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}■

THEORIES AND CRITICI

BEINO

L^iM

BEIEF ESSAYS

METAPHYSICAL AND OTHER SUBJECTS.

J. McD. SCOTT.

Nova Scotia Printing Com pan v.
188^. ■

K\\

V--...

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

PAG«

Metaphysics ■

The Basis of the Peductive Sciences ^^

Metaphor in Mental Science ^^

25
The Circle of the Sciences •

Elements of Religion as traced in Human Nature :

Part I.— Of Human Nature ^^

•• II.— Of Self^culture ^^

•' III.— Of Charity ^^

«. IV.— Of Faith ^^

49
Volition and Responsibility

Thtt " Words of the Preacher."

65
Some Things About Bacon

Wordsworth's Theory of Poetry ^4

English Verse-forms

Analysis of English Vowel-sounds ^2

A.*---'

METAPHYSICS.

In f;hought, as in all other kinds of human action,
there is a primary tendency toward right methods
and a secondary tendency toward wrong methods.
The tendency of thought toward certain wrong
xnethods seems to be caused by a kind of innocent
egoism which we may call philosophic egoism. We
are so constituted that things about us, things to
which we are closely related, appear to us more
important than things to which we are less closely
related. Bj nature we seem to see ourselves morally,
physically, and intellectually, at the centre and apex
of this universe : and it is only by slow degrees in
the gradual progress of education that we unlearn
this natural error. Of the moral part or aspect of it
I shall speak in another place. Of the physical,
nothing need be said, were it not that it may typify
the spiritual. Every one knows how we mentally
correct the picture given in vision by allowing for
perspective.

In a sense, all error is intellectual inasmuch as all
knowledge is intellectual. Intellect is the organ of
it. But all knowledge that is immediately useful has
some physical or spiritual subject. Metaphysical
knowledge, i. e., knowledge concerning the nature and
basis of our knowledge, is more peculiarly intellectual
in that intellect and its operations are the subject of
it. It is not the less useful that it is mediately useful.
All study of method is mediately useful. Until we

6 METAPHYSICS.

have a clear consciousness of our relation as knowing
subjects to the objects of our knowledge, problems
really simple will present themselves to us perverted
and distorted in the most bewildering manner imagin-
able, and almost defy solution. An illustration, — it
is really an example of the error in its physical phase
— is the Ptolemaic theory. Not until men learned at
least to suspect something more of the mobility and
insignificance of this earthly ball than is revealed to
the naked eye, was it possible for them not to mistake
the orderly procession of the system for a whimsical
gambol.

The error, in its metaphj^sical phase, may be
defined as an unsuspecting confidence in the sufficiency
of certain of our fundamental concepts, and a disposi-
tion to speculate upon them and combine them into
axioms, instead of defining them. A fine illustration
is the remark of the man who said that if the world
ti^rned round, east would come to be west after a
while. It seemed to him that his ideas of east and
west would be utterly unaflfected even by so revolu-
tionary a proceeding as that.

Illustrations equally fiine have, however, been
aflforded by more famous metaphysicians. Dr. Brown,
in his celebrated theory of cause and eflfect, assumed
that he had a clear conception of a relation between
cause and effect, whereof, according to his own showing,
neither heaven above nor earth beneath afforded a
single example ; yet he never asked himself, noi', so
far as I have heard, did any one ever ask him, how
he had come by it.

Another example is the suggestion made, by Mill,
I believe, that two straight lines might possibly enclose
a space in some other order of things. He forgot that
these concepts belong to the present order of things,
and that until they sufifer some change it will always

METAPHYSICS.

cnowm^
)robleiris
erverted
imagin-
tion, — it
lal phase
arned at
lity and
ealed to
mistake
himsical

may be
ifficiency
L disposi-
lem into
astration
le world
I after a
east and
o revolu-

er, been
r. Brown,
assumed
between
showing,
fforded a
', noi", so
bim, how

by Mill,
y enclose
rgot that
f things,
11 always

be the present order of things, so far as they are
concerned ; and when such change takes place they
will be different things. He forgot that our concepts
are provisional and temporary, being provided to
represent phenomena, and dependent upon our relation
to those phenomena for their value and authenticity.
When that relation changes, they change; when it
ceases, they cease. Yet he makes a supposition which
utterly destroys that relation, and quietly assumes
the concepts to be valid still.

A similar absurd attempt to carry our concepts
beyond their legitimate sphere, is the well known
question concerning substance, whether, if all its
qualities were eliminated, there would be any remain-
der. It is not enough to say that no one can answer
the question. No one can rationally ask it. We do
not know enough about that which we call substance
to know what we are asking. It is that which
underlies qualities. But what is a quality ? Quale
means " what is it like." Quality is the likeness of a
thing to something. Now if a thing have no quality,
if it be absolutely like nothing, will it not be nothing ?
It need not, however, be like something else in order
to have quality. It is enough if it be like itself.
Now, if a thing be not even like itself, in any respect,
it — but this gets too deep for us.

The celebrated argument, by which Des Cartes
proved his own existence, is also a fine example. It
implies that the " cogitator " *has a full knowledge
not only of both cogitare and esse, but also of their
relations. In that case one fails to see why he might
not as well predicate sum, as cogito, in the first
instance.

The typical question of Metaphysics is that con-
cerning our own existence, or the existence of things.
It implies that the questioner has a full knowledge of

METAPHYSICS.

what existence is, apart altogether from any existence
of his own ; for the point raised in his mind is whetlier
the outward phenomenon corresponds with his ich'a.
The solution of it may also be typical. He should
rather enquire whether his idea corresponds with the
phenomenon. When we remember that th(B idea of
existence is merely a mental image of the state of
things reported to us in consciousness, we see at once
that the idea of proof is wholly irrelevant. The
name is a vocable which we use to denote that state
of things. When the astronomer discovers a comet
and calls it Medusa, he does not sit down to consider
whether or not that comet is Medusa. If he did he
would do precisely as those do who doubt the existence
of things. The question is not a dead one, it is still
gravely considered by more than one professional
chair on this continent. It comes under the head of
theory of perception.

The same doubt exists, too, as to the reality of
things. If the salt have lost its saltness, wherewith
shall it be salted ? When we have translated the phrase
wholly into one language, and find that the doulit
is " de B,E-alit(jite RE-rtcm," or whether things are
really like things, we begin to have some insight into
the nature of Metaphysics, and to see how it is that
the eifect of introducing terms from foreign tongues
in metaphysical discussion is so fine-
Bacon's treatment, of this class of questions is
masterly, as we would expect. " It seemeth to mo,"
he remarks, and the previous context shows that lie
felt he was propounding a novel theory, " that the
true and fruitful use (leaving vain subtleties and
speculations) of the enquiry of majority, minority,
priority, posteriority, identity, diversity, possibility,
act, totality, parts, existence, privation, and tlie like,
are but wise cautioi\s against ambiguities of speech."

META PHYSIOS.

xistonco

whether

his idea.

B should

with the

idea of

state of

at once

nt. The

bat state

a comet

consider

) did he

Bxistence

t is still

fessional

3 head of

eality of
herewith
he phrase
he doubt
linfjs are
tight into
t is that
tongues

istions is
i to mo,"
s that ho
that the
;ties and
minority,
)ssibility,
the like,
speech."

" That is all very fine, no doubt, and Bacon was a
very wise man, and it is very necessary to define
carefully ; but what has that to do with the question
whether or not I really perceive things as they exist ? "
It has this to do with it : it means that the only use
of such a question is to define the terms of it — that
if we define propeiiy the words " really," " perceive,"
" things," " exist," we shall see that there is no
such question. " Exist " means to be in the state
of things reported to us in consciousness. *' Things "
are phenomena reported to us in consciousness. " To
perceive things " means to have such phenomena so
reported to us. The question then is, whether we
really have phenomena reported to us in consciousness,
as they are in the state in which they are reported to
us in consciousness. For my part, I am quite of the
opinion that we do.

Another result of this over-confidence in the
validity of our concepts is seen in various theories of
innate ideas and intuitive truths, and in a proneness
to deductive philosophising and a disposition to over-
estimate the function of the deductive method. The
condition of deduction is perfect knowledge, and we
are always ready to assume that our knowledge is
sufficient. So natural does it seem to assume this
that we often fail to see that it is an assumption. It
is even a common doctrine of philosophy at this time,
that the ultimate basis of knowledge is to be looked
for not in the inductive method but in the deductive.
But no fundamental truth, whatever, can be in the
deductive method, for every truth given in the deduc-
tive method is, of necessity, based upon prior
knowledge. " Arguments consist of propositions, and
propositions of words, and words are but the current
marks or tokens of popular notions of things ; A^hich
notions, if they be grossly and variably collected out
of particulars " logic cannot " correct that error, being.

METAPHYSICS.

as the physicir .s ^pe .k, in the first digestion." When
Des Cartes haf I ir all his beliefs upon the shelf, he
was able, by An^ng his fundamental concepts, to
reconstruct thu a again with great facility. He left,
as deductive thinkers generally do, the " first diges-
tion " to take care of itself. He did not begin at the
beginning.

There is an appearance of self-sufficiency and
mastery about the deductive method which faooiiiates.
Induction involves a patient attention to little things,
which, to the natural man, seems somewhat childish,
because, to his self-sufficient mind, the things seem
unimportant. Deduction is more subjective, it exer-
cises the rational powers more fully, and is less
dependent on external things. In the progress of the
world's education it was inevitable that Aristotle
should precede Bacon.

The question, what is the nature and function of
the deductive method, and the subjects of innate ideas
and self-evident truths, it will be more convenient to
consider in another essay.

' When
shelf, he
cepts, to
He left,
•st diges-
in at the

THE BA'SIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES.

ncy and
fttooiiiaijes.
)le things,

childish,
ngs seem
, it exer-
d is less
ess of the
Aristotle

motion of
nate ideas
^enient to

With keen, primitive insight, an ancient apoph-
thegm speaks of man as the measure of all things.
Upon every measure there are certain marks which
we may here call conditions of the measure. Now, it
is competent for us to say that if a phenomenon fulfil
certain of these conditions it will also fulfil certain
other of the conditions. We acquire no knowledge
of phenomena thus, but we have prepared ourselves
to make one item of knowledge, two, when it shall
be acquired. This is the function of deductive science.
Suppose, now, that the measure were applied to
phenomena and a number of measurements recorded
in another series of marks upon it. It is obvious
that any argument concerning these would be ham-
pered by the consideration that the objects might be
incorrectly or inadequately represented. It would be
an imperfect representation oi a thing real, while one
of the other series would be a perfect representation
of a thing imaginary ; and it would be only concerning
the thing imaginary that deductive argument would
be possible. This supei-structure of metaphor, though
somewhat rickety, may perhaps convey to the unsophis-
ticated mind a notion of the nature and function of
deductive science, better than any abstract terms
could do.

The conditions of a measure determine its applic-
ability. Tlie applicability of the human measure is
obviously determined by the various senses and
sensibilities through which knowledge comes to us ;
and those conditions of it which are capable of

THE BASIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES.

becoming the subjects of deductive argument, are the
ideals which are the inevitable accompaniments of
these sensibilities.

A sensibility to musical sounds, for example,
involves the existence of musical ideals. They are,
indeed, a part of the sensibility ; for it is in a peculiar
sensitiveness to those qualities of sound which consti-
tute the ideals that that sensibility consists. Now
this sensibility puts one into coinmunion with nature,
and enables him to observe and gather facts. That is
inductive science. On the other hand, the ideals are
the source of the laws of musical criticism. Music, to
be pleasing, must conform to these ideals. Its laws
are deduced from them, and that is deductive science.

There are also our other senses, physical and
psychical, as the sense of smell, taste, touch ; or the
sense of humor, of the sublime an<l beautiful, and the
so-called moral sense. All these afford ideals ; but
none of them has any common standard, nor, conse-
quently, any basis for a science ; unless we take the
Golden Rule as our standard of morality, in which
case Ethics becomes a deductive science. We may in
any case work out the casuistry of the Golden Rule,
and it will be a deductive science ; but there remains,
of course, the question as to its relation to general
Ethics.

Assuming that it is correct to take the Golden
Rule as the ideal of virtue, the principal deductive
sciences are based upon our ideals of (1) Knowledge,
(2) Virtue, (3) ^'alue, (4) Relations of Quantity, (5)
Form. The simplest ideal Relation of Quantity is the
relation of equality. The simplest ideal Form is the
Straiglit Line. Now, consider how these concepts are
formed. The concept matter is struck out in crude
outline upon our first consciousness of its resistance,
and is afterward fashioned and extended and general-

are the
ents of

sample,

ey are,

Deculiar

consti-

Now

nature,

That is

sals are

lusic, to

ts laws

science.

cal and
or the

and the
lis ; but
r, conse-
:ake the
n which
5 maA^ in
3n Rule,
remains,

general

I Golden
eductive
owledge,
tity, (5)
ity is the
n is the
3epts ai'e
in crude
isistance,
general-

THE BASIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES. 13

ised to endless particulars, until it finally comes to
something like scientific knowledge. But the idea of
Truth is formed in a very different manner. Probably
first awakened in the mind by experience of a false-
hood, it is formed instantaneously ; and, once formed,
is never, can never be, changed. The sight of one
straight line, or even of a crooked one, is sufficient to
suggest to our minds the idea of perfect straightness ;
and no conceivable study of straight or crooked lines
could afterward affect it in the slightest degree. So
of the idea of Equality, the to ison, which we seem
to remember rather than to learn. So also of the
ideas of Justice and of Value. They are not general-
ized, but abstract ideas. They are rather ideals than
ideas. They are not knowledge, but forms of thought,
imposed on us by the structure of our constitution
and the nature of things. They represent not what
is, but what we imagine. Hence it is that the know-
ledge which they constitute is in its measure complete
and full. There is nothing lacking to it. Other
knowledge, real knowledge, is not certainly perfect,
and argument based upon it is, therefore, valid only
within a certain range.

Since man is the measure of all things it is obvious
that every fundamental definition must be in terms
of the measure, that is to say, it must show how the
thing defined is related to man. Thus, defined Truth
is the consistency of knowledge with itself, or the
agreements o.f our perceptions with each other. The
truth of a part is tested by its agreement with the
other parts ; but the truth of the whole is its consis-
tency with itself. From this definition all the rules
of Logic may be demonstrated. They derive their
authority from the fact that they are but applications
of this one principle.

Again, Value is the quality of that which is desir-
able and more or less difficult to procure. The ideal

THE BASIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES.

of Virtue has been already sufficiently defined, for our
purpose here.

Again, Equality is the quality of things fulfilling
the same conditions of quantity. From this definition
we can easily prove a whole series of axioms concern-
ing equals. As for example, that equals of the same
are equal. A and B are equal to G. Because A is
equal to G it fulfils same conditions of quantity.
But B fulfils the same conditions ; therefore B is equal
to A. And the rest in like manner. Moreover, the
idea of Equality involves the contrasted idea of
Inequality, of which greater and less are but the
opposite phases. Define these and it at once becomes
clear that the whole is greater than its part. Indeed,
axioms are but definitions in an incorrect form.*

But further, the idea of Equality involves the idea
of number. Things that are equal, or alike, must be
counted. Unlike things may be described, but like
things must be numbered. In these fundamental
concepts we have all the material necessary to
construct the science of Quantity.

From these definitions we can readily understand
how it is that the ideas are innate, or rather constitu-
tional, and at the same time quite easily and fully
accounted for by the simple perceptive power of
intellect. No concept is created by any special act of
intellect. If they are peculiar, it is because they have
a special relation to some part of our nature. The
peculiarity of the idea of truth is, that in this world
of falsehood, intellect could not work without it.
When tlie mind, in examining a number of plienoniena,
comes upon one which is like a preceding, how could
it help noting the occurrence ? Not only does it take

* Another illustration of the natural tendency to take our concepts
as we find them and speculate upon them, instead of defining them.

THE BASIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES. 15

or our

filling
inition
ncern-
same
56 A is
antity.
s equal
er, the
dea of
ut the
ecomes
'ndeed,
.*

he idea
lust be
►ut like
Lmental
sary to

erstand
)nstitu-
id fully
>wer of
\ act of
3y have
3. The
1 world
lout it.
lorxiena,
^ could
it take

concepts
them.

a certain pleasure in the resemblance, but it finds its
labor lightened by so much, as when a copyist puts a
couple of dots for a lengthy description. The idea of
Equality is no more to the mind than any other idea,
except as it may be taken advantage of to save labor.
Hence the mind adopts the ideal. We shall find it
still more easy to account for the constitutional concept
of a straight line.

A Straight Line is the apparent course of Vision.
This involves two things : I'irst, it appears to the eye
as a point. Second, it is such that an object invariably
appears larger as we approach to it, and smaller as
we recede from it. By this definition we can at once
prove that two straight lines cannot enclose a space.
For if they could, we might place the eye at one of
the points of contact or section, and see the whole
perimeter of the space, yet see only a point, wherein
is no space enclosed, ^n the same manner we may
prove that two straight lines cannot coincide in part
without coinciding altogether.

These points are amply provided for by the com-
mon definition of a straight line. But there is another
difficulty, for which they make no provision. There
is another and greater gulf fixed in the early pathway
of geometers which has never yet been bridged by any
thing so respectable as even the 'pons asino'i'um. In
some editions of Euclid the difficulty is met by an
axiom ; namely, that two straight lines cannot be drawn
through the same point, parallel to the same straight
line, v/ithout coinciding. But this is manifest fraud.
Euclid himself, more honorably, met it by a postulate,
a plain confession that the thing had baffled him. A
postulate should, however, be something in its nature
not susceptible of proof. He asked us to admit, that
when a straight line falling upon two other straight
lines makes the interior angles upon one side less than
two right angles, the two lines shall, if produced, meet

I'.tJ

16 THE BASIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES.

upon that side. This, it will be seen, is the converse
of the proposition, that any two angles of a triangle
are together, less than two right angles. Neither
postulate nor axiom is needed but once ; namely, to
prove that lines which are parallel to the same straight
line are parallel to each other. It matters not which
we use, for by either we can prove the other. The
real problem is the same in each ; and may, indeed,
be put into a variety of other forms, apparently
different, yet ever the same sphinx riddle emerges
from them all.

A recent geometer makes this difficulty the point
where Geometry branches into three parts, dealing
with three different kinds of space, in one of which
the three angles of a triangle are together greater
than — in another, equal to — in a third, less than— two
right angles. Now Geometry is not the science of
space. It has nothing to do with space. It is the
science of Ideal Forms. Triangles and circles are not
spaces, but forms. Their size is of no account to the
geometer, but their shape, or form. A line or plane
superficies occupies no space, and belongs to no
particular space. Even solid figures are not spaces,
but figures ; that is, forms. But to return.

An object invariably subtends a larger angle of
vision .^hen it is near at hand than when it is more
remote. Therefore, of two objects which subtend the
same visual angle, that which is near is invariably
less in that dimension of it which subtends the angle,
than that which is more remote. Therefore, any two
lines of vision starting from the eye, diverge con-
tinually ; that is to say, lines that converge, converge
continuously, up to the point of section. Hence, it is
obvious that convergent lines at any finite distance
from each other, must meet if produced far enough.
Therefore, parallel lines do not converge, but are

mverse
riangle
Neither
nelv, to
jtraight
which
•. The
indeed,
arently
merges

e point
dealing
£ which
greater
m — two
ience of
is the
3 are not
; to the
)r plane
; to no
b spaces,

ingle of
is more
bend the
variably
le angle,
any two
rge con-
jonverge
[ice, it is
distance
enough,
but are

THE BASIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES.

equidistant. By this we can readily prove that lines
which are parallel to the same, are parallel to each
other.

Consider now what basis is necessary to construct
the science of Geometry. We need : (I) Definitions
of Terms ; and we ask no permission to use whatever
terms are thought necessary, if only they be clearly
defined and consistently used. (2) One Postulate : Let
it be granted that any figure whether possible or impos-
sible, may be imagined to exist and be represented by a
diagram. Not a very difiicult postulate. All Geometric
figures are imaginary. Practically, drawings assist
our weaker capacity, but theoretically, the only pur-
pose of them is to afibrd a nomenclature. (8) Some
truths from the science of Quantity. To give a plane
or solid figure a certain form, it is necessary to give
its angles a certain size and its boundary lines a certain
ratio of length. For these things we must have help
from the science of Quantity. The truths needed for
this purpose are all easily proved, as we have seen, by
definitions given above.

On this basis then, of Definitions and Postulate,
the science of Geometry is of absolute authority. Any
definition is absolute proof within its own limits. But
the science of Geometry claims something more. It
claims, or at least should claim, that inasmuch as its
fundamental definitions are based upon important
facts in the constitution of man, it has deep and vital
relations with human life. Its principles are not
merely conventional and arbitrary, like those of chess
for example. And the above definitions indicate this
fact, and attach the science to the facts of life. They
do so because they are formed on the only scientific
prim iple of definition, the principle of the relativity
of knowledge. They show how the thing defined is
related to man.

IS THE BASIS OF THE DEDUCTIVE SCIENCES.

With respect to a straight line, indeed, no other
definition is adequate ; no other adequate definition is
possible. To be adequate, it must involve, first, that
straight lines are such that two cannot coincide in
more than one point without coinciding altogether ;
and second, that they are such that two which do not
meet, if produced, are eciuidistant. Now, we cannot
prove, and we have no right to assume, that the two
things are compatible. To be sure everybody knows
that they are ; but what everybody knows is nothing
to the Geometer. He wants proof.

other
lition is
st, that
icide in
i^ether ;
do not
cannot
he two
knows
nothing

METAPHOR iN MENTAL SCIENCE.

Suppose a number of persons enclosed for life in
a row of similar and similarly furnished cells. Suppose
them neither to know, nor have any means of know-
ing, what each other's apartments are like, any more
than a conjecture that they are probably all of the
same type, but to have a common outlook. Suppose
them to be able to converse freely, and to have a
complete nomenclature for all the objects within their
common view. Having exhausted all the available
subjects for conversation afforded by these objects,
their curiosity is aroused concerning each other's
apartments. How shall they proceed ? One of them,
wishing to speak of a particular object in his cell,
looks for something outside where all can see, having
a resemblance to the article within, directs his neigh-
bour's attention to that, and tells him of something
like it. His neighbour, having observed the object as
directed, finds at once a resemblance to the corres-
ponding article in his own cell, and thus a connexion
is established. The article is now known by the name
of its external type. In this way names would be
given to everything in the cells ; and their system of
communication would embrace, not only the great
external world, but also the little miniature worlds,
whereof each had one to himself.

It is in this way that we name the things we see
by the light of consciousness in our minds ; from a
likeness or analogy or relation to outward, sensible
things. How else could we possibly name them ?
We may attach any vocable to a material object for a

METAPHOR IN MENTAL SCIENCE.

name, because we have unmistakeable indications of
what it is to represent. But we cannot put our
finger on the phenomena of consciousness. We can only
call them up to our neighbour by mentioning their
likeness to something else. A thought from the inner
life of man, once finding expression thus in fitting
metaphor, wakes the same thought in every mind that
receives it ; and thenceforth becomes a living and
working principle in language. Talk about such
things " coming down from the schoolmen !" They
come out of the soul of every one that uses them.
The schoolmen may have meant anything by them
for aught we know, but we mean by them what we
feel within us ; that or nothing.

By this process all the faculties of mind have been
named and classified. Here we have a system of prac-
tical Psychology which has the double advantage of
being the result of unconscious (i. e., un-selfconscious)
thinking, and the joint production of innumerable
thinkers, which none of the professed systems can
ever displace. Who, for instance, would estimate a
man's mental powers on the basis of Sir William
Hamilton's classification ? The world may be willing
enough to follow him in what it calls theory, but in
practice, like some stupid, wise, old grandam, it prefers
to walk by its own light.

We may note here the corollary that philosophers
should seek light from the usages of common speech
on this subject. The primal division of the practical
powers of the soul — into head and heart, or cognitive
and conative — has been thoroughly understood by
philosophers as well as gossips. But in the classifica-
tion of the powers of intellect there are one or two
points that the gossips, have clearly apprehended,
which the philosophers have as yet failed to grasp.
In appraising a man's gifts of intellect, how common
it is to say that he has a splendid memory but no

METAPHOR IN MENTAL SCIENCE.

judgment, or that his judgment is good but his
memory not so good as it might be : i. e., we include
all the powers of intellect except memory under one
creneral head. The perceptive power is one and the
same whether acting with memory in recollection or
reminiscence, or by ^itself in forming a concept, a
judgment, or an inference, or in that more rare and
peculiar act of discernment which constitutes inventive
genius, or creative imagination, or detects a principle
widely applicable, in a few phenomena — shoots it, so to
speak, like a flash of crystallization, away into unex-
plored regions, there to be a base for new formations
and departures. Something like this doctrine is found
in Sir William Hamilton's doctrine of consciousness ;
but it is in a scarcely satisfactoiy form. Of course
the philosopher understands this as well as the gossip
when he turns gossip himself, in his unconscious
moments, if he has any. It is only when he puts on
his philosophic spectacles that he fails to see it.

The nomenclature of mind is then a natural
outgrowth of the nomenclature of matter. From this
fact we derive the rules for its use. Suppose that
one of our prisoners* should by mistake use the wrong
word in speaking of the internal thing and confusion
arise, it is evident that there must be a return to the
typical external in order to identify the article meant,
and enable the conversing parties to make sure that
they understand each other. This would make it
desirable that, except in the case of things so continually
spoken of that mistake would be impossible, one
word should be used to signify both. So the names
of mental things should retain a trace of their origin
There should be in them an unmistakeable su^'^estion
of the metaphor, first in order to give beginners a clue
to our meaning, and second, to give life and reality to
our thoughts for learners of all ages, to make our
words suggest things. It is not for nothing that

METAPHOR IN MENTAL SCIENCE.

language grows by natural law. When a now nu^aning
is added to a word, the old is a kind of ch(!(fk or
balance to the new. It makes us perceive thc^ new
idea as it was first perceived, which is sure to luj the
best way. This advantage is lost if a new term bo
adopted. Thus, had we instead of tho two terms
" conscience " and " consciousness," one word with tho
two meanings, we should understand conscienoi) bettor.
The confusion which such double meanings produce
is mainly 'maginary. They ought to cause confuwion,
according to all the, rules of sound deductive^ philo^
sophising, but they do not. Hence we find that in
common speech, where natural laws are least interfered
with, all words and phrases pertaining to mind, except
a few which occur very frequently, are metaphors,
" still fluid and florid." And even in the excciptional
cases we continually vary the phrase by introducing
a metaphor, as though our very thouglits wcu'o
metaphorical. Philosophers, on the other hand, have
complained of the use of metaphor in mental Hcionce,
as though that were the chief evil in connexion with
it, instead of being the only thing that has saved it
from utter ruin and scholasticism.

Our conceptions of material things are intuitive,
and we name them by names merely conventional.
Our conceptions of those mental things whereof wo
have a clear consciousness are also intuitive, btit wo
name them by symbols ; that is to nay, the names
which we give them, we give in virtue of some
previous meaning, — they are not mere, but Rymbolic.
But there are many things connected with mind of
which we are not at all, or at most but very vagucjly
and dimly, conscious. Such are the ettects of
education upon the mind, or of a religious life upon
the soul. Of these things and such as these, oven our
conceptions are symbolic ; the so-called idea is a sign
by which we represent an unknown quantity, We

3N0E.

METAPHOR IN MENTAL SCIENCE.

1 a now mnanin|[^

ncl of vMvvk or

rceivo tlu^ now

s sure to ha tlio

a new term be

the two terms

3 word witli tlio

)n.science better.

anin^'H prorhico

cause confufciion,

lecluctiv(^ pbilo'

we find that in

least interfenul

to mind, except

are inetapboi's,

the exceptional

by introducing

thoufjfhtH were

)ther hand, have

1 mental s(;iencc,

connexion with

hat has naved it

's are intuitive,
ly conventional,
ngs whereof wo
ntuitive, but wo
say, the names
virtue of some
e, but symbolic.
I with mind of
at very va^'uely

the effects of
igious life upon
5 these, even our
id idea is a sign

quantity. We

know not the thing itself but its conditions or results,
and by these we think it. Hence though in dealing
with phenomena which consciousness reports clearly,
we might after a time be able to drop metaphor, yet
here we must have it to represent our ideas to
ourselves. Our thoughts seem to melt away into thin
air when we try to avoid it. Nothing can be more
baffling than the attempt. To illustrate : Space, as
the place of bodies, belongs to the world of matter,
and is an intuitive conception. Time is an intuitive
conception to the extent of our experience, and for the
rest a symbolic conception. When we " look far back
into other years," notice how inevitably time becomes
a stream, a train, a course, or the like. We cannot
even in thought turn to the great names of liistory
but they will be beacon lights twinkling in long
succession or the like ; they will dance you to tune of
some fantastic metaphor, do what you will.

This pretty passage from '•' The Mill on the Floss '*
is highly illustrative : — " It was Mr. Stillman's favorite
metaphor that geometry and classics constituted that
culture of the mind which prepared it for the reception

of any subsequent crop It is astonishing

what a different result one gets by changing the
metaphor. Once call the mind a mental stomach, and
the ingenious conception of the classics and geometry
as ploughs and harrows seems to settle nothing. But
it is open to anyone else to call the mind a sheet of
white paper, or a mirror, in which case ones knowledge
of the digestive processes becomes wholly irrelevant."
Yet how is one to escape metaphor ?

If a metaphor be purely artistic in its purpose, it
must, of course, be symmetiical. In rant, a mixed
metaphor cannot be endured. But when metaphor is
used, not for ornament but for expression, there is no
law against mixing. Bead Hamlet upon Osaric : —
" Thus has he and many more of the same bevy that I

METAPHOR IN MENTAL SOIENCJE.

:„'/

know the drossy age doats on, only got the tune of
the time and outward habit of encounter ; a Jdnd of
yesty collection that carries them through and through
the most /b??(Z and winnowed opinions; do but hloio
them to their f riaZ the bubbles are out." Beside this,
it were comparatively easy to " take arms against a
sea of troubles. Yet the thought is admirable ; and
not only so, but the manner is matchless ; every word
tells; every new metaphor adds a new idea. Its
surpassing excellence is that you never think of the
manner, but give your whole strength to the thought.
Read, again, Col. ii. 7, " So walk ye in him rooted and
built up in him and stablished in your faith even as
ye were taught" Here, too, the metaphor is the
perfect expression of the thought, and it is no more.
The balance between the two is perfectly held. Man
begins in spiritual science, by speaking in metaphor
and thinking in metaphor, and so gets poesy for
knowledge. Failing this, he rushes away to the
opposite extreme of abstract thought and abstract
speech, 'and gets metaphysics for knowledge. Finding
this a worse failure than the other, he settles down
toward the golden mean of pure thought and
metaphorical expression,

INOE.

rot the tune of
nter ; a kind of
igh and through
18 ; do but hlow

" Beside this,

arms against a
admirable; and
ess ; every word

new idea. Its
ver think of the

to the thought.
1 him rooted and
3ur faith even as
netaphor is the
id it is no more,
ectly held. Man
ing in metaphor
I gets poesy for
es away to the
ght and abstract
wledge. Finding
:', he settles down
ire thought and

THE CIRCLE OF THE SCIENCES.

All knowledge is either knowledge of matter, or
knowledge of mind. This is the first general division
of knowledge. Again, all knowledge is either sub-
jective or objective. We may study matter directly,
by observation, or we may study it indirectly, by
studying our forms of sense perception ; and we may
study man as the abstract human being, or as " that
various creature, man ;" in the structure of his mental
constitution, or in the practical working of that con-
stitution, with its endless varieties, in every day life.
We have thus a double two-fold division of science,
giving these four parts : First, the Objective-Material,
Physical Science ; Second, the Subjective-Material,
Mathematics ; Third, the Subjective-Spiritual, Mental
Science ; Fourth, the Objective-Spiritual, Humanity,
or the science of men. The first three of these four
departments are commonly spoken of as branches of
science ; their individuality, so to speak, has been
sufficiently recognized. It is not so, I think, with the
fourth. Yet it is not a mere sweeping together of
promiscuous remnants. It has its parts as firmly
bound together by broad and important principles, as
any of the others.

The various sciences which go to make up this
branch difier widely as to the amount of genuine
matter which they contain. Some are all kernel and
no husk, and some are pretty much all husk ; and
there are not a few who, blinder than Bunyan's man
with the mucki'ake, value a science just in proportion
as it furnishes husks.

THE CIRCLE OF THE SCIENCES.

The first place belong^s to the science of human
nature, as we study it in the living specimen.
Apparently it will never be reduced to a formal science,
because it seems, the better part of it, to be a kind of
understanding in sympathy which eludes every
attempt to put it into words. Hence every one must
go to the originals for himself. It is always in its
primary stage of original investigation. Men may
read Shakespeare, and yet go away and straightway
write Sunday school books, whose philosophy of man
is something like this : A man is either good or not
good, that is, bad ; a good man will do what is good,
and a bad man will do what is bad ; it is foolish to do
what is bad, therefore the bad man is foolish and the
good man wise and sensible 1 It is comforting to
reflect that when many shall run to and fro and
knowledge shall be increased, when there shall be
nothing else to learn of which some votary shall not
stand ready and anxious to teach, this best and
greatest of the sciences will always be fresh and
inviting to the investigator who wishes to be
independent.

Of the rest we can only indicate the order in the
most general manner. Among the first may be named
the study of mobs or assemblies of any sort. There
are few more interesting subjects for oi3servation and
study than an assembly of men when interested or
excited. But we study it in vain, unless we catch
upon our sympathy the feeling which makes the
individual mind surrender, to some extent, its
individuality, and which still guides it as part of the
wliole. Next may come the study of habit, or
settled modes of action adopted by single nunds.
Next, tlie study of biograpliy — especially autobio-
grapliies — and general litei'ature, in which we examine
the workings of single minds as they may be repre-
sented to us by words only, without the sensible

;bs.

THE CIRCLE OF THE SCIENCES.

jnce of human
ing specimen,
formal science,
io be a kind of

eludes every
ivery one must

always in its
on. Men may
id straightway
losophy of man
ler good or not
o what is good,

is foolish to do
foolish and the

comforting to
o and fro and

there shall be
votary shall not

this best and
^s be fresh and

wishes to be

the order in the
st may be named
my sort. There
observation and
len interested or
unless we catch
hich makes the
3me extent, its
it as part of the
ly of habit, or
by single minds,
pecially autobio-
v^hich we examine
ey may be repre-
lout the sensible

^'fi

indications of countenance and demeanor. Then
history, and finally settled modes of action adopted
by bodies of men, including — modes of thought and
feeling exhibited (in literature and otherwise) by
different races in different ages, etiquette and fashion,
customs, laws, religions an dlanguage. All these are
the outcome of humanity, built, like coral, by many
lives, and we must study them as human or we shall
miss the lessons they are intended to teach. Unless
they teach us man they are but "loads of learned
lumber."

Further they can only teach us man in proportion
as we know man previously. " To him that hath
shall be given." The theory of induction is that we
are led up to principles by examining details ; but
practically we conjecture the principles from one or
two details and apply them to the rest for verification.
Often we can find no clue to certain of the details
until we approach them with the proper principles.
Thus it is here. It is by studying the living man that
we are to get the hints useful to open up dark and
difficult problems in philosophy, history, literature
and philology. The lesson of this is that a true, real,
wide and deep knowledge of men is absolutely
necessary to true thought on any humanitarian
subject — that the heaviest abstract reasoning or the
loftiest eloquence, unaccompanied by such knowledge,
is worthless, and may with perfect safety be disre-
garded.

The four departments of knowledge are connected
into a circle. Physical Science is nearly connected
with Mathematics, which again is closely linked with
Metaphysics and Logic ; the line between the two
branches of the science of the soul — they might be
called after the manner of the logicians, Pure and
Mo<lified Psychok)gy — it is almost impossible to
trace ; and when we study humanity in general, we

THE CIRCLE OF THE SCIENCES.

come inevitably upon " this muddy vesture of decay "
which " doth grossly close us in " the " Garment "
which " represents Spirit to Spirit," and we are back
again to the beginning. On the other hand, the
opposite parts, Humanity and Mathematics, Physical
Science and Mental Philosophy, are utterly unlike and
disconnected. Every member of the circle stands in
a relation of partial resemblance and partial contrast
with his neighbour on either hand, and of full
contrast with the remaining opposite one. I think
something corresponding to this is observable in men's
various tastes and talents.

All science is of the understanding, but each of
these four departments appeals to the understanding
in a special way. The first is the science of sense,
the second of Dure intellect, the third of consciousness,
and the fourth of sympathy. Sj^mpathy, "the one
poor word which includes all our best insihgt and all
our best love," is, unlike the others, a composite
faculty, calling our whole nature into exercise. It is,
for scientific purposes, the power of appreciating, as
like our own, the actions and emotions of others.
These are the psychological relations of knowledge.

ELEMENTS OP RELIGION AS TRACED IN

HUMAN NATURE.

PART L— -OF HUMAN NATURK

That every one should love his neighbor as him-
self, that each should have at heart the interests of
every one as he has his own, and that humanity
should be thus bound together in love as a living
whole, — this, I suppose, is the ideal of humanity.

It would be in accordance with Shakspeare's
theory, that " nature is made better by no mean, but
nature makes tliat mean " to call this the natural state
of man. It is natural as opposed to perverted or
distorted. It is more common, however, in this
connexion to use th» word natural as opposed to
cultivated or trained. In this sense the natural state
of man is very different from the ideal state. The
primary impulse of every human being, and we may
as well say of every sentient being, is a desire for
self-gratification. Our natural affections may seem
exceptions, but they are not so. The primary impulse
is to make them merely ways and means of personal
enjoyment. Mark that I am not saying that all men
are utterly selfish. Far from it. I speak merely of
the instinctive impulse, as yet unaffected by religious
or moral training. In all our natural desires the
fundamental principle is something which looks to self
alone and makes no provision for another, pnd which
looks to the pi-esent alone and makes no provision for
the future. This is man's total depravity. This is
what Paul meant by the carnal mini
2

ELEMENTS OF RELICaON.

Now to follow blindly the leadings of these natural
desires, is the sure way not only to miss in large
measure the very gratification we seek, but to bring
upon ourselves unnumbered ills. (It is to be remem-
bered here and always that every principle of the
science of human nature must be understood with an
" other things being ecjual," and that the " other
things" are never equal. I suppose this is why
mathematicians and logicians are so often utterly
unable to find a principle in it at all.) I need not
insist upon this familiar doctrine. It i» one which
almost all the world's great moral leaders have never
wearied of repeating — which we should call common-
place were it not too sacred. Yet, what is happiness
but gratification ? And man was made to be happy.
Here is the riddJe of existence which, " to your unre-
generate Prometheus Vinctus of a man," seems ever
so full of perplexity.

The perversity of the natural man arises inevitably
from the simple and manifest circumstance that we
are sensible of our own present pains and pleasures
and insensible of anothei-'s and of the future. The
former we have by direct consciousness ; the latter
through intellect, by an inference. This view of the
case suggests the remedy. Intellect — the understand-
ino of man — is natures mean for making nature
better. Did man live in accordance with the dictates-
of reason, he would esteem his future welfare equally
important with his present happiness; — he would
regard his neighbour's feelings as equal in every
respect to his own, and treat them so ; that is to say,
he would love him as himself — he would live the
perfect life. The teachings of reason <ind not tlie
promptings of passion are in accordance with the
constitution of man, and the true guide to happiness.
Because we are constructed upon i-egutar principles,

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

P these natural
miss in large
:, but to bring
to be remeni-
rineiple of the
rstood with an
at the "other
) this is why
often utterly
.) I need not
t i» one which
Lors have never
d call conunon-
at is happiness
le to be happy.
" to yonr unre-
,n," seems ever

,rises inevitably
stance that we
i and pleasures
le future. The
Less ; the latter
bis view of the
the understand-
making nature
lith the dictates,
welfare equally
ess; — he would
equal in every
; that is to say,
would live the
jn ^nd not the
dance with the
ide to happiness,
gular principles,

according to definite laws, which must be observed.
Laws are the province of intellect. Passion knows
them not , it is not subject to any law, neither indeed
can be. ISow it is precisely the antagonism here
indicated between passion and reason, between the
law of the mind and the law in the members, the
flesh and the spirit, which makes man a fit subject
for moral probation. Without it he would be either
an angel or a brute. The natural impulses of the
brutes are precisely analogous to those of man, yet
they follow their guidance with almost perfect
immunity from the miseries which a similar course
brings upon him. They have no struggle. But man's
superior intellect enables him to carry his self -gratifi-
cation to a more ruinous excess, and, in connection
with his finer and more varied sensibilities, it makes
him capable of higher pleasures, which are lost by
such a course, and breeds nausea and disgust. Hence
arises a struggle between the two parts of his nature.,
Hence he is a moral beincf. The moral nature is not
a part of the whole, like the mental or physical, but
a quality of the whole. There is nothing in the fact
of man's moral nature to disprove his descent front
the brutes. The keen observer of animal nature
notes well that the similarity between his nature and
theirs is intended to teach him very important lessons
concerning his own nature and duty.

Accordingly, some tell us that education is the
proper remedy for vice. Instruct the intellect, say
they, and let it rule. But how if intellect be the
slave and not the ruler of the passions ? There is no
allowance here made for the fact that the testimony
of sense is a thousand-fold more impressive to tlie
uncultivated mind of man than the testimony of
intellect. No one is able to believe in another's
susceptibility to pain and pleasure as he believes in

eS2

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

his own. Theoretically he may, but practically he
does not. Burns' lines

*' wad some power the giftie gie ub
To see oursels as ithers see us

are forever applicable. Our passions warp our ju ig-
ment. So much is this so, that in the majority of
cases the opinions of men on any subject requiring
thought serve merely to indicate their feelings and
prejudices. That much and justlj^ lauded quality,
common sense, consists far more in an equitable
balance of the passions than in any superiority of
intellect. Now this warping tends, as invariably as
the attraction of gravitation tends toward the centre
of the earth, in the direction of our own enjoyment,
and though, like gravity, it may sometimes seem to
produce effects exactly the contrary of those which it
usually produces, yet, like gravity, it is always present
and always to be allowed for. In the man of feeble
intellect, it will lead to gross blunders. The more
highly gifted, by a longer process and with greater
subtlety, will yet arrive at a strikingly similar result.
Thus it happens that man is always prone to under-
estimate his own duty if it be irksome to him, as
almost all real duties are in some way. But note, it
does not follow that he will under -estimate his neigh-
bour's duty — rather the contrary. That is not irksome
to him. He will more probably over-estimate it,
especially if it be a duty to himself. And it may
easily be that between two of his neighbours his
judgment will be perfectly un warped and just, as
horizontal motion is utterly unaffected by the action
of gravity.

Since, then, mere intellect is so little successful in
rectifying character, it must be supplemented and
supported somehow. But how ? Chiefly, of course,
by the effect of personal character passing from man

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

Ji3

practically lie

psrarp ourjuig-
,he majority of
bject requiring
ir feelings and
auded quality,
1 an equitable
superiority of
IS invariably as
ward the centre
)wn enjoyment,
letimes seem to
f those which it
s always present
le man of feeble
lers. The more
nd with greater
ly similar result,
prone to under-
some to him, as
y. But note, it
timate his neigh-
lat is not irksome
)ver-estinmte it,
if. And it may
I neighbours his
)ed and just, as
ied by the action

ttle successful in
applemented and
:;hietly, of course,
)assing from man

to man. The essential power of Christianity through
all the ages has been and still is the moral force of
Christ's human character. But this is a matter which
lies outside our present plan, inasmuch as the power
acts upon us independently of our consent or coopera-
tion. What I wish noted is, that intellect in its
struggle with passion is largely supported by its own
forethought and contrivance. Any one may observe
in the present order of things a gradual triumph of
mind ovei* force, and there are not wanting indications
that in this lies as much as we shall ever be able to
grasp of its meaning. Now, mere intellect has no
power to resist force until it learn to use force for its
own purposes. But having learned that, it retains
the knowledge, and makes use of it on all future
occasions. Thus it gradually increases its power. It
is so in the struggle of intellect to subdue passion.
Intellect works for eternity ; passion for the moment.
We have, moreover, the benefit of the suggestions of
earlier thinkers. In the individual soul all this must be
taken advantage of. There must be a persistent and
systematic cultivation of habits and affections contrary
to the flesh and in agreement with our higher nature,
according to the best rules and with the best helps
available. In one word, there must be Religion.

PART II.— OF SELF-CULTURE.

Some desires we have, the gratification of which
not only does not interfere with the enjoyment of
others, but even gives pleasure. It is obvious that
reason can have no quarrel with these. Yet even the
pleasure which they afford is transfused with a
spiritual element when we taste it with a superadded
delight in the pleasure of others. It is not strictly

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

with the desires that reason is at strife, but with
tlmt regard for self and disreii^ard of others whicli is
their radical principle, and which is the result of tlieir
purely personal nature. It is out of this selfishness,
on the one hand, and reason on the other, and by
means of a struggle between them, that spiritual
strength — sti'ength of character — is developed. Eveiy
selfish wish, mastered by a higher })urpose, is trans-
forihod into spiritual power. The natiual disposition
to rule our actions which resides in the intellect is,
strengthened into virtuous character by opposition
overcome, and our natural selfishness supplies the
opposition. We make, as St. Augustin stiid, " a
ladder of our vices." (Here comes in that mysterious;
factor of the will which eludes every analysis ; any
explanation of the matter must therefore of necessity
be superficial.) The stronger our passions are, the
greater the self-denial necessary to restrain them, and
the greater the spiritual strength thereby gained.
You may notice it in men and women that those who
take keenest delight in the pleasures of earth have,,
when they rule their own spirits, most powei* over
their fellows for good or ill. Man has hoan endowed,
not with a high and holy character, but witli the
material out of which such a character may be foi'med,,
and, to some extent, the power to form it for himself,
A self-made holiness should have, it would seem, an
individuality and a power that one merely created
never possess. For this are we put in probation.

This same subjugation of tlie passions to reason is
the fundamental pj-inciple of all worldly prudence and
the secret of almost all worldly success. " It is
ordained in the eternal constitution of thing's that the
man of intemperate mind cannot be free." It was by
sowing " blind hopes " in the hearts of men that
Prometheus prevented t'lem from foreseeing the future.
Consider how Napoleon's cold, calculating indiffereinc^

strife, but with
otluM-s which is
le result of their
this selfishness,
e other, and by
1, that spiritual
3velope(l Eveiy
)urpose, is trans-
itural disposition
i the intellect ia
)Y by opposition
ess supplies th»
gustin siiid, " a
I tliat mysterious
ry analysis ; any
'fare of necessity
passions are, the
estrain them, and
ther(d)y gained.
m that those who
es of earth have,
most power over
las boiin endowed,
,er, but with the
er m,ay be f orme<U
)rm it for himself.
t wouhl seem, an
16 merely created
in probation.

,ssions to reason is

Idly prudence and

success. " It la

of things that the

fn^e." It was by

arts of men that

reseeing the future.

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

to the feelings of men help.^d him to success, and how,
on the other hand, his own unreasoning selfishness
wrought to his fall. Or coi^sider Raleigh's action
with that celebrated cloak. Had he been one of the
many, thoughts of the value of the garment would
have come over him like a spel^ and ere he could
have seen that the occasion might make an even
greater sacrifice profitable, the opportunity would have
passed by. Or Ca3sar's action in dismissing his
mutinous soldiers. With that sublime confidence in
eternal laws which marks every great mind, he saw,
even in that hour of peril, that if he failed to subdue
them he would still be in no worse plight than if he
failed, as he certainly would, to cajole them. He was
not the man to adopt " that via rnedut which to timid
minds seems safe and judicious because not going to
extremes, but which does yet, like all weak things,
manage to embrace the evil of both and the good of
neither." " Barring his pestilent ambition," he was
the most rational of men. Other men might, as he
says, believe what they wished true — fere liberiter
homhiefi id quid voluvt, credu/iit — he, like Thucydides,
was " concerned with the everlasting fact." In short,
all the grand working qualities of genius, that
continual presence of mind, which makes us ready for
any unheard-of emergencj^ that high intellectual
courage which never shrinks from facing an unpleasant
truth, that stern reliance upon facts which endures no
manner of humbug,- — they mean simply the strong
rule of the intellect over all weak feeling. They are
spiritual — not in the sense in which religious
sentimentalists use the word, nor in the sense in which
those use it who complain that the present age is
lacking in spirituality, meaning that its faith in the
supernatural seems to wane, or who complain that
certain great thinkers, as George Eliot and Confucius,
are lacking iu spirituality because they dwell chiefly

ELEMENTS OF RELIOION.

on the eternal realities of this life — -hut sf)i ritual in
the true apostolic sense of the word in which it
denotes the rule of the higher parts of our nature over
the lower. I do not say they are virtu«;s, hut the
lack of them is always a fault. If a man " do not
love himself," as lago says, how can he know liovv to
love his neighbour? " 'Tis in ours<<lvi's," he adds,
" that we are thus or thus. Our lioditjs are our
gardens ; to the which, our wills are gardciiicrs : so
that if we will plant nettles, or sow h^ttuce ; set
hyssop, and weed up thyme ; supply it with one
gender of herbs, or distract it with many ; (iith(;r to
have itsteril with idleness, or mainired with industry ;
why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies
in our wills. If the tJ.ance of our liv(js had not one
scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the
blood and baseness of our natui'es wt)ul<l conduct us
to most preposterous conclusions. Hut we have
reason to cool our raging motions, our (-arrjal stings,
our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that you call
love to be a sect or scion." Observe that he makes
no distinction between reason arid will. Because will
js merely desire guided and foiinulated by reason.

But there are matters of worldly suc(!esM that are
beyond the reach of mere worldly [)rud«;nce, matters
in which its whole tendency is to defeat its own en<ls.
There are desires which must be uttcirly renounced
before they can be gratified. How many a youth, for
example, has to learn, as Whately did, to bear his
embarrassment and awkwardness in (jompany before
he can take the first step toward getting rid of these
great troubles. Again, there is jxirhaps nothing
which is dearer to the hearts of men in general than
force of personal character or power with their
fellows. But nothing can more effectually deprive us
of this power than an eager desire to possess it. He
that loveth it, loseth it ; he that hatctli it, findeth it.

-but Hpi ritual in
Old in wi»ich it
,t' our uaturo over
virtutsH, but tho
f a nuiu " <b) not

I \u\ know bow to
,s(<lv«'s," be adds,
,. ])0(lieH are our
tire <„oinb^ner.s : ho

HOW b'ttuce; set
pply it witb one

II numy ; '^itln^r to
tred witb industry;
ibority ot tbis bes
i' lives bad not one

of sensuality, tbe
woul<l conduct us
iH. Hut we bave
* our carnal stings,
/ tbis tbat you call
arve tbat be nmkes
will. Because will
dated by reason.

dly success tbat are
y prudence, matters
'defeat its own ends
,e utterly renounced
►w many ayoutb,tor
.ely did, to bear bis
H in company betore
I getting v'liX of tbese
is perbaps notbing
men in general tban
r povve.r witb tbeir
effectually deprive us
sire to possess it. He
it batcth it, findeth it.

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

If a man be over-anxious to be tbougbt highly of by
others, his opinions of men and things will be
influenced, magnetized, by theirs. When this is so
men instinctively recognize it, and the opinions go for
nothing. Above all things men love to find a man
with opinions and sentiments that are his own. They
are most apt to think him right who cares least what
they think. Again, the highest and truest oratorical
or literary success is greatly hindered by the passion
for fame. Its tendency is to make one a mere servile
imitator, to degrade genius into ingenuity and breed
bombast and affectation. It may be "the last
infirmity of noble minds ;" it is none the less an
infirmity.

The general principle under which these cases
come is that any anxiety concerning our own value
and importance in the world tends to defeat itself.
That value is like the morrow, one of the things
which we should take no thought for. It will take
thought for itself.

PART III— OF CHARITY.

In a subjugation of the passions to reason there
are two things involved ; first, self-denial ; and second,
that our self-denial be reasonable ; that is to say,
that it have a sufficient purpose to justify it. Now,
the only thing primarily valuable to man is the
happiness of sensitive beings. " That is not first
which is spiritual, but that which is natural." The
only object, therefore, which can justify self-denial is
the attainment of an equivalent of happiness for self or
for another. The chief sacredness as a duty, of self-
denial for ourselves, consists in the fact that it is a
duty to our neighbour. Our power of giving happiness
^depends upon it. We all feel that we have a right to

I I

•I

: i

ELEMENTS OF JlEM(av)N.

ask our tVionds iluit tlicy sluill cultivate tluiir povvoi's
and koc]) tlicm in tli(^ liiijjluvst ])()s,sil)l(^ (^tlicicnciy.
TluM'ct'oro we owe tlio saln(^ to tluMii. JI(Mico all the
duties that i'onn and sti-en^'theu ehaj'aetei" are included
in this, to love our neijj^hhour as ourselves, it is our
own holiness to seek another's happiness. To seek
the irood of men is the hi'diest i»:ood of num.

So Paul said with a I'citerated distinctness which
shows how anxious he was not to be niistak(^n.
(Rom. xiii. 8-10 ; (jial. v. 4.) His reasonintr shows his
drift more unmistakeably, if possible^., tluin his state-
ment. Love is the fulfilliuf^ of the law, because it
worketh no ill to his neUjIdMiir. But Christ mado
two statements of the whole duty of man which seem
to confiict. When asked about the ^reat connnandment
in the law, he jj^ave in answiu* two commandments.
(Matt xxii. .S7-4().) In the Sermon on the Mount ho
sunnned the law in the (jiolden Fiuh^ which coincid(\s
with the second of tlx^ two connnandments, omitting
the first alto<^(»ther. -Vhy is this ? J suppose because
the one is ecpiivaimt to the two. In the tii'st
is to be found the jjji'eat movinj^ pi'inciph*, of life, but
that which it moves us to do is in the s(H'ond. The
first contains the second ; the second fulfils tin; first.
When he sunmied the law in the two he was irivinix
instruction to the intellijj^ent lawyer. There is the
deliberation of thoujj^ht about it, Jt is the theoi'etical
truth. They are commands (Mid)odying tlu; unattain-
able ideal. They are the fundamc^ntal principl(^s of all
that is contained in tin; law and tlui pro]>h('ts — it
hauL^'s upon them. When he sunnu(;d the law in one
\\(\ was ])i'eachin!:»' to tlu^ peo))!e. Thei'e is the doej)
earnestiK'ss of work about it. It is the ])raclieal
ti'uth. It is a rul(! to ilirect us how wc may evisr
strive* toward the idc^al. All the ])ir('epts of m<>rality
amount simply to thih>, this is the law and the
prophets.

ELEMENTS OE HELITUON.

KMT' powers

nco all fclu'.

re includiMl

It is out'

-;. To seek

ncHs which
mistftkim.
(T shows his
n his statc-
, because it
hrist inado
which seem
nmandinent
iiiandments.
', Mount he
eh coincides
its, omitting
pose because
In the first
e of life, but
iccond. The
tils the first.

was j^dving
rhere is the
le theoretical
:,h(; unattain-
nciples of all
propliets — it
le law in one

1 is the deep
the ])rael,ieal
,ve may ever
s of moi'ality
law and tho

Many orthodox theolooijuis have held that Christ
and l*a,ul wer(^ not strictly correct in savinu^ that tlie
(Johh'U liule is the sinn of all virtue. lndee(l,the
church in all aujes has been profoundly sceptical in
this matter. Ilisho]) J-Jutlei-, foi- exam])le, shows
conclusively that sti'ict truthfulness at all times is not
included in benevolence. I'here ai-e times when to bo
wholly truthful is to be wholly selfish. Yet ho
(!steems it a vii'tue. That the whole <lutv of man is to
seidv the happiness of othiM's as he does his own is tho
Very hardest thinj^ for hunian luiture to b«dieve.
Because it is the wry hardest duty to pei-form. Men
would have something (easier. In ten thousand way?*
and upon ten thousand pretexts will they evade tho
point, making the conniiandment of (»od of nemo
effect through their tradition. One will have it that
the way of salvation is by receiving absolution.
Another, that it is by baptism. A third, that it can
onl> come through the endltjss genealogy of apostolic
succession, A fourth, forgetting that the chui-ch was
made for man, and not man for the church, insists
that the one thing needful is faith in an authoritative
visible church. For man is a religicms being. He
cannot rest witlumt doing something for his soul's
salvation. So he cheats himself with tricks like
tlH\se. We may sui'cdy have confidence enough in
God's g()()dn(^ss and truth to say that th(^ trul^st belief
will be most beneficial to the soul. J^ut a belief in
these things is not more beneficial to the soul than a
belief in tlie Anglo-Tsiael theory. Another class finds
the essence of all evil in social annisements and the
essence of all good in " proclaiming the gospel " to
I)e()ple who have heard exactly the sanu^ thing in
exactly the same way a thousand times ali'eady.
Even the author of JtJcce Ho7)i,(> is found Haying that
edification is greater than charity, inasnnich as it is
better to make a man holy than to mnka him hapi)y.

^$\

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

But should he not have made allowance for these two
things : lii'st, that it is far more within our power to
make him happy than to make him holy ; and second,
that the best, indeed almost the only true means of
edification is the example of charity; that edification
apart from charity is but sounding brass and tinkling
cymbal ? Others again hold theories metaphysically
correct, perhaps, but lacking moral stamina ; that is
to say, they do not set themselves squarely and sternly
against the evil with which they have to deal, viz.,
our selfishness. For instance, Goethe's doctrine of
culture takes but little account of it, and makes no
provision for guarding against its deceptive powers,
which is equivalent to a fallacy. Moreover, if we take
care to do good, culture will take care of itself. We
may safely be altruids in creed, for we are constitu-
tionally egoists. The keynote to a man's religious
belief is his doctrine of original sin, for that involves
his conviction as to his need of a religion. Once
more. There is nothing which men more, or more
continually crave than sympathy. Therefore sympathy
with those about is the most important duty of life.
Yet how many are utterly unable to look upon it as
a religious duty at all, at least in so far as the little
things of which life is chiefly made up are concerned.
On the other hand, they find no difficulty in looking
Upon prayer as a duty. Yet it is not included in the
second commandment. If a man seek to form his life
on that commandment, prayer is best left to the
healthy longings of the soul. " It is a necessity of
our humanity rather than a duty. To force it as a
duty is dangerous. Christ never did so ; never did it
till asked." His mention of prayer indefinite is not
commendatory. The great essential truth of Christian
orthodoxy is that to <lo as we would be done by is the
whole of a religious life, and they are the irxm heretics
and schisiiuUics who would divide and rend the

5'- J

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

r these two
\ii' power to
and second,
le means of
b editication
md tinkling
baphysically
ina ; that is
and sternly
bo deal, viz.,
doctrine of
id makes no
bive powers,
ir, if we take
itself. We
are constitu-
,n's religious
ihat involves
igion. Once
Dre, or more
ire sympathy
duty of life.
)k upon it as
r as the little
re concerned,
by in looking
eluded in the
form his life
left to the
necessity of
force it as a
never did it
iehnite is not
h of Christian
lone by is the
e true heretics
,nd rend tlie

church for a minor matter ; who having " swerved "
from the broad principle of charity, " have turned
aside unto vain jangling, understanding neither what
they say nor whereof they afRrm," because they are
without the guidance of that principle.

But more and more the world is coming to grasp
this truth. Doubtless there is and will be strenuous
resistance. It was so of old ; how should it be other-
wise now ? But there is a steady movement onward.
There is less of the Divine and more of the Human, or
to speak more correctly, less of pietism and more of
charity in the religion of the present than of any past
age. The feelings of awe and reverence play a less
and less important part in the life of man, and science
a more important one as time goes on. Men are ruled
less by impulse and more by principle ; less by
emotion and more by thought. It is part of the great
plan by which all things are being brought under the
dominion of intelligence. It is not that awe and
reverence and emotion are being withered out of life,
but that the restraining power which they once
exercised has come to be vested in the intellect, while
they fulfil their own more peculiar functions. Men
are learning that they must — not leave the Divine and
turn to theHuman,but — seek the Divine in and through
the Huinan. They can no longer be content with
their own devout imaginings, but look to be told with
a secular reality and a business-like clearness what
their duty is.

The maxim which Christ affirmed to be the law
and the prophets has been noted to occur in previous
writings some thirty or forty times. With scarcely
an exception, however, it is either in the negative
form, or with a limited application. It may be that
logically the tw^o forms amount to the same tiling,
but practically they amount to two very ditt'erent

I il I t

- .1} I

I i

«!

ill
•I

m !

ELEMENTS OP ftELlGlON.

things ; and the feelings which naturally take the one
form of expression or the other are two vastly
different things. The negative is often merely a
maxim of self-defence. It was a stock argument
with the orator Isocrates. The desire to base our
rights on a rational principle leads directly to it. It
has been used by many quite independent thinkers.
" If you do not wish me to treat you so, do not treat
me so." I have heard it enunciated quite distinctly
by men who had never heard of the Golden Rule.
Because it is the merest of common sense, involved in
the natural reason of every one Is it any wonder,
therefore, if it be found in ancient writings ? or that
when Aristotle was asked how we should behave to
our friends, he answered : " As we would have them
behave to us ?" A response so apt, so fitted to inspire
the dilletante questioner with disgust at a study that,
instead of affording fine-spun and beautiful theories,
was so disagreeably practical and common- sense,
certainly did not require an insight specially prophetic
for its utterance.

But Epictetus, some of the rabbins, Confucius and
Buddha made it a maxim of morality ; though their
proneness to use the negative form, which suggests a
dignified passivity rather than a Christian activity, is
marked. Confucius, however, teaches the positive
form, if not explicitly, yet in effect ; and what is of
far more vital importance, he taught that it was the
whole of morality. It is clear to almost any mind
when once it is suggested that it is a part of our
duty ; but to see in it, as Paul saw, the fulfilling of
the law, is a much rarer insight, as the history of
theology can show. To crowd it silently out with
other maxims is a favorite method of slighting it.
Confucius shows that he clearly understood the
matter. His expositions are admirably lucid, brief
and slight though they aic. His was a mighty

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

ake the oni^
two vastly
I merely a
: amument

,0 base our
ly to it. It
nt thinkers,
do not treat
be distinctly
olden Rule,
involved in
iny wonder,
ig3 ? or that
d behave to
I have them
ed to inspire
L study that,
ful theories,
mmon- sense,
ly prophetic

nfucius and

ihough their

h suggests a

1 activity, is

the positive

what is of

it was the

, any mind

part of our

fulfilling of

history of

1y out with

slighting it.

erstood the

lucid, brief

is a nnghty

intellect, with a grasp of moral subjects unsurpassed.
But he was little more than a great intellect. He
lacked moral power and earnestness. He did not half
appreciate the difficulty of obeying, even approxi-
mately, his maxim ; and of the absolute necessity there
is for every man to obey it to the utmost of his
power, he seems to have had no thought whatever.
As a moral leader, too, he was weak. He reminds us
continually of those modern philanthropists who are
forever teasing somebody to help put their pet schemes
in operation. But the glory of an intellectual truth
is that it may at any time be touched to life by a
practical application, and I cannot doubt that many
an earnest Chinaman has been helped by the clear
light of that wonderful intelligence shed on the
upward path to a higher and better life than he would
otherwise have attained. Should not such a one be
grateful to his helper. The hold which he has
obtained over the millions of China is a continual
puzzle to those who have not sufficiently considered
his intellectual completeness. It is a singular illustra-
tion of the strong, and above all, the enduring quality
of that fame which depends on the intellect alone.

" To be able to judge of others by what is nigh in
ourselves, this may be "called the art of virtue." So
said Confucius. A sapient and learned author of our
our own day, in a long and elaborate work on the
same subject, (Sidgwick's Methods of Ethics,) devotes
a dozen lines to the subject, dismissing it with the
profound observation tliat while it indicates clearly
tlie proper course in the relations of two persons with
each other, it makes no provision for the case in
which two should " agree upon a course of sin." But
what sin is that which is not included in the relations
of two persons with each other ? It must be of a
kind that worketh no ill to his neighbour. The
precept is obviously applicable to our relations with

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

1 1

all whom our actions may effect. Had he said,
" injury to a third " instead of " sin," the fallacy
would have been manifest, but by the vagueness and
unreality of the word " sin " it could be concealed.

The perfection of the method of thought implied
in the maxim, is the thing to be specially noted. We
are prone to favor ir own cause. By putting
ourselves in the place of our neighbour we invert the
error so that it may cancel itself. It is the proper
corrective to the depravity of human judgment. It
is a two-edged sword, being a corrective both to our
actions toward others and our desires from them. By
bringing the two into harmony it corrects both. It
is, of course, still the depraved human judgment
which makes the correction, and it is often impossible
to put ourselves in the place of our neighbour in any
wise adequately. In such cases the only course is to
make sure that the error, if any, is against ourselves,
and let it go. We are not likely to err gj-eatly in
this direction. A too nice calculation in any case is
not highly Christian.

Observe the beauty and simplicity of the scheme.
The wants of our nature are made the rule of our
life, but with this correction — which stiict reason
demands, why should we be happy more than
another ? — that we are to seek not our own good
merely, but the good of all. Notice how our concep-
tion of goodness is formed by thought following in
the track of this correction. Good is first that which
is agreeable to us, then the quality of the person
who brings us pleasure. First the natural, then the
spiritual.

A volume might be written on the Ethics of the
Golden Rule. Here we shall only remark that it
obviously includes everything that is for the good of
man.

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

PART IV.— OF FAITH.

The word faith has two meanings — a primary and
secondary, each of which may be best explained by
means of the word with which it is usually contrasted.
It is contrasted first with sight, and the difference is
that faith is belief in spite of apparently strong
evidence against it. Of course it is not belief in
spi' e of evidence. It is understood that the evidence
on which it rests lies deep and immovable, though it
be not striking or impressive ; and it is implied that
the evidence on the other side is of the opposite
character. Thus the scientist, when the result of an
experiment, or some strange phenomenon observed,
seems to contradict some established principle, feels
sure there must be a mistake somewhere ; he has faith
in the principle. Oi*, when a man whom we have
long known and found upright, is accused of acting
dishonorably, we refuse to believe it, having faith in
the man. Apparent lack of evidence may have the
same effect as apparent negative evidence. So the
author of the Epistle to the Hebrews defines it. So
Wordsworth uses the word with strict poetic accuracy ;

(( )

Tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes."

But the primary and typical faith is the belief in
the quiet and unimpressive testimony of reason as
against every form of vivid and striking but lying
witness of blind imagination ; and the typical phase
of that faith is the belief on the ground of reason
and despite all the warping influences of selfishness
that our neighbour has all those sensibilities and
wants of which we are so keenly conscious in our-
selves, that they are just as important as ours and are
to be so regarded by us. We can see easily enough
how it is in the abstract principle or between two of

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

onr neighbours — that is not faith, but sight — but in
our own case, on a practical occasion, it suddenly
becomes faith. Another phase of this typical faith
appears in matters prudential. I have spoken of
Cfiesar's confidence in external laws. Mr. Bartle's
opinion was that women are lacking in it, " thinks
two and two '11 come to make five if she cries and
bothers enough about it." Men have more of tliat
which is selfish or prudent. Women have more of
that which is unselfish or aflfectionate. Imagination
helps them to believe in another's feelings when no
feeling of their own prevents. Women have finer
and better impulses than men ; but men, as they have
more need, so they have perhaps more power of
walking according to reason.

This typical faith exists to a certain extent in every
one, though it be— as Thomas A. Kempis says of the
good which has remained in man fi-om the fall,
*' tariquaiyi scintilla qua'drnn hvienn hi civere.*' It is
involved in the very existence of a reasoning faculty.
Or, to continue the quotation, " Hcvc est ipsa vntio
nafuralis, circumfasa magna caligine, adhnc judi"
cium habens boni et mali, veri falslque distantiam,
licet impotens ademplere omne qwd a/pprobat nee
2^6110 jam lu/niine vevitatis, nee sanitate affect ionwin
saarum potiatwr.'* Before it can be effective, it
must pass from that " latent " state in which it
originally lies to a conscious and definite rule of
life. There must spring up in connection with
it a faith in the absolute necessity of acting upon it,
and a detei-mination so to act to the utmost of our
power. In our young enthusiasm, iudeed, befoi-e we
have felt the deadly weight of temptation, this is not
matter of faith but of sight. But afterward, when
the power of evil has i-isen like a blinding mist
between us and our goal, sight is dimmed to fuith.

ELEMENTS OF RELIGION.

Tims developed faith transforms the character.
< It is God's merciful law that feelin<i^s are increased
by acts done on principle." ..." Let a man foi*ce
himself to abound in small offices of kindliness.

, By and by he will feel them become the habit
of his soul," which is character. But the good habits
of the soul are not shackles of cast iron as evil habits
are. Theii* stren,<j^th is of the will, not of passion.
They consist rather in an evei-lasting tenderness of
heart, and freshness of feeling, and readiness of
sympathy, and alertness of vision. Wo do not rise
above the necessity of a struo^gV^ in this life, but only
into the region of highcir struggle.

This is nothing more than what I have already*
said in another form under the head of self-culture.
The subject is indeed but another phase of the same
subject. Strong faith means strong self-command,
and feeble faith means feeble self-command. And
this is true not only of faith, as I have defined it, but
on any definition, even on that most imbecile of
definitions— the modern theological definition, which
makes it merely belief in a person.

The life of faith is not the perfect life. It were
better, doubtless, to have the feeling than to act on
principle. But the feeling is not within the power of
our will ; and it is as Father Atwell said, " a great
thing to act I'ight when you feel wrong." We cannot
love our neighbour as ourself ; if we could we should
need no rule. But as we must walk by faith. Christ
gave the rule. No one

*' Keeps a spirit wholly true
To that ideal which he bears."

But we may still keep our ideal and ever press toward
it.

This brings us to consider the secondary meaning
of faith. Formerly it was contrasted with sight ;

ELEMENTS OF BELIGION,

and we found it to be sight limited and hindered by
tlie working of the carnal mind, by our selfish desires.
Now it is contrasted with works, and the principle of
the contrast is the same. The righteousness of works
is the keeping of the law, as limited and hindered by
the power of tlie tlesli. If a man with full purpose,
no matter with what success, act upon his belief, — if
it be a living faith, filled out to completeness by
works, he has the righteousness of faith. This is all
that man can do, therefore it is all that can be
be required of him. Hence we are justified by faith
and not by the deeds of the law. The righteousness
of our ideal is imputed to us.

This, of justification by faith, is the special doctrine
of Christianity ; but it is to be remembered that
Christianity goes further. It assures man that what-
ever his past life may hav^e been, if he now repent,
change his mind, he is reconciled to God and regene-
rated. There is a provision in man's nature too for
this, else his moral probation were a delusion.

It is the special doctrine of Christianity yet it is
older than Christianity. It had been taught in sub-
stance by the Psalmist ages before in the sweetest and
truest poetry that earth has ever heard (Ps. CIIL, 8-18)
** He knoweth our frame."

VOmiON AND RESPONSIBILITY.

Many of the words and phrases commonly used in
considering the subject of the Will are bad beyond
remedy. By a beautiful arrangement which philoso-
phers have been lamentably slow to understand and
take advantage of, there is a tendency to use the
word denoting any act of mind, in a generalised sense
to denote the peculiar mode of mental working which
produces that act. Thus " Judgment " is a general
term, including all judgments, and denoting thus the
special mode of mental action by which we form
judgments. So the term "Volition" should be used
to denote the action of the mind in willing. But we

must be ever on our guard

against

erectina: these

generalized ideas into conceptions of independent
existences, as we are liable to do ; and w^e are tenfold
so liable if, as has been done in the present instance,
we reject the term furnished by this natural law for
an ordinary individualising name. We find accord-
ingly that " The Will " has been universally treated
as an existence instead of a mode of action and much
confusion has been the result. Philosophers speak of
a self-determining power of the Will, of Liberty of the
Will or the like. How could a mode of mental
action have a " self-determining " power. Or how
could it be bond or free any more than, to use
Locke's simile " sleep could be swift or virtue
square ?" In short by this means tlie whole discussion
has been rendered futile, for by conceiving of the
Will as an existing thing metaphysicians have
enabled themselves to drop mind entirely out of their

VOLITION AND RESPONSiniLlTY.

'J'

cjileulations, and so have utterly iniss«Ml tlic roil
question, wliicli is not concern iii<j: the nature of Will
but coneernini;; tlie nature ol' tlie relation Ix'twceu
mind and Will, or more properly, between mind afid
Volition.

It may be stated thus : — Is there a eoiuiexion
between mind with its circumstances, an<l Volition,
such, that if the former were pfiven the latter
might therefrom certainly be dc<luc(Ml and foi'i^
known ? Are our volitions, a full knowled^^ci of tlw^
ease being supposed, traceable to possibilities in initid
and its environments, or are they not ? fs th(ir(% in
brief a relation of cause and effect, or is there not /
There are, of course, two theories. Let us test tlnMH.

To be valid, a theory of Volition must \h\ not
inconsistent with its observed conditions; to becomph-te
it must fully account for them. Thesis observiMl
conditions ai'e two : Moral Responsibility and Kr(*e-
agency. But Free-agency is accounted foi' by tlu^
existence of volitions, nor can anything be iiK^onsistent
with Free-agency which is not inconsistent with
Volition? Free-agency cannot, therefore, be made a
test. Moral Responsibility, therefore, is the- only
proper test of a theory of Volition. And it is inter-
esting to note, in this connexion, that the question
has only an interest within tlie sphere of moi'aJity.
The corollary is that the case of an action morally
indifferent, as actions in supposed cases aie apt to be,
lias no direct bearino; on the subject.

Before proceeding to apply the test, it nniy, ])«?r-
haps, be well to notice that ^Ioral Responsibility is a
fact. Ev«'rv human beinu: believes that he who luis
treate<l him well deserves well, and that he who has
treated him ill deserves ill ; ami that is sutlicietit for
our purpose. That belief can only be accounted for
hy the fact.

VOLITfON ANT) flESPONSiniLfTY.

Trv till' iH\i^ativ«* tlirory. Snpp<)s(» tliat nnr voli-
tions iiiv not traccul)!^ to ])os.sil»ilitit>.s in mind and itm
environments, wluit connexion liave my volitionw
witli me more tluni witli »)acl< Keteli ? Oltviously
none. Tiu'V sprinjj^ from elianee, and clianeo mijjflit a;H
well have <:fiven tliem to tluit eclebiatcMl pei'sona<4;e as
to mo. I am no moi'o i"esponsil»l(» tlum he. Uesj)on'-
sihility is annihihitcd instead of Ix^^ing accounted for
hy til at t]uM)i'y.

The artirmativo. Suppose that our volitions are
traceable to mind and its enviromnents. If our
volitions have sulhcient ca\is(?s in our nature and we
are responsible for the volitions, we are also responsible
!'or their causes, and so on up to the tirst. If that be
Scylla on our right hand, this is surely Charybdis on
our h^ft, and the case of your poor philosoplier
reminds one of that long-eared thinker of scholastic
renown hesitating between two bundles of hay.
These are the only two theories possible to human
understanding. We may, indeed, take an eclectic
middle course, tind hold that both are partly true.
But it is obvious that so far as the negative is true
we are not responsible, and so far as tlie positive is
true we ai*e not responsible, and between them they
seem to cover the ground.

It may be of interest to note here how the sup-
porters of each side are iri'esistible in attack and
ind^ecile in defense. Edwards, for example, confines
himself for the most part to showing that the Liber-
tarian view is untenable, in which he is entirely
vsuccessful. In one place, however, he defends his own
view by lemarking that not the source of the action
but the nature of it makes it blameworthy or praise-
worthy. Surely a child m ight answer, tiue ; but it is
the source which attaches the praise or blame to us.

The whole controversy, notwithstanding- the vast
literature it may boast, may be thus briefly summed :

fl-!

VOLITION AND RESPONSIBILITY.

Against the Positive or Predestinarian theory, there
is Responsibility ; for it, the law of Cause and Effect.
Against the Negative or Libertarian theory. Respon-
sibility and the law of Cause and Effect ; for it,
nothing. The evidence preponderates for the Positive,
manifestly. Of the two it is perhaps the less absurd,
and it hao been the more ably supported. We
may, perhaps, find it profitable to examine a little
some of the arguments advanced in support of it.

Efforts have been made to trace in consciousness
a connexion between mind and Volition ; or, in
other words, to find a criterion enabling us to deter-
mine beforehand what, in a given case, our volitions
shall be. Could such a one be found, it would
obviously decide the issue. That most commonly
accepted is expressed iri the statement that " the Will
is always determined by the strongest motive." T'^e
term strength, as applied to motives, is figurative, it
is that which produces results. The only true
measure, even of physical strength, is the extent of
its effect ; and as for strength of motives, we have no
way of knowing even what it means, save as we see
its results. The criterion is, therefore, after the fact,
worthless as last year's almanac. Another version of
the same is that " Volition ha-s always for its object
that which appears most desirable." But how are we
to know what appears most agreeable, save by the
fact that we chooso it. Unless this knowledge be
derived from a different source, it is a definition con-
cerning words only and not a judgment of comparison,
concerning things, and the criterion vanishes.
Edwards elsewhere says that the Will is determined
" by that view of mind which has the greatest degree
of previous tendency to excite Volition." But what
evidence have we that there is any such " previous
tendency ?" None, except its results, and they become
evidence only when we argue from them by the axiom

VOLITION AND RESPONSIBILITY.

isciousness

that every effect has a cause. But precisely the point
in dispute is whether the axiom holds in the case
before us or not. What may seem like such a
" previous tendency" in consciousness is itself of the
nature of Volition.

But there is a concession to be made. When the
good or agreeable things between which a choice is
to be made, are good or agreeable in the same kind,
the issue is manifestly dependent on the judgment,
and may fairly be conceived of as calculable. A
merchant — and we are all in so far merchants — will
certainly take, other things being equal, that course
of action which he believes will yield him most profit.
But the action is by supposition morally indifferent.
A choice between pleasures has no moral quality. To
be morally commendable or reprehensible it must be
a choice between right and wrong. Or if this be
objected to as rant, on the ground that if we choose
right or wrong it must be because we consider them
good, then the meaning of the term good is made
dependent on our choice, and the criterion becomes
after the fact. The good of doing right is like no
other good in the universe, and comparable with no
other on any standard known to man. It is of the
spirit ; the other is of the flesh. And what sort of
umpiie should the understanding be between tlesh
and spirit in any form : between faith and sense, or
pity and revenge, or sympathy and envy ; between
cahn judgment and heated passion, or far-sighted
prudence and blind desire ?

We may even admit that the power of the flesh
is in some degree calculable. There ij? such a thing as
knowledge of human nature, and no one would dream
of saying that it does not extend to actions having
outwardly a moral quality. " Character tends to final
permanence." The influence of early habits and
3

!f^

M '

?! 18

hi '' M ■

VOLITION AND RESPONSIBILITY.

associations may be traced in after life, But we are
not responsible for these things and such as these, nor
for the actions to which they lead us, but for our
consent to those actions. If we do that we would
not, it is no more we that do it but something else.
This consent is not even conceivably calculable before-
hand. There can, of course, be no such thing as doing
that we would not in the broad daylight of full
consciousness. . Here must the struggle be. But the
human heart is confessedly deceitful above all things,
and amid the darkness and misty moonshine of our
ignorance and half knowledge it cheats us continually,
causinsr us to do countless things that we allow not,
whose moral effect upon ourselves and others is evil.
Of these actions human nature does afford some sort
of criterion. They can be foretold with quite as
much accuracy as is observed in the predictions of
Vennor. They can be traced to causes in our nature.
The skilful anatomist of human character knows the
sources of them all. Now if actions of consent and
dissent have in like manner causes in our nature, how
is it that we are responsible for the one and not for
the other ? It is incumbent on those who hold the
necessitarian doctrine to explain.

They will probably do so — that is, supposing them
to admit the necessity of any explanation — by saying
that the cause is in the one case a moral cause and in
the other a physical. Let us understand the difference.
There are a number of phrases similar to " moral
cause," such as " moral compulsion," " moral necessity,"
" moral obligation," " moral restraint," and the like.

All these

are

" moral " as distintruished from

" absolute," and the distinction consists in this, that
they act upon us only in so far as we are susceptible
to moral influences. The idea arises fiom the fact
that all earthly morality is an imperfect morality.
Knowledge of right and wrong is a moral cause. It

VOLITION AND RESPONSIBILITY

keeps a man from sinning only in so far as he desires
not to sin. To that extent it is — not a physical but —
an absolute cause, and effects Responsibility precisely
as any other cause does. Beyond that it is nothing,
not even a moral cause.

It appears, then, that the issues of life are of two
classes, and that those of the one class have a moral
quality, but no previous criterion discoverable ; while
those of the other seem to have p vious criteria, but
have no moral quality for which we are responsible.
In other words, it appears that we are in no wise
responsible for moral tendencies of our natures, but
only for the way in which we deal with those
tendencies ; or, as we may say, only in so far as we
are the work of our own hands. We might here
remark that there can obviously be no previous
criterion of an act for which we are responsible. A
criterion implies a cause, and a cause draws back the
Responsibility.

But here we are confronted with the inevitable.
Whence is this we whose workmanship we are ? It
must be the creation of a previous we, and that of
another, and so in injlnitwm. Such, I fancy, would
be Edwards* argument. With this he demolishes the
theory of a free choice in the Will. He rings the
changes upon it repeatedly, and every time he slays a
Philistine. It never fails him. It is, however, a part
of the law of coiupenHation that very effective weapons
are dangerous to handle. If it be true that a free
choice must be acci>unted for by a previous free choice,
and that by another, and so in infinitiim, it is equally
true, by a strict parity of reasoning, that if it be
accounted for by another cause, that cause must be
accounted for by a previous, and so in infinitum.
Everything that may be said for or against a Hrst free
choice may be equally and similarly said for or against

.; i

■? IS

VOLITION AND RESPONSIBILITY.

a first cause. If it be said that a first cause is a
self-existent cause, the answer is ready that the first
choice is a self-determining choice. If it be said a
self-determining choice is no other than a vSelf -choosing
choice, the answer is that a self-existent cause is no
other than a self-causing cause. And so hi infinitum.

We have sufliciently seen, I think, that the act of
man 3 moral Responsibility is irreconcilable with either
of the two theories. Upon either as premises an
irresistible logic demonstrates it impossible; and
further, no other premises are logically admissible.
That the diflSculty arises from no incidental blunder
is amply proved by the fact that it emerges from
every possible statement of the case, and has troubled
thinkers in every age. It is impossible that there
should be a contradiction in the nature of things. It
must therefore arise from some limitation of the
human faculties. It may be that the relation between
mind and Volition is not fully comprehensible to our
present understanding. We asked, is it a relation of
cause and eflect or is it not ? and we assumed that if
it is not, it is no relation, that no other is possible.
But is this necessary ? Certainly no other is conceivable,
but in no conceivable way can the conditions of the
problem be satisfied. Are there not causes in the
woild which seem to be to some extent first causes,
such as we might call secondary first causes. The
human mind is certainly very prone to this way of
thinking. A child's opinion concerning the wind is
that it blows itself ; that is, he conceives of it as a
living thing. A single germ of life seems to have
unlimited power to develop itself and to direct and
control physical force. Intellect, too, is creative. We
trace to it ingenious device or brilliant fancy, and
rest. It seems to produce eflfects and yet retain its
virtue. Are there not hei'e indications of a via media?
If the logical reader find nothing in this attempt to

VOLITION AND RESPONSIBILITY.

cause IS a
at the first
be said a
If-choosing
cause is no
infinitum.

the act of

with either

remises an

iible ; and

a,dniissible.

/al blunder

srges from

is troubled

that there

hings. It

on of the

m between

ble to our

relation of

led that if

3 possible.

nceivable,

ins of the

;es in the

st causes,

ses. The

is way of

wind is

of it as a

s to have

lirect and

ive. We

ancy, and

retain its

a media?

t tempt to

trace them but a suggestion of one or other of the
old theories under a different form, let him remember
that it could not by any possibility be otherwise, such
an attempt being in its very nature an attempt to
conceive and express the inconceivable. Moreover,
there are other facts which seem to hint at such a
limitation of our faculties. Pure spirit is unthinkable
save by means of metaphor. But our question is in
a worse case yet, for it concerns some unknrwn
ditierence between matter and spirit, and what
material metaphor can represent that ? We are fain
to take a plain contradiction for metaphor and say a
secondary first cause or the like.

Such being the case, it seems pretty evi<lent that
our investigation of the matter is not likely to lead to
anything very definite. The reader perhaps even
now recalls the saying of Dr, Johnson upon Soame
Jenyns : — " How the Origin of Evil is brought nearer
to human conception by any inconceivable means, I
am unable to discover." But no pretence is here made
of bringing anything nearer to human conception. It
is enough if we have seen that there are, as I have
said, indications of the possibility of a via media.

The mystery remains, but meanwhile there is
somewhat of importance to be noted. So long as it
remains, so long as our feeling of Moral Accountability
— our feeling that he who does a noble action deserves
to be rewarded, and he who does a base one deserves
to be punished, cannot be accounted for by and
consistently with its precedent phenomeria— so long
science fails to be a satisfactory explanation of this
universe. It is not only that it is imperfect — that
were pardonable — but that at one point, and that a
vitally important one, it proves itself to be utterly
an ignis fatwus. So long as this mystery is unex-
plained, it is a sufiicient apology and justification for

VOLITION AND RESPONSIBILITY.

■■

belief in a hypothesis with a like mystery. Such is
the doctrine of Infinite Goodness united with Infinite
Power notwithstanding the existence of moral evil.
" Most people," said Mill, "save God's goodness at the
expense of His power." But we may save both at the
expense of our own faculties. And the warrant for
so discrediting our faculties is, that they fail to account
for our Reponsibility. To account for our Respon-
sibility is to account for the origin and existence of
evil on any the most orthodox hypothesis. The
problems are identical, having one solution. Another
statement of the same is the difficulty of reconciling
Divine sovereignty with human personality. Indeed,
all the great problems of speculative thought are but
variations of this one problem of the human will.
The mystery is the same, through all its variety of
outward forms, and it lies not away in the far regions
of the infinite, but at home, within us, girt about on
every side with patent and indisputable facts. Man
himself is the mystery. There is no other m3\stery.
We might refuse to accept another, but this we cannot
refuse ; and having accepted it there is no more to be
said. The great fact of our Responsibility so strangely'
difficult to human logic, so strangely simple to human
consciousness, is the rock whereon modern theistic
belief may plant itself, with the firm assurance that
the gates of materialistic fatalism shall not prevail
ag&\ins'c it. •

THE "WORDS OP THE PREACHER."

[Reprinted from the " Unitariaa Review."]

The Hebrew mind is naturally sententious. It
delights in an aphorism with a strong figure of speech.
The Ayiian mind is systematic. The vivacious Greek,
the strong Roman, the mediaeval scholastic, and the
modern scientist are all systematic. Every great
mind is naturally systematic in its method. Every
great mind has also a tendency to be sententious.
Some of the greatest minds combine the two for
didactic purposes. Bacon's great work is an example
of the aphoristic method engrafted upon the system-
atic. *' The Preacher " is an example of the systematic
method engrafted upon the aphoristic.

The peculiarity of method must ever be borne in
mind while studying Ihe book. It ha*4 somewhat of
system. But it is fai" from being rigidly sj^stematic.
It is scarcely systematic enough to be satisfactory to
the average Western mind Disconnected aphorisms
and sentences are numerous. To some extent, they
are airanged in subjects. But aphorisms are as diffi-
cult to arrange as books. In most libraries, the
largest class is grouped under the heading " Miscella-
neous." The Preacher's system is, however, something
very different from the mere classification of aphor-
isms. He is unconsciously systematic because his
mind revolved ceaselessly around one root idea.
Mostl}', he turns not to a new subject, but to a new
phase of the old. Many of his apparently discon-
nected sayings are but illustrations of the one grand

THE "WORDS OF THE PREACHER

principle which constantly fascinated hira. We shall
best catch the key-note of the treatise by reading in
conjunction two texts which state a paradox. Of
these, the first to be considered states the truth, a
deep and erlorious truth, that is in Epicureanism :
"Behold that which I have seen: it is good and
comely for one to eat and drink and To enjoy the
good of all his labor which he taketh under the sun,
all the days of his life, which God giveth him ; for it
is his portion " As we desire happiness, we inevitably
desire the gratification of all those sensibilities which
are channels of happiness. Those desires are not only-
natural, but also perfectly proper and right, so long
as they are kept within bounds. It is perfectly right
also to enjoy the pleasures which they afford. They
are our " portion." The power to enjoy them is " the
gift of God."

But there is another side of the case. Man was
not made to seek his own pleasure merely, but for
something higher ; and hence he has been mercifully
so constituted that pleasures too eagerly or greedily
pursued pall. The Preacher had found it so. He
had set himself, not without a charitable design of
using his peculiar advantages for the benefit of his
less happily situated fellows, to seek the aiimmiim
honum, to find what w^as good for the sons of men
which they should do under the sun all the days of
their lives ; and he had found that there is no such
thing. All the passionate selfishness of man, seeking
only its own good, ends in vanity and vexation of
soul. That ceaseless, restless cl utchinw after somethinir
good, which keeps human hearts unquiet, which
troubled the great Hindu sage and led him to the
contrasted conception of Nirvana, of which the ever-
coursing sun, the ever-whirling winds, and the ever-
flowing streams were the fitting emblems and
analogues, was al! vain and barren. God has so

THE "WORDS OF THE PREACHER."

n'ofht

the

arranged it that man might be led to something
higher. " There is nothing good for man which he
may eat and drink, and (whereby he may) make his
soul enjoy good of all his labor which he taketh under
the sun. This, also, I saw that it was from the hand
of God."

The persistent mistranslation of this verse is the
saddest blunder in the history of Hermeneutics. That
it is a blunder may be very easily made plain and
level' to the judgment of the simplest English reader
The Hebrew adjective has no comparative form.
Comparison is expressed by the positive with a
preposition. " Better than " is, in Hebrew idiom,
" good from." That preposition is not found in the
original of this verse. There is a difference between
** There is nothing good for a man that he should eat
and drink " and " There is nothing better for a man
than that he should eat and drink," — the same
difference that is between yes and tio. The context,
too, requires the above rendering. The writer has
just recorded the failure of his own search for some-
thing whereb}'^ he might make his soul enjoy good.
How could he tell us that that enjoyment was all that
was left ? Rather, he tells us that it is non-extant,
the impossible ; that his failure was not accidental,
but typical. He is not the dog returning to his
vomit, but the prodigal leaving his hu ks. Here is
his paradox : Pleasure is good ; primarily, the only
good. The search for pleasure is vanity and vexation
of spirit. Pleasure is gained, not by seeking it, but
by serving God. " God giveth to a man that is good
in his sight wisdom and knowledge and joy." This is
no strange doctrine. We are all familiar with it, as
the result of some of the latest and best thinking of
John Stuart Mill ; and more familiar with it, I hope,
in the oft-repeated words of the great Teacher, " He
that loveth his life shall lose it ; he that hateth his
life for my sake shall find it."

THE "WORDS OF THE PREACHER.

i i I

■' !

This is clearly the best, one is tempted to say the
best possible, statement of the doctrine. It is
affirmative, and therefore, to weak humanity, helpful.
It is suggestive, without being too painfully defined ;
and therefore it affords food for the mind without any
unpleasant strain on the attention. And, lastly, it
considers the matter practically, with reference to what
is to be done. The Preacher's statement is philosophic.
He was interested in observing the universal law.
It is poetic. He was fascinated by the awful inflexi-
bility of the law. He meditated, if that may be called
meditation which iss not thought, but feeling (it is, in
fact, the truest meditation, and most poetic), on man's
utter impotence before that law, his ignorance and
blindness enhancing his weakness, and his perversion
and self-love thickening the scales of his blindness.
There is a time for everything, and man knoweth not
his time. Whatsoever God doeth, it shall be forever.
The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the
strong. But to this question of inflexiljle law and
man's ignorance thereof there is also another side.
Be obedient to the law, so far as you know it. Do so
much for the object you have in view as you can do,
and leave the rest to that same inflexible law. Sow
the seed, leave it to the forces of nature to make it
grow. In the morning sow thy seed, and in the
evening withhold not thine hand ; for thou knowest
not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or
whether both shall be alike good. Sow plentifully
and wait patiently. Bread cast upon the waters will
be found after many days. In fine, fear God and keep
his commandments ; for this is the whole lot of man.
It is that for which he is made, for which his
constitution is adapted. It is that, too, which gives
most of this world's joy ; for it gives him the power
to enjoy. " Natura regenda est, pariendo." The
service of God is the truest way to happiness. Such
is the Preacher's theme.

THE "WORDS OF THE PREACHER.'

3av the
it is
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The

Such

True, he dwells upon the dark side of it. It
appears to me that his peculiar prophetic work was
that of a poet-philosopher rather than reformer; and
to this end he was more prodigally endowed with the
gifts and graces of genius divine than any other
writer, unless we except Shakspeare. 1 cannot help
thinking also that, along with his exquisitely fine and
varied tastes, he had that slightly indolent tempera-
ment which so often accompanies them, making him
all the more sensitive to the ceaseless unrest of things.
His mind and heart and soul were contemplative rather
than active. He loves to dwell upon life and mind
and their deep problems, not as a mere anatomist,
delighting in his own skill chiefly, but with wonder
and human love. In him, thought and feeling, science
and emotion, are inseparably blended.

That, in my opinion, his intellectual reach is of the
vastest, the reader has already gathered. Farther
discussion of that point may be deferred until it shall
appear whether he is likely to be any better under-
stood in the future than he has been in the past.
Upon his poetic excellence, one may speak with much
more safety. The English language has nothing
more musical to show than the first eight or ten verses
of the first, ninth, and twelfth chapters of our version*
Shakspeare approaches it occasionally, as in : —

" Duncan is in his grave ;
Afterlife'; fitful fever, he sleeps well ;
Treason has done his worst : nor steel, nor poisou,
Malioe domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.** .

George Borrow has occasionally something that
seems like it, as when, in Lavengro he speaks of
" the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady
arbors, beside his sunny fishpools, saying so many fine
things." But the peculiar excellence of the Preacher's
poetry, especially of that supreme passage which

THE "WORDS OF THE PREACHER.

describes the last scene of all that ends this strango,
eventful history, is, that the music of the words i»
not in the words, but in the thought. Let the words
be changed, let synonyms be put for synonyms in
mere wantonness, but the music remains. Ill
pronounced Latin and worse pronounced Greek and
unpronounceable Hebrew, provided the thoughts bo
in our minds and «eem to be in the words, are all
alike musical. The very conceptions are rhythmic.
We catch precisely the same tone in the words, " Love
is strong as death ; jealousy is cruel as the grave."
The thought is musical. Clearly, this book and the
" Song of Songs " are from the same hand.

I am not going to discuss the question of author-
ship. If it was not written by that wise and erratic
son of the sweet singer of Israel, and the wife for
whose love he had sinned so deeply, then we may
well moralize upon the treachery of fame. In my
ignorance, I cannot help thinking that there are other
considerations quite as weighty as a use of the late
form of the relative. The autobiographical portion
has, at all events, more appearance of genuineness
than that of the apocryphal " Wisdom of Solomon "
(Ecclus, vii. 1-4). It had not occurred to the Preacher
that those points were likely to be called in dispute.

■

SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

1. Bacon's was an orthodox, conservative mind.
Be not startled, reader, at least not into making^rash
statements. Of course no man of great mind can
accept any belief merely because it was his father's
belief ; yet he may be inclined to accept such a belief
more readily than another. Bacon was. His Confession
of Faith shows this. It is just such a one as pattern
theological students often write. If any such were
written in his time, as is likely, it would not probably
differ more from them than they from each other,
except for one or two felicities of expression, or subtle
analogies indicated.

How are we surprised, then, to find our greatest
English historian saying that his attitude toward
theology is " highly significant," that is to say,
somewhat like that of the famous '* sensible man,"
who keeps his opinions to himself. " From his
exhaustive enumeration of the departments of Human
learning he has excluded theology and theology alone."
This is certainly a curious way of saying that he
treated it in a separate chapter under the head of
"Divine Learning." That Prof. Green should find
Shakspeare's silence on religious subjects " significant,"
we might expect. But Bacon had not, like him, that
highly heretical quality of mind which consists in a
vivid linowledge of all the ways and means of human
self-dev^eption. True, he gives a pretty full account
of the various idola, and among others of the idola
tribus, yet he himself was far from being free from
them. Hatred of the Brownists was one of the idola

SOME THINGS ABOtJT BACON.

of the tribe in his day. Bacon and Shakspeare both
mention them. Bacon ^ives thanks to God that,
" they are now, through the good remedies that have
been used, pretty much suppressed and worn out."
Shakspeare makes Sir Andrew Aguecheek say : " An
it be any way it must be by valour, for policy I hate;
I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician." Would
not, think you, some Brownist-hater who heard the
foolish knight's speech, recognize it as natural that he
should hate the Brownists precisely because he was
foolish, and go home feeling a little ashamed of
himself. Bacon write Shakspeare's plays indeed ! He
was a great thinker, certainly, but not great enough
to put that speech into the mouth of Sir Andrew
Aguecheek.

Moreover, he was in full sympathy with the
religious sentiment of his age. His spontaneous
commendation of the preaching of the " last forty
years" attests this unequivocally. He was at the
farthest possible remove from that aggressive
Byronic temperament which delights in believing,
or seeming to believe, what others do not believe.
Even when his opinion differed from that of his age,
he puts it forth with the utmost simplicity, as if it
were a commonplace, often scarcely hinting at the
existence of the contrary error. It is so that we like
to have our errors corrrcted. ^q naturally do not
wish the man who sets us right to be too particular in
telling us where we were wrong. The only doctrine
or discovery which he continually speaks of as new,
is his exposition of the inductive method ; and it is a
familiar criticism that that was not so wholly new as
he claimed. He 'vas an adept, too, in that skilful
handling of words by which new doctrines are
reconciled with old formulae. He admits that oportet
credere docentem, which indicates a truth, though it
states a falsehood, but he neutralises the falsehood by

SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

adding the balancing truth, that oportet judicare
edoctum." This, of course, leaves credere to mean
nothing more than a belief in the teacher's good
intentions, a belief not always satisfactory.

2. He was not a severely logical thinker. He
had an exquisite feeling of principles which seemed
to have been embedded in his mind almost uncon-
sciously, a process which goes on in every observant
mind. But his grasp of them lacked logical incisive-
ness. In his utter abhorrence of the vicious assumption
which is the fault of the deductive thinker, he saw
not the danger on the other hand. He had the vice
of the inductive thinker, namely, he overvalued the
evidence of probabilities, and underestimated the
importance of the distinction between positive and
probable evidence. Hence it sometimes happened that
evidence strictly scientific failed to convince him,
because the thing: seemed in the highest dee^ree
improbable. Here was a fine field for such prejudices
as could exist in the light of his mighty mind, to
operate in. ft was this looseness of thought that
wrought his fall.

But he was an unparalleled observer. He had, as I
said, an exquisite feeling of principles. Touch him
where you would and instinctively he based his
judgment on some broad principle, which perhaps had
hitherto lain dormant among the facts in his memory.
Most of his thinking, like that of most practical men,
was but the working up of those principles into clear
light and order. This is the kind of thinking which
best educates the thinker, but it is not much available
for literary purposes, except to men of supreme
insight, like Bacon. It is apt to be authoritative or
dogmatic in tone, to " write science like a Lord
Chancellor." When we have an idea which we are
sure is truth, though as it is based upon scattered
facts, or dependent perhaps upon personal insight, we

I I

n ;n!

i Hi

SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

are unable to prove it by. logical argument, we are apt
to fall back upon mere asseveration. What else can
we do ? It is scarcely to be wondered at if we even
add a touch of vehemence, or, as did Bacon, who was
not pugnacious, a lofty contempt. " If men will be
fools let them," remarked a philosopher of this class
in my hearing once, and indeed my experience goes to
convince me that this is the only feasible plan.

On the other hand your deductive reasoner, with
his wrong assumption hidden away, from himself as
from others, in some unsuspected corner of his
argument, is perfectly calm ; and with his syllogistic
vise relentlessly presses you into shape. In tho
abundance of his confidence, he will even treat your
objections rather favorably than otherwise. In
Jonathan Edwards' masterly treatise on the Will, for
example, there is no dpgmatism, no vehement
asseveration. It is all calm intellectual reasoning,
cold logical demonstration. And how generous he is
with his opponents ! His openness, his real anxiety
to hear every word they may have to say for them-
selves, and his patient demonstration of their errors,
even when absurd, is onl}' less wonderful than his
unparalleled precision of argument.

Very similar was the method of Socrates, as
exhibited in the Gorgias. His victim kicks and
plunges vigorously, yet none the less industriously he
spins the thread of bis argument, and slowly but very
steadily winds him down. Christ's teaching, again, as
the author of Eece Bow.o has noted, was " with
authority." This does not mean that it was above or
independent of reason, but that it was based on
principles which he did not expound, which are
indeed almost incapable of exposition, being felt rather
than understood, but which he that had eyes to see
and eais to hear withal, might leavn and know for
himeelf. I speak of his moral teaching.

SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

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So Bacon speaks, with a lofty assurance ; but he
was as far as Christ was from wishing any one to
believe on mere authority. His aphorisms have a
magisterial sound, but he never forgot that oportet
jibdicare e'ioctnm, that the statement was nothing
moie to the hearer — could in the nature of things be
nothinof more-^than a suj^j^estion. It is onlv those
who, being accustomed to take things upon authority,
are unable to receive the suggestion, who find the
assertion oppreSvSive.

3. The main idea of his Novum Organon had
been deeply impressed upon his mind while he was
very young. We read of him sketching at twenty^one,
and while still enffacjed in his law studies, a tract
entitled, " Temporia partus Tnaximus." " One touch
of nature makes the whole world kin." " O the
dreams we dream !" How many of us have sketched
our T. P. M., opic, tragic, or speculative, within a few
years on either side of twenty-one, when we should
perhaps have been stu<lying law. And, sad to think,
how many of these Greatest Births of Time have
proved abortions, and been nothing in the world but
a heart-corroding grief to the authors thereof.

Something of the effect of this youthful enthusiasm
is traceable in the work, as he Intt it in his ripe age.
To this it is partly to be attributed that he over-
estimated its originality. He grew into a habit of
thinking and speaking of it as new, which remained
with him The natural impulse of his later years
w^ould, I think, have been to treat it less as a startling
novelty, and more as a philosophical truth merely.
In part, however, this over-estimate was due to his
mental conservatism. He did not at all understand
how far the world had advanced from the errors which
he combated. He seems to imply that his discovery
would make as great a change in the methods of
science as the invention of gunpowder, for example,

SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

did in the methods of war ; and certainly the use of
the inductive method has made an even greater
change. This was perhaps all that ho really meant to
imply. The term Novum Organon, which seems to
imply that the method was new, is to be explained by
a reference to the " Organon " of Aristotle. Tt was a
new exposition of the method of science It was the
recognition of it as a vscientific, and, for the facts of
nature, the only scientific method, that was new.
Critics have shown that his method is simply the
method which every man of natural intelligence
naturally uses, as if it were a detraction from his
originality. It is the chief point of his originality.
There is a difference, I take it, between originality and
novelty.

We may also admit that he over-estimated the
practical value of the method. Far as he dipt into
the future, it was impossible that he should see the
development of such a science as Mathematical
Physics, for example, in which the corclusions of the
inductive method are anticipated by deduction.
Metaphysically, Mathematical Physics is an inductive
science, because the final proof of its truths is in
observation. The various deductions from its one
main principle are really conjectural, until proved by
experiment, when they become inntantice under that
principle. He did not foresee how much the discovery
of truth is helped by a happy conjecture. The process
of making and testing suppositions, as Kepler so
notably did, had not occurred to him as part of the
inductive method at all, yet it is of the very esseiice
and spirit of it. He has fully explained the collection
of facts and the application of them to proposed
principles ; but it did not occur to him that the great
practical difficulty would be to find a principle at all.
Partly this was because to his own fertile mind
piinciples were ever ready ; partly because, from his

SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

use of
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lack of logical precision, he did not sufficiently
appreciate the difficulty of getting a principle to apply
exactly ; and partly because he never suspected how
strange and improbable great principles are apt to
look at first sight. We know how he treated the
Copernican theory. He iiad not learned how the
world labors with the birth of great principles, how
facts are accumulated year after year,growing more and
more unwieldy and troublesome, till the gifted thinker
comes ; and under his glance, like some chemical
compound just ready to crystallize when the proper
re-agent is applied, they marshall themselves into
order and sequence, and the thing is settled forever ;
and what was difficult to sages hitherto, is now plain
and simple to a child. Instead of this he conceived
of a process almost mechanical, by which the collection
and classification of facts could be carried on by the
dullest intellect nearly, if not quite, as well as by the
brightest. He was not utterly mistaken, for science
owes something to specialists of very mediocre powers
of mind. But even in the collection and classification
of facts, far more and far more vitally important work
has been done by men whose research has been
carried on under the inspiration of a proposed theory.
Newton did not attempt to calculate the force
necessary to hold the moon in position, until he had
thought of the law of gravitation.

4. It is unnecessary here to re-hash for the
twentieth time what Macaulay has so well said
concerning the spirit of practical utility which pervades
his philosophy, or to canvass for the hundredth time
the details of his life. What is to be lemarked is,
that this spirit of practical utility in his philosophy
was but one phase of a lofty faith which pervaded
his whole character. He looked upon his philosophic
work as a duty. He felt that he had an account to
give of the way in which he used his powers for the

SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

good of man ; and that his special ^it'ts, and therefore
his special province of labor for the good of man, lay
first in the department of human learning, and after
that; in the conduct of affairs. The union of the life
contemDlative with tlie life active was his ideal;
the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn being the
conjunction of the two most powerful planets. We
cannot deny that in the carrying out of his faith there
were sad shortcomings. He was guilty of unparalleled
carelessness. The conservative tendencies of his
mind, too, had their effect. His opinions on matters
of practical morality were ceitainly not ahead of —
perhaps behind— those of his age. Moreover, it must
be rememViered, in the case of his relations with
Essex, how little he desired or sought the Earl's
friendship. He felt fi'om the beginning that it was
going to be a source of trouble. There was nothing
in the fact that the headstrong noble would be his
friend, to bind him through thick and thi' , through
right and wrong, as Macaulay so rhetorically assumes.
At all events, he himself could see nothing to bind
him. He seems to me to have felt it a great hardship,
after having been troubled with the friendship of the
rash Earl, to be accused of every manner of meanness
in behaving towaid him as he did in his trial. He
continually assured Essex that his duty to him came
always after his duty to his sovereign ; and it was
surely a question of C^ueen versus Essex. There are,
we may remark, persons of such a temper, that if
they should be called upon to judge Manlius in sight
of the capitol, they would feel and resent the very
presence of the scene as if it were an attempt to bribe
them from their uprightness, and would be tenfold
more severe on that very account.

Throughout all he was conscience-clear ; he felt
that he meant the right. His high confidence in his
own integrity is shown in his lofty appeal to posterity,

bu
th
of
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fa
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SOME THINGS ABOUT BACON.

ifore
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the

and in his still more lofty self-criticism. " I was the
justest judge that was in England these fifty years,
but it was the justest sentence that was in England
these two hundred years." They are not the utterances
of one whose soul could harbor anything mean.
There is a grandeur of truth about him which was as
far above the reach, above the comprehension I bad
almost said, of the little minded poet whose satiric
line has been so often and so unthinkingly quoted, as
heaven is from earth.

ling
his

WORDSWORTH'S Tiii^ORY OF POETRY.

Frederic Robertson opens his sermon on Religious
Depression as follows : —

" The value of the public reading of the Psalms is,
that they express for us indirectly those deep feelings
which there would be a sense of indelicacy in expressing
directly

There are feelings of which we do not speak to
each other ; they are too sacred and too delicate.
. . If we do speak of them they lose their fragrance
— become worse ; nay, there is even a sense of
indelicacy and exposure.

Now the Psalms afford precisely the right relief
for this feeling. Wrapped up in the forms of poetry
(metaphor, &c.,) that which might seem exaggerated
is excused by those who do not feel it ; while they
who do, can read them applying them, &;c."

In these words the great preacher touches the
true secret of poetry. It is the utterance of emotion ;
but all utterance of emotion is not poetry. It is the
utterance of emotion at a time when there is no call
for it in the outward circnmstRr.ees of life, but only
in the inw^ard yearnings of the mind ; when, therefore,
an open and matter-of-fact expression of it would
seem indelicate or even sillv. The use of the forms of
poetry excuses the utterance of feeling, even though
there be no practical reason to call it forth. It
furnishes an ostensible reason for our words, w^hich
serves to prevent the real reason from taking an
unpleasant prominence in our common thoughts, the

Wordsworth's theory of poetry.

)US

thoughts which speak without words, in meeting
glances. It soothes the whole being to a peace which
allows our emotion, or our sympathy with emotion, a
fuller and stronger play in the depths of the soul. It
ranks with

*' Such sounds as make deep silence in the he- t,
For thought to do her part."

Fancy, for example, Annie Laurie in jr.ose. The
thought is too horrible. It would 1 > worse than
Vaudraeour and Julia. Yet as a song, it is tolerable
enough. I remember a sapient religious journalist
once accounting for that incident in the Crimea, when

" Gire us a song the soldiers cried,"

by the power of a refrain. " Any one could see," he
said, •' that this was a mere love song." It is most
true, and yet — the thoughtful reader may perhaps see
in the circumstance a somewhat striking illustration
of the principle I have endeavored to expound.

On the other hand it is this expression of emotion
out of season, so to speak, when it is called for rather
by the inward feelings than by the outward surround-
ings, which constitutes the only valid justification of
the use of the forms of poetry. We do not use them
amid the realities of life, no matter how deeply our
feelings are stirred. No one evtr made proposals of
love in verse in any novel I have ever read. When
Wellington gave the order for *^he final charge at
Waterloo, he did not say

•' strike till the last armed foe expires,
Stkike for your altars and jour fires,
STRIKE for the green graves of your sires,
God and your native laud."

He said : " Up lads and at them." And it is more
than p' *able that the exact words of Marco Bozzaris
were * similar type. But we prefer the poem.

WORDSWORTHS THEORY OF POETRY,

I'M

Or, when, again, we would make an observation
like that of Thompson Green to Harriet Hale, when

" He, in a casual sort of way,
Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day ;"

or remark, .

•' Nor could my weak arm disperse
The hosts of insects gathering round my face ;"

"My drift, I fear,
Is scarcel'' obvious."

or.

The forms of poetry are unnecessary. There is no
use for them. They are a mere impertinence.

In all true poetry there is a balance between these
two things : on the one hand there is that quality of
thought which makes the too free and plain recital of
it distasteful to our finer feeling' ; and on the other
hand, the forms of verse. This quality of thought
may depend not so much upon the thought itself as
upon the way it is conceived of. It may be so
conceived of as to touch the deepest and strongest
feelings of our nature in such a way that it must be
rhymed ; or it may be conceived of as a mere matter
of science, a fact of an utterly prosaic order. Nor
does it matter what forms of verse are used. It is
enough that the speech be musical. The words,

" Because man goeth to his long home,
And the mourners go about the streets,"

fulfil all the conditions.

Either of these things is unendurable, to any fine
taste, without the other. But they may exist together
in various degrees of intensity. They may both be
found ill a very high degree, as in the finest songs of
Burns, and in some other Scotch songs. (And it is
curious, is it not, that the Scotch, the most matter-of-
fact people in the world, who even " stop a metaphor
like a suspected person in an enemy's country,"

WORDSWORTH S THEORY OF POETRY.

should have written the finest lyric poetrj'^ the world
knows anything^ about.) In some of the most
impassioned lyrics, however, even the highest verae-
forms are insufficient to preserve the balance ; and it
becomes necessary to add the effect of music. Again,
tliey may both be found in a lesser degree, as in such
poems as " The Light of Asia," or " The Idylls of the
King."

Shakspeare exhibits the nicest sense of this balance.
When Orsino says :

" If music be the food of love, play on ; .

Give me excess of it, that surfeiting
The appetite may sicken and so die
That strain again ; it had a dying fall ; •

Oh ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet South
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor."

his words are " musical as is Apollo's lute." But
when Hamlet discusses the question whether or not
it were better for him to put an end to his earthly
existence, though his thoughts are far more deep and
moving than those of the love-sick Orsino, yet the cir-
cumstances are so real and life-like, and the arguments
are so practical, that poetic form is almost unnecessary.
He scarcely keeps up even the appearance of it. And
when he gives his admirably practical and common-
sense directions to the players?, he discards it altogether.

A curious instance of a slight lack of this balance
is found in many of the hymns of Keble's Christian
Year. They are poetic, most emphatically ; but the
poetiy of the thought and the verse-forms are utterly
apait and disconnected. They are not adapted to the
forms used. They do not require so elaborate a
versification. " Prose poems in verse," was the
^xpiession that haunted me when I first read them, and
I scarcely know how better to convey the idea. Sen-
tences drag on with an utter disregard of metrical
pauses ; yet it would be far worse if they did not. It
4

WORDSWORTH 8 THEORY OF rOETllY.

would give the verse an unsanctifierl lilt, wliicli is
rightly abhorred. They should have been in blank
verse, where the metrical pauses are indifKci^jnt.
Properly speaking, they are blank verse, the rhyines
being of little account, — "something between a
hindrance and a help."

It is, I believe, according to Mr. Leslie Stephen,
one of Wordsworth's special merits that "his ethical
system is as distinctive and capable of exposition as
Bishop Butler's." But suppose Bishop Butler had
put his system into verse 1 This systemiatic truth
has, as Mr, Matthew Arnold has well noted, *' none f/f
the characters of iioetic truth." Tlie methods of
Science and of Poetry are utterly alien. Poetry deals
with the emotions, Science with the intellect. Poetry
considers things as they may move the feelings,
Science considers them as they may exercise or inform
the understanding Science goes into details. Poetry
avoids them. Poetry is suggestive. Scic^nco is exact.
In Elizabeth Whittier's poem to Dr. Kane, at Cuba,
there is this stanza :

*' Fold him in rest O pitying clime ;

Give back his wasted strength again ;
Soothe with thine endless suumiev time,
His winter- wearied heart and brain."

"Summer" and "winter" are not very scientific
terms by which to describe the torrid and polar
regions, but they are intensely suggestive, Words-
worth has this stanza :

, •* No motion has she now nor force,

She neither hears nor sees ;
Rolled round in eartli'a diurnal course,
With rocks and stones and trees."

Instead of thinking, as a poet should, of the things
which are continually before our eyes, and which
link themselves by long association with our deepest
thoughts, he thinks of the Copernican theoiy. One

WORDSWORTH S THEORY OF POETET.

wonders, too, in passing, whether " the spirit of Laud
is pleased in heaven's pure clime " with the doctrine
stated ; but that is probably an oversight

Now the method of philosophy is the scientific,
and not the poetic method. Poetry and philosophy
may be, and have been to some extent, united, it is
true, but it is as Burns says, " kittle wark ;" and it
must be done as the author of Ecclesiastes has done
it, by making philosophy poetic, and not by making
poetry philosophic. Poetry must have its own
methods, or it has no reason for existing at all. But
Wordsworth makes his poetry philosophic. He deals
with details which touch no human passion whatever,
unless an enlightened curiosity be reckoned as such.
He deals with matters of purely psychological or
political interest; things which, so far from our
having any delicacy about speaking of them, we are
accustomed to use as rallies when conversation flags.
He tells us that of the "personal themes" which he
finds in books,

'• Two shall be named preeminently dear,
The gentle lady married to the Moor
And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb."

Montaigne has told us some very similar things, but
in how different a manner ? What is there to touch
our feelings in his or any one's preferences for any
literary character ? And Montaigne rates them at
their proper value, and tells them in a style to corres-
pond. Wordsworth lacked that nice sense of the
fitness of things. The whole sonnet, indeed the
greater part of his poetry, expresses ideas which
might just as well — that is to say a great deal better
— have been expressed without rhyme. They have
no " innate necessity to be rhymed." They are eertno
merus, utter prose. Even the great ode, notwithstand-
ing its Pindaric turns, embodies a distinctive theory

"^i liM«M

eIPs'^

WORDSWORTH S THEORY OF POETRY.

in a scientific manner. It would have been admirable
in prose, such prose as Cardinal Newman's, for
example. Poetic prose, doubtless ; but should not
poetic prose be prosaic poetry ? When to this one
adds what Mr. Arnold has justly remarked, that the
theory " of undeniable beauty as a play of fancy, has
itself not the character of poetic truth of the best
kind ; has no real solidity," one wonders how it comes
to be the " high -water mark " of — I have forgotten
what — nearly everything.

He had no finer sense of what it is to be a poet
than merely to be a writer of verse. Whatever he
had to say he put it into verse, and supposed he was
writing poetry. Yet he had the weakness to cherish
a life-long ambition to be a poet. "-Verse," mark,
" verse was what he had been wedded to." He con-
stantly speaks of himself as a poet. He poetised
continually and self-consciously. He is as ready to
write on The Pillar of Trajan, as on daffodils. He
studied nature as preachers study their Bibles, — ever
on the lookout for a text. He writes lines at a short
distance from the house, and sends them to his sister
by his little boy. He leaves verses upon a seat in a
yew tree, to be carried away by the wind, probably,
before even one stray worldling shall have had the
opportunity to bestow upon them an unsympathetic
glance.

This was no merely incidental weakness ; it was
but one phase of a radical weakness of his whole
mental character. He enquires what is the reason the
former days were better than these, w^iich is the
unvarying mark of a weak thinker. He complains
that,

•* Pelion and Ossa may flourish side by side
Toijether in immortal books enrolled,"

while English mountains have been neglected by the

WORDSWOETHS THEORY Oi^ POEPRY.

tiess ; it was

muses. His note to the lines on Trajan's pillar is
curiously characteristic. The subject had been given
at Oxford for a prize-poem. " I had a wish that my
son, who was then an undergraduate at Oxford,
should try his fortune, and I told him so ; but he,
. not having been accustomed to write verse, wisely
declined to enter on the task ; whereupon I showed
him these lines as a proof of what might be, without
difficulty, done on that subject." If the son was wise
in declining to enter upon the task, what is to be said
of the father in urging him to enter upon it ; and
how are the lines a proof of what might be, without
difficulty, done on that subject ? He begins a poem
by saying — would he had done as he said —

" And I will dare to tell,

lint in the lover's ears alone,
Wiiat once to me befell."

Oh for a single hour of that Macaulay who scarified
Robert Montgomery, to ask what this might mean.
He says of Rob Roy •

"Then say that he was wise as brave,
And lie was brave as strong ;
A poet worthy of Rob Roy,
Rlust scorn a timid song "

Yet what words could more finely display timidity
than just these ? Coleridge, in his most daring flights
of fancy, as in Kubla Khan, for instance, gives him-
self up wholly to the inspiration. He is as grave and
solemn as a kitten playing with its tail. But
Wordswoi'th turns round upon us in the midst with '
an apologcitic smile as if to say, " Of course I know
better; I am really a man of coininon-scnse ; this is
poetry;" and the consequence is, that he misses both
the common-sense and the poetry.

This radical weakness of mind runs through all
his work, vitiating and weakening it. The funda-

WORDSWORTH S THEORY OF POETRY.

mental principles of criticism have never been more
profoundly conceived or pithily expressed, than by
Ruskin, in the words that " nothing can be well said,
but with truth ; or beautifully said, but by love."
Moral indifferency of art, indeed ; it is in their
morality, their truth and love, in their perfect
spiritualization of vision, in that having loved their
neighbor as themselves, they can see him as he is,
that the very and essential glory of Shakspeare and
Homer consists. Wordsworth had only in a very
partial degree either the truth or the love. He cer-
tainly tried to be true, and to love as well. He was
a good man. He sought to form his life to the
highest that he knew. But this is not what we
require of an author. It is in this way that we judge
ourselves and our friends, by what we try to do. But
when we procure the services of others, in any
department of life, we want something more. We
want to know what they can do when they do try.
And it is thus that we judge an author. We want to
know whether he had any natural aptitude, any
genius, for truth and love ; if he is going to give us
(to use Mr. Arnold's fine phrase) a " criticism of life.'*
If he have not, his criticism of life will be vain and
idle. Wordsworth had not. Byron, with all his
wickedness, had far more. His fierce misanthropy,
which was but love inverted— see Sartor Resartus and
the Phsedo — is more poetic and human, more forgiv-
able from a poetic point of view, than the mere
aversion which Wordsworth expresses in the sonnets
on "Personal Talk," and in that most aimless of
satires, his poet's Epitaph. Doubtless " so soon as he
reflects, he is a child." But reflection is not what we
ask of Byron. Nature never intended him to reflect.
He was a man of action and of the kind of thought
that mingles with action. He was an Improvimtove
and his improvisatore judgments of men and thinga

RY.

been more

d, than by
e well said,

by love.'*
in their
eir perfect •
loved their
n as he is,
speare and
in a very

e. He cer-
I. He was
life to the
t what we
it we judge
to do. But
rs, in any
more. We
ley do try.
W^e want to
titude, any

to give us
sm of life.'*
e vain and
th all his
isanthropy,
-esartus and
lOre forgiv-

the mere
the sonnets

ainiless of
► soon as he
ot what we
n to reflect,
of thouglit
provisfffore
and things

WORDSWORTH'S THEORY OF POETRY. 83

are larger and sounder and his criticism of life
stronger than Wordsworth's. His flippant cynicisms
have done far more to move the world's thought on
the line of progress than all Wordsworth's mild mur-
murings. Wordsworth was, apparently, much the
better man. But Byron is by far the better teacher
of moral truth. As often happens. God has so
ordained it that we might know how divine a thin^
strength is, °

• '■■'il'

^'^•*..«"

6^"

ENGLISH PROSODY.

The classification of ordinary English rhytlu is is
exceedingly simple. They are either dissyllabic, or
trisyllabic, according as every alternate, or every
third syllable is accented ; and as any syllable may
be accented, there are, of course, two varieties of dis-
syllaMv: measure, and three varieties of trisyllabic
measure. The first variety of dissyllabic measure,
the Trochaic, is that in '.\ :iich the first syllable of
each two is accented, as in

" War, he sung, is toil and trouble.
Honor but aa empty bubble," &o.

The second variety of the dissyllabic measure, the
Iambic, is that in which the second syllable of each
two is accented. It is the most common measure.
No poem of any length has been written in English
in any other measure, except by Longfellow, who has
writ^. a three ; and in short poems it very far out-
numbers all the others combined. The first variety
of trisyllabic measure, the Dactylic, is that in which
ilie first syllable of each three is accented, as in

" Touch her not scornfully,
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,'' &c.

Tii3 second, or the measure of the Amphibrach, is
that in which the second syllable of each three is
accented, as in

'• How dear to my heart are the gcenes of my childhood," &o.

ENGLISH PROSODY.

It is a very beautiful measure. The third, the
Anapoestic, is that in which the third syllable of each
three is accented, as in

" Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green," &o.

It is the favorite of trisyllabic measures, as the
Iambic is of the dissyllabic, the accent being thrown
as far forward as possible, in both alike.

These measures are also more slow and stately
than the others. Strike upon the table a light rap
followed by a heavier one, several times ; then a
heavier followed by a lighter ; and notice how, when
the light rap follows tlio heavy one, it seems to clin<:
more closely to it and makes the movement more,
rapid. Genuine trochaic measure is very lively ar.i ■
sprightly. The syllables of the line, " Honor but an
empty bubble," seem to crowd off the tongue liko
school-children out of a school-room Ujor. So the
Dactyl is quick. It has been remarked that in Hood's
" Bridge of Sighs," the very levity of the rhythm is
made to add to the intense pathos of the poem. The
Amphibrach, again, is less rapid thau the Dactyl, but
not so slow ij,s the Anapaest.

While all this is true, it must also be remembered,
that in a great many cases, the distinction between
these different varieties of rhythm is overlooked
entirely ; and still oftener, only the one distinction,
between dissyllabic and trisyllabic, is regarded. For
example, the line

"This is the forest primeval; the uiurmuring pines and the
hemlocks," ^c,

is technically Dactylic, and it starts Dactyl>ally.
But as we go on, we find that it is neither Dactylic,
nor Amphibrachic, nor Anapoestic, but simply and

ENGLISH PROSODY.

merely trisyllabic. It has none of the Dactylic rush
and speed, so strikinglj' manifest in

or,
or,

" One more unfortunate ;"

" Pibroch of Donuil Dhu ;"

" Where shall the lover rest," &c.

The poet did not want it. He could not have used
the true Dactylic measure on his subject at all.

The rhythm of quantity has been compared to
the motion of the feet in walking. Time was its
principal element. It allowed no way of making a
word emphatic. I should think it must have been
rather a flat affair — a sort of la-la-la-la-la-la-la. The
rhythm of accent adds to the element of time the
element of motion, in that the action of pronouncing
an accented syllable differs considerably from the
action of pronouncing an unaccented syllable. This
gives rise to a rhythmic movement of the organs. No
such rhyUiiiiic ^uovement would be required to pro-
nounce a succession of long syllables, in every way
equal ; nor \vouid the occa-sional introduction of two
short syllablos }n place of one long jne mend the
matter, unless tliey were introduced on a regular
prineiple. i-ven then, the effect would be small.
Thip may, inueed, be the reason why it is necessary
to have a Dactyl in the fifth place of a Hexameter.
But it is very evident that the principle held a very
gubordinate place in classical notions of rhythm.

The rhythm of accent should be compared rather
to the motion of waves of the sea. A classical verse
is distinctly marked off into feet. The beginning and
end of each foot is definitely determined. They are
as integrally distinct as bricks in a pile. But in
accentual verse, all that is determined is the position
of the accented syllable. The intermediate syllables

ENGLISH PROSODY.

are, in a great many cases, not more connected with
one accented syllable than with another. The feet,
or more properly, the beats, have, like a wave, no
definite beginning or ending. They may begin or end
in any part.* Where the line is short and begins and
ends at the same part of the beat, is, in "other words,
neither catalectic nor hypercatalectic, the unaccented
syllables generally connect themselves sufficiently
with the appropriate accents to bring out the peculiar
quality of the rhythm. Yet, often, " suffiei en Jy " is
surprisingly litt.e. The following line, foi example,
reads as naturally, anrl goes as tripping v on the
tongue, is as unmistak* ably Trochaic, when read as
marked, as when r* ad in Trochees : *

" Take — the good — the Gods — provide thee."

And when there are too many, or too few unaccented
syllables, there is nothing to determine even the
character of the rhythm, further than that there is a
certain number of syhables in each beat. Taken by
itself, such a line as

** The hand and he«rt that ^xnined and planned them,"

f^cmailar in character to the line from Evangeline^
qu( ted Above. It is neither Iambic nor Trochaic, but
simply ' lissyllabic. English grammrt? ans have not
yet -ufficntly cleared their minrls of classical notions
of Prosody.

To these ordinary and regular measures of English
poetry is to be added anothei', not spoken of in the

•Thin is precisely tlie difference between the syllabification of the
Intlo European languages and that of the Semitic languages. The
ceufcral point, the pivot, of our s) liable is the vowel sound. The inter-
mediate articulations are not connected with one syllable more than
another The syllables run together. But the consonant is the biisis of
the Semitic syllable, and therefore each syllable is iixtegrally distinct,
has a beginning, a niid<Ue, and an end. Whether this implies a special
adaptation in each to the similar verse measure — whether the rhythm of
quantity may be of iSemitio origiu— might be worth enquiring into.

eng;j8H prosody.

I oks, the tetrasyHabie. It has the peculiarity of
having two accents, a lighter and and a heavier, to
each beat. Each alternate syllable is accented, and the
accents are alternately light and lieavy. Hiawatha
is an example :

*' Should' you ask' me whence' these sto'ries.
Whence' these ^e'gends and' trarfit'ions," &c.

Campbell's Battle of the Baltic is an example :

"As' we drift'ed on' our path'.
There' was si'lence deep' as death'
And' the 6o/fi'est held' his breath'
For' a time'."

In the fifth line of each stanza of this poem, there is
an unaccented syllable omitted from the beginning of
the third beat :

*' It' was ten' of A'pril morn' — by' the chime'."

This puts a drag upon the line, which imparts dignity
to the measure, and adds greatly to the strength of
the verse. The two last lines of the stanza have
somewhat the effect of a similar line. Another exam-
ple is that one of the Bah Ballads, which sings of
Agib, Prince of Tartary :

" Of ^ 'gib who' anj'i'/' Tartar'ic scenes'
Wrote' a lot' of bal'ltd inu'a'xc in his teens'

His gcn'tle' spi'rit roda'

In' the mc/'o(ly' of souls'.
Which' is_pre^'ty, but' I dou''t know wha't it means'." '

The line,
like the line

" His gentle spirit rolls,"
• Of Nelson and the North,"

omits an accented syllable at the beginning, a minor
accent. In every case in which I have found this
measure, the heavier accent follows the lighter,
exhibiting again that tendency to throw the accent
forward, which we remarked in the general preference

ENGLISH PROSODY.

% minor

of the Iambus and Anapaest. And in every case,
except in Hiaiuatha, an unaccented syllable is omitted
from the beginning or end.

This measure is not to be disposed of as merely a
variety of the dissyllabic measure. It is a variation
of the diss^'llabic measure, yet it has a distinct differ-
ence. Any schoolboy will repeat you the Battle of
the Baltic, or any miss will read. you Hiawatha, with
an unmistakeable tetrasyllabic beat.

Besides these regular measures, there are a num-
ber of what we call reofular irreorularities which are
sometimes found in Enoflish. One of them I have
mentioned already, namely, the omission of an unac-
cented syllable from its place in the line, in the Battle
of the Baltic. The poet seems to have had another in
his mind, though he has not carried it out fully. Of
all the stanzas, except the first three, the first line is
on the model of this :

Brave hearts, to Britain's pride,"

which is quite different from the other lines of the
poem.

Another pretty example is found in Tennyson's
Poetical Invitation to F. D. Maurice. The measure
is pure Iambic, except that the last line of each stanza
seems to fall naturally into two dactyls, an accented
monosyllable, and an Iambus :

" Emperor, — Ottoman— which — shall wm."
t " Valor and— charity- more — and more."

The poem " The Daisy," is much like this in structure,
but differs, in that the second instead of the first
syllable of the last line is accented. The line differs
from a pure Iambic, therefore, only in having an
additional unaccented syllable. This is an improve-
ment on the pure Iambic, but the further change is

ENGLISH PROSODY.

1:.

still more of an improvement. I suppose it occurred
to him with the line —

'* Making the little one leap for joy,"

The use of a monosyllable as a beat is also to be
noted, not merely in such exceptional lines as Hood's,

** Work— work — work,"

but as a regular portion of the verse. The hymn
beginning,

" Tliere is a happy land,
Far, far, away,"

is an example. The lirst two words of each line
jxcept the sixth are distinct beats." It is a pretty,
but childish, measure.

It is in hymns that the lyric spirit has been most
assiduously cultivated. We might expect to find,
therefore, verse-forms carried to a high degree of
perfection in hymns. The following is a fine example
of methodic irregularity:

*' I know not the hour when my Lord shall come
To take me away to His own dear home ;
But I know that His presence will lighten the. gloom," &o.

The first two lines consist each of two Anapaests and
two Iambic, or more properly, perhaps, of four
Anapaests, with an unaccented syllable omitted from
the first and last of each line. In the third these
syllables are supplied, making a full Anapaestic, and
giving a swell to the line that has a magnificent effect,
— that is inimitable. One more example of a regularly
mixed measure, a very curious and beautiful example,
we take from Byron :

" There be none of beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee,
And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me :
When as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming."

ENGLISH PROSODY.

The model on which the first, third, and last
four lines of this stanza were evidently intended to
be formed, is an octosyllabic line, of which the third,
fifth, and seventh syllables are accented :

** There be non6 of beauty's daughters."

I fancy that he caught the measure from this and the
next lines, which suggested themselves to him spon-
taneously. The second line is of six syllables, of
which the third, fourth and sixth are accented. It is
not quite perfect, inasmuch as it requires both
syllables of the word " iriagic " to be accented. This
is to be done, not by mispronouncing the word, but
by making up the effect of an accent on the second
syllable, with a slight pause — a rhythmic pause — after
it. The fourth line is perfect.

Some of the octosyllabic lines of this poem read
fairly well in tetrasyllable measure. The line

" And like music on the waters,"

would fall into rank in Hia^uatha anywhere. But
this is a mere coincidence, just as it is a mere coin-
cidence that the line

•* There is a happy land,"

reads very well as Dactylic measure.

I suppose those whose souls are occupied with the
grander and mustier facts of quantity will consider
this investigation trifling. The subject seems to
me of some importance. It teaches, for one thing,
that English rhythm is only beginning to develop
itself. There is great room, amid these mixed
measures, for our budding geniuses to be original.
Let them be on the alert.

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AN ANALYSIS OF ENGLISH
VOWEL-SOUNDS.

The vowel-sounds used in Englivsh are eighteen,
and are used in the words keen, kin, hen, can, calm,
come, con, core, cook, coon, cur, cane, kine, coin, cow,
cone, care, car. Of these the first eleven are simple
or single vowel-sounds ; the last seven are diph-
thongal sounds. The last of the eleven simple vowels,
the vowel sound of cur, is a peculiar vowel. It is
heard in English only before r, and it is an exception
in other respects, which will appear subsequently.

The first ten vowels, in the order named, consti-
tute a series which has several curious and interesting
qualities. In the first place, it is a series of the
vowels as they are pronounced farther towards or
farther backward in the mouth. The sound of e in
keen is pronounced farthest forward and that of u
in coon farthest back. The position of the lips in
enunciating these vowel-sounds follows the same
order. In pronouncing long e the mouth is drawn to
its greatest longitudinal extent, and shortens all along
the series, till in pronouncing long u it is closely
puckered. Again, in pronouncing long e, the lips are
drawn closely in upon the teeth, but are gradually
protruded till we come to long u when they are
pouted. In another respect, the position of the lips
in pronouncing these vowels, divides them into a
double series. In pronouncing the first and last
vowels u and e, the lips are i^early closed ; but as we
proceed from either toward the middle of the series,
the mouth opens, and in pronouncing the vowel-
sounds of con and cabn, it is wide open. This is why

AN ANALYSIS OF ENGLISH VOWEL-SOUNDS. 93

these sounds are favorites with singers. Once more ;
u and e, the extreme, or, as we may call them, the
close-mouthed vowels, are never heard before r. The
next vowel of the series is invariably substituted. And
n before r has the sound of u in full invariably, unless
the sound of u in cur is inserted after it. So mere is
the same as onir in mh^or, or it is mee-ur. The most
distressingly correct speaker, unless he be put up to
it, will not distinguish between serious and Sirius.
Next to each of these extreme vowels are three other
vowels, all of which are, with perfect ease, pro-
nounceable before r. Indeed one of them, the sound
of in core is only heard before r. The remaining
two vowels of the series — the sounds of come and
calm — are not commonly heard before r, and are pro-
nouncable with slight difficulty. It is, perhaps, safe
to say that, as they are ordinarily pronounced they
are never heard before r. The two sounds are really
very much alike, the point by which they are practi-
cally distinguished being that the one is a short vov/el
and the other a long vowel. The sounds are not quite
the same, but they are so nearly the same that but
for this difference of quantity they would be prac-
tically undistinguishable. When both are pronounced
short, I fail to detect any difference. Now the u
pronounced long is sometimes heard before r from
people of Scotch birth or education ; but this, I think,
is the only case where either of the vowels is heard
before r in English. This, also, I take to be the only
case in which anything like quantity is to be found in
English.

The remaining simple vow^el-sound, the sound of
u in CUT, is exceptional. It is pronounced with the
lips nearly closed, and seems thus to be connected
with the end'? of the series, but in other respects it
belongs to the middle of the series. Further, it is
only heard before r.

94 AN ANALYSIS OF ENGLISH VOWEL-SOUNDS.

Of the diphthongs, the sound of a in cane is
composed of the sound of e in hen with the sound of
e in keen. This may be proved by pronouncing the
word very without'the r which, thanks to a modern
affectation, can easily be done. The sound of i in
kine is made up of a as in calm, with e as in keen,
and the sound of the diphthong im as composed of a
as in calm with the vowel-sound of cool. That is to
say they have that composition when heard before a
subtonic or semi-vocal consonant, or before a vowel,
or at the end of a word. Before the surd or hard
consonants, u as in cut takes the place of a as in
calm. .

The diphthong oi is composed of the sound of o
as in con with long e, and the sound of o in cone is
composed of o as in core with long u. In all these
diphthongs the second vowel is either long e or long
u, consequently none of them are ever heard imme-
diately before r. The words fire, Moir, and power
will occur in illustration. In the remaining two
diphthongs the final vowel is u as in cw**; they,
therefore, are heard only before r. In a as in care it
follows e as in ken, and in a as in car it follows a as
in calm. In every case, however, the final vowel of
a diphthong is a close-mouthed vowel. The principle
of its formation is that it is a relapse of the wide
open mouth.

The vowel-sounds of cane, calm, come, and cone,
are never heard before r. The sounds of care, car,
car and core are only heard before r. A phonetic
alphabet would not therefore need to distinguish
between a as in care and a as in cane. The presence
or absence of the r would be ample distinction. And
so of the others. Fourteen characters would fully
represent the eighteen sounds.

3ipie
;vide

)one,

car,

letic
uish

ence
And

■uUy

•