ere oc-
•uis tins chanictenstic passage :-" In
rca-hng I have Just chauced upon „„
expression of ro„i Campbell's. Sneak-
'ngofCollins,hesays.tI.afNorJat
cares any more al.out the characteristic

manners of his eclogues than about the
authenticity of the t, le of Troy ' 'Til
fidse-we do care about ' the authcn-

-ty of the tale of Troy.' I have stood
"Pon that plain daily, for more than a

month, ,n 1810, and if anything dimi-
nished my pleasure, it was that the
I'lackguard Bryant had impugned its

veracity. It is true I read 'Homer
Iravesticd,' because Hobhouse and
others bored me with their learned lo-
calities, and I love qui.^ing. But I

St. venerated the grand original as the
^^'V.-'V""'"'"^ ('" *'""""teri«I facts)
and .i place. Otherwise, it would have
g'ven n:e no delight. Who will per-
snace me, when I reclined upon a

""gl'ty tomb, that it did not contain a
^oro? Its very magnitude proved this

Men do not labour over the ignoble ami
rotty tlca.1; and why shouhl not the
,lfad ^H:>»i..r',d€adr

:;t. 'ft;: -

III'

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
])rinciple8, 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 plienomena,
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 n, lern 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 qtiotation 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 fai lore 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
sentiujcnts. Addison and Johnson could not write without a

INTBLLECT.

235

"•as then for tat '11 °™"' "' ™^ "^° ™" "» ««-
propriatel, ™ae it „L .^0'^", ™M. I°lt7 ""^

aetr::rart,4r''"™''r'""^^^^^^^^

of thi,: tl,eyl „„ !L ' "T*"'""'^' "" ""^ "««»»»

"nd™per4:L h'rr ;'i, S a7"'' '"' '"= '""^"^
mint ; they were struofc nff ?' u- ™™' ""^ f"" «'«

orhi/cias^rocfatrirniririfirp'™'

applied to PJato:- ' ^ '^^•"' ^'^« ^"^^ bird," as

" fi'V!"""' "" "''■'•' ^°^« of Academe,
lIato« retirement, where the attic l,i,,l

It is there aUnllT ) "'""^'"^ "°*^^ ^''^ -'»"-• '-e-"
It IS tiiere, also, that we have those lines •_

"Thence to the famous orators repair,
T_I.o«o ancient, whoHe resistless el,H]„e„ce
^^'oklec at will that Hercedemocratie,
Milfnn' I ."T"^ ""'"'"'"'''• ''"''f"'""'-! over Greece."

MUtons classical association is still mnm cf -i • ,
possible, in the Ode on the Nativitv T f'""^^^ '''''' '^
allusion there is wonderful and life J^' ^'f "'" '^ '^'''^'
bold, and yet how beautiful ^^1 f 1 '\ ^^°^^"^^^'- ^'^
-red P4riet,,;he e:p^;rel^ ^^,^. "^^

reference to the cominLr of 01^.7. ,• T °''^°S "fusion in

applying it t.; i Jr^S^'oSf-l''^ "-*'" "^"' -"

"The shepherds on the lawn.
Or e'er the point of dawn, '
Sat simply chatting in a n.stic row ■

J' »ll little thought they than,
That tlm mujUty Pan

mis Mndl come to live ,o!lh them Mow;
I orhaps the.r Iov.m, or else their sh:

Was all tliat did their sill.y thoiigl

i(!ep,

lltS so IlllRV k'J!

236

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 1

" The oracles are dumb,
No voice or hideous hum

Runs tlirougli the arclied roof in words deceiving ;
Apollo from lu'a shrine
Can no more divine

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos, leaving ; .
No nightly trance or breathed siicll,
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 Lomures moan with midnight plaint :
Tn urns and altars round,
A drear and dying sound

AllHghts 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 suggestics 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
Siiakcspcare. 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.

237

between the world of matter and that of snirit a ii i. •
ations took this direction "/''''*'?'"*• AH hisassoci-
fancies. He made eve vf hi n ?? ^^f .P^'^^^^P'^y in all his

I'ave referred to 1 Whl, w ". ', """ *" ^''^ment, we

'■W;ngshavewo,-a„aa8fa..a.swecango
]^^e n,ay fi„d pleasure: v,ilde„^,s and wood

tion of L ~ S V^TiT "'"^ P""""'^" '■y *" '"4-

gives a peeul7dl° 1 1 aZh'^^ "° F^' "' """■ ™«
true spirituality itW e«rt"" ^ ""'"S"''^ , ^he.. there iB
auyotlier assoriatinll , T" P°"*' '""""nee than

»t into itrrdSr'tt :!;?f "; " "" "« ^" «-

form tire elen,eat o t Sciel ^t,™ ""1 »™"'' "»-
in connexion with the mnr„ 1?* ,^ "' •"■ """''•"P'ate.I but
made of Hi« perWonT n tl, ?'"« ""'"''■'' "'"'"' «<"! '>'«
plurality of worUrwZe • .""'"T "'' B^demption. The
aMributa and n ,W "^ ""= *«--"'0 of God's n,oml

glory." Nature will not h„' ^f" " * <«"^*"! Ml of His
merely God in „n 1 . nl ^'"""l'''"'''' "l""-' Aom, not

lifeof Wth ^itdl';:,,- ™'' "n'""' '" "^^i -^ "0
or vieldiniT H 1 '"'^"""S oapable of reminding of Him

™' '" *^°<'' I' "s th„8 that Cowper fed the

238

INTELLECT.

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

" The Spirit bivatlics upon the word,

And brings the truth to sight ; ,,

Precepts and promises afl'ord
A sanctifying h'ght.

" A glory (jiUs 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 lieat ;

His truths itpon the nations rise —

TllBY RISE, BUT NEVEIt HET."

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 1 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

explaii

Percep

tention

and it

in any

and res

have b(

account

was led

tained r

ject, th

causatio

sider th(

or states

as to ma

is the fii

from the

ceases.

successioi

is not fr

sequence

the raent)

of causat

it what is

But the u

regard it,

rather as t

susceptibii

impressed

those phcE

plain, fronr

tion, and r

belonging

that is min

phenomena

certain circ

ideas, our i

INTELLECT.

239

and living L^Tnto rSi^/l'" ~ °" ''™"'"'
have been the fi.t .0 take another vL „" the ^fadTir

«der the mental phenomena in the sameZ;.; '°"'

18 not from any such view of causation a> if »„! '
sequence in events, that we have been led to take M ""!.
the mental phenomena. We think Til„ . """' "'

of «nsati„„', to resolve it i tf ^L ll^erSle"™''"'
;twhat is not explained, or accountedX byatsuon:

■e^ard ,t, not as possessmg so many powers or facultie. hnt
rather as existing in so many states. We re^rd it a, h,"
™ce^».K,« rather than /„„*,«, 1 sud 1 cL st.tS'
impressed upon it, that it exi* in those states Tex ib ,^
those phenomena, which we have endeavoured to tie o e
plain, from the first consciousness to the most atari;,
t.on, and most complicated tmin of thoLht T^! """"P"
Monging to mind i ,oill, the power of vl! tL 1 ^T"'
that is mind simply, existing ii thereto; rAC
P^.en„mena, which are characteristic of mini wlL bro Sttto
oe.tam croumstanccs. We have accounted for the risfof „, r
.deas, our simple uncompounded ide,«:_we havt consi lere"

240

INTELLECT.

'li

» '

those lnw8 and principles by which they are tnodified : — we liave
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 tk*n another. Dr. Brown considers the mind
imder 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 tr.ctual 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. Th'^re 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

INTKLLECT.

241

modes of action cliumcteristic of niind Hr R..^ , .

enough to make this innovat^onLto ptsen " ^hL "' "" ""''
,„.• ,1 . ^ 1 , , , ""uu IV present tnis new view nf

„ view ot mind, when he endeavoured tc truce its jrf™.

t!w "J"'"?"'"^ «"«'■ "» "".i-fe, «orfe, o;.w!,.t!'^

rlr^"'' ""'f ^"^""= ■" ""^ -'»«°™ of ide„tit;,li;er-

r„d eft r- "i""""' ""«""'"''' P™'"'*". position olu^

Ldr.r 'i '"'"'°"' ™'°P»»i'i™, abstraction, but re-
garded certain laws, according to which the mode mi^d

avllr '*"°™/ '"""' -- stained, ZZZZfi
havo been very much the same as Brown's or even Z
«n3ple; for tlie introduction .fa principle" llwfrilr
however convenient the name to intimate the rise of oTfj™
according to certain circnmstances of connexir i, Int t
Sn 'tV "■ "l "'■*'"'■■ ^■■»™ ™'-'' '» discaidlsTmeSin^
Ihis ,, the objection we would take to Dr. Brown's system
hat suggestion seems something extraneous to the mind itTs'
»mething active: it is the very thing which Dr. Brown wisb^
to get quit of in menial philosophy-a pcoer; wTerer^

us constitution. When it exists in the state of what Dr

fhH r' " ™r*™-<" -hen suggestion taices^L^^

another i,"™ v" "" ''"'='' """« "?» 'ho presence of
another idea, according to a law by which one idea is not in
tact language «„,«,erf by another, but o.ri„ uZ>t!TJe
«ce o/that other. The term ^^ocia^.^, f„f ^iXl^,

mr tdem to arise m a fram, „fflo»< »»j„^„»,-;y „„ p,Ji„^
cmoou^u^iutiy i^n^Ue suggestion-l would sfflCfr
for<«„«o.to« IS the real phenomenon, and not «S

to which tlie association actmll!, takes place. The beauty and

242

INTELLECT.

I-I

originality of Dr. Biowii'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 tlid not formerly possess, and
brought prominently into view that purely intellectual part,
that ivvAy 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 extc 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

I.VTKLLECT.

243

the other to exU>LT 1 1 "" "" "™o™ness to self,
.i"dgment „,erei; Im '^^T ZiTr "T "" ' ^" '"' "^

would never give the resutTr . ^ '^"' "'"P™"
sion of it, oL ,1 . """'' ™""'"*» "P™ a deci-

vinueVthrer. „r :s?h trT'^ r '-

«pon it, or which naa, be e«n« t ' ^"hr/T'
has an external nnA i^hic „« • ,l , ^'' ''"^^ reeling

kind of deS fil th!t h 'k-T' ""™> '■' '' ""•? *«''='^°'

the same rell'To ^ ^LI^h'tT ' r" ™ ' *" ■'"^«
judgment of the mind Th^r ? "' *" sixteen ; or any

oomes in: it" aZn' L d' "■'I"''""^ *»' J»-lgment
oterved, wheher ofLr . -i ^' """" ""»°« "^e

analogy, 'pro';*;"' Bef V^o t^i, "'''™""^: ~°'™''
primitive ideas it is ml, 7 ' ' / *° acqamtion of onr
judgment, not't o I 'of ^o " ""' "' '"''"' ™' "
■elation. It is an arbZrt d ■ TT"""' ^ " P<"™i'<"l

ins to the const"tatL„!7 T"' ■"" ° ''^°'''" "»l "ccord-
o "le constitution of mmd, or according to mi'n^ a<v

4th, Sceptl ■ riTZii '"r r ^='''-' ^"°"'™ ^

^.h. Memory; 8tii, i^.j::z:x!::^:::i^:^

244

INTELLECT.

Dr. Young, of Belfast College, ia his published lectures, has
giveu a classification, which he acknowledges to have adopted
from Professor Mylne of Glasgow, and which reduced the
faculties to the three — Sensation, Memory, and Judgment.

This last classitication 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 ofiers 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 tlie 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
liseM 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 earliesi 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
idea^of the external world ^hich we derive frZ' a JhcZ

an>Jys>.of the latter still to make, and these interallffe^io '
he has resolved into the h.ws of simple and relative sufl^"
Now^, what do we make of inteUeclion ? We considef ^1;
mmd ope„.ti„g aceording to its dislinctivrnaZ !„; C,
unpressed upon it by the Creator, or essential Tmbd L s„7

"iiVnCst^r- rirtVT*^^^^

tions, and by which oi.: jirimitive ideas are aoonired The

"onTflh '•" °"''^"'°^ "^^ -''^^ '-d to the on J,t
tion of the origin or rise of our primitive ideas ; but the T™

ie tfe r f f-^"' *^ ■"i-d," does not include huT;
give the least hint or intimation of it ; and aceordinglv Vr
Brown discusses this matter without having a name & it m^
having It ranked or recognised in hi, cIassiLt,„„ H thu
...a.es too httle recognition of mind in this early sta" of 1^
operations, and allows too much to the externaUffcc&„ tZ
Me ' or series of sensations, give us the idl mi„d ■
httle accounted oi in the matter. But there is mind ™ work
as Jon as a sensation is experienced, and all our most Ipo,
Sie ^rr 1 r f^-t^-^Mea,, are got at this earlyst^.
ihe independent action of mi-.d at this stage is perhans the
most wonderful part of the mind's operations The onder t

U« whatever It is not by suggestion, or any law exceut its
own spontaneity, that it is prompted t'o determine'tr b

w ^t "dl f"'°r'"^-. " '^ ""' by suggestion that

»!. get the idea of matter, of extension, of space of time ■

" - not suggestion that gives ,is the idea of I'lsality 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 Reid, 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 mao--
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— axe 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

three and two .r^' ".'^'^ ^°«*her unit, make five-so do
nvely give the same result ; or four and one, and three and
two, are respectively five. Hence the nocessar; tniths oTnum
bers are just proportion in diversity-unity therefore w^h

faculties for all fJi,'« ? t ^ ^i / ,. ^ °^^^ ^"^^ separate

^u eepcirateiy, m the concrete, or united with hpmrr

rjf .• f" J"""" Aemselves in the mind under the
modiflcafons which the law, of mind, already oonsMered by

taws ,s, tl,at the mmd operates in such and such a way or is
3 and°2r'"T "' ^^''^P'ating o.Jects or ider'u d r
2 „, . fi ! '"* ^ ""difications. The law does i.ot m,e
the modracafon, nor the modification the law, but the Sfi!
c ton ex* externally to the mind ; after identity-simlri ty
d ffe^nee, contrast analogy, proportion ; and the ImT^^
ble of peree,™g them, of recognising them. It is mind Z
and ,nd.y,s,ble in all. It is beautiful to contemJatTld a

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, quahty, 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 Platvnic
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 expre^oa. ' ThisVe
not dimimsh the merit claimed for Dr. Reid, of overthrow W

IdTr ""?''''''' ^°' ^""^^' ^- '^^' scepticism":!
wheTw tharth "P^^^^"*^*--'-^ theory of our ideas
PWn *^^V .'^''^ ^^« entertained by Locke or not. The
Platomc and Penpatetic theories, pretty similar in effect at least

lo t: Twaf ^ 'fTr^ ^''' *'^ '-' representa^^nS
theories. It was contended by Berkeley and Hume that if

ertainTv tf. f "'^ ""\^' '"'"^'^ '^> '' '^^' -<^ ^^^ know

so bife th 7''"'*^"^ ^'''°^ '"^ ^^^^'^"J "«-««arily
so, before the mmd can perceive or take cognizance of it We

need go no farther than .. ideas for the fxplanatio f wfa
we call matter, or a matenal framework without us,-in othe
words, the external world Sir WiiUorv, xi -ix
that « flna PI ^- ■ 1 William Hamilton contends

that the Platonic theory of ideas has nothing to do with
a doctrine of sensitive perception ;» and that « itf inLducIn
mo the question is only pregnant with confusion." But wS
IS his own account of that theory ? He says, " The Platonl ts
and some of the older Peripatetic, held tha't the sourvttnaUy
con amed within itself representative forms, which were 2
excited by the external reality." This is surely the represen-
ta tionahs thcory-the representation indeed no[ comingf m
frnr; IT:'''' *'' -presentation of what is without!- Tl"
on wl t f r-«Ponded, according to Sir William Hamil-
ton wi h the species sensifes .xpressa," of the sclioolmen
although not derived fro., without, but " having a Tae3
real existence in the soul, and, by the impassive fne,^ the
mind Itself, elicited into consciousness, on'occasion ofthe im

elicited different from the mind formative, or the formative

j; 1 haff ' '?K '''^ ""^^^^^ ^' ^-^ ^^ *h« *^™^"

Te onl ^^'T'''""'"^'*^'°^'*^^°' "^« fairiy charge-
able only upon the ancients and the schoolmen, and both
I^ocke and J3esoartes are unfairiy implicated in it

250

INTELLECT.

Whatever may hiivo been tlie 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 p'csent, bo 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 conld 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 oddea, discarding Idea altogether from the terminology
of philosophy. Its figurative sense is sunk, and it now signifies
generally the thoughts of tlie 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 tlie 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 lierbarium, 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 etibrts 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. Dugaid

INTELLECT,

251

Stewart has the following note to his remarks upon what he
calls the faculty of conception. ''In common discourse" he
Hays, we often use the phrase of thinking upon an ohkct 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 :— if ^^ «»

• • . . ' Who can lioM a firo in Jiis Imnd,

By thinking on the frosty CaucasuH ?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,

% bare imagitiation of a feast ?

Or wallow naked in December's snow,

Hy Hanking on fantastic Sunimer's liJat ?

O no ! the iqyprehenHion of the good

Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.'"

It is in the unfettered use of language, though it may not be
«cient.fical]y precise, that the vividness and freedom of style
and force of expression, often consist. Substitute " conception
of the fro-sty Caucasus," for " thinking on the frosty Caucasus "

tive y 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
ther. could possibly be a mistake, and we properly seek to con-
vey our meaning in the most unencumbered language Con-
cepUon may often be a better word than idea, loin better
hLU concephon, and concept better than all. There are times
too v,h,n thought is a f-ir better word than idea, although still
hey m,ght be used as synonymous. Thought expresse: more
than ^dea,it goes deeper into the mind ; and when we speak of
a fine thought, it is .something loftier or profounder than a fine
dea. We have used the term idea hitherto, as it is that which
generally employed when speaking of our primitive or
elementary ideas, and we do not see that it would be any ^reat
2provemeTit,or contribute to greater accuracy, to use the term

V r TT\ '''"'*''' "''°''^'"^ *« ^''" William Hamilton,
was the first who assigned to the term its general meanin.^ oi'

I'l

262

INTELLECT.

omployed 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 <tn image or picture in the mind — it
is employed for tl. most al. tract of the mind's thoughts or
conceptions. AVe u.se it in the same wide seuKC.

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 principlefi ht vhirh the ideas are at
first obtained, and arc afterivu ds modified, and follotv in,
trains, being supposed. We can thus account for all the
faculties.

XVIII.

THE SUrrOSKl) FACULTIES OF MIND RESOLVED INTO THE
PHENOMENA ALREADY CONSIDERED.

Memory wo 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 groimd 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 drav/n 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 sUvtes, ctdled ideas, according to certain

INTELLECT. 253

laws or characteristics of mind ? Memoiy 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 18 to say, the mind exists in the one instance in the state
ot a recognised past; in the other, in the state of a thou<rht
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 ados, « 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 1 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 formeriy felt ; for then it would be memoiy
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 he appropriates to this. By
others the faculty is regarded as the same with simple appre-
hension, and is that faculty of whieh a simple thought, notion,
or idea, without any judgment, or any other adjunct whatever,'

III

254

INTELLECT.

is the object. But what thought of the mind does not imply
a judgment or discrimination ? In nysteras of Logic, a distinc-
tion i.s drawn between simple apprehension and judgment.
But in every simple apprehension there i,s 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 tliought. 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 id'^a 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 spontaneoHs than with our other ideas, and
hence they are called intuitive judgments ; but there is judg-
ment wherever ther^ is an idea, in the sense that there is judg-
ment even where there is direct comparison ; there is discrimi-
nation. In an intuitive j udgment the discrimination is ventured
upon intuitively, or at once, toithout 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 judgment 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 iden 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

enco between this state of mind and any other in which an idea
18 present to it. It is the pect-'-.r ki.,d of idea that makes
the difference. I think of tH moue of my childhood • it is
at this moment present to rr; mind , .t is in my " mind's eye "
What is this as distinguish, %..; the idea of the law of
gravity ? Both are ideas, the ol'v ('-tinction is in the nature
of the ideas. We have already accounted for the differences of
our ideas by their originating ^ii. ; nstances, or their modifying
laws. The idea of the scene oi my childhood is not one idea •
It 18 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
pecul'ar 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
cvnits, the presence of any absent object of perception does not
i.woJve any peculiar faculty. We have nothing but certain
ideas after all present to the mind. They may be ideas of an
object rf perception : Dugald Stewart himself calls it " a notion
of aij ab^ion. 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 isef 1, 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.

1 *

tion in preference to idea. The state of mind is very little
different from that of imagination, as wo shall see when we
come to consider that faculty. The element that goe? to con-
stitute' imagination may he 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 rnay
be around then). The difference in the vividness and clearness
of the conception of difi'erent minds may bo 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 detined, more accurately:
but the other realises 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 concei)tions. Were we to see
one of Shakespeare's dramas enacted on the stage, with ohe
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 bo cheated into
the belief that it was a real scene that was taking place before
our eyes, and that the dramatis personce 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 moct serious effects

INTELLECT.

257

on the mind o the spectators. The dramatic action of Whit-
field ,n the pulpit has had the same effect, realizing tLZene

winch he was wishmg to convey, so completely, that the hearer
was for the moment carried away, and fdt in he ve7circum
stances or transported to the very scene, described. \X
slrrlfd 'e " '" TT' "'^^^ ^^^^«^^^ -« <^--ibtg a

Se^ to the Z "t " n"r' *'^ "^*°^ ^^^ ^^-d
vivianess to the picture, hardly doubting that he and fho«P

thTnot?""^ T ^'^ "'"^^^^ P^"'' -^ appattlyfeetg
hat not a moment was to be lost, exclaimed aloud " To hf

long-boat I to the long-boat !" The way in which coverit

tdr^r'T? '-''' ^"^^^^^"' Whitfield uuerrz

words, the wrath to come! the wrath to rnm«t" Jl

means of converting one who after;:l\re f be"
di tinguisned preacher. And Whitfield could rep at theTme
action agam and again with the same success. Even t^^^^^^^^^

as Whitfield apostrophized him in the conclusion of hirdls'
course, and called upon him to stop that he mth t^kethe"
^dings of another soul converted to the heavenly cotl it w^

ary i^naracter, "having painted the fall nf ih^ .„k n

nfluenoo and so vivid at a particular time hi, idea of thTI^
tempter of souls, that he thought he saw him and in *! ^-l
reeuUar to the reformer, hurl^ his inklot^aT im bX
l.m ava«,t ,v„d begone from hU pre«nee. SapeSZ
P op e, no doubt, believe i„ the exist^nee of th«e ST
<.h,ch every variety of name has been given, and ^iZrhav^

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 onl} 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 sooii 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-
mittirfT 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
l)elieve in the existence of spirits and their visits to this lo'ver
world; and of those legendary beings whose names are so
familiar in pages of romance and fabulous story ; and when

IKx'ELLEOT.

259

onL fl ^'' -^^ '^"^' "^'''^ *^'"' 'y'' ^"'i they cannot
conect their impression by other objects of sight, it is not a

concepHon that is believed in, it is the notion or idea they have

renewed as true, and which they never thought to question

A vivid impression of a scene is not belief in it. The exclama'

onTv 1 ^\'TT ""^'' Whitfield's oratory may have been
only the effect of excitement; and ^e know how ready sea-
fanng 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
vu^dness of the description, and the truth to nature, what is
^.alled 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 harrowinir
circumstances, the belief of which must destroy all pleasure and
pi-oduce, not interest, but actual suffering. Authors have wept
at passages of their own writing. Alfieri noted in the ,nar4
of one of his dramas, « written while shedding a flood of tea°3 "

trTJ fiVTi ^\^^' ^'^^'' ^" *''" ^^^^' ^"'^"'gi"S -^ Uncon-
trollable fit of laughter, and when he came into the house he

repeated to her '' Tam o' Shanter." D'Israeli has recorded an

mteresting circumstance connected with Mrs. Siddons which

we give m his own words :-" The great actress of our a^^e

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 i '. -H were as firm and clear as if

she were really the Constance o. be Katherine whom she only

represented." The .an.e author says,_« Actors of genius have

accustomed tl^mselv". to walk on the stage for an hour before

the curt*»r. waa dm- . ,hat they might fill their minds with all

260

INTKLT.ECT.

the phantoms of the dmma, and so suspend communion with
the external world." The ancient Rhapsodists seem to have
derived their name from the eflfect 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 clement 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 eleraont 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 meie conceptions. With this element playing about
them, they are clothed in sunlight ; and an eflfect, which words
cannot describe, possesses and fills the whole soul. But vivid-
ness itself, apart from any other eflfect of imagination, is an

INTELLECT.

261

important one in reference to our conceptions, and that whether
as respects ourselves, or in orier 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
bhakespeare'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
tbiUKing themselves, and who most vividly convey their thoughts
in writing. The cultivation of the imaginative faculty for this
purpose 13 of some importance. If the reason alone is cul-
tivated, It 18 most likely that vivacity of expression will be
sacrificed, and jeiune.ess both of thinking and expression will
be the result. All the finer poets should be studied : we should
mvite the vis^itations of that spirit ourselves by which nature
becomes a scene of greater delight, and we see life in eveiy-
thmg around us. Inanimate objects will then speak to us
and the mind wiil not be a storehouse of facte, or a machine
tor 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

lessors'"*' ''^'''''*^"' "^'^'^ *^^ ''"'P''^'* "'^ ^«11 as the sublimest

Abstraction, Judgment, Reasoning, and Imagination, form
t5a. next subjoct of examination or analysis, as reputed faculties
ot the mind.

Abstraction.
Abstraction is generally regarded as that power which the
nuna 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 knowle.lge 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 pov/ers 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. Wc acquaint ourselves with them.

INTELLEOT.

263

they unfold themselves to our observation. Now liter-
ally, this is the whole of abstraction. Instead of having a
power of consideiing objects or qnalitifes separately, or apart
we cannot, if wo 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 a<^gre-
gate, or except in detail. That is not a power, surely, whi^'ch 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 n:ay set ourselves to
seek It, or prosecute it. We either make it the direct matter
ot 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. I'his is the very order
then, m which all knowledge is obtained, and all knowledge is
prosecuted. It is said we have tlie faculty of selecting subjects
of observation, of making some quality or attribute the subject
of our attention, while we exclude every other. Stracge 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^tho
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, nor
the wide survey which, it may be, superior intelligences arc

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 wliich
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, vise to our con-

r •'. 1 «"«h conceptions do indeed arise, as states of
the mxnd, there can be no question. In every sentence which
we read, m every affirmation which we make, in almost eve v

ortxon of our silent tram of thought, some decomposition oV
more complex perceptions or notions has taken place The
exact recurrence of any complex whole, at any two moments
18 perhaps what never takes place. After we look at a scere'
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 eyehds together, some change of this kind has taken pface
The complex who e, which we saw the instant before, when
conceived by us in this instant succession, is no longer in
every eircumstence, the same complex whole. Some ^U or
rather many parts, are lost altogether "

corsittsttr'" ^'; ^""" .'°"*^""^^' " ^« ''' ^« ^^«*r-«tion
consists m the rise of conceptions in the mind, which are parts

of former mental affections more complex tha^ these, does un

questionably occur; and since it occurs, it must occir accord-

om menM "' *"'' ''"' ^'*'^ "^'^^' ^"^ ^^^ -^icate
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 ?"

that at which by an independent tract of thought ;e have
arrived. The separate conceptions of the mind in any cale
constitute the whole of the supposed faculty of abstract o
There is a voluntary effort of the mind, however, by which we
make some subject or some quality the exclusive object of ou
regard or attention. We voluntarily abstract our minds, as it
18 said, from every other subject, from every other quality or
we consider those which are the object of our attenL ap;rt
Oi the one hand we abstract our minds, or on the other, we
abstract the qualities for separate consideration. The proper

2GG

INTELLECT.

view undoubtedly is, that we abstract our minds from all other
Hubjects 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, a,nd 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 ie 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

distinc faculty even here ; or rather it is not a philosophic
view of he nu-nd to ascribe to it faculties, and w prefer to
contempla e the mind as mind, characterizU by certain laws
and principles which are intuitive to it, or which are the
sources n.ul modifying causes of all o,ir ideas. The laws of
rnmd or the aspects under which qualities and objects are seen
or contemplated, present certain relations to the mind and a
.judgment is nothmg more or less than a quality or object seen
under these relations. A resemblance, a contrast, an'anulogy
a pi-oportion : qualities or objects are seen under one or other
ot these aspects. Or identity is what is perceived and what is
predicated This is the whole of judgnLt. It mTy be sti
-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 independSro us
and our minds perceive them, or our minds are formed to exist

of ttn 1 ""•• T""'' '' J"'^^^"^'^^*' *^« «"PP--1 faculty
of he mind, exercised about, but the identity, resemblance
ana ogy, contrast, or proportion, existing among objects T;
qualities ? What are our judgments, but%erceiv!d or JdtM
ations, or more simply, ideas of relation ? When we speak of
the foculty of judgment, it is as if that faculty sat in formal
deliberation upon t.vo simple ideas, and pronounced a verdic
respecting them, the proportion, for example, and precise p o
portion, between them. It is implied in thci faculty, if i'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 myjudg!
ment-tliis is the judgment which I form. An opinion isl
udgment, and we speak of forming an opinion. But in all

rektionT'' ""' ^'''' """^^'"^ ^''* ^^'^' ''''' "°^'^ '''^^'^
A judgment may be said to be a mental perception, just as
we have external perceptions, or perceptions of objects Without
A real rela ion IS a mental object. Dr. Eeid confines the term
perception to the perception of objects without, and it was he

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268

INTELLECT.

who vindicated for perception an immediate and intuitive eflFect,
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 v oil that we know
what we are saying— what we are speaking r.oout 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 en-ors 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

our ordinary sp«, h „r oT^ ' °' metaphysics into

tot pla«, it is demanded of u, IJ ' ■""'' " "»

to its legit mate issnTr" 111 , "" P"™"" ^™0' subject

all p-ticai^;tat':hi*^r:,*t£t"' ^*; ''■«''^' °f

-iec^oJ^ltr^rs: ^StTo^^^^^^^^^^^
jud^Ter^rco""^"*^". '""" J"^8^-' Tarries of

we include a Irt ouUr unT^Tt T" ^T'^ P-^P^ition-

ral. We predicate something- of a o-Pnpmi + ^?

predicate the general term nf n ^! ? *'™ ' ""^ *^««
particular undf th" genemr'^^^ °^ ^°^^"^« ^^«

assert of the particulaf X' ! t T "' ^'^ ^^^'^^ *«

This is the Ju.::x:':z^^:z::^^ tZT::i'

which every other may be reduced %n \i ? • ^ ^'^

relation. It is obvi<^l hat St .%""*" '''™'™'l «
be true of the paSa^t^erurr hT^^^^^^^^^^^^

^lur-tiiroLrr^^V'"^^

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 nothiag
more than this. A process of reasoning, again, or rather a
train of reasoning, is just an extended series of Mich 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 classificition 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 belter 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 wlio 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 clie earth,
Wandering conipaniouless ? "

INTELLECT.

271

beauty ? The moon is seen rising iu the heavens, pale with
ts own silvery hght, and among the stars, with whidx it seems
to have no companionship. This is formed into the conception
of weariness with climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth
compamonless." Who does not recognise the beauty of tht
conception ? Shall we repudiate it as, absurd ? Then we are
either msensiblo to the fineness of imaginative conception, or
we are resolved to regard everything as absurd which is not
iteral truth or reality ; and with us imagination is not a Wi-
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 ouv 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 jeels Its loneliness ; and that too among the stars which have
a different oirth: there is no congeniality, no companionship
between_ the moon and the stars: it gazes on the earth, aJl
solitary in the wide and pathless sky 1 Who would deny this
fino conception ? Has it no truthfulness, no reality, no beauty ?
ihemind, at least, in its activity of imagination, forms the
conception. In spite of itself, these ideas are awakened
Jr-oUok, 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-roliing breath of the gale ?"

This is an idea very common in Ossian ; anO Byron in his
boyhood caught the spirit of Ossian :—

" Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices
Risj on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?

272

INTELLECT.

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And ndcs ou the wind o'er his own Highland vaie."

" 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 1" " When night comes on the hill, when the
Icud 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, ^re she was ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more,
Still tc bo 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 Sh espeare, it is " tragic, melancholy night ;" and Macbeth,
intent upon his murderous deeds, says, —

..." Come, seeling night.
Scarf up the tender eye cf 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

he exp anatxon of the beauty of any thought, tl!e question is,

why analogy should be such a source of beauty, or produc;

7so:T'1 ■^''V' *'"^ ^" --^«^y to do [his, and only
t he, 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 tlie imagmative 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 ot the mind, and re-
tnses all analysis and explanation. Under this state the mind
;s imaginative, even when it cannot express or body its ideas.
Ihe Ideas are vtrtually 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 eflfect of themselves, irrespective
ot 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 f^^hng 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 se(.
the pecuharity of imagination. It will not give up iis propei-
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 mysteriouslv

* A recent writer on imagination very
liuppily cliaraoterizes it as " tlie seekliuj
of a new concrete." We believe this is
mi accurate description of imagination
in many instances, and perhaps in its
highest operations. But this makes no
account of those cases in which we are
truly in the imaginative state, though
wn are not seeking a new concrete, ami

have no regard to analogies, while it
does not, after all, resolve the mystery,
or shew wliy this seeking a new concrete
is imaginative, or is the source of ima-
ginative pleasure. This peculiar mystery
is not even referred to by that writer.
The question still is, Why is the " seek-
ing a new concrete" imaginative, what
In 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,~m 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. Ideaa 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 casea 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

«!:Ca Rrit'^"""'" "•" -'"^ "■^■"■*«^ of the

• • • . " Sunbeams upon distant hilli,
Gliding apnre, with shadows in their train,
Might with small help of fancy be transformed
into fleet oreads sporting visibly,"

bew!nf''*'r'^ ^^'''''' '^' ^'"^'^ ^°d other ima<nnary
beings of a rude 3tate of society, owe their origin to Wti

Sol liriT'' r'''' ^''^ *'^ «"^^««*^'- «f X -

stit ous tear In certain circumstances the imagination is
ready enough, in the most cultivated age to bodvlrf h 1
-agmary creatures, and to entertain a^erL n d^ad^^^^^^^^
It requires some effort of reason to counteract. It s inThose
very p aces where the imagination has most s ope to o^e'ate

E if 1 u ' ^^o'^ected with the existence and the ex-
ploits of the beings of imagination

top'^cT '"''''' '"""' ""' °'' P""^* "« *« d-«ll -P- these

^m an intn^ I T "'^ ^PP^^P^i^te point of transition
enter— the Emotions, or states of emotion.

i«ilVaRi*Hi

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE EMOTIONS.

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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 withm us, or rather which constitutes ourselves.
The spiritual and immaterial soul is composed of qualities ar'
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 wonaerful 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 formb have their
counterpart without, or in the inner self, constructs science,
and makes its own processes the subject of its investigation-
hut 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 aie

280

THE EM0TIUN8.

to reach into eternity have their commencemeut : we have traced
the awakening and development of the Intellect, the manner in
which its ideas are acquired, those processes which are commonly
refen-ed to faculties, but which we have chosen to consider as
mwid simply, acting according to certain laws, or developing these
laws ; and we now arrive at a distmct department of our spiritual
being : we pass out of the intellectual into the emotional ; and
there lies even beyond that territory, another stiU 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
lis with the lowest parts of being, or of creation, there is what
connects us with God, and makes us fit companions of angels.
It k 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. Thr.t 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 nense 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 uonsisttd 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 nothmg without the emotion, while the connexion is
entirely an arbitrary one, and has been appointed by the Author
ot 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
eem to claim for themselves an intrinsic virtue-the power to
beget the emotion. There is something far more wonderful in
a conception of the imagination than we can perhaps ever ex-
plam 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 ni-ht ?
What 18 there m anything that is pictorial or graphic ? What
18 there in scenery itself, to awaken those feelings or emotions
which are peculiarly those of imagination, and which ar- so
pleasingand 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 v.ith an emotiorml nafure or

282

THK KMOTIONS.

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 dej^aitments than either the sensational or
intellectual, or purely emotional. Of all is maa 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
--tnay deve op the intellect at the expense of the feelings
Ihere 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
tTrt"^ but *he relations of figures, the metaphyrJcian who
turns even the phenomena of his own thinking and spiritual
elf into a mere field of speculation, may exhibit little of the
armable 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 he emotions has only to be touched, and deep feeliug
or thnUing emotion, will awaken like the tones of an instnf:
ment, though somewhat out of tune. It is by his emotions
hat the intellectual being becomes the being oLtL^Z
clignified, and amiable, and lively feeling, that we find him
Otherwise, he would be incapable of forming into society ; o.
at all events that were a strange congregation, a singula
movmg crowd which the world would present, when intfllect
was all, and feeling was entirely absent,-no loves, no hatreds
no sympathy, no wonder, no fear, but the cold ray of mind
enhghtening, guiding, directing, actuating. Man is not so con-
stituted. He IS not all intellect merely ; his mind is not the
.^old region of mtellectual light merely, the region of polar rays
where no emotions kindle, and the illuminating shaft shoots not
trom 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 v;.eta-
t.on. ^ There is an atmosphere in the mind as well as a hVht-
a region of en)otion-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
name two agencies produces such admirable phenomena in the
natural world.

But we have not yet found what that peculiar state of the
mmd which wo call an emotion is. We have sai.l that the

284

THE EjtfOTIONS.

mind exhibits this phasis as well as the intellectual, and that
the purelj' emotional is a department or characteristic of the
mind by itself. It is the kind of atmosphere of the mind ; it
hi its vital breath ; its emotions are truly its life. Destroy its
emotions, nnd 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, in the repose of
mind, when its more brilliant shafts may not be playing, lie in
soft loveliness, and fill up the seen 3 with a tranquil and attrac-
tive beauty. Or all may be storm end 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 defin3d. 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 che phenomenon who have otice
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
pi'ocess ? 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 n.orf'.l causes, and therefore a moral element in them, or
may si.ring 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 cur 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, wbd,t 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,
howevei-, 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 Everv

286

THK 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
dubstance, and this phenomenon of the mind, as there is an
analogy between an act of the bod/ 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 loill, properly, is ihe 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 m
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 afifection 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 thl,
me 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 mtenser 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
riie desires are, we think, distinct states of mind. Thev mav
be accompanied with emotions, but they are not the emotions
-Uesire 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 P
They are so peculiar feelings that they stand out from all the
rest, and are by themselves alone.

r ^I'FT''' ''""^'^ ^^^^ °^ 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 o^ desire vary'
ing according to the degree of probability of the object of oi-r
desires being attained. We shall have an opportunity of con-
sidering th'.a 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 tb. 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 tiieir nature from sucli 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
curio&ity 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 wnth
some thought, or with thinking. Thinking has been regarded
as the very essence of mind ; in other words, mind exists, it
ha? 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 act^n of the soul

THB EMOTIONS.

289

rather than its csm^e, and maintaim there are moments of

thmking. He eaye, however, " I gram that the soul in »
wakmg man is never without thought." This se^ms ' IZ
.neo„s..ent with what he had said'but a p. ag^^h beft "
I confess myself to have one of those dull souls that doTh
cei veTarm"''''"^' to contemplate idea,, n;r t "l
for ,1,1 kT 7 """"'""^ ^"^ ""o »™' "'""ys '0 think than

essence, but one of ita operations; and, therefore though
hmkmg be supposed ever so much the p'roper act,'. ?^ the

t*mkmg always m action. That perhaps is the priviWe of

t tr tnur "f '""^"™' °"'""^' "''° nevfrslSe I
nor Sleeps, but is not competent to any finite being at least

not to the soul of man." In the same way, Locke wtld aue^

t.on the soul being always the seat of fSling. 8^11^

pushmg this question to its issues, it may be sJely mlt^ned

that the mmd IS seldom, if ever, without thought or feeUn" of

toTe s^ it T " "'"" "™^'"' ^'"^^ when ::ms

than on; Jlf' V'"'* "^ '°'''°" »'"' 'J»^»'=» ""her
than one of entire absence or negation of feeling or thought

to sleep, or to stop hke the motion of a watch when its chain
wonIdr°4",r''r r^^'-^ *'™«'^ "» mecham *^
us or If we are the subjects of any one feeling. Thinking and
feeling, however, are the two states of mind in which i?t
exists in a state of oousciousness at all, it must eAt. These
are the two characteristic, of mind, constituting it miud or a
least distinguish „g it from mere inert .nd sensuous matter
Feel ng is equally a ohameteristic of mind as thought or
thinbng That spiritual substance within us is evfr th

tenstics of the same substance. The one operation or pheno
menou interferes not with the oth ir. The busiest Z^^,

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 oi song, almost transport it beyond the
bounds of endurance, or " lap it in elysiuro." 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 tip 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 I 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 EMOTIOKS.

291

seems too strong a terra as applicable to many which are of a
calm and qmet character, suggesting .0 impulse, and 1 most
apparently inherent, as of the vo:y essence and b^ing of mTnd
and not merely capable of being awakened or excited '

rhe firet essential condition of emotion would seem to be
one of calm and placid enjoyment. That might be taken a
the first essential state of emotion. The balance of all the
en^otions would seem to require or necessitete a calm and

omfonl /'^•'"•"^ ^^" "^"'^ ^« *^« predomin"f
trl. h Tnir' ""*r ".' '^^'^^ ''^'^^ of excitement
posed'lv ll '"'/ "u^°^"*' ^^^"^' *^« ^«°dition sup-
sweep, and m which no internal agitation obtains. We must
connect man m his conditions with his first origin : it Ta Ze
of derangement in which he is now found. Philol phVhl

Ltedfo T' ^'' ^" ^"^°°^P^^^^ ^^^-' -hen th7viLt
Iirnited to the present state of man, and is not carried up to

one of prior superiority and perfection. The deteils of man's

primeval condition, and his fall, could never have been guessed

at by reason but even reason may teach us that man dTdTot

come from his Maker as he now exists. We may suppoTe

hl^in ttel? ^'T °'f *'^ '^^^'"^^ ^" -- was'simTr to
that m the Divine Being himself-only, their centre would be

God ; just ^ God would be the centre to himself; and every

feeling would move m harmony with that primary a;d supreme

aw of regard to our Maker. It is difficult to form an idelof

su.h a state Man is not as he once was. It is from a very

different poin of view that we now contemplate his wholl

mental and spiritual constitution. We see not that constitt

tion m 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 r^

gard naan 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 contempk.ed. Are we to look at the ruins, or a e

we to put these rmns together-are we to look at the broken

vase, or are we to endeavour to piece it ? It mav «.«.- *v-

202

THK EMOTIONS.

we have notliing to do with liis former state, as it may be con-
tended we become aciiuaintod 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 lie once
was, and that the phenomena he must at one time have pre-
sented, must have been very diiferent from those which he
now exhibits. We are not indebted to revelation alone for
this. Revelation gives us the f ircumstances 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 *=mpire of evil, as he was
once the scene only of what was fa'r and lovely and of good
report. Whenever we enter the emotional depttitment 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. WriteiS upon this
department of our mental phenomena, have for the most part
had uu ivgu'd to this element. The inconsistencies and eccen-
tricities o'' orr nature l>'^o been abundantly noticed — these
have iJcoii dwext 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-

THK EMOTIONS.

293

taonal and moral luituie have been descanted on as if all was
as It Hhould have been, a^ 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 diflFerent 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 conuecte.' with evil as a condition of
our present moral nature-we cannot regard these buf as an
entire overlooking of the real state of the ca^e, and even the
actual phenomena. These remarks will be justified, we are
persuaded, as wo proceed wifh 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 coucL.lon of feel-
jng 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
t^om some new unexpected cause. In a state of perfection
his would be the harmony of all the feelings, with God as
their centre. The sect of Quietists, as they were called, which
arose m France, and of which Fenelon was a distinguished
member and whose tenets Upham of America seems to have
emomced-at least he is obviously the partial expounder of them
-held that It was possible to .rrive, even in our present imper-
tect s^ce, through the principles of the Gospel, and by the
sanctifying power of faith, at a condition of entire acquiescence
m 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 predomi:.ance. Madame Guyon was a dis-
tmguished 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 lior active enemies and

294

THE EMOTIONS.

for the maintenance of her peculiar principles, — principles
which drew down against her, as well as the famous Feneion,
all the eloquence and 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 he the will vf
God. I employed part of my time in writing religious songs.
I and my maid, La Gauti^re, 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 n ind, 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, seeras 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 che first condition of
feeling— everything else is an interruption or a disturbance. An
increase of happiness \sjoy, 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
distmguishing 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 v .iich 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
plam, 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 adini-
mstrator 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 tlie 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 Ruler 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. Wbile this is so, there is room for the
exercise of much that was primeval, much that does not bear

THE EMOTIONS.

the stamp of moral evil, of ein. 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 cherislied, or done from a preference, so far, at
le ^t, of what is good. There is not unmitigated evil ; con-
science is not altogether extinguislied ; 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 s-een, 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 hbart, 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
suflered 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 vviiter, 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 tliese 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 lie 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-beinga, but not a proper sentiment towards God I 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 moial mechanism. That God is not

loved, regarded, obeyed, argues a moral degeneracy which may

spread or diflfuse 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 degrefe 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
tlie 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
harmony, 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
18 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
afBictive of these. You will find this etate of the mind like
sunshine in the midst of darkness- daylight in the sky, even
when that sky -s 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 cp.u yet exist.
There may thus be

" ChecrfulneHs of soul,
From trepidation and repining free,"

in circumstances the most unfavourable to its existence— a
" central peace," as Wordsv^orth 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 cannoi exist
in the midst of them, the affliction entirely conquers. It is
here that Christian serenity contrasts witli 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 diflPerent 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 tlie 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 Redeemer
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 Chrirtian's charity, for ex-
ample, is disturbed, if he 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 <o its pro-
foundest depths, is unruffled, feels not a single movement of its
watei's. And as when the storm may be loudest, and the sur-

THE FMOTIONS.

301

face of the deep may be gi-eatly 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 hag
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 examplee 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— aU 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 woiUd, 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 oblig»ition
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 hira.
Moral action, as well as spiritual, is the proper action of
the soul, and for it to he 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 quieier 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 st-e the peuce which the Godpel 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 pennanently, 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 EMOTIONr).

303

virtue, accompanied with its appropriate emotion, predominates
the balance of the mind is disturbed, and it is no longei cheer'
fulness that is felt, but that emotion. Cheerfulness, we repeat
18 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 «'ill 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 equiU-
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
gieat as the exhilaration was lively. It is questionable how far

304

THK KMOTIONS.

that exhilaration should l)e carried. Miitli 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 Harhlet, 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 lesc 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 regar-^'ed ; 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-

THK EMOTIONS.

305

ness may be exhibited, though uniform cheerfulness may not
ue possible. And, accordingly, we do speak of a cheerful
person, though he may have his moments of sorrow Cheer-
tulness 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 m reality. Absence of emotion may be mistaken for the
harmony of the emotions. Tijere is

" The wavelcHs calm, the slumber of tlie 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-
thmg around. It is the latter which we characterize as cheer-
fulness It IS not to be forgotten either, that there is a happy
disposition 0^ 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
18 a happy combination of the particles of our nature, so to
speak, which m some produces all the effects of cheerfulness
or disposes to what has the appearance of a cheerful state.'
Shakespeare 8 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 I There can
be no doubt that the physical has often much to do in the
production of what seems, what i. m 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 aU. 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 COnditinn Ami vpt nri-v — '■^- ;---

306

THB EMOTION a

of this. Poverty is uo barrier to cheerfulness. Content may suj)-
ply the place of riches. Tlio cottngo is inure often the abode of
cheerfulness than the palace, and yet wo cannot forj^et that the
latter may possess poraething infinitely more precious than the
alfluenco of its wealth, or the splendours of its adornments.

" Honour and shtinio from no condition hho :"

Cheerfulness is confined to no station.

" Non obur, ncquo mircum
MoiT renidtit in donio lacunHr :

Non trabes Ilymottiao
Prcmunt eolumnas nltinii\ rccisaH

Africu : ne(iue Attuli
IgnotuH hrores regiani occupnvi ;

Nop Laconicns niilii
Tnihunt honestae purimras clientai;.

At fides, et inguni
Bonignu vena est ; paupenmMiuu 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: —

THK EMOTIONS.

" A spring oflovo giwhed from ray heart,
And I blo88od thorn unaware."

307

For all the consequences attending this, the machinery of
the poem itself must be consulted. But the precise state of

Zi ^r;: ?r"' '^^^^^*^^ *^ ^^hich we refer-is happily
touched. For kdlmg a poor albatross, sailing in the happy
Bky, the manner had been doomed to a severe penance • the
spontaneous love that sprang up in his heart towards the sV^y
thmgs crawhn : on the becalmed sea, under a tropical climt is
the means of hjs deliverance-the curse that rested on hi'
removed ; and he conchides his rhyme with this moral :-

" Ho praj-ctli bcHt, who loveth host
All things both groat and small ;
For the dear God who loveth uh—
Ho 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 le
the heart expand m kindliest affection^to breathe only kindly
emotion-to sympathize with the moods of nature-to love aU
Gods 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
foUowmg 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 mo
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 bljoi, and felt along the heart ;
And passing even into my purer mind.
With tranquil restoration .-—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
Ris little, nameless unrenjenihsrcd act-

308

THE EMOTIONS.

Of kinclneps and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift

Of aspect ni e sublime ; that blessed mood

In which the liirthen 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 arc laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul :

While with an eye made quiet hy 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
Vjogf fnpi|r>r>'3 r\f rit^|-]iyfi o, tlioufi.'ind timp!^ told. The love

THK 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 ameHoration of the world. How many forms of usefulness
does it not only take, but seek I 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.
Tie 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 Hitn 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
'^"- r'^^ "a fOFtii 01 pidjei, VI vc avvh In active useiui-

310

HE EMOTIONS.

ness. Cheerfulness becomes the Christian, and he is the one
most able to repress any unaraiableness 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 lo 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 exenaplify. 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 dmerfulness 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, suflfering. The reign of the evil passions is
the reign of suffering. It is marvellous that oi-der 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 i 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 himself, 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-
noss in the affection which they owed to us, and by ^he dutiful
conduct which they were bound to render, and a thousand other
ways in which evil may come, these all, or one or oiher of these,
may sadden our spirits, aad 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
days 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 Chiistian 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 foil 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 mi<^ht
tempt to irritation or impatience. Melancholy is a mood of mind
distmct 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 wngle 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 aft-r 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, rela^:es 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, seema 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
childj or something in which there is ovpn n. Apxttm nf r.ionc.,,rr. ■

)l •*

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
Bcene 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
dpscription 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 alwa)'S supposed to be coupled with a dis-
position to mirth, on occasions in which others see perhaps as

THK 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 thoUa'ht 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 ai large the lonely mountain's head ;

Or, where the maze of some bewildered stream

To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led.

There would lie wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,
Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team.
" In truth he was a strange and wayward wght.

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 difius'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 saiJ that disappointment seems to mino-le more
or less in every instance of melancholy. We had reference in
our remark to the rnore 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 which 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 wliich prevails, wbioh 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
jnotive 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 Buch an evidence with all reverence— wo may liazard
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 tiie world, and
with the conduct of His own friends, but tiOt so much disap-
pointed as grieved at heart. He knew '.vhat 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 vaiu 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 (iause 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 aflfectingly alluding
to his circumstances : —

" 8ee me, ere yet my destined course Lalf done,
Cast forth a wanderer on a world unknown !
See me neglected on the world's riulo coast,
Each dear companion of my voyage lost !
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow.
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" melanrnoly. 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
feeUng which so constantly attended him. The extreme deli-
cacy and refinement of physical and mental constitution which
mcapacitated him for taking his place as a reading or merely

THK KMOTIOH8.

321

recording clerk in the House of Lordfi, 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 relievo 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 ho had was from this source,
and the tone and tcror of his writings for the twelve long years
during wliich he informs us he scarcely had a ray of comfort,
shew how he was more supported than he was even aware by
the secret. i,-i ^r.Wd, 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 notliing is it more instructive
tlian as to the source from which relief is to corae, 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
hiive 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 tlio lierd
Long since ; with many an arrow deep infixed
My panting side was charg'd, when I witlidrcw
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,
lie drew them forth and hoal'd, and bade mo 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.

I see tlmt all arc wanderers, gone astray,
Eflch in liis own delusions ; they are lost
In cliace of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream ensues ;
And still they dream thut 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
Prearas, empty dreams."

Melancholy, then, we take to he 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 9motion 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. Rousseau'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-

THK KMOTIONS.

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 difierences, 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
Bide 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 tliere 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 tliis 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 harraony. We have said thcro may be a cheerfui meiau-

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 theije 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 uiiiortunate temper, or turn of mind, with his usual
happy power and truthfulness :—

" Wliy shoukl a mnn whose blood is wa^in within,
Sit like his graiulsiro cut in alabaster ?
Sleep when ho wakes ? and creep into the jaundico
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-

')^\:m^

THE EMOTIONS.

325

fulness speaks out: peevishness pules out, if we may so ex-
press ourselves — its language is a whimper — and no matter
iiiio 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.
Croalcer, 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.
Honej\v^ood, 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 Idngdom, and Jesuits sioarming 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 i-ather 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
mmd, 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
linhappiness 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 fretfulness 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 jt 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 wouli 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 everj 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 happines' in the very indul-
gence of amiable qualities, old j,ge 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 whose horizon, now in this world, is all in the past ? Their
future is already in the unseen and eternal state. They have
amved 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 I —
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 feeb'ng
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, JIow 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,
unJ'.pressed. 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 +he
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 oiir 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 cf 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 knew not whence they address us. As there is a sympathy
between the 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 natiu-e. 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 uiind. 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, nnd 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

■HMMnmmMM

330

THE EMOTIONS.

■»•

our energies have been tasked in reaching ; the distant expanse
which the mind 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.

" how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of chftrms which nature to her votary yields :
The warbling wootUand, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields ;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And al! that echoes to the song of even ;
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven,
! how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven V"

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 whoso majisions glitter in his sight,
Calls the dfclightful scenery all his own.
His are 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.'
Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis r>f interest his,
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,

THE EMOTIONS,

Whose hourt with praise, and wliose exalted niinJ
With wortliy thoughts of that unwearied love
That plann'd, and liuilt, and still upholds a world
So cloth 'd with beauty for rebellious man V"

331

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 vory 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 thawing 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 Kevolution, 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 tJie 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-1-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

ihp

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-recu-
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 ho

t.h

nn pniinci

latfid .

334

THE KHrOTIONH,

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

7u* °^'' n^ '*''*^- '^"^ ''^ ^^'^ '' ^°^ ^^ *1'« lamentable effects
ot 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
spec.es of the emotion. Joy arising from any moral cause
rnust 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 fino

To stand upon some lofty mountain tliouglit,
And fed the spirit stretch info a viae."

That pleasure is experienced by the student, or the man of
letters, when some truly valuable thought or truth is perceived

li!

THE EMOTIONS.

335

or apprehended by the miad. The pleasure of the moment is
like that of reaching some eminence, from which the eye
stretches into the illimitable distance, and rests upon i)lain
and valley beueath, 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
80 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.

are 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 ci'-cumstances.

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
existmg m 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
originaUy 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 supjjose such an antagonism inevitable -ad 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 chan-e
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 eiT. The angels
sinned, and were expelled from heaven. Our first parents
oinned, 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, —

" had His powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition !"

Again: —

" Mo miserable ! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is lull ; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide ;
To which the hel' 1 suffer seems a heaven.
0, then at last relent : is thera no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?"

The great poet, then, supposes Satan touclied with soraethingj
like melancholy, at least, with regret, in recalling his former

MM*

338

THK EMOTIONS.

estate. More strikingly is this done when looking upon his
compeers : —

" Millions of BpiritH for his fiiuit ainerceJ
Of liouven, and from (!ternal splendours Hung
For liis revdU,"

Milton says of him : —

" 'J'hricc lie assayed, and thrice in spite of scorn,
Tears Kucli as angols weep burst forth ; at last
Words Interwove with xiglis found out their way."

The devils in hell " believe and tremble :" do they look with
no regret to tiiose 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. Remorse, 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, loldch
seeins 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 tho 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 oif 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 thj 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 tiie 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 haa its appropriate garb, and has had
m 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
ma world that was so late bright 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
smned." 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. Vfe 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 Grod was the end of all, or God's glory in the hap-
piness of the create '•^. Man was created in the image of God,
and jnst 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 o" 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
'pro]per end was not that it might subserve that end, but it too
was a part of the Divine image. It is noiv that we see the
subordination of means to purposes in tlio 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 peifect
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 acco i-
phshed, 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 perfection '
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 nurposes 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 Bis 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 sentim'^nt of the beautiful with religious
and moral sentiments; according to tliis theory the end of art
IS to make us better men, and to lift up our hearts to heaven,
ihat 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
Cxod. But I affirm the form of beauty to be distinct from the
torm of goodness; and if art produces moral perfectness it
do^ 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
nob e ally of the moral and religious feelings, and that it cannot
awaken them ; but it must not be confounded with them.
1 he 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 •
lUs not an instrument, itself is its right tnd: 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 c ur original emotions-
tlie 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 diifereot thing from being
created or designed for this purpose. That ihis 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
(rod is now educing good out of evil, and He is making the
very emotions consequent upon a state of sin, subservient to

(

TUB KMOTIONS,

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,
Brou<;lit death into our world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore uh, 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 EMOTT^Ng.

This had not been possible, however, but in connexion with
sucli a scheme as that, in connexion with which we have
already seen much happiness is consistent even in this state
Ihe 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
ti^icn or where of His operations may be discernible, though
the modus we cannot underatand.

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 18 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 distmction 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
mmd 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 KMOTIONH.

347

country, the fainiliar objects of our homo, 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 afi'ec-
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 friondshii), or excite
our hatred and hostility.

348

THE EM0TI0N8.

Delight 18 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 wo have in anv
object, may be various as the objects which appeal to this
emotion. To take delight or find pleasure in an objert are
about synonymous expressions. Every object that can minister
to our enjoyment, that can give us happiness, that aflFords 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. Deli.'ht
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 l<,ng continued
would be unfavourable to *he 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 oijoy." It has accordingly been provided that joy
should subside into delight— & feeling more consistent with
our present state. The same event which at first awakened
the most rapturous joy comes to be reg irded more calmly or
the emotion itself has its point of subsidence, and 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, aid 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 radif nee. ^"ime 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 evcat is not contemplated single

* Delight, rniher than clieerfiihms—\ih»X Dr.
mhaidtnce of jot/.

Brown calls gladness — in the

THE BMOTIONS.

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 indifierence. 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, aud 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 1 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 tlie ideas they inspire, is trans-
ferred to themselves, just as we become attached to a fr-nd
trom the quahties he possesses.

The pleasure we are capable of taking in inanimate objects
which are with us in our happier, or our more melancholy'
moods, 18 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'societv that is most
congenial to us, and that we find we can most tnily 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
rade, 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. W e 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 an.l en-
dearment.

According to this law, it is not necessary that the objects be
ot 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 stagj 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 exeicised in such a way, but still they may
be their own end. It ib 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 hsippiness is rather the necessary
result of b^'ing 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 c?e%AHs more calm, is more permanent; it is
synonymous with pleasure, and we know what intellectud
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
Eevelation 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 Jars."

^ 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 feelii t: -
that pourtrays the homelier emotions— that g^jes into th^- tieart
of domestic life, and conveys to every one's mmd thoughts aud
pictures which ho can recognise, and which he (aoh t/> 1h; true
to nature, is the most relished, and is always the i., 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-
Jar 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 Tliomaon's landscapf glow.
Or wake the bosom molting 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 gi-ows
Adown the glade.

" Then, never murmur nor repine ;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine :
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine.

Nor kings' regard,
Can gi . ..> a blisa o'er-matching thine —

A rustic Bard."

Intellectual pleasure, or the iielight we find iu intellectual
pursuits, 18, then, of a more permanent character than the joy
springing from the same source.

Spiritual joy and spiritual delighft are more nearly akin ; but
the same distinction may be obs'.; ved here. Delighting inGod
and joying in God can hardly b. listinguished, for the ne so
naturally ptisses into the of. , \q former into the latter. But
even here, delight in Go ; ,* when the emotion is less strong;
and here, too, it may be d more permanent feeling than the
other. Our emotion may not reach so high as joy, but it may
be delight. The exoellen* ios of God may call forth the feeling,

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 circumstanc(is and objects, may have respect to either
in its origin. A certain event, or certain circumstar.ces, may
produce joy, may excite this strong emotion, but the circum-
stances or event may be such as only to awaken delight ; tho
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, thougli the expression of delight
on the countenance when, and how ofcen soever, that meetTn'«-
may take place, is the very bond of the friendship almost— or
is the external index to u? that the heart whose friendship wo
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 not say that we have joy in the society of a friend
but we may have delight. We may say we have delight in a
jnend-^e could not say we have joy. Delight can be pro-
duced by an event, but it may also rest on an object: ioy is
occasioned only by an event or events-it never, properly
8F)eakxng termmates on an object. It is the meeting with our
friend which is the occasion of our joy, our delight in him as a
nend 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-
satisfoction ; 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-
mg. 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. Inst^d of bavin- de-
light m an object, we have an aversion to it; instead of^'pro-
ducing our attachment, it excites almost our hatred. I teke
dehght in my books ; I feel them to be a perpetual source of
enjoyment; they instruct, and it is pleasing to bo instructed.
It ir^ dehghtxul to be laying up stores of information, to be
adding another and another to our already accumulated trea-
sures. It 18 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 chano-e
comes oT-er 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 raay 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 inteiTupt 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 upoa the moral state as
upon a certain habit or temperament of body and mind. We
are, at all events, cai;able 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 directli/ 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 EMOTlONb.

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 necessaiy 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 wo 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 wo 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

wliich the mind ever possessed. The extraordinary may seem
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, wo 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 actmg, 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 ol' being excited by the very unusualnoss.

360

THE EMOTIONS.

or nnexpectediiess, of the phenomenon or event, we can as
lit«e question ; and, accordingly, we have said that the won-
derful 18 what is extraordinary, as well as what is great. We
contend that there is something absolute in the wonderful, and
m the appropriate emotion; and very frequently when we use
the term extraordinary, wo 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 18 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 wonderi'ul 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 ihake 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
18 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

li I.

THE EMOTIONS.

361

such unusual events or phenomena. Then, it is an arbitrary
arrangement, and the emotion is not absolute. Wo are apt to
say that the stars are wonderful-those shining worlds that
come and look out upon v.s from night to night from their own
far distant orbits or places in the heavens-becanso 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
objec,:s,-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. Everv
phenomenon excites it. We wonder at every law that we see
n operation. Only the petty events of human life, everything
that 18 of man himself, is not wonderful, and it is only when we
see God in anyM»ing that we do wonder. It is His law His
power, His wisdom, His operation, for that is uncrcate.1 'that
begets our wonder. Whatever leads to Him is wonderful • and
everytbing leads to Him, if we only follow the course of our
thoughts and there we are lost in wonder; we contemplate
miimty, eternal, creative, might or energy.

The unusual, then, is not the source of the wonderful, thou-h
the emotion is undoubtedly felt at the presence or experien^'ce
of the unusual. What is extraordinary in this sense excites
our wonder. We pause at the occurrence of anything extra-
ordinary. Some singular phenomenon has been observed-
some meteor in the sky, or some phenomenon upon the earth
which has never been seen before; it cannot be accounted for
by any ordinary laws or appearances. Surprise or astonishment
IS first felt, and then wonder. Dr. Brown makes a very accu-
rate distinction between these two feelings, or, as he regards
them, two aspects of the same feeling or emotion, in saying
that the former is experienced upon the occurrence of the
phenomenon ; the latter when we allow our minds to dwell
upon it, and endeavour to trace its causes, or to account for its

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362

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 wu begin to explain or to account for the pheno-
menon ; it was surprise before. But xohy is the latter wonder,
and the former only surprise ? Dr. Brown makes the difference
+0 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. "When
the emotion arises simply," Dr. Brown says, " it may be termed,
ancHs more commonly termed, surprise ; when the surprise thus
excited by the unexpected occurrence, leads us to dwell upon
the object which ex,cited 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 arc 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 the seeking
of the cause that constitutes the wonder, or tliat as combined
loith the first feeling— surprise. If the tioo feelings were the
same, no mental pivcess could make them different. And yet
we feel them to be different. The emotion of wonder is when
we connect the phenomenon loith its came, and se^ a new

tin

THE EMOTIONS.

363

instance of divine power, a new law or viode 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 came, and are hd to the original
cause of every phenomenon, marking hut a new phase of His
operations, ivho « worketh in all." Surprise or astonishment is
the teehng 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 aU phenomena-a new
appeal irom 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 Infimte. 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 pro ,. -nore or
less recognised. The process is not always recognise^ L it 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 .vonderful 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, 18 capable of suspending the mind in wonder; but some
may be more amazing than others, for at once their sirapUcity
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, porliaps, with

\'\

364

THE EMOTION&

the law of adhesion, the law which unites the particles of
matter. The law of crystallization, again, is perhaps more
mterestmg than that of simple combination— the law of growth
more than that of crystallization-animal life more thar 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 bv the
unusual or uncommon, but by the wondeiful. The emotion is
an absolute one, and has its own object. An object or pheno-
menon is wonderful, not because it is uncommon, but ah<^o.
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 lawk 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 m nature-in the kingdom of nature, as distinguished from
the kingdoms of provid.^nce and of grace-what we contem-
plate, any time that our wonder is called forth, is not the ob-
ject, or phenomenon, or law ^«elf, but creation in that object
or phenomenon, or law. This may seem a very extraordinary
assertion, and it may be asked, with somethinr of the veiy
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
markmg 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—

that perfection of form and of colour— to the creative power-
to the infinite mind-visible in all these-present to the rea-
.^on-alraost seen by the eye? And when the stars spangle
the firmament— when tlie 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 boiiever
m God, and worshipper of His perfections, feels that it is not
the orDs he is admiring, or their revolutions, o- distances, or
velocity, or beauty, or numbers, but God in all, or the perfec-
tions which planted those planets in the heavens, and h^-^e
them shine. Does the sea nr' peak 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 mr wonder as we gaze on the calm or
on the agitated deep. I. is truly when we do not allow our-
selves to reflect, that we cease to wonder. The emotion would
have but a limited sphv'.re for action, if it was called forth only

366

THE EMOTIONS

'I,

ill

by what was uncommon, or out of tho usual course of experi-
ence. We cannot lj;t our eyes to the heavens mthout the
sentiment of wonder— wo cannot look upon the earth without
wondenng at its varied aspect, and seeing a thousand objects
that awaken the sentiment, in the structure of every plant-, in
the beauty, majesty, or serviceablencss, of every tree, shrub
flower, m the different orders of the animal as well as vege-
table world, in the mineral kingiom, in its marvellous strata,
m Its history, its records of prior states, dating into eras too
remote to calculate, almost to conceive, in man the lord of
creation, m 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 fhm all, or subserved by each. We do not
say we are always attended by wondeT-, 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 fooUsh, indeed'
to pass through the world with idle astonishment at everv 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 -mly loses its effect
upon us ; it seems to be intended that it si aid 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 ordinary action-our attention would
be drawn off from the most necessary engagements or occupa-
tions, and, m the uniform excitement of the mind, we would
be incapacitated for taking part in any of the affairs of life.
Ihe 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 m .resh as

that produces the emotion, but the frequency of it may blunt

Bible to It We are not, however, literally msusceptible of it or
msuscepfoie of it in itself. Let us but escape the influen e of
custom, or frequent observation, by fixing oL atten 'on u'on
the phenomenon, or by contemplating the object, and our

N^doubt freshness, or novelty, has its effect, and it may be
dw-ult to recall, or to feel again all the vividness of a fi^t
.mpresszon, of a new emotion ; but this is the case chiefly wi^h
objects or phenomena that are not so much wonderful as stTrt
hng, wbch are out of the ordinary course, and which her 1
m the first perception or observation of Ihem, excite surprS
because of their unexpectedness or novelty. Surprise, no dXbt
1 e^-htens wonder, but it is distinct from it, and'the Cy wo„

" There was a time whep meadow, grove, and stream,
1 no earth, and every common eiVIit

io mo did seem
Apparcll'd in celestial light,
Tlio glory and the freshness of a dream,
ft is not now as it liath been of yore,—
Turn whoresoe'er I may,
% night or day,

could also e'idal'r *" ' '"" "" ' "" °" "° "° ~-"

" And ye fountains, moa.lows, hills, and (n-ovon *

i> orobode not any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of liearts I feel your might ;
r only have rolinquish'd one delight.
To live beneath your more habitual 'sway."

1 here 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 delighl>-but his emotion froi natur^las even
more de.p. He lived under her uore kaUtnal La" md
while siirpnse had no share in his emotion, wonder ming^^

wm^mass^:

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 produ'^e it were present ; and sur-
prise, or the freshness of first observation, could be distinguished
to his mind from thd 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 ne^er 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, unlooked 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
m the circumstances v,onderful, will produce our astonishment.
We express our xstonishment : 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
tlie 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 suiprise,
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 Smitl = 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, knd
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 mrjyrmd at those things which v a have seen
often, but which we least of all expected to mejt 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 wo were to see then."

For Dr. Brown's commentary upon these views we refer to
his Lectures. He makes the surprise to difier from the wonder
m 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 uot 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
Recording 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 eur-
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 Inw, 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 Svems to be
recognised in Dr. Smith's words :-" We wonder at %11 extra-
ordinary and uncommon objects, at ell 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 ho 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 18 wonderful: it is not its rareness that makes it so.
Surprise, however, seems to have its occasion in unexpected-
ness, and 18 owing to that circumstance alone ; or if there is
wonder, it is wonder at the law of the unexpectedneea : 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
fehcitousness of that delightful writer. We are still indebted
for the quotation to Dr. Brewn. "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 sentunent properly called wonder, and which occasions that
stanng, and sometimes that rolling of the eyes, that suspension
ot 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 : • 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 pi'esent themselves to the imagination

"^-S^-

372

THE BMOTIONS.

na ,umLy, 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 quito 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 ii
IS not accompanied by those signs which usually express them-
selves on occas..on8 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 genemlly fixed-not dis-
jointed questions, but speechless silence, or calm and mve
exclamation. *»

Admiration is sbmewhat 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
m wonder than in admiration. Excellence is the proper object
ofadmiration-^xcell^^^^^ -d it is th'e natui

wf'nS l"^rP^^«^;,° ^*' that is the proper object of wonder.
We admire the excellence ; the law or nature of it may excito
onr wonder Admiration is a sort of mental approbation
accompanied with an emotion, modified by the kind of excel-
ence which we approve. We admire physical, intellectual,
and moral excellence. Each of these may be the object of
admimtion: what is under it, what produces that excellence,
the hidden law not the obvious result, excites our wonder, o;
IS what properly makes wonder a part of our admiration

THK EMOTIONa

378

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 udmiration. The admiration and the wonder
may be distinguished ; the excellence, either in the beauty or
the sublimity of the scene-that u>, the beauty or sublimity
itself— is what begets my admiration. Tha obvious result, the
aecured 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 admu-o 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 ' con-
templated, my admiration is just the sentiment of approbation,
which the moral excellence awakens, with the pecuUar 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 juet 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 littl« 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-
panyipg emotion ; but what it ip more it will be difficult to say.
This, indeed, is no argument tuat there is nothing more ; for of
none of our simple emotions can we give any account but such
as consisto 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 exceUence, blending with the
other emotion, may give the diflference. 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 admu-ation. 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 lew, for we shall find our admiration m 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 sc 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 exceUence. 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.

875

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 geniud 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
rise3 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 ^nind 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-

37e,

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 trait», whose entire beauty is merely the
reflection of spiritual beauty. It is, then, only by e.^Lon,
that nature IS beautiful, and it is the variety of intellectual
and moral characteristics, reflected by matter, that determines
the diflFerent 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 teken from human nature, may be added those which

It mig^it 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

Z 'if T ^^Vi' 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 existe is alive:
tha, the soul nature shines through the thickest conceal:
Thnst 1. . ^'''';^, 'l^^™*^^^ b™g« "« to a similar conclusion :
there ^s law there rs ^ntell^gence. Chemical analysis does not

tdt l\T'\ f' ^°' ''''''''' ^^* to a nature full
vitality -to internal laws as worthy of admiration as those

being philosophers, we may contemplate nature in ingenuous
^orance, and g^ve ourselves up to the impressions it^excites
We have said, that both in men and in anhnals, the figure!

at the'^foofom^A ^'T'' "^ '^' ^"^^ ««^^«« «f --*"-,
a the foot of the Alps or the summit of Etna, at daybreak oi'

S ' fJVT 7' ''^^'"^°^^ ^ «°^* «f °^oral reaction ?
Doe not the light of the sun, too, manifest intelligence ? Do
not the planets preserve among themselves an intelligent har-

THE KMOTIONS.

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 1 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 va^t.
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 evervthine- ! that the oreii+nm ia «,i,o* u

378

THE BMOTIONB.

If. 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 owS
glory. The habit of recognisin^' God in everything is taught
from a higher source than even phUosophy ; but phUosophy,
m Its truest state, is coincident with religion. Were man not
fallen, philotiophy would be but a part of his unfaUen nature,
and there would be no distinction between philosophy and
devotion. To see God in everything, and to have the mind
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 endj 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 mvstery. 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 constitut^
the beautiful, the sublime, the true, the exceUent, 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 retieemed. 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

every 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 caat 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 convolutionB of a smooth-lipp'd shell ;

To which, in silence hushed, his very soul

Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon

Brightened with joy : for murmurings 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 beyond the intention of your thought;

Devout above the meaning of your mil."

That piety, it must be allowed, is of a very equivocal kind which

llftrHlv Irnnura ifa rnirn oci*\"m**-«''-»^*»" A 1 — .1 a,__ i t

380

THE EMOTIONS.

to the mv,8,ble, and the infinite, we by no mean» meant that that
mflmto was reeognued as God. It might be, or it might not
With Bomc, .t is the spirit of nature merely It hS no Z-
sonal being assigned to it. God is not retignised vLZ-
t-onably God and His perfections are the %^ sequTo"
oonoluaon of the mind, and to Him the minuLt and 1°
.ns,gn,4cant object in creation might lead, if „e were inrtt

of God and God himself, and the interval may be allowed to
be occupied with anything or nothing where the des eTs no?
to ..alize God, but njther to foiget Him, or exclude fflmfrl'

2^ Ik ""'r* ^™*'' 'P'"^ <" "'"' "nJeflnablo spwT
which has y.t no personality, are allowed to intervene or S

are made the all of God-are rested or believed in, L if .W

w re the grand power and presence to which creati™, through

The recognition and adoration of a Divine power as mani
fated ,n the universe, seems to be essential in L cieofX
mind formed to trace the connexion of causes and their efeta
and to fee the sentiment of wonder on the presence of any oS
served inslance of causation. It is impossible to obsem the
phenomena of nature withont being impressed with tie™ st-
ence of a being whose agency is traceable only in its onera?o„t
The mmd does not res. satisfied with the mere pCrna
which It observes; ,t l«.ks beyond these to the spiritnal p"wer
or presence which is at work, and which it cannot fail to ma k
An undefined conviction of some agency-something betnd
hematenal form „r object, may be all that is i^alild oTob-
tamed, maybe the utmost to which the mind goes bu an
agency or power of some kind is felt to be an inevit;be con-
viction or conclusion, which the mind rather welcome thl
seeks to shun, and which is acknowledged in the mltfoM
■mpersonations of the varied agencies and operationr" the
natural world, or just in the name given to them aU, and wh ch
«ems «.t,sfactonly to account for all-the spirit of 'natl If
this spirit of nature i, 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
18 a monstrous creed,— that everything we see is God. The
doctrine is, either that God is matter, and its laws ;— for aHow
mind, and we may as well go to God at once— and then it is
identical with materialism and atheism ;— or it is that m-itter
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 liold 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 aUows 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 I 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 pdore, 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

hovermo' atmosT^here.

,'tv.

the

382

THK EMOTIONa.

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 our divinity, if we do
not stop with it as God, if we are not content with a mere
poetical cop' eption, 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 vacancij 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 ' 3came a god to the imagination, untutored,
and incapable of graoping 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 indwelUng 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 iu' jvitable one, and proper ;
for " the invisible things of God from the creation of the worid
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
mystenous powers which imagination connected with it was
reverently recognised and adored. '

• . . " T'-o 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 multipUcity 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 i)ay to God, cannot be doubted. When the mind

THE BMOTIONH.

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
ofl 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 a* lore, to offer worship. All should be priests
to God. Sin has interrupted the priestly functions— the worship
is noi 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 tliis 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 I how wonderful I 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 wo are, ra lonal and moral beings. We say so far as we
were made intelhgent, and capalle of emotion, there was what
was absolute m our nature, what could not but be wharbe
longed to our nature, what was not intended merely to sub-'
^rve an end, what was final, except that His own glor^ was
what God proposed to Him. If 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 gloiy. while there
was what was absolute and not merely provision.! in our nature.

iwiTr ; ''T,'" "" ^^''^'''' '^^'^"^''^ «^««ted in the
mage of God, and then- grand design was, besides being an end
m themselves, that God's glory might be reflected in them.
1 hat they accomplish subordinate purposes, is somewhat differ-
ent from these being the purposes for which they were created.

rJn^r Z ^°°^''' ^'"^ *^^" "^^'^'^ to th« gratifica-
tion of he crea ure in a high degree. It is accompanied with
high debght. It produces a refined, in some insJnces a ven^
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-
titul law of creation-some mark or evidence of God Himself-
m the possession of some interesting truth, some fine conception
some happy or admirable expression of such conception in
langimge 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 te 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
Aston^hment, too, will often arrest or fix the .ttention of
these higher spirits that dwell in the presence of God It is
not to be supposed that they will not have new truths te con-

temnlate : ihnt ihc^xr xniU «^+ i j.-.. •.,

• "" -• ""• """ "- "iuutiiig witn new aud instruc-

38G

TIIK EMUTIONH.

tivo and wondorfiil niiinifcstatlous of the Divine perfections.
An event v/il! be to tlicni hh news. From this or thut otiier
portion of the universe, no doubt, tidings will circulate oh intel-
ligence from a far country niuong ourselves. It will produce
surprise— it will beget wonder— it will fill them with astonish-
ment. So would it bo in our own imfallen condition — so is
it now — and the emotion subRerves 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 expej'ienced, 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 imrauient perils even are encountered.
War itself is often made a game of pleasure. Many of the
expeditions, which are the suujects of history, have been con-
ceived and prosecuted, perhaps, to escape ennui, or just from
the pleasure of excitement. Tliis necessity for variety, then,
the law by which we are gratified by change,— the power of
sorprise, — has its bad as well as its good efieots. It must have
operation in some way. The pleasure of the sentiment or feel-
ing must be in some way gratified, th* i,;.;h k should be in evil,
and in occasioning even the misery ot owr i Uow-crcatircT;
but its design undoubtedly was for isi^x^ 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 KMOTIONH.

387

emotion of Buipmc of thingH unoxpccted, as a part of our
mental conHtilution, is very obvious. It is in new circumstances
that it is most necessary for us to bo on our guard, Injcause,
from their novelty, wo cannot bo aware of the ellects 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 boon paid to them, and the evil, therefore, might have
been suflferod 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
U3, that, in circumstances in which attention might le perilous,
whispers, or almosi 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 ; —

" () for that warning voice, which ho, who saw
Tho ApocalypHO, hoard cry in heaven aloud,
Then wlieii the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to ho revenged on men ;
' Woo to the inlmhitants on earth !' that now,
While time was, our first parents had been warned
The coming of their secret foe, and 'scapcu.
Haply so 'scaped, his mort;J snare."

Astonishment neither delights nor warns; it confoimds.
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 wirie this arrangement

how directly is wisdom seen here I 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 dannrRi- nstnnisbmpnf \a coi/inrr. ,x,.^a,,,.^a

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 staiid, 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 talres 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 wonder at the law concerned in either.
The appreciation is not without the wonder : the two constitute
the euiotion 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
toith 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 eublime, 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 awakeu 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 <c 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

390

THE EMOTIONS.

certain powers and adaptations to awaken certiiin emotions, or
conceptions of emotion. This we hold to he Ah'son'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 i" ','arded as the great opponent
of the association theory. The assuciation theory, as it is called,
pre-eminently the theory of Alison, is not inconsistent with the
beautiful being in the mind; hut also in the object; and also being
absolute, something in itself, one, simple, but as the resultant of
certain ^ ovvers 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 tl e moral, to truth,
to the Eternal, td the Infinite. It is certain ideas, having their
prototypes in the Divine mind, but ex'pressed 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 ir, 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 eartli 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, — rvhich, 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 everj'thing 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

..JL?-i'^ ^i^a*.,**.--

392

THE EMOTIONS.

love 0/ an Object, or from that object's being the direct object
ot Jove. 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
s_tate_certe.m circumstances regarding it; but tlie 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 eraotion-that
batHes all attempt at description or analyses. 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
ot the emotion consists in the kind of Might wuich is felt or
there is something heyomi thi^ delight, while desire for the good
ot the object is an effect of tl emotion, not a part of it. The
kind of delight felt in the con mplation of the obiect, or in the
object is the very mystery, l^eligbt 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
de ight m an object, we rather mean love for that object than the
delight which it produces or affords We know t^at 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, 18 to describe the emotion by itself. There can be no

THE EMOTIONS.

393

doubt that love both deh'ghts 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
lea^t, 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
distmguishing 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-
mg, presents to us always, at lea^t, twj elements j" 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 case?.
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 whiuh 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 oonsequonce of this, is itself a

394

THE EMOTIONS.

plensurable eraotion. There k 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 arisino-
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 cUng 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
iteelf, 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 diflPerent 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 inteifere 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
Roman 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 na+ions :
this, too, tends to the consolidation and prosperity of society : it

396

THE EMOTIONa

18 favourable to government, for even nations have to be broken
up into separate municipalities, each of which can alone conven-
iently regulate its own aifairs. 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, Tlie 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 sdek 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 mterest. The one loves the other, and self is
merged in the attachment which each awakens. This might

T f..

THE KM0TI0N8.

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 aud 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 trie 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
01 greater power lOr misctiiei m the greater combiuution of

398

THE EMOTIONS.

' n

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 prmciple of universal love, which is consistent only with
a state of unfallen innocence, or one of innocence restored.
When tho 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 occasioJi 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 cr
the absence of it, where Christianity has not taken eflfect, and
nothing therefore but the most imperfect sympathies with the
race existing. National distinctions operate in the widest
extent, auvl 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 bo 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.
J he 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 unitin"-
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 univt.-sal love. This aspect of the emotion is
particularly interesting : how important to contemplate it !— to
seek its dominancy, its universal diffusion I 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 aemred ; 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, lue proscribed gospel
is the panacea for every evil which man in his perversity
would remove in every other way but the right one. Selfihh-
ness, indeed, regulates in most of those schemes which arc
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
gi-eatness. 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 tlie property iu
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 tlie 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

S i

400

THE EMOTIONS.

nniform regard to the rights and the interests of the race,
which, in the one ohject 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 si'ncere
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 onr 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 ve could not love our race merely ocause 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 unchallenc^e-
able, but it is poetry rather than philosophy. "^

" God loves from whole to parts, but liuman soul
Must riae from individual to tho whole.

THE EMOTIONS. 401

Helf-love but gcrves the virtuoug mind to wnke,
As the small jMibble stirs the peaceful lake :
Tlie centre moved, a circle «trni};Iit 8U( cceds,
Another still, and still another spreads ;
Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace ;
His country next ; and next ull human race ;
Wide and more wide the o'erflowings of the mind
Take every creiituro in of every kind ;
Earth smiles around with boundlees bounty blessed,
And heaven beholds its image in his br'jast."

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 bo supposed where the family affection was never
known ; would the love of coimtry, 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 ; aud 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
.-!!.; ...leso are the exceptions instead of the rule, and

2 C

nat.iiro

402

THE EMOTIONS.

perhaps tliey will l)e found among those who have had every
advantage for the development of the affections, as ; uch 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 BO 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
80, but it is not the highor — 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 pudicre conjugis osculura,
Parvosque natos, ut capitis minor,
Ab Be removisse, et viiilem
Torvus humo posuisse vultum ;
Donee labantes consilio patres
Firmaret auctor nunquam alias dato,
Interqiio moorente s amicos
Egregius properaret cxul."

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 hfiincfs wifVi «n iTn!Tior^<il ofotriii n^nr. ^^v.^^ o

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 actiors. 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 beputiful 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, an^d must receive a<*ontion ; 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 forgt Len 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 +,he 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 connecteci 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 ; 1 it this
will not all account for it. Let it be considered that love in
itself is absolute— \s a part of that emotional nature with
which, as we were created in the likeness of God, He was
pleased to endow us, Loee 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 ius 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 accordinff to tlio obinr.t

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 arbitixry but beautiful provision
on the part of the Creator. Can we give an}- other account of
the affection which sprang up in Adam towaids 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 7 It is the love of
a being — it is the love of a fellow-bein" -and th?it bH

nrv 10

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 upecies ? 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.

■2rfr^m>m

40S

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 h 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 kw even in the case
of the race as distinguished from 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.

40»

in d future world, being wUl then form the grand relation and
the love of holy beings will be a far higher and intenser love
than any other.

_ It being is thus p-. perly the object of love, there is a sense
m which a being may really be the object of our love, in spite
ot 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 hatreJ. The malice of Satan, and
he other wicked spirits who fell with him, as we are tauc^ht
to regard their nature, excites our hatred e.en 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 loveu not only its enemies

k". ^TZl ^" "^^^^ "*^'' ^^^« ^^ «"«li a love been exhi-
bited :> This IS made the very marvel even in Scripture of
Crods love. Here we speak in ignorance, and can only wonder.
Here:n 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 stiU room to
operate. That state of love is not repelled by what is in
direct opposition to itself. The absolute ewAion, love still
rests upon its object ; wherever it finds being it finds an Object
on which It terminates. It is here wo perceive the nature of
that command, "Thou shalfc love thy neighbour as thyself-"
and again " Love your enemies." These are commands, be-
cause the love of being, as such, is an cssenticd condUdon 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 heiug 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 ii^ 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 primaiy
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 directioi 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, of one's nation, are peculiar aspects
of the emotion, and are connected with an e°p«nial 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 ; aud
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 unamiable. This is not to make us insensible to what
must and ought to excito our aversion ; but far more justice
might be dc^e 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 constitut-'on and circumstances for this more
special love.

Nation and country, in the same way, appeal to oiu* 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 invitino" Vinf flioo" ar>r\ 4V>« nw^^fj^^ Uo^l-f ~.«.,1J

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. AVe 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
bad 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 ?' JSTow, the foot upon which inquiries of this

TIIK EMOTIONS.

415

kind should bo treated, is this,— to take human nature as it
is, and the circumstances in which it is placed as tliey 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 wo have not, that I know of, any-
thing at all to do with. God Almighty undoubtedly foresaw the
disorders, both natural and moral, which wonld happen in this
state of things. If upon this we set ourselv - ;,» 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 '^3 seen it seems to be taken for granted,
that ive ivere not made more perfect creatures than tve are, and
were 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

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 undoubtedly 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 sudd' or animal resentment is intended by
nature for our defeni Butler not only speaks of sudden re-
sentment, but of delioerate 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

.;hc:,'.Mt ■';■ -«<

THE EMOTIONS.

417

tioa We are raade capable of a malevolence that may be said

would otherwise walk, not in darkness, through the world but
m open hght, perpetrating its iniquities withL sham or re-
morse and perpetratmg them with impunity." I„ all of these
quotations there seems to be an entire overlooking of the or !
ginal smte m which man must have been created : 'the several
wix^rs do not seem to have thought that this was a 7Zl
which bore m any way upon man's state now ; and their prin-
21 7 ''^'''"'^ °°^^ *" *^« P^^^^^fc appearances and emer-

h s m de to'" Tlr "n^' '^'' *^^ P^°-^«- -^-1^ ^od
of th?l L *^' "^^ '^ '"'" °"*"''^ ^ "« "°^ fi'^d it, and

of the world as it now is. Butler's inquiiy at most is why we

cir:!"''^ '^'*" ^'^^^ -' "^- -«' -<^ placed in bitte
circumstances, or rather he deprecates such an inquiiy at all •
and the proper point of interest and attention with him is-'
teking our nature and condition as being what they are,
wha purpose does such and such a passion serve in ou
constitution? This unquestionably is an immediate prac-
tical question and il 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'
clestimes. 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 Uke
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

geoiOerV. with thp infernal K.'o^/^»„ -r .1 , ., .

geology, with the internal history of onr earth, and th

af amort/-

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 afifected 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 veiy 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
It 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
trom 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 lature of the antagonism between good
and evil themselves. That we 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 eflfects of it, than remain ignorant of it.
We but indicate this— we do not dwell upon it. Such, how-
ever, arfi f.bp two henr'ia**^"'"''' "*" i—i — 'nJ ^--i

, t.«i, iir.i...,^.,s^j,^(3 yi c.nu~ieujju, ami, we may aaa,

420

THE EMOTIONS.

of being also. Is it sufficient to consider our raalevolent 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, out not if we know to
rebuke any farther inquiry, and suspend any farther interest—
if we can say, " hitherto, hut 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 th-? 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 thpt 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
Evil, annoyance, suffering, calamity, are not the objects or causes
of joy, deUght, cheerfulness, or the circumstances which directly
comport with the emotion of cheerfulness. They rather awaken
sorrow, vexation, melancholy, fretfulness. The objects or sources
ot 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 m 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 hve and hatred are distinguished
Being is indeed the proper object of love, and we love being
ahsolntely. It must be allowed, therefore, that the absolute
emotion, love, or love in its absolute state, has not directly good
for Its object, but stiU its object is good. Being is good; we
invest being m itself with an attribute of good. It is essentially
good, for It 18 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 mmd and all its feelings. Still it is not the good of being
as such which awakens the emotion, or is the obiect of the
emotion-it i* being itself Love is an absolute state of eveiy
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 aature 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, wherea* love was cnn^mnnrann,
ous with go( i. But love rests upon more than befng : it

tiSi

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 dljiike. 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 Otgnizant of the revolt of that portion of their
own number which fell from their original estate, and they are
not ignorant of oiu- 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 if 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, perlaps, 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
Buch natures. And j'.igt the opposite of those qualities that

THE EMOTIONS.

423

anrment 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 f ::cept 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
tae 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
ad^jrted to this, and we repeat the observation, that we may
point out what seems to be a very natural explanation of the
phenomeuon. We are foriued to love that which gives us.

424

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 excitiug
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 ofi 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 y«s^
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 BM0TI0N8.

425

my indignation. If my anger or resentment is just, my hatred
18 just: but revenge cannot be just to the extent that it is un-
due, and that the expression which revenge tckes 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
m 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 tliere be any principle of this kind
implanted by nature in the mind, excepting the principle of
resentmerrt, 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 7nale-
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 passa-e
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, ifc be-
hoved to provide such safeguards in our constitution as would
prevent the evil effects proceeding from principles or parts
ot 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
evictions: 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, in euffi-
cient to account for the phenomena as observed, or explain
what is so obviously supposed or implied, namely, a prior and
a present state cf 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 bo 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 ealch of these: hatred, as we have said, glances in
them at their object. We do not say it may not be justifiable,
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. Keseiitment 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 Qurselyep. as their obi^c* t^ev

be somewiiat

THK KMUTIONH.

429

different : they undouhtetlly are different. Stewart says, « Wo
are so formed that the injustice offered to others, as we'll 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 mov^. 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 exci*'-g cause in both cases may be the same— injury done
by another; but the feelings differ according as the injury
affects our-elves 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,— « Resentment, 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 onej 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 li?elings. 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 philoso[)hical 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
wdl 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
mmd which is the opposite of love. Love, we have said, retires
tor a tmie— It is not felt— it does not distinguish the mind-
and what can be present but hatred, or a feeling very much
akm 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 -ge, that where love had its seat, any one
of these emotions .y exist by turns, and may have even the
sole sway or dominancy. IndJ-nation may consist with an
mnocent 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 m 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
v/ith any one, is for the time not to regard that ivdividual
loith love. There is hatred for tlie 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
evd to their object tnan 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 :
Resentment 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 may be
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 wo 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 Eome, 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 Csesars.
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 sufier, 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 run 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, suff'ered infiaction. 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, makin-
every man his brother's keeper. It is the approbation of ri-ht
m 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 ot
injustice would deprive it of its own. It anticipates judcrment •
It goes before punishment. It is the man within whom we
dare not rouse, whoso 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 feehng of the person injured,
while indignation is the feeling of society, or of impartial
spectators, as well a3 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 aoiion, rather than the mere irritation or feelino-
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 i " '

\ diet

IcU

hy a

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 (he action may be resented, toe 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. Kesentment 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 pi-ompts, 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.
Kesentment is otherwise mere revenge. Eevenge, 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 infl'iuntial in checking wrong. Punishment, as
suffering, may be little cared for, and it is the dk^.ileasure or

THE EMOTIONS.

435

disapprobation of our fellows that we 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
m 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, therefo/e is the
mam 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 mav come
to be acquamted 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 partv
more immediately concerned-resentment in the feelings mayl
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
ot 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

43(>

THE EMOTIONH.

actions which wo Id otlieiwlso 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 Eoman 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 tliis 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 or.lv anger, but is anger seeking the

THE EMOTIONS.

437

return of the injury upon the pf^rson inflicting it. In this, we
have said, it is mitigated revenge. Anger mingles in all these
—IS a part of them all -of , adignation, resentment, revenge—
and yet it is a feeling by itself, and may be considered apart
from the more coinplex feeliigs in which it mingles. AU 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-
proprii; .0 nam<' It is thus with what, in one point of view, may
be called the complex feeling r.f 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
strongi, 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 resent°ment,
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 amoimt 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 sni ^ jse 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 eft'ect 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 tills 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 i/he emotions, and the rela-
tion which these reciprocally bear to each other. Truth may
be necessary to the right emotions, but the emotional naturt^
must be itself right before truth can have its effect. Without
this, truth r- ay 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 orisjin^ It is owins 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
untraceable 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 Reid 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. Reid 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 Hffi and infpllio-nnpp • and i+ i« bv a

440

THE BM0TI0N8.

momentary relapse into the belief of earlier years, or of a ruder
stato, :hnt we ascribe life and even intention to the inanimate
objccis by which we are injured. " I agree with Dr. Reid,"
Bays Jitewart, " 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 indeef^ 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 objepts, 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 revdnge; but
grown man will often indulge in like fieaks, 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

IntTZ "T ' ''' "'"^""^^'^ '' '""^ ««^«*-« does not a

i ll ''•" " ""' ""' ™P"'«^' ^ --« ---al resent,
ment. Ihere is a conception of injury in the most Midden
passion or anger. Butler makes a distinction between in^'j
and harm in the case of sudden angei, and makes injury wha"^
xcies 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
r sentment, as Butler does, in the sense of indignation, is true^
but there cannot but be some regard, also, to the cause of th^
uffering, call it harm or injury ; and without perceiving any!
thing very marked in the motive of the actor, or having dktinct
regai-d to that at all, still, a conception of blamewor^iiness o
some sort m the agent causing the harm, is entertained in every
case of anger. The motive is not so palpably a bad one as to
p.oduce indignation, stdl some blame is attached to the a-^ent
and till that conception is corrected, if no blame does e°xist'
here is anger. In resentment, in the same way, there is not
he 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 inflictin<.
It, we mean chtejly regard to these; for it would be as incort
rec to separate from indignation all regard to the loronq
sustmnedmd 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
mngle or alone in them. Even sudden anger, then, is founded
upon a conception of injury to some extent. We never re-ard
the actor or ageut as altogether blameless. When we com'e to
do so, all anger, all resentment, ceases. In the case of those
^vho retain anger, Pven when it has been shewn that there was

442 THK UMUTIONH.

no blameworthiness on the part of the agent, in the injury or
suffering inflicted, that mere 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 tho 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 suff'ering, or to any other object of interest cr attention.
The mind' may be so absorbed again by the pain or injury sus-
tained, or endured, that it is only a general regai ' 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 cht ishing 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 languag.^,
a strict and accurate use of terms, is always proper. Wrath is
a stronger term than anger, and may be properly i: led for the
strongest degree of that emotion. Anger, we have said, as
well as indignation, is a defence against injury, and even bciore
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

auu where ^Aso rher. may not be resentment, is dreaded, and
deters from mju^v or mischief. The anger of a party ;hom
we have ..ijured. or against whom we have meditated injury is
not to h -n.. .sly encountered. We shrink from if it' is
paintu. It .'iot be provoked without suffering. To meet
It 18 oft. n too PMch, and we are therefore careful of excitin- it
and uuM ..'mg to encounter it when excited. It is thus that
society 18 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
n.echamsm of evil itself-a passion incident only to a state of
evil-the instrunient 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.
Ihere 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 vigHance would be
useless, which awakes therefore at the firet appearance of un-
just intention, and which becomes more watchful and more
vigorous, m 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 hnn whose pusillanimous spirit shrinks at the

veri

444

THE EMOTIONS.

appearance, not of danger merely, but even of the arms by tho
use of which danger miglit 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 societv, or of a right and harmonious state among moral
beings, is just the moral principle itself, which, seeing evil in
any shape, has its ''ndignation, 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

I'HE EMOTIONS.

445

emotions which have a present object for their cause or on
which they terminate, are classified as the immediate emotions
and these agam are considered as involving, or as not invol/
ing, a moral feeling or affection. To the former of these are
referred love and hate, sympatliy 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
aspast-the conception of some object of former pleasure or
pain being essentiil 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, smiple 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 bolov,ging to our original nature, or as they must be con-
ceived to have belonged to our original nature, and the change
t|mt 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
ihus, we considered cheerfulness, melancholy, moroseness, fret-
tulness, peevishness; joy, sorrow ; wonder ; and the modifications
of this latter emotion, snrpii^o, amazement, astonishment admi-
mtion, adoration ; love, hatred, indignation, resentment,' anger.
Ihere 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

446

THE EMOTIONS.

Some have considered them as they are personal, relative, or
social ; some according to their influence at different periods
of lite ; 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 disappointrrent,
and disappointment has reference to the {)ast ; 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 :t 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. 44

cause of it is before us : when the weapon has but droppi
from the hand of him who has inflicted the blow, or aimed til
murderous stroke: when the word has just passed from thl
hps of him who has insulted us, or wo.inded us in our tenderestl
feelings: our mdignation or anger is at the strongest. Our'
prospechve 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
knovvledge ; 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
ov 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
ot hatred, as we have seen, there is a certain desire of evil to
Its object. Dr. Brown separates the two, and makes anc^er
strictly retrospective. The desire of retaliation, he savs 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 iheso
two, anger and desire of retaliation .?— how much of it is
retrospective, and how much of it prosiiectivc ? Aristotle
according to Seneca, makes anger a desire of paving sorrow for
sorrow. This is rather resentment. There is the injury felt •
there is def>ire of evil, or of punishment, to the inflicter of the
injury: these two blend in one, or result in one emotion, for
which w- have invented the name of resentment . though Inhere
IS compkxa:'. Jiere is resultant simplicity, and that is resent-
ment- Now, tins feeling is as much retrospective as prospective.
So closely are the two elements in it united ; so much is the
r** : mt emotion one, that Dr. Brown himself says,—" But
tiioagh in our minute, philosophic analysis, this distinction of

- -rmm""^

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 inflfiential 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 countei-part, exhibiting those
contrasted emotions which have afforded a ground of classifica-
tion to some writers, without the explanation derived from

THE BMOTIONS.

449

con^denng them as counterpart. Along with this, however.

the.e IS a certain order, m which our emotions may be con'

idered according to the way in which we regard the emotional

bemg, as susceptible of happiness, and now of misery • capaWe

of bemg affected by objects or events ; receiving imp' ssTons of

he infimte, and therefore, feeling wouder, and ^dmirat n Ld

heen.ot.ons of beauty and sublimity; being linked in social

lations to h.s fellows ; imbued, therefore, with love, or havin.

a^so now the capacity of hatred ; experiencing indignation, and

rTf 1 T^"- r '''.'"*'^'"*- ^^"''' ^^'"^'^ «f leaving the
relative and socia emotions, we have the general emotion of love

and we recognise the modifying circumstances affecting that emo-
tion ; while hatreu, 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'
mid .uteres in the oys of others; indeed, community of seni'
meru or feehng with any emotion that may actuate another

We are so constituted as to share in the joys, and now
also to loel for the sorrows, of others. Not o^lv do we feel
joy and sorrow at events happnning to ourselves,^ but a great

oTh rs r '"' r '°'"" " ^" '^' J^y °^- ««-«' of
others. Cur emotions communicaie themsdves ; the verv

emo .ons with which we are inspired become the emotions

of others, and theirs as well communicate themselves to us

We give and take m this reciprocation of feeling. The iov of

another becomes my joy; the sorrow of another becomes my

wlZ: >?.'' V '''^ '^'^'^'^"^ '"^^ «f «"^ constitution
iL^^^^r T '" ^«"«*i^"*«<^' that the circumstances of
other woukl not have affected ourselves at all. This would
have been, however, to altei- 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 sprin "o
our emotional r.atu.-e touched, what would remain ? It is on This
account that it is so difficult to speak of the final causes connected
wi h our original emotions, which seem rather absolute in their
nature, and incapable of being other than they are. We mav

2F •'

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 wc 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 sympcthy. 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
strangor ; 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

uie distress. This makes us run at the call of misery and
makes every man the helper of his fellow. Hr s Uerv
consideration sunk-how is every hardship endured-how is
every pen encountered at the cry of distress ! Le it Z be
announced tj.at life is in danger-that a fellow-creatu e i
drownH.g-that the treacherous element is dealing with a iiJe

mortal ZZl ^:T'TV' '" ''"'^ '' '^^'^-^ *'^« '^^ ^^ ^ f««-
mortal-and that but a few moments longer and that life shall

to u; i7« r , r ^^""°^-^!^'"S' *bat is only a fellow-being

I: 1 r. "^ ^"'' '"'^^^"° ""^^^ *'^« devouring element

-we see that but a moment or two and all chance of escape

A ^'r'7^°^ ^^tensely do we desire that deliverance
ould be extended and with what interest do we watch the dar!
mg effort of oue of the spectators who rushes through the flames
or m the only way that safety can be effected, puts his own
hfe in jeopardy rather than that other life should be sacrificed I
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 pan^ 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
]ustice 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

»—te*Ma|iamai xi

'■ ^g

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
tljousand 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 tliose 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
18 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-
mg for the abolition of oppressive laws, denouncing tyranny,

454

THE EMOTIONS.

traversing continents, and perhaps compassing tlie 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 synpathies 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 inankind, but it feels for the

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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 cf 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 bis boundless plain,
The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ;
With fires proportioned to his native sky,
Strength in bis arm, and lightning in his eye ;
Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone,
I 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 1 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 I
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 I
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 lace, 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 feehng one common joy, we obtain all the vividness
of the mdividual feeling, and all the largeness and overwhelm-
mg strength of the multiplied emotion.

It was a noble sentiment, " Homo sum, nihil humani a me
ahenum puto:" it was a correct enunciation of the emotion or
pnnciple 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
Romans 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 oppre- 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.

Syrapathy 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 gri.f of another. We cannot be thrown
mto 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
dravv all into itself. Any violent emotion will do this; like
the larger of two globules of water, the lesser will run into ii
not tt 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 Vield to
It, and our minds come under its influence; it may but to
a very inseasible degree come under ours. There is, however

W I

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 lessor body on the greater; so much so, that the least
particle of matter is not without its influence on the sun. A
person r.nder strong rage feels the influence of a third party,
and pernaps 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 :n the world, were it for nothing else than
that our individual .-^motions 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 blendinc with
»eliDg, 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
a^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-
vve are carried away on the same tide of strong and indignant
emotions. In short, there is no sentiment or feeling with vhich
another may be actuated in which we may not sympathize,
and into which we do not enter, by thai law of o^r nature we
are considering ; and this brings out more distinctly the pecu-
liarity of this particular law. It is undoubtedly a distir-t
emotion of the mind. It i-^ - losely 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, m such instances, is a distinct principle, and is directly
expenenced 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 aorrow, 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 orig al cause itself. It is impossible to
realize, even m conception, tne cause of a particular emotion or
teehng, without in some degree participating in that emotion or
ieeling itself. The cause of the particular emofcion 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 inripired with the
emotion which such a cause f.lways 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 bo 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 an^ ^ passions, or with the gene-
rous emoi/ionc. Habits, pursuits, professions, will mould onr
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 ; co 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. Wo 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 1
Their society is a restorative, a cordial, to the mind, and
all ages have their companionships. We seek a congeaial
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 aspecUthat we understand.

..." Tlie 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 worid. 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 reiuse any appeal whatever to our mirthful or joyous
feelings. There is something in the voice of a brook which

fi ' 1

462

THE EMOTIONS.

stirs the innermost emotions of the soul, placid, steady, deep ;
in the sigh of the wind ; in tho 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 1 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 lovCj 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 geuerosify 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 ta 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 amo-
tion, and while the emotion lasts. Is there not here, agr.in, a
beautiful relation, and dependence, among our sentiments ?
How fine is the interchange of kindness and gratitude 1 How
delightful are both emotions ! .^ny 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

«ai

THE EMOTIONa

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 'vill 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 will influence our
gratitude, where we have reason to believe there has been real
kindness, real love in it ; but wh<^re there has been this, it is
not the amount of the benefactioii 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. We 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

THE EMOTIONS.

now ; the morality of the two states of Kind, and their corre-
sponding actions, or expression, come under another department
of a moral course. They have a moral character, end 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 -.ve 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 Keid consider the
desires separately from the affections, as diotinct 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 cpeak of desire,
or the desiVes. There is the general state, or plaenomenon, 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 t"\ese enumerations
will be allowed to be yery 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 oi 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
happmess, or objects capable c f conferring deh'ght, or produc-
tive of good. Is it possible to enumerate the desires ov bring
them under any classification? For example, the 'desire of
rest 18 as much a desire as that of occupation ; and the desire
of study as much as that of knowledge. Best, surely, will not
be mcluded under the desire of pleasure: it yields pleasure
mdeed, but it is a distinct object of desire,-and why
not mclude 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 Reid and Stewart call the desire
of esteem, Dr. Brown includes under the desire of tlie affection
of others : they seem, however, to be distinct, and the desire of
the aflfection of others, neither Eeid nor Stewart has taken anv
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 modiacation 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 dpsire 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 ^ a pHasure as distinguished from non-existence; is pre-
ferred with all its pains and sufferings, to non-existence, or
annihilation. But why enumerate Ais as a distinct desire
when It IS an object of desire, as being a source of actual plea-

;l|

^.66

THE KMOTIONH.

Bare ? 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 bo involved in the desire of power, under which
aspect Dr. Brown makes pointed and beautiful allusion to it.
Here, again, wo have a distinct or separate desire included as
an element in another. The desire of doing good to othci-a 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 ihe 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
mora! 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
b^^ 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-wo must
obviously know the moral element, be able to recognise its
presence, and estimate itP amount. We enter upon the con-
sideration, then, of what is moral in our nature, as just another
aspect ot our nature; and we enter upon it at this point, be-
cause It 18 just here that we see the influence of that part of
our nature, characterizing our desires, and now lord o^ .he
ascendant, as it were, or asserting its control over every other
patt 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 vvith 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 law of duty. Man is'now
not only a mere being, he is a moral being; has not onlv a
place in creation, but has a part to perform in creation • 'he
not only lives, and thiuKs, and feels-he wills-and not only
wills, but wills according to a law of right or wrong. And

li A.

Si m

468

THE EMOTIONS.

this law is not arbitrary, "s 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 oi 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
we 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 our assertion is involved in our being able to conceive the
number five at all. We perceive this 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 infei-ence, 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 deperds
upon abstract truth; and all questions of numbers depend
upon abstract truth, intuitions of the mind ; and not only

THE EMOTIONS.

469

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 othorwise. Everything else may
be said to depend" upon a constitution or nature, if not the
created constitution or nature, yet the constitution or nature
ot 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 ri^ht
are eternal, or are impossible to be conceived, and even to°be'
otherwise than they are. The mind refuses not only hy a law
of Its oion, but by all law, to conceive or to judge otherwise
But how different, again, these relations I The one class have
a heanugupon ideas alone; the other sicppose 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 a nracticaJ power in the sentiment. It has
an authoritative voico 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. Tlie
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 NATDRE.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL NATDEE.

" Now," says Morel), in giving an account of Kant's philo-
sophy, « the best, the most sat^'cfacfcMy, and by far the most
useful part of the Kaatian 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 supersensual 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 dictatef:. Ideas,
therefore, ivMch 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 sonie 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
conolusion that abstract speculation thinks itself warranted to
draw: but when any practical question arises, when especially
the dictates cf duty are heard, when reason speaks out in the
voice of conscience, and when the intimations of r.nv-ir.i.ovj'.ncss

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 loorld 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, w^re 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 MORAL NATURK,

476

world, of which we become cognizant through the interchangea
of intelhgence, 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 ?
Isall 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
18 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 ite phenomena; they
miglit have existed, or they might not. AVe are no lonier 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 dkmiss from the cate-orv

476

THE MORAL NATURE.

of being, and resolve into the mere phenomena of conscious-
ness. This is a great etFect. 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, " hile 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 hi every state of it was
regarded as decisive or irresistible. Wo 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 ai)peal from
the intimations within, and the demands that we recognise
from without. The moral and spiiitual being— the faculty
belonging to such a nature— is authoritative and paramount ;
the infinite destinies connected with the poHseesion of such a
nature dp aot 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 o'^ 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
Xaut 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 \ipon 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 imprefisions. Kant himself owns the
authoiity 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 diffeienco only in the

THE MOIUL 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-
isni involves us. How absurd for a moment to doubt the
informations of the mind which God bus given us— of mind at
all I It comes to be a question at last, what is certainty itself '(
Let the ijhilosophers who refuse to believe in the informations
of mind, given in our consciouKness, determine what certainty
18 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 oiir ideas.
What else is the test of demonstration ? We allow, however, the
superior /orce of our moral convictions, of moral consciousness.
There is something, no doubt, in the manner in which a moral
principle announcefc itself, that speaks of being ; that depones
more authoritatively in respect to other existences, to other beings.
To recur to the extract from Morell,— " Ideas toJdch 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-
duce it." We might be disposed to ask the absolute philo-
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
existence credible, or likely, when it was discarded before ?
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 atithority, 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 1 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 impl citly 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 jiood 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 iri 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 philosophj',— a service recognised by

we arrive.

THE MORAL NATURE.

479

Kant himself,— too candid a phi'osopher, 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 couTsa 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 farther
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
aflfect 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 esse;.ce or sub^
stratum in which qualities inhere, and which is known, pro-
bably, only to the Divine mind, or, at least, is not granted to
our knowledge here. But grant that essence known, and what

i hH

; '"^^^^^^^^^W

C .1!

ill

480

THK MORAL NATURK.

would it be to U9 other than it was seen to ho ? It is the same
with those ultimate facts of hoing, 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 f \ct 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 ; and
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 *hat 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 miore than what it appears to us, or than just
as it afiects us ? Is not that the very thing to be described ?
We wish a certain quality described ; we say, then, it is thut
which affects us in such and such a manner. Is not this all
that is necessary— ai. .hat, 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 li!:f]y that there is anything more
than what our minds are capahKj, even now, of informing ns of,
or representing to us ? It i ;ms vat jut irreveieuce, 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 kindmth
our own ?* What can power be to any mind other than that

* Scfi Nolo C.

TUB MORAL NATURB.

4»1

which prodncefl an effect ? what co„ld be more precis, about
that Idea tliai. lust what wo have here said of it ? If there is
more to be known of it, it must be not as power, but as Bomethinir
connected with it, distinguishing it, and making theldca of
^ower more vivid, perhaps, and more complete tl.an that which
we possess. Power of itself must ever be that which produces
an ettec . How power operates, one, and yet varied, in all the
ditteren. manifestations of it, may be inconceivable to us and
nmy 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 como, 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 speakincr
It were strange if in all knowledge ther^e was not something
ulamate, somethu^,. beyond which nothing furth-r could be
known Must not ^his, we have already asker', 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 ia
whac 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 t.e
custom with philosophers, and with those who are not philoso-
phers, to think and speak as if t!ic:e must be something beyond
eveiy 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
oomething more is sought for, or is inquired into, than leing
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

482

THE MORAL NATURE.

we judgo of it, and the nature of that principle by which we
fonn 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 muoh bo, 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
rejectiori of all knowledge whatever, and therefore plunging
into the abyss of nihilism ; the evil is augmenled 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 inlbrmation 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 nut be
analyzed without escaping in the hands of the experimenter.
That there are eternal distinctions of right and wrong, who

., :v.i

THE MORAL NATURK.

483

can for a luoment doubt? How vain to inquire into the
ground of these, as of any abstract principles whatever I 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
mterestmg and useful. To fix the nature of beauty, for ex-
ample, we may consider all the elements that are either
involved m 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 certa;.
complex feelings; for the emotion of the beautiful, if ulti-
mately elementary, and incapable of analysis, has yet much
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 distmction
between right and wrong-is essentially an ultimate question
andean admit of no analysis; and farther than the distinc-
tion itself, therefore, we cannot go. Is this to do away with
the distmction ? By no means. It remains in its own im-
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
distinction— what is the nature of it— why do we regard this
as right and that a* wrong ? But no sooner was this inquiry
started, than it took different shapes, which were after all one
m 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. If
we were to limit our inouirv to wlmt ia iha not»^^ r.f ^u^ j:.

.,J.Md*-

484

THE MORAL NATURE.

tinction between right and wrong— what is the ground of thia
distinction ? we would have a very precise obiect in view. But
when we ask what is the sta-aard 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 m-
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
right and lorong .?— we are in effect ailing, What is the ground
of the distinction between right and wrong, or, in other words,
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 bstween 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
"round of the distinctinn itself. In like manner, when the in-

THE MOBAL NATUKE.

485

into the distinction between right and wrong-the nature or
ground of that distinction ; and we fix upon certain circum-
Btances 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 pari
ticnlar circumstance that we may fix upon. The term virtue
carries the mind away from the real object of inquiry, namely,
the nature 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 P
and we say It 19 this or that quality in the action; and the
moral faculty is that by which we recognise that qudity, while
the quahty 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 any ground of it
^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
nah^re of mrtue, are just the rightness and wrongness of an
action Itself, perceived to be such by the mind ultimately : and
the mora faculty is the judgment, with the accompanying feel-
ing, by winch wo 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
-!.osop.!y, „as pointed out the confusion which has arisen

: if
'■im

i^J*.*^

486

THE MORAL NATURE.

from the blending of the above questions, and from not keeping
in view the true object of investigation. The different thecies
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 an-l 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 conside. dd in them, whether
their own precise quest -on, or the general abstract question of
morals or of duty.

That the mind recf aises 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 rightness 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 wrongnesp- of the action itself ? Can we explain why

THE MORAL NATUKE.

487

It 18 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
Tightness 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 ramds 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
m Itself absolutely. The moment we seek for reasons for act-
ing m 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 rightness or wrongness, which requires us to act in such
and such a way; and thus the question is still as to ri-htness
and wrongness, and not as to anything else. Do I say f should
not injure my neighbour, became 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 rightness 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 rightness 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
rightness 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 rightness of the action itself.
No other motive should influence ma. Tho anfV,«r-'*" -f *i-^

488

THE MOKAL NATUUE.

action, its rightaess, should be ray sole motive, or my para-
mount obligation. This is the obligation of duty. The light-
ness or vfonguess in anj case should be all — is tlie highest rea-
son. 1 he 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 ajsthetic 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 betweeu 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 ; aud 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. Eightness 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 lorong .? 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. Eolations 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 —relatione, ultimate, for which wc

-m*.^**

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 : — ' They that seek a veason 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 porceive that its own Tightness is
its highest reason — that it were to degrade it, to seek a reason
for its being riglU. That the relation of right and wrong, as a
relation, js 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 n,ot only perceive, but
disapprove, what is wrong. The relation of Tightness and
wrongness, however, in itself is appreciable by reason : it is the
peculiarity of the relation that makes it further an ohject 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 raoml distinction were a thing of creation. But it is not
so ; moral distinction is eternal, and God made other natures

THE MORAL NATURE.

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 monxl 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 'luthoritative. 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; if, is the most authoritative law in itself that could

492

THE MORAL NATUllE.

!l)

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 otiier 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. He
has done so by constituting us capable of perceiving the dis-
tinction between right and vrong. 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, and 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 Hib 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 a 'd 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 was, How God
could be just in justifying the ungodly, how His clemency could

THE MORAL NATURE.

493

reach the Binner ? for the law could not bo relaxed. It bound the
Almighty himself, and Ho could reconcile love and justice only
in the substitution awj 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 ri-ht and
wrong, winch must govern all moral beings, and from whose
ciaims or piinclples 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 oldigation, there is a hi-h 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
m Itself, on the ground of its own rightness, 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 nf fh^ r!rpo+^^ f^ tT;„

494

THE MORAL NATURE.

creatures ? The law of right guides Him in His relation to
them : the same law guides them in thoir relation to Him, and
to each other. Tlieir 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 recoguise the claim
of duty itself. Undoubtedly, the law of right has its own in-
dependent claim^ but God is to be recognised also, our 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 bri .g us to
account. As we were at first created, and in that innocence
ia 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 wIku the law had
not Ijeen 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 aiithority would be felt
flt dl 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 NATORK.

49.'5

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 feelinea
towards God. It is now, i„ oi.r fallen state, that obedience to
God 18 more direct, and more observed, and that He gatiiers
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 bo the
law of universal love, of pure and holy natiues, who know no-
thing of evil, and are superior to it. Direct obedience to God
m 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 ba 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 lees 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 rjc^ht
18 independent of God himself, for He has now authoritativdy
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 H''- own. He has put His will directly in the case.
Before, that viU 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 dirtinctions, that was the law.

1 1

litwT'™^'

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 f bedience was
rendered to God just in the sjwntaneous peiformacce of every
duty, and in direct reverence and homage. But the law is
now more directly ihalleng^'d 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-
primcdur 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 C9nnexion 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 pre orence 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 our race were made to
hinge ; but most probably it was, partly at least, that other-
wise no pioper 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 started a
doubt in their minds as to the propriety of obedience, or the
right in any one instance to dispense with known obligation.

THE MORAL NATURE.

497

7j' 1 I' .?'"''*• ^''' ^"^ 0/ eternal right itself must be
published zn the form of a command. There is disinclination
where before there was inclination, to the law. The law itself

1" wu^"" '° *^\°^*"'' '^ ^^' "^''^^ ^^^"g = it i« ^ l«w 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
Mim-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 knotvn in connexion with the eternal
la^r of right, but with the arbitrary statute promulgated in
J^den. It IS now the penalty of the law itself, and is lying
upon every transgressor. Henco 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 m 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 ; out 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-
gatiop over them. The importance of the law, then, as God's
law, 18 not in the least abated by the recognition of its inde-
nendent filfiims Tf. Ja ofi'ii n.^A>„ i :_ j.u_ ^

498

THK 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 promidgated, 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 theA virtually promulg.aed ? 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, ani 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 il is
when contemplated in God himself, that the law assumes a
concrete value, and appears an actual law, being the law of a
living Existence, the law of an Eternal Being, regulating His

--i. __,i i.t,«_„f«..,. oii>/^i<r rlnrVitfiillw ploininor aiit.hnntv over

iiutuic, amX tucrcluiv, rrviFvi^j ••6" .7 n -•

THE MORAL NATURK.

499

every Other similar, though created, being. We now perceive not
only Its own mt.znsic value, but its value as the law of a W !o
great, and .0 holy, and so holy from His very conformity t such
a law. We see the law in God, and that enhances it migh%
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 inhnitely

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 !
Thi accoun s 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 whoL J it
^. Ange s love it the more on that account. The claims of

the on? 7. '^' '^^''^' '^ '^' ^^^' ^^^ the holiness of
he one and the integrity of the other are blended in the same
Idea. It IS thus that the admiration of tho law is begotten in
a renewed nature on earth : it is seen in God ; it is beheM in
His administration ; above all, it is contemplated in the work
of redemption • it is then that it is signally perceived to be
^ods law and every renewed nature values and esteems it the
ZLr •''^T'*^^"' 'accordingly, of saints and angels, is the
admnation not of an abstraction, but of a law of God's nature
and a law which He has authoritatively promulgated-which
He has promulgated iu 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 18 the law of God ; it is the law of all holy natures ; it is a
law of eternal nght. It was bef- -re 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 rightnet.a
independent of God, that makes it so valuable in itself , but it
!s i<-°- concrete nature, as tiie law of God, that enhances it 90

500

THE MORAL NATURE.

i!!

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 graAd 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 attribut^iU to nothing eke. 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 rightness 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 th is oneness, when

THE MORAL NATURE.

501

for sin IS the transgression of 'he law." And again, it is the
(aw that 18 magnified when God -^ys, « I have magnified the
law and made it honourable." The same view is entertained
in respect to liuman law. Multiplied as are the laws of a
fangdom, almost infinitely varied, applying to every diversity
ot circumstance and of action, they are all included under one
name are regarded as ths law, taking, however, different aspects
according to the diversity of application. When any particular
law 18 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 18 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 ^han a rule. The
particular law comes under the general law (»f the kingdom
and, if a just law, the general law of right ; for 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 itt application, whUe 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 capabj[e of being
reduced to fixed and general rules. It conisiders 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

502

THE MORAL NATUUE.

cumstancjs 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 God, 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 unvitiatied. 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 necessarv, 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. Kesistauce to it rendeis 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 bo onforccd by lUi impcTativc issuing froui the

THE MOKAL 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 piincii)le 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, tlie 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 whioii 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 tlie
application of the rule of right to these relations. It is Just
the lato 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 rightness
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 worehip
God otherwise than as a Spirit, being themselves pure spirits,
and inconversant with external material forms. And how oould
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,
and to reverence His names and titles — if He has any among
purely spiritual beings— His attributes, His ordinances— if there

THE MORAL NATURE.

fi05

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 or 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 agam is modified by the nature and circumstances of the
bemg 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 summan;
of all the commandments that could be issued embodyin- and
enjommg 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 ma^i.s of its divinity, ana it excites the
admiration of every renewed nature, as it must of evpiy moral
being. When we allow our minds to ponder it. what compre-
hensiveness, what justice, what rightness ! 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 .o. It waa
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'
bemg, 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 m 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 I It IS the very impossibility of admiring it that renders
the authoritative promulgation of it in the form of a law or of
-^„i.... ...j.„ii^„„;jo, ,„ „{„. yn:^ai conaitiou, uecussary. Other-

506

THE MORAL NATUKE.

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, witn 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 woild ;
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
renders the promulgation of it by authoritative command

THE MORAL NATUIIK.

507

necessary Ih.s 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 m which Kant has put the subject of moral duty He
makes duty « the necessity of an act, out of reverence for law "
rim 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 18 determined on ; it depends not on the effectin- 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 voUtion. 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.
" Toward8.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 oftoill. 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 NATDRB.

inclinations, but altogether outweighs them, i.e., the laio alone
is an object of reverence, and so fitted to be a commandment.
Now, an action performed out of duty has to bo 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 adoi)t 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 iu a note, — "Perhaps some may think that
I take refuge behind an obscure feeling, undei- 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 denotea merely
the consciousness of the immediate, unconditional, and unre-

THE MORAL NATURE.

509

served subordination of my will to the law. The immediate
determination of the will by the law, and the consoiousnesa of
It, 18 mlled reverence, and is regarded not as the cause, but oo
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. Aa 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, anrl, 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 aa reverence itself. In all
reverence there is a ceiiain 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 -nay 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 deUght, 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 itj? 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 not 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 rightness 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 gi- i to a principle or an action while there
is even aversion to it ind this may he 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 NATUKE.

511

necessitation, i.e., obligation, and every act proceeding there-
upon 18 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, posseshed 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 bo cnnteTn=

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 mhjective 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 Kapt, 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 aj]'<'in 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 laio of holiness,
but for the will of every finite intelligent, a law of duty." The
confusion which is obvious here seems to Lave arisen from an
incorrect idea in respect to duty as obedience to law. Either
Kant's own definition of duty is ino i rect, 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 80 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 ?
burely it is as ve.ierable still. Has it not an abstract propriety
even to God ? What is it that binds His own nature to a
certam 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 8 procedure, and in all the language, of Scripture respecting
His nghteousness. 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
m 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
18 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-
spect^s the regard to the law ; and the only difference is, that in
-he one case t»8 holiness regards the law singly, la the othei-

2 K

j ir

W \

"? '•

1 ■

n f

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 oi" it ;
or when any ulterior object is aimed at, it is p^^ssible that iliat
may be sought in obedience to Imo, 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 not 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
od, which calls forth th.o innermost .ipprnbation of the

i3 fiiSO SO'

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 ? Keverence for the law, mingled with a cer-
tam 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 tirst the perception of this
distmction, 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
feelm- it is that impels to duty. The perception of the relar
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 disr-pproba-
tion would appear to be what we are determining when it is
really what excites our approbation or disapprobation, and not
the approbation or disapprob-^.tion 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-
dnces approbation, nor approbation itself, but something that
arises from the relation between these two ; or it is the ohligcu-
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
mdependent 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 between
right av/r u>r ng. So blended are the questioiis. 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 ulti^jately 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, cf 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 diiferent 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 Oi ler 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 ivith its accom-
panying emotion.

We now then ask. What is moral approbation and disappro-
bation ? and we have aht; uy 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-
jYjjiu^ with which we resrard the distinction between riffht and

THE MORAL NATURE.

517

wro ig— 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 i-, 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 rightness 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 i^ev-
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
firco ; and then there is the distinct and superadded feeling.
When we approve or disapprove in our own case, there is more
than the fechng for the law, or for the disregard to it, there is

518

THE MOKAL 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 Avant 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 lawi 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 NATUUE.

619

an action i8 nothing apart from the actor, and that the right
of an action is nothing apart from the action. The mind
contemplates tliese 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
18 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 rightness 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—viG do the same by the action— we do the same by the
actor; or it is tJie right, strictly speaking, that is the object of
approval ; and the sentiment with which we regard the right,
seems to be felt for the oction, 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 tnie 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 particulariy 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 /ore wrk not Mi 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 vf\io?,e 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 clirab 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 ei'er 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
18 no hazardous statement, then, to say, there may be love for
the right even m a depraved moral nature, although it exists
along w.th a love for the wrong, and the latter grfatly p'edo!
minates Here, again, we have to determine our question with a
view to the onginal 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 m degree the same emotions with which the ri.^ht must
ever be contemplated, or the right cannot even be apprehended

1 • JV m?"'''^°"' ^°^ "^^^ ^° ^^' ?>•«««»* state regards
the nght ? 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
hen we look at his nature as it is, the same as ever in all essen-
tial particulars, in its essenvial elements, though now having a
vitiatmg element in it by which the wrong is chosen in prefer-
ei^.-e 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
18 not by a reference te 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^
lately, 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-
raents which are te determine the question. We examine our
moral preferences : we ttike the moral emotion even as it is • but
we are able to jro nn hfivon^i fiioop a„j ^^__.-j^.. i , ., '

ii.

522

THE MORAL NATUttB.

tion must have been, what it ought to be ; and in both ways wo
como at a determination of the question, though the very mixed
elements with which wo have to deal do create confusion, and
render it uncertain what is the precise criterion wo 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 tlie 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 wliat 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 NATUHK.

523

which wou d bo plain or positively ugly. Much of tho sen-
tmient of the beautiful depends upon our moral state It is
m the emotions of the one that we have the groundwork of
the other. Man is capa])le of the sentiment of the beautiful
because he is capable of tl.e sentiment of the moral Now'
what 18 lovoly must attract love. Tho good, the ri^ht must

TT ?• /uT '^'' '''' "^^^^ '^'' '«- «f «^^d inspires in
he heart of a believer, in the regenerated soul. - How love I
hy 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 wi . a strong and predominating feeling. It has the
pre-eminence now ; before, it was little loved, or it was over-
borne by t' ,e love of sin. Now, it is loved in preference to sin.
Ihe love to It, as the love to God himself, becomes the master
principle of the soul. Now it is that we see moral approbation
m Its i,roper state, not feeble, not fluctuating, not temporaiy
merely, but taking the control of the soul, the most prominent
feehng m 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'"
lliere is an appreciation of their rightness, 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 deli-ht
m that law which binds them in admiration to the throne°of
God : that law of goodness which they are ever fulfillin<r
which, as we have already said, exists in them more as a natu?e
than as a law, but the abstract rightness 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 it8elf,-as what follows ui)on the

perception of right, and not what constitute?,'? it.

XX eeruaii

I '■

524

THE MORAL NATUKK.

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 ani emotion form
our moral approbation. The perception is as nt'iessary ae 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 WQ 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.
Pcos 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 cogniztince of abstract right
merely, or of the actions of othera, 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 nghtness or wrongness which we approve or disap
prove, m the approbation or disapprobation which we experience
or pronounce, a regard to the rightmss or wrongness of our
own ikcision, 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 mternal com L. Conscience, then, ultimately, is the moral
faculty, or the facult- f approbation or disapprobation, deciding
upon ourselves, and a upon our moral decisions. In respect
to moral principle in the abstract, or the moral actions of others
we often say,— we cannot in consc. ice approve of such and such
a prmciple, of such and such a course of action ; we feel our
selves amenable to the tribunal of our own minds in the
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
p.pprobation 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 sucli 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
ivhether ourselves or others he the object; and, therefore, there
13 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
18 moral approbation deciding upon ourselves ; in the other^ it
IS moral approbation deciding upon others ; or when we speak

r)26

THE MORAL NATURE.

of conscience deciding upon others, it is moral approbation with
a vieio 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
instance of moral approbation or disapprobation when wo 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
tins 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 jvdgment, 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 appiobation 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 terras than the feelings

THE MORAL NATUUE.

527

winch they denote arc 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 conscienca
It admits of a very easy explanation from the principles we
nave pursued ui determining our mental constitution hitherto •
we have seen certain mental states, certain emotional states*
and now wo have certain moral states, constituting the mental
and mora 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 sufFerin-
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, andthe 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 peremptorincss of authority which
cannot, and ought not to yield to anything whatsoever-not
though the whole world were iu opposition. How does Butler
.peak 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 m Its turn to have some influence; which may be said of
everypassion, 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
18 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." AH bow before
the authority of conscience. It controls the strongest as well
as the weakest, the hisrhest in rank as ^oii oa fU^ u.,^i,i„„i .-_

i^il

528

THE MOKAL NATURE.

station, the mightiest equally with the most insignificant. The
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 peremptory, 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 tmdis-
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

THK MORAL NATUBE.

529

an infinite being, is conceivable ; but disapprobation and hatred
of ev,l without any disturbance or interruption of tranqum tv
IS what we can have but the faintest conception of^^f'-nd td
we can have any conception. In the creature, ho^ev r he
moral emotion must be accompanied with the greatest deligh
or happiness, on the one liand, and the most exquisite misery
on the other-where the mhject of the emotion is himself tie
okectoUU that s, whore the being is the object of his own
approbation or disapprobation. How great that happiness
how exquis te that misery, every one can in some de" re ay
who has f. t liimself the object of his own moral appCal or
disapproval. Self-approbation, self-condemnation, areTe names
we give to these states of mind; and we call Lt conscZcl
which g,,es us either state. It is the power which approves or
condemns m our own case: it is the power which a mroves or
diaapproves our own actions or moral states, with the peculiar
feeling which belongs to sucli approval or disapproval.

.he influence which this principle has upon our other states
-mental and emotiona],-is worthy of remark. It exercises i
piodigious 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
vi^ur of the understanding. An approving conscience admits
ot he understanding being unfettered and free, and the action
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^
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 unhappmess of the mind in such a state, an arrest
to thought. Thought itself is painful, or it is felt to be worth-
less. I he importance, tlierefore, 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
ot right, IS an evil of whicli the magnitude cannot be con-
ceived, smplv became it is evil. To be capable of transgress-

^Kt ^Hl

■

■■

III

530

THK MOKAL NATURK.

ing tlie 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 transgresR 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 condeainatiou of conscience, rauBt then
be something greatly to be deprecated, yea, infinitely to be
avoided. The provocation of this roaster principle of our nature
is a folly to be shunned with all the energy of which we are
capable, in a state m 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. S?ill 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 reqiiires, 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

( ^^n^fF

THE MORAL NATURE.

531

moral agent to perform certof . actions, is not created surely b-
the perceplK>n of the obligation, for it must exi«t before 'can
be perceived ; but th^ per.option of the obligation implies^"
obhgation m tself, or makes it obligatory, ifle ma;i '"eak
to comply with Ihe obligation perceived, and imposJd upon us
from without, or in virtue of law. What have we then'in al
these states and conditions, external and internal ? We hav.
ngh or law the obligation of these, the perception of them;
the love and reverence consequent, and the obligation arising
from l,e penv>ption of right, and the consequent perception of
ol^igation 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, L we
have Kgard ourselves to .ither; or it may regard boh, and
hen the result of both. Conscience is just our moral na^
ture perceimg law, approving of right and disapproving of
wrong with the peculiar satisfaction or pain which is expe-
rienced when It i3 of ourselves we approve or disapprove : o.
when jt IS othei. that excite our approbation or disapproba ion,'
or abstract nght 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
conscence, while it is not a distinct principle or faculty of the
mind, IS as the faculty or principle of moral approbation or
disapprobation, st.ll characterized by an emotion which is pecu-
liar, and that because we ourselves are in such a case the object
of 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 endeavou^
to explicate as we best may, and as the difficulty of the subject
will permit. We are here brought into connexion with the
ac ive princples of our natur., the springs of action ; and the
desires, and the will therefore must be ' " -

Cuiisiocred

532

THR MORAL NATURE.

We thus consider the desires as principles of uction, 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 appetites
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, tliey 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 iiim
in visible relation with his fellows, while it is man in his ply-
sical being that we see moving in society, and fulfilling all the
purposes of social existence, we see something beyond thai
physical bang, 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 MOKAL NATURE.

53:^

we see h.s 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
m^ constant succession, and are never but in operation The
rnind is a magazine of passions, emotions, desires ; or it is a
hue 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
arenot motive principles, but as they are connected with the
desires Compassion, for example, or sympathy with the suffer-
mgs 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 bogots 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 toioards
tts relief. There are emotions which are not connected with
desire at all, and these do not lead to action. When we rejoice
m 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 othera sharers of it; or this
18 hardly action in any proper sense, hut 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
dosire, 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 eff-ect of the emotions •
^A 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 NATUKE.

certain enjoyment of life, or of an emotion or feeling of plea-
:ii r*?, of which life is the immediate cause ; or it may be the
roHuIt 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, hut 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
consequon.' 13. 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 certa,in 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 th^ 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 certa,in pleasure in the conipany
of others, in their esteem, their confidence, their conversation,
their kind oflSces ; 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 NATUUE.

535

firs experienced. But here, again, we have only a new ohject
ot love, and the emotion, in its own character, is the same
with any other example of it. Many objects may tnus be
secondary while the emotions are not strictly second^.ry, 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 -ood. 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
ofiohich 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

li^

536

THK MOUAI- NATURE.

nny 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, tlio desire of evil to an object apart from
l)rovocation, when it is the result of hatred. Desire, we think,
may be traced to one or other of these sourcec ; 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 i. very nearly
the antp,gonistic state to desire. As we desire those objects
which we have found to be connected with certi.". 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 ide of evil, and
consequently producing apprehension, or inspiiing 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 s.orm,
and when asked if he had no fear, he asked in reply, what fea,r
was, for he had never seen it. There seem to be minds U
which fear is a stranger, and which may meet every evil with
equanimity and courage. Courage is the power c' meetii^g
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

^^^?pe

THE MORAT. NATURE.

537

evil inay he- a no po.ver to appal or terrify a mind that would
shrink f om the .'-icoiinter of his fellow-beings incensed or
otherwise armed with power to hurt. The reverse, too is 'the

case

;ui

iiothin ■ in ti.

- J "^^y la HUD

il may bo dreaded by those wlio would feel
:ounter with their fellows, but would rather
rejoice m th .-^nportunity of combat, whether in the arena
ot debat.., -■»! ,u the struggle of principle. However this is to
be accounted for, it is seen in multitudes of cases. The physical
frameand 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
m 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 constitutin^r
an entirely new feeling in itself— the resultant feeling being
simple. So it may be with desire modified by a particular

538

THE MORAL NATURK.

I 9

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
stat&s. 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 arc 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
constit;ution. 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 anticii)ator of future
good. What is at any one time in possession is but little, and
perhaps still les€ ivoHh ; 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 tho 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 mykes the wronged bear

THE MORAL NATUIJE.

539

his oppression, if anything could reconcile the mind to the
degradation of injury. It mitigates every evil by promising
futuro good. It mingles in the very experience of good itself
tor, if we had no prospect of its continuance, or could not hope
for other good, the good we presently enjoy would often be-
come the worst of evils, from the very apprehension of its loss
leans 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-
handed 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
othervvise 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 attainmenl-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
he desire rather that mingles in it, give,s 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 leas^ so is it in the alternations of
hope and fear. Coleridge has beautifully expressed the com-
mingling of these sentimente, and their mutual influence in
the stanza which occura in his Gmevihe .-— '

" And hopes and fears that kindle Iiope,

All undistinguishable throng,
And gontle wislies long subdued,
Subdued and clicrish'd long."

A great part of the principle of hope, it must bo confessed
may be said to consist in the unwillingQeso 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 tuintest possibilify, \io\f ewer, must exist,
and is enough for the exercise of the principle, or the existence
of the feeling. Does tlie 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 H ! — 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
hopefid, represent two classes of individuals. Judgment, too,
in many cases, may control the hopes that might otherwise be
cherished ; and tliis makes the cautious and the prudent

en associ

THE MORAL NATURE.

541

ch-^racter ; 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 hoi)e 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 efibrt anything within possibility may be accom-
plished.

Youth is cliiefly 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 this is to effort, and
just at tlie 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 w\kh.
the whole life is afterwards to be characterized or distingir'shed
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 aUovvs of hope;
the (!vi1 prevents, seldom permits, certainty ; -nd the mind
desires - h\1, at least some good. Good of some kind, th'
mind sets betore it. In our present state the mind p its gJod
tor evil, and evil for good, but an object must be apprehended
. ':^a8t as good before it could be desirable. It must havp
■en associated in the mind with some idea of happiness or

if*

li \l

552

THE MORAL NATUUE.

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 tohich is synonymous loith desirableness, and oftohich 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
thougji 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 view 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 emctions, and nothing
more ; the tendency of certain objects, as contemplated by ur,
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 m
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-
tel ectual, or moral, must belong to the object, or conceived of
US belongmg: otherwise no desire would ensue, and the obiect
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 y« could not overlook them, when speaking of the emotions
from which they spring, or with which they are connected
Now, It w 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 sdf-lme 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 MOllAL NATUUK.

point of the essential moral nature. It is not what we now
are : it is what we must hiive 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, k; 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. Eecause hap-
piness was an object of pursuit or desire, we were no more
warrapted 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 tlieso,
but happmess 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 ende<a-
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,"

=^PB.

THE MORAL NATURK.

545

But er had previously said, " is as really our own affection, ^s
selt-lovo ; and the pleasure arising from its gratification is as
much my own pleasure, aP 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 mans own, and the pleasure arising from its gratification
hx8 own pleasure, or pleasure to himself, such particular affec-
tion must be called self-love ; according to this way of speakin-
no creature whatever can possibly act but merely from self-
love and every action and every affection whatever is to bo
resolved up into this one principle."

But satisfactory as this mode of putting the sulyect is, we
think a higher view may bo taken, by considering the absolute
emotional and moral constitution, and there we find love one
ot the highest, the very highest principle of our nature. How
poor 18 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 ?
tan It bo maintained for a moment ? Does it not proceed just
trom not considering our nature from this absolute point of
view.P And then, there is the further advantage of this absolute
point of view, that in the anomalies which our nature now
preserits-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
m 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

546

THE MORAL NATURE.

desirable in an object, either aa 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, frona
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
beifisl 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 exciusion of the good of others, or 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 1 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 ivorth 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. Bro^vn 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.

547

cTaSlVnn t ^ '"' " '^^ ''''''■ ^°^- *h- general
classification may be enumerated those desires which have been

pecified and treated of, by certain writers, as the grand and
prominent desires of our nature. • S^B-na ma

It seems altogether unnecessary to dwell upon the particular
de res, if we have seen their relation to the other parts of our
na ure, and the influence they were intended to exert as pidn

notice the aspect they now present, in connexion with the
peculiar character they must have exhibited in an unfallen state,
-to consider, m other words, our desires now that we are fallen

our S' r ?'* '^'' ""' '^^^ ^^^°' - ^^^-* --' have been
our state, when our nature was unvitiated. The desire of

ejence^onia hardly have room to exercise itself when dath
tell'te r%r' t -P"^^'^'^*^ ^^ non-existence was not n-
which we call death, or non-existence. The desire now leads
to the employment of every proper means to preserve our own
ife to tire duty, in other words, of self-preservation, or all
awful endeavours towards it. The imperative, or command,
to this effect, 18 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 rtjs 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
Ihe 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 /eeZ%~is now, without the command, a strong
enough prmciple, 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 ^•le form in
which It IS couched, has more direct reference to the life of
others than to our oivn. In an unfallen state, life, as we have
said, would be the only suppcsable condition, and the impulse to

'■•?, T

) I 1

548

THE MORAL NATURK.

take it would be an impossibility. Tlie 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,
OHO 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 greatuess, 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 judgmeat 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

THK MOKAL NATUllK.

549

good wou d take every direction in which good manifested itself
or could have exercise. It wo.dd take two prominent forms
the glory of God and the wellbeing of our neighbot.rs wh-'ch
even as it is, is the twofold division of the law. The love of
Crod, and the love of our neighbour, are pronounced even now
to bo the fulhllmg of the law. Whatever that twofold love
would prompt to in any state would be the fulfilling of the
law, and would bo 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
a 1 actions whatever, even the most apparently disinterested.
It 18 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, a^ soon as he had lost his innocence ; and, accordingly
what we now see is the restless desires in all those directions to'
which selfishness prompts, and of which personal happiness
and personal aggrandizement, are the object and the gratifica-
tion. Why should happiness be so eagerly sought, but that it
IS felt to be a want.? Why should pleasure be so eager an
object of quest, but that happiness is so rare a possession ?
Why should man seek superiority over his fellow ? Why should

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y^Jfi

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, tbe 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
fa\ our, 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 Aust
of empire defeated. Then we have the thousand avenues of
pleasure : the true object, happiness, is not attained, or attain-
able, and the substiiute, 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

ennu,, weariness, disappointment, or the load of the world's
misery, or the world's anxieties: hence the chase, the game
he party the walks with nature-which one might suppose
entirely distmct from pleasure as an object,-the pursuit after
hterary or scientific objects. ^ »"" aiwr

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 s.mply, but for the applause of the
world, for the voice of fame. Self is the vitiating element in
all our emo ions and desires. That there is a line of ri<.ht
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 her object than self directly is to be subserved or grati-
fied, self IS so tar m the action, that the law is not regarded in
Its supremacy, and self, or perse m- -ill, 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
authonty than that of law. Take the case of an individul
bound by the rules of his order, sworn to obey them, volun-
tanly coming under their authority, and confessedly preferring
these to known right-is there not personal will here-is there
not self m 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 AH
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 r,rigin of

ft ill

552

THE MORAL NATURK.

evil — a question beyond any faculties but those of God Lim-
eelf— 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 pi oneness just to follow or own desires,
and to put self above every other consideration. The desires
now take a selfish direction, and objects are sought by the
luind, 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 othex- objects altogether. Objects arise, are
now proposed, which could not Lave 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 thait 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-
salves a means — that is, to make selfish gratification the end,
and ourselves a means to this gratification — seems to be one
great ^ircumscance 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 ail 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

TUE MOBAL NATURE.

553

of God, or regard to God, may not mingle in that motive : for
the la«r and God, or the authority of God, are so identified
that the one seems hardly separable from the other. And yet
tbey 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 peiform. 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 arc 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 oi our desires, then, to law, to conscience, to moral
obhgation, 18 very obvious. At lirst, love to God and to our
neighbour wo,^H be the controlling principle, the paramount
motive in evc.y action. Everything would be done from this
prmciple, 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 wh'ch had no
existence before; and many of what are caUed 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 woWe— 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 ofthes Now, conscience is the appreciation of 'the ex-
cellent, or tbj power of appreciating the excellent, the good •
and every desire is taken cognizance of by conscience, and is

irn

"\J

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 1 jve 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 jsnVt-
ciplea 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, accovdingly, when
the nature is reduced under these two principles, every other
principle is discarded, or is subordinated to them ; and, instead
of ambition, the 1 a 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 he subordinate: tJiese 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 tlis-

THE MORAL NATURE.

555

place the social. The two are compatihl >, 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 p>ire moral nature. The question is, Is great-
ness in the creature consistent with the law of right 'i Can it
be consistently desired ? Is Ihe desire of greatness a -ight 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 lecri-
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
18, and must be, the measure of his greatness. Emulation i^
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 foi 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. Ti.e 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-

iiil'.ii l« ffi

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, i,beir 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 A^hich 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
naturr in all. There may be, therefore, an essential element
of depravity consistent with partial development, and with

PW«^

TIIK MORAL NATURK.

667

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
m the heart of man. Are we to maintain that every patnot
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-exrt with these, f ad 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
became we hve ourselves, and others are the counterparts as
It tvere, 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 tnily love good, is what no one would
choope, 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 CBtimated
at a lower standard than one's own appreciation of worth, of
the good, the excellent. To dosire the good opinion of others,
then, is often nothing else than an asiject, 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 ihat 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 » igh and pammount 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

"78*««»<^''

THE MORAL NATURK.

659

sometimes where evil begioB, but the moment H 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 pmi^eworthy
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 f inful 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 progresa Hence the neces-
sity of keeping the heart with diligence, of watchfulness -a
department of conduct which we are not aware that any system
oi 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 veiy
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, non- directly in a simple desire, and will being
present in every action ; action, where it is unconstrained,

560

THE MORAL NATURK.

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
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
is evil ill 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 evril 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 feckral representation ; he was not,
directly himself, by his oion 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.

wwmf%

THK MORAL NaTURK.

061

A covenant-relationHhip vvoulJ not i.„, i

each individual would haT «rl d „„ h'" "'"'""''"'' ""'

l"s own power to obev If tirl , ^" ""■" ™"««. ™

"ay in reference to 7na"'JZ^ Tl'' ""'' '^ ™ ""«'

0" His waje, and ho vh, „1 ^ r^7' '"" «« « righteous in

for hi, ve^ nat ,re aid (L ' T-'"' ""'° """ '» '^P^'iM-

original »» well r Cut deut^r "'.'"''""™ " ">«' "f

»«" aa the g„il. of iZutatir M» ^f f ""' ""'"^ «

»ible for hia very deairr tL ?•' ""'"""'""'Ij'. i» ™pou-

-w. In the '^z:.j'FX'z::iTi'^ -r^^

ceivable that where tliBro „„. 'f'""™' '»o<l, il is not con-
under His Kovemln, ouTri,°° T '" """ '^™''' »"^ '»i°8

«WI to which gui t attZ a JdHh" "'™''"' '" *» '»°™'
that evil leads We Z,u\ *'' "''™'=«°="«s to which

m « not se to any exiur"?'^ '° ™"™' "•™' -»
which we do-thatThere/ttetri tf "^ "T'""-
Had man been created will, IT ■ "" " ""ll'aMity.

been no culpabil ; fe ^ uT"' *'"■ ™''" h"™
the Creator, the elfec of Hi. " '' ''•"^ '"""' '""^ «'k °f
s"d. is not how the 11^17", ?°''™ ""' " ""'• ^nt
ture, and we are not kft to,S ":" °°'* "°^ «'« ^''^^
ing to the ideawe J •e™t"7°»''™°«a'-»- Accord-

has involved himself in vU an "n'aU u; eZ " T"^''"-'"
nature is his own is attn-hnt!. i / effects-his depraved

for all the acts r cl2 feS ^f T.T '"' ""'"f^ ^"^
responsible. An evil de2e ""^ ''^ ""■«' >«

of God. It is Ire dfS T', 71' "" ^'""''' » "■« ««•"»
and accompanied tan :^Vft5?' "Tu™' '^ ^t^'Wuld,
to an act is^hat wf IsTLt Spl-n'"' "' '^"°° "^ " ""'

aJnt^::"y'a^tttrr:°'f I'' ^'^ *" ™ »"" «r

Wy with them nd-th:t"s tf" *.' ""'' ''^''' ''^>^'
is a result of wil and rt ^ ""'" '""""'• ^^T act

agent acts freely ' lL^I " "T'"^, '» '^^ "«' """ere the
be explained, l„t may bo i !. ■ M "^ "'""""^ '""^' " <^''™<"
tion, as it i a „W,!^ '^"f """'^^ "ittout e.pkna-

whi h every on wl 1"' """^ °™ ~"«i™™e», about
every ones own conecousness is conversant daily and

)62

THE MORAL NATURE.

hourly. It is understood, because it is a subject of conscious-
ness. We ' new 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 will
itself, or the will willing, must precede any act that we perform
ourselves, and of which we are, therefoie, the real agents. The
most simple acts are the results of a will^ or a volition, as aa
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
theioill; the other an act ofivill, 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 contiols the other phenomena of the mind, and that
our whole compound being is imder 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 vohmtary
movements of the body. It is by the will that the hands move,
tliat the limbs walk ; that we look, that we Usten, that we
speak, that we think. Without a volition none of these would
take place. It is the tvill, 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. Reason
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 mmd 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, accordmg as it may be our
purpose to reason, abstract, imagine, compare, remember,
geii«3ralize, 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

:?;^^^^7,*gg^i ya^^ [ .S^fi| |Bg N^ ^

THE MORAL NATURE.

563

volition, or the continued act of will nnftJ^^ ,u • ^ .
pleasure. It hi th! IL i fl °' ™'"="'' "'« '="' "' ""^

which are inimical toTrf,- ! """^ "^ ''"<»» "f ■"!"<!

mand will secu e „ ttyZ'f'T ™'"''"' ''" "'^J' »«-
of thought SZ-tf ^°1 1 ' .*' ™''"°° ' ■"■ ">'^ ««'■■■•
the train otlTt^Z^a^T 'T°' *^ '^' ™''«°"' f-

e-otio, upon sr't^r ft rgtaXrth:?-"""'"'''^
^tateof.i4th:'t^fire,i^irzx:tr"'™

nation are possessed only in the ehZZ f '"'^^'"

z^z^Ti:" ~ -^-:-=t s

fruL, the emoL !L H r* J""" °' """"■■ *»'*«-
proceed in h "tata a ''" *°"8'"».«'^"'«"ve» would not

prevents even orfiX^htgh T tiro;"' " ''"^.°' """'
the associations by »Mch wfh' e tK 1 °°'°8 "'*' ""''
tarr memory The w 17^ 7 ■ Phenomenon of volnn-
over the mnd orsata'J 7'- T »»* absolute command

has a wonderfiil effect, when itself i« ItL ' ^ov^ever,

the influence even nf J ! °°°' '" counteracting

iiiiuence even ot adverse states. We snenV nf o +

will, a strong determination Ti,.... :_ V^ '^^T ^^^ «tr«°g

■ "^'^ ^^i i^nquestiomibiy such

. w i ' t tt i i M j jfiit rf j rn m wf}

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; but, 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 Uv-gative 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 depire 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 eesthetic
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 NATUltB.

565

upon some emotion that we connect wifV, th^ _.- ,

stance or object, but it is a udgm nT^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^"^-

object will be connPnfpH J.^^''^ *^^* *he circumstance or

judgment. But may not worth and w • 7 "P™ "■»

thei. abstract otoaie^LThfoyect oErTptr^' "■
seem to implv no i»f1o-m«r,+ • , *°^ *^'s may

ultimate ideas ButTn't ?•'/"'' '"' ^^PP^°««« -^
-^^, is desirable^^'Jbile .We^uSet^ ^^f' ''
a judgment ?-it is an ultimate^gmrt b^^^^^^
n^ent. It must be allowed, ho verthaf ^ // i .^"
appears as ultimate as ^^^6^^^^ and do! T ^" *''"'
ceed uDon it Rnf ihia a -^ ^'f^^' ^^^ "oes not seem to pro-
u upon It. Jjut this does not alter the general tmih fr,„.
m respect to what will confer happiness or wW 1 ^^

valuable, there must be a judgmrt of 1 J^ ''.T^^' ''
is necessary before anvobiprf. °'^' ^°^ *^^* *^^s

can be the ob ct of J^^^^^^^^ 67*"^^^ ^\^-"-«*---,
judgment of 'the mind whether th d^ n' ' '' "

ought to be gratified nnJ^ • ^^^^^^^leness is such as

ablenesG. What mav beL k, '°* ^'""^'^^ *^^'" d^^^^"

o. vvnai may be desirable m one resnecf- mav ««+ u
desirable n anothpr • nnri if +u , ^especc, may not be

respect Vre.2oZ' Z'al^uZf^TT '^ '"^ ".-
deeirabtoes, i,.elf ia not real y dZaMe '^ 'Z™ ""

the strongerVn XXe Tt'let " ^Tl ""' """^
the whole that lead, to =^tn iLe pLSnf d "'■'' ""^

X:s™::;;^t::rr^"^^^""'^^^

oe Jess lively than the other is that i+ - 'i^- j— •- i "'^

. , tjai !...„•:- uceiiu, perhaps, of

566

THE MOilAL NATUHE.

(idvantage, of worth, soniotbing 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 thougli, the one motive ought to preponderate, the other
does. In this case, our minds seem machines a tuated 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

reignmg aflFection. All being is the object of love • but the
excellencies of being excite a proportionate degree of the Jn
cple or feeling. It is the nature of the principto be tlZ'
as the being on whom it rests rises in excellence, morS-
lectual, or physical. Moral excellencies chiefly can it ou but
moral and latellectual excellencies together will awl'en a
greater degree of love than moral excellencies singly. PI yLl
quahties are the object of love, or are connected wi[h th ex -
cise of this feeling or principle, only by arbitrary appointment
or as they are the index to us of intellectual and 1-al qull ^

certam feelings-conceptions of emotion as they are called^
and from which results, therefore, the emotion of beauty-

r atbd 'of r ^^'r "^" '"^ "*'°"^^ ^^-- -' -^--tfon,
"the int 11 n V '''" ^" ''^'' ^^^°^- Ultimately, it

s the intellectual and moral excellencies, indicated, or sug-
gested as mere objects of conception to the mind, which !fe
the objects of love, and the feeling is modified by hlXsicl
qualit,es which indicate or suggest these; or, by a p cu a
cons .tution of our nature, there is a feeling of which pC ,1

:^^- "t""^^ ''^''''' ^^^ theUbined LuTor
object. ^ Being however, as such, is the proper object of love •
and spiritual being excelling physical-nay, as tiie only per-'
manent and indestructible being-must te loved above physical
and prior to it. The Supreme Being must of course be the
upreme object of love, as in Him all excellencies centre, and
ta 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 aU desire would flow in harmony with it: no desire
would be chenshed, or could be kno^m, which could not consist
with love. The law of right, too, in a perfect moral bein^-^

t : !i

568

THE MOIUL NATUllE.

would i.ifluence the desires— secure a certain state of the de-
sires. Nothing would bo desired but in harmony with it,
which it did not allow or approve. Tho 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 body, or not so
much the wantp, 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 bodj, 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, o^ 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 tho
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

TKE MORAL NATURE.

5G9

preserve the due suLordination 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 m harmony. Better than the laws which establish the
equilibrium of the elements without us-the fine and pervading
action of the aurrounding 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
ot 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 morul derangement which we have all alone
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. The way in which objects, and all being, are re-
garded now, is the effect of the moral derangement we hav.
spoken of We have seen that selfishness is the vitiating taint
or element of our now moral state. God 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
or as they should command our love. The spiritual .mture is
m 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,
liie right hns 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 gi-atification, honour, pow-/
pleasure, displaces everything else, and is sought in a thonnand

r, I

l*i

!:P^ f

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
bv conscience. The desire is one way; conscience comes in
aad 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 on ■ time the spiritual predominates over
the physical ; at another the physical over the spiiitual. 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

boll? 7. '"' °^J''*- ^^'°' ««°«"^l i"d"lgence,

bocl,Iy appetite, pleasure at the expense of duty, even the

refined pleasures of the intellect rather than the spiritual ex
ercises ot the soul,_these are preferred, or dispute it with the
sense or feeling of right, and too often carry it over the latter
Ihe vitmting element of self does all this-the entrance of the
one rowerfu 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-.s he has appetites, as he hm passioLs, as
he has mental objects, as he has ideas of pleasure, as he has or
would have, means of gratification and sources of enjoyment.
Ihis 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 • a' 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 deg-ee of consistencv and steadfast-

r I; n

572

THE MOBAL NATUIIE.

ness as regards the object of desire, and efforts towards it, and
plans to secure it. Wo 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 /ttm, 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 ilio that Caesar might he great !"

In other instances, or even in the same instance, with respect
to other objects, the utmost fickleness may be evinced, and
desires may bo as conflicting as the warring elements.

" Of contradictions infinite the wum,"

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, assthetic, 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 NATURL.

673

Our moral and aesthetic emotions are too common and familiar
to need to be poi; ted 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 bodilv
wants or i)leasures 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, accomp;nying the'
contemplation of the beautiful, or every insteLce of the Lhl
But even when our bodily pleasures do not belong to the region
of appetite, and approximate more to that of the esthetic, still
he feeling is not so much emotion, as just bodily pleasure-
and wha is emotional in the state, is owing to the sympatl ;
of the mind with the body, and the tendency to a menL »te te
consequent upon a bodily. Where the state is entirely meZ'
where we have entirely the moral, or the esthetic, desire is
consequent upon a conception of good, or worth, or excollenc
and the accompanying emotion of pleasure, or approbation, o^
estimation. The moral desires are all those whiJh have mord

fZf '' T'^ ^'' '^'^ °^J''*' ""^''^'^ ^°^^^ g°«d 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

TlfrX ^ f-' ""' «h™terized by desires which have

virtue for their object, and which really seek the goo-' of others

wish well to others? Undoubtedly we have such desires. We

have already seen that there is stdl remaining moral good in

our nature; that though that nature is radfcally depraved^

though there is the germ of all evil in our nature, evil has no

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 h Jnot 4e

so far as to negative or annihilate good. There are the rem^ains

of good. We see a ruin, not utter destruction-a principle of

evil at work, not unmitigated evil. There is that pmnnnf .f

I ■li

km\

574

THE MOUAL NATUUE.

good even in onr nature that we can approve the good, wc 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 — whore tliere is no re luiining 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, v/hether we are characterized by benevolent desires, admits
of no dispute. The selfish theory of morals wo have ah-eady
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, theie-
fore, giveo us our moral desires, and these moral both as re-
spects morality itself, as the object of desir?, and because
wishing either good or evil to our neighbour, in which case ->ve
have the benevolent and malevolent desires. Our nature u
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 pasttt-d u ,. )n the moral nature has brought
with it the disf '):n'ioii^ o) 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 MOIIAL NATURE.

b.'ff

cnmeB ; but ,t is also characteristic of a fallen nature and ig
often exh.lated without a cause, or has it. cause in the int^ a
moral nauro .tsolf, in the wrong state of the nffoetion wWch
may ehensh hatred where there is no 3xciting cause wiU out
Accord.ng as the one or other of these emotions prodorn nate '
herefore, there is the benevolent or malevolent affeetTon ho
Jles.re of good or the desire of evil to its object. There are the
benevolent and malevolent affections, and there are I? be^

ever, that are so characterized, and the affections are charac-

dos.'t. rf "* '"' ""^^^^^^"^' ^^^-- *^« deslit -e
80 Close attendants upon the affections. Love, in all it. exer

c.ses, des.res the good of its object ; and in tl^e^e modifiea Zs

of love we have the benevolent affections. Hatred, in ail its

exercises desires evil to its object; and in these m^lification

of hatred we have the malevolent affections. It is truly the

desn s, however, accompanying thco affections that are bene-

volem or malevolent, and therefoe we more properly speak of

the benevolent and malevolent desires, than of the benevolen

and .nalevolent aP.ections : the latter wish good or they wish e"

their object : it is the desire for good or the desii/fur evil ^

the objec of a particular emotion or affection. These desires

c7ed L'"b"''^''r 7 *'^^ r' ''''■■ •" ^^^^ -- ^^

called the benevolent or malevolent desires. There is a fetate
of mind in which benevolence prevails, a character of mind of
which benevolence is the predominating state, and although
always amiable, it is sometimes unj.istifiable. There is a sta'te
of mind again in which malevolence prevails, or a peculiar
character of which malevolence is the predominating emot on
or desire, and it is not strange if it is sometimes ill-directed
or without a cause. We are not, however, dealing with the
rnora ity of these affections or desires ; we a^e remafk;„
th state of the desires, and we find the benevolent and male-
volent element m them, and have accordingly the benevolent

inlre ! '"'r ^'^ ^^^''"^^ ^"^ ^'^^^ ^-- at

desires. The benevolent and malevolent desires may be charac-

IHWIHi li »r-nTilw*

57C

THE MORAL NATUKE.

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, r,nd are amenable to law.

The sesthetic desires are those which are connected with the
emotions of beauty. Taking beauty in its widest sense as in-
clusive of sublimity, the picturesque, cr whatever appeals to
the aesthetic 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
Gcenery, 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, tlie sublime, the picturesque, to be perpetually
gratified. Nature is not stinted in its beauty, or in its s' .blime
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
{esthetic emotions and desires. In painting, sculpture, poetry.

.--^--~-w*,-«i

THE MORAL NATURE. 5^^

jtt mey imitate. Nature must ever surmss ar^ T?n+ „ .

desire. The mo.il „f n l'° ™f°" ■"™"' the a^rthoti
". seek .igmSL „d n " u" 'f *^ '"'"'™ """'-
«te« to it. The Sr ,,1 f ' '" '"^ °''J°" """'"h "i-i-

«8theH7pr , '., , "^ '° ''™"<'°ee in that art. The

.»^X^:rrri;te::r'r:h:rxf2^^^^
J" rxiotif :h:- '&/- ^ -: '-

the slave of these is^o s ,bi cuh mtod TtT '' ,"". '" '"'"""'
"^ 1... v.Oi.ucpiiua of tile mind, and

go to

1 j d

1 ■

it- 1 1

578

THE MORAL NATURE.

make up motive. The will follows upon motive, and 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 que^ ion 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

»\

"•*lp<-r

THE MORAL NATURE.

579

fee; and L quI2«t "^hatis rrdV"""?".™" "'

s;?:-rra£^HF^^^^^^

wm, and .he .elation of wi„ to So' Whatr UttT? *"
meachrnqp? Tii^o* •*. • ^.i , n ** "ac is that relatioa

«..al connerion between the two. The difHculty he e I that
he emotion seem, as immediate as the judsment ™v ,f
judgment ia hardly disting„i»hable from the emoti;nT; th"
emotion absorta, a» it were, the judgment 7m\
p!am y a judgment distingniskbl./a„dZ In" in tfV
emot,on with the judgment mayal™ be tm„d Thecal*:

St,' ,•'""""" °f Jadgnient ia not so clearly distin

fn wfabToln;"' T , ^°' '^ *« '"^"--^ *•"" -"ef h ut^
depend u„ " ""'T"= '"' ""«='.-'' beauty doea not

depend upon any aasocated conceptiona,_if it i, o„t throni

th« coneeptiona which an object aw^kena, or ia aaaocSfd
an nlt,mate attribute which admits not of Lnalysia there
ae^mlr" »'^'»> " J"*-" ■■> *!» case t!!'^' *„,"

motior !h„ "T""- " *' J"''»™°' «"M be in the
Xenttt,™ °" r'** ^ ""» J"dg™»t;-like the
I, r , '"' '^"^^^'' "«'« '' agreeable, or a rfeasant
sound .a pleasant. The emotion in thai case w™ld not b^he

only testify to the

offv.„<. r^V . , -"^ ^'""^Auu m mat cast
effect of the judgment : the judgment would

emotion, or wr>uH he ii *^ '•

+V.O+ '^. T. ^ ciijucion ; IE would be a iudffmpnf

that such an object i, capable of exciting such an 'Son

580

THE MOllAL 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-
ojptions 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, tlien, 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 prcSt,
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 ei )tion, in the particular case, should be accompanied
or foUowec ty desire, seems a natural consequence, if we can
form a jud iient of what is natural, or to be expected, in s'lch
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 'vould 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.

";"«B?-t:*!6ij»»i.

THE MORAL NATURE.

581

tion and the emotion, or between the emotion and thP ,!««•
A cause is followed by its effects onlvTn . . ''''^•

same as those in whicl it /if trt^W IThtTeff '''
There is nothing in causation to warrant the exnect^ T'

Ihp state of the mind is a necessary element in ih. ™''?*-
implied in the connexion between? Xmen anlTT"
and an emotion and desire Certain p^^.- ^°'°*'°"'

. 0- s.ge of «.™ .igi'iat^ti™ r:i4C':^ :,

them have no >!«!:= cor,n,..cted with thJm-are tooToftJTl!
pure to have any effect, beyond themselves, and a« .te„ , !!
enougli for the mind ; they are self-satisfvin- Ttl T '

S nt "I""' 'T "' ^-"'^' ^^^^^^Z
sublmuty. the mind rests in the emotion; it would desire
nothmg beyond :t. Indeed the emotion may be too s It "!
the desire may be to escape from it or that if 1» \
oppressive. But allowing I causal c^nnex! ^ a™ ntl^
oi action, between the terms of the series so f/ '""""'»
sidercd, is it the «.me connexion in the a link ottl ™""
or chain ?-is there a causal connexion bwe^llbeatleTnd
he will ,s .t cause and effect which obtains h re% That ^
s so n all the previous part of the series, may be admitted

r Jill hrr;' °^ r ^-^^^^^ rcr ^

w. 1, as between a judgment and an emotion, or auTmotlon
and desire The will is not the effect of a de ire in the "eZ
hatadesne is the effect of an emotion, or an em L tto
effect of a conception or judgment. Or taldng the It ve
conjoint y as mcluding the judgment, the emotion andihe
desire s 111 it is obvious to every one's own o„n.,eiou,;ess tha
the will does not follow upon that, precisely a, an effect follow

noT/ZTN."" "'" '■°""™ "'"°"«' i"ducemen^ but t"
not ca»ri It cannot in any proper sense be said to bel^
It obeys, or it acts mder inducement, but it does so sov reSii;

i !

>,f ; I

m ri

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 earned. 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 difierent 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
loe 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 ^oill, 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 b3 allowed even that it is determined by nc ot'.ve :
but still to will is to be free ; or it is to act ; and if we attend
to the idea implied ^n 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
followine them the will acts : it is not an effect, or it is an effect

•^ ^^^. i-ii>;

THE MOIUL NATURE.

583

Itself the title to be called active from its source, that is, from
Itself No other effect is active in the same wly, 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
18 the being in action, choosing to act, and acting. The bein^
« in the will The will does not control motives : it does no!
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 saidfis
the only freedom conceivable. Every other freedom would be
caprice blind chance, unreasoning fate or accident. Freedom
18 freedom to obey motive-for the will to obey motive, or to
decide tn 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
proceedmg 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 iude-
pendent of influence, and yet is beyond it, and separate from it
which influence cannot touch, is in a sphere by itseif-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 m 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. AH 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 not something distinctive in these

{■:

584

THE MOUAL 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 piopcrly attributable to
them at all, or to any physical agency, or it is the action of
physical law. The will presehts 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 plicnoraenon 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 veiy 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 the^e
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 reco--
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 18 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-
8ity, says Edwards, « I would not be understood to suppose that
It anything comes to pass by the former kind of necessity, the
na ure of thmgs is not concerned in it, as well as in the latter
1 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 i. 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 18 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 m 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
18 also of a particular kind, beintr likewise of a moroi «o+

I !

586

THE MORAL KATURE.

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 aci 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-woighed language —
that " it always is as the greatest apparent good is ?" Besides
Edwards' own explanation of this laUj^uage : " 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 MOHAL NATURE.

fi87

minds 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 ik a
definition ? At all events it is a more correct mode of expres-
sion to say that the will ia as the greatest apparent good is
than to say that it is Mermined 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 b- all
against ns when we would attempt to vindicate to the wiii 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 state's 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,
18 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 coq-
clusive than Edwards' argument to prove that the will has
no self-determining power. Nor is it for a self-dotermining
power of the will that we contend, in any of tb ses 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 sovprPiVr.

588

THE MORAL NATUUK.

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 efiect : 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 susfainer of His own universe.
We recognise an independent actiuty in mind, without which
created mind would be inconce'vable ; 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 cf 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.

689

mbd isno L "•" '^ ''"•' ^^^^'^ '^^^'^ *he action of

an snh H- ? phenomenon may be contended for in

all snbo dinate causes whatever, only the kind of action-the
mdependent causation-becomes les. conspicuous, and no. of
80 high a character, as we descend from the tvill of intelligents
to mmd, and from mind to the causes which operate in m'at
-•from voluntary agents to mental action, and from mental
ac on to matenal causation. Unless we adopt the theory ou

nl-lT. ."T ?"'"'' ^" ^""^"*^""' ^^« ™"«t admiithe
p s bihty of subordmate causation, for that possibility can be
demed only on the supposition of the impossibility of causation
at all. If causation proper, and not mere sequence, is the

posll foTit""" " rl^' *'^" -bordinatecau^tLn
possible , for It ,9 as possible for the Creator to create causes
aa to create effects. Mind can never be a mere effect it mu

mind' W r;'"'' ^" 'K' ^'^'^ '« *^« spontlneity
mind .-Wha( do we mean when we speak of that ? That the

mind acts as mind, will not be denied by any one who alw

tn independent existence. Is there not independent actiZ

• Lh r- 7 1"^ ""'''' P^"^^ *^^° '^'' there is a sense
m which all independent agencies have an action in them-
se yes, and have the law, or cause of that action, in themselves
This may be said of the meanest agency in th; universe. If
we do not admit this, we must hold that creation is but a
system of seq«ence-a chain of connected links-every one of
which derives its influence from the first, and has no other in-
auence, 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
:8 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 operaJin^
through occasion, and on occasion, of the very clmn-res 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 Spinozism ; no other view is rational or intelli-
gible. The doctrine of sequence is as untenable as that of
occasional causes, nay, is one and tLo same; for matter must
be allowed to be ocraething, otherwise Berkeleianism is the
truetleory; and if matter be admitted, it io the occasion for
the Divine wiil 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 a^so 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 rowth 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 exliibit 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

actu)n, or there IS no subordinate agency; and Spinozism, and
Pantheism, are the true theories of the universe, making God
to be al , or a 1 to be God. In this vie., then, subordinate
agency xs absolutely necessary in the universe ; an'd there mu
be a consistency between independent subordinate agency and
yet a Divine agency on which that subordinate and indepen-
den agency is still dependent. This looks like a contradiction,
but It IS a contradiction to which our reasons must succumb

IrZ V"". "-"V '' '' ^^'' phenomenon exhibited in
creaUon Creation is the Creator calling into existence agen^
c.s besides Himself; to give them independent action was^not
surely impossible, otherwise God is still all, and Creation is as
Spmoza makes it the effluence of God, and'nothing apart from
H m-but a mode of the Divine action, and not LL from
God Was It impossible for God to create other agencies
besides Himself ? Is there no way in which an inferiorTency
may exist, and yet be derived-be continually deriving ? Is il
impossible for anything to exist but God ? Must God be al
being. If there is any being which seems apart from God which
IS at once thus apart, and yet not apart ? This seems a fir
greater contradiction than that which allows an agency apart
from God, and yet not independent of Him ? A^d v/hen we
ascend to intelligent agency, to man the voluntary agent
such an agent, is such an agency, also to be denied ? Can it

^nlZT?T^""' '""''"'" ' ^' '^''' ^'' ^«tion in such
an agent ? Is man a part of the Divine Bein- ? 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 act!
wh n the motive prompts ? If the necessity of causation is
still msi8.ed on, we hold the possibility of action even under a
certain kinder amount of causation-action independent under
causation-influenced, determined, not absolutely caused-
obeying the cause, or rather the influence, but obeying that bv
a certain activity, or by choice. There is a higher kind of

action in the will tl,on ;,, , .-, . ? "" ^*

- ..s niviu i^icuuii spoutftDeity ; 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 cfFect. 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 determincMi in
part by them ; but the will acts, and its activity is within
itself, and 'froi.» itself. It was constituted an active power ,
but it is noto 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 t" 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 fl y cannot be
explained. No ultimate fact is explicable. Tiio 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

■if'

THE MOIIAL NATUUK.

593

an agent la nature, there is not a separate independent cause
whieh does not exhibit this phenomenon. Must i? not b much
more true of the will ? Is U to be but a link in a hab of
sequence? Wo cannot ad.it even ordinary causa^n to be
so far less what is so near an approach to causation in the
Div ne mind itself-to the very action of the Divine Bein^
And may not man have been n.ade in the Divine image in tWs
sense as well as any other : nay, was this act the distinguishing
feature m that image, tliat he was created with a will, having
Its mdependent 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 i)articnlar way ?—

" Fust bound in fate, Irft free the human will."

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 oauses and eflfects ! 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 h not more true than it
IS hnely 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
adrait-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
nne harmony.

We seem to have arrived at the conclusion that the will is a
power which is acted on by motive, obeys motives, and which
ye has an activity in itself, which it derives from nothing
external. If acts, and in this it is altogether different from au

594

THE MORAL NATURK.

ordinary effect ; so diflferent as not with any propriety to come
under the description of an eflfect. 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 agenc' 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 finding 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 nnion. Reason 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 NATUllp:.

595

thau 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-
possibiHty 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 are
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 native 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 nodxis
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 bo 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

A. il \

596*

THE MORAL NATURE.

these two tliat we have eitlier freedom or necessity. Too mucli
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 inliereut power to act— the vis
motrix 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
18 in volitions that tlie being acts: our volitions ars, as it were,
ourselves. Are these mere effects then ? The man of wil]^
the man of actioL, 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
's within hirmelf: he has withdrawn from others : it is hit
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 ; hut still it is tlie 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 m-^y
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 tlien have
we more than truth contemplated, morality in the thought-in

THE MOKAL NAT U HE.

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 th^i will that makes every action ours ; and an
HCticxi 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 circumsta.ices 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 ; foi what would be the use of employing another as
the passive instrument of oin- 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 aii, 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

(

■

\ 'lip

598

THK MORAL NATUUK.

is callti in— it is hia agenc}'. Tiie 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 loill, if it had not been
under such an influence, likely to have been different. But in
all of these instanpes the will is present, and though under
a strong influence, which it may be almost impossible to
resist, there is luUl 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
raay be m(5dified by the strong influence brought to bear upon
the will, 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 raay 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 it's tide. But the
will, again, might have remained firm amid all the torfure that
could have been inflicted, and fear that could have threatened,

THE MORAL NATUltE.

599

mid temptation that could have influenced; and therefore
there was not actual constraint, — the luill 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 i,« 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, ascriled 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 act' i 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 tlie intention of the agent, what
feeling he had, what motive he was actuated by ; it is this
which is the object of j)raise 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 n)ay 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 ia rherc-

600

THE MORAL NATUIUI.

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
inotive. VVe 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
m 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 vary states, as well as actions, must Ijave the assent
of our wills ; otherwise, we are mere machines, and our nature
18 independent of ourselves. At first, as we originally came from
the hard 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
gomg 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
ot the benefits of his condition, without asking how he came
by them, or rather with a thankful recognition of the great

THE MORAL NATUUE.

GOi

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 orm 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
wc 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 cr 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 NATUIiE.

thip would undoubtedly be the case if our nature hud been
created in that Htate. 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,
viewiog 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

TIIK MOUAL NATUlli:.

603

ia 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 tlie 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 wo.iM be subsequent to the emotions.
This would be also in tlie > •; ier of nature with the Creator him-
self But velleiqt, or the state in whicli 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
r: r 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 ftillen nature — fallen as soon
as that emotion took eflPect 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 tae will, admitting this emotion, be as in-
stantaneous as the emotion ? The emotion was rebellion against

604

THE MOllAL NATURE.

(iod— 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 sup^ oses the possibility of volition. The two states are
the compl. jnts of each other. The mind consenting to the
emotion, is ^.ill 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, pei'vading, 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,

* We adopt this \\«v'], if it Ims imt t]w sense that v/o hw.- juif lipn,, it

THE MOKAL NATURE.

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, bat not so iis 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 's 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 tlie 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, boeking 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 covetousness or impure
desire. The simplest state of emotion was wrong, must be
wrong. If it was inconsistent with the ri^ht then it must be

GOG

THE MORAL NATURK.

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 iwith 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 d«>iraved 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 aimounces might have been admitted ; for
undoubtedly guilt is attached to oar depraved nature as spring-
ing out of that one volition. How otherwise could there have
been depravity .?— and ho\N 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.

607

sin; the first stirring of evil temper ia 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 .5> 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 i^hcuomena prccedin" the first volition

608

THE MORAL NATURE,

to evil. We are brought up to this in our inquiries iulo 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 om-s. Let them be om-s, 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 wiih, 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

THK MORAL NATUIIE.

G09

connected with it. There was depravity, there was evil, but
there was no guilt. Guilt was not till volition took efifect, 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 ?
W'hence 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 will, 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

caused — un rau sfld

respocte any actual

GIO

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.

DiflPerent theories have been entertained respecting the phe-
nomenon, sin, dn 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?" —

and Carlyle recognises more in that one question than in
volumes up( i 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 ' 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 NATUKK.

Oil

always possible : b, .t does this account for it ? Does this dvo

to God without either supposing Him evil, essentially and eter-
nally, m which case it would not be difficult to account for
the origin of evil ; or supposing the change in Him, and the same
Ph nomenon m the Divine Being which we have 'to account fo
in the creat^e. To avoid this, some have supposed two eterna
pnnc pies, the one good and the other evil, the one the author
of all good, the other of all evil,-the Manichean doctrine
Uthers have supposed matter to be the evil principle of the
miiverse, eternal, untractable, incapable of being moulded to
the purposes of the Almighty, and therefore the source of ail

L ndL •'' 7r *'°'*? '^ '^' ^'''°*^^ '^''^'^y' ^^^ -^^-^ both

phers, or theologians, who belonged to the East, and extended
their influence over the world. It was v.servcd for the Ger-
mans to make evil the shadow of good, an ingenious enough
thought, but m so far as it goes beyond the idea of evil
being the counterpart of good, simply uninteUigible. To dwell
upon the doctrmes 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 absolutehj considered •
for Schelhng, 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 oi
account for a cause of what took effect in the mind while itself
had no cause,-was, so far as we se(>, without cause. In the lan-
guage of Sir William Hamilton, applied to another subject ft
IS just the difficulty, the impossibility, as he caUs it, of con-
ceiving an absolute commencement If evil had not its cause
m any previous state, whether of emotion or volition where
was Its cause ? Out of the being himself ? This was impos-
sibie If m 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 oecr. the origin, or source, of the particular emotion, or

612

THK MOUAL NATUUK.

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, willing what
was forbidden, or what the moral nature of the very agent
willing told it was evil? The active will may 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 snpposable, 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 positivum est vel primum vel a primo." This may be
maintained, pbrhaps, 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 SIUHAL NATURE.

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 ivhence
moral evil could arise." « Were our theologians of the ration-
alist class," says Tholtick, 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
Eevelation,) they would speculate till they reached the ultimate
pomt 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 ?ay; 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 MORAL NATUUE.

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 I — yet how momentous in its consequences I 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 modm 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.

■1

APPENDIX.

NOTE A,_I'. 7fi.

. Tub doctrine of sequence, nn prnpoimdoa by Dr. Brown, in worlliy of u iiioro
iletttilod cxnmiiiatidn, nnd we bIiuII offer tiiis hy tranHferring to our pages the sul.-
Htnnco of a panipldet published by the Author in 1842, under the tithi, "8tri(;ture«
on the Idea of I'ower, with Special Itefcrente to tli- Views of Dr. JJrowii, in his
' Inquiry into the Itclation of C.iuso nnd Effect.' "

Dr. Urown'B assertion is, tliat " tlio powers, properties, or (luah-tios of a sub-
stance, are not to bo regarjed as anytliing superadded to the substance, or lUstinct
Irom it. Tiu.y are o.dy thu substance itself, considered in relation to various
changes that take j.liice when it c.vists hi peculiar circumstances."— (P. 16.)
Again, ho asserts, " What giibstantial forms once wcro, in general misconception,
pmoevs, properties, qnaUfiea, now nre. In the one case, as much as in the other,'
a mere distraction has bcsen converted into a reality; and an impenetrable gloom
has been supposed to hang over nature, which is oidy in the clouds and darkness of
our own veibal 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 (hem. There aro not substances, therefore,
and also powers or qualities, but sidistances alone."— (P. 21.) These quotations^
we think, nre sufficiently explicit as to what Dr. Brown's doctrine is. Now, how
does ho support it,— by what mode of argument does he uphold it ? The amount
of his reasoning seems to us to he,— first, that wo cannot properly conceive of
powers and qualities distinct from substances themselves ; and, secondly, that it is
unnecessary to suppose tliem to exist, as, on his favourite notion of sequence, thoy
would, after all, be but additional terms of that sequence. The alleged inability
of forming any conception of power distinct from the subntance 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, qualitJcR, into those of state, succession, sequence,- seem to us to be the
whole of Dr. Pnnvn's argument for the peculiar doctrine of causation which he
supports.

618

APPENDIX.

But it is no pruof nguiust tlie existence of power or ofliticncy, as a thing apart, or
different from tlie substance, or as lodged in the substance, that we cannot clearly ap-
prehend it lis distinct. Wo have seen that the idea of power arises in the mind at
n very early stage — if not sooner, yet conten^poraneously 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 ixcept in '.irtuc 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. Miglit not the same difficulty of conceiving of the soul as a separate entity,
on e(iually just grounds, bo an argument against our belief in the soul's existence V
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 cr feel-
ings arc 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 bo 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 canncJt 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 ono originally possesses.

We shidl advert, for a moment, to the other mode of argument pursued by Dr.
lirown. lie 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
ho contends that, as we see nothing more, so it is unnecessary to conclude that
there is anything more. It is altogether unnecessary, ho 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 j^ower, 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 : ii 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 cx'sts, that actually has phice ¥ It is still alleged that wc have
the idea (\i power, and it is no argument to disprove its existence, that the phcnn
mena of nature maybe expl.iined on another supposition. It was imperative on
I )r. Brown to show that the idea is unfounded ; and this wits not to be done by an
ingenious speculation like that of se(iuence in events, however that might appear
to .account in a simpler manner for change and phenomenon. But let us hear Dr.
Brown's argument in regard to the terms of the sequence. "If it be said that A,
R. ( '. (be suK'stiiiu'crt which, ,1» .antecedents .".!id i nnKivjiirntf.. T fovi'.i'.'ily suppefiol

APPENDIX. 619

to be present in a sequence of phenomena, are not tliemsolves uU that exist in tliesc
sequcnceH, but that tliero is also the power of A to produce a change in B, which
must be distinguished from A and B; and the power of B to produce a change in
C, which must in like manner bo distinguished from both B and C ; is it not evi-
dent that wliat is not A, nor B, nor C, must bo 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,
wo 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. Tlie substances that exist in a train of phenomena are still, and must
always he, tU whole constituents of the </-am."— (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 \ can
nothing else,— that " by the supposed interposition of something which is not
3, nor C, wo have only changed the number of sequences, and have not pro-
oed anything different from parts of a sequence, antecedent and con.equont in
a certain uniform order," he is assuming the whole point in dispute. Our assertion
IS, that wo have , i uduced something diflerent from parts of a se^juevce. The very
idea entertained o( power is altogether different ; it is essentially a diflerent thing ;
and it is therefore quite gratuitous on the part of Dr. Brown to make it thJ
same, to nuvke it but one of the links in a chain of sequence. Tlio whole passage
is a fine specimen of what logicians term "petitio principii." It is assertion
without argument.

From the connected phenomena of the material world, Dr. Brown proceeds to
those of tho 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. J'ower, we may not be able to con-
ceive of, as it is distinct from tlui substance, material or spiritual, exhibiting it, or
except in relation to its efiect ; and yet we may be able to conceive of it as some-
thing belonging to the substance notwithst^mding. What it is as distinct fiom 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 itp reality, that
we have an idea of ;«,— as it is against its existence, that wc cannot define that idea
so as to describe the thing itself, of which it is tho idea. Take the phenomena of
matter or of mind, viewed not aspoioers, \mi facts: how !ire we to describe them,
or fcrm a clearer idea of them than we do of power, pov/er itself, power in the
abstract, separated from any of its particular modifications ? What ie combustion,
or adhesion, or gravity ; can we give any clearer notion of them than these terms
themselves convoy ? So, wc know what power is, though wo cannot describe it
otherwise than as tJiat which produces an effect; or, at ail events, th t we cannot
<lc8cribe it otherwise, is no sutticient reason for discarding it altogether, as a thing
having :io existence except in our own thoughts. In this Uiiy nothing would be
permitted to have an existence ; and, farther than either Berke'iey or Hume, ideas
fh.^msclves might b.; excluded from the category of being, and the universe would
be a blank; there would not even be a mind to bo (ho subject of such iP.iHions an
wo daily experience, or ilhisions thnmsrlvps ; for with t!.<- possibility oi defining

620

APPKNDIX.

even ideas, had gone out tlie last spark of those embers whieh philosophy haJ
extinguished all to this remaining principle.

Dr. Brown deduces what he calls a test of identity from what he Jiad, 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 wo 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 aho, in such
circumstances, be found uniformly to have the power of exploding gunpowder ?
Wliat we might consider in this case as new information, would verbally, indeed,
be different ; but it would truly be the old infonnation, and the old information
only, with no other difl'erence 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 nn 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 bo the uniform and
immediate antecedent of a certain uniform and immediate consequent. We have
an idea of power distinct from that ; and mw 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 ho speaks o{ power, and he
will sen that antecedence and consequence docs not at all explain it — is not at all
adequate. There is still something loft which is not accounted for, and for which

APPENDIX.

621

nothing can account but the notion of power. Wliether we communicate any
Hclditional 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 o^ 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 U> 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 are 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 Efl'ect," that we arc. But the truth
is, that we either misunderstand Dr. Brown's views altogether, or he is utterly in-
consistent with himself. Wo 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 phenomena, 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 been accustomed to tenn 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 of "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 tvue. We think, at least, that they
could be held. Wo shall show how this may be, afterwards. In the meantime,
u'p TnuBt justify our allef'^ition in respect to Dr. Brown's inconsistency, by tlis

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 immedi,'\tc producer of every
change. In that great system which we call the universe, all things are what they
are, in consequence of His primary will ; but if they are wholly incapable of affecting
anything, they would, virtually, themselves he as nothing. When we speak of the
laws of Nature, indeed, wo only use a general phrase, expressive of the accustomed
order i<\' 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 erpeqted 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 tlie quality of gi-cenness, 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 whioii 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 wo 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 fomicd alike the spiritual
and material system of the universe, — making the earth a habitation worthy of its
noble inliabitant, 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 imiverse accomplish, God is himself the author of the physical changes
which take place in it, is, then, most true ; as it is most tnie that the same power,
which gave the universe its laws, can, for particular purposes of His provident
goodness and wisdom, suspend, if it bo 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, v;hatever power they can be
supposed to possess, must have been derived from ihn fountain of all power . We
have seen, indeed, that it is oniy 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 are known to us; and, if
they wc-o incapable of affecting us, or — which is the same thing — if we were un-
susceptible of any change on their presence, it wor^ ' be in vain that the gracious

APPENDIX.

623

benevolence wliicli lias surrounded us with them, provided and decorated for us
the splendid homo in which it has called us to dwell,— a home that may he splendid
indeed, as planned by 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 Dr. Brown can
assume either side of the question, and contend with as much success against IiIh
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 pecuhar ingenuity and force of reason. Why this sudden conversion ? But
it must be that we misunderstand him, and mi-stakc his doctrine. If so, wo are very
apt to tlirow the blame oft' ourselves upon him. .v e 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 wo 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 tliat 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 operatcL without the
necessary intervention, or supervention, of anything else, wliich may be called
power, or by whatsoever name v may choose. That this is the doctrine, wc refer
to the reiterated statements of it by Dr. Brown himself. It is to discard all power.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 can form any appreliension
of; — but that is what is denied, and, kec^ping the above view of the doctrine before
us, we assert that it strif s 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 Br. Brown's own assertion, are aU 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 docs it involve so ridiculous a consequence, as that God
lias 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 bo
restored to the place from which they were by a previous apparently triumphant
train of argimient dethroned ; and power, after all, is not a nullity, and all that

•\

'624

APPENDIX.

exists is not mere antecedence nnJ consequence. We are not bound to say what
power is, and Dr. Brown himself has chiimed for it an existence, althougli, 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 ah'«!ady 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 aro 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.
Brown, of course, will not deny, that, although we cannot know anything of
substance but by its qualities, yet that there is such a thing an 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 ara all by which sub-
stance is known ; but powers are only the substance itself existing in pirticular
relations, by which it is that it becomes known to us. Whether then does Dr.
Brown belieive 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 bo resolved into sub-
stance merely existing in particular relations ? It is not enough to say, that all that
we hnow of these powers, is su^^stance existing in particular relations. The object of
the passtige ia 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 eiTor — 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 jupt this relation, and it makes
no difi'erenco 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 effideiwij ! — 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 eficiencij f Does it imply energy or power ? It is
all 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 that 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,

62*'

is not efficiency in matter, „r in the Creator of matter, but efficiency k but a
relation of ntecedence!

Wo are the more Hurpriseil at th„. inconsistency, (if it is no more,) that it seems
to hflv been gone into in recoil from what is alleged to be tlie foolish error of
making the will of God all that is present in the operations of matter, and matter
nothmg 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
Hcemn 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
H.S own immediate volition, or tliatof some delegated spirit, is the author of everj'
effect whicl, 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 bo 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 is
His wish to excite, and which is to be traced to His own spiritual agency "— (Pp
95 9o.) 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
Dcity 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
mid cumhrms worlds, invisible, and incapable of affectiiuj anything whatever, that
Ho may know when to operate, in the same manner as Ho 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 leivps forth at once to its effect ;

Who caUs forth things that are not,— and they come."

Now, it seems not to be taken into account in these passages, that all tlie 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-
sei-ved 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 charg.^ 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 difterent, even an opposite, arrangement, if He bad 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 beautv. and con-
nected wiU. ,i ail the utilities and delights, which these qualities give it, or invest

2 It

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. ' mid have been served by that will
alone ; and in every sensation of beauty or pleasure, and every offbct of utility in
the J)urpose8 of life, it might have been, after all, only the will of God that was at
work. Such cannot be said of the primary qualiMes of matter,— what essentially
belongs to it ns such,— what is involved in the very idea of it, and also, of all the
modilications 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 wo have shown they inevitably
lead,— making the universe but a vast machinery, where all that is tnily in opera-
tion is but the will of Got!, 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
ns 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 efifects, not from any posser.sed or inher-
ent powers or efficiencies, but by the w;ll 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, i', is still consistent
to maintain, that matter was ui" some use, nay, was necessary, if it was to be era-
ployed by God at all in creatioi.. 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 himi elf. Matter, as
matter, could not be brought into existence, but as a thing extex'ded, divisible,
riopoessing 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 iHjhoved that the material universe should exist. Wo think Dr. Brown, then,
inconsistent with himself, as wo regard him originally wrong in the doctrine of
sequence which he holds ; and his inconsistency is the more remarkable, as the con-
cilusions which it was so much his object fo aveit, might, with certain necessary
restrictions an to the psRontial or primary niinlijiVs of irs.ittnr, Kv 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 hi8_ own image."-" Let me make this use of the information that God
made man m H,s ovv^ image. Let it cure me of the scepticism which distrusts
mans mstmctive beliefs or perceptions. Let me recollect that in knowledge or
understanding we are like m.to God, and that in His light we see light He
would not practise a n„.ckery upon us by giving us constitutional beliefs at vari-
ance with the objectivo 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-
ibly to believe a he 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
east, 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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