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Henry D. Bacon, 
 
 St. Louis, Mo, 
 
 University of Galifornia. 
 
 aiFT OF 
 
 HENRY^ DOUGLASS BACON. 
 
 1877. 
 
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 PSTCH. 
 
 LIWARY 
 
 
 
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PSYCHOLOGY ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 * A VIEW OF THE 
 
 • '^ 
 
 
 HUMAN SOUL 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY, 
 
 BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF A COURSE OF LECTURES, 
 
 DELIVERED TO THE JUNIOR CLASS MARSHALL 
 
 COLLEGE, PENN., 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK A. RAUCH. 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 
 M. W. DODD, 
 
 Brick Church Chapel, opposite the City Hall. 
 
 1840. 
 
^3 
 
 ^ ^. 
 
 
 BDUC. 
 
 PSYCH. 
 
 UBRARY 
 
 
 Entered according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1840, by 
 Frkderick a. Rauch, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of 
 the Southern District of New- York. 
 
 A. ADAMS, rRINTER, 59 GOLD-STREET. 
 

 
 *-K ^■*-l^'' '•^ 
 
 
 .«r 
 
 
 ^> 
 
 4*^ ' '^ 
 
 
 TO 
 
 
 HIS YOUNG FRIENDS, • ^ 
 
 THE STUDENTS OF MARSHALL COLLEGE, . ) 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 '# 
 
% 
 
 -^-.♦- 
 
 .% 
 
 "^fk^i 
 
''% , 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 ^^ Know thyself ^^ was the inscription on the temple 
 of Apollo. The meanina: of this terse admonition was 
 either a practical one: Know thy frailties, thy human 
 weakness, thy sinful nature ; acknowledge thyself what 
 thou art, — and amend thy ways ; or it was a theoretical 
 one : Man, the highest being in nature, who studies 
 every thing below himself, who knows the soil which 
 he cultivates, and the stars that regulate the seasons, 
 and the laws of crystallization, vegetation and animali- 
 zation — should not he desire to know himself? a being, 
 who stands midway between the kingdom of nature 
 and that of immortal spirits ? who is the measure of 
 the earth and all it contains, who unites what is dispers- 
 ed in nature, every power and every beauty in himself? 
 But how shall man become acquainted with himself 
 both practically and theoretically 7 This is the ques- 
 tion, which the great Apollo did not answer. Shall he 
 merely observe himself? But man is inclined either to 
 place too high or too low a value upon himself; he has 
 not a proper measure for his judgment in himself. 
 Shall he watch others ? He that will understand him- 
 self must observe those around him, but to understand 
 them, he must look into his own heart. Thus he may 
 indeed obtain a knowledge of man, but one, that is with- 
 out systematical connection, incomplete, partial and im- 
 perfect. While we cannot do without such a know- 
 ledge of man, the admonition of Apollo will only be list- 
 ened to fully, when we connect with this experimental 
 
g PREFACE. 
 
 knowledge a systematical development of all contained 
 in man, especially of his reason and ivilL These are 
 the basis of all the ihonghts and actions, of all the scien- 
 ces and practical pursuits in man, and without a know- 
 ledge of them, it will always remain difficult to under- 
 stand man, as we meet him in life. Theory must here, 
 %s every where else, assist practice. 
 
 The principal object of the author in writing this 
 book, was to render this noble and delightful science ac- 
 cessible to all classes of readers, for as the inscription on 
 the temple of Apollo was not only intended for some, but 
 for every one approaching it, so the knowledge of man 
 iis desirable for every one and not for a few only. The 
 author flatters himself, that he has effected this purpose 
 by using plain language, by following a simple course 
 pf thought, by taking all his illustrations from nature, 
 and by comparing constantly the activities of mind with 
 $hose analogous to it, in nature. With the exception 
 of a few divisions, it is hoped therefore; that the present 
 "work may be read by all. 
 
 A second object of the author was to give the science 
 of man a direct bearing upon other sciences, and espe- 
 cially upon religion and theology. Psychology and 
 theology are connected by their common subject, 
 which is man. Religion, of which theology is the 
 science, is intended for man, and for him only ; psy- 
 chology treats of man and not of any other being. 
 Man as the subject of psychology, is created for relig- 
 ion and cannot do without it. Religion is not a mere 
 quality^ but the substance of man. He remains what he 
 is, though he has no learning, no beauty, no wit, neither 
 a strong memory nor an acute judgment; but he ceases 
 to be man in the full sense of the term when he has na 
 ifeligion ; — he is then only an animal, more cunning, 
 crafty and prudent, than all the others, one that can 
 invent machines, but he is no longer the lord of the 
 earth, the image of his Creator. Novv religion has 
 for its soul,/ai/A ; this contains thoughts and ideas, as 
 for instance, those of providence, of sin, of sanctifi^ 
 cation, of regeneration, of repentance, &c. Psychology 
 develops the nature oX reason and consequently tha^ 
 
 * 
 
PREFACE. 6 
 
 of its productions, which are thoughts : and without 
 understanding the nature of reason and its capacities^ 
 that of faith will not be clearly known ; for if faith and 
 reason differ, as they do, how can this difference be ex- 
 hibited, unless the being of each is manifest to us i 
 Again : Faith must be active by love, or else it is dead. 
 It must therefore affect our will and fill it with love and 
 animate it to good works. If so, the being of our will 
 in its state of nature, and previous to its regenerationj 
 ought likewise to be known. But as such it exists in 
 the form of desires, inclinations, emotions and passions^ 
 and these are the subjects of psychology ; hence the study 
 of the latter again is indispensable to a thorough study 
 of theology. AVhile, therefore, the first section of the 
 second part will assik the science of dogmatics, the sec- 
 ond has for its remote object to be auxiliary to that of 
 christian ethics. 
 
 It will scarcely be necessary toshowtheinfluence which 
 a good, systematical knowledge of man, of his reasoii 
 and will, and their union with his body must have on the 
 practice of medicine ; and if the physician studies humari 
 and comparative anatomy, physiology and somatology 
 in general, he will find it ruuch to his advantage, td 
 know the whole life contained in the body which he 
 dissects. And how will he manage cases of mental 
 disease without psychology ? The basis of all patholo- 
 gy is certainly a knowledge of health, and this must bd 
 the same in the sphere of mind. 
 
 The lawyer, on the other hand, who protects our 
 rights, will be the more successful in doing so, the bet- 
 ter he understands human nature ; for all rights ard 
 those of man, and when disputed, passions and desires 
 have darkened our knowledge of them ; and the lawyer 
 in addressing the court, in developing the case before! 
 him, must well understand the nature of the passions, to 
 make his case clear. The greatest lawyers and public 
 orators, Pitt, Sheridan, Fox, &c., were also the finest 
 psychologists. Many actions are committed under the 
 influence of vehement emotions or passions : to valud 
 the guilt of such actions, their moving springSj the pas- 
 sions must be known^ 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 But above all is the study of psychology useful to pa- 
 rents and teachers ; they have to d raw out, what is in their 
 children, and how can they do this well without know- 
 incr the nature of what they are expected to cultivate ? 
 Hence the studyof psychology and especially of desires, 
 inclinations and emotions, is indispensable to them. 
 
 Yet why should we speak of the mere usefulness of 
 a science, which if well represented, is one of the most 
 entertaining and interesting, which the human mind 
 has produced? Who would not feel anxious to see his 
 portrait, drawn before the eye of his mind ? Psycholo- 
 gy is not only intended for the wants of man, whether 
 sensual or intellectual, those of life or of social inter- 
 course ; its highest design is to make man conscious of 
 the subjects of which it treats, reason and will, and give 
 him full possession of both. Man possesses only that 
 of which he is conscious; an inheritance of which I 
 know nothing, may be mine in law, but not by posses- 
 sion. Unless I know my reason and will, I possess 
 neitlier fully, but only partially. 
 
 The present work is, as far as the author knows, the 
 first attempt to unite German and American mental 
 philosophy. This design has not been executed by 
 bringing together two separate systems or by forming 
 an eclectic compound, which is neither the one nor the 
 other, and the parts of which do not grow forth from 
 one spirit, but are brought together from different sources 
 and united by the writer — a real sphinx in the sphere 
 of science. The author was rather anxious to have 
 whatever the work contains, bear witness of one and the 
 same objective spirit, which formed all the parts into 
 07ie life, as the specific life of a tree changes all particles 
 into one juice. 
 
 The author feels himself under obligation to acknow- 
 ledge fully the use he has made of the following writers : 
 Locke, D. Stewart, Reed, Broion, Rosenkranz, Cams, 
 Jr., Cams, Sen., Daub, Stiedenroth, Suabedissen, Es- 
 chenmayer, Heinroth, Hegel, Kant, Wirth, Steffens, 
 Herbart, Hartman, and others. He has used these au- 
 thors with more or less freedom, and especially Carus, 
 Jr., Daub and Rosenkranz, whose general arrangement 
 
PREFACE. O 
 
 he has adopted not without some improvements, how- 
 ever, as he hopes. The work was to be of one spirit ; 
 whatever has been suggested by others, had to become 
 a part of the whole by receiving this spirit and by rep- 
 resenting it. Hence to save space, a general acknow- 
 ledgment has been thought sufficient. 
 
 As to the language, the author has particularly to 
 beg the indulgence of his readers. He hopes this 
 will be granted, as in philosophy beauty of speech is 
 less desirable than clearness^ and as in this science we 
 desire less to be entertained than to be enriched with 
 ideas. The terminology of mental philosophy in the 
 English language, as in almost all others, is difficult 
 and not perfectly agreed on. Thus, to mention one in- 
 stance instead of many, the difference between sensa- 
 tion and perception is by no means clearly established ; 
 as yet it is still disputed. The author has therefore 
 used sensation indiscriminately both for the perception 
 of the object and the feeling connected with it in the 
 sense by which it is perceived. Simplification has been 
 his great object ; yet the signification once given to a 
 word, has been strictly adhered to. 
 
 Mercersburg, April 21st, 1840. 
 
INDEX OF CONTENTS. 
 
 I. INTRODUCTION. ^%' 
 
 CHAPTER I. — Difference between man and animal : 9 
 
 1. Piiysical difference, - - - 9 
 
 2. Psychical difference, - - - 11 
 CHAPTER n.— Life : - - - - 18 
 
 1. Of the plastic power or the principle 
 
 of individual life, - - 21 
 
 2. Instinct, - - . . 30 
 
 3. Of the ingenuity of animals, - 35 
 
 4. Relation of instinct to man, - - 41 
 PART I. ANTHROPOLOGY: - - - - 47 
 
 CHAPTER I. — The influence of nature upon man : - 48 
 1. The influence of the sun, of seasons 
 
 and times, of zones, &c., - 49 
 
 2. The influence of the moon, - - 52 
 
 3. The local influence of the earth, - 52 
 
 4. The diflferent races of mankind, < - 59 
 
 5. National differences, - - 61 
 
 6. dualities of the mind, produced by 
 
 sexual difference : - - 65 
 
 (1.) Of woman, - - 65 
 
 (2.) Ofman, . . - 68 
 
 (3.) Their union, - - 69 
 
 7. Temperaments in general : - - 70 
 
 (1.) The sangume temperament, 73 
 (2.) The choleric, - - 74 
 (3.) The melancholic, - - 75 
 , (4.) Phlegmatic, - - 76 
 - 8. Mental capacities : - - - 77 
 (1.) Docihty, ... 78 
 (2.) Talent, ... 79 
 (3.) Genius, ... 80 
 9. Idiosyncrasy : - - - 85 
 (1.) Sympathy, - - 86 
 (2.) Antipathy, - - . 87 
 (3.) Apathy, - - - 87 
 CHAPTER II.— The natural modifications of mind, 
 produced by age, waking, sleep- 
 ing and dreaming ; - - 88 
 
 1. Age : - - - - 88 
 
 (1.) Childhood, - - 90 
 
 (2.) Youth, - - - 92 
 
 (3.) Manhood, - - - 93 
 
 (4.) Old age, - - - 94 
 
 2. Sleeping and waking : - - 95 
 
 (1.) What is sleeping and what 
 is waking, 
 
 Where is sleep met with ? - 97 
 
 What is its design? - 99 
 
 [4.) What are its conditions? - 101 
 
 (5.) What is a regular sleep? - 102 
 
 (6.) What is faUing asleep? - 103 
 
 (7.) What is waking ? - - 104 
 
 %\ 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 Page. 
 
 3. Dreaming : - - - - 104 
 
 (I.) The form of dreams, - 111 
 
 (2.) Causes of dreams, - - 113 
 
 (3.) Prophetic dreams, - - 115 
 
 (4.) Presentiments, . - 119 
 
 (5.) Visions, - - - 124 
 
 (6.) Second sight, - - 124 
 
 4. Magnetic sleep : - - - 128 
 
 5. Teh health and the diseases of mind : 136 
 
 (1.) Melancholy, - - 138 
 
 (2.) Insanity, - - - 139 
 
 (3.) Mania, - - - 140 
 
 CHAPTER III.— The power of the mind over the body: 148 
 
 1. The mind has an influence o\er the 
 
 form of the body : - - 148 
 
 2. It exercises a power over the health of 
 
 the body: - - - 149 
 
 3. The power over the body may be 
 
 seen from the formation of habits ; 153 
 
 4. From the art of representing its emo- 
 
 tions and thoughts by the motions 
 
 of the body ; - - - 155 
 
 5. From physiognomy : - - 157 
 6 From phrenolocry ; - - - 159 
 
 PART II. PSYCHOLOGY. . - - - 161 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 1. Self-consciousness: - • 163 
 
 2. Mutual relation of body and soul ; - 168 
 
 3. Personality : - - - 174 
 
 4. Division : - - - - 180 
 SECTION I.— On Reason, . _ _ - 185 
 
 CHAPTER I.— 1. Sensation and the senses : - 185 
 
 2. General remarks on the senses : - 187 
 
 3. Of Attention : - - - 193 
 CHAPTER IL— 1. Conception : - - - 199 
 
 2. Fancy ; - - - - 204 
 
 3. Imagination : - - - 208 
 
 (1.) Characteristics of Imagina- 
 tion : - - - 215 
 (2.) Semeiotic Imagination, - 225 
 (3.) Language, - - 237 
 o,. Its etymological elements, 237 
 
 b. Grammatical and syntactical 
 
 elements, - - 240 
 
 c. Written language, 241 
 (4.) Memory : 244 
 
 CHAPTER III.— On pure thinking ; 259 
 
 Remarks -. - - - 259 
 
 SECTION U.— On Will, . - - - 261 
 
 1. Desire : - - - - 264 
 
 2. Inclination : - . . 266 
 
 3. Emotion : - - - - 268 
 
 4. Passion : - - - - 271 
 
 5. Relation of Desires, Indications, 
 
 Emotions and Passions to the will : 273 
 
 CHAPTER I.— On desires : - - - - 279 
 
 1. Sensual desires : - - - 279 
 
 2. Sensual-intellectual desires : - 280 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 Page. 
 
 3. Rational desires ; - 
 
 . 
 
 281 
 
 4. Remarks : - 
 
 _ 
 
 284 
 
 CHAPTER II.— On inclinations and passions : 
 
 _ 
 
 286 
 
 I. Inclinations arising from the relation. 
 
 
 in which man stands to himself 
 
 . _ 
 
 289 
 
 1. Self-love : - 
 
 _ 
 
 289 
 
 2. The love of life: - 
 
 _ 
 
 290 
 
 3. Self-hatred : 
 
 s. 
 
 294 
 
 4. Self-love as a passion : - 
 
 . 
 
 296 
 
 5. Self-love as passion in its negative 
 
 
 form : - 
 
 . 
 
 298 
 
 6. Love of property ; 
 
 - 
 
 300 
 
 7. Love of property as a passion : 
 
 - 
 
 304 
 
 (L) Covetousness, - 
 
 - 
 
 305 
 
 (2.) Avarice, - 
 (3.) Prodigality, 
 
 . 
 
 306 
 
 _ 
 
 307 
 
 8. Love of honor : - 
 
 . 
 
 311 
 
 9. Love of honor as passion ; 
 
 . 
 
 315 
 
 (1.) Ambition, 
 
 . 
 
 315 
 
 (2.) Pride, - 
 
 . 
 
 316 
 
 (3.) Vanity, - 
 
 o 
 
 318 
 
 II. Social inclinations, or inclinations 
 
 
 arising from the relation of man 
 
 to 
 
 
 his fellow-men : 
 
 
 320 
 
 1. Love : - - . 
 
 _ 
 
 320 
 
 (L) Sexuallove, 
 
 - 
 
 322 
 
 (2.) Sexual love as a passion. 
 
 324 
 
 (3.) Parental and filial love. 
 
 ^ - 
 
 326 
 
 (4.) Fraternal love, - 
 
 _ 
 
 327 
 
 ' (5.) Nationallove, - 
 
 - 
 
 329 
 
 (6.j Love of mankind, 
 2. Remarks: 
 
 . 
 
 330 
 
 . 
 
 331 
 
 CHAPTER III.— Emotions : - 
 
 _ 
 
 335 
 
 I. Simple emotions, 
 I. Pleasure: 
 
 - 
 
 335 
 
 
 
 2: Pain, 
 
 
 
 II. Mixed emotions : 
 
 
 337 
 
 I.Hope: 
 
 
 337 
 
 2. Fear: 
 
 
 333 
 
 3. Remarks: - - . 
 
 
 341 
 
 III. Compound emotions : 
 
 
 341 
 
 1. Depressing emotions : 
 
 
 342 
 
 (1.) Melancholy, - 
 
 
 342 
 
 (2.) Anxious expectation, 
 (3.) Despondency, - 
 
 
 344 
 
 
 345 
 
 (4.) Patience, 
 
 
 346 
 
 (5.) Awe, - 
 
 
 347 
 
 2. Strengthening emotions : 
 
 
 
 (1.) Wrath, - 
 
 
 350 
 
 (2. Joy, 
 
 
 351 
 
 Conclusion : - 
 
 
 354 
 
 On Religion: 
 
 
 354 
 
 1. Religion of desire : 
 
 
 360 
 
 2. Religion of imagination: 
 
 
 362 
 
 3. Religion of cool reflection : 
 
 
 368 
 
 APPENDIX.— On Animal Magnetism : 
 
 
 375 
 
 Note to Imagination : 
 
 
 380 
 
 Note to Remarks on Religion : 
 
 
 384 
 
 .-^ 
 
*• • 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Simla quam similis turpissima bestia'nobis ! 
 
 Ennius^ 
 
 DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MAN AND THE ANIMAL. 
 
 It is a very general remark, that man is the highest 
 order of animals, or that he is an animal gifted with 
 reason. Were this correct, we might say with equal 
 truth, that the animal is man without reason ; or that 
 some of the plants, which seem to form a transition from 
 the vegetable to the animal kingdom, are animals with- 
 out sensation. Though man has, physically speaking, 
 many things in common with the animal, he neverthe- 
 less differs wholly from it. Man is no more a mere 
 continuation of the animal, than the animal is merely 
 a continuation of the vegetable. The difference is per- 
 ceptible, both physically and psychologically. 
 
 1. Man has the same physical functions that the 
 animal has, but they are more perfect and more deli- 
 cate. The body of the animal is either covered with 
 scales or feathers, with fur, wool, or bristles. All of these 
 approach more or less nearly to the nature of vegeta- 
 bles ; and some of them, as for instance, the shell ofsnails 
 and the tortoise, to inorganic nature. These insensible 
 substances, interposed between the skin and the ele- 
 ments that surround and affect living beings, deprive 
 animals of the more tender and delicate sensations, at 
 the same time that they like conductors protect them 
 from the inclemency of the seasons. The body of man 
 is covered with a thin, highly sensitive, and beautiful 
 skin, which is not concealed under a vegetable and life- 
 
m 
 
 10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 less veil, but unveiled exhibits the presence of the blood, 
 the pulsations of the heart, and the utterance of anima- 
 tion over the whole body. Everywhere sensitive, the 
 swellinor life shines forth from within, and the fresh, 
 bloomins: color of the skin is but the expression of 
 the internal life, the mirror of its healthy or sickly 
 state. Over the face of man are shed beauty and spirit, 
 and even animals are said to gaze at him with mute 
 wonder. The cottiplaint, that man alone is born with- 
 out raiment, is silly, for this apparent helplessness is the 
 source not only of the most various and delicate sensa- 
 tions, and knowledge derived from them, but also of 
 much ingenuity. Man has not claws, but hands, that 
 are susceptible of many different positions, by which he 
 handles the chisel, which pours life and beauty over the 
 hard, cold marble, the pencil that animates the canvas, 
 the instrument from which he draws forth sweet melo- 
 dies, and the iron, from which he forms' the weapons 
 denied him by nature. His body is so fashioned that 
 he must walk upright ; for while no animal is intended 
 to walk otherwise than on all-fours, the proportions of 
 the human frame are such, as to render any other than 
 an upright position almost impossible. His legs are much 
 longer than his arms, his knees bend forward,' his eyes 
 are in front and not at the sides, the ligaments of the 
 neck are weak and incapable of supporting the head 
 when hanging down, the arms are at a great distance 
 from each other, and the breast is broad and full. A hori- 
 zontal position would drive the blood into the head with 
 such violence as to cause stupor. Man is made to turn 
 his head from the earth to the sky, from the right to the 
 left, to view now the crawling insect beneath his feet, 
 and now the millions of stars above his head. To the 
 fish it is natural to swim, to the bird to fly, to man to 
 walk upright. The Greek word for man (dvepojnos) in- 
 dicates the difference between man and animals in this 
 respect. It influences our whole being and nature. 
 Even the bees, when they have lost their queen-bee, 
 cause the larva of a future laboring bee to be transform- 
 ed into a queen by changing its horizontal to an upright 
 position, and giving it different food. • 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 The same superiority is visible in the human face, 
 its proportions and features. With the animal, the most 
 prominent part is the mouth ; with man, the upper part 
 of the face. With the animal, the mouth, jaws, and 
 teeth are to serve only physical purposes ; they are 
 formed to pluck the grasses and twigs, or to seize and 
 carry their prey, and thus tp perform at the same time 
 the service of the hands of man. The human mouth, 
 with its beautiful and sensitive lips, its regular rows of 
 teeth, serves not only the body, but the soul ; nourishes 
 not only the stomach, but also the understanding. Its 
 muscles are so movable, that according to Haller's calcu- 
 lation, it may pronounce in one minute fifteen hundred 
 letters. The contraction of a muscle forming the letter 
 must consequently take place in the three thousandth, 
 and the vibrations of the stylo-pharyngean muscle in 
 pronouncing a letter, in the thirty thousandth part of a 
 minute. ' No bird flies as fast as the winged words fall 
 from the lips of man.' 
 
 Comparing the animal physiologically with man, we 
 cannot but perceive a great difference in this respect 
 also. The lower the animal in the scale of being, the 
 more it is confined to one and the same food. To this 
 food it is directed by instinct, by constitution and appe- 
 tite, as the magnet to the pole. Man, on the contrary, 
 selects his food and drink from all the kingdoms of na- 
 ture, from the salt of the ocean to the mushrooms of the 
 forests, from the oyster and the amphibious turtle to the 
 lofty sailers of the air and ibex of the High Alps. He 
 prepares his food by fire, and the story of Prometheus is 
 not a mere fable. The laws of his digestion differ 
 widely from those of animals, the functions of assimila- 
 tion penetrating more thoroughly the elements of nutri- 
 tion. The flesh of the fish, when compared with that 
 of the bird, is found less formed and solid ; that of the 
 bird less so than that of the quadruped, but the flesh of 
 man is more perfect than that of any animal. Thi 
 shows itself externally on the whole surface of the hu 
 man body, and especially in the " morbidezza " of the 
 skin, the trial-point of all artists. 
 
 2. The psychological difference between man and 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 animals is yet more striking. The animal has in 
 common with man, -Sensation and Perception. By 
 sensation we understand an internal motion or activity, 
 produced in a sensitive organ by something external. 
 The organ may be seen externally, but this internal ac- 
 tivity or motion cannot be observed ; it can only be 
 felt. The eye, for instance, is the organ of sight ; the 
 fluid surrounding it is constantly in motion, and this 
 motion may be seen, because it is an external one. But 
 when the light falls upon the eye, it causes a sensation, 
 which as an internal motion, is invisible to the eye of 
 the observer. He may notice the dilation or contrac- 
 tion of the pupil, but cannot see sight itself, nor hear 
 hearing. Comparing the vibrations of a string of the 
 piano with those of a nerve, subject to sensation, we 
 shall find the former altogether mechanical and exter- 
 nal, the string moving away from itself. The nerve, 
 when affected, trembles within itself, and self-touched in 
 its motions, it has sensation, or feels. The vibrating string 
 of the piano gives a sound, but the sound is not felt by 
 it ; the nerves of the ear, on the other hand, receive a sen- 
 sation from it. These trembling motions of the nerves 
 are called sensations^ because they are peculiar to the 
 senses. Now, the animal has these sensations in common 
 with man, but with this difference. In. the animal one 
 sense prevails over all the others, and these are subservient 
 to it. In the eagle, for example, it is the eye that is pre- 
 dominant ; from immense heights he observes the 
 mouse creeping on the soil, and darts upon it, certain of 
 his prey. Yet this one sense has always reference to the 
 means of subsistence, which the animal seeks under its 
 guidance; so that while it may be extremely acute and 
 successful in discovering the food, it may be dull and 
 stupid in respect to other objects, of which man receives 
 the most accurate sensations through the same sense. 
 The ear of the wood-cock is acute in perceiving any 
 rustling noise, as that in the fallen leaves of the forests, 
 but shrill and clear sounds it does not notice. The eye 
 perceives only such objects as reflect the light upon it. 
 The eye of man may, however, direct itself to the different 
 parts of these objects, to their color, proportions, size 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 and form, motion or rest, and inspect each by itself, 
 while the eye of the animal, for want of reason, is forced 
 to admit a sensation from all these parts at once, and 
 consequently receives but a confused impression. As 
 one sense prevails in animals, the others are found less 
 active. The lion has an excellent scent, but his sight 
 is weak. Hence the animal is under the dominion of 
 one sense, while the harmonious and equal strength of 
 all the senses places man above them, and makes him 
 master of them all. Which of the senses prevails in 
 an animal, depends always upon the species to which 
 it belongs. In the eagle it is sight, in the mole hear- 
 ing, in the vulture scent ; but wherever one sense pre- 
 dominates, the others must subserve and be directed by 
 it. In man, no sense being more acute than another) 
 none reigns, but all are co-ordinate with each other, and 
 subordinate to the understanding. The animal is vis 
 sentiens, man natura intelligens. Hence it is, too, that 
 we do not speak of insanity or derangement^ but of 
 madness^ when animals can no longer distinguish one 
 object from another, but like infuriated elephants or 
 horses, trample under their feet every object that opposes , 
 
 their course. And, finally, man sees not only with his 
 eye external objects, but is also able to examine the eye, 
 by which he sees ; the animal can neither see its eye nor 
 itself. 
 
 Perception, however, is more than Sensation. The 
 latter is and remains in contact with the object, by \ -^ 
 
 which it is called forth, and is consequently dependent -*►*■ 
 
 on it. The sensation of hearing is impossible without 
 the vibration of the air ; that of seeing is impossible 
 without the presence of light. Sight and light, hearing 
 and sound, are so inseparable, that the one could not 
 be without the other. Without light the eye could not 
 see, without an eye, there would be an eternal night. And 
 if there were no ear, the brooks might continue to mur- 
 mur, the waving trees to rustle their branches, the winds 
 to roar, but to earthly beings nature would be silent as the 
 grave. Nor can man avoid admitting a sensation, when 
 the element that excites it, acts upon the organ. As we 
 cannot have a sensation of light unless it falls upon the ^ 
 
14 
 
 eye, so we must have it, when the eye is affected by it. 
 We cannot taste salt unless it lies on the tongue, but 
 when once it is brought in contact with the tongue, we 
 must have such a sensation, as its specific nature is 
 capable of exciting. In sensation, therefore, we depend 
 wholly on the presence of external objects, and are de- 
 termined by them. But after we have once had a sen- 
 sation, we may have perceptions of the objects of sen- 
 sation, and these perceptions are possible without the 
 presence of the objects. This appears from the fact that 
 one, who in the latter part of his life becomes blind, 
 may have perceptions of all he once saw. Yet percep- 
 tions are impossible without previous sensations, for 
 one born blind can have no perception of color or form. 
 Another distinction between sensation and perception 
 is this. Sensation always exists in an organ ; percep- 
 tion not. When I hear a fine melody for the first time, 
 I have a sensation of it ; but when afterwards, without 
 hearing it, it floats in my mind, I have a perception of it. 
 Or when I experience hunger, I may have a percep- 
 tion of food, though it be not present, but when 1 eat, 
 I have a sensation of it. The animal has perceptions 
 as well as man. The hunter's dog dreams, and pur- 
 sues in his dream the hare or the stag. The dog, 
 when near to his master, has a sensation of him by 
 scent, or sight ; but when seeking him for days in suc- 
 cession, he can have only a perception of him. The 
 animal is confined within the sphere of sensation and 
 perception, and as its sensations are limited to its 
 natural wants, so must be its perceptions. The percep- 
 tions of man are as much more numerous and accu- 
 rate, as his sensations are more various and acute. But 
 . he has in addition to sensations and perceptions, what 
 the animal has not, which we may express by the term 
 ^ apperceptions. 
 
 As the animal is separated by sensation from the 
 plant, so man is elevated by apperception above the 
 animal. Perception and apperception differ widely. 
 The objects of perception are always such as are single 
 and met with in a certain place and time. The eagle, 
 i that builds his nest on a high rock, has not the least idea 
 
^I^RODUCTION. ^ 15 
 
 ■ '^ 
 
 of the nature of the stone on which his nest is placed, nor 
 of the region in which it stands, but he carries with him 
 the image of this single rock, as it stands in a particular 
 place, and noticing no, resemblance between it and other 
 rocks, he would find it among thousands of others, its 
 peculiar features being strongly and solely impressed 
 upon his eye. The objects of apperception, on the other 
 hand, are the kind, the species and individuals of things. 
 It is by apperception, that man distinguishes between 
 his perceptions and the objects perceived; and again, 
 that he classifies nature and its productions, by discov- 
 ering the union in the greatest variety, as when he 
 says": these bushes are rose-bushes ; and by distinguish- 
 ing one class from another, as pears from apples, and 
 these from peaches. This the animal can never do. It 
 sees, it perceives the grass, but it never arranges it ac- 
 cording to its botanical classes. The dog universally 
 will pursue the hare, and it may seem that he does so, 
 because he knows this class of animals, and distinguishes 
 between it and others ; but the truth is, that all hares be- 
 ing exactly alike in size, form, and scent, will produce the 
 same sensations in the dog, and these will always set him 
 in motion. This then is the broad difference, the chasm 
 between man and the animal : the former can think^ the 
 latter cannot, for it is glehae adscriptus. It lives, but 
 acquires no experience ; it eats its food daily, but never 
 knows what this food is. Some indeed have gone so 
 far as to say, that animals not only judge, but draw 
 conclusions from causes to effects. To draw conclu- 
 sions is the highest power of human reason, and if they 
 could do this, they would be able to think ^ and to xmll 
 like man, and to have apperceptions like him. Such 
 men cannot know what thinking is, or what is to be 
 understood by judging and drawing conclusions. 
 Animals have no ideaof power, of capacities, of energy, 
 of proportions, of beauty, of truth,- and consequently 
 none of cause and effect. ■ None of these are visible or 
 accessible to the senses, but only to thought, which it 
 yet remains to be proved, that animals possess. The 
 process by which we arrive at conclusions is simply this. 
 We have three thoughts; each differs from the other, 
 
-^ 
 
 16 INTRODUCTION 
 
 and each is included within a certain limit. But while all 
 differ, one is capable of uniting the two others, and of 
 removing this difference. Thus two thoughts are re- 
 duced to one class by a third one connecting them. 
 To make use of an example frequently adduced, the 
 dog once whipped, fears as soon as he sees his master 
 take the cane with which he has been beaten on a former 
 occasion. The cane is one thing, the master's intention 
 another, and the pain proceeding from the whippings a 
 third. Now it would be foolish in the extreme, to say, 
 that the dog connects the idea of pain with the cane by 
 the intention of the master'. He has but a confused 
 impression, and without any conclusions or judgments, 
 he darkly connects things as they formerly were con- 
 nected, and anticipates consequences, without being 
 conscious of such a connection, or without having any 
 thing like an idea of cause and consequence. Hunters, 
 it is true, have many anecdotes about the acuteness and 
 ingenuity of animals, as do sailors voyaging to distant 
 countries. The fact, however, is, that unless their game 
 were bound by the invariable laws of instinct in all its 
 actions, unless one fox would dig its hole as the other, 
 and all stags would go to the water, and seek food 
 at regular hours, and live in certain places at different 
 seasons, the hunters would not be able to entrap them. 
 
 Animals, finally, cannot have any emotions ; neither 
 joy nor grief, neither hope nor fear. The external ex- 
 pressions of these emotions are weepiiig and laughing, 
 neither of which has as yet been observed in animals. 
 We all remember from Homer's Iliad, that when the 
 noble Patroclus, alone and at a distance from his true 
 friend Achilles, fell by the hands of the Trojans, his 
 horses shed big tears and refused to obey, because they 
 missed the well known voice of their beloved master. 
 But these tears belong to poetry ; they are the tears 
 which Homer himself wept at the death of the hero 
 his fancy had created. So poetry attributes innocence 
 to the lily, because it is ofthe purest white; modesty to the 
 violet, because it blooms and exhales its fragrance un- 
 seen ; love to the rose, because the cheeks of the maiden 
 blush like it, when for the finst time she feels this noble 
 
>^ • 
 
 INTHODUCTION. 17 
 
 emotion. What is joy in man, springing from a feeling 
 that connects itself with some thought, in animals, is 
 but a physical sensation or bodily pleasure, the agreeable 
 re-action of the muscles against some external influence, 
 the satisfaction of some want. And so what is grief in 
 man, is but a physical pain, or suffering in the animal. 
 The dog, that lays himself upon the grave of his mas- 
 ter and remains there until he dies, does so not from de- 
 liberation and free choice, but being forced, by the chain 
 of habit, which he is unable to break. Nor do animals 
 fear or hope, for neither the future nor the past is known 
 to them. A dark anxiety which they do not under- 
 stand, a confused anticipation, is all of which they are 
 susceptible. 
 
 n 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 It is riot my intention, in this Chapter, to show what 
 life is in itself, but only to exhibit some of its most 
 striking" phenomena, and the different stag^es of its gen- 
 eral development throughout nature. Thus only can 
 we gain a clear idea of the rank occupied by man among 
 animated beings. In the following three points, the liv- 
 ing differs from the dead or lifeless, the organic from 
 the inorganic. 
 
 1. Whatever is alive, must be a union, a totality of 
 many organs or members, and so united with them, that 
 they cannot be separated from each other, nor from the 
 whole, without being destroyed. The crystal, however 
 transparent, and beautiful, and regular in its form, is not 
 alive, for it is not an individual being, nor a whole, whose 
 parts are organs ox members ; it is not organized at all. 
 The many forms of the crystal are not indeed produced 
 by a power foreign to its matter, not by an external con- 
 trivance, but by a plastic power, which, resting in its 
 matter, always calls forth the same symmetrical forms 
 according to eternal laws, whenever the conditions un- 
 der which it can be active are present. But the organi- 
 zation of the whole into parts, as for example, that of the 
 plant into trunk and branches, being wanting, we should 
 hesitate to call the crystal alive. Every one of its 
 qualities is contained in each particle of the mineral, 
 and though there may be many qualities, they are all of 
 them so included in each other, that where the one is 
 the other is also. Hence there is no union of many 
 members or organs, each of which, while pervaded by 
 
 r- 
 
* V- 
 
 ft 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 the same life, has a particular office; but the smallest 
 piece of the mineral is as perfect as the whole. The 
 plant, on the other hand, is a whole, that contains and 
 supports all its parts. These parts are not merely con- 
 nected as the links of a chain, which cannot support it- 
 self, but must be supported by the nail in the wall ; they 
 grow forth from and depend on each other, and on the 
 life of the whole. Roots, trunks, branches, twigs, leaves, 
 blossoms and fruits, all diifer from each other ; each has 
 a peculiar office ; each assists and promotes the life of 
 the whole ; and while the one depends on the other, all de- 
 pend on the individual, whose organs they are. The leaf 
 torn from the branch, loses its freshness, its sap, its color, 
 and withers. The branch, hanging only by a few fibers 
 to the trunk, is no longer a part of the tree. One of the 
 characteristics, therefore, of life, is that its parts do not 
 merely cohere externally and mechanically, like those of 
 a machine, but are inseparably connected by concrescence 
 or a common growth, so that they cannot be divided with- 
 out mutual ruin. The iron, divided into small particles 
 or atoms by the file, still remains iron. The parts of 
 a house, as they are heterogeneous and only collected 
 from the different portions of nature, and then put to- 
 gether, so they v/ill remain what they are, stone, timber, 
 mortar, and glass, though they should be taken apart 
 and applied to another building. But the trunk sever- 
 ed from the root, is dead ; the hand, lopped from the arm, 
 grows black and decays. 
 
 2. The second characteristic of life is the continued 
 process by which, whatever lives, preserves itself No 
 living individual begins to be by the external union of 
 its parts, but it grows forth from a spontaneous coales- 
 cence. The parts do not exist before the whole, so that 
 nothing would be necessary to make the whole, but add- 
 ing the one part to the other. The parts of which the 
 machine consists were in existence before the machine 
 . was made, but the branches of the tree were not before 
 the tree was. Hence the organic or living individual 
 produces all its parts by a power within itself, and by 
 this power it also preserves itself. In regard to this 
 self-preservation, however, a great difference appears 
 
i 
 
 30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 n the different animated beings. The plant by its roots 
 absorbs those elements which are congenial to its na- 
 ture ; it may therefore be said to eat and drink, to preserve 
 itself. But the activity of the plant is purely e:J^ternal. 
 It does not preserve an organism that may be said 
 to have finished growing, but by assimilation every 
 spring, it produces new limbs, leaves, and blossoms. It 
 grows as long as it lives, and yet every new limb is but 
 a repetition of the original trunk, as are the new leaves 
 of the old. The animal, on the other hand, reaches a 
 point, where all its members are complete and full- 
 grown, and at this stage it preserves its organism by nu- 
 triment. In the animal, one limb differs from the other, 
 the nose from the mouth, the eyes from the ear, the legs 
 from the body ; but they do not grow in succession, like 
 the branches of the plant, but contemporaneously. 
 Hence it is that the life of the plant is merely external j 
 it presses constantly to the surface, and exhibits itself in 
 color, bark, fragrance, fruit and seed. And as its life, so 
 its self-preservation is external, not felt by it. The life 
 of the animal is more internal, it feels itself, and feels a 
 pleasure in preserving its life. 
 
 3. A third characteristic of life is, that form and mat- 
 ter, which constitute a living being, are not brought to- 
 gether externally, so that the matter somewhere exists, 
 and the form is given it by an external power. This is 
 the case in art. The marble exists long before the art- 
 ist impresses the picture of his imagination upon it. So 
 this picture exists in the mind of the artist before his 
 chisel carves the stone. But it is otherwise in a living 
 being. This grows forth from an invisible power, ac- 
 cording to certain, unchangeable laws. This power on 
 the one hand materializes, attracts matter, assumes vol- 
 ume, produces fibers, roots, bark, branches or nerves, 
 muscles, sinevvs, bones, (fcc; on the other it is plastic, 
 giving form to the matter. It is however only one pow- 
 er, that acts under two different forms, so that while it 
 assumes volume, it at the same time changes the parti- 
 cles received into that form in which alone its nature 
 . can admit them. It is therefore correct to say, that in a 
 living being the matter does not precede its form. The 
 
INTRODUCTION* 21 
 
 air we exhale, is no longer what it was when we in- 
 haled it ; the light absorbed by the plant is changed into 
 color, and consequently does not exist in it as pure light ; 
 and this change begins when the element is received 
 by the plant. The wormwood, the rosebush, the tube- 
 rose, may alLof them stand on the same soil, receive the 
 same moisture, the same atmosphere, and the same de- 
 gree of heat, and consequently live on the same elements ; 
 yet the different taste and medical power of their sap, 
 the different color of their leaves, the different fragrance 
 of their flowers, sufficiently show, that while the same 
 elements enter into their natare, they do not remain the 
 same, but are changed and peculiarly modified by the form 
 under which they enter into it. Though the elements 
 as such precede the plant, it is nevertheless the plastic 
 power of the plant that converts them into its constitu- 
 ent parts. The light flows into the eye of the mole no 
 less than into that of the eagle, but it exists in the one 
 as it does not in the other ; there is a specific difference 
 between the contents of the eye of the eagle and that of 
 the mole. 
 
 From these remarks it must be manifest, that the va- 
 rious forms of life do not proceed from dead matter, nor 
 from chance or any blind impulse, but that they are 
 fashioned by a plastic power placed in matter by the 
 divine will, and that this is the power which upholds 
 the species and individuals, and universally produces 
 the same forms according to the same unchangeable 
 laws. This power ,then, is the very soul of life, and the 
 question is, What can ice knoio concerning- it ? 
 
 OF THE PLASTIC POWER; 
 
 Or the principle of all individual life. 
 
 We daily see thousands of beings begin to be ; we 
 see them arise from the ground of ttie earth, from seeds 
 and sprouts, and eggs in the water and on the conti- 
 nent, on the soil and in the air. Each new being bears 
 
 4 
 
22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the form of the species to which it belongs, and though 
 favorable or unfavorable influences may render this 
 form more or less perfect, no external power can change 
 its specific character. From the seed universally will 
 proceed the form of the plant from which the seed was 
 produced, and leaves and branches, roots and trunk, 
 blossom and fruit, may be anticipated with all certainty. 
 There is, it must be admitted, a type, which precedes 
 the opening and growing being, and which fashions it 
 with so unchangeable a necessity, that the individuals 
 of any species have continued nearly the same in size 
 and form, in nature and qualities, ever since the creation 
 of the world. This cannot be owing to accidental cir- 
 cumstances ; nor can form emerge from chaotic matter, 
 nor life from death, nor light from darkness, nor the or- 
 ganic from the inorganic. The theory of Thales, 
 therefore, \<rho made water the mother of all life, or the 
 Aristotelian hypothesis of a generatio aequivoca in op- 
 position to a generatio sexualis, could no longer stand, 
 even if Redi's experiments had been less decisive. This 
 hypothesis considered matter as possessed of power to 
 produce the various forms of life. We see worms and 
 insects generated in decaying flesh; mushrooms and 
 other plants make their appearance in the different por- 
 tions of the earth, wherever soil and climate are favora- 
 ble to them. Certain plants are always found around 
 ^jsalt springs and nowhere else; ihe 'pinus pumilis is 
 Wmet with on the top of the Silesian mountains, and 
 again on the Carpathian ; how could these plants be 
 found so uniformly under the same circumstances, if the 
 same qualities of matter did not always produce the 
 same forms of life ? So we discover, in the intestines of 
 animals, worms which differ specifically/ according to 
 th« different parts in which they are found, so that they 
 cannot have been generated by such as might have 
 been swallowed in water. Thus the theory. Redi, how 
 ever, by his simple yet ingenious experiment, com- 
 pletely refuted it. He filled three pots with flesh and 
 exposed them to the sun. One of these pots he sealed up 
 tightly, another he covered merely with paper, and the 
 third he left open. Upon examining all of them, ha 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 discovered that the one left open was filled with in- 
 sects, the second, covered with paper, exhibited but a 
 few, and the third none at all. But suppose insects 
 could originate from matter, could the larger animals, 
 the horse and the stag, the zebra and cameleopard, and 
 above all, man, take their rise from it ? And if they 
 could, by what power of matter ? From the time of 
 Redi, the proverb of the celebrated Harvey, that every 
 being originates from seed or eg^s, o?nne animal ex 
 ovoj became daily more acceptable ; yet ' whether I 
 examine with the microscope the germ in the acorn, or 
 whether I view the oak of a hundred years, I am equally 
 far from its origin.' The seed is already the product 
 of a plastic power, which formed it, as it must produce 
 the form that shall grow forth from the seed. The 
 Greek question — whether the egg was before the hen or 
 the hen before the egg, would likewise present itself. 
 The egg is the chicken in possibility^ and the chicken 
 is the realized possibility which was contained in the 
 egg. All the diiferent and many hypotheses on the ori- 
 gin of individual life, gave way to that which was called 
 the theory of involution, or theoria preformationis. 
 This asserted that all forms exist from the beginning of 
 the world, only infinitely small, all of them preformed, the 
 one included in the other, and many millions of germs 
 in one. Growth is nothing else than evolution or en- 
 largement of these preformed germs. This theory was 
 supported by many strange arguments ; but however 
 well supported it might have been, it transferred the 
 difiiculty in question only from one place to another. 
 For whether I view the tree in its full size or in its in- 
 finitely small preformation, here as well as there I see 
 it already formed, and must ask, whence these forms ? 
 When we, however carefully, and by the most accurate 
 instruments, examine the egg of a butterfly, we cannot 
 discover any thing except a white fluid, which is of the 
 same color and substance in all its parts, and fills a 
 small, round, simple cover. Nothing can be seen as yet 
 of the body of the butterfly, nothing of its beautifully 
 colored wings, nothing of its proboscis, which the future 
 fly will thrust into the cups of flowers, nothing of it& 
 
 tP^" 
 
24 INTRODtJCTION. 
 
 - limbs and many eyes. And yet the possibility of pro- 
 ducing all of them, slumbers in the es^g, and no sooner 
 is it exposed to the necessary and favorable conditions,- 
 than an invisible power will develop member after 
 member in this simple and identical fluid. The cele- 
 brated Blumenbach, who for a long time had taught this 
 theory of involution, was accidentally led to discover its 
 fallacy, and to s.tart one which will be found of much 
 greater importance to our subject than any former one. 
 While spending a part of a vacation in the country, he 
 met with a green armpolypous in a rivulet. He muti- 
 lated it repeatedly, and whenever he cwt off a part, the 
 whole animal would become thin for a time, and an ef- 
 fort to reproduce the lost part became evident. On the 
 second or third day, tails, arms, and other mutilated 
 parts were fully grown again. Soon after, he had to 
 
 ■ attend upon a man, from one of whose limbs had to 
 ,^ be cut a large portion of flesh ; the wound soon healed, 
 ,^ and the system directly showed a tendency to cover the 
 cavity. When these phenomena were brought in con- 
 nection with others, — for example, that the feelers of. 
 snails, when cut off", or the limbs of spiders, when lost, 
 are soon restored again,— it could not but strike him, that 
 all living beings carry in themselves a plastic power, 
 from which not only they themselves proceed, but 
 which has a tendency to produce and to preserve those 
 forms which are essential to them. It is not the germ 
 
 in the seed, from which the plant originates. This germ 
 is already of a visible and decided form, the result of the 
 flower. In the flower we may discover a whitish, glo- 
 
 , bular fluid, which as the flower unfolds itself, and final- 
 ly fades away, becomes more solid, and when ripe, is 
 thrown off" from the mother^plant as seed. In this seed 
 is contained the germ, the first formation of the future 
 plant, as roots and leaves naay be considered the second 
 and third formations. Whence then is the germ? 
 It is the product of a 'plastic power , which is the prin- 
 ciple of individual life and its preservation, which forms 
 in the plant the seed, the fibers and the roots, the 
 leaves and the branches ; which makes the roots seek for 
 moisture, and the leaves for the air, and the flower for the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 26 
 
 light of the sun, and which will confine the form of 
 each individual to its species, so that the seed of the 
 palm-tree will never grow up and become an oak 
 tree, nor the acorn grow up a palm-tree. 
 
 This plastic power reigns wherever there is life ; 
 whether it be in the depths of the ocean, where it works 
 secretly and unseen, or in the cavities of the earth, 
 where it mysteriously forms the salamander and dragon, 
 or in the bud and blossoms of the plant, which it 
 clothes with beaut}'-, or in the sensations and perceptions 
 of animals, in which the light of intellect seems to 
 dawn. It can no more be seen with the eye, than 
 any other power. But as we conclude from effects as to 
 causes, so we conclude here from the products as to the 
 power that produces them. These products are the 
 forms of individual life, and consequently we must admit 
 a plastic power. To the thinking and observing man, 
 its existence is no less certain than the sound that falls 
 upon his ear, or the dazzling light that is reflected upon 
 his eyes. The necessity of admitting and knowing 
 this plastic power, will appear more fully when we con- 
 sider separately the principal phenomena that cannot 
 be explained without it. They are, 
 
 First, a living motion. When we compare the dif- 
 ferent possible motions with each other, we cannot but 
 acknowledge a great difference between them as to their 
 cause. The merely mechanical motion, that like the 
 ball rolling from place to place, changes only its locali- 
 ty, is universally caused by a power not contained in 
 the object in motion, but by one that is external to it. 
 The ball on the billiard table, struck by the rod, will roll 
 on until the impulse given it has exhausted itself. The 
 arrow, shot from the bow, is set in motion by a power 
 which does not rest in it, and which gives it the direction 
 it takes. All mechanical motion so wholly depends on an 
 external cause, that where this ceases, it must likewise 
 stop. The cannon ball, discharged into the air, cannot con- 
 tinue to rise, ad injinitiiin^ but must sink back upon the 
 earth in a parabolic line. With chimical motion it is 
 somewhat otherwise. Its cause is contained in the pe- 
 culiar relation or affinity of two bodies to each other; each 
 
 4 
 
26 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of which pre-siipposes in the other, what is wanting in 
 itself. Iron filings and vitriolic acid, put together, will af- 
 fect and set each other into motion, the result of which 
 will be the production of a third body. Mechanical 
 motion leaves a body as it found it, but chimical mo- 
 tion eifects an entire change. Again, when we see the 
 seed of a plant, sown in a favorable soil, and exposed to 
 the light, swell and move,' the motion, though depend- 
 ent on proper conditions, is not caused by a power with- 
 out, but by one within the seed, and the effect is not a 
 new chimical combination, but a living body, growing 
 out from within. We may observe the same, when we 
 compare the motion of an infusorium with any other 
 merely mechanical loco-motion. The lowest class of 
 animals, which are so small that five thousand millions 
 may live in one drop of water, and that can only 
 be rendered visible by a microscope, magnifying one 
 hundred times, which indeed have only become known 
 since the invention of Leuwenhoek's microscope and 
 may be produced by pouring water upon decaying sub- 
 stances {infundere^ infiisorium\ are called infusoria. 
 They are, according to natural historians, mere living 
 points, atoms that eat and drink, but have no organized 
 bodies. And yet these living atoms have a motion of 
 their own. The feather, that floats in the air, the dust 
 that is raised by the attraction of light, the piece of wood 
 that swims down the river, are all carried and moved by 
 the elements, in which they are ; but these little, living 
 animals, move with or against the current, and in what- 
 ever direction they choose. Their motions, therefore, 
 depend not on any thing external, but on a power with- 
 in themselves, strong enough to resist the current of the 
 air. 
 
 Secondly, a separation of the living being from the 
 element in which it is born. The drop of water that 
 flows along in a river, is not separated in any way from 
 the element of which it forms a part. The single grain 
 of sand is separated from all other grains, but it is not 
 Separated by its own innate power, for it is not alive. 
 When, on the other hand, in the plant a globular fluid is 
 formed, and when this fluid at length hardens and in the 
 
INTRODUCTION. ^ 27 
 
 form of seed by its own activity, thrusts^ itself forth or 
 falls from the mother-plant, we must conclude that 
 there is a simple, secretly-working power, causing the 
 fluid— which originally is a part of the plant, and in as 
 close a contact with it as a drop of water with its volume, 
 — to separate itself and constitute a being of its own. 
 This is the case with the piincttim saliens in the ani- 
 mal, and with all living bemgs throughout nature. All 
 commence in such a simple activity, all begin to move, 
 and to grow forth from it and receive members and 
 form by it. Through it, the being that is active, is ac- 
 tive in reference to itself Whatever is, must be active, 
 either with reference to itself or to something else. 
 When the blacksmith suffers, instead of the iron, merely 
 its shadow to fall upon the anvil, and strikes it with his 
 hammer, the shadow cannot be aflected, because it is 
 inactive, the mere picture of death. But when instead 
 of the shadow, the iron is placed upon the anvil, it will 
 stretch itself out under the heavy strokes of the hammer. 
 It is active, yet not for itself, but only for the hammer. 
 The sun, that shines upon the sand and heats it, is ac- 
 tive, yet not for itself, but for something else ; the sand, 
 that is heated and perhaps converted into glass, is active 
 likewise, but not for itself either, but fox some other pur- 
 poses. The germ, on the other hand, that under the 
 mild influence of sweet moisture and of a genial warmth, 
 begins to move, to swell, to break the cover and to 
 sprout, is not active for any thing else, but for itself; 
 for the result of its activity is its formation as a plant. 
 As such it preserves itself, breathes, eats and drinks 
 with its roots and leaves. By the simple activity in 
 question, therefore, a living being begins to exist as an 
 individual ; as such it is related to itself in all its parts ; 
 branches and twigs, roots and trunk, are all of them re- 
 lated to each other, and their union is the plant or the 
 individual life, whose organs they are. 
 
 Thirdly, a specific form. This originally simple 
 power or activity, contains the possibility of producing 
 such forms, as the prototype of a genus necessarily de- 
 mands. When we observe an egg^ from which the fu- 
 ture young is to come forth, we are forced to admit this 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 possibility. At first, nothing is visible but the fluid ; af- 
 terwards a beating point is seen ;- soon the heart begins 
 to have pulsation ; the blood to become red ; the head 
 makes its appearance ; eyes, mouth, and members shoot 
 forth. Limbs, as yet slender as the threads of a cobweb, 
 wtngs, toes, and feet become visible. The being in a state 
 of formation, already sleeps and wakes, moves and rests. 
 It seeks light, and without assistance opens the shell. 
 Is here no form-giving power? Must not this power 
 have in itself the type of the formation which it is 
 to produce, and is it not correct therefore to say, that it 
 contains the possibility of producing specific forms ? 
 This possibility is not a mere fiction of our fancy, it is a 
 physical possibility, that when all the conditions are 
 present, must pass over into reality. As the forms, pro- 
 ceeding from this possibility, cannot be accidental, but 
 must all of them represent their prototype, or the image 
 which seems to slumber in that originally simple ac- 
 tivity, this possibility or plastic power has been called 
 nisus formativus. By nisus is indicated the ten- 
 ^dency of a power to effect a certain, definite object. By 
 formativus is to be understood the quality of the ob- 
 ject, its forrn and whole organism. There is no such 
 tendency in lines, to form a circle or a triangle, but there 
 is one in the acorn, when sown, to form an oak-tree. 
 
 It is the same power too, that forms the being, which 
 preserves it.. No sooner is the young born, than all the 
 functions of this power are in operation. The mouth 
 opens itself, the lungs breathe, the stomach digests, and 
 the lips seek their food. Leaves fall every autumn, 
 but every spring adorns the trees with new ones. It is 
 this power that causes a wound to heal, and that in in- 
 ferior animals, restores lost limbs. Not the individual 
 only, however, is thus preserved by it — for sooner or 
 later it must decay — but after it has fully formed and 
 matured the individual, it takes care by it of the genus, 
 and becomes a tendency of propagation. The period, 
 when it takes this different direction, is indicated ex- 
 ternally. The muscles swell rounder and fuller, the 
 face blooms, and vigor and feeling of a youthful fresh- 
 ness is spread through the whole body. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 It is remarkable that this plastic power, the princi- 
 pal phenomena of which we have considered, deter- 
 mines also the motions of the organs, and the use to be 
 made of them. It causes the sap to rise and to sink in 
 the plant, the branches to extend themselves towards 
 the light, the roots to move from the center towards the 
 nourishing moisture, and the leaves to expand, and 
 contract in proportion as the cellular textures are filled 
 with juice. So the stamina of many plants move of 
 their own accord, as soon as they are formed ; the cups 
 of others close when the sun sets, as those of many 
 tulips ; others shut their leaves when a storm threat- 
 ens, as the Scotch sycamore, and others again sink in- 
 to the water when the sun sinks, and re-appear when it 
 rises, as the lotos. The light may act here by way of 
 excitement, but cannot act as the sole cause ; and as 
 plants have no sensations and perceptions, these motions 
 must be attributed to this plastic power, as the motions 
 in the lips of the new-born child proceed from it. 
 
 More instructive, and more to our purpose, however, 
 are some phenomena, which we observe exclusively in 
 the animal world. Here all the productions of the plas- 
 tic power are more perfect and more regular. They are 
 more perfect ; for if we compare the most beautiful flow- 
 er with the eye, the latter will strike us at once as being 
 infinitely more artisiical and complete. They are more 
 regular ; for the animal has but two lungs, but two eyes, 
 but two ears, while the plant has thousands of leaves, and 
 buds, and flowers. The more nearly animals are allied 
 to the vegetable world, the greater will be the number of 
 their limbs ; some reptiles have more than one hundred 
 feet ; — yet the number of limbs in any is no longer left 
 indefinite, as in the plant, but determined by the species. 
 And as this power in animals becomes more perfect 
 and regular, so it assumes a higher character. When 
 we see the vine seek with its tendrils the large tree, 
 and when we see them wind themselves around it, we 
 at once attribute these motions to that power by which 
 the plant grows. But not so when we see that the tor- 
 toise, hatched by the sun a mile from the shore, no soon- 
 er leaves the shell, than it runs without-a guide, in ^ 
 
- * %, ■ - 
 
 30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Straight line to the ocean, or when we see ducks hatch- 
 ed by a hen, not hstening to her clucking, plunge into the 
 water, and without having learned to swim, enjoy this 
 element with innate skill, or when we see the ox select 
 two hundred and seventy-six herbs for his food, but uni- 
 versally shun two hundred and eighteen, though he nev- 
 er studied botany. The sphex fahulosa, before laying 
 her eggs, hollows out a little cell for every one ; then 
 fetches half-killed spiders, drags one into each cell, and 
 lays her eggs on them, so that the future young ones may 
 not want for food. The mining spider digs a channel into 
 the earth, about two feet deep, and closes it very artificial- 
 ly by a trap-door. This door is round, formed of different 
 , layers of earth, ^hich are held together by threads ; its 
 "outside is rough, but the inside smooth and lined with a 
 thick texture, from the upper part of which, threads run 
 to the surface of the channel, so that the door hangs on a 
 string, and falls by its own weight into a fold as accurate- 
 ly as if the whole had been effected by mathematical 
 skill. This door the spider has the skill to keep shut by 
 its bodily exertions, when an enemy tries to open it. 
 When we see such phenomena, we must admit a far 
 higher agency than that which works and livesin plants, 
 and this higher agency is instinct, 
 
 INSTIJTOT. . 
 
 What comparative anatomy is for the study of the 
 anatomy of man, that, instinct and an investigation of its 
 nature is for the study of Mental Philosophy. With- 
 in its sphere we discover phenomena that are full 
 of design and calculation, and yet reason being want- 
 ing, will and self-consciousness being entirely absent, 
 we cannot attribute these designs to animals, but must 
 ascribe them to him who works by eternal laws through 
 their instinct. The physiologist finds it necessary, in 
 order to understand fully the different organs of man, 
 to compare them with those of animals. He must trace 
 them from their first indications in the lower classes of 
 animals, through all their different gradations up to 
 man. He thus will discover the importance of each 
 
INTRODUCTION. Bi\ 
 
 part, by perceiving what degree of sight or hearing 
 those parts of the eye or the ear afford, which are met with 
 in animals that have not those organs perfectly form- 
 ed. So it is useful to the Mental philosopher to cast 
 a glance upon the development of psychological powers 
 in nature below man. There are animals that consist 
 of a single organ, which, while in its connection with a 
 complicated organism in man, it is subordinate to higher 
 ones, is the only one in them or at least prevails over 
 the few others that they may possess. In viewing such 
 a being, we may see what kind of life a single organ 
 is capable of producing, and what its share must be in the 
 constitution of man. So we know, that in muscles and 
 snails, the liver and heart alone are fully formed ; in 
 many insects the wind-pipe; in others the lungs; in 
 the polypous, the stomach ; in infusoria the gut. 
 Nature, according to this view, contains all the parts of 
 man, but not as man has them.. In the lowest animals, 
 single parts are sufficient to form the whole being ; 
 more of them become united at the higher stages of ani- 
 mal life, until finally all appear well-proportioned in man, 
 the tree, whose leaves are scattered throughout nature ; 
 and as a machine can be kiiown only when its parts are 
 viewed singly, so man can be understood only, when 
 we are acquainted with the inferior tribes in nature, 
 which present to our inspection the different parts com- 
 posing his system. Thus it is likewise with the psy- 
 chological life of man. In viewing the nature of in- 
 stinct we may see what kind of mental life sensation 
 and perception, independent of reason and will, are able 
 to produce, and thus we may learn how to value reason 
 and will as we should. It is not the identity, but the dif- 
 ference, not the sameness but comparison, from which 
 we may learn most, and whenever in a science we have 
 gained a prominent point adapted to exhibit these differ- 
 ences, it will be well for us to pause for a moment over it. 
 Such points are for science^ what mountains are for 
 travelers, who desire to observe a country. They will 
 see more, when standing on mountain-tops, than any 
 where else. The nature of plastic power in the vege- 
 table world, and that of instinct in animals, will accord- 
 
32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ingly teach us more concerning Psychplogy-j than any 
 other portion of human science. 
 
 The different general phenomena of instinct have been 
 arranged by the celebrated Reimarus, in no less than fif- 
 ty-eight different classes. It will be sufficient for the 
 present purpose, to mention only a few. Animals, from 
 . the time of their birth, move with perfect skill from one 
 place to another, and use all, their limbs iii a perfectly 
 correct manner, and for the right purpose, without hav- 
 ing received instruction. So the squirrel uses its fore- 
 paws at once properly ; so the fish swims without teach- 
 ing. Amphibious animals will move from one ele- 
 ment into the other ; and birds, insects, fishes, and even, 
 quadrupeds will seek, and unerringly find, distant coun- 
 tries, in order to enjoy the degree of heat or cold favor- 
 able to their constitutions. Other animals bury them- 
 selves when winter approaches. All animals select 
 their food not only skillfully, but also seek it in the pro- 
 per places, at the proper season, and at the proper time, 
 by day or night; many are extremely cunning in catch- 
 ing their prey, and in laying up provision for inclement 
 seasons ; others know how to heal their wounds, how 
 to erect dwellings for themselves, how to defend them- 
 selves from their enemies either by houses, as the bea- 
 ver, or by regular wars, as some species of ants. All 
 these phenomena of instinct, however, may be reduced 
 to three great classes, one of which will compre- 
 hend all those that have reference to the nutrition j 
 another those referring to the ?notio7i, and the third 
 those relating to ihe propagation of auimalsj for the end 
 of all instinct is the preservation of the individual and 
 of the race. 
 
 Instinct pre-supposes, what is not found in the sphere 
 of vegetation, sensation and perception ; and while the 
 plastic power of the vegetable Idngdom extends also to 
 the animal, instinct is confined to such beings as can 
 feel. The plant grows and ripens, but it would be im- 
 proper to say, except poetically, that it sleeps, or that it is 
 fatigued, hungry and thirsty. It is true, that plants 
 hang their leaves when they suffer from want of mois- 
 ture J that, like the lotus ornithopedioidcs, which folds 
 
INTRODUCTION. 33 
 
 its ffowers at night and opens them again in the morn- 
 ing, they seem to sleep, yet . when all is well investigat- 
 ed, we shall discover that we speak but metaphorically 
 of the sleep of plants. Fpr as they are never awake, 
 so they cannot properly be said to sleep. But hunger 
 and thirst, a tendency for motion and rest, and for the 
 propagation of the race, are the peculiar phenomena of 
 instinct, which we shall now investigate. 
 
 It is natural to every living being to sustain itself by 
 food. But neither man nor animals would think of 
 taking nourishment, did not the system and operation 
 of digestion force them to do so. When by exercise or 
 atmospheric influence, digestion is regularly promoted, 
 the stomach will become empty, and the gastric juice 
 will gather. The power of this juice will seek some- 
 thing to act upon, and finding no food, it will attack the 
 coats of the stomach. If no food is administered, the 
 stomach will make an attempt by contractions to re- 
 move this juice, and not succeeding in this, death is 
 inevitable. It is the nature of instinct, — Ist, To feel the 
 pain thus caused by the activity of this gastric juice, 
 and to feel the danger of destruction. This feeling it- 
 self is of course painful, and is generally called hunger, 
 — 2d, Instinct, as hunger, will impel the animal to at- 
 tack the world around and seek for food. This 
 appears already from the connection of hunger and 
 an irresistible tendency to motion. The horse stamps 
 when hungry, and were it not chained, it would go 
 in search of food. The boa constrictor is constantly 
 active when in want of food, but as soon as its hunger 
 is satisfied, it lies sluggishly down and may be chased 
 by a child. — 3d, Instinct will direct the animal to its 
 proper food, and no sooner is this perceived by the par- 
 ticular sense that prevails in the animal and stands in 
 the service of instinct, than a prophetic feeling of plea- 
 sure will at once induce the animal to seize upon it. 
 Hence it is, that the sheep, without choice or considera- 
 tion, will select salt from amongst arsenic, which would 
 be- impossible to man. Instinct then is, on the one 
 hand, a feeling of want, and on the other, a feeling of the 
 sympathy existing between this want, arid the objects by 
 
 5 
 
Ik 
 
 34 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 which it is to be satisfied. This sympathy expresses it- 
 self ill the animal by the pleasure it feels on perceivings 
 its proper food. 
 
 If it were necessary to illustrate the nature of instinct, 
 a number of examples might be given. Analogous to 
 it is the attractive power in the magnet, which from 
 among many thousand grains of different substances, at- 
 tracts none but iron filings. So we see animals of im- 
 perfect formations, confined to one single food, which • 
 they select from among many different materials. The 
 fact, however, that instinct pre-supposes feeling, sensa- 
 tion, and perception, raises it above the power in the mag- 
 net, and gives it a higher character than that of the root 
 which also seeks and finds its nourishment. And how 
 can it be supposed that instinct is rather an intelligent 
 power, than that it is a sympathy between the whole na- 
 ture of the animal and the objects which are congenial to 
 it ? Especially when we consider that the ox eats two 
 hundred and seventy-six herbs, but rejects two hun- 
 dred and eighteen ; that the goat finds four hundred 
 and forty-nine palatable, but feels averse to one hundred 
 and twenty-six ; the sheep, three hundred and eighty- 
 seven, not touching one hundred and forty-one ; the 
 horse, two hundred and sixty-two, leaving two hun- 
 dred and twelve untasted. When we consider, too, 
 that they not only distinguish different herbs, but 
 that with the same readiness they discover their 
 food, tho\igh it should be under ground. The rein- 
 deer lays itself down, scrapes away the deep snow 
 with its horn, and its fore-feet, and finds its aliment. Do 
 these animals do so from a knowledge of these herbs, 
 and of the locality favorable, to their growth, or from a 
 sympathetic relation between themselves and their food ? 
 Animals are certainly not mere machines, as Descartes 
 maintained, but neither are they thinking beings, as 
 many sensualists would like us to believe. Their life 
 is confined to sensation and perception, and all their ac- 
 tivity proceeds not from will^ but from a feeling of pain 
 or pleasure. 
 
 \ 
 
INTRODUCTION, 35 
 
 : OF THE INGENUITY OF AMMALS. 
 
 I hope, however, to throw still more light upon this 
 interesting topic, by considering some productions of 
 animals which seem to manifest ingenuity. Of this 
 kind, are all those that on the one hand, answer as 
 means for a certain purpose ; for example, the web, by 
 which the spider catches his prey, flies and insects, as 
 skillfully as the fisher entraps in his net the inhabitants 
 of the rivers. Wherever we perceive an adaptation of 
 means to the end, there we allow ingenuity to be ac- 
 tive. On the other hand, they must be separate from 
 the animal that produced them. The shell of the snail, ^^ 
 
 that of the tortoise, and of the armadilla, are very artist- 
 like and beautiful, but they are formed by mere excre- 
 tion, and by the influenceof the atmosphere, and constitut- 
 ing parts of the animals themselves, they do not belong 
 to the class of productions of which we speak. We do 
 not think of ingenuity when we admire the beautifully 
 colored wings of the butterfly, or when we delight in 
 viewing the regular and beautiful formations of leaves, 
 of buds and flowers, for all of them form parts of the , 
 beings in which we discover them, and are the pro- 
 ducts of the same plastic power which formed the ani- 
 mals or plants themselves ; but when we see the cell of 
 the bee, the larva of the caterpillar, or the nest of the tailor 
 bird, we are at once struck with their ingenuity. When 
 we examine the cover in which the chrysalis of a ca- . 
 terpillar awaits its future transformation, we find it full 
 of design. Some of these coverings have a crown on 
 one end, made of erect and stiff" threads that form in the 
 inside a smooth and comfortable surface, but offer stiff" 
 knots and points on the outside, so that they easily 
 yield to a pressure from within, but make it difficult to 
 be pressed in from without. Here is design, here is 
 preparation for a change which the animal has to un- 
 dergo but once in its life, and as we cannot feel willing 
 to ascribe these phenomena to the knowledge and will 
 of the animal, we must attribute them to a peculiar . ^ 
 
36 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 modification of instinct. This ive feel ourselves the 
 more strongly ur^ed to do, when we ascertain that this 
 tendency for artificial productions is not met with in the 
 more perfect animals which, possess all the senses in 
 considerable perfection. The elephant does not show 
 a trace of it ; the horse, the reindeer, the ibex, the ze- 
 bra, are not possessed of it. But the tortoise, a stupid, 
 sluggish, and awkward creature, paddles to the shore, 
 digs with her clumsy feet a hole, and after having 
 deposited her eggs in it, she covers it, levels it with the 
 soil, and creeps several times over it, so that not a trace 
 of the hole can be discovered. ~ From this it will ap- 
 pear, that tills modification of instinct is not found every 
 where in the animal world, especially not in that part 
 which by its completeness of the senses approaches most 
 nearly the intellect of man, and the question offers itself, 
 — Where is it met with ? 
 
 It is not found among such animals as maintain a 
 decided independence of the elements in which they 
 live y such as have five senses, as the buffalo, the bison ; 
 nor again, among such as depend, almost wholly on the 
 element surrounding themi It is consequently confined 
 to those, in which dependence on certain elements, 
 equals their independence of them. Their independence 
 is exhibited in an activity resulting from their wants and 
 necessity ; their dependence on the element is seen in 
 the fact that they are wholly penetrated by it, and that 
 in receiving it in so full a manner, they receive also its 
 laws, and come under their influence. The animal has 
 feeling, sensation, and perception, and while by its ac- 
 tivity it produces something wholly different from itself, 
 a production that cannot coalesce with itself ; it is, at 
 the same time, active in accordance with the laws of the 
 element pervading its system, and hence the thing pro- 
 duced will receive its form, not less by the activity of 
 the animal, than by the laws of its element. These 
 works are therefore the joint products of the animal, 
 and of those laws which in a lower sphere call forth 
 the many forms of crystals, and in a higher one, the 
 beautiful formations of plants, of buds and flowers, and 
 which, not directly, but through the animal, form here 
 
INTRODUCTION. 37 
 
 the cell of the bee, and there the pyramid of the ant. As 
 the idea expressed here is^somewhat difficult to be under- 
 stood, we may be permitted to ^ive it in another form. 
 When the plant grows and produces beautifully formed 
 buds and flowers, we admit that it is the plastic power 
 in the plant, which produces the flower. So likewise 
 it is the plastic power of nature which produces tho. 
 artificial works of insects. The animal has sensation ; 
 it has wants and feels them ; this feeling* urges it to be 
 active, in order to remove the want. In so far, the ani- 
 mal is not under the influence of the laws of general^ 
 but under those of its own specific nature. At the same 
 time, it being under the influence of the laws of the ele- 
 ment in which it lives, water, or air, or light, is determined 
 in the manner of its activity, no less by these laws than 
 by its own wants, so that its productions receive their 
 form from the influences of nature upon them. 
 
 The most beautifully formed crystal does not fill us 
 with as much wonder as the cell of the bee, merely be- 
 cause the former is considered by us as the direct pro- 
 duct of nature, but the latter as that of the design and 
 calculation of the animal. And yet both rest on the 
 same general ground, with only this difference, that the 
 one proceeds directly from the laws of nature, and the 
 other through the medium of a living individual. Now 
 we may be able to see the reason, why this ingenious 
 instinct is confined to a certain class of animals. For 
 the activity and independence of the higher classes, is 
 too great to permit the laws of the element, in which 
 they live, to effect any thing, and the activity of those 
 that almost wholly depend on the surrounding element, 
 is too insignificant to come in contact with its laws. 
 This view will become more clear, however, by an ex- 
 ample. The element in which the bird lives, is the air ; 
 this element pervades the bird so entirely, that wings 
 and feathers are filled with it, and that even when the 
 windpipe is closed up, the creature will still be able to 
 live, if an opening is made in the bone of the wing, and 
 the air thus permitted to communicate itself to the lungs. 
 No doubt but all the changes of the air must be quickly 
 felt, and the sympathy between the bird and its element 
 
38 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 must be very strong. When, now, the bird, after her 
 young are reared, feels a desire to wander, beeaiise nu- 
 trition becomes scarce, the warmth diminishes and the 
 whole state of the atmosphere is chano^ed, she will be 
 attracted by the warm south wind, and followins: it, will 
 find her new home. It is not a previous knowledo^e, then, 
 not a compass, that directs her, but the warm winds, al- 
 luring to the south, penetrate and bear her onward ; as 
 the fish feels itself drawn by the sweet waters to the 
 rivers. 
 
 Itxmay be iijsftructive to compare these artificial pro- 
 ductions of animals with the works of human art. The 
 great contrast between them will show the true nature 
 of the former. 
 
 1. Animals are born not only with the capacity, but 
 with the ready skill to produce artificial works. This 
 is manifest from the fact, that these little creatures not 
 only execute these works immediately after their birth, 
 but also in the same way throughout their lives, with- 
 out in the least improving them. The spider feels a 
 tendency to weave his web, before he has seen the flies, 
 to ensnare which he spins the thread. The ant-eater can 
 scarcely yet move, when his nature already impels him 
 to prepare the funnel, for the purpose of catching ants 
 and other insects. To say that they learned this from 
 seeing their parents do the same, would be contrary to 
 experience. For, as Aristotle remarks, if we have three 
 eggs hatched by artificial heat, one of a bird, one of a 
 duck, and one of a serpent, we shall see the young bird 
 try to fly, before its wings are grown ; the duck to swim, 
 and the serpent to creep into the earth, before they have 
 seen any one of their kind do the same. What man 
 does, he must have learned by trial, but the caterpillar 
 has only once in his life to undergo a transformation, 
 and yet he. knows how to spin a covering that will 
 suit his future state, of which he cannot have the least 
 idea. The work, to be produced, seems to bear a prophet- 
 ic character, for while the larva is still of a cylindric 
 form, he weaves a covering fitted to the form of the 
 dhrysalis, as if he had his future state before his eyes. 
 Man is not born \yith any ready skill, like the animal ; 
 
INTRODUCTION. 39 
 
 his arm allows the mere possibility of performing 
 thousands of different operations, but this possibility- 
 must be exercised and developed. Exercise demands 
 both time and repetition, and produces experience ; 
 but experience is impossible without reason and judg- 
 ment. All the artificial productions of animals are 
 based on instinct ; those of man on reason, will, and 
 consciousness, and hence it is that the former have refer- 
 ence only to physical wants, but the latter to intellec- 
 tual. 
 
 2. Some of the animals construct their artificial works 
 from materials that are contained in themselves. The 
 spider draws out the thread from an excrescence on its 
 body, attaches it to some external object, and separates 
 it from itself. The aquatic spider, that cannot live 
 under water without air, draws forth from its nipple a 
 moist substance, a kind of varnish, covers itself with 
 it, and bursting this bladder, it forms by degrees a diver's 
 bell of it, as large as half a pigeon's egg ; by a few threads 
 it fastens it to some solid object in the water, its opening 
 hanging downward, and then filling it with air, it may , 
 sit in it below the water for a long time, and watch its 
 prey. So the bee gains honey and wax by digestion, 
 and forms its cells of them. But other animals, like 
 man, use inorganic materials ; the beaver takes wood, 
 the bird twigs, though the latter lines his nest with 
 hair, straws, etc. The house of the beaver, and that of 
 man, may consist of nearly the same materials. There 
 is, however, this difference. The animal uses these inor- 
 ganic substances without knowing their qualities, with- 
 out having the least idea of the powers that fit them 
 for the uses to which they apply them. They do not 
 use them, therefore, from choice or consideration, but 
 being directed to them by instinct. The swallow builds 
 its nest of the same materials now, which it used in the 
 time of Pliny. Man, on the other hand, knows the 
 powers of different substances, and their fitness for va- 
 rious purposes ; he, therefore, selects and judges. Stones 
 may be good for one, wood for another building. He 
 has works written on the different building materials. 
 
40 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and architects must be well acquainted with the nature 
 of timber and stone. 
 
 3. Animals produce all their works by their own 
 limbs, for they have no instruments. The beaver saws 
 the wood with his teeth, drives stakes into the ground, 
 and smooths the earth with his tail. These limbs are 
 so constructed that their natural motions have a ten- 
 dency to produce the works, which appear to us so re- 
 markable. The proboscis of the bee is well shaped to 
 be thrust into the nectar-cup of buds, and to drink in 
 their sweet juices. The German rat has a bag below 
 the chin, into which it gathers grain ; the mole has pro- 
 truding fore^feet to dig with ; the fish has fins and a 
 broad, upright, standing tail, to swim. But man, ac- 
 cording to Franklin, is^n animal that can invent ma- 
 chines. The savage, fastening a sharp stone to a club, 
 uses it as an axe ; he does not defend himself by his. 
 Hmbs, but by the bow, the arrow, and the tomahawk. 
 Man has invented the saw and the hatchet, the sword 
 and the gun, the furnace and the mill, and is daily in- 
 creasing the number of machines. There is no animal 
 that ever attempted to fabricate its works by the use of 
 self-invented machines, or by fire. Monkeys, that are 
 generally admitted to be ingenious, never think of keep- 
 ing up the fire by adding wood, though they evidently 
 delight in its' warmth ; nor of firing woods, or of destroy- 
 ing the, property of those that injure them, or of pre- 
 paring instruments of iron by the aid of fire. 
 
 4. The arts of animals have no history, as have those 
 of man. " They have no history in the objective sense of 
 the word ; they have no gradual development, no culti- 
 vation, no improvement ; they are stationary, they are 
 the same now that they always were. The arts of 
 animals cannot have a history in the subjective sense of 
 the term history, for there can be no historical narration 
 where nothing is to be narrated^ and animals cannot be 
 conscious of an improvement, when there is none. But 
 it is the character of history, that on the one hand it de- 
 velops gradually all the capacities of a nation, or of 
 our race ; and on the other, makes us conscious of them 
 by narrating them ; and hence it is, too, that history object- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 41 
 
 ively means the actions related, res gestae^ and subject- 
 ively the relation of them, historia verum gestarum^ 
 On the other hand, there was a time when man knew 
 of no arts, not even of such as are now considered in- 
 dispensable. But animals have always had the same 
 arts in the same degree of perfection and for the same 
 purposes as at present. Man had to invent his, and he 
 changes and improves them daily. The arts of men 
 differ in different regions, while the same animals will 
 always produce the same works, wherever they are. 
 And so men of different capacities in the same region, 
 will have different success, while animals of the same 
 kind will have the same. 
 
 5. Finally, the purpose for which animals produce 
 works of art, is Hmited to the sustenance of individual 
 life and the preservation of the race. Hence their works 
 are few in number. The spider can only spin a web ; 
 the bee can only build a cell. Hence it is too, that the 
 bird does not build his nest before the time of propaga- 
 tion. The purposes, for which man exercises his inge- 
 nuity and inclination to art, aj'e manifold. By mechan- 
 ical art he invents instruments, to serve his desire for 
 knowledge. The press, the paper, the ink, the watch, 
 the electrical machine, the compass, the telescope, give 
 sufficient proof of this ; and the yard and the measure, 
 the landmark and the coin, show that his ingenuity is 
 made subservient to his sense of justice. By the fine 
 arts he enters the sphere of beauty and the compositions 
 of Mozart and Beethoven, of Handel and Haydn ; the 
 pictures of Raphael and Titian, the poetry of Shak- 
 speare and Homer must serve to satisfy his longing for 
 intellectual entertainment. 
 
 From the above remarks it sufficiently appears, that, 
 though the works of animals are full of intellect and 
 design, it is not their design, we admire, but that of the- 
 Creator, who accomplishes it through the animals. 
 
 RELATION OF INSTINCT TO MAN. 
 
 The plastic power, as it exists and operates in the 
 plant is blind, for it has neither sensation nor percep- 
 
 6 
 
42 - INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tion. The instinct of animals is like the twilight, not 
 clear, confused in itself, for it can neither comprehend, 
 judge, nor conclude ; it distinguishesonly by sensations, 
 and such distinctions are faint unaccompanied by 
 consciousness, and not resulting from comparison, but 
 depending wholly on the strength of the impression 
 made by the different objects on the senses of the 
 animal. The instinct of insects and of those animals, 
 that produce artificial works, is cheerful and so regular 
 in its productions, that they seem to be living arithme- 
 ticians ; yet they thus only appear to us, for in reality 
 these little creatures are not conscious of their powers, 
 Man has the power of thought ; here every thing be- 
 comes transparent, clear, distinct and manifest ; where 
 pure thought prevails, there instinct loses its power. 
 Though the animal is separated from the vegetable 
 kingdom by sensation and perception, the plastic power 
 of plants is continued in it, and the animal is formed 
 by it, grows, matures and decays according to its laws. 
 So man is separated from the animal by reason, but on 
 the one hand, he is formed by the same plastic power, 
 and on the other, instinct still appears in the new-born 
 child, whose lips long for nourishment, and in many 
 of the actions of savages. The principal manifesta- 
 tions of instinct in man, however, are those of hunger 
 and thirst, of motion and rest, and of care for the race. 
 But, as has been said above, man is separated from the 
 animal by reason ; he can thmk, he can will, and by 
 these powers he reigns over his instinct, and subjects it 
 it to his discipline. He must live, in order to think, 
 he must eat and drink, in order to live ; but' while the 
 animal is wholly under the control of instinct, and while 
 hunger is a tyrant whose dictates must be obeyed, 
 man can not oiily eat what he pleases, but also wholly 
 abstain from food, and though urged by an excessive 
 appetite he may nevertheless give aw-ay his food, or like 
 Atticus starve himself in the midst of plenty. The ani- 
 mal must eat, when hungry, and it must eat what its in- 
 stinct directs it to use. The lion cannot eat hay, the 
 horse will not eat flesh. Nor will the animal eat more 
 than is sufficient to appease its wants, but man may eat 
 
INTRODUCTION. 43 
 
 and drink much or little. A glutton is said to have eaten 
 before theEmperor Aurelian a wild hog, a young pig, a 
 wholelamb, one hundred pieces of Roman bread, and 
 to have drank one bucket full of wine. 
 
 Such too, is the case with all the other natural 
 powers of man. He may live or commit suicide, the ani- 
 mal must live, and though the rein-deer is said to kill 
 itself by dashing its head against the tree, its death is 
 accidental, for it intends only to free itself from pain, 
 caused by the glutton which fastens upon its head. 
 The whole life of the animal is a slavish one. The 
 sight of the hunter puts the stag to flight, and he must 
 bound over hill and valley, over bush and brook. But 
 when the cannon-ball fell into the room of Charles XII, 
 and he remained calmly in his chair, when the Dutch 
 admiral, in the moment he was about to take a pinch of 
 snuff", and lost the extended hand by a shot, took it 
 with the other, and when a British cannonier, whose 
 right hand was torn off" by a ball as he was about to 
 discharge his cannon, used the left with the, words, 
 " does the enemy think that I have but one hand ?" they 
 showed, that they by their will, were above the necessity 
 of yielding to fear or the influence of pain. 
 
 Man possessing reason, has an innate desire for know- 
 ledge, which the animal has not. This desire is more 
 than instinct, and not any part of it. This may 
 be easily made clear. The gratification of instinct 
 is pleasure, connected with sensation and perception, 
 with the taste of food, with the motion of muscles or their 
 rest. But the gratification of a desire for knowledge, is 
 pleasure connected with our apperceptions, with our 
 cognitions, with our comprehensions, judgments, and 
 conclusions. In the sphere of instmct all is confined to 
 sense, in the sphere of our intellectual desires, our plea- 
 sure, are derived from thought, from a satisfaction of t)ur 
 thirst for knowledge. But while instinct extends not 
 beyond the sphere of sensation, our desire for kno'w- 
 ledge includes instinct^ and it is this which leads many 
 of us to the objects suited to the exercise of our 
 peculiar talents. So Linnaeus, when yet an infant, 
 could be silenced by no other toy so quickly, as by a 
 
%* 
 
 44- INTR0I>UCTI0N. 
 
 flower put into his hands. So Mozart, when only six 
 years old, would make distinctions between different 
 notes, which his father, likewise a musician, could not 
 perceive. Instinct mingling with our desire for know- 
 lege, constitutes in union with it, talents and natural ca- 
 pacities, 
 
 The hfe of man and that of the animals, it must be 
 evident, differ widely, not only in degree, but in kind. 
 Where that af man commences, the animal is left be- 
 hind. A chasm separates the one from the other. The, 
 animal may gaze on man, but it cannot understand 
 him, for it is unable to think or to comprehend, and 
 the words spoken to the dog, for example, are not for 
 him what, they are for man, sounds full of meaning, 
 they are mere signs to him. The life of the animal is 
 like a dream ; and even while waking it dreams. But 
 the life of man is fully awake, it is possessed of self-con- 
 sciousness and gifted with the capacity to originate con- 
 stantly new thoughts, and assisted by the powers of na- 
 ture to realize them. 
 
 ^ 
 
4^ 
 'I 
 
 ^^ 
 
 PARTI. 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 ,- * 
 
 Jk ' 
 
* >^ 
 
 « . 
 
 i. '^f-- 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■^ 
 
47 
 
 PART I 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY 
 
 Mental philosophy has to consider t?ie mind of man, 
 1. In its connection with the body, in its dependence 
 upon it, and through it upon nature. 2. In its relation 
 to itself. 
 
 In the former case its doctrines may be mbraced un- 
 der the general term Anthropology, and in the latter 
 that of Psychology. The object of Anthropology is 
 to examine the internal influences to which mind is 
 subject, and its modifications produced by them. The 
 object of Psychology is to investigate the nature of mind, 
 as it is conscious of itself and of the difference between 
 it and nature, and as it has rendered these natural in- 
 fluences more or less subject to its power. 
 
 The mind becomes subject to the influences of physic- 
 al nature only by its connection with the body. What- 
 ever affects the latter permanently, will also influence 
 the former. Tiie qualities of the mind, produced by 
 these influences, are therefore, likewise permanent. 
 The Mongol, the Malay, and the Negro, are the same 
 at present, physically and psychologically, that they 
 were at the time of Herodotus, who describes them as 
 Scythians, Indians, and Black People. The disposition 
 of the Laplander cannot be changed into that of the 
 Frenchman, by emigrating to the South, no more than a 
 transplanted peach-tree can become a palm-tree. This 
 
 ^4 
 
48 '^ ANTHROPOLOGT. 
 
 general modification of the mind may. however, be al- 
 tered by the pecuUar capacities of an individual, by tem- 
 perament, by age, or by exchanging one region for 
 another. Nor is the mind subjected by its connection 
 with the body to these influences of situation and cir- 
 cirmstances. Possessed of consciousness and will, it 
 may subject the body and all its peculiarities, and also 
 the solar, lunar, and telluric influences to its control, at 
 least in^a great degree. 
 
 Anthropology may, therefore, be (Jivided into three 
 parts: or those which treat, 
 
 I. Of the 'permanent infl.uences of nature, of race, sex, 
 <fcc. upon the mind. 
 
 II. Of the transient influences of age, sleep, dream- 
 ing, (fcc. 
 
 III. Of the power of the. mind over the body. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE UPON THE MIND 
 OF MAN. 
 
 It cannot escape the observation of any, that every 
 organic form of life is so affected by the quality of the 
 elements surrounding it, that a certain region of the 
 earth, with the plants and animals growing in it, and 
 characterizing it, seems to form one inseparable whole. 
 No sooner does the student of Natural History perceive 
 a salt spring, than he looks for the plants peculiar to 
 springs of this kind. As the osteologist may judge, 
 from a single bone, of the whole animal, so a single 
 plant may indicate to the scientific botanist, the face and 
 soil of the earth, and the elements in which it grew. 
 The same truth is seen throughout all nature. The 
 seed depends for its growth on a favorable soil, no less 
 
ANTHROPOLOG V^. ^' 49 
 
 than on a favorable season. The plant that luxuriates 
 in a mild and rich soiF, when transplanted into another, 
 will wither. The elements that called forth its life are 
 re(^uired for its support. With animals the sanie is the 
 fact ; some of them, like plants, appear and disappear 
 with certain seasons; others with certain plants. The 
 whole existence of the cherry- worm continues only as 
 long as the cherry ; "it then buries itself in the earth, 
 re-appears in the following May. as a little black fly, lays 
 its egg in the cherry, and dies. No animal but the dog 
 can live except within certain geographical boundaries, 
 so that we may have a geography of plants and ani- 
 mals. The connection of certain animals with plants, 
 and that of plants with some peculiar spot on the face 
 of the earth, is truly striking. The cameleopard, and the 
 cameleopard-plant, are both found in the south of Africa, 
 and nowhere else. The elements too, in which animals 
 principally live, very essentially affect their natures. 
 The fish, living in the water, is mute, cheerless, serious, 
 and phlegmatic. Insects, on the other hand, playing and 
 spending their lives in the light, are agile, beautifully 
 colored, some of them transparent as light, and most 
 of them courageous, choleric, and very destructive. 
 Little insects will destroy whole woods ; a little ant 
 in the south frequently ruins the finest furniture. Ho- 
 mer was aware of the boldness of insects. When 
 Achilles protects the body of his friend Patroclus, from 
 the TrojanSjHoraer compares them to flies, which though 
 constantly chased away by the mother sitting by the 
 cradle of her babe, perseveringly repeat their bold at- 
 tacks. Again, birds live in the air, and the effects of 
 this element on them is expressed in their cheerful- 
 ness, their delight in singing, and their sailing about in 
 the air with intense pleasure. 
 
 It cannot be otherwise with man. He too must feel 
 the effect of seasons and times, of heat and cold, and of 
 the elements in general. His body develops itself by 
 the laws which the Creator has given to the earth. 
 The earth supports man by the air he breathes, by the 
 food he eats ; it clothes him by furnishing the materials 
 which art prepares ; it protects him from storm and 
 
 7 
 
50 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 rain, from heat and cold, by affording him the stone and 
 timber, furs, skins, and his fuel. The earth and its 
 productions arouse his senses, impress his mind, ex- 
 cite his desires, and exercise his activity. The sight of 
 scanty or luxuriant vegetation on the one hand, and the 
 intercourse of man with animals on the other, as that 
 of the Arabians with their horses, of the Laplanders 
 with their rein-deer, of the Greenlanders or Samoi- 
 edes, with their seals, or that of the Moors with their 
 camels, must affect variously his disposition! Man. as 
 long as he lives, depends on the earth and its produc- 
 tions; its laws, and characteristic powers must not only 
 influence him, but leave certain traces and permanent 
 impressions^ on his mind. The earth, however, became 
 the residence of such a being as man, by the position it 
 occupies in our planetary system. By this position it 
 stands in a relation to the-sun, the moon, and to itself. 
 On these relations all life on earth depends. The par- 
 ticular relation of the earth to the sun produces a high- 
 er or lower degree of heat and cold. The general con- 
 sequence in this respect is, that too great heat arrests 
 the development of mind by relaxing the nervous and 
 muscular system, and that too great cold has the same 
 effect by contracting those systems, so that the Peshera- 
 es in the south fully resemble the Esquimaux in the far- 
 thest north, both as to size and form of body, and as to 
 intellect. Again, too sudden transitions from one tem- 
 perature to" another, are less favorable to the health of 
 body and mind, than mere gradual ones ; hence it must 
 follow, that a region, blessed with the regular four sea- 
 sons, so that spring and autumn are interposed between 
 summer and vyinter, must be more favorable to the in- 
 tellectual life of man, than one where either summer or 
 winter continues almost without interruption. The 
 same must be said of the transitions from day to night. 
 Where they are very sudden, a relaxation of the system 
 will take place ; where they are more gradual, so that 
 day and night are separated by the twilight of the eve- 
 ning and the dawn of the morning, there the system 
 will feel invigorated by a cool evening after a warm 
 day, and will, by degrees, pass over from the freshness 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 61 
 
 of a balmy morning to the heat of noon. The mornmg 
 is the threshold of expectation, the day is the season of 
 labor and activity, the evening that of enjoyment and 
 satisfaction, and the night that of rest. The interrup- 
 tion of this natural course, is injurious to body and 
 mind. ' ^ 
 
 The temperate zones for these reaspns will always 
 be the seat of intellect and science. Here the mind is 
 energetic ; the soft, vernal breezes, the charms of a ten- 
 der verdure, resting on hills and valleys, which appear 
 gradually, call forth hopes oand anticipations and a 
 vigorous activity. As they disappear, a melancholy 
 seriousness and earnestness, a desire for the past, and 
 a consciousness of the vanity bf all things will arise in 
 the breast, when forests, and hills, and valleys are gra- 
 dually stripped of their beauty, when the country sinks 
 into a deep gloom, and the life of animated. nature be- 
 comes mute and finally dies away. In the temperate 
 zones, however, are differences worthy to be noticed. 
 In the East, the sun rises with majesty and pursues his 
 course towards the west. The brightness of his light 
 is so great, that man, in gazing at it, is lost in admira- 
 tion and does not notice the things rendered visible by 
 the light, because the glorious light itself too much at- 
 tracts his eye. He adores, he worships it. In the West 
 the sun sets ; his brightness is less brilliant, though 
 frequently sublime and beautiful. Man is not over- 
 come by it, and when the setting-sun sinks behind the 
 mountain before our eye, the idea that he will illumi- 
 nate other worlds and return, involuntarily offers itself; 
 and if we are reminded of our own departure, out breast 
 will be cheered by the hope, that we likewise shall rise 
 again. Hence it is, that the West is the proper field for 
 science art and history, for there alone man obtains 
 full possession of himself, and a clear consciousness of 
 the world around him. It is remarkable, that as the 
 sun rises in the east, so many sciences have originated 
 there, and even religion was there first revealed to 
 man. But nothing gained its full maturity in the 
 East. The Chinese claim the honor of having dis- 
 covered gunpowder, but the Jesuits had to furnish them 
 
62 anthr6pglogy. 
 
 with cannon. They pretend to have invented the 
 printing press, but as yet they have only presses of wood 
 with immovable letters. What Greece and Rome 
 were in ancient times, Europe and America are in mo- 
 dern. 
 
 I. The influence of the moon on the mind of man. 
 Certain as the influence of the moon is upon the earth, 
 it is very^ limited on man. Some diseases of the 
 mind are undoubtedly modified by the moon, and phy- 
 , sicians are of the opinion, that bodily diseases are much 
 affected by it. Yet on the whole its influence is not 
 sufficiently ascertained, and we have to confine it here 
 to the eflfects produced by its light on our imagination. 
 These effects may be seen in the poetry and mythology 
 of nations, and,'whenever perceptible, are highly fantasti- 
 cal. The dim light of the moon does not delineate ob- 
 jects accurately, but exhibits them in shadowy and uncer- 
 tain shapes. The Greenlander imagines the heavenly 
 bodies, sun and moon, pursuing each other in despair of 
 Success. " The earth," they say, " rests on immense 
 pillars of ice, that constantly threaten ruin. Demons 
 of darkness desire its destruction, and they are only re- 
 strained from dashing the tottering fabric to pieces by 
 the howl of AngekokSj which fill the night with their 
 shrieks from dark, icy and barren regions!" Such fan- 
 cies come upon us from the hour of midnight, that be- 
 gets the fear of spectres, and that, in dim moonlight 
 makes us see a ghost in every object. 
 
 2. The local influence of the earth upon the mind of 
 man The influence of the sun depends upon the 
 union of his light with the activity of the earth. The 
 rays, that fall upon morasses, will produce poisonous 
 vapors ; those, that in the same region, fall upon sand, 
 deadly heat ; and those that are absorbed by moist oases 
 a cheerful vegetation. The nature of the sun blends 
 with that of the earth, and the earth surrounds man, 
 and possesses him and keeps him, whithersoever he 
 goes, as long as he enjoys the light of the sun. But the 
 surface of the earth is in different regions peculiarly 
 modified by soil, by productions, by scenery, by the sere- 
 nity and color of the sky, by air and atmosphere. Man 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 63 
 
 must be born on some particular spot, and its whole 
 character, will impress itself strongly upon his youthful 
 mind. All his desires, every thought of his soul, every 
 one of his wishes, every hope is more or less inter- 
 woven with this impression of his home, and his whole 
 disposition greatly depends upon the region of his birth. 
 So much is this the case, that when man leaves the 
 home of his youth, and when new scenery, new objects, 
 new customs are-contrasted with those by which his ear- 
 ly desires and habits were modified, and from which 
 they in some measure proceeded, he becomes sick with 
 longing for his home. His feelings and views, desires 
 and habits, that grew up with the objects of his early 
 home, are still the same in his breast, but the visible world 
 around him no longer corresponds with them, and this 
 contradiction induces him constantly to recall the image 
 of his native country. This great influence of lo- 
 cality may further be seen in the modifications which 
 it imparts to the character and disposition of men. If 
 we compare the Abyssinians and Shangallas, who live 
 in the same zone, we shall be most forcibly struck 
 with the truth of this assertion. The former, seeking 
 the high Alps of north Africa, which are covered with 
 rich prairies, keep large herds of cattle, make use of the 
 horse, of iron, <fcc. and are a noble race, strong, versa- 
 tile, acute,^ active, and possessed of a chivalrous dispo- 
 sition. Living, under a serene sky, in a pure atmos- 
 phere, and a mild temperature, they are cultivated and hu- 
 mane, and would be much more so, were they not sur- 
 rounded on all sides by enemies, so that they themselves, 
 according to Ritter, compare their land to the Donguelat, 
 a beautiful flower, but like the thistle beset with thorns, 
 The Shangallas on the other hand, dwelling in the mo- 
 rasses and swamps along the river Mahareb, inhaling 
 poisonous vapors, submitting to all kinds of diseases, 
 living on lizards, on the flesh of the ostrich, rhinoceros, 
 elephant, and on fish, never think of improving their 
 homes or exchanffins them for a better reo^ion. Thick 
 woods with large trees, that aflbrd an easy protection 
 from the heat of the sun and wooden lances, is all they 
 desire. When the rainy season commences, they, as 
 
54 * ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 do the rain-worms when the sun shines, disappear in 
 caves, which they quickly dig in the soft sand-stone 
 along the steep, inaccessible walls of the high rocks. 
 " The negroes along the coasts," says the celebrated Rit- 
 ter, " differ as widely from those of the mountains^ as the 
 inhabitants of cities from those of th^e country, and so the 
 negroes that live on mountains, differ widely from the 
 negroes of the plain." 
 
 The principal differences with regard to the surface 
 of the earth, are those of the Highlands, Plains and 
 Coasts : 
 
 (1.) Highlands. The purity of the air, and the liberty 
 with which, the inhabitants roam on their highlands, 
 gives them the spirit of independence, that makes them 
 reluctant to be restrained by laws. They feel depress- 
 ed when they descend into the valleys ; they cannot 
 breathe freely, their eyes cannot pierce the depths 
 of distant horizons ; the color of the sky, plants and 
 animals are all so different, that they pine away with 
 home-sickness. Wandering from place to place, free 
 as the birds of the air they lead a careless and cheerful 
 life. Right and justice rest in the strength of the arm ; 
 hospitality and robbery spring up with equal ease, and 
 in the same breast. No tie keeps the Highlanders to- 
 gether, except that of family connection. They split in- 
 to small clans, and though wars should unite them for 
 a time, they are dispersed in a moment after their battles 
 are fought. They swell like a mountain torrent, and 
 like it disappear. Living in the bosom of nature, how- 
 ever, being strangers to the luxuries of cities, their 
 characters are strong, noble and high-minded. The 
 Foulahs dwelling on the high Alps of Africa, stand as 
 high in tbis respect above their neighbors living be- 
 low them, as the natives of Cashmere above the Hin- 
 doos. 
 
 (2.) Plains and Valleys^ on the other hand, by the 
 richness of their soil, and numerous streams, invite to 
 a settled life. Agriculture is carriedon, and its suc- 
 cess being dependent on the regular return of sea- 
 sons, it leads to order and regularity. The idea of pro- 
 perty becomes more developed, for no one would be 
 
* 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 55 
 
 willing to bestow labor upon the cultivation of land, un- 
 less he were sure of the eicclusive possession of it, and 
 of a permanent protection of his claims. A regularly es- 
 tablished government becomes indispensable. Valleys 
 have at all times been the seats of large empires. Man, 
 by the power of mind subdues the wildness of nature, 
 and by extirpating large forests, in which the cold and 
 snow of winter loves to dwell, he improves the climate, 
 and having once satisfied the necessities of life, he turns 
 his attention to science and art. 
 
 (3.) Coasts form a strong, bold, independent and kind- 
 hearted people. The ocean was not intended, as 
 Horace sings, to separate nations and sections of the 
 earth. Mountains and not waters, Hegel remarks in 
 his Philosophy of History, are barriers to the intercourse 
 of different people, and Cesar, in crossing the Alps, 
 caused a new epoch in history. Waters between difter- 
 ent countries, though vast as the Atlantic, do not keep 
 nations asunder, but as man builds bridges over rivers, so 
 he erects moving bridges, or as Horace says, creates 
 horses of the deep, that will unite one coast with ano- 
 ther. Europe and America have more intercourse than 
 Spain and France, though the latter are only separated 
 by the Pyrenees. The mind and disposition of man, 
 living along the coast, near the surface of great waters, 
 is enlarged and ennobled, for while the immensity of the 
 ocean fills the breast with an idea of the infinite, the 
 rising and sinking waves, the constantly changing 
 bosom of the deep, remind him of the uncertainty of 
 all earthly things, of their changeableness, and of the 
 necessity of assisting one another. The watery ele- 
 ment invites us, for it oflTers wealth and a knowledge of 
 distant countries. Its dangers render bold and intrepid 
 prudent and brave, and give us a feeling of the power 
 of man, who successfully combats the rage of storms 
 and billows, while standing on a mere plank. 
 
 Before dismissing this topic we have to add a word 
 on the elementary influence of the earth on man. It 
 is well established, that a clear sky, and a pure moun- 
 tain air invigorate, while a gloomy and moist atmos- 
 phere depresses. The sky of Italy and that of England 
 
56 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 differ no less than the dispositions of their inhabitants. 
 The vapors arising from the soil, are of importance. 
 Pythia, chewing a few leaves and sitting, on her tripod, 
 was believed in the superstition of Greece, to become 
 so inspired by the vapors of the grotto, that she could 
 foresee the future. — Next to the atmosphere, the food we 
 take, will influence our disposition. If our digestive 
 power is strengthened by it, our spirits will rise. The 
 black soup of the Spartans, which their youth had to 
 prepare for themselves by mixing bread with water 
 arid a few herbs was simple but strong as was the cha- 
 racter of the Lacedemonians. An Athenian could not 
 relish it ; he desired more refined food. When after 
 having been deprived for a considerable time of a fa- 
 vorite dish, we partake again moderately of it, we feel 
 cheered; or when after having endured for hours a 
 burning thirst, we approach a little grove and lay our- 
 selves down by a clear and cool fountain under shady 
 trees, we feel happy and cheerful, and if while thirsty, 
 we would scarcely have listened to the petitions of a 
 beggar, we then feel full of sympathy and kindness. 
 Man may eat whatever nature offers as food ; and what 
 animals cannot do, he may overcome the natural aver- 
 sion, that he has to certain kinds of food. The sol- 
 diers of Napoleon fed on cats and horse-flesh. The 
 principal food, however, taken by man, is derived from 
 the animal and vegetable kingdoms, and consists of 
 smeat or vegetables ^ ox flour ^ milk and fruit. Each of 
 these have different effects upon him. Meat increasing 
 the activity of bile, renders him choleric and passionate. 
 Food prepared of flour, favors a phlegmatic disposition, 
 and is therefore recommended by physicians as a 
 wholesome dish in warm climates, where the digestive 
 activity is much accelerated. Milk, and what is pre- 
 pared of it, preserves a child-like and harmless disposi- 
 tion, as may be seen from shepherds. The Foulahs 
 on the Alps of Africa, living, principally on milk and 
 butter, are said to be a mild and gentle nation ; they 
 honor father and mother above all, and their highest 
 title is that of Father or Mother, which they use as we 
 do that of Master, and Old Man, as we that of Lord. 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. $7 
 
 Finally vegetables have been commended at all times 
 by persons of sedentary habits. Pythagoras recom- 
 mended them to his disciples, and Newton abstain- 
 ed from meat when he wished to study deeply, and lived 
 almost entirely on colewort. Some fruits are said to 
 strengthen the memory, and some herbs to excite the 
 organs of speech. 
 
 It is admitted by all, that strong drinks, and especially 
 distilled liquors, weaken the memory, deprive of self- 
 possession, undermine health, make men quarrelsome 
 and passionate, and call forth brutal desires in a shock- 
 ing manner. Some of them paralize the whole power 
 of the soul, take away all remembrance, and while they 
 excite bodily activity and set all the members in mo- 
 tion, they annihilate the capacity of man to control and 
 direct his steps, and as though an evil genius had gain- 
 ed a magic dominion over the motions of the body, the 
 soul sees the dangers, into which the body is driven by 
 an evil demon, and cannot rescue it from them. The 
 eifects of gases, when inhaled, of tobacco, (fee, are too 
 well known to demand a particular notice here. 
 
 As man may eat and drink what he chooses, so he 
 may eat much or little. He may eat more, and bear 
 hunger better than any animal. A dog supported 
 merely by sugar died after a few weeks : geese fed on 
 starch were found dead after twenty-four days. But 
 the Arab, without any injurious effects, lives cheer- 
 fully on a little gum for many weeks in his desert ; 
 Johanna Nauntonsupported herself forseventy-eightdays 
 by the juice of lemon. Renaud, on the other hand. Arch- 
 bishop of Bourges, slept only two hours, but had eight 
 meals a day. Among the Kirgises a man of good ap- 
 petite, eats a whole lamb, the tail of which alone weighs 
 twenty pounds. 
 
 Yet we must be careful, lest our wish to acknowledge 
 the dependence of man on these influences, should in- 
 duce us to over-value them. The mild Ionian sky with 
 its soft and gentle breezes no doubt breathed many an 
 image into the songs of Homer, as the high oaks and 
 vast heaths filled the breast of Ossian with the remem- 
 brance of by-gone ages, and with visions of fantastic 
 
 8 
 
58. ANTHROPOLOGY. ' 
 
 forms produced by the dim moonlight sleeping on the 
 heaths, or by the moaning winds,"as they swept over 
 them; but neither the Ionian sky nor fiie heaths of 
 Scotland were sufficient to call forth the genius of Ho- 
 mer or of Ossian. The Otomake, bordering the Oron- 
 oke, are blessed with a beautiful climate and a rich 
 soilj and yet they prefer living on potter's clay, which 
 they roast, to cultivating the land. On the other hand, 
 we find a noble set of men, of great stature, of high 
 principles of honor and of a scientific spirit, high in the 
 north, in Scandinavia. The sky is cold, the soil is 
 poor ; the winter liever recedes from the high rocks ; 
 the summer appears only in the valleys and for a short 
 time calls forth a dark green along the declivities. Yet 
 while an uninterrupted silence reigns over nature, the 
 voice of a lovely, melancholy song greets the ear; 
 science and nobleness of character love to dwell there, 
 and a firm, resolute will, knows how to meet the power 
 of an unfriendly climate. The constitution of man fits 
 him to live every where under heaven, and to support 
 his innate dignity. No region is destitute of him ; 
 though individuals may suffer from emigration and find 
 it difficult to become acclimated, the human race is at 
 home every where on the face of the earth. Up to the 
 eightieth degree of North latitude, along the Polar ice, the 
 Greeiilander and Esquimaux live ; down to the sixtieth 
 degree of South latitude, the Pesheraes exist on the 
 Terra del Fuego. Where mercury becomes malleable, 
 where birds fall down dead from the air, where animals 
 howl from the effects of cold, there man may live ; and 
 he can also endure a heat, that is above the warmth of 
 blood. — It cannot be denied, however, that much de- 
 pends on these influences for the disposition of man, 
 though different people, exposed to the same influ- 
 ences, like plants growing on the same soil, exhibit 
 quite a different aspect. The Foulahs, Gallas, and 
 Abyssinians live on the same high Alps and yet a con- 
 siderable difference is perceptible in their cultivation 
 and disposition. The Mandingoes, a numerous nation, 
 of beautiful form, open, frank and cheerful, refined 
 and simple in their manners, have a republican govern- 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. ^,59. 
 
 merit, and are the merchants of Northern Africa. Close 
 to them live the Negroes, stupid and rude, voluptuous 
 and cowardly, rapacious, and without regard for justice % 
 
 or law. — Considering such facts, we must acknowledge, 
 that it is not the climate alone, nor the soil, nor the 
 food, nor the manner of living, which causes such dif- 
 ferences in mankind, but that there must be some cause 
 in man himself, a cause, which will incline him to form 
 certain habits, to seek for a home that will correspond 
 with his feelings and desires. Correct as it is, to con- 
 sider customs and habits as dependent on the natural 
 influences of a region, it is also certainly true, that a 
 prevailing inclination attracts man to a particular re- 
 gion. 
 
 THE DIFFERENT RACES OF MANKIND. 
 
 Man is every where the same, and there is no specific 
 difference in the human race, as there is in animals. 
 All men, wherever they live, to whatever race they be- 
 long, have reason; they /eeZ, they think^ they loill. 
 We cannot speak therefore of different kinds of men, 
 as we speak of different kinds of animals, because that 
 which constitutes man, is the same in all individuals, ^ 
 
 and only exists in a modified form. The differences 
 that exist between the races of men do not proceed from 
 the absence or presence of certain faculties or bodily 
 organs, but from their peculiar strength or modification, 
 which cannot be explained by the influence of chmate, 
 but must be ascribed to an innate difference. Such is 
 the color of man ; cold regions will not bleach the ne- 
 gro, and the southern heat of Africa will not convert 
 the Moor into a black man. The disposition of the ■ 
 mind, size of the body, formation of the skull, the pro- 
 portions of the face and language, exhibit likewise such 
 strongly marked differences, as will enable us to distin- 
 guish by them one race from another. These different . 
 qualities may be anticipated before the birth of a child, 
 and nothing can extinguish them except amalgamation. 
 Yet while these differences cannot be denied, they are 
 not such as exist between two species of the same kind. 
 
60. ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 Hence it is, that while in the world of animals every 
 individual, the infusoria excepted, is connected with its 
 genus by the species to which it belongs, as the single 
 ourang-outang by his species with the monkey-kind, 
 every individual man is in connection with mankind, di- 
 rectly through himself and not by a species. We can- 
 not speak therefore of different species of mankind, but 
 only of various races. By the term race, we under- 
 stand that union of individuals, which is brought about 
 by mere ^propagation, independent of history, or affec- 
 tion, or common interest. It is certain that these races 
 exist, but it is difficult to say how they all spring from 
 one pair. This difficulty has led many to consider the 
 different races as having sprung from so many different 
 roots, which it would be impossible to reduce to one 
 common origin and which are united only by intellect- 
 ual and moral elements, by reason and will. Yet there 
 have not been wanting those, who with great acuteness 
 have philosophically proved, what we know through 
 revelation concerning the origin of the human race. 
 No less difficult is it to determine the exact number of 
 the human races, because the varieties of tribes, and the 
 transitions from one race to another are so many, that 
 they become easily confounded with each other, when 
 we attempt to classify them. Hence it is, that there are 
 so many different divisions made by the learned Lin- 
 naeus, and while Leibnitz admitted only four races, 
 Meiners, two ; Pownal, three ; Hunter, four ; Buffon and 
 Herder, six ; Hegel, three ; Kent, Blumenbach and Virey, 
 five. The latter is the more commonly adopted view. 
 According to this we have the Caucasian, American, 
 Malay, Mongol and Negro races. A delineation of their 
 bodily forms belongs rather to the science called Na- 
 tural Description of Man than to Anthropology, as the 
 question concerning the origin of the human race, 
 where 7 when 7 how 7 and by what means it was called 
 into existence belongs to the Natural History of Man, 
 two sciences that have received the particular attention 
 of the celebrated Blumenbach. 
 
 It would be superfluous here to give a characteristic 
 of the disposition, intellect, and moral capacities of the 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 61 
 
 different races, as every good geography, and especially 
 every philosophy of history, furnishes one more com- 
 plete than our space would permit us to give. All that 
 is required here, is to acknowledge a permanent distinc- 
 tion between the races, which not only affects the body, 
 but also the mind. 
 
 NATIONAL DIFFERENCES. 
 
 1. Cruelty and an absence of love and mercy, and 
 of humane feeling, ignorance and superstition, indo- 
 lence, arbitrariness, and oppression of the weaker, cha- 
 racterize the savage. Morality, a sense of obligation 
 and duty, are not acknowledged ; and the barba- 
 rian, as he does what is pleasing and useful to him, so 
 he prevails by the arm of strength. Nor has he any 
 feeling of personal respect or any regard for truth, beau- 
 ty, and honor, but destroys whatever will not serve his 
 sensual desires. The first step to civilization is a wil- 
 lingness to submit our individual will to laws and du-. 
 ties, and to seek for liberty no longer in our own arbit- 
 rariness. To the savage this step seems to involve the 
 loss of his liberty, for genuine liberty is unknown to 
 him. A limitation of selfish desires and passions, a re- 
 straint of arbitrariness and mere good pleasure, is to him 
 a limitation of liberty, and hence he hates laws and du- 
 ties. Fond of his liberty, he cannot think of relinquish- 
 ing his stage of cultivation for one, that in his view of- 
 fers the opposite of what he desires. 
 
 2. Savages have no organized government. All life 
 is perfect in proportion as it is well organized. The 
 animal life begins with that of the infusorium, but it is 
 highly imperfect in that stage, and equally as imper- 
 fectly organized. There is no heart visible, no brain, 
 no liver, there are no functions of different systems, and 
 motion is the only expression of life in these little ani-. 
 mals. So it may be said the savage has a government, 
 but it is only the beginning of that of civilization. 
 Whatever is organized has, on the one hand, identity of 
 life or a common soul, a common spirit, and on the 
 other, a variety of members,- through which this one 
 
62 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 life is diffused, and all of which represent it. These 
 members or organs differ from each other, as the branch 
 from the trunk, and yet they have the same life. Each 
 has a peculiar office, and yet all serve but one purpose. 
 A well organized government has likewise but one soul — 
 morality and liberty. The energy of this soul must 
 show itself by creating a number of distinct institutions 
 and offices, each of which differs from the other by a 
 particular activity allotted to it, while all activities and 
 all offices are united by proceeding from the same com- 
 mon soul, and in being pervaded by it. In such a gov- 
 ernment all are co-ordinate to each other, and subordi- 
 nate only to law ; in such a government alone, it is pos- 
 sible that occupations and ranks in the greatest variety 
 can co-exist without any interference, and that all the 
 wants of man may be satisfied, for in it each want has its 
 corresponding organ by which it receives its satisfaction. 
 Farmers and merchants, teachers and politicians, me- 
 chanics and all other classes of men are so many or- 
 gans of civil life, all of which, while each has an ex- 
 istence of its own, and seems to be active for itself like 
 the leaves of a large tree sustain and support the whole. 
 Plato illustrates this beautifully by showing the evil 
 consequences that would result to one who while he 
 had capacity and skill for making shoes, would also 
 have to be his own tailor and carpenter and black- 
 smith. He certainly would do nothing properly. But 
 if he-makes shoes for himself and others, and if others, 
 skilled in tailoring, in the business of the carpenter, <fec. 
 make his dresses, and build his houses, all will be better 
 •off; for each will attend to that for which he has a pe- 
 culiar talent. 
 
 3. Savages have no Ais^ory. History is the intellect- 
 ual process that begins with the less perfect, and passes 
 over to the more perfect, for it develops what is in man. 
 The plant exists already as a possible existence in the 
 ^erm, but undeveloped. Its development exhibits, by 
 various forms from the root up to the seed, all that is 
 contained in the germ. Though the seed gains nothing 
 by this process, since it terminates merely in a multi- 
 plication of seed like itself, and having observed it once, 
 
# 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 63 
 
 we may know all the possible forms which it has the 
 power of producing. Yet the life of the plant is mo- 
 notonous, always passing through the same course ; 
 and hence it cannot be said to have a history, because 
 it does not improve nor deteriorate, and one plant is as 
 complete and perfect as any other of the same species. 
 But man can increase in perfection unlimited ; the last 
 stage he has attained in the cultivation of his mind 
 becomes always the first of a new development. This 
 may be made clear by an example from nature. For 
 here we see, that the plastic power of the plant first 
 produces a single leaf; but this leaf grows up into a 
 trunk ; this agam branches out into twigs, and the 
 twists produce leaves &c., so that always the last pro- 
 duction contains the germ of a new one. Yet in the 
 vegetable kingdom, the last production only repeats the 
 preceding one; the plant is and always will be con- 
 fined to particular limits. History, on the other hand, 
 has a constant tendency to remove the limits of the 
 present, to go beyond them, to improve and to advance. 
 This progress does not disregard the contents of the past, 
 but it will include them when nations do not become 
 stationary, and fix themselves on the customs and habits 
 of the past as the Chinese. So the trunk does not an- 
 nihilate the root, though it is a higher development, but 
 it truly preserves it. History includes the past by mak- 
 ing us conscious of what it was. As long as we live 
 in the spirit of an age, interest in it and predilection for 
 it will not permit us to perceive its real worth, but we 
 generally overvalue it. When from the elements con- 
 tained in it, the spirit is forced to assume a new form 
 and produce new customs and views ; we become con- 
 scious both of what was good or objectionable in the 
 old, because then we shall be free and impartial in our 
 judgment. So when a strong inclination, love, for ex- 
 ample, holds us chained, we shall not be conscious of 
 its nature while it reigns over us, but no sooner are we 
 freed from it, than it becomes known and manifest to us 
 in all its qualities. From all this it follows, that when 
 the many intellectual capacities slumbering in man are 
 historically developed, he must become conscious of 
 
s? 
 
 m 
 
 64 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 them, and that what before he possessed only by na- 
 ture, will then come within the sphere of his voluntary 
 action. He thus not only gains, but is essentially 
 changed and enriched, and the once-gained wealth of 
 ideas is never lost, but is constantly pressing onward. 
 Man is born free, but unless he is conscious of his free- 
 dom he does not possess it. Again, in nature every 
 thing develops itself peaceably without a struggle ; 
 but man, conscious of every change in himself, has to 
 undergo conflicts in making these changes. The idea 
 of development pre-supposes some thing to be developed ; 
 this must exist previously, and remain the same in the 
 development, only that what there is in it is drawn out. 
 With man, reason and will are to be unfolded in all 
 their riches. Both, in the savage, are sunk in the life of 
 nature, which by its energy, and by the fullness of its 
 sensual enjoyments, keeps him in bondage. Reason and 
 will ought to break loose from this life, but being satis- 
 fied with their state, they would act against themselves 
 in doing so. Hence the savage has no history, for he 
 is what he always has been. Civilization is connected 
 with many struggles, all of which form the theme of 
 history. History is, in what it records, the development 
 of mind ; it shows how the savage consciousness be- 
 came more and more disciplined, its powers drawn out, 
 its mere possibilities realized ; and how a rude, passion- 
 ate, arbitrary will, became refined and subject to the con- 
 trol of higher authority. The history of a nation is its 
 character; if it be humane, the nation will be so ; if 
 bloody and rude, like that of Rome, the nation will be 
 cruel ; for history only develops what is in man. 
 
 Civilized nations differ then from savages by morali- 
 ty in its most extensive sense, by organized govern- 
 ments, and by having a history. Nations differ from 
 each other as races and tribes, but their national differ- 
 ences are historical and consequently known to them- 
 selves, and thus they lose their strangeness and inimical 
 power of opposition. These differences are expressed in 
 the national manner of thinking and acting, in literature 
 and art, language and style, customs and habits, morals 
 and civil laws, in desires and peculiar inclinations. 
 
-'i 
 
 9 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 65 
 
 All of them enter into the habits of man, and whether 
 a person is born of one or another nation, is by no 
 means a matter of indifference. The Roman, even 
 though the doctrine of a metamorphosis were true, could 
 not at once be an Englishman. Anthropology has, 
 therefore, to acknowledge a modification of mind, pro- 
 duced by national difference ; while history has to give 
 a delineation of national characters. 
 
 M- 
 aiTALITIES OF THE MIND, PRODUCED BY SEXUAL 
 DIFFERENCE. 
 
 This difference is one that in the most decisive manner 
 affects both body and mind. It is not transitory, but 
 remains the same throughout life, so that many theolo- 
 gians have been led to ask whether the two sexes — 
 somethinj; analoo^ous to which we discover in -the 
 Negative and Positive poles, in contraction and expan- 
 sion, in the relation of the sun to the earth, — will not be 
 continued after death. The sexual difference mani- 
 fests itself, 
 
 1. Physically. The whole organization in aZ/, and 
 not only in some of its parts is different in man and 
 woman. Bones and muscles are stronger and more an- 
 gular in man, and more tender and rounder in woman, 
 while some are larger in the latter than in the former. 
 Again, not only the anatomical and organical systems, 
 but also their functions differ in both. In man the ar- 
 terial and cerebral systems prevail, and with them irri- 
 tability ; in woman the venous and ganglion systems and 
 with them plasticity and sensibility. So the lungs are 
 stronger, and hence the voice fuller, and respiration 
 more copious in man, while the liver and its activity 
 prevails in woman. Skin and hair are more soft in 
 woman than in man, and it is evident, that the body of 
 the one is better qualified than that of the other to en- 
 dure labor. 
 
 2. Psychologically. Man and woman differ in moral 
 disposition. Thus as to woman : Chastity in feeling and 
 imagination, in word and action, is the principal virtue 
 that either of choice or unconsciously reigns in the 
 
 9 
 
 I 
 
• 
 
 
 It' 
 
 66 , , ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 bosom of woman. Tt is tender and delicate, like an 
 exotic plant, and cannot endure exposure. Hence wo- 
 man shrinks from appearing in public, whether in 
 the pulpit or the rostrum, or with the sword in the hand 
 as the Maid of Orleans. The family is her sphere of 
 action, there she arranges and orders what man gathers, 
 and with propriety and taste embellishes the house, 
 and renders it attractive. She desires whatever in- 
 creases domestic comfort, as furniture and dress, order 
 and cleanliness, full chests and drawers. — Love is the 
 second prevailing virtue, that adorns her character. 
 Without it she is like a closed blossom which exhibits 
 neither its beauty or its fragrance ; love reveals her inward 
 mystery. She may love and not be aware of it, and 
 such love is tender and innocent. But when once she 
 loves, she gives her whole heart and person without re- 
 serve. She enters into all the wishes and views of 
 him whom she has chosen. Plinly says of his wife, 
 " she loves science, because she loves me. She carries 
 with her my writings, she reads them, she commits 
 them to memory. She sings my verses, she composes 
 her own melodies to them, and needs no other teacher 
 than love." — Patience is the third trait in her char- 
 acter and she is perhaps never more beautiful, than when 
 the tear trembles through a smile. Sympathy and com- 
 passion, kindness and mildness, cheerfulness and warm- 
 heartednesis, are charms thrown around her by nature. 
 3. Me7ital qualities. Here Feeling predominates ; 
 she receives easily, and appropriates quickly ; she forms 
 what she receives and feels herself attracted by all that 
 can touch the heart. Her thinking rests more on feel- 
 ing and on faith, and is not directed to skeptical inves- 
 tigations. It is not distinguished for productiveness, 
 for if we look to the fine arts, we cannot discover a 
 single woman who has established a new school either 
 in painting, in music, or sculpture. Some women have 
 become celebrated for their skill in imitation, as Angeli- 
 ca Kauffman in painting, or as the nuns of the Nether- 
 lands in musical concerts ; but imitation as well as 
 learning rests on faithful reception. In architecture no 
 woman ever attempted anything ; in music we have no 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 67 
 
 female composer of celebrity ; in poetry, the ancients 
 kneW one Sappho, but no female Homer or Pindar, 
 and our modern female poets have done little in the 
 highest departments of poetry, the Drama, Epic, Lyric. 
 The sphere of woman being feeling and beauty , she 
 is not expected to become learned but cultivated. 
 Cultivation is no less valuable and difficult of attain- 
 ment than learning ; the former rests on taste, the latter 
 often merely on memory. Yet there have been learn- 
 ed ladies, that had good taste, fine judgment, and 
 quick intuition, as Madame de Stael. Law and juri- 
 dical knowledge seems particularly attractive to them, 
 perhaps because they love order. At all events it is 
 remarkable, that it was a woman who presided over 
 right and order among the Greeks, Themis, the moth- 
 er of the Horae and Parcae. Her servants likewise, 
 were women, the Erinnyae, Dike and Nemesis Adras- 
 tea. Demeter gave statutes to cities, and Egeria fur- 
 nished Numa Pompilius with his laws. Welleda did 
 the same in the north, an*d the old Germans commenc- 
 ed no war without having consulted their women. 
 Deborah gave judgment during forty years under the 
 palm-trees on Mount Ephraim. And in modern times 
 we see a Mathilda of Tuscany encourage the revival of 
 the Pandects, and give celebrity by them to the Uni- 
 versity of Bologna. Two daughters of professor Aur 
 dreas, both of them married to lawyers, lectured to 
 large audiences from the rostrum, when their husbands 
 were absent. So two other Itahan ladies were known 
 to appear in disguise on the rostrum, and their lectures 
 on Law were well received by numerous students. 
 Many women have obtained the degree of LL. D., and 
 in France many have published large works on Law. 
 In mathematics on the other hand, astronomy, meta- 
 physics, history or medicine, none scarcely have acquired 
 celebrity. And this is not accidental, not because no 
 opportunity has offered itself to their productive genius,— 
 genius will always find its way — but because it is their 
 highest happiness to be mothers. 
 
6S '• •♦ ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 OF MAN. 
 
 1. Moral disposition. In man thought and will pre- 
 vail, and a desire for liberty and honor. He must act 
 and work, toil and labor, and can preserve his dignity 
 and standing in the world only by acting from princi- 
 ples and clear comprehensions. He is to provide for 
 the family, to protect it, procure for it honor and res- 
 pectability. If patience adorns woman, courage be- 
 longs to man. In some languages his name is derived 
 from the same root from which the words for courage 
 and virtue were taken. Public life is the sphere of 
 man ; there he is to labor and to execute his ideas. As 
 he is to drain swamps, to clear woods, to subdue wild 
 nature, to destroy rapacious animals, and render cli- 
 mates mild, and inhospitable regions habitable, so he 
 is to adorn the pulpit and the rostrum, the judge's 
 bench and the art of the physician, and to cultivate 
 music, painting, sculpture, architecture, poetry, and 
 science. As Hercules represents the former, so Apollo 
 the latter employment. If woman is mild and forgiv- 
 ing, man must he just in governing himself, his family, 
 and all intrusted to his charge. If woman always ob- 
 serves what is right from a sense of propriety, man 
 must insist on the execution of the laws, when they have 
 been violated. Independence renders man, faithfulness 
 and confidence render woman happy. Man desires 
 what strengthens his feeling of iniportance. The horse, 
 the sword, the chase and war, riches and titles, honors, 
 influence and power, are welcomed by him. Woman 
 may shed tears without words, man must connect ac- 
 tion with them. 
 
 2. Mental qualities. Productiveness, which has 
 no limits in any science or art, as far as they are acces- 
 sible, to the human mind, characterizes the mind of 
 man. Every invention in mechanical art, every 
 style of the fine arts, every advance in science has as 
 yet been eflected by man. It is his office to produce 
 and realize ideas in politcs, in arts, and science ; to know 
 
ANTHROPOLOGfY. 69 
 
 and investigate, understand and represent. Only one 
 government has as yet been found that was entirely 
 managed by women, and this among the negroes in 
 Africa. 
 
 When we look on the characters of man and woman, 
 we cannot but perceive that neither is perfect by itself, 
 bat that each needs the other for its perfection. Each 
 possesses something which is wanted in the other, and 
 hence only their union forms a complete character. Nei- 
 ther can endure therefore to remain by itself. Strength 
 and courage rest in man, mildness and tenderness in 
 woman ; united, tliese qualities form one whole, separa^ 
 ted, the former will degenerate into rudeness and ferocity, 
 and the latter into inconsistency and fickleness. Hence 
 the one must be softened by tender emotions, and the 
 other strengthened by firmness. — Again : Cold under- 
 standing may easily become too calculating, too arith- 
 metical, too selfish, when not refined by generous emo- 
 tions of kindness and love. The timidity of woman 
 or^ the other hand, her fearfulness needs a prop on which 
 to rest.— The union of both in one is externally repre- 
 sented by marriage. Through it the strength of man 
 is rendered mild by the gentleness of woman, his cour- 
 age is moderated by her softness and timidity, and his 
 understanding receives warmth of feeling. So the 
 qualities of woman receive their finish by their union 
 with those of man, for her feeling obtains proper nour- 
 rishment through his intercourse with the world, as her 
 timidity relies safely on his strength. Thus both in- 
 tended for each other are truly what they ought to be 
 when united, and the object of the original difference 
 between man and woman, is the richest and closest 
 union of both. 
 
 This union, which commences with love, has its 
 pledge and visible appearance in the child ; for the 
 mental qualities and moral capacities of both father and 
 mother, continue themselves in their children, and these 
 appear as an individual identityj so that, what before 
 was given to tioo, is now represented by one. This 
 we perceive daily by recognizing in a child some quali- 
 ties of the father, and others of the mother. The con- 
 
7d ANTHROPOLOGlf. 
 
 scioiisness of this fact constitutes family-attachment. 
 It is true, that the sons of celebrated men often appear . 
 to be without extraordinary degree of talent, and again-'»^ 
 that sons of men, little known, exhibit uncommon ca- 
 pacity. But it must be admitted that in the former 
 case the father may have exhausted the inheritance of 
 his nature, and that the greatness of his name induces 
 us to apply too high a measure, by which to judge of 
 the talents of the son ; as was the case with the sons of 
 Goethe and Schiller. In the latter case the natural ca- 
 pacities of the father may not have been developed, or 
 the son inherited his bright genius from the mother. 
 So Goethe says that he inherited his love of poetry from 
 his mother, and many other traits in his character, as, for 
 example, an aversion to all violent impressions, a rich 
 vein of ever-teeming wit, of humor, <fec. ; these we recog- 
 nize in that of his mother. Madame Letitia Bonaparte 
 had four sons, all of whom were energetic and men of 
 talents; her husband is littleknown, and no doubt the 
 sons inherited what they possessed from her. Hence the 
 -great importance of knowing the mother, her disposition, 
 her character and talents, when we desire to judge cor- 
 rectly of distinguished man. We come then, to the na- 
 tural qualities of the individual. 
 
 The natural qualities of the individual depend on all 
 the influences we have before represented from that of 
 climate to that of sex, including those of race, nation, 
 occupation, &c. The qualities that exclusively belong 
 to the individual are temperaments^ mejital capacities 
 and idiosyncrasy. 
 
 TEMPERAMENTS. 
 
 The soul is not only connected with the body, but they 
 are interfused so that the nature of the one must afiect 
 that of the other. When all the functions of assimila- 
 tion are fresh and vigorous, when respiration is easy, 
 when digestion and circulation of blood, excretion and 
 secretion are regular and natural, then the sensations 
 will be full and lively, the whole mind will be youthful, 
 and feel, think and will with energy. When, on 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 71 
 
 the other hand, we suffer much from rheumatism, 
 headache, from shortness of breath or dyspepsy, the 
 spirits will be low, the mind feel depressed, and espe- 
 cially the system of sensibility must become weakened. 
 The will and resoluteness of man may, in some degree, 
 overcome such difficulties and sufferings. Tieck is 
 much afflicted with rheumatism, and yet his poetry is 
 cheerful and humorous. Beethoven lost his hearing, 
 and yet he continued to compose the most sublime 
 works. Buttman could not bear the slightest breath of 
 cold air, and nevertheless he was constantly engaged in 
 revising, correcting, and completing his excellent Greek 
 grammar and other works. Such instances are, how- 
 ever, rare, and are exceptions to the general rule. 
 
 The body of man consists of three principal vital sys- 
 tems. The first of them is that of sensibility. By it 
 man feels himself and the woild around him. Its prin- 
 cipal organ is the brain and nervous system. The sec- 
 ond is that o{ ii^ritahility. Its tendency is to resist the 
 influences exercised by eternal objects upon man, and 
 at the same time to bring them into subjection to him. 
 Its organ is the heart and muscular system. The third 
 is that of reproductiveness. By it our body preserves 
 itself, and in so doing, seizes on whatever may serve it 
 as food. Its organ is the liver and intestinal system. 
 
 Through these systems the body is connected with 
 the soul, and the peculiar manner in which this con- 
 nection is modified by the prevalence of the one or the 
 other, is called temperament. This word is derived 
 from temperare^ which means to unite or moderate 
 two extremes ; and hence the term temperature as 
 applied to the atmosphere. Temperament might, there- 
 fore, be defined to be the peculiar connection of soul and 
 body in an individual. This connection becomes pe- 
 culiar by the prevailing fluids of the body, their lym- 
 phatic, sanguine, choleric, and bilious nature ; by the 
 prevailing elements, as water, air, fire or earth ; by the 
 nature of the blood, which is either cold or warm, light 
 or heavy ; by that of the fibers, which are either lax or 
 firm, soft or hard. All these must affect our feeling, 
 this our thinkings and this again our will. 
 
72 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 It is easy to understand the origin of temperaments. 
 All empirical knowledge and sensual desires are quali- 
 fied by sensation. Sensation is impossible without the 
 senses, and these are impossible without nerves. All 
 our knowledge is accompanied by feeling, and all the 
 actions of our will pre-suppose both feeling and know- 
 ledge. The more perfect and easy the functions of the 
 nervous system are, the less they are interrupted or in- 
 terfered with, the greater, stronger and livelier will be 
 the power of feeling, thinking and willing. For the 
 more easy it is to excite our senses, the more clear our 
 sensations must be ; the more clear the sensations, the 
 more definite and accurate ^our knowledge, and the - 
 stronger the feeling connected with it, and the volition 
 proceeding from it. Now if the muscular system pre- \ 
 vails, the nervous will be proportionally weak. Her- 
 cules, in the Grecian mythology, had strong muscles, 
 but was not distinguished for strength of mind. Apollo, 
 on the other hand, was physically weaker, but prevail- 
 ed by clearness of thought. If the system of reproduc- 
 tiveness prevails over the others, a tendency to rest or* 
 inactivity becomes perceptible. We have /owr different 
 temperaments ; the sanguine stands connected with 
 the system of sensibility ; the melancholic with that of ^ 
 reproductiveness ; while the system of irritability by . 
 its twofold relation to the arterial and venous blood pro- 
 duces the choleric temperament, „w hen the arterial, and ' 
 the phlegmatic^ when the venous blood prevails. 
 
 The temperaments do not directly originate in the 
 individual, but in circumstances preceding its existence, 
 in climate, locality, in the season of birth, <fec. Hence 
 many feel inclined to consider them as accidental. 
 Every man, they say, must have a temperament, but 
 which of the four seems to be wholly accidental. So 
 every man must have eyes, but whether they are blue 
 or black is accidental. Children of the same parents 
 may have very different temperaments, as, for instance, 
 those of Madame Letitia Bonaparte. Though it may 
 be accidental, whether a man is born with the choleric 
 or melancholic temperament, he will retain it through 
 life, and though the phlegmatic may modify his tern- 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 73 
 
 perament by chano^e of climate, by food, and drink, he 
 cannot change it into the sanguine. Yet while none 
 can change his temperament, he may subdue it, and ex- 
 ercise it as he pleases. . With some its power is natural- 
 ly weak. Leibnitz knew not, whether he was choleric, 
 or sanguine, or phlegmatic. Nor does any temperament 
 appear in its perfect purity, but as the prevalence of 
 one system does not exclude the functions of the others, 
 so the phlegmatic does not destroy entirely the symp- 
 toms of the melancholic, but frequently they approach 
 so near each other, that it is difficult to distinguish the 
 one from the other. And again the same temperament 
 will be differently modified in different persons. 
 
 THE SANGUINE TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 This is the temperament of enjoyment and pleasure. 
 It has great susceptibility to impressions of every 
 kind so that the person is ready and longs to receive 
 them ; but many impressions cannot take possession 
 at the same time of the same breast, one extinguishes 
 the other and tiie last is always the most vigorous. 
 This temperament partakes of the nature of the air, 
 which by its great elasticity yields to every pressure, 
 and directly afterwards regains its former state. Liveli- 
 ness cheerfulness and a never-ceasing desire for en- 
 joyment characterize it and its mobility is like that of the 
 birds, that constantly live in and are filled with the air. 
 An individual of sanguine temperament finds it difli- 
 cult to govern his temperament, to conquer its tenden- 
 cy to levity and to trifling employment. — Persons of 
 this temperament incline strongly to Belles-Lettres, but 
 prefer the brilliant, the pleasant, and the copious to the 
 more solid, the truly beautiful and simple. It is the 
 temperament of the French nation ; though fond of the 
 fine arts, they have not produced any thing very re- 
 markable either in Painting, Sculpture or Music. The 
 system of materialism is principally favored by them 
 in Philosophy. Their courage is full of fire for the mo- 
 ment, but soon passes by ; their emotions are quick, but 
 short ; they are careless, communicative, benevolent, 
 
 10 
 
74 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 .^ 
 
 but feel averse to labor and pain. La Fontaine was san- 
 guine. His poetry bears the slanop of this character. 
 
 THE CHOLERIC TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 This may be called the temperament of action. It 
 resists external impressions, and re-acjs on every thing 
 that affects it. Feeling its power, it is courageous, de- 
 termined and possesses much energy and perseverance. 
 Its nature reseriibles that of fire ; nothing is more ener- 
 getic and more active than fire ; its activity does not 
 bluster like that of the wind, it does not stagnate like 
 water, but continues without interruption, until the ele- 
 ments of its existence are consumed. So, little insects 
 that depend much on the warmth of the suri, are inde- 
 i^atigable in their ruinous activity and though small, 
 they are very destructive. The choleric temperament 
 is, excitable, yet not by little things, as the sanguine ; 
 but when excited, it perseveres in the plan which it 
 has chosen. Strong in its inclinations it is faithful, but 
 no less subject to great passions, to ambition, to despot- 
 ism, to wrath and other vehement impressions. Its ac- 
 tivity thus vibrates between life and death, between pro- 
 ducing and destroying. It is the temperament of 
 despots, and of such men, as seem to be destined for 
 the chastisement of nations, for, magnanimous and brave, 
 courageous and proud, it is jealous, vindictive and ma- 
 licious, inclined to violence and obstinacy. Its bent is 
 to practical pursuits ; it is quick of understanding, 
 acute in judgment, clear and precise in its expressions, 
 and its productions in the arts are manifold and expres- 
 sive. This is the temperament of the Spaniards and 
 Italians, and was that of Napoleon. " Every action ex- 
 cited him only to a new one. When at war, he thought 
 of the advantage to be gained from a truce ; when he had 
 eflfected it, he thought of the ways and means to break 
 it. In France he thought of Russia, in Russia of In- 
 dia. Even at St. Helena he was engaged in dictating 
 a history of his own adventures, or in reviewing those 
 of others, as those of Cesar or Alexander." If the san- 
 guine lives wholly for the 'present, in which alone he 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. f5 
 
 can enjoy himself, the choleric is forced to dwell with 
 his plans in the ftiture, for all action is preceded by a 
 resolution and separated from it by the lapse of time^ 
 
 THE MELANCHOLIC TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 A constant longing and desire, and an inclination to 
 retire or withdraw into itself, are the characteristics of 
 this temperament. All its activity receives its impulse 
 from reflection orj the past, on the vanity of all things, 
 and especially of human affairs. The ruins o*f former 
 days exhibit on the one hand the greatness of man, and 
 thus rejoice the heart, and on the other they indicate 
 the decay of all that is sublunary, and fill the heart 
 with sadness ; thus joy and sadness commingle, and 
 give a tendency to seriousness, to meditation, and fre- 
 quently to speculation. To the melancholy all that is 
 near and clear to others is still at a distance, and as the 
 blue color of the sky, which presents itself to our eye 
 when it gazes into the immense depth above us, or which 
 envelops distant mountains, awakes a longing for some- 
 thing unknown, so every thing, however well-ascertain- 
 ed, serves only to call up in the breast a desire for some- 
 thing still deeper and higher and purer. It delights to 
 live in the regions of truth, of beauty, of the sublime, 
 and the romantic. It feels indifierent to the sensual 
 world, and the eye, turned inwardly, indicates this by 
 its coldness and want of animation. In science it is 
 deep and inclined to skeptical researches. In art it aims 
 at expression as in the German school of music. 
 
 We find a remarkable instance of this temperament 
 in Chateaubriand. Brought up in an old castle in Bre- 
 tagne, his melancholy was nourished, even in his youth. 
 During the revol ution he dreams in the woods of Ameri- 
 ca ; he sings of the introduction of the christian religion 
 into Gaul ; he makes a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre ; 
 examines the haven of old Carthage ; reads Milton's Para- 
 dise Lost in England ; full of romance, he attempts to 
 defend the old stage by writing his Moses, a drama that 
 was never exhibited ; he upholds the legitimacy of 
 Henry V., retires from public life, writes the history of 
 
7^ ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 France, and in his memoirs complains of ennui, 
 while the world around him is undergoing new de- 
 velopments. Byron is another instance. Nothing 
 could satisfy him except the past, the ancient literature 
 of Greece, &c. 
 
 THE PHLEGMATIC TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 In this, self-possession prevails, which does not suf- 
 fer itself to be carried away by external impressions, 
 nor does it permit any of the one-sided characteristics 
 of the previous temperament to reign, but retains its 
 full dominion over all the influences exercised upon it, 
 and over all its re-actions. It has therefore the capacity 
 of entering into every situation and feeling, and is ac- 
 cessible on all sides. It is moderate in all things, in joy 
 and grief, in mirth and sadness, in labor and rest. 
 This perfect equilibrium renders it possible to retain at 
 all titnes its liberty and personal dignity. The sanguine 
 temperament is dependent on external impressions ; the 
 choleric on its internal passion ateness, which does not 
 allow coo] reflection ; the melancholic on its longing, 
 that like the fragrance of the flower of the plant, ever 
 fills all its thoughts and feelings ; — but the phlegmatic 
 is independent of all of them. It has its center and 
 union in itself and is aware of this fact ; it has found 
 itself, and while in the other temperaments the con- 
 sciousness of the world is principally active, in thisself- 
 conscious7iess prevails. In proportion as our conscious- 
 ness is related to something external, we are dependent 
 on it ; but in proportion as it is related to itself, and 
 independent of any thing apart from itself, we are free. 
 The phlegmatic temperament has frequently been 
 wronged and looked on as inferior to the others, be- 
 cause its features are not so striking ; and yet this alone 
 renders it easy to man to preserve to himself his liberty, 
 and to move without prejudice and pre-determination, 
 in whatever direction of science or art he chooses. Its 
 seeming indiflerence and rest is not without activity 
 and deep interest, but like the lake, the waters of which 
 seem motionless on the surface while rivulets and fresh 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 77 
 
 waters are constantly flowing in, and though unseen, 
 keep up a gentle but healihy and lively activity, so this is 
 always devoted to some action, without much display. 
 Its talents are highly respectable, its ideas deep and 
 clear, its style rather dry, but profound and accurate. 
 In art it is faithful, as in the Dutch school with its land- 
 scapes and family-pictures. 
 
 Its possessor is in danger of becoming indolent, in- 
 different, and fond of eating and drinking. 
 
 Aristotle asserted that the melancholy temperament 
 was most favorable to science and art. He quotes 
 among the rest, Socrates, of whom Plato says, that in 
 the midst of the noise of an encampment, he fell into a 
 deep meditation, and stood immovably in one place, 
 from one morning to another, until the rising sun roused 
 him, to offer his prayer. Empedocles, Plato, Homer, 
 Phidias, Dante, Raphael, Handel, and other distinguish- 
 ed scholars had the same temperament. Yet it is the 
 will that reigns in man, and not the temperament; the 
 former, and not the latter forms the character, nor does 
 talent and genius depend on it. Moses and Paul 
 were choleric. Oberlin was sanguine, and the celebra- 
 ted Rembrandt, phlegmatic. One temperament will make 
 it more easy than another, to lead a life according to de- 
 termined principles, or to enter on some scientific or 
 practical pursuit. The choleric, for instance, is favor- 
 able to practical business, for it is the temperament of 
 action ; the sanguine to Belles-Lettres, for it is that of 
 enjoyment ; the melancholy to deep speculations, for it 
 is that of desire ; and the phlegmatic to thorough and 
 universal learning, for it is that of self-possession and 
 patience. The temperaments will thus connect them- 
 selves with mental capacities, and infuse into them live- 
 liness or ease ; zeal or indifference ; quickness or slow- 
 ness ; cheerfulness or dullness ; resoluteness or tardiness. 
 
 MENTAL CAPACITIES. 
 
 Of these a twofold view is to be taken, with regard to 
 the intensity of their strength and energy, and with regard 
 to the objects, to which they are instinctively directed. 
 
78 ANTHROPOLOGY 
 
 1. In respect to energy, and degree of strength, our 
 mental faculties are to be divided into three classes, that 
 of docility or mere capacity ^ of talents^ and of genius, 
 
 DOCILITY.^ 
 
 Every man is born with the possibility to learn, and 
 this possibility has its origin and ground in God, the 
 Creator. Hence Plato, when he was about to die, thank- 
 ed the Gods, that they had created him a man and not 
 an animal. This general possibility may be called the 
 capacity of mind to receive ideas or knowledge, and 
 every one, who is consciousof himself, is endowed with 
 it. It is therefore something genera/ and qualifies every 
 one who has it, to become a moral agent, and to feel reli- 
 gious affections. Religion and moral character being the 
 two greatest achievements of man in this life, no one 
 has a right to complain that his talents are less distin- 
 guished than those of others. Some of us are rich, 
 others poor, but all may live and realize the end of 
 life, if they are diligent and faithful. To learn is to be 
 active ; but learning, as the act by which we acquire 
 knowledge, is an intellectual activity, that has a certain ^ 
 end in view and is subject to certain rules, excluding 
 the arbitrariness of him who learns. Thus his mind 
 is disciplined. To learn, means therefore in the first 
 place to receive what is communicated. But that which 
 is communicated by instruction is not a single thing, 
 nothing sensual, but a general idea, a general notion 
 or a general rule. Learning, therefore, demands not 
 only the power of perceiving clearly and distinctly sin- 
 gle objects, but of perceiving that, which is common to 
 many of them, or it, demands the power ofcomprehend- 
 ing the many in one. The animal may be broken in or 
 taught to perform certain services, but it cannot compre- 
 hend principles or general laws. To perceive the ge- 
 neral nature of a single object means nothing less than 
 to refer it to its class. I ask, What is this 7 And re- 
 ceive this answer, J. rose! Thus the single plant is 
 classified, and I lienceforth shall know every other 
 flower of the same species. To learn in the second 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 79 
 
 place means to judge theoretically. We mnst distin- 
 guish between our.perceptions and the objects perceived. 
 There are many objects ; all must be classified ; every 
 object is related to itself, that is, has parts which are 
 related to each other, the tree, for instance, consists of 
 branches, leaves, trunk and roots and these again must 
 he distinguished. Finally a distinction must be made 
 between substance and accidents, the essential, and un- 
 essential, (fee. To notice all these, we must pay close 
 attention. To learn in the third place means to he atten- 
 tive. And in the last it means to remember that which 
 has been received. 
 
 TALENT. 
 
 When the mere capacity becomes an ability^ so that we 
 are not only receiving, but in being taught, teach our- 
 selves and feel an inclination to apply rules and principles 
 and to produce effects we may call it talent. The man 
 endowed with talent, has acute perceptions and compre- 
 hends quickly, precisely, easily, — hence facility from 
 facile — adds nothing and overlooks nothing. He dis- 
 tinguishes accurately not only between the different 
 qualities, but also between the essential and accidental, 
 and he discovers connections and separations, differen- 
 ces and unions, harmonies and contradictions, causes 
 and effects, grounds and consequences, where the man 
 that has mere capacity cannot observe them. His attention 
 is easily attracted and interested in all that presents itself 
 in the sphere of his science; and his memory is not 
 only faithful, but prompt and vivid. To improve a 
 science, demands talent; but mere talent is confined to 
 certain spheres as to the extent of its productiveness ; 
 nor is it new and original, but fixes itself always on ma- 
 terials that are historically handed down to it. It trans- 
 forms, imitates, or leads out. So Virgil imitated Homer ; 
 Horace imitated Pindar j Cicero the Greek philosophers. 
 
ws^^es 
 
 80 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 GENIFS. 
 
 When any one possesses all the qualities of talent 
 in a still higher degree, he is said to have genius — from 
 genus. — Here acuteness of judgment is united with 
 depth, which dives into the nature and being of 
 all things, and is not. satisfied with their nearest, but 
 always demands their last hidden element or foun- 
 dation. Acuteness ^and depth are seldom united, 
 but where we meet both in one person, we see the 
 highest grade of genius. With genius the understanding 
 is flexible and capable of entering with ease into the 
 views, feelings and character of any one, so that a few 
 words spoken by a person will enable it to understand 
 and represent the whole character of that person ; or a 
 single outline will cause it to produce the whole pic- 
 ture. Attention is constantly awake and active ; and 
 memory, aided by imagination, is not only prompt and 
 vivid, but productive, giving a new, and more attractive 
 form to every thing intrusted to it. Thoughts present 
 themselves without labor ; and the progress in art and . 
 science demands but little exertion to astonish any one 
 who observes it. Even in times of rest true genius is 
 on the advance. The character of genius is therefore 
 evidently productive and inventive. ' It is new, and fre- 
 quently comes in contact with established rules. Yet 
 it is not arbitrary in its productions, but follows a ra- 
 tional necessity, the ground and reason of which it can 
 understand. Nor is it correct to think, that genius 
 needs no study. It is not enough to produce new ideas, 
 we must also know how to express them well. But 
 this demands exercise. Leonardo Da Vinci said, "If 
 your son has genius, put him to a master after he has 
 studied anatomy and perspective." It is for this rea- 
 son that poverty is more favorable to getiius than 
 wealth, for it renders exertion necessary. Goethe rose 
 every morning at an early hour, and studied regularly 
 the whole day. Leibnitz sat for weeks in his chair 
 without taking any exercise. Nothing can be more 
 perverse, than the notion that genius works altogether 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 81 
 
 like instinct. Shakspeare is generally adduced as an 
 example, and though it must be admitted that he had 
 not a complete education, his works show a great 
 amount of knowledge which he must have acquired in 
 some way or other. He lived in an age, that filled with 
 romantic views, was highly favorable to poetry, and 
 which cultivated the genius of the great poet much 
 more than an age like ours, wholly given to practical 
 pursuits could do. All Shakspeare's time, the poet and 
 the public exercised a much greater mutual influence 
 on each other than they now do. 
 
 . True genius is rare, and hence it is a gift that is de- 
 sired by many. But as a few only possess it, many 
 may be seen to make pretensions to it, while they have 
 scarcely talent. 
 
 2. In respect to the objects to which our mental ca- 
 pacities or talents have a peculiar tendency, we say that 
 a man has the aptitude or ability or qualification for 
 the performance of something, or for a study when his 
 talents are perfectly adapted to a certain sphere of ac- 
 tivity. Thus far we have only spoken of the energy of 
 mental capacities ; here we shall treat of the sphere of 
 action, to which they are directed by nature. At the 
 same time the degree of their energy will exhibit itself 
 in the greater or less ease, with which persons perform 
 the labors for which their talents qualify them. Many 
 may therefore have an inclination to the same art or 
 science or practical pursuit, while their success will be 
 very diiferent, though they should all of them be equal- 
 ly diligent. The objective spheres for the subjective 
 capacities of man may be divided into three general 
 fields: fScience ; practical pwsuits ; and the fine arts.~ 
 Each of them may be subdivided again, and every sub- 
 division will demand a peculiar quahfication. 
 
 The qualifications for science in general are an in- 
 nate desire for knowledge, sound judgment, and a good 
 memory. Now it may be that a man has memory as a 
 talent, but judgment merely as capacity, and then he 
 will easily receive and retain knowledge and accumulate 
 a great amount of it, but his knowledge will be only held 
 together by the order of succession, externally as beads 
 
 11 
 
82 ANTHROPOLOGY. >*♦ 
 
 are united by the string that^ passes through them. 
 Here judgment requires much exercise. Or a man 
 possesses judgment as a talent and memory as a mere 
 capacity. Such a man has a limited knowledge, but 
 what he knows, he knows well and according to logical 
 order of cause, and effect, and ground, and conse- 
 quence. But as all objects of knowledge have a bear- 
 ing upon each other, memory ought to be exercised. 
 Or finally a man possesses both memory and judgment 
 as talents, and then he will not only learn well and 
 much, but improve science and enrich the store of gener- 
 al knowledge. The study of history requires a strong, 
 prompt and faithful memory, a lively imagination, that 
 can enter into the spirit of past ages, and the characters 
 and situations of historical heroes, impartiality of judg- 
 ment, and an ardent interest in the human race. And 
 here, again, mere chronology rests more on memory, 
 than on judgment ; the representation on the other 
 hand, of the customs, manners, arts, sciences, politics 
 and laws of different nations, their characters, the de- 
 sign of historical actions, their results and historical 
 criticism demand much teleological judgment ; and the 
 philosophy of history is impossible without great talent 
 and genius. So the study of metaphysics is founded on a 
 desire for knowledge, that is not satisfied with knowing 
 many things, but seeks for their ground and nature, 
 and desires in all its knowledge such a systematical con- 
 nection, as will give to every portion its proper place. 
 And the study of Natural sciences ; geology ,.geography, 
 botany, zoology, pre-suppose great powers of observing, 
 skill in arranging our perceptions logically, readiness 
 in ' naming and describing them well ; it requires too, 
 the gift of invention, of making experiments, and of 
 construing, developing and applying them. 
 
 The 'practical talent has likewise its different objects, 
 as agriculture, mechanical arts, trade, political, medical, 
 juridical pursuits, <fec. The qualifications for them 
 may range from mere capacity to genius. The latter 
 will invent new ways and means, new instruments and 
 machines, new institutions and regulations. Every 
 business demands tact^ that is the gift to perceive quick- 
 
^ ANTHROPOLOGY. 83 
 
 ly and correctly the point on which all depends ; dex- 
 terity in choosing at once the right means ; resolute- 
 ness to act promptly and without delay or fear; exjje- 
 ditiousness in dispatching work cheerfully and ener- 
 getically, and finally an enterprising spirit. 
 
 The qualifications for the^^e arts must always exist 
 either as talents or as genius. We may enjoy the pro- 
 ductions of art without having a talent for them, or 
 without being blessed with genius, but the artist cannot 
 produce any thing worth having without a high degree 
 of talent. The object of art is to represent truth in a 
 sensible form. Three things are indispensable for the 
 artist, a strong and productive imagination, the inspira- 
 tion of a great and noble idea, and skill to realize this 
 idea either in marble or on the canvas. And here 
 again, the different arts pre-suppose different qualifica- 
 tions. Architecture with its labyrinths, obelisks, pyra- 
 mids, temples and palaces, rests on a sense of regularity, 
 symmetry and harmonious proportions. Sculpture is 
 confined to the white marble, which colorless receives the 
 idea of the master, only by having it fully expressed on 
 its surface. A sense for form, and a particular dexterity 
 in wielding the chisel, constitute the particular qualifica- 
 tions for sculpture. Painting adds the eye to its pic- 
 tures, and thus is able to represent man in all his re- 
 lations, to represent his feelings, his actions and, motives. 
 A sense for colors, for light and shade indicate talents 
 for it. Music expresses only sensations and feelings, 
 and its material is sound. A fine and delicate ear, an 
 inclination to rhythm, harmony and melody will qualify 
 for it. Poetry from the epic to the dramatic, demands 
 genius in the highest degree and an unlimited power 
 over language. 
 
 Not every artist is capable of moving in every sphere 
 of his art with the same ease. Homer was great in epic, 
 Sophocles in tragic, Pindar in lyric poetry. Petrarch 
 gained immortal glory by his sonnets, and not by those 
 works, from which he expected to enjoy his greatest 
 fame. Shakspeare on the other hand, and Goethe were 
 universal. — Much less still can one artist judge correct- 
 ly of all the arts or be equally successful in them. 
 
84 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 Goethe never presumed to jud^e of music ; Michael 
 Angelo's sonnets are forgotten as are the works of sculp- 
 ture produced by the hands of Socrates. Roos was an 
 excellent hand in drawing ruminating animals, but he 
 failed when he attempted any thing out of this sphere. 
 There is a relation between the talents of' an artist and 
 their proper objects, which makes them completely 
 transparent to the artist, and grants him an insight into 
 their nature, that enables him to transfer himself wholly 
 into their situation. Where this natural relation is 
 wanting, the artist ought to acknowledge the limits of 
 his productive powers. 
 
 We have thus seen, that our natural capacities differ 
 not only with rejrard to their energy, but also to the ex- 
 ternal sphere of activity for which they qualify man, and 
 the question remains. What is it that causes this differ- 
 ence ? As the animal has instinct, so man has an in- 
 nate tendency to acquire knowledge. The greater or 
 less strength and excitability of this natural tendency^ 
 will call forth the activity of reason, which is the prin- 
 ciple of all talents and genius, in a higher or lower de- 
 gree, either as a capacity or as a talent. When that 
 tendency is strong enough to remove all difficulties 
 with regard to its object, we possess the activity of mind - 
 as a mere capacity. When on the other hand it requires 
 but little excitement from without to act in full ener- 
 gy, we have talent. When finally that natural tendency 
 is not only strong enough to remove all difiiculties, but 
 excites to productiveness and animates, for example, 
 the fingers of the painter, to create forms and propor- 
 tions, or the imagination of the musician, to compose 
 melodies and harmonies, we have genius. 
 
 In the next place it is the same innate tendency, to 
 acquire knowledge, which directs our talents to certain 
 objects. This tendency in its lowest stage includes in- 
 stinct, which points out to it its proper sphere. The 
 sphere of instinct is sensation, that of the tendency to ac- 
 quire knowledge, is apperception, consciousness. But 
 all talents pre-suppose strong and acute senses, and con- 
 sciousness is impossible without sensation. As instinct 
 directs the animal by one or the other sense to its prop- 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 85 
 
 er food, so it silently influences the direction, which the 
 desire for knowledge in man takes to certain objects. 
 The painter needs a correct eye, the musician a delicate 
 ear; both are instinctively directed to their arts by their 
 senses. Mozart, when only six years old, on hearing a 
 violin, stated that its sound was one-eighth lower than 
 that of one which he had heard the day before. When 
 both were compared, his remark was found to be cor- 
 rect. 
 
 Some talents show themselves earlier in life than 
 others. That for music needs no nourishment from 
 without, but draws all its compositions from its own re- 
 sources, and hence it early manifests itself. Mozart 
 was but five years old when he entertained large com- 
 panies with his performances. Beethoven did so in his 
 eighth year, and Hummel in his ninth. As talents de- 
 pend on the strength and activity of our desire for 
 knowledge, so this must be awakened by our sensa- 
 tions, by the sight of objects, and acquaintance with 
 them, to which they are adapted. Correggio, on seeing 
 a picture of Raphael, exclaimed, " Anch io sotio pit- 
 toreP I too am a painter. Thucydides hears a lec- 
 ture of Herodotus, his eyes fill with tears, and he be- 
 comes conscious of his latent talent. La Fontaine hears, 
 for the first time in his twenty-second year, a few verses 
 of Malherbe's poems, and awakes from a long dream, 
 perceiving at once his innate qualification for poetry. 
 The early or late development may, therefore, frequent- 
 ly depend on circumstances. But a difierence in this 
 respect is also produced by the object on which genius 
 is to exercise itself. Ovid, when yet a boy, made verses 
 whenever he wrote. Melancthon received the degree 
 of A. M. in his fourteenth year, and in his eighteenth 
 he was professor of the Greek language in a celebrated 
 university. 
 
 IDIOSYNCRASY. 
 
 By idiosyncrasy we understand that peculiarity of a 
 constitution, by virtue of which the individual feels 
 either sympathy with a certain ot^ect, or antipathy 
 
86 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 against it, or indifference towards it. It doesnot belong 
 to the whole race, its character is therefore not ge- 
 neric ; as, for example, the aversion of one ckss of ani- 
 mals to another, or that of man to serpents, but it belongs 
 exclusively to certain individuals, and because of its 
 singularity, it is difficult to account for it. Sometimes 
 a sudden fright of the mother may leave a never-dying 
 impression on the soul of the child, and idiosyncrasy 
 may frequently take its rise in that early state of life £is 
 was the case with James I., who could not endure the 
 sight of a naked sword, or with the Grand Duke of 
 Epernon who swooned at the sight of a young hare. 
 In all instances it is certain, that the utterance of sym- 
 pathy or antipathy rest not on judgment, but on mere 
 feeling. In common life the attraction of different per- 
 sons to each other rests either on an internal equality 
 or resemblance which is recognized in spite of all exter- 
 nal difference, or on a common interest which is deter- 
 mined by the capacities of those that feel it. In both^ 
 cases we are guided by judgment. (Sympathy^ or antipa- 
 thy, on the other hand, while they likewise found them- 
 selves upon such an internal resemblance or inequality 
 of individuals, are the immediate utterance of feeling 
 and not of a clear judgment. Persons meet for the first 
 time and feel themselves attracted without knowing 
 each other, or they feel themselves repelled like balls 
 tossed against each other. It is as if this internal equali- 
 ty or inequality were more perceived by a kind of pre- 
 sentiment than anything else ; it resembles the attrac- 
 tive power of magnet and of iron, of the negative and 
 positive pole. In the world of morals, the like loves to as- 
 sociate with like, the good with the good, and the bad 
 with the bad; but sympathy, founded on mere feelings 
 demands always some polar difference irj two persons 
 that otherwise resemble each other in habits and taste. 
 Two persons, perfectly alike, frequently feel an aver- 
 sion to each other, as two keys, near each other on the 
 piano, harmonize less than two separated by a third. 
 But when there is a polar relation between the two, so 
 that the one possesses positively what the other does 
 negatively, then they will attract each other. This is 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 87 
 
 the case between persons of diiferent sexes. Such a dif- 
 ference is not opposition, but proceeds from an original 
 Union. Sympathy then rests on a natural correspond- 
 ence between the nervous systems of two persons or 
 their disposition. This correspondence is only felt and 
 not clearly known. Hence it is that frequently a single 
 movement of the lips, or a peculiar glance of the eye 
 may call forth sympathy or antipathy. 
 
 Antipathy must be explained on the same principles, 
 and we will therefore only give a few remarkable in- 
 . stances from Schubert in his history of the soul. The 
 celebrated Erasmus became feverish when he smelt 
 fish. The distinguished Scaliger, when near a water- 
 cress, trembled in his whole body. Simon Ponli felt 
 strong palpitation of the heart when fresh apples were 
 brought into his room. A little opium laid in the ear 
 of a patient caused his death, and the sight of white 
 horses acted as a powerful cathartic with another. A man, 
 that had recovered from a long disease, swooned, when 
 he smelt bread, and another felt himself violently 
 purged when he smfeU broth. Baco swooned during an 
 eclipse of the moon ; and P. BoVle, when he heard the 
 noise, which is caused by water, pouring forth from a 
 spigot. Honey with some persons has the effect of 
 poison ; and the aversion felt by many to caterpillars, 
 spiders, mice, and toads, is well known. An interesting 
 fact is related of two monks, who so sympathized with 
 each other, that when the one was taken sick, the other 
 would feel unwell ; and when the former recovered, the 
 latter would be delivered from pain. Petrarch states, 
 that when once Laura suffered much from pain in her 
 eyes, and he felt very much for her, his eyes began to 
 experience the same pain. 
 
 It is usual to speak also under the general head of 
 idiosyncrasy of apathy. Physically this is the state 
 of the system when no medicine can reach it. A man 
 much engaged in alchemy could take four ounces of 
 sweetened and sublimated mercury without being purg- 
 ed. Psychologically it is the absence of every kind of 
 interest in many things which attracts others easily. 
 
88 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 THE NATURAL MODIFICATIONS OF MIND, PRODUCED 
 BY AGE, WAKING, SLEEPING, AND DREAMING. 
 
 All the modifications of mind which we shall have 
 to consider in this chapter, are such, as are not perma- 
 nently the same, but subject to changes, and periodical. 
 The first are those produced by age. 
 
 ' AGE. ■ 
 
 They are not permanent. The child does not re- 
 main a child, but grows and becomes a youth ; and the 
 youth develops itself,, matures and becomes man or wo- 
 man. None of these stages is therefore fixed, but the 
 one passes over into the other. Yet with these transi- 
 tions changes both of the physical and psychological 
 nature take place, and as may be anticipated, not acci- 
 dentally, not without some good design. As in the plant 
 those leaves which appear first and are nearest to the 
 soil, are also least formed, and their substance more rude, 
 so man in his childhood shows physically little expres- 
 sion in his face, and psychologically is confined to mere 
 sensations and perceptions. But as the leaves grow 
 higher from the soil as they are more exposed to the air, 
 and the influence of the light, the juice becomes more 
 refined,, the color more fresh and tender and all the 
 forms grow more perfect, until finally on the top 
 of the plant many delicate leaves cluster around one 
 center and form the bud, from which the flower in all 
 its beauty, bursts on us. This is the youth of the plant. 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 89 
 
 When the flower fades, the seed will begin to ripen, and 
 when the seed is matured, the fruit will decay. Here 
 we have the picture of man. His youth is the flower- 
 ing season of the plant. Sensation and perception 
 have been well exercised and now the powers of 
 imagination, of fancy, of memory, and the capacity 
 to receive and digest new ideas, are to be cultivated, for 
 they are principally active, and indicated in the blodm 
 of the face, in tlie fire of the eye, and by all the emo- 
 tions of the heart. When these powers of the mind, 
 have been sufficiently attended to, they fade and judg- 
 ment, reflection, thought, and practical activity grow 
 forth from them, until the ripened soul causes the body 
 to decay, as the seed the plant. Should we now ven- 
 ture to pronounce the design of the ages, we should 
 say ;— the soul enters the world in a state of involution, 
 and its destiny is to unfold and manifest what it contains. 
 Whenever one great manifestation has been made, it 
 turns to another, leaving the former behind, and this 
 change is. indicated by the transition from a lower to a 
 higher age, until when all its developments are eflect- 
 ed, it turns from time to eternity, and forsaking its body, 
 which is no longer of use to it, leaves it to decay. For 
 the body, without the soul, can as little support itself, 
 as the rainbow, created by the sun, can continue, after 
 the sun turns away from it to a different part of the 
 globe. 
 
 Different periods- of this gradaul development have 
 been exhibited by physiologists. Some have admitted ten 
 each consisting of seven years, thirty one weeks and 
 six days; Shakspeare speaks of seven, but most writers, 
 following the division of the seasons, admit only 
 four. To divide these periods according to years, is a 
 difiicult undertaking. Not only, because as the sea- 
 sons, so our ages differ in the various climates, but they 
 vary with different persons in the same region. That 
 which exists and grows, cannot be fixed in certain stages, 
 but like a stream, that continually flows and cannot be 
 stopped by putting a pole as a landmark into its waters, 
 one stage will flow imperceptibly into the other. Haller 
 collected more than one thousand instances of persons, 
 
 12 
 
90 ** « ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 who lived more than one hundred to one hundred and ten 
 years, and some of such, as died in the one hundred and 
 fiftieth and one hundred and seventieth year ; ten periods, 
 each of six years, thirty-one weeks and six days would 
 of course not be sufficient in such eases. 
 ' We shall in a short characteristic of the ages follow 
 the natural division of the seasons and the day, the in- 
 fluence of which on all that live is analagous to that 
 of the four ages on our life. These division are strong- 
 ly marked by our mental and physical power, and also 
 by a pre-disposition to certain diseases. In childhood 
 our nature inclines to inflammation of the brain; in 
 youth to disorders of the pectoral system ; in manhood 
 to bilious diseases and fevers, and in old age to palsies. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 This exhibits three distinct stages, that of the infant, 
 that when the child begins to ivalk and to speakj and 
 that when it begins to understand the world around it. 
 
 During the Ji7\st of these three periods the child exists 
 more in the form of vegetative life. It sleeps about eight- 
 een hours a day, and like pi ants, grows rapidly, and is al- 
 together a sleeping monad, for the morning of intellect 
 is not yet dawning on it. It is, however, born a 
 sensitive being, and feels every where on its body, ex- 
 cept on the sole of the foot. This experience shows for 
 when the air streams on its tender body, it moves its 
 limbs and cries ; vvhen it is touched, its muscular power 
 attempts to re-act. As the lungs breathe as soon as the 
 air falls upon them, so its lips point themselves and seek 
 for nourishment, when it feels hunger. Drinking and 
 eating are yet united in one act. The pleasure, accom- 
 panying the satisfaction of want, runs like an electric 
 spark through all its limbs, and soon not only the lips, but 
 also its little hands seek the favored food. The touch 
 of the hands will attract the eye, which begins to be 
 active four or five days after birth, and thus one sense 
 will awaken and aid the other. Hearing develops it- 
 self later, as it is said to continue longest in the dying. 
 It distinguishes first the voice of the mother, for this 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. -^ J^" 91 
 
 proceeds from the same breast from which it receives, 
 its nourishment. 
 
 The second period announces itself by the attempts 
 of the child to walk and to speak. With them it raises 
 itself above the sphere of mere feeling, and enters on 
 that of consciousness. A desire to play indicates a will 
 in its lowest stage. This desire makes the child seize 
 with its little hands, what is offered to them ; it grows 
 fond of what it has once seized and pays attention to 
 toys and those, which it sees and handles oftenest, it 
 will soon be able to distinguish from others. This ap- 
 pears from the fact, that it will not suffer one toy to be 
 taken out of its hands and another to be put in its place, 
 but it insists on the one, that tvas taken from it. 
 Thus it learns to distinguish and to choose. The in- 
 terest felt by the child in certain objects will be expres- 
 sed by its hands, and some inarticulate sounds, until 
 finally, after having heard them named repeatedly, it 
 imitates words. The child indeed had sounds before, it 
 wept, and laughed, and cried ; but to form sounds into 
 tones and pronounce them as words demands intellect. 
 Its original sounds were principally vowels ; to pronounce 
 consonants teeth are required. Mere sounds the ani- 
 mal has likewise, but its sounds have no variety. The 
 goose hisses, the hen clucks, the sheep bleats. The 
 voice of man is capable of forming all these sounds, as 
 was Madame Catalani to compass three octaves and a 
 half. The child at first indicates by a few words 
 a great many objects ; every stranger is an uncle or an 
 aunt. After some time it forms words of its own, that 
 frequently are full of significance. — With the language 
 the child becomes conscious of the world, and of itself, 
 especially when it ceases to speak of itself in the third 
 person, and begins to name itself by the term I. This 
 conception of itself is like a light in the midst of 
 darkness. Now the child plays with itself, as if it were 
 sufficient to itself. It sleeps less, and is unwilling to 
 be put to be bed, <fcc. 
 
 The third period is that in which the child desires to 
 become acquainted with the world. The impressions it 
 receives are new and strong, as they are yet few it re- 
 
9'a *^ ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 m * 
 taines them easily. The fondness for play increases; the 
 boy runs about, wrestles, climbs trees and makes mis- 
 chief; the girl delights in adorning a doll, and at- 
 tending to a kitchen apparatus in miniature. Pleasure 
 and displeasure seize the young heart with much vehe- 
 mence and the will excited by them, attaches the 
 action without deliberation to desires. These change 
 quickly and influence to many actions, that must 
 be imprudent. Not distinguishing between genuine and 
 false pleasures, the child will give the more valuable 
 for a trifle which attracts its attention. The rash and 
 inconsiderate life of the child meets therefore a contra- 
 diction in the well regulated and principled life of grown 
 persons, and this contradiction manifests itseif as disci- 
 pline. The virtues of gratitude, obedience, and peti- . 
 Honing, can be cultivated in the earliest childhood by 
 withholding and granting at proper seasons. Cleanli- ^ 
 ness in dress and moderation in food, are the basis of all 
 education. Exercise of the higher senses, the ear and 
 eye, and limitation of the pleasures of the lower are the 
 best preventives of voluptuousness and senswality. 
 
 Children live wholly in the present ; the future does 
 not yet trouble them. One day passes by like the other. 
 As yet boys and girls play with each other ; but soon 
 they flee in order to seek each other again. The girl 
 turns in upon herself and grows modest and silent, the 
 boy shunning her seeks the company of boys, and be- 
 comes awkward and rude. 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 Sera Venus — inexhausta juventus. Tacitus. 
 Now all formations of the body are fully developed ; 
 the proportions of all parts to each other, are in their 
 highest perfection ; the nerves are vigorous and the 
 muscles swell softly over into each other. The beard and 
 the change of voice in the young man ; the delicacy 
 and bloom in the face of the girl indicate this period no 
 less, than a higher respiration and a greater warmth of 
 the whole body. Psychologically this period may be 
 known from a prevalence of the imagination, memory, 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 93 
 
 and judgment, and an irresistible inclination to dive into 
 the future, lay plans and build castles in the air. The 
 breast is filled with hopes and ideas, with expectations 
 and wishes, with undertakings and plans to reform 
 the world. Love and friendship are the two principal 
 inclinations of youth ; perseverance and courage, firm- 
 ness and nobleness, magnanimity and self-denial, are in 
 their brain. Love ennobles and often forms the transi- 
 tion from a silent and idle life, to a most generous and 
 noble activity. Dante's love to Beatrice ripened into 
 his Divina Commedia ; Petrarch's love entered into his 
 sonnets ; Goethe's into his Faust. In a moral respect 
 Honor becomes the guiding principle. 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 The growth of theljody has ceased, though its inten- 
 sive strength may still grow higher. The face ex- 
 hibits impressions of certam fixed inclinations, and pas- 
 sions, and expressions of character ; the glance of the 
 eye is firm, the support of the body manly and noble, 
 and the walk dignified and serious. The ideals of 
 youth depart, and the reality of life claims the undivid- 
 ed attention of man. In the place of the pictures of 
 fancy, life ofiers its objects, and mature judgment and 
 knowledge, firmness of will, ripeness of experience, and 
 a resolute but deliberate activity become indispensable. 
 Purposes must be realized ; something must be effected 
 to secure to men a position in society. Wife and chil- 
 dren must be taken care of, the government and the 
 welfare of the whole race demand the interest of man. 
 As thinking becomes more logical, the single thoughts 
 clearer, so the emotions of the heart are viewed more 
 correctly, and no longer suftered to exercise an influence 
 on the will proportional to their vehemence. And so 
 all actions are accompanied by circumspection and pru- 
 dence, and must proceed from a sense of duty, and from 
 a consideration of their consequences in the future. 
 Man must know how to resign and endure, how to per* 
 severe and to act. 
 
94 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 Jncundissima est aetas devexa jam, non tamen pre- 
 ceps. — Seneca. 
 
 The frailty of old age has been the theme of many 
 a poem, and of much complaint. Homer early com- 
 pared the voice of old men to the chirping of the balm- 
 cricket. And yet old age is not destitute of its high 
 pleasures. Desires and passions, those tyrants of youth 
 no longer rage in it ; past experience, and many changes 
 and occurrences, rising and sinking wealth and power, 
 the destructive and reviving facts of history, have taught 
 the aged neither to tremble at dangers nor to overprize 
 things earthly. He can no longer be deluded ; his coun- 
 sel is sought for and valued. Old age may therefore be 
 called that of peace and serenity ; for quick impressions 
 no longer disturb it, unseasonable desires no longer tor- 
 ture it, and its principal attention is directed to its eter- 
 nal home. The more familiar it grows with the home 
 above the stars, the morie it becomes estranged to the 
 concerns of life, and this gradual estrangement may be 
 called a gradual dying, and death nothing else than a 
 transition of the soul from time to eternity leaving the 
 body behind. As the soul dives into the other world 
 the colors of this earth grow pale and less interest- 
 ing. 
 
 Yet some old men have preserved in themselves a 
 deep interest in the world, and continued to feel youth- 
 ful, and labor with energy. Goethe continued his 
 usual activity until a few days before his death ; Ru- 
 ben's Last Judgment, and Raphael's Transfiguration, 
 were the best and last works of those great men. 
 
 Many feel neglected in old age, because they have 
 ceased to take any interest in those around them ; 
 many lose their memory because they do not exercise 
 it. Robert Constantine had an excellent philological 
 memory in his one hundredth and third year. Many be- 
 come childish, because they live altogether in the days 
 of their childhood, and pay no attention to the affairs of 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 95 
 
 the day. But when all is as it ought to be, then the 
 old man will rejoice in his age, and as the horizon of 
 his earthly sun grows more narrow, that of his heaven- 
 ly sun will become more expanded and more brilliant. 
 For the soul that comes from God, having fulfilled its 
 destiny on earth, desires to return. 
 
 SLEEPING AND WAKING. 
 
 Sleeping and waking are the "ebb and flood of mind 
 and of matter on the ocean of aur life." They are re- 
 lated to each other as night and day, darkness and light, 
 consciousness and unconsciousness. In proportion as 
 any being may be said to be awake, it will be able to 
 enjoy sleep. We propose to answer tbe folio wtng 
 questions : 
 
 1. What is sleeping, and what is waking 1 
 
 2. Where is sleep met with ? 
 
 3. What is its design ? 
 
 4. What are its conditions ? 
 
 5. What is a regular sleep ? 
 
 6. What is falling asleep ? and what is waking ? 
 
 1. WHAT IS SLEEPING, AND WHAT IS WAKING 1 
 
 /Sleep. The words used in different languages to 
 signify the state of life under consideration, express 
 generally a relaxation. Sommis in the Latin no doubt 
 is derived from siipinusj lying on the back and 
 which is derived from that sop io to .deprive of feel- 
 ing or sense, and from which the modern term sofa 
 comes ; the Greek term vttvos is equal to vmvos and this 
 is allied to the Latin supuns, supnius, somnus, and 
 means likewise l^mg back ; the English sleep comes 
 from the Saxon slepan and the German, schlafen^ 
 whose root is schlaff^ and whose meaning is lax or 
 relaxed^ and which is used of the bow-string whea- 
 loosened. Sleep in general is, therefore a state pf 
 relaxation. This definition is not, however, suffi- 
 cient, and we must add that is the negation of 
 consciousness of the world and of ourselves. Yet con- 
 sciousness is not annihilated, but continued as dreams 
 
96 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 indicate and as the possibility of awaking at a certain 
 hour, sufficiently proves. The nervous system, which 
 influences the activity of the soul when directed out- 
 ward, is asleep and hence the communications of 
 the soul with the world is interrupted for a time. We 
 must further add, that sleep is the rest of the activity of 
 the organs of sensibility ; yet the functions of sensibili- 
 ty, of sensation and perception, are not suppressed, but 
 only limited in their clearness and accuracy; they are 
 veiled and put to rest with regard to e-ternal objects. 
 But while at rest in this respect, they re-produce their 
 life and re-invigorate themselves. Again we must add, 
 that sleep is the prevalence of the functions of bodily 
 re-prod'dction, of digestion, respiration, circulation of 
 the blood over those of sensibility. Though breathing 
 and the pulsation of the blood becomes slower, they are 
 the former more deep, and the latter fuller. Hence 
 it is, that many snore when asleep, for they draw in the 
 air more deeply. Secretion is diminished, but is richer 
 and more energetic, and digestion is more perfect. Per- 
 sons grow principally during sleep, and wounds heal 
 more at night, than during the day. The plant grows 
 quicker than anything else in nature, and it is there- 
 fore considered as the true representative of re-produc- 
 tion. A twig broken off and planted, produces a new 
 tree. The life of man during sleep is principally vege- 
 tative, as Aristotle remarked, and Liebnitz called man 
 when asleep, a vegetable monad. In sleep man is turn- 
 ed in upon himself, and wholly indifferent to the world 
 around him ; hence Heraclitus said, — in . sleep every 
 man has a world of his own, but when awake all men 
 have one in common with each other. Sleep has been 
 considered by ancient poets, as the sister of death ; 
 Homer calls death a brazen sleep vttvos xaXfeos ; but 
 if sleep is rest in activity and death as it is general- 
 ly viewed, a cessation from all activity, then sleep and 
 death are not sisters, nor are theyi n any way related to 
 each other. 
 
 Waki7ig, This is the opposite of sleeping or that 
 state of life, in which the system of sensibility reigns 
 over that of re-production, or in which the soul and 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 97 
 
 unconsciousness prevail over the body. All the func- 
 tions of sensibility are fully active, as seeinof, hearin^g^, 
 smellinir, tastincr, and feeling ; we think, and judge, and 
 will ; we distinguish between ourselves and the world, 
 between our perceptions and the things perceived ; we 
 remember, direct attention whithersoever we please, and 
 determine the motions of all our muscles. 
 
 Sleeping and waking seem to be in opposition, and 
 yet they are not, for the one is founded on the other. 
 While we sleep, something in us is awake, and while 
 we are awake, some powers in u^ are at rest. 
 
 2. WHERE IS SLEEP MET WITH'? 
 
 As sleeping and watching are closely related to each 
 other, we may at once say, that a being can enjoy sleep 
 only in proportion to the degree in which it may be 
 said to be awake. Beings, that are wholly reproduc- 
 tive, that live and grow only externally, and have 
 neither feeling nor sensation, cannot sleep. It cannot 
 be denied, that there are many plants, which under 
 the influence of light and warmth close their cups at 
 night, and open them again in the morning, or protect 
 their flowers by folding their leaves around them, and 
 by forming a bower or by rolling up their leaves in the 
 form of a cornet ; — yet their sleep, if it may be called 
 so, is but distantly analogous to that of man. It is nev- 
 ertheless remarkable, that some flowers are so regular 
 as to the time of falling asleep, that Linnaeus conceived 
 the thought of establishing a Horologium Florae, that is 
 a dial of flowers. 
 
 Animals, on the other hand, have feeling arid sensa- 
 tion ; they feel themselves, and they feel and perceive 
 the things around them ; they are consequently awake 
 in some degree at least, though their state of waking, 
 resembles that of dreaming, and hence Leibnitz called 
 them dreaming monads. Here it will be well to notice, 
 that livinof and beinor awake are different states of exist- 
 ence. The plant lives, but is not awake ; the animal 
 is awake, but has no clear consciousness. Animals, be- 
 ing awake, they also sleep. The ibex, which climbs 
 
 13 
 
98v. ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 from mountain to mountain, when the time of its re- 
 tirement approaches, seeks for a silent and isolated place 
 to rest and enjoy sleep. The eagle that sailed during 
 the day in the air, and passed over hills and valleys, is 
 satisfied with a small spot when the night breaks in. 
 Some animals sleep not only during night or for a short 
 part of the day, but through a whole season, or during 
 a smaller or greater portion of it. Some fall asleep 
 when the cold, others when the warm, or others when in 
 some regions the rainy season makes its appearance. The 
 German rat, the marmot, the badger, the hedgehog, the 
 bear, all of which love cold climates, sleep more or less 
 during the whole winter ; the hedgehog in Madagas- 
 car, and the tanrec in the East Indies sleep during the 
 greater part of summer; and so does the crocodile, 
 which remains stiff in the mire, hardened by the sun 
 until a few drops of rain start it, and make it burst the 
 mud and go in search of its prey. Among the birds the 
 swallow, the nest of which is eatable, and some few other 
 kinds are subject to this long sleep which is also met 
 with among men, but there always as a disease. The 
 question may be asked, whether all animals sleep? 
 Some of the lower classes, as infusoria and polypi, that 
 have either no nerves at all or very few only, can of 
 course sleep but little, because they are awake but' lit- 
 tle, and their existence is more vegetative than animal. 
 Other animals live constantly in a dull mixture of sleep- 
 ing and waking, as the amphibious ; and some insects 
 sleep so slightly, that their sleep might better be called 
 a kind of drowsiness, for they observe every thing going 
 on around them. Fish have been seen following a 
 ship for seven days, and as yet it is doubted by many, 
 whether the dull life of aquatic animals stands in need 
 of sleep. From these remarks, it may be sufficiently 
 seen, that the sleep of animals differs not only from that 
 .of man, but in the different animals according to the 
 degree inwhich they may be said to be awake. 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. y^K^^^^^^^^'S^ 
 
 3. WHAT IS THE DESIGN OF BLTE^r ^ ■C' *»' ^* * * - 
 
 Rest and activity are so separated \xv^eiy%m\^^s^^ 
 which lives on earth, that the one exchjdes the other, 
 or no being can be active and rest at the sfime time. 
 But what cannot take place simultaneously may do so 
 in succession, and as the night follows the day, so rest 
 follows activity, and this again rest. Whenever our ac- 
 tivity continues for a long time^ it must result in ex- 
 haustion, and thus render itself impossible ; and when 
 rest is enjoyed beyond a proper measure, disgust and 
 weariness are experienced. The necessity for the al- 
 ternate transition from waking to sleeping, and from 
 sleeping to waking lies in the above law, and is con- 
 tained in the life of man. It is the union of mind and 
 body, and though its activity is originally one, it is or- 
 ganized and utters itself by different systems. These 
 determine and limit each other, so that while each is 
 going on in the same body, neither interferes with the 
 other. Among these systems some serve more the 
 growth and strength of the body, others more directly 
 the activity of the mind. But all of them are equally 
 subject to exhaustion, and stand, therefore, equally 
 in need of rest. They cannot consequently be 
 all of them- active in an equal degree at the same time, 
 but they must relieve each other, so that while the one 
 is principally active, the others will be at rest and for 
 the time being, yield their dominion. Were both kinds of 
 systems equally activeat the same time, they would have 
 to fall asleep at the same time, and then nothing would 
 remain active in man to awaken him again ; while, on 
 the other hand, a continued activity of the vegetative 
 system of the body would finally stifle the life of the 
 mind, and a continued activity of the mind by the brain, 
 nerves, and muscles would volatilize the body as light 
 volatilizes burning matter. An uninterrupted wakeful- 
 ness renders the brain soft and watery, and causes in- 
 sanity as long sleep suffocates by the growing and ac- 
 cumulating fat. Here, then, we may discover the true 
 reason why plants cannot sleep. They cannot be said 
 
^^ 
 
 100 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 to be active, and hence stand not in need of rest, as the 
 planets and stars, which are ever moving, never expe- 
 rience fatigue. Should we nevertheless call the growth 
 of plants an activity, it would be necessary for us to 
 say, that their activity and rest is so united that the one 
 cannot be distinguished from the other. "Without any 
 disturbance their juices rise. and sink; without labor 
 the bud unfolds itself in the light of the sun and scatters 
 its fragrance. But the life of the animal has sensation ; 
 through it, it is attracted by the objects around or repel- 
 led by them and its originally peaceful and harmoni- 
 ous activity is elicited and spent in all directions, and 
 hence exhaustion follows and rest becomes necessary. 
 And all this takes place in a still higher degree in man. 
 The equilibrium of his mental life is wholly disturbed 
 by the occurrences of the day, by the emotions of fear 
 and hope, of joy and pain, of solitude and anxiety, of 
 love and hatred ; by self-interest and interest in others ; 
 by desires, inclinations, and passions; by cares and trou- 
 bles, by the constant exertion of thinking and willing. 
 Thus rest becomes in a high degree, necessary, and the 
 design of sleep as regards the intellect is, 
 
 To grant rest to the mind. For, if during the 
 state of waking, the mind may be compared to a living 
 spring, whose reviving waters are constantly gushing 
 forth and flowing into many rivulets ; during sleep it 
 gathers and collects itself, draws in its many fold ac- 
 tivities ; and thus, for a time, it frees itself from the con- 
 trast and opposition to itself into which it is brought by 
 the opposite nature of the objects, claiming its power 
 and attention during its vvaking. The mind returning 
 to itself, delivers itself from the stretch on which it is 
 during the whole day and thus it is at rest. 
 
 It not only rests in sleep, that is, ceases from labor, 
 but it is positively invigorated and strengthened, and 
 this restoration of mental power is another part of the 
 design of sleep. It descends to the state of its original 
 existence to that of the embryo and like Antaeus, who 
 by throwing himself on the earth, gained new strength, 
 so it recovers what it has lost by its activity in the world. 
 It is as if it drew a new supply of strength from the 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 101 
 
 source of its existence, and hence the expressions that 
 one feels like a neiu creature after a healthy sleep or 
 halmy sleeps are highly significant. 
 
 According to the view taken here of the design of 
 sleep, it would seem that the mind sleeps and not the 
 body alone, or that such is the case of the system of 
 sensibility and irritability, and this is true. Sleep is 
 not death, nor a separation of the soul from the body ; 
 in sleep they remain closely united. The mind sleeps ; 
 it is for a time in a state of unconsciousness, while at 
 the same time it has not in the least lost its conscious- 
 ness, this has only become latent or is for a time veiled.' 
 This state of mind has been compared to that of the 
 memory when it possesses all the words of a foreign lan- 
 guage, and could call them forth at any time, and yet 
 does not remember one for years because the person 
 whose memory it is no longer speaks that language. 
 This state is similar to another activity of the soul, 
 which in order to reflect on a new idea, dismisses for a 
 time a previous one without losing or forgetting it. It 
 will be understood, that the mind is spoken of here in its 
 connection with the body, and especially with the nerves 
 by which it is principally active. When these become 
 exhausted, the activity of the mind will not cease, but 
 will be greatly diminished and consequently rest. This 
 rest is what we call sleep. 
 
 4. WHAT ARE THE CONDITIONS OF SLEEP? 
 
 These are many and various, and that without which 
 all the others would be insufficient, the law is accord- 
 ing to which life cannot remain in one and the same 
 state longer than a certain time, and according to which 
 its existence vibrates between activity and rest, sleeping 
 and waking. This is the case, in some degree at least, 
 with the mind. Here we find, that after serious labors, 
 the mind inclines strongly to something of a lighter na- 
 ture. Leibnitz, when fatigued with study, delighted in 
 meditating on the improvements of wagons; Keppler 
 turned from his astronomical investigations to music. 
 The more the mind has been productive and self-active 
 
102 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 in one direction, the more it will desire to be merely re- 
 ceptive in another. After writing: much it will be de- 
 lio:htful to read for a while. The next condition of 
 sleep is a certain degree of exhaustion caused by activi- 
 ty. He only sleeps well who wakes well. Any thing 
 that weakens the nervous system, great cold or heat, or 
 whatever too greatly raises or depresses the activity of 
 the sensibility, or what even wearies by not affording 
 suiRcient excitement, by being too uniform or tedious 
 will make us feel sleepy ; while any thing that strongly 
 engages the mind will keep it awake. A certain de- 
 gree of indifference to the world and to our business is 
 indispensable to sound sleep, and whatever promotes 
 this state of indifference will also promote sleep. Hence 
 the night with its darkness and silence is the time for 
 sleep, for the absence of light suffers the eye, through 
 which the objects of the world receive form and shape 
 and gain our attention, to be at rest. Again, whatever 
 promotes the growth of the body is favorable to sleep. 
 Fat, corpulent and growing persons, especially chil- 
 dren, sleep more than old persons. And finally sleep 
 may be caused by strong odors or medicines taken from 
 the vegetable kingdom as opium, by strong food, which 
 renders a higher degree of digestion necessary, as may 
 be seen from serpents, that after havmg eaten their prey, 
 fall asleep ; by strong drinks, which force the blood in- 
 ward, while such as tea, that propel it to the surface, 
 keep us awake. 
 
 5. WHAT IS A REGULAR SLEEP r 
 
 That sleep we should not hesitate to call regular and 
 healthy, and refreshing, in which the functions of diges- 
 tion or of the system of reproduction in general prevail 
 over that of setisibility, so that we are not disturbed by 
 dreams or by cares. So is waking regular and healthy, 
 when we scarcely know that we have a body, when no 
 limb hurts us, and when the process of digestion is not 
 in the least perceived. Sleep is irregular when it is 
 disturbed by unpleasant, feverish, or distressing dreams, 
 and when we often awake during the night. The na- 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 103 
 
 ture of sleep will differ according to its prevailing 
 causes. Sleep, produced by strong drinks, will be' 
 heavy and unhealthy ; that produced by cold, will be 
 benumbing ; that by too great faticrue, will be deep, ifec. 
 Some instances of lethargy remind us of the long sleep 
 of animals. Schubert relates the case of Guiseppe Cia- 
 borri, who was buried during an earthquake by the corpse 
 of his friend, and there lay for fourteen days under the 
 ruins of hrs native city almost constantly sleeping. A 
 sick person slept for seventeen weeks with but a few in- 
 terruptions', and after this long sleep recovered from his 
 disease. This shows that such a sleep is sickly. Anoth- 
 er slept for seventy days and then recovered from an 
 illness ; and Fichet records a case in which a man slept 
 for four years, only waking when he felt hungry. 
 Equally extraordinary are the instances in which per- 
 sons have fallen asleep while on the rack. The nerves 
 being so weakened that they could no longer re-act, be- 
 gan to die, while the rest of the body seemed yet to live.. 
 Sleep and death not unfrequently pass over the one into 
 the other. Poison, introduced into the blood, frequent- 
 ly causes first a deep sleep and then death. As we 
 have many instances of such a heavy, lethargical sleep, 
 so we have some of an uncommon wakefulness. A 
 murderer, according to Schubert, remained awake for 
 fourteen days, and though he took gradually forty grains 
 of opium, his eyelids would not sink and grant him a 
 balmy sleep. 
 
 6. WHAT IS FALLING ASLEEP'? 
 
 To say all in one word, we may reply : a gradual in- 
 activity of the different senses. First of all the eye 
 ceases to be awake, the eyelid sinks and it closes ; then 
 taste and smell become insensible; the ear yet hears, 
 but does not understand ; the mouth yawns, the mem- 
 bers stretch themselves, the head, as in the embryo, sinks 
 down on the breast, and while for a short time the life 
 of the mind seems to rest under the surface of the body, 
 so that a little excitement will call it forth again, it soon 
 sinks deeper until it wholly disappears. So the English 
 
104 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 soldiers on the fort of St. Philip heard no longer the 
 thunder of the cannons, but slept standing at their posts. 
 Physically, falling asleep is frequently indicated by a 
 feverish pulsation of the blood, and always by a rest of 
 the muscles, by a decrease of animal warmth, by slow- 
 er, but deeper breathing. As the thinking power be- 
 comes relaxed, and loses accuracy and acuteness as the 
 motion of the muscles grows less energetic, so all ac- 
 tivity is turned off from the world and sinks back into 
 the life of the body. The eye of the astronomer, which 
 a moment since enjoyed the millions of golden stars 
 above, and roamed in immeasurable space lets fall the 
 lid — and stars and space are no more seen. 
 
 WHAT IS AWAKING 1 
 
 When sufficient strength has been gained, one sense 
 after another becomes active again, and man becomes 
 conscious of himself, and the world around. A feeling 
 of strength and of vigor, of cheerfulness and alacrity, 
 accompanies our awaking, as that of relaxation accom- 
 panies onr falling asleep. Our connection with the 
 world is renewed, and the last thou2:hts, before falling 
 asleep again, present themselves. — When life is vigor- 
 ous, the transition from sleeping to waking is short, 
 though generally preceded by a short morning sleep. 
 The dark feeling, in which our intellectual life was 
 resting, becomes gradually more light ; figures like 
 thoughts make their appearance, and an electric stream 
 of power passes through limbs and muscles, until we 
 are fully awake. The process of awaking is generally 
 complete, when the eye opens, for through it the objects 
 around us can be distinguished, and hence it elicits our 
 judgment and thinking, and our desire for renewed ac- 
 tivity. 
 
 ; DREAMING. • 
 
 The word dream, by a transposition of the letters o 
 and r, comes from the Latin, Dormio, which word 
 means both to sleep^ and to dream^ as the noun somni- 
 um, means both sleep and dream. In connection with 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 105' 
 
 # 
 
 sleepino^ we have to consider that state of the mind, in 
 which it dreams. 
 
 Dreaming is generally described as an involuntary 
 action of the soul. By involuntary is meant, that the 
 pictures, images and ideas, running through our sleep, 
 are not subject to our critical judgment, nor to our con- 
 scious will, but that they come and go, appear and dis- 
 appear, as if sent by another power than that of the 
 soul. ^ Yet this definition of dreaming does not exhaust 
 the subject. Dreaming is a state of mind, that is made 
 up of sleeping and waking. The soul, when it dreams, 
 is neither wholly asleep nor wholly awake. We are 
 awake, when we judge, consequently when we distin- 
 guish between our soul and body, between our activity 
 and its results, between the world and. ourselves and 
 when we know that we make these distinctions. We 
 are asleep, when we are no longer aware of these differ- 
 ences and when we cease to judge. Dreaming is the 
 flowing together of ourselves with the objective world ; 
 for while in sleep this is wholly merged in a state of 
 unconsciousness, in dreaming it emerges from it ; but not 
 having however the power of a clear and distinct judg- 
 ment, we are not able to keep the objective world sepa- 
 rated from ourselves, but all our activities flow confu- 
 sedly together with their results, our perceptions with 
 the things perceived, and our imagination with its own 
 productions. Dreaming then is that state of mind, in 
 which ';.£ 
 
 1. We are not conscious of ourselves or of our per- * 
 
 sonality. We are conscious of ourselves when we 
 clearly distinguish between our soul and body and ac- 
 knowledge their union. In dreaming this distinction is 
 gone, and hence we are unconscious of our person. This 
 shows itself in all dreams, and more especially in those 
 in which we exchange our personality for that of ano- 
 ther. Johnson, in his dreams, frequently disputed with 
 an opponent, and felt chagrined, that he had himself 
 the poorest arguments. An old Professor dreamed, that 
 he was again a student, and when examined could not 
 answer the question to which his classmate, sitting near 
 him, fully and readily replied. In both these instances it 
 
 14 
 
 ■^ 
 
# 
 
 106 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 is evident, that the dreamers had no self-consciousness. 
 And so it is in all our dreams, for if we were clearly 
 conscious of ourselves, we should not dream, but be 
 awake. Without personality there can be no liberty, 
 no vohtion, no will. In dreaming then we are incapa- 
 ble of willing decidedly. This it will not be difficult 
 to prove. For when we dream that we are pursued by^ 
 a mad dog, or any rapacious animal, we cannot, how- 
 ever much we may try to do it, discover the means of 
 escape. Our muscles seem powerless, they will not 
 move from the place, they deny their services. We 
 desire to be delivered from danger, we feel that running 
 could be the only way of safety and yet we cannot take 
 a step. Nor is understanding and judgment active and 
 free in dreaming, but both are merged in mere feeling. 
 Some remarkable instances may seem to lie in the way 
 of this assertion, and yet it is nevertheless true. If by 
 understanding we comprehend the man in one, and if 
 by judgment we distinguish between the different qual- 
 ities of a thing, and separate one class of beings from 
 another, we cannot exercise either power without self- 
 consciousness, and where this is active, there, as has 
 been stated, we do not dream, but wake. Condillac, we 
 are told frequently finished treaties in his dreams, which 
 while he was awake, offered insurmountable difficulties. 
 Maignan, a mathematician of the seventeenth century, 
 in his dreams, solved problems, which he found correct, 
 when he judged of them after he awaked. Reinhold 
 discovered in a dream thededuction of the logical cate- 
 gories, and so all of us frequently feel, when we awake 
 in the morning, that we have clearer ideas on some sub- 
 ject than we had, when we retired. Strong as these in- 
 stances are in favor of a quickened understanding and 
 judgment in dreams, they do not after all prove what 
 they seem to establish. For there is no doubt but the 
 essays of Condillac and the problems of Maignan, and 
 the categories of Reinhold, had not in vain engaged 
 the minds of these men, but they were well matured 
 and ripe, long before they lay down to sleep. It often 
 so happens, that while many impressions, and many 
 activities engage our mind at the time, when we attend 
 
* 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 107 
 
 to a difficult subject, the results of our meditation and 
 study will not become manifest to ourselves, because 
 some feeling, some impression veils it or does not suffer 
 it to present itself freely, and separate from the other 
 views and ideas, that may occupy our thoughts. After 
 we retire and dismiss the many cares and interests, 
 which divide our mental energies, the principal subject 
 of meditation during the day will enter into oiir dreams 
 and all the other impressions that accompanied it hav- 
 ing disappeared, the result of our study will be per- 
 mitted to show itself disencumbered. So noise around 
 us frequently prevents us from remembering a certain 
 occurrence, which is certainly treasured up in our me- 
 mory. When the noise ceases, our recollection of it 
 is at hand. The mountains are there, but the mist ren- 
 ders them invisible ; as soon as the mist sinks, they rise. 
 We experience the same, when, having been for a long 
 time engaged in some labor unsuccessfully, we return 
 to it, after recreation. Then we are often astonished at 
 the ease with which we finish the work. No new ef- 
 forts have been made, no new attention has been paid 
 to it, and the greater facility must therefore result from 
 the removal of something, that before obstructed our 
 efforts. 
 
 The state of mind, in - which it neither comprehends 
 nor judges nor is conscious of itself, must be that of 
 
 Feeling. The mind, as has been shown, retires du- 
 ring sleep from the manifold activities into which it 
 flows forth when awake. Yet its rest is not inactivity, 
 for this is death. Whatever is must be active, and only 
 what is active is alive. The activity of the mind du- 
 ring sleep is sunk into that of feeling. This, without 
 judgment, is an entire union of subject and object, of the 
 activity which feels and the thing that is felt ; a union, 
 not resulting from the difference of both, but one that 
 knows of no difference whatever. Thus all differences 
 in the activity of the soul are dropped, and the soul pla- 
 ces itself wholly and individually in every feeling and 
 emotion, or in every word and action. When we are 
 awake, we judge of our actions as well as of our words 
 and feelings ; our mind, when entering into them, is 
 
108 ANTHROPOLOGY* 
 
 conscious of their relation to itself, of their consequen- 
 ces and propriety. During sleep no part of the mind is 
 above our feelings or words, but the whole mind rests 
 in an undivided manner in every single emotion and in 
 every single action. Hence we may explain how words 
 spoken in our dreams are frequently much more beau 
 tiful, much more appropriate than we should have 
 chosen them when awake; hence it is too, that our 
 emotions in our dreams are more whole-souled and con 
 sequently more animated ; and that our sympathies and 
 antipathies are more vehement than they would be in a 
 state of wakefulness. As the muscular strength of in-, 
 sane persons is very greatly increased, when their 
 whole mind enters into a passion, so are our feelings 
 in sleep, and their utterances in dreams. 
 
 Some of the feelings, that we thus have in dreams, will 
 be stronger than others ; these stronger feelings will 
 cause a difference in the simple and harmonious activity 
 of the mind and disturb it. Every difference will lead 
 to variety, and hence the mind will flow forth again 
 with its activity into different channels, as in its state of 
 waking. Yet not conscious, that these differences in 
 its activity are its own productions, imagination, the 
 principal power active in dreams, represents them as 
 something strange, as something external, something not 
 proceeding from the activity of the mind, but from some 
 other source. Thus the identity and harmony of the 
 mind is preserved in its dreams, for whatever might in- 
 terfere with it is thrust out under the form of a strange 
 being or power. On the other hand the mind seems to 
 distinguish, while on the other it remains still under 
 the influence of mere feelifig. But the activity of the 
 mind which thus unites thinking and feeling is 
 
 Imagination. This mental power does not demon- 
 strate nor produce pure thoughts and make us con- 
 scious of them, but it gives all ideas in a sensual form, 
 in a sensible image. While we are awake, its opera- 
 tions are accompanied by critical judgment ; we reflect 
 on the images and their appropriateness to render a 
 thought visible. In our dreams this critical judgment 
 is^absent, and though we may compose poems while 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 109 
 
 dreaming, their value can be judged of by us only when 
 we are awake; and frequently what may please us in 
 our dreams, will be found wholly incapable of satisfy- 
 ing our waking judgment. Imagination is therefore act- 
 ive, without our being conscious of it; this i^ sometimes 
 the.case with poets, who write without cool reflection, 
 but then they write by inspiration, and may be com- 
 pared to a burning torch which illuminates all around, 
 but does not see itself nor understand its own nature. 
 As it is the province of the imagination to express a gen- 
 eral thought or truth, or that which is common to many 
 things of the same kind by a single concrete and indi- 
 vidual image or symbol, so in our dreams it produces 
 images, concrete signs or symbols by which it speaks or 
 acts. The course of an unfortunate life, for example, 
 it will describe by a high mountain which we have to 
 ascend. Agreeable or disagreeable feelings which con- 
 nect themselves with the labor we have in climbing up 
 the mountain, will call forth the images of beautiful 
 flowers or disgusting anima^ls. Hence it is, that we 
 can not only speak in verses while we are dreaming — 
 because imagination is principally active, and the soul 
 is wholly thrown into it — but that the language of 
 dreams in general is replete with poetical beauty, with 
 energy, and appropriateness. Instead of words, we have 
 a fine imagery, thus, pearls indicate tears. The wife 
 of Henry IV., of France, dreamed a few days before the 
 murder of her husband, that two splendid diamonds had 
 been changed into pearls. So Goethe, shortly before 
 he visited Italy, had a dream of a symbolical character. 
 He dreamed that he landed from a large boat on an 
 island, fertile and richly covered with vegetation, where 
 he knew the most beautiful pheasants were offered for 
 sale. He directly traded with the inhabitants for these 
 beautiful creatures which they brought killed, and in 
 large quantities. They were genuine pheasants, but as 
 dreams usually transform everything, they had long, col- 
 ored-eyed tails like those of peacocks or birds of para- 
 dise. They were brought by scores into the vessel, 
 their heads turned inward and arranged so ornamental- 
 ly, that the long, variegated tails hanging outwards, 
 
110 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 formed in the sunshine the most brilliant arches imag- 
 inable ; and so richly indeed, that room was scarcely 
 left in the front and rear for the oarsmen and helmsman. 
 Thus they cut the peaceful waves, and Goethe named 
 to himself the friends to whom he intended to present 
 these gay treasures. Though Goethe neither sent nor 
 brought pheasants from Italy to his friends, he sent 
 many a letter, filled with the riches of his poetical genius, 
 which received new impulses and new materials from 
 the world of art surrounding him. — Knowing the pow- 
 er of imagination, we cannot feel astonished at the 
 choice which it makes in our dreams of images, by 
 which to convey its dark notions. A man, suffering 
 from cramps in his breast, saw himself attacked and 
 wounded by cats whenever his disease was about to re- 
 turn. Nor shall we consider it strange, that it frequent- 
 ly makes use of images, which are directly opposite of 
 what they are to indicate. Weeping in dreams is said 
 to announce great joyousness ; cheerfulness in dreams 
 foretells mourning. To eat earth means to gather rich- 
 es ; beautiful lilies apprize us of scorn which we shall 
 have to endure from the world. Marriage-feasts in 
 dreams are the messengers of misfortune, as funeral 
 processions those of joyful occurrences. Romeo in a 
 dreamsees himself elevated to the dignity and splendor 
 of an emperor, shortly before he hears of the death of 
 his Juliet. In these images of our dreams a certain law 
 prevails, when we think them to be arbitrary. This 
 law is, that extremes elicit each other. Cheerfulness 
 and mournfulness, marriage and death, the sounds of 
 joy and those of grief, are found more closely together 
 in nature, than we are inclined to admit. 
 
 Nearly allied to imagination is the activity of memo- 
 ry. This likewise is often active in our dreams, and 
 when not divided, and it is animated by the whole activi- 
 ty of the mind, will of course be more lively, more vivid, 
 and perhaps more faithful in the detail of occurrences. 
 Then a gentleman dreamed, that a person appeared be- 
 fore his bed, offering to reveal to him either his future 
 or past life. He agreed on having his past life repre- 
 sented to him. The person then gave him a review of 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. Ill 
 
 all that had occurred to him, the greater part of which 
 he would not have been able to recall when awake. 
 To explain this dream, we must remember a remark, 
 mnde above, that memory as well as every other power is 
 subject to dissipation, and that it may treasure up occur- 
 rences, which the manifold employments of the day pre- 
 vent it from bringing to our recollection, and while dream- 
 ing its whole activity dwells on one point only. It there- 
 forci represents past actions more in the detail and not 
 merely recollects them, but gives them all the novelty 
 of recent occurrences. Dead persons die again before 
 us ; we, in old age, go again to school with our books un- 
 der our arms. Yet memory in our dreams is mechanic- 
 al ; not subject to our will, so that we might demand 
 certain things intrusted to it. It gives them according to 
 the association of ideas, or in some external connection, 
 or in one borrowed from the memory in its state of 
 waking. Consciousness does not accompany its opera- 
 tions. When awake, we classify the contents of memo- 
 ry, and call upon it to give them according to general 
 heads and classes ; this tendency to generalize, renders 
 the memory less inclined to depict and delineate. In 
 our dreams memory dwells more on the individual na- 
 ture of occurrences, it loves the concrete and hence its 
 greater vividness and detail. There are some dreams, 
 that continue successively for a number of nights, to 
 complete a long story. Here it must be remembered 
 that similar feelings and circumstances will produce a 
 type of a dream, which will continue as long as its 
 causes and conditions are the same, until its subject is 
 exhausted. 
 
 THE FORM OF DREAMS. 
 
 One delights in the illusions of dreaming, because 
 originating in ourselves, they must have some analogy 
 with the rest of our life and our fate. Goethe. 
 
 Dreams being destitute of a clear self-possessed con- 
 sciousness, they of course can have no logical connection. 
 This has been already shown from the entire neglect 
 
r 
 
 112 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 of the laws of space and of time. In space one place 
 cannot be where another is, for different places occupy 
 different positions; and so whatever exists in a bodily 
 form, while it must be somewhere, cannot be every 
 where. Dreams know nothing of these laws, but the 
 persons and beings in them have a kind oi ubiquity. In 
 the twinkling of an eye we now are in Asia, and now 
 in Africa. Our imagination may likewise travel fast 
 when awake, but then the critical consciousness is 
 closely following it. And so in dreams the laws of 
 time are wholly neglected, such as those of succession 
 of the past, present, and future. This succession enters 
 into our thoughts and actions. Before we act we re- 
 solve ; our resolution, as something present, is referred 
 to its execution as something future. In our dreams 
 resolution and action coincide in one moment ; the fu- 
 ture is present. Thus all logical and all voluntary 
 connectiouis destroyed. To have clearness and dis- 
 tinctness in our knowledge, we must arrange it accord- 
 ing to the laws of space and time ; we must, for in- 
 stance, cause our memory to give up its contents in the 
 regular order in which they occurred. And not only 
 so, we must perceive the relations of cause and eifect, 
 ground and consequence. Where the things contained 
 in dreams have nevertheless a strictly logical connec- 
 tion, this is not produced by our dreaming imao^ination 
 or memory, but merely repeated by an involuntary as- 
 sociation of ideas, or by our mechanical memory. In 
 this limited sense it may well be said, as it has been as- 
 serted, that there is both an objective and subjective 
 connection in our dreams. Dreams arising in our- 
 selves must have a swftjec^ive connection, an analogy with . 
 our disposition, knowledge, talents, and skill. There 
 must be too an objective connection, for our dream- 
 ing imagination must have materials for its activity ; 
 these must be given to it, and their original connection 
 may preserve itself in our dreams. Such a connection, 
 however, is mechanical ; it is like the connection of 
 leaves, that shaken, off by the wind, attach themselves 
 to each other on the ground, or like leaves that flow 
 down the same rivulet, and are united not by their na- 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 113 
 
 ture, but by the water that carries them. The subject- 
 ive connection of our dreams demands, however, our 
 particular attention, for these very frequendy betray our 
 true disposition and moral character. If during the 
 time of busy activity our conscience is not permitted to 
 speak, it will frequently burst its chains in our dreams 
 and announce loudly to all that hear it, and especially 
 to ourselves, what is in us. Shakspeare represents the 
 dreams of conscience very beautifully in Lady Mac- 
 beth. A celebrated professor, who for some time had 
 omitted offering his morning and evening worship, 
 prayed in his dreams a number of nights in succession, 
 and repeated' all the bible prayers which he had learned 
 by heart in his youth. The dream may be an illu- 
 sion, but the disposition from which it arises will be 
 true. It was on this principle, that a Greek emperor 
 had a person executed, merely because the same man 
 dreamed of having killed him. 
 
 CAUSES OF DREAMS. 
 
 These are manifold, and it would be difficult t© enumer- 
 ate all of them and arrange them in classes. We shall 
 therefore point out only a few, and among the most 
 fertile ones are, 
 
 1. Impressions on our senses. Thus we feel cold, 
 and our imagination leads us into ice-fields ; light falls 
 upon our eyes, and we exclaim Fire ! A philosopher 
 dreamed, that thieves were about to kill him, and to ren- 
 der his death more cruel, they introduced a large pole 
 between his toes, and tried to break them out. He 
 awoke and found a straw in the place of the pole. 
 Sometimes a disordered system, any thing lying undi- 
 gested in the stomach will cause dreams. 
 
 2. Whatever has much engaged us during the day, 
 whether it has been agreeable or disagreeable, will be- 
 come a source of dreams during night. Perhaps a 
 strong emotion, suppressed by our will, while we were 
 awake, disturbs our sleep ; or a strong wish, the ful- 
 fillment of which we would not for a moment consider 
 possible when waking, presents itself as realized. Per- 
 
 15 
 
114 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 sons desirous to be rich, dream that they are -so. 
 Talents, that are not permitted to exhibit themselves, 
 because our daily employment is hostile to them, will 
 seek for an opportunity in our dreams of exercising 
 themselves. And so whatever impedes any activity, 
 whatever disturbs body or mind, will cause our dreams 
 and enter into them. The ni^litmare is a remarkable in- 
 stance of the kind. A thick and impure air renders 
 breathino: difficult, and our imagination, which views 
 every thing under the aspect of a concrete form and 
 beinof, perceives a bear or cat lying on our mouths. Ca- 
 ms, Junior, relates a case from Sedillot's Journal de Me- 
 dicine, which is to the point here. Laurent, the phy- 
 sician of the first battalion of the reo^iment. Tour d'Au- 
 vergne, was lodged during a night in a deserted monas- 
 tery at Palmi, in Calabria, when suddenly some persons, 
 lying together in narrow rooms on straw, which was 
 spread on the floor, came running in much frightened, 
 all saying that they had seen a ghost-like, long-haired 
 black dog,^ and had distinctly felt him running over 
 their breasts. During the next night Laurent with 
 some other officers, remained watching, after the sol- 
 diers had been persuaded to retire, and without their 
 seeing any thing suspicious, the soldiers were frightened 
 by the same dream, and could not be induced again to 
 return to their lodging place. 
 
 3. When our intellectual activity has been exercised 
 but little or at least less than its power would demand 
 to become relaxed, when consequently it stands in no 
 need of recreation and sleep, then dreams will follow 
 one after another, in case we retire to rest. Our senses 
 close, but our mind feels reluctant to sleep. As a gen- 
 eral rule it may be stated, that we never dream more, 
 and sleep worse, than when we wake little. 
 
 4. The nervous state of the system when weakened, 
 may produce many dreams. Persons in fever, in de- 
 lirium will imagine they see all kinds of images and so 
 the dreams of nervous persons are full of them. If in 
 this state of health we have no clear and distinct dreams, 
 we toss about, groan and sigh, and it frequently takes 
 us a long time to awake. 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 115 
 
 Dreams, springing from the same causes, may be 
 much modified by the disposition and character of the 
 dreamer. The natural difference of the imagination, 
 its degree of livehness and strength, and its cultivation, 
 will considerably affect its images and productions. 
 The imagination of the painter, and that of the musi- 
 cian, of the poet, and that of the sculptor will certainly 
 preserve their peculiar characteristics in their dreams. 
 If the imagination is naturally productive and plastic, 
 the materials furnished it in the dream, will be connect- 
 ed in new ways, and as the judgment is absent, these 
 combinations will frequently be of strange character. 
 The most opposite things will be united, carricatures 
 will be formed, animals speak, serious persons will ap- 
 pear in ludicrous situations and countries will present 
 the most beautiful combinations of water and mountain 
 scenery, and of landscapes of all kind. From these 
 few remarks, it must be evident, that the dreams of 
 children, and those of old persons, must differ widely 
 not only in their substance, but also in reference to their 
 form, liveliness and distinctness; and so again the 
 dreams of savages and those of cultivated persons. 
 The former will consider them too as being sent by a 
 higher power and regard them as possessed of divine 
 authority. Animals too dream ; but their dreams stand 
 in the same relation to those of man, in which their m- 
 stinct stands to the clear thinking of man. They may 
 dream of pursuing a hare or chasing a stag, but their 
 dreams cannot go beyond the sphere of sensation ; they 
 cannot produce new images, (fcc. 
 
 PROPHETIC DREAMS, PRESENTIMENT, VISION, AND 
 DEUTERdSCOPY OR SECOND. SIGHT. 
 
 Somnia sunt alia physica, alia divina, alia diabolica. 
 
 Melancthon. 
 
 We propose to consider these different states of mind 
 together, for they are to be explained on the same gen- 
 eral principle. When speaking of sleep, we found it 
 useful to. glance at the phenomena of waking, and so 
 here prophetic dreams which we have when-asleep, and 
 
116 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 presentiments which are the dreams of our waking 
 mind will mutually explain and interpret each other. 
 What we mean by prophetic dreams, will be easily seen 
 from one or two examples. And here we cannot help 
 .thinking of one. handed down by Cicero, who, as is 
 well known, was by no means credulous. Two Arca- 
 dians came to Megara and took different lodging-places. 
 The one of them appeared twice to the other in a dream, 
 first seeking aid and then murdered, and stating that his 
 corpse would be taken early in the morning on a cover- 
 ed wagon passing through a certain gate out of the city. 
 This dream agitated the other, and going at the appoint- 
 ed time towards the gate, he met the murderer with the 
 wagon and handed him over to the police. A lady of 
 my acquaintance, was from home, when a little brother 
 of hers was killed by an ox. The night after this oc- 
 currence she dreamed that an ox-cart was sent for her, 
 in which she was expected to return. This dream af- 
 fected her spirits so much, that she expressed her appre- 
 hensions to her friends in the morning. When inform- 
 ed of the misfortune she directly understood her dream. 
 The dream of Mr. Williams of Scorrierhouse, near Red- 
 ruth in Gornwall, is fully related in the London Times of 
 the 16th of August, 1829. He was the Chancellor killed 
 in the vestibule of the House of Commons, and having 
 had the same dream thrice in one night, he communi- 
 cated it to many of his acquaintances all of whom were 
 living when the Times gave the account. Afterwards it 
 was ascertained, that on the evening of the same day 
 Mr. Perceval was assassinated by a certain Bellingham. 
 This dream resembles the second sight of Mr. Lodin, 
 who in the hour of death saw the murder of James V. 
 
 From these few examples it will appear, that prophet- 
 ic dreams are such as give us information concernnig 
 things which would seem to be inacessible to our com- 
 mon senses at the time. It cannot be denied, that it is 
 difficult to point out the possibility of such dreams, yet 
 it must be admitted, that there have been dreams of the 
 kind. To refuse belief in them altogether, would not 
 annihilate them, but merely remove them from our con- 
 sideration. It is more easy to disbelieve a thing that is 
 
 m 
 
ANTHROt»OLOGY. 117 
 
 difficult to explain, than to attempt to understand it. 
 No doubt many dreams have been exaggerated, and to re- 
 ceive all without a critical jud2:ment, would indicate great 
 credulity. We shall therefore divide prophetic dreams 
 into two classes ; the one embraces those dreams, 
 the subject of which is the dreamer himself, his health, 
 his state of mind, his conscience ; the other compri- 
 ses all such as foretell something foreign to the dream- 
 er, but always something that will stand in a necessary 
 relation to the present, so that if nothing occurs to pre- 
 vent it, it must therefore develop itself from it. Dreams 
 of the j^r5/ class have never been much doubted, for 
 physicians have too many opportunities of testifyirtg to 
 their truth. Persons while yet well receive by a dream 
 an impression of a future disease. A woman, about to 
 be taken sick with an inflammation of the brain, dream- 
 ed that her heart was changed into a serpent which 
 rose with awful hissing up to her liead. Her imagina- 
 tion represented her disease symbolically. Diseases do 
 not all at once and suddenly seize our system. They 
 have their beginning and course, and frequently develop 
 themselves very gradually. Yet however small the 
 beginning of a disease, it is the disease begun. If a 
 strong nervous and muscular constitution may not per- 
 ceive it until it has grown considerably, there is no reas- 
 on to doubt the possibility, that a person whose nervous 
 system is out of tune and highly-sensitive when asleep, 
 and when his whole mind is sunk into the state of a 
 general feeling and raises and animates this, should per- 
 ' ceive a future disease even in its very infancy. This 
 will become more credible, when we consider that our 
 body is a system, which consists not of parts as the ma- 
 chine, but of organs, each of which while it has a pecu- 
 liar office represents our whole life. The drop of blood, 
 that now runs through the veins of the eye, will soon 
 pass through every vein in the body. In the state of 
 health, when all the organs are active in perfect harmo- 
 ny, no difference is felt; but when one of them is 
 about to separate its life from that of the others, a 
 diflference between itself and these must be exhibited, 
 and this will be noticed. Our explanation of prophetic 
 
118 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 dreams, it will easily be perceived, strips thetn en- 
 tirely of the power of prophecy, for they do not foretell 
 that which is not yet, but that which is, and which in 
 our comiiion state of mind would be imperceptible, be- 
 cause it could not sufficiently affect our strong nerves. 
 
 The dreams of the second class, on the other hand, that 
 seem to foretell future occurrences or to iiave a sensation 
 of things going on at the time, but at a great distance, 
 like the dream of Mr. Williams, are founded either on 
 sympathy^ as we shall see when we speak of presenti- 
 nmet, or on our knowledge of a necessary connection ex- 
 isting between the foundation and that which rests upon 
 it. So Franklin often perceived in his dreams the results 
 of the labor to which he had attended during the day. 
 These results were owing to the faithfulness with which 
 he executed his business. The plant lies likewise in 
 the seed as to possibility, and any one who sees the 
 seed may prophecy what the plant will be that shall 
 grow forth from it. Only those occurrences may, 
 therefore, be foretold by our dreams, the premises of 
 which are known to us, but it would be mere supersti- 
 tion to believe that we could anticipate in dreams the 
 actions of a free-will. 
 
 The whole subject before us will become more plain 
 by considering the nature of presentiment, vision, and 
 second sight. We shall also here preface each of these 
 states of mind by giving one or two examples : - 
 
 Jung Stilling, in his Almanac of 1808, relates a re- 
 markable presentiment of a minister, who was taking » 
 walk with the intention of visiting a rocky mountain 
 near his house, and of enjoying the beautiful view from 
 it. While approaching the summit of the mountain he 
 felt restless and uneasy ; unable to explain this feeling, 
 he asked himself, whether it was right for him to spend 
 his time thus idly, and busied in such thoughts, he 
 stepped aside for a moment to seek a cool place under a 
 wall formed by the rock. He had scarcely left the nar- 
 row path leading to the top of the mountain, when a 
 large stone, breaking loose from the rest of the rock, 
 with great vehemence struck the spot, where one mo- 
 ment before he was standing : The Reverend John 
 
 "^P- 
 
-i 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 119 
 
 Dodd, one evening, when already undressed, felt a 
 great agitation in his mind which was wholly unac- 
 countable to him. It seemed to him, that he ought to 
 go and visit a friend, who lived a mile or two off from 
 him. His familytried to dissuade him from going that 
 night, but their efforts were in vain. Mr. Dodd went, 
 dark as it was, and on arriving at the house of his friend, 
 he found him ready to commit suicide. His unexpect- 
 ed visit and counsel prevented the deed forever, and his 
 friend became converted by divine grace : Schiller, the 
 great poet, was in the habit of walking with his stew- 
 ard ; at one time, when passing on a rugged path, 
 through a pine wood and between high rocks, he was 
 seized by a feeling that some person must be buried 
 there. Some time after he was informed of the mur- 
 der of a wagoner committed at the place, on which he 
 had the presentiment. , , - 
 
 Presentiment — if now we should define it — is the 
 dark foreboding of something taking place either in 
 ourselves or around us. This foreboding is a dark feel- 
 ing not understood by us ; a general feeling of restless- 
 ness, strange and altogether uncommon. Its possibility 
 must not be considered as a privilege of the mind, to 
 dive into futurity or distance, but as a disease and weak- 
 ness, by which it sinks from its state of clear waking 
 into that of dreaming and drowsiness, or from its state 
 of human life into that of animal existence. For ani- 
 mals, whose life is more or less plunged into the general 
 life of nature, and penetrated by it, and- whose feeling 
 is that of sympathy with the elements, in which they 
 live, have a high degree of presentiment. They seek, 
 like the fish, distant waters, or like the bird, countries 
 afar off; they announce, while the sky is yet serene 
 and clear the approach of a shower,- and when the in- 
 habitants around Vesuvius feel secure, the nightingale 
 prophecies a near eruption, and flutters about, sending 
 forth heart-rending notes. The less a being is independ- 
 ent of the element in which it lives, the more quickly 
 it will perceive the changes going on in it, and again 
 the less it can counteract an impression, the more ve- 
 hemently it will be affected by it. If. in a state of 
 
 «r 
 
120 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 health we handle metals as we please, and perceive no 
 effect from them, the mere touch of a ruby on the hand 
 will cause to some diseased persons pain in the arm, or 
 _ a feelintr of coldness and heaviness in the tong^ue. 
 
 It is certainly an erroneous idea to think, that we 
 can perceive by our common senses all the powers of 
 nature* Many of them have only lately become known 
 to us. The celebrated Brown divided substances into 
 parts, «o infinitely small, that they were smaller than 
 the four thousandth part of an inch; he then scat- 
 tered them into the air, while not a breath was stirring 
 and observed them moving about. As the motion could 
 not be their own, he concluded that there was a power, 
 which communicated it to them. This power is now ' 
 ascertained to be in constant motion, and to pervade 
 us, but we have in a healthy state of our nervous sys- 
 tem no sense by which we may perceive it. This 
 magnetic stream is nevertheless equally as certain, as 
 the electric influences upon us, though we cannot disco- 
 ver by our senses the polar relations in many chemical 
 affinities. These activities, however, exist and may be- 
 come known to us in two different ways, either by^ a 
 change taking place in them, or by one in ourselves. 
 That only is perceptible to us, which can affect our 
 senses, because it is strong enough to resist their activity. 
 If the senses are excitable, the impression needs not 
 be strong, to be perceived ; if they are healthy, it must 
 be energetic. We are penetrated by electric powers, 
 without our feeling them. The eye, when it is pressed 
 against any thing, flashes forthe lectrical sparks, and the 
 skin of the cat, when rubbed, emits them. As soon as 
 this electric power approaches us with sufficient energy, 
 we perceive it. So when we touch an electrical fish 
 or eel. Prom this it follows, that when the external 
 state of a natural power is changed, we may receive 
 impressions from such as left us perfectly free before. 
 And so It is when our own nervous system becomes > 
 more excitable ; then natural agencies will be perceived, 
 though their energy should remain the same. The 
 distance from which these agencies reach us, cannot 
 form any objection, or even cause any difficulty in un- 
 
 
ANTHROPOLOQY. 121 
 
 derstanding this theory. For if the eye, by the medium 
 of light, may be set in connection, for example, with the 
 Sirius, which is so many thousand miles distant from 
 us ; if the ear, so small an organ hears the sound, that 
 originated twenty or thirty miles from us, and if we cannot 
 conceive the possibility of all this, what right have we 
 to refuse belief in the possibility, that magnetic and 
 electric powers, may impress us from a greater or shorter 
 distance ? If these remarks are correct, it cannot es- 
 cape us, that the more we are merged in the general life 
 of nature, the more we shall sympathize with all its 
 changes, and the more distant activities with which its 
 agencies are connected, will become perceptible to 
 those whose nervous system is capable of receiving 
 impressions from them. On a similar ground we must 
 explain presentiment concerning friends ; they rest on 
 deep sympathy with them, on a kind of polar relation. 
 Should a presentiment become more clear, and assume 
 the form of prediction, it must be remembered, that the 
 future has its origin in the present and that it must 
 spring up from thissource, as does the tree from the seed. 
 
 Presentiments may become visions when our imagin- 
 ation gives them form and shape. They then will 
 appear to us from without as images, which to the vision- 
 ary seem to have reality. The images will not be pro- 
 duced arbitrarily by our imagination, but they will 
 emerge from our feelings and be calculated to represent 
 theirgeneral nature, which is either agreeable or disa- 
 greeable. When they proceed from the feelings, that ac- 
 company the activity of conscience, then they will often 
 assume the forms of good or evil spirits, because they will 
 symbolically represent feelings, flowing forth from a 
 quiet or disturbed conscience. Yet before we define 
 vision, it may not be disagreeable to give a general no- 
 tion of it by a few instances : 
 
 Petrarch, when at Vaucluse, saw Laura approach 
 him at three different times during one night; fear 
 seized his limbs, and the blood returned to his heart. 
 Trembling he left the house, to breathe more freely. 
 He climbed a rock, he walked through the woods and 
 looked around on all sides to see whether Laura was 
 
 16 
 
122 ' ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 following him. " No one will believe me, but it is true ; 
 1 saw her on remote places, where I thought to be 
 alone ; from the trunk of a tree, from the basin of a 
 fountain, from the cave of a rock, from clouds, (fee. 
 Fear made me immovable, I knew not what would be- 
 come of me, and whither I should go !" Torquato Tasso 
 during the last years of his life, was firmly convinced, 
 that a friendly ghost was in the habit of appearing to 
 him. His friend, the knight Manso, expressed his un- 
 belief to him, and was requested to convince himself by 
 being personally present at one of his conversations with 
 the apparition. Manso agreed to it, but while Tasso 
 conversed with his specter, he could see nothing at all. 
 One of the finest visions ever seen by any man, is no 
 doubt that of Benvenuto Cellini, which we shall give 
 here in a free extract from Goethe's works. Cellini, 
 the Italian artist, during his last imprisonment frequent- 
 ly prayed to God, that he would show him in a dream 
 once more the disk of the sun. One morning he arose 
 early and prayed fervently that God, by divine inspira- 
 tion, would communicate the cause to him, why he was 
 not worthy of seeing the sun even in a dream. While 
 praying, and lost in the wish of seeing the sun, the Lord 
 seized him in the manner of a wind, and led him into 
 a large room, where he appeared to him in the form of 
 a beautiful youth. He then saw a great number of 
 persons, through the midst of which he had to force 
 his way. At length he arrived at a narrow door, by 
 which he entered a small street. Raising his eyes he 
 perceived the sun, shining upon a high wall. The 
 Lord then told him to walk up to a high edifice by a 
 few steps, where he saw the sun in its full glory. After 
 a while the rays of light inclined to the left of the sun, 
 and the disk became pure and clear, and appeared like 
 a bath of purest gold. Soon after this, the middle of 
 the golden circle expanded and became elevated, when 
 all at once Christ on the cross became visible, of the 
 same pure gold, of which the sun was, and so beautiful 
 and so benign, that no human mind could have imagined 
 the thousandth part of such beauty. Then Christ mo- 
 ved to the left, and the center of the circle again ex- 
 
 i» 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. - l23 
 
 paneled, and showed the beautiful figure of the holy- 
 virgin. She sat elevated, her son in her arms, and a 
 smile on her face. On both sides two angels stood of 
 great beauty. "All this 1 saw clearly and really, and 
 thanked God constantly with a loud voice." — The 
 images of vision originate in the same way, as those of 
 our dreams. Here also it is a strong feeling, by which 
 our whole mind is absorbed, by which its volition and 
 clear consciousness are held down. The mind resting 
 wholly in this feeling — as for instance that of Petrarch in 
 the feeling of love — will animate and raise it. Thus 
 this feeling will re-act in uncommon strength, or render 
 every other emotion subject to it, and as the mind is 
 lost in it, imagination, which is nearest allied to feeling, 
 will represent it in a concrete form, under an individual 
 image, and place it without us. This is indeed the case 
 with every artist, with the painter, the sculptor, the 
 poet. Their inicvgination transfers a thought or feeling 
 into an image, which of course they must see as clearly 
 before them, as if it existed in reality. Yet there is 
 this difference between the images of the artist, and the 
 visionary. The artist controls his imagination by a 
 conscious judgment ; he distinguishes between it and 
 its productions, and comprehends the latter as his own. 
 The visionary looks upon them as possessed of reality ; 
 he views them not as proceeding from him, but as ap- 
 proaching him from without. And here it must be re- 
 marked, that the feeling, which gives rise to such a 
 vision, may again be represented as being itself caused 
 by the vision. So a woman entertained for a consider- 
 able time, the idea of committing suicide ; but the voice 
 of her conscience unnerved her arm. One morning 
 however she plunged herself into a deep well, and 
 while standing up to the chin in the water, she suddenly 
 perceived a guardian spirit, that extended his hand to 
 assist her in getting out of the well again. This friend- 
 ly apparition no doubt was the voice of her conscience, 
 whose words were put into the mouth of an image, 
 which her own imagination had produced. So it is 
 known that the celebrated Blake, the English painter, 
 frequently saw before him the forms of Dante, Milton, 
 
 m 
 
124 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY, 
 
 Virgil and Pindar, as if ihey were his contemporaries. 
 Once Milton communicated to him a poem, that had 
 not been published before in his collected works. The 
 poem was by Blake, but his vision made it appear to 
 come from Milton. 
 
 Visions, though their name is derived from visus, 
 sight, are not confined to the eye only, but all the sen- 
 ses may share them. Suso, for instance, ate strawber- 
 ries that were offered him in neat baskets. Nicolai felt 
 all the pain, caused by a bristly serpent, winding itself 
 arouad his body. Jacob Boehme, in the hour of death, 
 heard beautiful music, which was inaudible to every 
 one of the bystanders. Yet the eye is most favorable to 
 visions. It easily produces phantoms. Irregular 
 points, indistinct outlines, confused spots will induce it, 
 especially during moonlight, to draw them out into reg- 
 ular forms. If our imagination be strong, and our 
 judgment weak, and our conscience not perfectly at 
 peace with us, we shall see spectres and ghosts of all 
 kinds, and thus tremble at the creations of our own 
 mind. The eye is the sense too, that more readily 
 obeys the internal urgency of imagination, and will 
 more easily see those images, which imagination neces- 
 siates it to form. 
 
 Second sight is the last of the phenomena of mind 
 under consideration. It differs from presentiment and 
 vision, and again contains both united. Vision has but 
 rarely any thing to do with predictions and future 
 events ; it considers its images to be present and not 
 future. Presentiment, on the other hand, is a dark 
 foreboding of something distant, either in space or time. 
 Second sight while it differs from both, has much in 
 common with each. It unites in itself the^ foreboding of 
 presentiment, and the clearness and distinctness of vis- 
 ion. Or it is a presentiment, that exhibits its foreboding 
 in such an image, as its substance demands. Hence it 
 is a vision, that without much imagination, indicates 
 exactly what it represents. A lady, whose husband 
 was from home, saw him return on the public road, 
 when all at once he disappeared before her eyes. Af- 
 terwards she received information of his death, while 
 

 ANTHROPOLOGY. 125 
 
 traveling homeward. — The explanation of second sight 
 seems at first to be extremely difficult ; but if the theo- 
 ry of presentiments and visions has been understood, 
 that of second sight cannot remain concealed from us, 
 for it is nothing else than the union of both. Here as well 
 as in presentiments, nothing can be foretold that has not its 
 foundation in the elements surrounding us, or in the inti- 
 mate and close sy mpathy which we feel wi th near acquain t- 
 ances, friends, and relatives. There have been little is- 
 lands, on which the second sight was extremely common. 
 Thus Faro island, the islands around Scotland and some 
 valleys in other parts of Europe, the Steinthal (fee, have 
 been long known for their number of seers. The in- 
 habitants of these islands and valleys are much separated 
 from the rest of the world ; the silence and retirement 
 of their residences makes them nieditate much on them- 
 selves, and live more in each other : their cultivation is 
 not that of the mind in general, not that of judgment 
 and reflection, but more that of feeling ; hence their re- 
 lation to each other is based on the heart more than on 
 the calculations of the understanding. Circumstances 
 well known to the seer, impress his mind, and as this is 
 merged greatly in feeling, affect deeply the latter ; this 
 aflection of the feeling, instead of reflecting on it and 
 expressing its substance clearly, will be pronounced 
 darkly, and in the form of presentiment by the seer, 
 whose imagination will see the future in the present, 
 and the effect in the cause, and represent it as vision does. 
 Or the probability of an occurrence is to be ascertained 
 by judgment ; but the seer, not exercising it, perceives 
 it by mere feeling, and his fears or hopes set his imagin- 
 ation into operation, and he sees as real and present 
 what his fears and hopes anticipate. This explanation 
 will be found correct, at least with regard to one kind of 
 second sights, when we consider that the seers in Scot- 
 land have been generally of very low rank and almost 
 without any cultivation, wholly living in the state of na- 
 ture ; and when we add, that those clans which had 
 seers, were frequently isolated, living entirely within the 
 sphere of their own families. In such a life every feel- 
 ing and motion of one member would easily communi- 
 
SI 
 
 126 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 cate itself to all. As the cultivation of the mind be- 
 comes more refined, and the intercourse with the world 
 greater, second sight becomes less frequent. When ive 
 have often a presentiment, that some friend or other 
 will pay us a visit, the seer adds the image and such 
 other circumstances as may render themselves probable 
 to his feeling. The more retired we live, the more im- 
 portant the visit from a friend would be, and the more 
 it will engage our imagination. If our presentiment is 
 called forth by circumstances that render such a visit 
 probable, for instance by fine weather, or by the idea of 
 leisure or any thing known to be favorable, the seer 
 does not leave it with this dark impression, but per- 
 ceives the ship at great distance and the persons in it, 
 and even the dress they wear. Thus the seer per- 
 ceives at a distance, what in reality he only sees in him- 
 self Second sight, no doubt, in many instances is pro- 
 duced by magnetic or other natural influences, which 
 will even affect animals, as for example, horses ; but 
 there is certainly nothing miraculous about it. Another 
 remark may not be out of place here. Thousands of 
 impressions, ideas, notions pass through our mind, and 
 are no longer remembered ; they seem to be gone, with- 
 out having left a trace. And yet while every sensation 
 appears and disappears, none is lost, but each affects the 
 mind and exercises an influence upon its character. This 
 influence will be felt long after the individual impression 
 is forgotten. Though never remembered again as 
 single impressions, they may therefore breathe life into 
 our words, and a peculiar power into the productions 
 of our minds. The elements lie in the soul, unknown 
 to him, whose soul it is ; how much might be explain- 
 ed concerning visions and second sight, if these dark ele- 
 ments were always known to us. 
 
 Second sight is not any thing arbitrary. Some seers 
 it is true, received payment for second sights, but their 
 visions were frequently full of deception. Seers can- 
 not call them forth, when they desire to have them, nor 
 keep them off when they approach them. A seer who 
 was warned by his minister and admonished not to in- 
 dulge second sights, saw during a sermon the corpse of 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 127 
 
 a person then alive on the same place where that per- 
 son afterwards was buried. 
 
 Second sight is principally met with among the un- 
 cultivated, as Johnson has remarked, and as will ap- 
 pear from the history of idolatry, — the Shaman are a 
 remarkable instance — Swedenborg, a learned and culti- 
 vated man, imagined himself to have traveled into other 
 worlds, and thus mistook the productions of his own 
 mind for genuine realities. So it was with the pious 
 Oberlin, who was in possession of a map, on which he 
 was in the habit of showing to the family that had lost 
 one of its members, where the soul of their departed 
 friend was to dwell. Savages, like Swedenborg, say 
 that their souls are traveling when they dream. The 
 idea, however, that the soul can leave the body and 
 wander into distant places has been favored by many 
 cultivated persons, yet always by such as were a little 
 diseased in their minds. 
 
 The fear of ghosts and specters, so common among 
 all nations, and especially in their infancy, originates in 
 a manner similar to visions. The specters are but the 
 productions of the imagination, sometimes called forth 
 by an external impression on the senses. The state of 
 the conscience will render them more or less terrible, so 
 that in proportion as we fear these ghosts, we in reality 
 fear ourselves. If our hearts are pure and we are heav- 
 enly minded, the fear of ghosts will vanish, as legends 
 give us to understand, when they require nothing more 
 than a prayer to disperse specters. When our con- 
 science is troubled, we shall feel alarmed especially at 
 night by the supernatural world and its inhabitants. As 
 we see ourselves in part, when see specters, so we may 
 see ourselves wholly, and such a sight of ourselves gen- 
 erally is thought by the credulous to indicate death. 
 Goethe saw himself on the public road near Strassburg, 
 in a gray suit on horseback, as he really eight years af- 
 terwards rode on the same spot, but continued to live a 
 long time afterwards. 
 
4 r 
 
 128 ' ANTHROPOLOQY. 
 
 MAGNETIC SLEEP. 
 
 There is scarcely a subject of Psychology more con- 
 tested, than the one whicli we now approach. While 
 some reject it, without having cooly examined it, others 
 superstitiously and without any discrimination receive 
 every fact related, if it is only uncommon and miracu- 
 lous. It may be well to glance at both parties. 
 
 The one of them rejects animal magnetism, because its 
 phenomena are extraordinary or out of the common ex- 
 perience. They do not faithfully investigate and then 
 judge, but determined to admit to be true only, what 
 can be handled and what will easily be explained on 
 common principles, they are ready to condemn what- 
 ever is not analogous to their other experience. They 
 wholly forget, that nothing is true, because we experi- 
 ence it ; but that we experience it, because it is true or 
 because it has reality. Experience does, therefore, not af- 
 fect the truth of any thing, but only corroborates or con- 
 firms it. If Whately,in imitation of Thomas Campanella, 
 who died 1639, and who attempted to prove that Charles 
 the Great never lived, wrote an essay, the object of which 
 was to show how, by historical scepticism, the life of Na- 
 poleon might be considered a fiction, he could expect to 
 succeed only on the principle of Sallust, according to 
 which men are willing to admit what is common, but 
 always inclined to reject what in the least extends be- 
 yond their own capacities. These persons who prove 
 everything by facts, and consider facts the basis of all 
 knowledge, will reject theni as soon as they do not corres- 
 pond with other facts known to them. Satisfied with 
 the use of the world, they never dream of any thing be- 
 sides that which is visible, and yet every production of 
 nature rests on an invisible power, everything that is 
 perceptible on something that is concealed. 
 
 The other party is always looking out for facts of 
 magnetic sleep, that will astonish the world. If these 
 phenomena could be explained, their interest in animal 
 magnetism would be gone. They are, therefore, as 
 

 ANTHROPOLOGY. 129 
 
 anxious to receive all facts without reflecting on thenn, 
 as the others are to denounce them. The former party 
 thinks^ but thinking makes it an unbeliever ; the latter 
 believes^ but fears to think, and thus want of thought 
 makes it superstitious. To it the facts are too high and 
 too strong; it cannot grasp them, but must admit them 
 and hence feels an unbounded respect for them, almost 
 considering them of divine origin and as divine commu- i^ ^ 
 nications. * 
 
 Both parties;, it may be easily seen, render it difficult 
 to themselves to get a correct idea of magnetic sleep.. 
 If the thinker could once convince himself of magnetic 
 phenomena in sleep, he could certainly no longer con- 
 tinue his opposition ; if the superstitious believer could 
 understand their laws, he would cease to gaze with rev- 
 erence upon them. Bat how can the one become con- 
 vinced of fl\cts, and the other of their laws, if both either 
 do not investigate the subject or examine it with pre- 
 conceived notions ? When persons, prejudiced against 
 the idea of magnetic sleep, offer themselves to the mag- , 
 netizer, and then find that manipulation will effect 
 nothing with them, they will at once have done with the 
 matter. And yet they forget, that the relation between 
 the magnetizer and the magnetized is a polar one, that 
 on the part of the magnetized it is a disease, both bodi- 
 ly and mentally, that it demands confidence and faith, 
 without which persons, subject to animal magnetism 
 will feel an antipathy and yet be thrown into convul- 
 sions if an attempt is made to put them asleep. A sym- 
 pathy between the magnetized and magnetizer is indis- 
 pensable, and such a relation between both, that the 
 nervous system of the latter is neither too strong nor too 
 weak, but of the exact energy required to excite that of 
 the former. If too strong, it produces cramps and pain ; 
 if too weak, it cannot cause any effect. When, on the 
 other hand, the believer is constantly prepared to re- 
 ceive stories of all kinds of visions, of apparitions, of de- 
 parted spirits, and even of journeys into other worlds, to 
 what else can this predilection, which fears critical judg- 
 ment lead than to superstition? Neither of these two 
 parties takes a correct position in reference to animal 
 
 17 
 
 ^ 
 
.^^3^ 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 
 . , magnetism, and we shall have to deviate from botli-. 
 ■ "^ On the one hand it will become candid examiners to 
 ^. exercise their full power of judgment, as one of the 
 parties does, and on the other, to admit all well-autheri- 
 *^ ticated facts, as the other does, with this difference, that 
 
 ■^* we distinguish between well-authenticated facts, and 
 
 . those relations that are the fictions of an imagination 
 
 ' ^ -#:^ which delights in the supernatural and mystical. 
 *^ # "We do not propose to give a full theory here ; — this 
 
 - ^ would be presumptuous and out of place. Nor is it our 
 
 design, to include at present the artificially produced 
 ^^ magnetic sleep or Mesmerism. A note will be append- 
 ed on this subject, to which the reader is referred. We 
 shall therefore confine ourselves to the natural magnet- 
 >^ V ^ '^ ic sleep, which was in existence long before Mesmer 
 - -1^ discovered it, and which, if somnambulism is taken in its 
 • * <• widest sense, may be called Idio or Auto-somnamhu- 
 9' lism. Much that has been said on presentiments and 
 
 visions, must necessarily apply to magnetic sleep, for 
 what presentiments are in our state of waking, the phe- 
 nomena of magnetic sleep are in our state of sleeping. 
 These phenomena are in general the following : Per- 
 sons speak, act, and walk about in their sleep ; they see 
 themselves, their viscera, anticipate diseases, have pre- 
 sentiments of things future or at a; distance, and fre-. 
 quently have apparitions. Their moral disposition 
 seems to be raised, they speak a purer language and are 
 in general elevated above their common character. 
 The phenomena of the artificial and natural magnetism 
 are nearly the same, for the so-called clairvoyance 
 ;. is peculiar to both ; but there are. a few that belong ex- 
 
 clusively to the former. — Such are the eifects of mani- 
 pulation, when the eyes close, the pupil turns upward, 
 pain is assuaged, breathing becomes more easy, the face 
 brightens up, and all heaviness departs from the limbs. 
 Again : the dependence of the magnetized upon the 
 magnetizer is so great, that it has been compared to 
 that of the embryo upon the mother, and the feelings 
 and ideas of the magnetizer are said to communicate 
 ^ . |l themselves to the magnetized, who if the magnetizer is 
 v.^ ^ physician, will prescribe medicines for themselves ac- 
 
 "-4. 
 
«•■ 
 
 ^ ^ . 'anthropology. 131 
 
 cording to his system, or if he is a poet, write in his . |^ 
 style. These phenomena will, however, be spoken of in * * ' 
 a note ; and we will only remark, that persons in natural 
 somnambulism likewise prescribe for themselves, and 
 foresee the course their disease is likely to take. A few 
 instances of magnetic sleep or somnambulism may throw ^ 
 
 light upon its nature : When the archbishop of Bor- ^' 
 deaux was in the Seminary, he knew a young minister 
 who was a somnambulist. In order to become acquaint- . 
 
 ed with this singular disease, he went every night into |j| 
 
 his room as soon as the minister was asleep, and ob- ^ ' 
 
 served among the rest the following facts. — The young 
 man arose, took paper and ink and wrote sermons. 
 Whenever he had finished a page, he read it over from 
 the top down to the bottom with a loud voice, and with- 
 out making use of his eyes. When a passage did not 
 please him, he would erase it and write the correction 
 with much accuracy above it. The beginning of a 
 sermon pleased the bishop much. It was elaborate and 
 well-written. In order to ascertain, whether he made 
 use of his eyes or not, a piece of pasteboard was placed 
 under his chin, so that he could not see the paper on 
 which he wrote. He continued, however, to write with- 
 out noticing any thing which the bishop did. Again, 
 in order to ascertain how the somnambulist could per- 
 ceive the presence of objects, his paper was exchanged 
 for another of a different size. He directly discovered 
 it, while a paper of the same size laid in the place of his 
 own, did not in the least disturb him. This case is re- 
 lated in the French Encyclopedia. From another re- 
 markable case it appears, that somnambulism is not con- 
 fined to the night, but may take place during the light of 
 day. A girl of fourteen years of age was seized by som- ^ 
 
 nambulism while attending divine service. She rose 
 and went home with her eyes closed ; afterwards she 
 was found half undressed, sitting on her bed. All at- 
 tempts to awaken her, were in vain ; after some time 
 she went to a table, took a hymn book, sought and found 
 the hymn which had been sung in the church, and with 
 closed eyes she continued to sing where she had stop- 
 ped when at the service. The same girl was sent by ■ 
 
 % -^^.3 
 
 m*. 
 
 *?:# 
 
 "B:^ 
 
132 ' ANTHROPOLOGY. , , 
 
 . vJ? a minister, in whose service she was, to a Doctor Muel- 
 ' -^ "' ler, who Hved at a distance of about three miles. She 
 went while under the influence of sonnambulism. The 
 Doctor, aware of her disease, ordered something for her 
 and sent her to his apothecary. There she waited for 
 the medicine. Having received it, she went homeward 
 ' while still asleep. Doctor Mueller followed her for more 
 than a mile and a half, to observe her. She noticed 
 every impediment in the path, and carefully avoided 
 wagons and persons. When she awoke and noticed the 
 Doctor, she was frightened, and knew not how she had 
 4 come there. See Cams Junior, in his Psychology, and 
 Nasse's Archives. This last mentioned case proves that 
 it is not the influence of the moon which gives somnam- 
 bulists so much safety in climbing roofs of houses, and 
 passing through dangerous places. The feeling of per- 
 fect safety, to anticipate this remark, is derived from 
 their ignorance of the danger in which they are. A 
 foot requires but a little small spot to stand on with per- 
 fect safety ; whether this spot be given on the roof of a 
 house or on the solid ground, is a matter of little conse- 
 quence to somnambulists, who do not judge while they 
 are asleep. As soon as they perceive the danger, when 
 suddenly awakened, they fall down or injure them- 
 selves. 
 
 The above examples might be sufficient, were we 
 not anxious to exhibit the strength of sympathy and an- 
 tipathy in the state of somnambulism, and the great ex- 
 citability of the nervous system. And here we shall al- 
 lude to a woman of Prevorst in Wurtemberg, whose 
 case has lately caused much sensation in Germany. 
 Minerals when touched by somnambulists, will fre- 
 quently produce the most astonishing eflfects in differ- 
 ent parts of the body. It is remarkable, that these ef- 
 fects not only differ widely from each other according 
 to the different minerals, but also according to the dif^ 
 ferent parts of the body, with which they are brought in 
 connection. They will produce convulsions, cramps, 
 lameness, they will exhilarate or make desponding. 
 With the woman of Prevorst, salt putinto her hands im- 
 mediately caused salivation, copper, colic and nausea. 
 
it 
 
 » 
 
 *•■ 
 
 A : f ■ 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 133 
 
 Without taking it into her mouth, she felt the acid taste 
 of spar. Crystal laid upon her, awoke her when 
 asleep, but when placed upon her heart, it made the 
 whole body stiff. Other metals made her laugh, and 
 others again cry. It is certainly worthy of our notice 
 and may aid us in some considerations hereafter, that 
 she seemed to feel the nature of these metals, as if she 
 could enter into them by feeling, as we enter into the 
 views and feelings of persons, Very hard metals uni- 
 versally caused her muscles to grow stiff and hard; 
 soft spar produced the contrary effect. 
 
 Somnambulists, as has been seen, speak, act and walk, 
 while the four senses of the head are asleep. How then 
 IS it possible, that they can walk or write or act 7 How 
 is it possible, that a somnambulist, with closed eyes can 
 run faster through a large, dark cellar, than other per- 
 sons, with a light in their hands, can follow her ? The 
 following theory, accepted by many, is offered to the 
 consideration of the reader : 
 
 Here we must remember, what has been said on the 
 nature of sleep and dreaming in general, that the life of 
 the soul is merged in that of the body, and rests princi- 
 pally in the ganglion nervous system. This now is so 
 much excited in jts activity, that to some degree it may be 
 substituted for the upper senses. The sense of feeling 
 as spread over the whole skin, is the. source of the four 
 senses of the head, as may easily be seen from compar- 
 ative anatomy. With the crab for instance, the ear is 
 nothing else than a skin, softer than the rest, below 
 which lies a bag filled with moisture and nerves. The 
 eye of flies consists only of a thin skin, to which runs 
 a filament of a nerve. Oken, in his Natural History 
 says : '• at the sides of the head are two eyes, composed 
 of many single ones, which have a great many surfaces 
 — the eyes of the butterfly have seventeen thousand. 
 These eyes are only the arched and thin skin, to which 
 extend nerves, that lead out single filaments to each 
 surface." With snails no organ of sight can be ob- 
 served, and yet according to Oken they distinguish, like 
 some maggots, between darkness and light. Flies have 
 undoubtedly a good scent, and yet they have no nose. 
 
134 ' ' *•' 
 
 4f4 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 Some have therefore thought that they smell with 
 their windpipes, others with a soft place behind their 
 lips, and others with their feelers. These remarks fully 
 establish the truth, that our common way of perceiving . 
 M things is not the only one, and therefore what is not 
 analogous to it, deserves not to be rejected for that rea- 
 son merely. In somnambulism, feeling, as spread over 
 the whole body, is heightened and changed into a ca- 
 pacity oi perceiving-. The mere feehng of any thing 
 within or without becomes a sensation or perception ; 
 ^._ hence somnambulists see their own viscera, and espe- 
 ^•' cially those which are much excited during the state of 
 somnambulism. The power of perceiving thus pro- 
 duced will be strongest, wherever many nerves are 
 concentrated, as on the cavity of the heart and other 
 parts of the body. The nature of this sensation, is 
 however indistinct and confused, since it is only by the 
 division of the sensitive power into five distinct senses, 
 that we can obtain clear and transparent ideas of things 
 around us. Salt, for example, is white to the eye, sharp 
 to the taste, and angular to the touch ; we observe 
 these different qualities, by bringing one after the other in 
 contact with our different senses. When all the senses 
 are merged in one, that is, when the divided activity of 
 sensation, is reduced and without order to one simple ac- 
 tivity, the impressions received from objects can be no- 
 thing else than dark and confused. It would therefore be 
 wrong to say of somnambulists, that they see and hear, 
 taste and smell, but like snails they have only a dim 
 impression of light and darkness, and like animals, that 
 have no regularly formed ears, they have but a dull, 
 dreamlike sensation of sound. With this view of the 
 sensual life of the somnambulists, it may safely be said 
 that the general sense, which develops itself from feel- 
 ing, takes the place of the others, as does feeling in 
 some degree that of sight with the blind. The blind, 
 though by mere feeling he may distinguish between 
 black and red, can get no idea of color by it. So 
 the somnambulist can get no clear idea of objects, but 
 only perceives their presence and general difference. 
 When Spallanzani cut out the eyes of bats and then 
 
 ^fif- 
 
anthropology;^^ ; 13$ r 
 
 set them free, he observed with astonishment, thnt they 
 avoided every obstacle in their way. How could they 
 " do this ? Certainly only by the development of a gen- 
 ' eral sense. 
 " We ought not to object to such a general sense, be- ^% 
 cause we cannot conceive of its nature and activity ; — 
 though both may be understood from the general na- 
 ture of sleep. Such an objection would be in no wise 
 better, than if the bhnd should object to a sense like 
 that of sight, merely because all our explanations will 
 not give him an adequate idea of it, he having nothing 
 analogous to it in his experience. 
 
 The strength of sympathy and antipathy may now 
 be easily explained. When we have the full use of 
 all our senses, we can govern the impressions made 
 upon us, at least to a certain extent. We may exclude 
 the light from the eye, the noise from the ear. But 
 when the life of the soul is sunk into that of the body, 
 and has resigned its dominion for a time, when the dis- 
 tinctness of sensation is gone, and when instead of 
 many senses, but a general sense is active, then we are 
 more receptive, more passive, more under the dominion 
 of an impression, and as it affects us pleasantly, we 
 either sympathize with the object from which it comes, 
 or feel an antipathy to it. The nature of feelinsf always 
 expresses itself directly, without reflection. The fact, 
 that somnambulists frequently prescribe correct medi- 
 cines for themselves rests on the feeling of disease, 
 which makes them seek for relief, and though man is 
 not under the dominion of instinct in somnambulism, 
 something analogous to it makes its appearance. Their 
 sympathy with vegetables known to them, will guide 
 Ihem. The dog when sick finds an herb to cure him. 
 The disease in him impels, by a feeling of want and 
 pain, to seek for something and finding the herb, he 
 will be made certain by the impression he receives from 
 it through scent, that it will afford what his diseased 
 system demands. As the magnet attracts the iron, as 
 the negative pole attracts the positive, so a relation be- 
 tween the disease and the natural remedy will force the 
 dos: to seize the latter. 
 
r . : ■ ■ '■*■ 
 
 136 . ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 With regard to perceptions of distant objects and to 
 presentiments, we refer back to these subjects as above. 
 With a few modifications all will pertain to the present, 
 case. We only add an extract from Goldsmith's histo- 
 ry, which may give us a case analogous to the percep- 
 tion of distant objects in animals. Speaking of the 
 pigeon, which is called the carrier pigeon, he says : 
 "the letter is tied under the bird's wing, and it is 
 then let loose to return. It is seen on such occasions, 
 flying directly into the clouds to amazing height, and 
 then with the greatest certainty and exactness directing 
 itself by some surprising instinct towards home, which 
 lies sometimes at many miles distance, bringing its mes- 
 sage to those to whom it is directed. By what marks it 
 discovers the place, by what chart it is guided in the 
 right way, is to us utterly unknown." The carrier 
 pigeon cannot possibly see the place whither it is to go, 
 and yet it is certain of it, though we cannot compre- 
 hend how it became so, because the sense by which it 
 is made certain of it is wanting to us. So it is as to 
 somnambulists. 
 
 THE HEALTH AND THE DISEASES OF MIND. 
 
 Our body as has been already remarked is not a ma- 
 chine, but an organism. A machine is externally com- 
 posed ; its parts are joined in each other by a power 
 not resting in it ; the idea of the mind producing it, is 
 not contained in it but in the mechanic, and precedes it 
 as all its parts exist, before it is finished as a whole. 
 This external composition, in which one part is con- 
 nected with the other, not by its internal nature or by 
 one life pervading all the parts, but by mechanical co- 
 hesion renders it possible, that when one part of the 
 machine gets out of order, it may be mended or another 
 be substituted for it. With the body this is different. 
 Its members are not merely parts, but organs ^ for they 
 are alive and their life is that of the body, as the life of 
 the body exists only in them. All the organs together 
 constitute the organism ; the former do not precede the 
 latter, but all grow forth from one point that contains 
 
#• 
 
 . f 
 
 IT 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 137 
 
 them according as possible. In such an organism each 
 organ has a peculiar position and importance or de- 
 sign ; both position and design are given it by the gen- 
 eral life of the organism, so that the root as of the plant 
 cannot be where the stem is, nor the stem where the 
 flower, and so that the stem has a design diiferent from 
 that of the root. But it is one life that unfolds itself in 
 the root, stem, and flower which connects them, and 
 which is the same in every one of them. This life 
 they have to manifest, and while each organ is active 
 for itself, it is so only in reference to the whole, from 
 which it derives existence and activity. Thus it is with 
 our body. Each nerve is connected with all the nerves. 
 The body may be said to be well^ only when all its or- 
 gans are harmoniously active. By the term harmo- 
 niously we understand that there are different or- 
 gans, but that they all of them are united and serve one 
 common end. In health, therefore, no organ obtains an 
 ascendancy over all the others, or isolates its activity, or 
 absorbs that of the rest ; when however any organ does 
 become active without reference to the whole — ^^by what 
 cause is here entirely indifierent — then the body is dis- 
 eased, the organism is deranged. 
 
 This definition of bodily disease will render that of 
 mental derangement easily understood. The mind is 
 pure activity, and as such a perfect union. But this 
 activity takes difierent directions and unfolds itself in 
 diflerent methods, and thus it may be said to be the 
 union of manifold activities, all of which are internally 
 united, each being what the other is, and all serving the 
 same whole, yet each in a specific manner. When these 
 activities harmonize, that is when each in its place ful- 
 fills its design, and no one interferes with the other, so 
 that while many and difierent, they still are one and 
 united in their tendency to serve the whole to which 
 they are subordinate, the life of the mind may be said 
 to be healthy. Or in other words the activities of the 
 mind are many, but when they are co-ordinate to each 
 other and subordinate to the mind as their whole, so 
 that all are equally penetrated and governed by the 
 whole mind, then the latter is well. But when this co- 
 
 18 
 
% 
 
 138 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 ordination is interrupted, when one of the mental activi- 
 ties succeeds in gaining the exchisive interest of the 
 mind, and thus by an increased strength absorbs all the 
 others or suppresses them, then the mind is out of order. 
 There is none of the activities wanting, but the order 
 in which each ought to be active in its sphere without 
 interfering with the other, and in which all should aid 
 and support each other is deranged. When, for in- 
 stance, the imagination is active without or independent 
 of judgment, it will produce phantoms and fantastical 
 notions. With the poet, imagination is likewise prin- 
 cipally active, but it is at the same time aided by the 
 fancy, by the memory, and by the judgment. The lat- 
 ter pervades it, for a poet must know what beauty is, and 
 to know this he must judge much and constantly, com- 
 -pare his productions with the laws of beauty known to 
 him. 
 
 Division of the diseases of the mind. Some have 
 thought proper, to divide them according to the three 
 principal activities that may be diseased, and thus have 
 considered melancholy as a disease of feeling, insanity 
 ;p as a disease of the understanding, and m,a7iia as a dis- 
 
 ease of the will. Yet the activities of mind so relate to 
 each other, that the disease of one will affect all the 
 others. The maniac is not only diseased in his will, 
 but also in his imagination and judgment, for how can 
 any one will any thing without a knowledge of it ? 
 And how can he know it without judgment ? Another 
 principle of division has therefore been proposed, one 
 derived from the relation of the mentally diseased to the 
 objective world around him. This principle must be 
 correct, if it is right to say that derangement in gen- 
 eral is that state of mind, in which our mental activities 
 being out of order, we live only in our own ideas and 
 notions, in the fictions of our brain, and substitute them 
 for the realities and relations of real life ; in which con- 
 sequently the mind by supposing its fictions to be true, 
 comes into contradiction with the world. The position 
 which the derangement of mind assumes, may be a 
 threefold one : 
 
 I, Melancholy. Here the deranged on the one hand 
 
 -# 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 139 
 
 is fully convinced, that his notions and wishes ought to 
 be realized, but on the other he darkly feels the impossi- 
 bility of effecting this realization. He therefore makes 
 no effort to render possible the impossible ; yet he can- 
 not resign the ideal, which he bears in his bosom ; he 
 loves his fictions or the objects of his wishes so much 
 that he cannot part with them. Thus he consumes 
 his existence in a monotonous grief; he cannot take 
 interest in any thing, except the object of his sadness. 
 A young girl of cultivated mind was known to stand 
 the whole day mute and immovable, with her head 
 bent down. After long and repeated attempts nothing 
 was drawn from her except a nod or a shake of the 
 head. When she was asked if any person had injured 
 her, she shook her head. When asked if she had in- 
 jured others, she nodded. But how? no one could 
 learn from her. One Monday the unfortunate girl at 
 length determined to repeat the Lord's prayer. When 
 she came to the petition ; "Lead us not into temptation, 
 but deliver us from evil," she raised her voice with the 
 strongest emphasis, and some time afterwards she cried 
 out most piteously : " Alas 1 the sin against the Holy 
 Ghost." Here the idea, that she had committed the sin 
 against the Holy Ghost, was viewed by the girl as real, 
 and at the same time, she desired that it might not be, 
 but feeling the impossibility of undoing what she suppo- 
 sed she had done, it threw her into the state in which 
 we find her. 
 
 2. Insanity. In this state the deranged has lost every 
 idea of the world as it is and of its relation to him. he 
 feels convinced that all his imaginations are real, and exist 
 in full truth. He is therefore satisfied and cheerful, and 
 very ingeniously assimilates the whole world around 
 him to that of his dreams. He is no longer sensible of 
 any contradiction of his phantoms to the world. If 
 he fancies himself a king, he will act as a king with 
 the most logical consequence. So the Jesuit, Father 
 Sgambari imagined, that he had been created a Cardinal. 
 To convince him, that this flattering fancy was an error. 
 Father Provinzial, in the hope of curing him, made a 
 friendly representation to him. He answered in this 
 
'^ 
 
 140 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 dilemma : " You either consider me insane or not. In 
 the latter case you do me great injustice, in speak- 
 ing to me in such a manner. In the former I consider 
 you with your permission, a greater lunatic than my- 
 self, because you think you can by mere persuasion 
 bring me to my senses." Aside from this fancy, his un- 
 derstanding was sound, and disposed to scientific in- 
 vestigations. Whenever students addressed him with 
 "Your Eminence," he was social and communicative. 
 As the body is often partially diseased, but otherwise 
 well, so may the mind be partially deranged. Some- 
 times persons have become estranged to themselves, 
 A soldier looked on his body as a miserable ma- 
 chine, made to replace his former real body, that had 
 been destroyed by a cannon ball. Or persons, whose 
 judgment is diseased, and whose imagination is active 
 without restraint, produce all kinds of images, when 
 they feel pain, and consider them as the cause of the 
 pain. Animals bite them or sting them. Tissot relates 
 the case, of a man, that became deranged from constant 
 study. He was convinced, that seven horsemen were 
 constantly fighting in his stomach. 
 
 3. Mania. This state of derangement unites in some 
 degree the two former. The melancholy Uian con- 
 scious of the impossibility of realizing his wishes, dwells 
 with his whole mind constantly on the object of his ex- 
 clusive interest, and compares it with the reality of the 
 world, and discovering the permanent contradiction, he 
 has an ever-teeming source of sadness in the results of 
 this comparison. The insane, on the other hand is deter- 
 mined no longer to acknowledge the world around him, 
 as it is, but to re-model it so as to bring it in harmony 
 with that of his imagination. The maniac like the 
 melancholy man feels, that what he takes to be real, is 
 not so, but that the opposite of it, is ; at the same time 
 he has the tendency of the insane, to realize his fictions, 
 for he considers them to be true and correct. This re- ' 
 alization cannot be easily efiected as with the insane, 
 for the maniac feels the contradiction of his fictions 
 with the world ; he therefore, finding the world in his 
 way, turns against it with the hope that by its destruc- 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 141 
 
 tion he may realize the purposes of his diseased will. 
 He rages because he cannot affect what he designs, nor 
 can he resign his will. He is like the passionate man, 
 that kills in his fury, whoever opposes him. His whole 
 mind will have fixed themselves in one idea, and cannot 
 retire from it, because they have given it dominion 
 over themselves. Hence the immense muscular power 
 in the fits of mania. 
 
 All the diseases of the mind have their longer or 
 shorter intermissions. This shows, that the reason ex- 
 ists, and is only deranged. Many insane persons are so 
 merely with regard to a single subject, but on every 
 other, they are perfectly sane. Others are insane only 
 during a certain period of the year. A celebrated phy- 
 sician of Venice imagined during the dog days, that he 
 was an earthen jar, and locked himself up for a whole 
 month. After the four weeks were past, he came down 
 again, and went as usual to his employment. Every 
 kind of derangement according to the statements of many 
 physicians, abates in old age, and the deranged state of 
 mind is therefore one, that will pass away sooner or 
 later. 
 
 The above division of mental diseases is of course sus- 
 ceptible of many subdivisions. Insanity, for instance, in- 
 cludes imbeciliti/ of mind ^ weakness of the understanding 
 and will in which man cannot take care of himself ; inca- 
 pacity of connecting ideas or of seizing a thought and 
 fixing the mind on a single idea ; idiocy when a person 
 is active, without having any particular object in view ; 
 lunacy, when the insane considers himself perfectly ra- 
 tional. Melancholy comprises hypochondria, which 
 tortures man by making him constantly brood over fu- 
 ture or present, real or imaginary evils. Mania applies 
 to those, that find pleasure in abusing others, in ridicu- 
 ling them, or who desire to destroy others, and cunningly 
 watch for a proper opportunity. Our division will be 
 found to comprize all the possible relations, which the 
 subjective mind may in its state of derangement assume 
 to the objective world around. At the same time it 
 agrees with the division founded by others on the prin- 
 cipal activities of mind, for melancholy seems to rest on 
 
li? ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 deep feeling and emotions ; insanity on the thinking 
 activity in man, and mania on the will. 
 
 One question is left which seems to be of great im- 
 portance. How is it possible that the mind, a pure- 
 ly intellectual activity of divine origin, can become 
 diseased ? It would seem to have the power to keep 
 itself free from every thing that might entangle it. But 
 here we must remark in the first place, that the soul is 
 already diseased in its state of nature ; for turned away 
 from its proper objects, truth and holiness, and the love 
 of God, it is sunk in sinfulness and vice, and instead 
 of deriving its food and nourishment from a study of 
 the good and noble, it seeks for it in the sensual and 
 transitory. But that which nourishes a power com- 
 municates also its nature to it, as may be observed in 
 every thing living, in every plant, which in absorbing 
 the light, becomes colored, and in receiving the air, re- 
 ceives fragance. As little as the magnet could be said 
 to be in its vigor, if instead of pointing towards the north, 
 it should suffer itself to be attracted in other directions, so 
 little is the mind healthy, when it once has lost its only 
 proper direction, but it must be said to be in error and, 
 in a dangerous deviation from the right path. To ex- 
 press these remarks moro fully, we will consider for a 
 moment the nature of will. The will^ one of the ac- 
 tivities of mind, is healthy, when by its own power it 
 frejly directs itself in accordance with the divine will, 
 so that it agrees with it both externally, as to the action, 
 and internally as to the disposition. When on the other 
 hand it does not so, but directs itself either by desires 
 or passions, then it is not free, but under the dominion of 
 something different from itself, which is the ground of 
 its determination. The divine law is the divine will. It 
 is the only source of freedom, and it alone is free ; the 
 human will directing itself by it or by the divine law, 
 returns to the source, from which it came, becomes filled 
 with its nature, and consequently free. To enter on 
 this subject fully here, would lead to discussions, that 
 would take up too much room. One idea it may how- 
 ever be useful to mention here, an idea, according to 
 which it is supposed, that our will is free, when it can 
 
4 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. r43 
 
 choose between the evil and the good. This idea is 
 \yholly erroneous, and instead of calling such a will 
 free, it would be better to call it arbitrary. For if free- 
 dom, like every thing else in creation, has its own na- 
 ture, and if without it, nothing can be said to be free, 
 then freedom includes the necessity of acting in accord- 
 ance with its own nature, or else it destroys itself. This 
 nature is contained and expressed in the divine law, 
 which as the divine will cannot be influenced by any 
 thing except itself, because whatever is, is created by it, 
 and dependent upon it. The human will can be free 
 therefore only, when it receives the divine will as its 
 soul. But if a will should rather choose evil and sin, 
 it would miss what it seeks for, liberty, and become the 
 slave of sin ; for sin is so wholly opposed to purity of 
 will, that it destroys its freedom. As long therefore as 
 a will is capable of choosing between the good and evil, 
 between heaven and hell, between the source of its life 
 and that of its death, so long this will is not free. It 
 would no doubt at once be considered erroneous, if any 
 one should assert that fire, in order to be fire, might 
 choose between burning and not burning, or that water 
 might be water, whether it would moisten or not ; or 
 that light might be light, though it should be able to 
 choose between itself and darkness. Every one will 
 admit, that in the moment light chose to turn into dark- 
 ness, it would lose itself and cease to be the free light. 
 So it is with liberty. It must, in order to remain what 
 it is, always preserve its own nature, and this nature is, 
 to determine itself freely by its own activity, and not 
 by any thing different from itself Liberty is therefore 
 a free activity that is not arbitrary, but includes neces- 
 sity. But the human will in its state of nature is averse 
 to necessity and instead of perceiving in it the protector 
 of its liberty, it views it as its enemy. It has there- 
 fore lost its liberty, and may in this respect, be compared 
 to a planet, that has no light in itwself, but must receive 
 it from the sun, around which it revolves. If the planet 
 remains in its path, and preserves its relation to the sun, 
 it has light, and whatever grows on it is filled with 
 light, and grows and blooms in the most beautiful colors. 
 
144 , anthropology; 
 
 But if the planet at any time should choose between its 
 regular course and another, and really pursue one lead- 
 ing off from the sun, darkness and death would reign 
 on it and destroy all life. The sun of the will is that of 
 righteousness or tlie divine will ; it alone can make us 
 free. Rejecting it, we reject the only source of freedom 
 and become mentally diseased. The eye of man has a 
 latent light in itself, but this light is darkness, and will 
 remain such unless it be excited by the light of the sun. 
 Suppose the sight to be the freedom of the eye, the eye 
 can be said to be free only when turning towards the light, 
 but not when diving into darkness. So the will is free 
 anly, when living in its proper elements, in the good and 
 true, in the beautiful and divine, and when it does not 
 suffer any attraction or power to separate it from the di- 
 vine law. 
 
 From these remarks it will sufficiently appear, that 
 the will in its state of nature is diseased. It is not di- 
 rected towards its proper object ; nor does it receive its 
 proper nourishment ; nor is it pure but much more de- 
 termined by sensual appetite and desires, by inclinations 
 and passions. Every passion is a transient derange- 
 ment, and the only difference between it and a real de- 
 rangement is this. The man in passion may be so 
 overpowered, that he, as for instance in anger, can no lon- 
 ger control himself ; yet he enters into this passion ar- 
 bitrarily, and might if he chose avoid it. The maniac, 
 on the other hand, comes under the influence of his pas- 
 sions, independent of his will. Some maniacs frequent- 
 ly foresee their fits, and beg that they may be chained 
 lest they should hurt some person. With this view his- 
 tory agrees. For a spirit of revenge and wrath infuriat- 
 ed those heroes, whose insanity is mentioned among 
 the first that have become known historically for their 
 derangement, Hercules and Ajax. Some have there- 
 fore thought that a mental derangement was merely 
 psychological, and always caused by sinfulness. This 
 idea, no doubt is correct, if it means to assert, that the 
 body itself became subject to diseases only by the fall 
 of man. Certain it is, however, that by the close con- 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 145 
 
 nection of the body with the soul, the former has fre- 
 quently been the cause of the diseases of the latter. 
 
 Passion, as haughtiness, revenge, wrath ; deep emo- 
 tions, as terror and fright ; inclinations, as unfortunate 
 love, may become the causes of derangement, and the 
 works of Shakspeare exhibit the most interesting ex- 
 amples of this kind. If the will of man were pure, 
 these powers of sin could not affect it. If man had faith 
 in God and loved him supremely, if he confided in his 
 providence, then he would not become the prey of every 
 passion, nor would loss and misfortune harm him. But 
 placing his sinful affections wholly on "earthly things, 
 he must despair when they are taken from him, or when 
 he cannot attain to the objects of his highest wishes. 
 He lives in the sphere of delusion ; how easy then must 
 it be for the demons of pride and wounded ambition, of 
 unsatisfied vanity and sore jealousy to derange a mind 
 that has no hold in any thing which is permanent and 
 solid. If that on which we stand constantly turns around 
 with us, we must become giddy. Again, the constant 
 use of one and the same mental activity may so awaken 
 all others, that a derangement will be the consequence. 
 This is the case with such as have become insane from 
 the study of mystical books. Or the whole mind of a 
 person is so constantly devoted to one single object, it be- 
 comes absorbed by it and so fixed upon it, that it cannot 
 keep off its image. So Orestes constantly saw the 
 blood gushing from the wound inflicted on his mother 
 by his own hand. So when Spinello had painted Satan 
 in the most hideous colors, his imagination was filled 
 with the picture, until at length he saw Satan con- 
 stantly at his side, reproaching him for having painted 
 him so ugly. And what else than the silent beginning 
 of derangement was it, when a painter, who had killed 
 a person, afterwards drew a picture that was beautiful 
 in every respect, but over which such a gloom was 
 spread, that no person could look upon it without feel- 
 ing an awe for which nothing could account, except 
 the diseased imagination of the painter. 
 
 As derangement is caused by the activity of the mind 
 itself, so again the activity of the body may operate on 
 
 19 
 
146 ANTHROPOteGY. 
 
 it and derange it. And here any thing that destroys 
 the health of the body, will more or less affect the mind. 
 Intoxication is in itself a transient derangement, for it 
 causes such an excitement of the nerves, that they with 
 their whole activity especially that which principally de- 
 pends upon them, as the imagination, withdraw them- 
 selves more or less, from the dominion of the mind and 
 act independent of control until exhaustion and sleep fol- 
 lows. A drunken person walked at night through a street, 
 beautifully illuminated by the moon ; and thinking it was 
 a river, undressed himself to bathe and could only be con- 
 vinced of his mistake by the hardness of the stones. 
 Another in falling down a flight of stairs, rose calmly 
 and asked a friend that happened to be with him with 
 much concern, " whether he had hurt himself in falling 
 down so many steps T He could not be persuaded that 
 it was himself that had met with the accident, but in- 
 sisted on his friend's having fallen. The delirium tre- 
 mens, or mania potu are too well known to be mentioned 
 here. In America and Europe more than one third of 
 all the deranged persons become so from the use of li- 
 quors ; in China, on the other hand, from that of opium. 
 Poisonous food may likewise cause delirium. Two 
 monks ate water hemlock. Both immediately felt much 
 thirst ; both plunged into water, the one thinking that 
 he was a goose, and the other that he was a duck, and 
 both declaring that they could live no where else except 
 in the water. Tissot knew a child four years old that 
 raved several times a day. He ascribed it to the food 
 which it had received from its nurse. Want of sleep 
 may derange the activity of the mind as well as too long 
 a deprivation of food. Ugolino ate in his delirium his 
 own child. The idiocy of children is frequently the 
 consequence of the sinful life of parents. 
 
 It may be easily understood, how bodily sickness may 
 produce mental derangement. Our ideas, our whole 
 thinking depends in some degree on our nervous sys- 
 tem. Where nerves are, there is feeling; and where 
 feeling is, there is either instinct or in its place con- 
 sciousness. Man becomes conscious of every feeling 
 produced by impressions on the nerves, and when the 
 
 #: 
 
ANTHROPOLOGV. 147 
 
 nerves are diseased, the feelings must be so; and if they 
 are unsound, the ideas called forth by them must become 
 unfavorably affected. With every feeling is connected 
 pleasure or pain, and with the latter a tendency either 
 to indulge the pleasant, or to remove the unpleasant 
 feeling by action and activity. Want is a state of neces- 
 sity, in which some organ of our body finds itself; 
 when this state of the organ enters the nervous system 
 attached to it, it is felt ; of this feeling we become con- 
 scious, and produce in accordance with it certain no- 
 tions and ideas. While we therefore must agree with 
 those physicians, that derive many mental diseases from 
 organic derangements, we must at the same time deprecate 
 the idea that the body is the sole source of mental sick- 
 ness. We would rather repeat it as our conviction, that 
 the mind, if it were directed to its proper object, to God 
 and a Savior, could rule over its body as well as over 
 its passions, for it would then possess purity and a pow- 
 er over all things which are merely earthly. If it would 
 keep itself aloof from them and be ready to lay down 
 the life for Christ's sake, it could not be absorbed by the 
 care for health or bodily defects. Some may perhaps 
 feel inclined to reply, that mental derangement arises 
 frequently from too deep a religious solicitude. This 
 may be true, and yet it will not affect our theory. Good 
 wine will become spoiled in an impure vessel. When 
 a man will not surrender his life, and yet longs for the 
 privileges of religion, when he will not give up his sin 
 and yet cannot resio^n the possession of divine favor, and 
 when he then feels the contradiction between his state 
 of sinfulness and that of desired sanctification, — he may 
 easily become deranged, not through religion, but by 
 his relation to it. 
 
148 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE POWER OF THE MIND OVER THE BODY. 
 
 -:; We have seen that the mind depends greatly on ex- 
 ternal influences and on the body of man, and yet it ex- 
 ercises by its energy a control and dominion over the 
 elements around it and also over the body. It affects 
 the form, the health and vigor of the latter, and leaves 
 on it an impression of its strength of character and dis- 
 position. To direct the attention to this power of the 
 mind over the body is the object of the present chapter. 
 1. The mind has an influence on the form of the 
 body. This assertion may be easily established, for it 
 is too well known how a fright of the mother during 
 pregnancy, or the sight of any disagreeable or deformed 
 person affects the form of the embryo. The deformity 
 of many children, the deficiency of some members, the 
 weakness even of some senses, as for instance of the 
 eye, in Albinos must be traced to the influence of which 
 we speak. Howshipp, an English physician, relates a 
 remarkable case of this kind. A woman in the state oi 
 pregnancy was frightened ki crossing a frozen river ; the 
 ice burst and cracked, she was terrified, and when de- 
 livered of a child, its skin was rent and gaped considera- 
 bly in many places, but had begun to heal up. The 
 Lacedemonians were familiar with this powerful influ- 
 ence, for they placed the beautiful statues of Apollo, 
 Hyacinth, and Narcissus in the rooms of their wives 
 when pregnant. The sight of an epileptic has frequent- 
 ly transferred the disease to the embryo. The mind of 
 the mother has its influence not only on the body, but 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 149 
 
 i 
 
 also on the disposition of the child, as we have seen in 
 another place. The Jesuits, well versed in the subject of 
 education, showed therefore much sound wisdom in al- 
 ways ascertaining the character of the mother when 
 they received a new pupil. The reason of this influ- 
 ence is obvious. The life of the mother and that of the 
 embryo-child is one. One blood circulates in both, the 
 same nourishment sustains both, and the feelings of the 
 mother are, at least in some degree, also those of the 
 embryo. The body of the child being in a state of de- 
 velopment, is of course more subject to the reception of 
 so powerful impressions, and of the changes produced 
 by them, than that of the mother which is already form- 
 ed. And yet we may see similar effects of the power of 
 the mind on the body of adult persons. Vice and crimes 
 seem to have been the causes of great deformities of the 
 #. heart. Testa found the heart of a great criminal hard, 
 ; / hairy, and skinny; and Riolan found that of a very vi- 
 »• cious man gristly. The same observation has often 
 been repeated. 
 
 2. The mind exercises a power over the health of the 
 body. It would be superfluous, to repeat here, that cer- 
 tain diseases of the body are accompanied by weaken- 
 ing emotions of the mind, as anxiety, despondency, mel- 
 ancholy, fear, a tendency to commit suicide, (fee. Such 
 diseases are those of the liver, obdurations of the intes- 
 tines. And yet other diseases have a cheering eflfect 
 on the mind, as for instance consumption, diseases of 
 the lungs, <fec. So the mind in its turn exercises the 
 most powerful influence upon the health of the body. 
 Fear relaxes the muscles and strips the whole system 
 of energy, and exposes it to the attacks of a fatal mias- 
 ma ; on the other hand, a strong will and courage keep 
 otf the enemy. We will here allude to a few instances. 
 When in the orphan house of Harlem, a boy was seized 
 with epilepsy, all those in whose sight this occurred, 
 were so terrified that the disease very soon spread 
 through the whole asylum. The celebrated Boerhave 
 knowing the cause of their disease, after having used all 
 other means in vain, had instruments brought, such as 
 pincers, hooks, hammers, <fec., had them placed in.the fire, 
 

 150 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 and then threatened that the first child that became epi- 
 leptic should be pinched and tortured with these hot in- 
 struments. The children fearing this, were all of them 
 delivered from this dreadful evil. This statement 
 ao^rees with another recorded in Schubert's History of 
 the Soul. In the year 1800 the fever raged awfully in 
 the city of Cadiz. Two hundred dead persons were 
 daily carried out of the city, and all the streets were 
 filled with the smell of death. All ties of friendship and 
 sympathy seemed torn asunder, when all at once the 
 powerful fleet of the English appeared before the city. 
 The citizens forgot the pestilence, and instead of des- 
 pairing and committing suicide, they collected and 
 fought for their liberty. From that moment the fever 
 disappeared. A student of Boerhave always felt the 
 symptoms of every disease, on which this great physi- 
 cian lectured. Tissot relates two cases, in which one 
 was freed by violent anger from the gout, and ano- 
 ther who had been mute for four years received his 
 speech again. So a son of Croesus, was mute from his 
 youth, when he saw a soldier threatening to kill his 
 father, was enabled by the powerful emotion of anger, 
 with a loud voice to speak the words, " Do not kill Croe- 
 sus !" The celebrated Stahl became acquainted with a 
 similar fact during hi^ practice. Lameness has frequent- 
 ly been healed by fright, caused by fire or other dangers. 
 Hydrophobia is said to have sometimes originated in 
 groundless fear. The power which the mind frequent- 
 ly exercises during times of revivals, is known from the 
 history of one which took place a few years ago in the 
 west of our country. Persons walking to church were 
 seized on their way by strange feelings and fell down. 
 Similar phenomena were perceived at Redruth, in the 
 church of the Methodists ; the upper members of the 
 body trembled and were convulsed, and the muscles of 
 the face were distorted. See Schubert's History of the 
 Soul, p. 834 — 852. These examples will sufficiently 
 show the power of the mind over the body. The question 
 yet left is, How is it possible that the mind can exercise 
 such a power on the body ? To understand this possi- 
 bility we must consider, that all the emotions of the 
 
If 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGY. 151 
 
 mind have each its peculiar nerve on which they act. 
 This nerve, becoming thus affected, will in its turn af- 
 fect all those immediately connected with it. If the 
 emotion is invigoratino^, as that of courage, hilarity, (fee, 
 the life of the nervous system will be elevated and 
 strengthened; if the emotion is of a weakening charac- 
 ter, as fear, sadness, (fee, the nervous system will become 
 depressed. The nerves pass over the whole body, 
 and every organ is surrounded by them ; hence it is, 
 that as they are affected, so the pulsation of the heart, 
 the circulation of the blood, breathing, digestion, and 
 even the voice will be either impeded or promoted by 
 emotions. 
 
 An example or two will serve to make this more clear. 
 When we are under the influence of the emotion of Joy, 
 we feel our pulse beat higher, our cheeks redden, breath- 
 ing becomes easy, and the muscles elastic. A fresh and 
 vigorous life is spread through all the nerves; the eye 
 sparkles, and digestion is accelerated. And all these 
 changes in our system proceed from the nerve, upon 
 which joy principally acts. Joy is the pleasant feeling 
 that connects itself with the realization of a hoped-for 
 good or pleasure. This feeling has not therefore a 
 physical origin, but its ground is the idea of good, which 
 we ctUticipate. When this anticipated good presents it- 
 self to us, the feeling of pleasure excites first our cere- 
 bral system, and thence it sends its rays of life into all 
 parts of the body. 
 
 So again anger has the most powerful effect on 
 the body, healing diseases, as we have seen, by rousing 
 violently the slumbering life, or more frequently produ- 
 cing diseases. Anger is an emotion, in which a strong 
 feeling of displeasure arouses the desire and an expect- 
 ation of destroying the cause of this displeasure, or of 
 causing a similar unpleasant feeling in him who is the of- 
 fender. This is at once perceptible in the external ap- 
 pearance. For all the muscles, subject to the will, are 
 in motion. The eye rolls about ; the face is distorted ; 
 the teeth are grated ; the voice roars or trembles ; the 
 fist is clenched. Our organism forms a whole, and 
 every local excitement, if strong enough, will communi- 
 
152 * ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 cate itself to all parts of the body. The agitation of the 
 muscles and iierves, immediately subservient to will, 
 will be propagated upon the ganglion nerves, and from 
 them upon those that entwuie themselves around the 
 viscera. Hence the secretion of bile will become more 
 copious ; the circulation of the blood will be more rapid, 
 and warmth will be quickly developed. And here we 
 may remark, that the secretions do not only become more 
 copious, but are essentially changed in their quality. 
 The saliva, for instance, becomes poisonous in a high 
 degree, the milk of nurses causes cramps, convulsions, 
 and colic in children nourished by it. A person, biting 
 in his wrath another, may cause his death by the intro- 
 duction of the venomous saliva into his blood. This 
 also may be easily explained. For the saliva, accord- 
 ing to Oken, has the office to kill the life of all the sub- 
 stances we eat and assimilate ; strictly speaking, all saliva 
 is poisonous, and even that of birds has been fatal to 
 persons. When now the hostile nature of anger com- 
 municates itself to the whole body, and consequently 
 also to the saliva of the glands of the mouth, it will not 
 only excite to a higher degree its poisonous nature, but 
 positively impregnate it with its own fury. In the same 
 manner the foam of a mad dog becomes poisonous, and 
 also the saliva of many furious animals. 
 
 It would be easy to show the effects of other emotions 
 upon the body, as for instance, of fright, which some- 
 times deprives us of our senses, causes us to swoon, 
 makes the voice tremble, and takes away all self-posses- 
 sion. But the above examples will suffice. One remark, 
 however, we will here add lest we should be misunder- 
 stood. — On the one hand, one and the same organ may 
 be affected by different emotions, as for example, the liver 
 by fear, fright, discontentment; and on the other, the 
 same emotions do not always produce the same ef- 
 fects, for while the feeling of shame makes some blush, 
 it will cause the faces of others to grow pale ; and while _ 
 wrath affects the liver of one, it will derange the di- 
 gestion of another, and promote the appetite of a third. 
 Therefore the idea of Plato, which was before enter- 
 tained by Homer, that each emotion and passion had a 
 
ANTriROPOLOGY. l53 
 
 particulat organ as its seat, as courage the breast and 
 lungs — thus in Homer a strong and loud voice is a sign 
 of strength — wrath the liver, must be accepted with much 
 caution. This much however may be seen from the 
 above remarks, that a general excitement of the blood 
 and nerves may become beneficial to an existing dis- 
 ease, as well as dangerous to an otherwise healthy sys- 
 tem. 
 
 3. Tlie power of the mind over the body may be 
 seen from ihQ formation of habits. Habit is the regu- 
 lar return of actions, that by frequent repetition have 
 lost all feeling of strangeness. Nerves and muscles 
 have their natural position, and the feeling connected 
 with it is simple. When a new action demands a change 
 of this position, a new feeling will connect itself with it, 
 and this new feeling will interfere with the former sim- 
 ple feeling, until a frequent repetition of the same action 
 makes the blood, nerves, and muscles run repeatedly 
 through the same position, and thus makes them famil- 
 iar with it. Then the feeling of strangeness will also 
 disappear, and what before attracted our attention by its 
 novelty will be no longer noticed. Though the action, 
 to which we have thus accustomed ourselves by fre- 
 quent repetitions has lost the feeling of strangeness, it is 
 still felt, but we no longer distinguish between the feeling 
 connected with it and that of our existence. Thus we- 
 may accustom ourselves to the influence of the weather, 
 to storm and rain, to cold and heat ; and even to the en- 
 durance of misery, diseases, and misfortunes. An un- 
 fortunate occurrence, when visiting us for the first 
 time, may appear extremely hard, and almost threaten 
 to destroy our life ; if the same occurrence should take 
 place the second time, its novel impression would be weak 
 ened and so on, until its effects on us would be trifling. 
 The fable of the hare, that was much frightened at the 
 first sight of the lion, but gradually grew so familiar with 
 him as to accost him, contains therefore a full and im- 
 portant truth. 
 
 Habit leads to skill, and skill renders the most diflicult 
 labor easy. The arm which constantly hammers on 
 the anvil, will no longer feel the fatigue, which at 
 
 20 
 
154 ' ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 first was caused by a few strokes. The fingers of a 
 performer on the piano become so familiar with every 
 key, that they miss none, though the performer has his 
 eyes constantly directed to the notes, and not to the 
 keys. It is, to speak with Leibnitz, as if the monads of 
 A the fingers were set free, and no longer subordinate to 
 
 A the monad of the soul, they act for themselves. Yet 
 
 the mind of the performer has nevertheless to watch 
 them, for as soon as he thinks of something else, the 
 fingers will miss the keys. — Skill renders work easy 
 by reducing the effort at first required, to a very small 
 amount. 
 
 Habits may be formed with design or involuntarily. 
 Examples, education, inclination and passion, lead to in- 
 voluntary customs, while those willed by us, are acquired 
 by our own determination, and because we find them use- 
 ful and good. When a habit is once formed, we be- 
 come attached to it, for it becomes natural to us, and 
 will and nature are united in it. Hence it is, that ha- 
 bits become periodical, and when the hour of a certain 
 action arriA^es, an excitement is felt in the muscles and 
 nerves, which can only be allayed by the performance 
 of the action. The power of habit is therefore great ; 
 it frequently keeps us bound as its slaves and prevents 
 us from receiving a better, merely because it is strange 
 and new to us. The question may therefore be asked, 
 whether we ought to submit to this power ? Custom 
 in general is beneficial to man, provided it is morally 
 correct and good. For being itself good and reigning 
 with regularity over the life of man, it will pervade and 
 ennoble it ; it will rescue it from the sphere of mere 
 arbitrariness, where every new desire invites to a new 
 action ; if habits, which are good in themselves extend 
 over whole nations, they will unite individuals, break 
 the strength of selfishness, lead them to submit to high- 
 er authority, and render them social and communica- 
 tive. If habits are not good, or morally correct, our 
 moral feeling ought to exclude them from us, and if we 
 have formed them, our will ought to remove them again. 
 However great may be the power of habit, that of our 
 will is still greater, and to exercise the latter, it would 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. . 155 
 
 be well from time to time, to free ourselves from certain 
 indifferent habits, merely to prove to ourselves, that we 
 can do this thing, if we are resolute and determined. 
 
 4. The power of mind over the body is perceived in 
 the art of re pres editing the emotions and thoughts of the 
 mind by the motions of the body. Tliis power exhibits 
 itself in the control man has over his voice. He can 
 modulate it according to any feeling or ideas contained 
 in words or works. The character of a piece will de- 
 termine the key of voice, so that every tone and semi- 
 tone will be guided by it. Every emotion of the heart 
 has a tone to express it ; in fear, the voice is trembhng 
 and low ; in joy, clear and full ; in anger, loud and 
 roaring. Each kind of poetry has its tone, the lyric, 
 dramatic and epic, each is to be declaimed in a ditferent 
 key of voice. The oratory of the bar or the pulpit, de- 
 mand each a different tone. So again the arsis and 
 thesis^ or raising and sinking of the voice, and the ac- 
 cent and emphasis are all wholly under the control of 
 the mind, and he who thinks well, will generally speak 
 well, as he who understands well, will generally read 
 well, for what is felt and understood, will enter into the 
 voice. 
 
 Gesticulation aids very essentially the understanding 
 of words, and frequently where words would not be 
 sufficient to fully express a feeling, a single glance or 
 a single gesture will be sufficient. So Octavio, at the 
 close of Schiller's Wallenstein, says more by a glance 
 towards heaven, than a whole speech would have com- 
 municated. The expressions of certain feelings by 
 gestures are at first involuntary. The hair rises when 
 we are frightened ; the face grows pale, when we fear. 
 This natural expression becomes artificial, when it is 
 produced by our will, and from a consciousness of its 
 appropriateness to convey an idea of our feelings and 
 emotions. To know this appropriateness, we must 
 know the reason why certain motions of the body are 
 expressive of certain emotions of the mind ; henc.e 
 this art has its science, and has been treated by several 
 writers. 
 
 It subjects the whole body to its designs. The walk 
 
 .'^. 
 
156 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 and the motion of the hands, the posttire and keeping 
 of the whole frame are all used. But especially the 
 face, the head and the hands : 
 
 The face has to serve it by its expression; by the curling 
 of the lips, by the rolling or fixing of the eye, by the draw- 
 ing in of the nose, by the wrinkling of the forehead, (fee. 
 
 The head aifirms by nodding, and denies by shaking, 
 in the former case it moves towards the object, in the 
 latter away from it. Bending gently down, it may in- 
 dicate humility, as in prayer or shame and confusion, 
 or modesty. Looking up towards heaven, it may ac- 
 knoft^ledge our dependence on a higher Being, and ask 
 for its blessing or for its curse. 
 
 The hand, when clenched, threatens, when stretched 
 forth and open, it salutes ; when one of its fingers is 
 directed toward something, it points out or commands ; 
 when folded it indicates that as the hands are clasped to- 
 gether and turned inwardly, and for a time give up 
 their accustomed activity, so the mind is collecting 
 itself, to direct its devotion to heaven, abstaining from 
 earthly thoughts. The hand moving away from the 
 body, gives a sign, not to approach ; moving toward 
 the body, it invites to come. The hands clasped in 
 marriage, unites two persons into one ; striking hands, 
 confirms a bargain. 
 
 Other parts of the body may serve in a similar way, 
 to express the feelings or thoughts of the mind, as for 
 instance, shrugging the shoulders, and the like. 
 
 When one part of the body is not sufficient, several 
 are used at one time. Shaking the head may be united 
 with a repellent motion of the hand. The hand will 
 here principally assist the head, especially when signs 
 for intellectual emotions are to be given. The hand 
 covering the eyes, closes up the fountain of observation, 
 and shows,^ that we either meditate on some subject or 
 are given to spiritual devotion. Laying a finger on the 
 nose, invites attention, for as the nose is thus divided, 
 so the judgment is accurately to divide, but the judg- 
 ment cannot be without attention. Rubbing behind 
 the ear has reference to the understanding, for the ear 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY. 157 
 
 is the most theoretical sense. Putting the hand upon 
 the heart, confirms what we have said. 
 
 It will easily be seen, that the meaning of these 
 signs or gestures does not depend merely on the mo- 
 tions of the hand, but on the parts of the body, touched 
 by them. The nearer they are connected with the in- 
 tellectual activity of the mind, the more noble will 
 be the signification of the gestures ; the more these 
 parts are connected with the system of reproduction, the 
 less noble the meaning of the gestures concerning them. 
 
 In conclusion the whole body may be used by the 
 mind, as bowing to express its respect, kneeling its en- 
 tire homage, a straight and unbending posture its 
 haughtiness. 
 
 5. The power of the mind over the body leaves its 
 traces and impressions on theface^ on the forms of its 
 single parts, as nose, lips, eye, forehead. A well-torm- 
 ed head indicates strength and fullness of understand- 
 ins: ; a head, thick and fleshy, stupidity ; a head, small 
 and thin, weakness of mind. If the face is too long 
 or too round, it betrays a low disposition. Thus in 
 Shakspeare's Cleopatra. 
 
 Cleopatra. Bear'st thou her face in mind ? Is it long 
 
 or round ? 
 Messenger. Round even to faultiness. 
 Cleopatra. For the most part too they are foolish, 
 that are so. ' 
 
 The chin and the lower jaw have reference to the 
 sensual disposition of man. The upper lips together 
 with the nose and eyebrows, and including the eye 
 and the ear, refer to feeling and humor, and to theoreti- 
 cal knowledge ; the rest of the face up to the hair, to 
 mind in general . " The forehead is the portal of under- 
 standing, the seat of thought ; raised eye-brows indicate 
 wrath, eyebrows hanging down, dark and cheerless 
 emotions. The eye is the mirror of the soul." To 
 judge of the disposition of a person, the proportions of 
 the three regions, into which the face is divided, must be 
 carefully examined, while every organ, as the nose, the 
 eye, the mouth, forms also a whole by itself. The 
 
X58 . ' ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 roughness or smoothness of the hair, its color, and that 
 of the eye and of theskin, declare to the physiognomist 
 the temperament of a person. 
 
 There is certainly much truth in physiognomy, if ^ 
 .confined within its proper limits, but if it^spires to the 
 character of a science, or if it assumes a judgment over 
 the mor«Z character of man, it becomes insipid. " When 
 Zopyrus perceived in the face of Socrates that he was 
 naturally inclined to voluptuousness, why did he not - 
 read in tlie same face, that he had a power too, which 
 was strong enough to correct this natural tendency ? If 
 this tendency deserved to appear in the head of a Faun, 
 that power was worthy of being honored with the head 
 of ^ Jupiter." When Porta in his attempts at physiog- 
 nomy went so far as to compare the faces of animals 
 with those of man, he made two mistakes. He suppo- 
 sed that animals had really a physiognomy ; but if we 
 call physiognomy the external expression of the inter- 
 nal and invisible mind or disposition, then animals ha- 
 ving no mind, cannot be said to have a physiognomy. 
 And if they had, their faces are grown over with hair, 
 and thus their expression is concealed from the ob- 
 serving eye. We cannot speak of a physiognomy of 
 animals because all animals of the same species have 
 the same expression if they have any, and whoever 
 has seen one lion, has seen all, and in describing the 
 face of one, he describes the faces of all. So it must 
 be admitted too, that children, when born, have no ex- 
 pression in their faces, as persons when they die, gener- 
 rally lose those they had in their lifetime. Savages 
 have a physiognomy but little variegated, while physi- 
 ognomy will vary in proportion as nations become 
 cultivated. This shows, that the expression of the 
 face depends on the moral character of man, and not 
 the latter on the former. Who can say by w hat a wrink- 
 le on the forehead is caused, whether by care or dissi- 
 pation ? Many a one may have had the nose of Shak- 
 speare, without having had his humor, and no doubt 
 the whole face of Shakspeare has had in some age or 
 other its like, while in no climate and in no age has 
 Shakspeare yet been equaled. The same causes do not 
 
 -f 
 
ANTHROPOLOGY, 159 
 
 produce the same effects, because man does not suffer 
 causes to act as such, but controls them. " Green wood, 
 when placed near the fire gets warped, dry wood only- 
 brown." Two men of equal strength and age, may spend 
 the whole night in dissipation, and after all not have 
 the same appearance in the morning. How much 
 more must^ this be the case in the sphere of liberty, 
 where we by our mere will may bid detiance to every 
 line in our face. In London, Macklin, the actor, of 
 whose face Giuin said : " If this man is not a rascal, 
 God does not write a legible hand," received in the year 
 1775 public praise on account of his honesty and no- 
 bleness. One and the same organ — and this may be 
 said with regard to phrenology no less than with regard 
 to physiognomy — may serve two very different purpos- 
 es. The nose for instance is the organ of smell and 
 for conducting off the mucus ; the tongue of taste and 
 of language. 
 
 6. The power of the mind over the body is indicated 
 too by the formation of the skull, which must bear 
 witness Of the life of the mind. The observation of 
 this fact has likewise given rise to the idea of forming 
 a science, called Phrenology. The manner of reason- 
 ing is this : — Every activity of the mind seems to de- 
 mand a particular organ. It is not the eye that sees, 
 nor the ear that hears, but mind sees and hears by the 
 eye and ear. But the mind could not see without the 
 eye, nor hear without the ear. The eye is the organ of 
 sight as is the ear that of hearing. It is reasonable to 
 expect that this should be so with every other activity 
 of the mind. Again it is not the organ, but the nerves 
 in it, that are active, and to know the amount of activi- 
 ty, of which the organ is susceptible, we must observe 
 the nerves, embodied in it. Yet they cannot be laid 
 bare during the hfe of man, and all we can do is to 
 judge of their volume and strength by the elevations or 
 indentations of the skull and their proportions to each 
 other. For all the nerves, in whatever direction they may 
 run over the body, will finally concentrate in the brain, 
 and as the skull surrounds it, and conceals it from our 
 
160 ANTHROPOLOGY. 
 
 sight, the skull only, its formation, its depressions or 
 elevations, are left for our examination. 
 
 It has been fashionable of late, either to decry phre- 
 nology or to raise it above all other sciences. We^ on 
 our part, have to acknowledge that talents and capaci- 
 ties will, to a certain degree, be indicated by the' forma- 
 tion of the skull,. Character, on the other hand, is the 
 eifect of will, and not of the nervous muscles. Nor can 
 phrenology much aid our science, for to understand any 
 elevation on the skull, we must know the psychologi- 
 cal activity symbolically indicated by it. The want 
 of a good psychology in Gall and Spurzheim misled 
 them, and their errors are exposed in a masterly man- 
 ner with all due acknowledgment of their merits by 
 Professor C. Hartman, in his Geist des Menschen, 
 from page 255 to 291. Cams, in the second part of his 
 Psychology, and Hegel in his Phenomenology have 
 likewise spoken against the extravagancies of phrenolo* 
 
 The internal and invisible mind, expressing itself 
 physiognomically and on the skull of man, will be the 
 subject of our investigations hereafter. We shall view- 
 it not as a compound of many mental activities that ex- 
 ist by the side of each other in one common receptacle, 
 and that are externally united, we cannot say hoio? but 
 as a whole of many branches, all of which proceed from 
 one identical life and are held together by it. 
 
PAKT II. 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY.* 
 
 * By mistake Self-Consciousness has been printed as the heading of 
 the page, from page 163 to 224 inclusive ; as also for the title on page 
 163, instead of Psychology, as it should have been. 
 
163 
 
 PART II 
 
 SELF -CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 In every science we may discover one point which is 
 the center of the whole, and which, well understood, 
 will shed light upon every portion of its whole extent. 
 In the system of divinity, it is the idea of revelation ; in 
 moral philosophy, it is that of law in connection with 
 that of conscience ; and in mental philosophy it is that 
 of self-consciousness. Without self-consciousness we 
 can know nothinsf clearly, either within ourselves or in 
 nature. It is the light, by which alone we can see in the 
 sphere of knowledge ; before it is fully developed in the 
 child, all his ideas must be confused, and nothing can 
 be known in relation to other things, nothing be classi- 
 fied or arranged, but every object will appear to him 
 without distinction in itself, and without a g^eneric dif- 
 ference from that which is not itself. When, in an 
 adult, self-consciousness disappears for a moment, all 
 consciousness of the things around us and of our per- 
 sonal qualities sinks into transient oblivion, and we no 
 longer notice what is going on around us, though we 
 continue to hear and to feel. Self-consciousness then, 
 is the root of all our knowledge ; it must accompany 
 our mental activities, and without it it would be in vain 
 to investigate the nature of the soul. For this reason it 
 ought to be examined, before we approach the activity 
 
164 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 and nature of the sonl, and for this reason also it de- 
 serves a full share of our attention. 
 
 What then are we to understand by self-consciousness? 
 It is not a thin^ that is ready wrought in us, and the qual- 
 ities of which, like those of minerals, chimical substances, 
 one has only to analyze in order to know ; but it is an 
 activity that constantly produces itself. The activities 
 of mind, however, are manifold, and it will here be ne- 
 cessary and instructive to distinguish it from them. The 
 first of all the activities of the mind is feeling. It is 
 the most subjective, the most internal and inexpressible 
 in man. Yet difficult as it may be, to convey a clear 
 idea of it, we cannot pass it over in silence. " Feelings 
 in general^ is passion called forth hy its oion activity. ^\ 
 This definition demands some explanation. The pas- 
 sion spoken of here, is one conditioned by its own ac- 
 tivity: Hence it follows as a first rule, that that which 
 cannot affect itself cannot feel. The ball on the bil- 
 liard table, for example, is set in motion by the billiard- 
 stick ; it is active, but not of its own accord. Touch- 
 ing another ball, it communicates its motion to it, and 
 is put at rest by the resistance it meets with, and conse- 
 quently is affected ; but this affection or passion is not 
 ptoduced by its activity, but by the resistance of another 
 ball. Every metal expands by heat, and contracts by 
 cold ; but this activity in the metal is elicited by an ac- 
 tivity without ; the metal is affected, but not by itself. 
 Hence though warmed by the heat, it neither feels 
 warmth nor cold. 
 
 A second rule is, that nothing can feel which affects 
 itself or acts tipon itself but not for itself A ma- 
 chine acts upon and affects itself, but not for itself. 
 The plant, on the other hand, that stands in the sun 
 moves its twigs and leaves; its juices rise and sink, it 
 is active, and both affects itself and acts for itself. This 
 appears clearly from the fact that after a hot moon, it 
 re-creates itself in the dew of the evening; and that 
 from the germ to the blossom and seed, it grows only 
 for itself and not for any thing else, for it will grow 
 whether an animal is near to eat it or not. But this activi- 
 ty of the plant is wholly called forth and conditioned by 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 165 
 
 something different from itself, by heat, rain, atmos- 
 phere, (fee. We therefore add a third rule : 
 
 When an activity which conditions itself as passive^ 
 is not conditioned hy a third and foreign activity^ as 
 that of the nerve, then we have feeling. Feeling is an 
 activity that affects itself; affecting itself, it is active ; 
 being affected, it is passive; activity and passiofi in 
 one is^ feeling. Such an activity may be called a " trem- 
 bling in itself ^^ This motion is not like that of the 
 planet turning on its axis ; nor like that of the plant 
 turning spirally, nor like that of the string, which 
 touched moves away from itself, but it is an inward mo- 
 tion, one in itself Such is the motion of the nerve 
 when touched ; the life of the nerve seems by its own 
 energy to touch itself, the parts of the nerve to tremble 
 in themselves. 
 
 Feeling pre-supposes one who feels and something 
 which is felt. Is the thing felt, different from him that 
 feels ? then the feeling is called a sensation. The light 
 of the sun is felt by the eye, the acid of thegfrape by the 
 tongue, both feelings are sensations. But when feeling 
 does not depend on the senses, when the object felt is also 
 the subject that feels, then we have what may be called 
 selffeelifig. 
 
 This self-feeling, like feeling in general, is enjoyed by 
 the animal, but consciousness is not. It may, therefore, 
 be proper to point out the difference between them. By 
 self-feeling every individual is related to itself, and 
 throuH"h it is certain of its existence. The plant can- 
 not feel itself, and consequently could not support it- 
 self, had it not stuck its roots into the soil. But the 
 animal, feeling itself, feeJs its wants and satisfies them, 
 and can move from place to place. It feels itself 
 in its members and feels them as its own. It feels itself 
 when it stretches them in the warm light of the sun, or 
 in its dreams. By self-feeling, therefore, the animal is 
 an individual ; not only externally, that is, not merely 
 like the plant, externally separated from other things, 
 but interfially by feeling itself and taking interest in it- 
 self. A plant when torn into pieces' offers no resistance, 
 but an animal about to be slain, either rages or looks 
 
166 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 piteously at him who destroys it. Arid so again feeling 
 itself it cannot exchange its existence for that of anoth- 
 er. The "elephant which was intended to frighten 
 Fabius," and that, which is exhibited in a menagerie, 
 take each such an interest in itself that it would 
 be impossible for them to be other than itself In 
 proportion as the animal takes an interest in itself, it op- 
 poses every other animal of which it receives a feeling 
 by sensation. The stronger the self-feeling, the greater 
 will be the opposition, the more determined the separa- 
 tion from all other animals, and consequently the more 
 complete the isolation. Rapacious animals love to be 
 alone in their caves, on high rocks or in ambush. They 
 live together, the old with the young only during cer- 
 tain seasons, and separate again as soon as the instinct- 
 ive care for the race becomes unnecessary. It is true 
 there are animals that seem to be social ; the sheep, the 
 goose, the ant, the bee ; but all of them are held to- 
 gether by instinct, by the pasture on which they graze, 
 by the hive or cell which they build in dommon. And 
 even then they take little notice of each other, it is only in 
 times of danger that the voice, or some other sign, which 
 is the same in all the individuals of the same class, calls 
 them together for mutual defence. When the danger is 
 past each lives again by itself. 
 
 However much self-feeling may seem to resemble 
 self-consciousness, it differs widely from it in the fol- 
 lowing points : 
 
 1. Self-feeling does not enable the animal to distin- 
 gush between the subject that feels and the object that 
 is felt. The difference exists but is not known to mere 
 feeling. The animal feeling itself, does not judge that 
 it feels, and again, that it is itself the object of its feel- 
 ing- 
 
 2. The animal having self-feeling does not distin- 
 guish between itself and its members ; it feels its mem- 
 bers, but carmot make a distinction between itself as the 
 whole, and them as its parts or organs. Just as little can 
 it distinguish between a sensation and its organ, the ob- 
 ject of the sensation and itself which has the organ, and 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 167 
 
 through it the sensation. The difference is there ; but it 
 is not distinct and clear, it is only felt, not known. 
 
 3. The animal having self-feeling, does not distin- 
 guish between itself and its race, so that it would refer 
 itself to its class, but it isolates itself by its self-feeling. 
 Every animal capable of feeling itself belongs to a class 
 of animals ; the pigeon, the hare, the dog and the lion; 
 all are individuals of a certain kind, and the instinct of 
 each class directs all its individuals to the same modes 
 of life, (fcc. Self-feeling gives them the same degree of 
 energy, the same kind of sensations, so that for example 
 all moles differ from all eagles in the same way as^ re- 
 gards sight. But while the kind is distinctly expressed 
 in all its individuals, no one of them refers itself to its 
 class, but they are all of them, even when gregarious, 
 only single among many. Self-feeling chains a being 
 to itself, makes it not only a self but selfish. However 
 different the degrees of energy may be in the self-feeling 
 of the different classes of animals, each animal is by it 
 a single isolated being ; selfish even when it exhibits a 
 tendency to association, for no sooner do we offer food 
 to sheep, for instance, than one runs to outdo the 
 other and all fight, each to get what it desires. Want, 
 necessity, instinct may hold them too^ether, but they are 
 not conscious of these facts. To define then self-con- 
 sciousness it is, 
 
 First. That activity of mind, by which man distin- 
 guishes between his body and soul, and while thus dis- 
 tinguishing between them, refers the one to the other, 
 and comprehends both united in one. It is consequent- 
 ly an act of judgment, a power that perceives distinc- 
 tions as they are and makes them. In a machine all 
 the parts are likewise distinct, they are related to and 
 connected with each other, but by a power not in the 
 machine. The parts of the plant are distinguished, the 
 roots from the trunk, the twigs from the leaves ; they 
 are related to each other, and systematically connected. 
 The power that produces these distinctions, that which in 
 developing itself, causes part to shoot forth from part, 
 and as their common soul keeps them united, is contained 
 in the plant, it is the plastic power, but it neither feels 
 
168 . SELF CONSCIOUSNESS, 
 
 itself, nor is aware of its productions. The animal feels 
 its different parts, its liver and stomach— its senses, and 
 feeling them it feels itself in every one of them ; but it 
 has no consciousness of them nor of itself, it does not 
 perceive its members as its own, for it neither distin- 
 guishes between itself and other objects, nor between 
 its organs and itself Self-consciousness makes us 
 clearly aware of these distinctions and their union. 
 
 Secondly. Self-consciousness is the activity of mind, 
 that distinguishes between man and his senses, and by 
 which man has it in his power to use them for what- 
 ever purpose he chooses, for making observations, ex- 
 periments, &c. And as it distinguishes between the 
 senses and their possessor, so it distinguishes between 
 the sensations and the senses, between the objects and 
 the sensations produced by them. 
 
 Thirdly. It not only observes things in nature, but 
 recognizes their relation to each other. But the prin- 
 cipal relation is that of the individual to its genus. — It 
 therefore recognizes the genus in every individual, and 
 thus suffers nothing to enter it as an isolated being. 
 When I ask, What is this? I desire to know its general 
 nature. If I am told that it is a sheep, I feel satisfied, for 
 the name sheep is not a proper, but a general name, ex- 
 pressing a certain and definite class of animals, conse- 
 quently the general nature as it exists in the individuals 
 belonging to that class. Self-consciousness compre- 
 hends therefore the general in the individual, and the 
 individual in the general. Nothing in nature is wholly 
 isolated, but every thing is connected one with another, 
 this with a third and all with the whole. 
 
 This relation self-consciousness perceives and ac- 
 knowledges. \.: \. • 
 
 MUTUAL RELATION OF BODY AND SOUL. 
 
 Before speaking of Personality, we shall attempt to 
 gain some idea of the connection between the soul and 
 body, as it will aid us much in forming a correct notion 
 of what we are to understand by the term person. 
 
 The views entertained concerning the relation of the 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 169 
 
 soul to the body are quite various, but may be divided 
 into two classes, the one comprising those who admit of 
 two different substances, the other, those that either 
 consider the soul as the efflorescence and result of the 
 body, or the body, as built by the soul. The former 
 keeps soul and body so separate, that it is difficult to 
 say how they can act in unison. According to it the body 
 has a life of its own, and the soul likewise ; both are 
 however intended for each other, and the former re- 
 ceives the latter, as the engine the steam. Or to express 
 this difference still more strongly, the soul and body are 
 connected, as Plato represents it, like two horses yoked 
 together, one born of earth and sensual in its nature, 
 the other of heavenly origin and spirit :— one prone to 
 the earth, the other rising towards heaven, and their 
 owner, incapable of controlling them, hanging between 
 heaven and earth, unable to reach the onC; and unwilling 
 to descend to the other. A dualism that admits of two 
 principles for one being, offers many difficulties, and the 
 greatest is, ,that it cannot tell how the principles can be 
 united in a third. A river may originate in two foun- 
 tains, but a science cannot, and much less individual 
 life. — The latter class of theories represents the soul 
 as the final result and efflorescence of a continual- 
 ly refined life of the nerves, so that reason and will are 
 nothing but the organic life of matter, which by a re- 
 fined process attains the power of thinking and willing,— 
 here a soul becomes superfluous, and Materialism in its 
 rudest form prevails, — or it takes the soul for the origi- 
 nal activity, and considers the body as huilt by it. 
 This is the theory of Stahl, Treviranus, and others. 
 As the caterpillar spins and weaves a texture fitted for 
 its future metamorphosis, so the soul, like a mason, 
 builds its own tabernacle. The first of these opinions 
 is too gross, and the last spiritualizes the whole exist- 
 ence of man too much. We cannot, however, enter into 
 a scientific refutation of the theories alluded to, and 
 must be satisfied with advancing one that seems to be 
 nearer to truth. Yet we would not assert that it is not 
 open to objections. 
 Before it is possible to come to any conclusion on 
 22 
 
170 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 this difficult and yet exceedingly interesting subject, we 
 must clearly define what we understand by body. For 
 as- the English language not only calls our organism a 
 body, but speaks also of the sun, moon and stars, as 
 heavenly bodies^ it is evident that the term in question 
 is not used in the same unchangeable sense. Other 
 languages, as the Greek and German, make a careful 
 distinction between dead and living bodies, the German 
 calling the former Koerper, corpora, and the latter Leib, 
 from Leben, life. 
 
 The general idea connected with the term body is 
 that of an external frame animated by life. According 
 tp this view the body and soul are wholly different, and 
 as opposite to each other as life and death. Yet this 
 view must be erroneous, as it not only brings the soul 
 and body in opposition, but also the bodily life and the 
 external frame. The body as an external frame has 
 been ascertained by chimists to consist of nine differ- 
 ent substances, gases, earths, metals and salt. It is 
 therefore dust and must return to dust. No man would 
 be willing to assert that man consists of a soul, bodily 
 life, and nine different kinds of earthly substances ; but 
 all would be ready to acknowledge that earth is by no 
 means an essential part of man. This must appear the 
 more true, when we consider, that this external frame 
 of man " never ceases to perish," but is constantly un- 
 dergoing changes, that it is in an unceasing flow. It is 
 like a foaming place in a smoothly flowing river ; one 
 viewing it from a distance might suppose the foam to be 
 unchangeably the same; but on examining more close- 
 ly, he will discover that the water thus foaming, is in an 
 uninterrupted flow, changing its drops so constantly, 
 that they are not the same for a moment, and that only 
 the rock which breaks the water, remains the same. 
 Thus it is with the body. The gases constantly escape 
 and all the particles undergo incessant changes. Hence 
 the necessity of renovating our bodies. This renova- 
 tion demands new elements, which originally foreign to 
 4he body, must be assimilated and rendered subservient 
 to its organism. If then the particles of the external 
 frame are incessantly changing, they cannot be the body 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNteSS. 171 
 
 itself, since new elements are every moment received and 
 old ones excluded, and all of them are but dust. The true 
 and genuine body must be that which retains and pre- 
 serves its organical identity in all these changes, which 
 remains the same in the never-ceasino^ stream of matter. 
 But what is this organical identity ? The life or power, 
 which connects the ^ases, earths, metals and salt into 
 one whole, which penetrating them, keeps them together, 
 or dismisses some and attracts others. No sooner does 
 this penetrating power retire, than the body becomes a 
 corpse, and the elements fall asunder. This power is 
 the true body ; it is invisible, but connecting the ele- 
 ments according to an eternal and divine law, it becomes 
 mfinifest by its productions. 
 
 We seem to have gained, then, this one idea, that the 
 external frame is not the body, and that it is not to be 
 opposed to the soul, but that the life and power, which 
 connects the elements is the body : Again, that it is the 
 connection of the elements that is human and not the 
 substances themselves, and finally, that tliese substances 
 and elements do not remain the same, but are constantly 
 passing away while new ones are taking their place. 
 That which is permanent in these changes, and com- 
 bines the elements in this manner, is life. The idea of 
 life is therefore to be next considered. Though we 
 gave its characteristics in the Introduction, and must 
 refer to them, it may not be superfluous to view it here 
 under a different aspect. All life wherever it exists is 
 formed and organized. Form is not and cannot be the 
 result of matter, which itself is chaotic and shapeless. 
 
 Form, in man, and throughout the Universe, is the 
 result of thought. Hence life, being formed, does not 
 proceed from matter ; but is a thought of God, accom- 
 panied by the divine will, to be realized in nature, and 
 to appear externally by an organized body. As the 
 thought gives the form, so the divine will, resting in the 
 thought and inseparably united with it, works as power 
 and law in all nature. Is there not every where reason 
 and wisdom, and an eternal and unchangeable law 
 manifested in all the productions we see? The plant 
 before me, is it not the product of an intelligence ; or 
 
" 173 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 does it not represent a thought, that by the divine will 
 /became not only external and corporealized,but received 
 also the power to propagate itself? The animal with 
 its members and senses, — what else can it be but a divine 
 thought exhibited in an external form ? All nature is 
 full of divine wisdom and reason, but it does not pos- 
 sess reason, for it is neither conscious of itself nor of 
 any thing else. Hence we should hesitate to speak of a 
 soul in animals, for as gravity is not a mere quality of 
 matter, but as matter would be wholly annihilated 
 without it, so the soul has thinking not merely as one of 
 its qualities, but cannot be conceived of without it. The 
 soul of man and the life of the animal are therefore 
 wholly different. In applying this to man, to the union 
 of soul and body, we may say — The soul of man is 
 likewise a divine thought, a creation of God, filled with 
 power to live an existence of its own. But it is soul^ for 
 . it comprehends itself and all that is ; and not only does 
 it comprehend itself, but it is also able to produce new 
 thoughts in accordance with its laws of thinking. 
 Again, it develops itself like all other life in nature ; 
 and develops itself in a twofold direction ; outwardly 
 and inwardly. There can be nothing merely internal, 
 but it must be so only in reference to itself as external. 
 The fiesh of the apple is internal only in reference to 
 its skin, which is external. The internal or thinking 
 life of the soul has its external, and this the sensitive 
 life of the body, by which the soul is connected with . 
 the world. The life of the soul and the body is there- 
 fore one in its origin ; a twofold expression of the same 
 energy. The particles of the body on the other hand, 
 are not at all a part of man ; they are dust, and only 
 their connection and the Zi/e connecting them, is truly 
 human. Flesh, in so far as it is merely earth, cannot 
 feel ; but in so far as this earth is connected by life, it 
 is life in this peculiar connection that feels in a peculiar 
 manner. In order to render this somewhat difficult and 
 abstruse idea more clear and distinct to all classes of 
 readers, we will make use of some illustrations. " The 
 rainbow is a phenomegon well known to all,; how is 
 ■ it formed ? When the sun sends his rays in a particular 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 173 
 
 angle upon a watery cloud, the beautiful colors and 
 form of the great arch, will be directly seen. Let us 
 examine of what this rainbow consists. Does it con- 
 sist of drops of water on the one hand, and of light on 
 the other? By no means. The drops of water are to 
 the rainbow, what the body as a mere corpse is to man. 
 The drops constantly fall, and only serve to represent 
 or reflect the different colors of the light. It is the sun 
 that produces on the sheet of rain both color and shape. 
 When the sun disappears, the rainbow with its colors 
 is gone, but the gray rain-drops are still left. Yet as 
 necessary as the sheet of rain is for the rainbow, so 
 necessary is the body for the soul." Or let us take ano- 
 ther example. When the artist first conceives the idea, 
 either of a musical composition or of any noble work 
 in literature or art, it will be yet rude and unorganized. 
 Carrying it in his mind for a long time, this idea will 
 become more clear, one part shooting forth from the 
 other until the whole is matured. To see this idea, 
 clearly, he feels impelled to give it an external form, as 
 on the marble, if the artist be a sculptor. The 
 marble receives the image of this idea^ and if fully and 
 well expressed by a skillful chisel, the image will call 
 forth the same idea in the bosom of every one who ex- 
 amines it with judgment. It would however certainly 
 be wrong to say that this image of the artist consists 
 on the one hand of marble, whiteness, smoothness, and 
 on the other, of the internal idea, for the marble only 
 represents the image, but it is not in any way the image. 
 So it would be wrong to say, that man consists of two 
 essentially different substances; of earth and the soul ; 
 but he is soul only^ and cannot be any thing else. This 
 soul, however, unfolds itself externally in the /i/eofthe 
 body, and internally in the life of mind. Twofold in 
 its development, it is one in its origin, and the center of 
 this union is our personality. Several remarks natural- 
 ly flow from the above view : 
 
 First. As the plant can never pass beyond itself and 
 become an animal, so the animal cannot by a continued 
 development reach the nature and life of man, but it re- 
 mains an animal for ever. For so much only can be de- 
 
174 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 veloped,as exists according to possibility in the germ of a 
 being ; what is therefore not contained in this possibility, 
 or germ, or origin, cannot proceed from it. Thinking, 
 judgtaent and reason, or soul in general, not being 
 originally in the idea realized in the animal, — the 
 animal of course differs from man by not havings a soul. 
 Though it has sensation and perception, these again 
 must diifer from those of man, as they do not include 
 the power to judge. The life of man as it is the union 
 of physical and psychical, is not to be considered as 
 a higher development of animal life, differing only in 
 degree, but it is wholly and essentially different even in 
 its principle. It is therefore not a transition from that 
 which is not human to the human; from the uncon- 
 scious to the conscious. It is not the same animal activ- 
 ity,' only clearer, more distinct and more refined, so 
 that the whole difference is one of quantity and not of 
 quality. Feeling however elevated and refined still re- 
 mains feeling. 
 
 Secondly. We admit, therefore, of a difference be- 
 tween soul and body, but one that proceeds from, and 
 terminates in a union. As the common principle of 
 both differs from every other in nature, so the bodily 
 life of man differs from that of the animal. It is from 
 its beginning and in its principle different, and does not 
 merely become so.at a certain stage. 
 
 Thirdly. This theory upholds the idea of a creailion 
 and not of emanation. God remains what he is, the un- 
 changeable Jehovah after the universe is created. So the 
 mind of man is not diminished however great the num- 
 ber of thoughts which it produces. On the other hand, 
 neither the body nor the soul is the ground of their ex- 
 istence, but God himself. 
 
 PERSONALITY. 
 
 Deus nos personat. 
 The term person comes from the 'L^Xm per sonar e^ the 
 original meaning of which is to sound through. It was 
 used of one, who was not like a slave, a mere thing sale- 
 able and transferable, but who had a right to speak and 
 defend himself in courts of justice. In this respect the 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 175 
 
 German word for person fully agrees with the Latin and 
 English, for laut^ plural leute^ has exactly the same 
 meaning. From this it must appear that those who 
 consider the external, visible body as that which is 
 named by person, are mistaken. It is true that /?er.vo72a 
 signified a mark, but in distinction from larva one, 
 that by an instrument rendered the voice of the actor 
 more audible. The terna person, has therefore, a direct 
 bearing upon the intelligence of man, since only an in- 
 telligent being can comprehend rights and duties, and 
 consequently defend them, and since only such a one 
 can speak. The animal has a body, and in the more 
 perfect animals wediscaver all the organs of the human 
 frame, yet should we hesitate to speak of animal person- 
 ality. The animal is an individual, that feels itself, but 
 cannot be a person, because it is not conscious of itself. 
 Before giving a definition of personality, it will be well 
 to define the term individuality/. We have it in com- 
 mon with the animal, while we share personality with 
 the Deity. Individuality is the center or union of many 
 organical functions, that proceed from it and return to 
 it. It is the power that.produces all of them and keeps 
 them related to each other and to their whole. It is 
 therefore that by which a being is concentrated upon 
 itself— the center of all organic activities. It renders a 
 living organism indivisible, hence it is called individu- 
 ality. The stone remains what it is, though it he bro- 
 ken into small particles, but an animal is destroyed 
 wheh its members are torn asunder. That which is 
 wanting to individuality, in order to make it personali- 
 ty, is a soul capable of thinking and willing. 
 
 Personality is likewise a center and union of the 
 manifold, but one that is awake in itself, that has found 
 and laid hold of itself, and having once found cannot 
 again lose itself, but will enjoy itself for ever. It is the 
 center of all our bodily and mental activities ; emanci- 
 pated from all that is not itself, it reigns over all the 
 powers of body and soul, for it is that which must take 
 care of both. It is the person within us, which deter- 
 mines itself to be this or that ; to open itself to any in- 
 fluence or exclude it ; to follow one or the other direc- 
 
176 SELF-CONSCrOUSNESS* 
 
 tion ; to enter a sphere of activity or withdraw from all 
 and retire within itself. Person is the union of reason 
 and will, for / know, and / will j it is the identity of 
 self-consciousness and self-love, and whatever takes place 
 in either must center in it, and only thus can it be iden- 
 tified with the being that knows and loves itself. It re- 
 mains the same whether it is active practically or theo- 
 retically, or whether abstracted from all without, it con- 
 fines itself wholly to itself. Neither character nor age, 
 neither knowledge nor temperament can affect it. The 
 expression for our personality is the little pronoun /. 
 A short explanation of it, will render clear, what we are 
 to understand by person and personal identity. 
 
 Every word contains a thought, and every thought 
 contains truth if its contents correspond entirely with 
 those of its object. Is the object a physical or histori- 
 cal one? then its contents and those of the thought of it 
 are not exactly the same. I have, for example, as cor- 
 rect an idea of the sun, as the present state of astronomy 
 makes it possible for me to form ; but the contents of 
 the sijn are light, and other qualities, while those of the 
 ideas which I have formed of it, are but the sensations 
 and perceptions of these qualities, but not light itself Of 
 all the thoughts we have, there is none, that in this re- 
 spect is equal to that which we express by the pronoun 
 /. Every thought, as we have seen, pre-supposes a 
 subject that thinks and an object thought of. In the 
 thought contained in the word /, subject and object are 
 perfectly the same, for it is / that thinks and / that is 
 thought of There 1 am active, because I think, here / 
 am passive, because /am the subject of thought. There 
 is a difference consequently, but one that when rightlj^ 
 considered, is really none. For the identity between 
 the thought and its subject, expressed by /, is such that 
 the being of the one is that of the other also, that the 
 one cannot be separated from the other, for the one is 
 the other. This it is that we call personal identity. 
 Our consciousness may be enriched with knowledge 
 and again forget all it has learned, and yet our / will 
 remain the same. I can possess nothing else in the 
 same way that I possess myself ; for no where else can 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 177 
 
 subject and object be united as they are in the word, /. 
 The same that 1 express by this term in my youth, I 
 express by it at the most advanced age, and even in the 
 hour of death, neither form nor contents being in the 
 least changed. This personal identity remains so much 
 the same in spite of all changes both in body and mind, 
 that though two children resemble each other much 
 more in their natures, than the same person resembles 
 himself as regards bodily vitjor, in his youth and old 
 age, — yet will the personal identity be the same with 
 him in all periods of life, while the two children resem- 
 bling each other in other respects, widely differ in their 
 persons. 
 
 It is this T; this personal identity, which, as the con- 
 scious center of body and soul, attributes both to itself 
 in saying, I must take care of my body and of my soul. 
 Without it, there could be no inine and thine. It is in- 
 visible, can neither be seen nor felt ; is neither bone nor 
 muscle, neither nerve nor sinew; and is only accessible 
 to thought. If 1 say, I have wounded myself, I speak 
 inaccurately, for I ought to say I have hurt my limb, my 
 body. This invisible /, is that general activity which 
 accompanies all our actions and knowledge. It is I 
 that feels and perceives ; that comprehends and recol- 
 lects ; that judges and concludes ; that resolves and 
 wills and acts. I am active in all these different ways, ^ 
 and yet remain the same in every single activity. I 
 may enter upon any activity or exclude all. 
 
 The idea of personality, as may be easily seen, in- 
 cludes that of independence of every thing that is not it- 
 self. It rests upon itself, and as it is the center of all in 
 man. so it is the center of all nature around, for it is not 
 only conscious of itself, but conscious of all other things. 
 If by self-consciousness it inclines to itself, taking an in- 
 ward direction, by consciousness of other things, it takes 
 an outward direction, one away from itself. And in 
 this light we have yet to view personality. 
 
 The person is not only the center of man, whose 
 radii and periphery are all the activities of body and soul, 
 and by which all of them are fronounced^ that is through 
 which they sound, personantj but it is also, 
 
 23 
 
178 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 1. The center of nature, the echo of the universe. 
 What nature contains scattered and in fragments, is 
 united in the person of man. Every isolated feeling, 
 every solitary sound in nature is to pass through man's 
 personality and to center in it. His personality is the 
 great, beautiful, and complete 6eZ/, that annonncesevery 
 thinof, while nature contains only parts of it, the sounds 
 of which are dark and dull. 
 
 2. Our personality is the center of the whole human 
 race, for it contains the generality and individuality 
 united in one. It expresses a single and individual be- 
 ing, separating it from all others ; and again it is most 
 general, since every one is an I like myself This /is, 
 therefore, not like a proper name, but it is a word, that 
 conveys a most general idea. Thus in our personality, 
 the general and individual are so united, that the one is 
 contained in the other. This will appear from the fol- 
 lowing remarks : — We speak of a national spirit, of na- 
 tional honor, of national art and literature ; these do not 
 and cannot exist in the abstract, their existence must be 
 concrete. It becomes concrete when the general and 
 individual grow together, concresco, or are united, when 
 therefore, the general becomes conscious of itself in the 
 individual. Greece, as such, could not become conscious 
 of its honor or literature, but when this general national 
 spirit becomes individualized in a Plato or Sophocles, it 
 becomes conscious of itself Hence it is their personality, 
 in which the Greek spirit must center, and through which 
 as its organ, it expresses itself by works of literature and 
 art. True genius, must therefore always bear the charac- 
 ter of a national generality, — genius comes from genus — 
 and the less individuality appears in its productions, the 
 more valuable it is. The history of a nation, and its 
 institutions will all express the national spirit, as the 
 actions and feeling show the character of a person ; but 
 without individuals, a nation could have no history. 
 According to this, 
 
 3. Our personality is complete only when we are 
 conscious of God and our relation to him, and when we 
 suffer God to speak to it and through it. It is not 
 nature nor matter that produces personality, but God 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 179 
 
 who is the person. We can know a thing thoroughly 
 only when we are acquainted with its ground — so man 
 must know God before he can become truly acquainted 
 with himself. Personality is, therefore, that transparent 
 center in man, through which every general and noble 
 activity is to pass, and in which it is to become con- 
 scious of itself. 
 
 This personality of man is not, however, active imme- 
 diately after birth. The child feels as soon as it enters 
 the world, but it is only with difficulty that it becomes 
 conscious of itself. It may soon notice its single mem- 
 bers, the hand, the foot, the lips, but to enable it to com- 
 prehend the body and soul as a whole, whose center it 
 is itself, requires much time and labor on the part of its 
 instructors. Hence long after the child speaks, it names 
 itself, not by the term /, but by its proper name, speak- 
 ing of itself in the third person, as " William wants this 
 or that." It is with the personality of the child as with 
 the life of a plant, which needs the aid of many physic- 
 al influences. Or like a torch that must be lighted be- 
 fore it can illuminate. Hence it is that children ex- 
 posed in their infancy and grown up in the woods, can 
 neither speak, nor think, nor remember. A boy found 
 in the Hanoverian woods, about eleven years old, ran on 
 his hands and feet, climbed trees with great skill and was 
 perfectly wild. When caught and properly attended to, 
 he could remember nothing beyond the time when he 
 was placed under the influence of man. And so it was 
 in many other instances of the same kind, eight of 
 which have been noticed by Linnaeus under the head 
 Homo sapiens ferus^ or the wise wild man. 
 
 This awaking of the child in itself is like the rising 
 of a light in the midst of darkness. The state of exist- 
 ence, preceding that in which the child finds itself, is 
 dark, and we are not conscious of it. So man is like a 
 night-plant, whose top only is penetrated by the liffht, 
 while many powers and qualities are left in the dark 
 soil below, which v/ill never wholly rise into the sphere 
 of light. As regards even our person, therefore, we are 
 surrounded by darkness in the midst of light. 
 
180 SELF-CONSGIOUSNESa. 
 
 DIVISION. 
 
 Until recently, mental philosophers have been in the 
 habit of representing mind as a compound of many fac- 
 ulties, as a whole made up of parts. This view of the 
 soul is a mechanical one, and does not regard the charac- 
 ter of life in general. It is scarcely necessary now to 
 refute an idea so spiritless, for who can believe that the 
 faculties of mind areas separate and distinct as draw- 
 ers in a chest, each answering a certain purpose and 
 occupying a place, from which all the others must be 
 excluded. According to this view the faculties do not 
 proceed from one general principle, for the power of 
 perception and that of memory, differ as widely as the 
 various parts of a machine. These faculties are united, 
 but only as the different cells of wasps are held together 
 by the sheet of comb on which they are built. As to 
 the rest, the wasp occupying one cell, does not and can- 
 not know much of its neighbor residino: in a different 
 one. The question has, therefore, justly been asked — 
 How, if the mind consists of so many faculties, each of 
 which is separate from the other, can they be united in 
 one consciousness? If fancy, in its cell, re-produces 
 an image, how can consciousness, a power different from 
 fancy, take cognizance of it ? To say that each faculty 
 has a consciousness of its own, would be highly absurd, 
 since we should then be forced to admit a plurality of 
 consciousness. How this plurality of consciousness 
 could be internally united into one, it would be hard to 
 understand. This whole view has been, therefore, more 
 or less relinquished, and one directly opposed to it has 
 been received. There is but one thinking power in 
 man. It is the vsame when it judges as when it observes, 
 comprehends, thinks, or wills. The apparent difference 
 is produced either by the object to which it is ditected, — 
 as for instance it is designated as memory when direct- 
 ed to the past, imagination when turned to the future; 
 — or, by the greater or less degree, in which it exerts 
 itself. For whether I have a sensation of a thing, or a 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 181 
 
 comprehension, it is nearly the same, only that the lat- 
 ter is a higher stage of thinking. By sensation 1 com- 
 prise many qualities and pronounce their union o. thing 
 or individual; by comprehension I unite many indi- 
 viduals, and call this union a class. It is the same ac- 
 tivity only raised in the latter instance. 
 
 But the mind is neither a multitude of faculties, nor 
 is it a simple, identical activity, but it is a umo7i that 
 not only comprises the manifold, but produces it by un- 
 folding its life organically. There are many kinds of 
 union : a mechanical one, as that of a machine; and an or- 
 ganic one, as that of a living plant. The latter will serve 
 to explain the union here spoken of When we, for the 
 first time, watch an apple tree from its earliest growth 
 till it blossoms and yields fruit, we are at once ready to 
 say that the first leaves of the youngtree which sprouts 
 from the soil differ as widely from those which after- 
 wards appear on the trunk and branches, as these from 
 the blossoms and the blossoms from the fruit. We are, 
 therefore, inclined to view this tree as made up of so 
 many different organs, as the old psychology considers 
 the soul as consisting of so many faculties. But then 
 again, if some one should direct our attention to the 
 fact that each succeeding formation is but a repetition of 
 a former one, that the first leaves, for instance, which 
 sprout forth near the ground, thick, colorless, and full 
 of unrefined rude sap, are repeated by, or transformed 
 • into leaves of the trunk, that, being raised above the 
 ground and more exposed to the sun and purer atmos- 
 phere, they become more refined, more vigorous and 
 more beautifully formed, — weshould willingly acknow- 
 ledge that the plant could not be made up of pans in- 
 dependent of each other, but that the whole was pro- 
 duced by the plastic power contained in the seed. And 
 weshould do so the more readily, if we should discover 
 that as the tree spreads into twigs and leaves, the suc- 
 ceeding leaves still become more refined, more perfect 
 in shape and color, until many cluster totrether and 
 form a bud, which opening, shows itself clad in red and 
 white, surround by the tender green of the leaves near- 
 est to it. This is not all. The fruit itself, consists but 
 
182 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 of a cluster of leaves, which, absorbins: the finest jnice 
 of the tree, and constantly nourished by the rays of the 
 sun and the warmth of the atmosphere, are peculiarly 
 organized to filtrate all the nourishment they thus re- 
 ceive. These compact leaves at first taste like other 
 leaves and are of their color ; but they expand, and final- 
 ly appear as a fruit, wholly different from any other 
 part of the tree. The fruit, be it an apple or a grape, is 
 only the capsule of the seed, and as the latter ripens, this 
 decays. In this respect the pod of the bean has the 
 same design with the finest pear. In proof of our as- 
 sertion, it may be remarked, that the pod of the bean is 
 merely a leaf bent together. The same is true of the 
 pods of radishes, peas, (fee. In the apple then, we eat 
 nothing but the refined and filtrated moisture of the 
 earth, the light of the sun, and the balm of the atmos- 
 phere, as it lives and works in the other leaves. 
 
 It is remarkable, that in proportion as we nourish a 
 plant with rude and heavy manure, it produces dark, 
 strong and large leaves, thus retarding its state of bloom. 
 This shows that these stronger leaves filtrate aiid pre- 
 pare the juices for the higher and more dt-licate leaves, 
 and that these again are the same leaves at a higher 
 stage, that we before noticed at a lower one. It is there- 
 fore certain, that it is the same organ which first ap- 
 pears at the root, then higher up, and finally as blos- 
 som and fruit. Considering this we might be induced 
 to suppose the plant or the tree, as simple an activity, as 
 some have represented mind. Yet in examining a plant 
 or tree a little more closely, we must perceive that while 
 all the different parts constantly repeat but one organ 
 and proceed from one common power, they nevertheless 
 differ, each having a peculiar office to perform for the 
 development and preservation of their general life. This 
 view, the only correct one, unites the two former. For 
 according to it we perceive on the one hand a union, an 
 identity, and on the other a variety ; but the variety and 
 difference proceeds from the union, which appears in 
 every single organ, and only unfolds itself by all of 
 thera. This leads us once more to the idea of develop- 
 ment. Whatever develops itself, changes, yet it does 
 
SELF-COKSCIOUSNESS. 183 
 
 not become any thing else than it was when undevelop- 
 ed. For while it takes difterent forms, it remains the 
 same in all of them ; while it exhibits itself nnder dif- 
 ferent aspects, it does not pass over into any thing that 
 is not itself, nor does it receive any of its various forms 
 from without, but all develop themselves from within. 
 It becomes and exists otherwise when developed, than 
 when undeveloped, but it has not become any tliinof else. 
 Develop! nof itself, it becomes in reality, what before it 
 was according to possibility and energy. So the bulb 
 of a hyacinth may be said to be and not to be the hya- 
 cinth. It is the hyacinth according to energy, and 
 nothing can grow forth from it, that is not in it ; and 
 again it is not yet the hyacinth, for it has not yet grown 
 forth. The growing forth is the development of the en- 
 ergy slumberinor in the bulb. The idea of development 
 contains, therefore, the idea of a transition from the in- 
 visible to the visible, from the dark and unknown to the 
 manifest and revealed. Thus the soul contains in its 
 simple identical activity, all that afterwards appears in 
 succession, under the form of faculties. They are but 
 the development of the energy of the soul, but its repre- 
 sentation and its organs. Hence the soul is an energy, 
 that in developing itself, remains the same that it was, 
 and yet becomes different. It remains the same, for 
 nothing is added from without, all comes from within j 
 it is different, for it exists in its developed state. The first 
 developments of the plant are, as we have seen, the 
 roots and rude leaves, which become more refined as 
 they grow higher on the stock ; the first development 
 of the soul, the leaves near the roots of its existence are 
 the senses ; these are followed by attention and concep- 
 tion. Higher tban these are fancy, imagination and 
 memory, which may be considered the blossoms on the 
 tree of knowledge, while pure thinking, under the form 
 of the understanding, judgment, reason and will, are the 
 ripe fruits. And here we may remark, that there could 
 be no blossoms, were there no leaves near the root ; but as 
 the juice in them rises higher, it becomes more refined, 
 until it appears pure and clear in blossom and fruit. So 
 sensation is the beginning and root of all knowledge. 
 
184 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 and nothing can enter the understanding that has not 
 first been received by sensation. As it passes from the 
 lower to the hiijher activities of mind, it becomes more 
 and belter known, and like the fruit, more refined.' 
 Again, as the bloom of a plant may be retarded, or wholly 
 prevented by rude nourishment, so sensual persons may 
 always move in the sphere of sensuality,,and Satisfied 
 with it, never look for any thing beyond. 
 
 Psychology will be divided into two sections : the 
 former treating of Reason in general, the latter of the 
 Will. 
 
185 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 ON REASON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SENSATION AND THE SENSES.* 
 
 Nihil est in intellectu, quod non antea fuerit in sensu. 
 
 Sensation has several times been the subject of our 
 consideration ; it is the soil from which all knowledge 
 arises ; the chaos from which mind creates its intellect- 
 ual world. With it the development of mind com- 
 mences, and in it mind has, all the materials with which 
 to establish its sciences. Sensation is therefore, the first 
 . stage, in which the general possibility, from which all 
 the developments of mind proceed, realizes itself. For 
 feeling an object, we must feel it in ourselves. In hav- 
 ing a sensation, we therefore feel ourselves, and some- 
 thing different from ourselves, and thus we are roused 
 to self-consciousness by the object felt, and hence sen- 
 sation may be considered as the indispensable condition 
 of Self-consciousness. Sensation, as we have seen, dif- 
 fers from feeling, and yet has many things in common 
 with it. Like it, it pre-supposes nothing but life for its 
 
 * For sensation some writers here would use the term perceptio7i, as re- 
 ferring to the notice which the percipient mind takes of external objects. 
 The author, however, prefers the term sensation, since his principal ob- 
 ject here is to speak of the affection of the senses as called, forth by ex- 
 ternal impressions on them, and h© trusts that he will be pardoned 
 this somewhat unusual application of the word, and that candid readers 
 in forming their judgment of his views will bear in mind the above ex- 
 planation. 
 
 24 
 
 
186 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 ^ ^' ■ . - 
 
 existence ; as we do not need to learn how to feel, so we 
 ^- have sensations without instruction, all they require 
 being- life itself. To learn how to judge, time is neces- 
 sary, but feeling and sensations are inseparably con- 
 nected with the activity of animal life. On the other 
 hand, feeling and sensation differ as before seen, for the 
 former is not circumscribed in its form, nor are its con- 
 
 ir tents clear and distinct; the latter is a limitation of the 
 
 I 4. feeling activity, an affection of one of the senses. Yet 
 not every limitation of an dCtivitY is sensation, — the light, 
 for instance, is an activity; falling upon a smooth, well 
 
 • pblished surface, it is reflected, consequently its flow is 
 
 • '- limited, but no sensation is produced. Sensation is the 
 
 •j ^ limitation of an activity, which is felt by the activity. 
 
 ^ Hence every sensation pre-supposes the limitation of 
 
 an activity, and a feeling of this limitation : — This limi- 
 tation is only felt ; feeling is dark and indistinct ; hence 
 it is, that mere sensation does not distinguish between 
 itself and its contents, and that no being can, by sensa- 
 tion alone, distinguish between the sensations of the 
 different senses. We have sensations of the eye, and 
 the ear, of taste and feeling ; they differ essentially and 
 have different contents ; but sensation does not distin- 
 guish between them and their contents. All is confu- 
 sedly mixed together, and it is only by attention and 
 judgment, that distinction and order are produced. 
 
 *-^ Again, the contents of our sensations and the objects 
 
 which produce them are not the same. The bird, for 
 instance, that flies through the air, is not contained in 
 my eye, but in the air; its image however, its plumage 
 and motions are contained in my sensation. To enable 
 us to separate the contents of our sensations from their 
 external objects, judgment is necessary. This sufii- 
 xiently appears from a remarkable case that came un- 
 der the observation of Dr. (Jheselden, in the year 1727. 
 He succeeded in giving sight to a youth of twenty 
 years, who was born blind. When the bandage Wcis 
 removed, the lad supposed that whatever he saw, was 
 not without but within his eyes. After some time he per- 
 ceived that the things seen by him were not in his eye, but 
 now he saw all of them on ojie surface before him. It was 
 
% 
 
 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 18T 
 
 only by using his hands thtat he obtained an idea of dis- 
 tance and separation. This was quite natural, for that 
 which we feel, is not the object ; this is without us. 
 We feel only an impression, and this is an affection of 
 our senses. We feel, therefore, strictly speaking, only 
 ourselves or the affection of our senses, and hence it is, 
 that the child does not distinguish between sensations 
 and their contents, nor between these and their objects. ^ ^ 
 Distinction and order are therefore, not by sensation as 
 such", but by thought and judgment. Another example 
 may serve to make this still more clear. When we 
 first cast our eye over a scarcely legible page, all seems 
 confusion ; but as soon as we examine the writing more 
 closely, as soon as we can discern the letters, and con- 
 nect them into syllables and words, the confusion dis- 
 appears. This connection is, however, not the act of 
 sensation, but of attention and judgment. Nor can we 
 by sensation discover any thing that is general in its na- 
 ture. The eye cannot see to what species or genus a 
 thing belongs, this can be perceived only by the judg- 
 ment. Life, for instance, is something general ; but it 
 cannot be perceived by the senses ; no one has yet seen 
 life as such with his eyes, or heard it with his ears. 
 From its productions, we may conclude upon life as the 
 power that calls them forth ; but when we draw con- 
 clusions, we think. So we may feel the smooth bark 
 of a plant, see the pure white of the lily, or the tender 
 red of a rose ; but the life of the lily we cannot see. 
 We may taste the juice of the grape, but its life we can 
 neither taste, nor discover by tasting the grape. Lifeless 
 elementary nature alone is subject to our sensations, life 
 as such is not, though its productions may be seen, or 
 tasted, or felt. 
 
 If sensation is a medium between man and natural 
 objects, if by it only, man can become conscious of the 
 external world, the senses which render sensation pos- 
 sible, next demand our attention. It is by them that the 
 universe is opened to us, and we may become conscious 
 of all its beauties and laws, its powers and their produc- 
 tions, and thus enrich ourselves with knowledge. 
 Their physiology is here to be left out of view, and 
 
188 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 their psychological importance can only be touched on, 
 nor is it necessary to do more, since so many works 
 give a full exhibition of the manner in which the no- 
 tions of time and space, of substance and accidents &c., 
 are formed by the aid of the senses. 
 
 That which is to be felt, must have power to af- 
 fect the senses. Whatever is too weak to do this, 
 cannot impress them, and consequently cannot be per- 
 cieved by them. We must not, therefore, imagine 
 that all the activities of nature are perceptible to our 
 senses ; there are doubtless many of which we are at 
 present entirely ignorant. The following are the prin- 
 cipal objects of sensation : . ' 
 
 1. Matter in general, its gravity, its mechanical co- 
 hesion, the structure of bodies, their smoothness, rough- 
 ness, sharpness, softness and hardness ; the tempera- 
 ture and its changes. The sensation is that of feeling, 
 and in man the organ is the skin. The skin is sensi- 
 tive in proportion as it is; tight. The lips, the arms and 
 hands, feel very quickly. The structure of a body may 
 be felt by the hand. Forming a semi-circle, it can 
 easily adapt itself to almost any form ; both hands join- 
 ed form a sphere, the prototype of all .other forms. In 
 the lower classes of animals, the nerves are hard, and 
 possess but little flexibility. The higher classes are 
 generally covered with fur, feathers, or scales, and feel- 
 ing is therefore not very fine. Some have feelers and 
 proboscis, others a tender skin, as snails and serpents ; 
 but none have arms and hands, carried by the body and 
 perfectly free for the purpose of feeling: 
 
 2. Its chimical qualities. Matter has internal qualities 
 that can only be perceived. in a state of solution, and 
 this state is either that of an inelastic or hat of an elas- 
 tic fluid. Under the first form, it is liquid in general, 
 the sensation is taste, and the organ is the tongue. 
 Nothing can be tasted before it is dissolved. The me- 
 dium of taste is water. Tasting is a complete chimical 
 process. The thing to be tasted is separated by the 
 teeth, tongue and saliva, and its qualities are caused 
 to penetrate each other. The sense of taste discovers 
 more chimical qualities, than any chimical analysis. 
 
SELF-CONSGIOUSNESS. 1S9 
 
 Hence the term taste is ever applied to the investigation 
 of beauty in the sphere of art. Finally, the tons^ne 
 stands in a close relation to the stomach, it is indeed a 
 mera continuation of it. Tasting is the beginning of 
 digestion. The tongue proves the food for the stomach. 
 It is remarkable that wliile animals surpass man in 
 other senses, the tongue is not found fully among them. 
 21oophytes, worms, and the lower classes of fish, have 
 no tongue ; insects have frequently only a wart ; and 
 the tongue of other animals is often covered with scales. 
 — Nothing can produce the sensation of smell, unless it 
 is in an aeriform solution. The organ of smell is 
 the nose : its medium, the air. Every thing smelled is 
 assimilated; it enters through the nose, the cerebral 
 system and lungs. Hence there is a close connection 
 between the lungs and the nose, the latter proving the 
 air for the former, and warning it not to inhale it, when 
 corrupt. Strong vapors and exhalations frequently 
 cause swooning, nausea, cramps, (fcc. 
 
 3. Light and Sound. Light. That which is seen 
 is not pure light, nor space, nor matter, but light as ren- 
 dered visible by matter. The sensation is that of sight, 
 the organ is the eye; the mediums of sight are the 
 fluids, solids and gaseous elements. The sense of sight 
 having reference to judgment, we must learii to see. 
 — Sound is produced by the elastic vibrations of bodies ; 
 the sensation is that of hearing, the ear is the organ, and 
 ether the medium. As optics and acoustics treat very 
 fully on these two senses, they are only menticaied^hf^e 
 for the sake of completeness. , ?^'^o^¥\v~ 
 
 , GENERAL REMARKS ON THE S^iW^.i V E k'. 
 
 General feeling is the root from which alt^he senSfepFn 
 grow forth. It has no external organ and is not T«lat^' ' 
 to external objects, but has only r,eference to the living 
 and feeling being, informing it of the state of its organ- 
 ism. By Jt we may form an idea of what will benefit 
 or injure our bodily system, so that we may govern our 
 appetites and regulate our diet. Its organ is not proper- 
 ly speaking, a sense, not a cluster of nerves, but all the 
 
190 SELF-GONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 nerves as a whole. It is called general feeling, because 
 it indicates the general state of the system, general de- 
 bility or vigor, general warmth or chillinesSj general pain 
 or pleasure : — and again, hunger or thirst, refreshment 
 or satisfaction. The objects of this feeling are, therefore, 
 the changeable statesof the functions and organs of the 
 body, which could not be perceived by the single sen- 
 ses. As all the senses have their root in this coinmon 
 or ^eweraZ feehng, so it is again affected by all the im- 
 pressions made upon them. Hence every sensation we 
 have is the feeling of a change in our general feeling, 
 and as our disposition and humor depend greatly on 
 the state of our general feeling, it will on the other 
 hand modify the influence of these impressions upon 
 us, as on the other it will be influenced by them. The 
 former appears from the fact, that the same temperature 
 affects persons so differently, that each if asked would 
 give a different degree of heat or cold. The latter is sub- 
 stantiated by the effects which impressions, made upon 
 the senses, have in cheering or depressing the spirits. 
 
 A sense, affected by an external object in harmony 
 with its own nature, feels pleasure, but if affected too 
 strongly, or against its nature, pain — this feeling, 
 whether of pain or pleasure, will be communicated to 
 the whole system, and to what has been called general 
 feeling by the connection of the principal nerve of the 
 sense affected, with all the nerves of the body. Hence 
 cold and heat, a clear or cloudy sky have such an influ- 
 ence upon us ; a good dinner renders us comfortable 
 and satisfied ; delicate odors enliven the imagination 
 and spread pleasure over all our feelings. The opposite 
 of these will, of course, have an opposite effect. 
 
 On these usual effects of impressions from the senses 
 on our general feelings depends the symbolization of 
 colors and music. To give a few examples, black is the 
 color of mourning, because it extinguishes all other 
 colors ; white is the color of innocence, because it is the 
 general ground for all colors. Black and white mixed, 
 form gray^ the color of resignation, fear, uneasiness and 
 twilight. Hence nearly all nations represent good beings 
 in white, evil spirits in black, and ghosts in gray. Blue, 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. ^ 191 
 
 the color of the atmosphere we inhale, and which quick- 
 ens us, attracts, hence it is the color of desire, longing, 
 faithfuhiess, for faithfulness belongs not to itself, but to 
 another. Pure yellow is the color of gold, it attracts 
 us strongly and is the color of cheerfulness. Red, the 
 color of fire, like it pierces the eye, and is the symbol of 
 power. Popes, cardinals, and kings are therefore clad 
 in the different shades of red, some of which express 
 violence, as orange, others a concealed tendency to pow- 
 er, as the crimson of cardinals. The same may be ob- 
 served with regard to sounds. Some of them, as that of 
 cutting glass, grate on the ear ; others soften or rejoice 
 the heart, and excite the activity of the limbs. And 
 how various are the emotions called forth by the rust- 
 ling of branches, the murmuring of a brook, the sighing 
 of the wind ; by the war-like sound of a trumpet, or 
 the soft tones of a distant flute. The power of music 
 may likewise be seen from the great influence it has 
 on animals. Mice are known to have been killed by 
 it ; horses are animated by the sound of the trumpet. 
 
 The degree of a nation's cultivation may easily be re- 
 cognized by their fondness for penetrating or lively colors, 
 and their copious mixture on a small surface,; or by the 
 more refined taste, that prefers delicate colors, their 
 regular distribution, and harmonious connection. Music 
 is likewise a criterion of the cultivation of a nation. 
 Delight in simple melodies, or in a grand composition, 
 in a single instrument, or in the concert of many, will 
 indicate the state of civilization and refinement :— Smell 
 and taste have also their fashions, by which the civilized 
 differ from the uncivilized. 
 
 The noblest senses of man are the eye and the ear. 
 For while the others have reference, either to matter or 
 its chimical qualities, theyrefer the one to the judgment, 
 the other to understanding. If we compare them with 
 each other, we find that both are senses for form ; and 
 therefore the mediums of art and literature. Painting, 
 sculpture, and architecture, depend on sight, as music, 
 poetry and science on hearing. While the eye opens the 
 universe with its thousands of objects, the ear is their com- 
 mon echo, and communicates to us their internal being. 
 
192 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, 
 
 The eye is coId,d welling only on the surface of things, 
 while the ear listens to every sound of nature, and 
 makes us feel with all that lives ; for whatever can emit 
 sound, from the gushing water, and the singing bird to 
 man, expresses by it the degree of its vigor, the manner 
 of its life. The ear excites, therefore, more deep sympa- 
 thy than the eye. The statue of Laocoon leaves us 
 more cold than the description of his sufferings in Vir- 
 gil. Music -breathes more life into us than a picture. 
 If in this respect the ear has an adVantage over the eye, 
 the eye being more removed from feeling, is nearer to 
 thought. We compare truth with light ; a prophet is a 
 seer. Truth illuminates. Ag«in,thunder can be heard 
 at no greater distance than twenty or thirty miles, while 
 lightning may be seen at the distance of from one hun- 
 dred and twenty to two hundred and fifty miles; but what 
 the eye seems to gain in this respect, it loses in another, 
 for it cannot see in the dark, while the ear hears as well in 
 the night as at any other time. We know too, that in- 
 struction must be addressed to the ear, and that a single 
 word from a commanding officer will animate his sol- 
 diers far more than a mere signal. Hearing makes so- 
 cial intercourse, and the cultivation of mind possible ; 
 for as we have said, it has a direct bearing on the un- 
 derstanding ; as what we hear, we naturally desire to 
 understand. Sight has more reference to the imagina- 
 tion, to hope and other emotions, hence the eye so easily 
 betrays these emotions. The eye was the sense appeal- 
 ed to by the pictures and statues of Polytheism ; in 
 Monotheism, it is the ear ; Lawgivers, Prophets, and the 
 Savior addressed themselves to it. 
 
 It has been often asserted, that one sense can be sub- 
 stituted for another, but this is a mistake. One born 
 blind can never get an idea of color and its specific dif- 
 ferences, however nice his sense of feeling may be. 
 The senses may aid each other; the smell, for ex- 
 ample, assists the taste ; when we are hungry and 
 smell food, we anticipate the pleasure of eating it. 
 With most animals the nose and mouth form almost one 
 organ. Feeling aids the sight, and sight frequently the 
 ear, when we turn to see whence a report reached us. 
 
SEJLP-CONSCIOUSNESS. 193 
 
 The forms in which aloiie we can perceive objects of 
 sense are those of space and time. The former being 
 extensive, is external, the latter protensive, is internal. 
 Things in space exist contemporaneously as the numer- 
 ous stars of the firmament ; things in time succeed each 
 other, and time is itself, its own succession. Whatever 
 is in space, must assume in its form the dimensions of 
 space. These are length, breadth, and depth. Worms 
 and serpents are long ; fish and beetles are broad or 
 flat ; and all the mammalia are voluminous. Time is 
 divided into the past, the present, and the future. What- 
 ever is in it must belong to one of these divisions. Now 
 we say, all that is in time and space may be perceived 
 by one or another sense, but space and time themselves, 
 are inaccessible to the senses ; the past, for instance, is 
 one of the divisions of time, but neither the eye nor the - 
 ear can perceive that which no longer exists. The fu- 
 ture, as yet, is not, and consequently cannot impress the 
 senses. So it is with the geometrical line — it is not tan- 
 gible like a ribbon or string, but can only be seen by 
 the eye of the mind, as the geometrical point cannot be 
 felt by the finger like the point of a needle. 
 
 OF ATTENTION. 
 
 We have seen that feelings and sensations are in 
 themselves indistinct and confused, and that though 
 they are the beginning of all knowledge, yet knowledge 
 cannot be produced by them alone. This is manifest 
 from the fact, that while animals feel and have sensations 
 like ourselves, they have no knowledge or science. 
 That by which distinction and clearness is produced in 
 the feelings is attention. It is the basis of all knowledge, 
 and even of self-consciousness. Without it, we could 
 neither perceive accurately, nor remember well, nor take 
 cognizance of our own perceptions. So when we are 
 deeply engaged in meditation, we may meet an intimate 
 acquaintance, look- in his face, and yet pass him by 
 without being conscious of knowing him. Persons 
 employed in iron works, take no notice of the noise 
 around them, but converse as if all were silent : and in 
 
 25 
 
194 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 the field of battle, amidst the thunder of cannon, gener- 
 als will listen to the report of an oiSicer as if not a 
 breeze of the air were stirring. This they can do as 
 all will say, because they pay no attention to the noise 
 around them. Hence it is correct to say, that without 
 attention, nothing exists for the mind of man. Without 
 attention we may think and have no thoughts, for our 
 thinking will be only a kind of dreaming or reverie : 
 without attention we may travel for years, yet gain no 
 wisdom ; we may be surrounded by the choicest pro- 
 ductions of art and discover no beauty. Attention 
 therefore deserves our notice, and we shall inquire : 
 What activity/ of mind is called attention ? 
 
 To understand Attentiori fully, we must consider it 
 first, as it is voluntary and as we are conscious of it, and 
 secondly, as it is neither voluntary nor conscious, but 
 as it precedes all the other mental faculties, and is ac- 
 tive in the child, which is as yet neither conscious of 
 the world nor of itself: 
 
 1. Attention in general, and as it exists in mature 
 persons, is that activity by which the mind decides to 
 turn for a time, from every thing else, and direct itself 
 to a particular object. It differs from observation, for 
 this has an external object, and its aim is, to ascertain 
 the nature of this object and its relation to others. Ob- 
 servation pre-supposes and requires attention. Again, 
 attention differs from judging, or thinking, for judgment 
 likewise has objects, which it compares with each other. 
 Attention is only the activity of mind, by which it re- 
 solves to fixitself uponasingle object ; it is therefore im- 
 possible without will — yet it may be drawn forth in vari- 
 ous ways. The novelty or contrast of things, the pleasant 
 or unpleasant manner in which they affect us, or the 
 interest which from any cause we take in them, may 
 serve to excite it. So one sense will elicit the attention 
 of another — as, when we feel something crawling under 
 our fingers, our eyes involuntarily turn towards it, to 
 see what it is : or if we hear a gun discharged behind 
 us, we turn to see whence the report came. The eye 
 also directs the ear. An officer in glittering uniform, 
 riding up and down before his soldiers, who change 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, 196 
 
 their position at every word he speaks, attracts the at- 
 tention of the ear. Or a preacher of dignified exterior, 
 appears for the first time before us in the pulpit; the 
 eyes of all watch his motions, and the ear is ready to 
 catch his words. Interest in a thing will call forth the 
 attention — the musician will easily be attracted by any 
 thing concerning the life of a Mozart or Beethoven, a 
 Weber or Bellini; or by any of their compositions. 
 The psychologist discovers beauties in Shakspeare, that 
 many readers pass without perceiving. Manifold in- 
 deed are the sources of attention, and it would lead us 
 far to mention all of them. Yet we must add one 
 more, and this is the will or resolution ; it is easy to 
 pay attention, where interest or inclination urge us to 
 do so ; but such attention has no moral value, nor is it 
 sufficient for the study of a science. Every science 
 has branches, that at first excite no interest in us ; we 
 must therefore determine by our will to attend to them. 
 This attention alone is a moral one, and deserves regard. 
 Not that which we do from natural impulse, deserves 
 credit, but that which receives attention by virtue of 
 our will, even though it be against our inclinations. 
 This is the case, when accustomed to lighter reading, 
 we for the first time take a scientific book into our^ 
 hands ; we read a few pages and lay it aside — neither 
 interest nor inclination is attracted, and we pay no far- 
 ther attention to it. It is here that a resolute will is 
 necessary to urge us to give attention, even against in- 
 clination. 
 
 The objects of our attention may be various at the 
 same time. The captain of a ship in a storm has to 
 , direct his attention to many things. The rope-dancer, 
 who while he walks the rope, moves a cane on a pivot, 
 must attend both to the cane and his feet. Caesar 
 dictated seven letters at a time. But however different 
 the objects to which it may be directed, attention is al- 
 ways and universally the same identical activity of the 
 mind — as the nature of sight or hearing is never 
 changed by the objects from which they receive their 
 impressions, but remain the same whencesoever the im- 
 pression may come. 
 
196 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 2. It is more difficult to comprehend attention in its 
 origin, as it exists in the child, before it has become con- 
 scious of itself, and consequently before it can will. At- 
 tention as a state of mind, is always voluntary ; but at- 
 tention as it must necessarily precede will and every other 
 activity of mind, cannot be voluntary. This has been 
 felt by all psychologists, and some have, therefore, tried 
 to explain its origin by saying that it is caused by a 
 heightened excitement of one of our sensations or sen- 
 ses. But in this case it would be difterent to say why 
 animals, especially the higher kinds, cannot pay atten- 
 tion as well as man ; yet it is well known that they can- 
 not do this. If the view alluded to were correct, our at- 
 tention would necessarily be proportional in its strength 
 to our impressions ; yet we know that very strongimpres- 
 sions sometimes draw forth very little attention, while 
 slight ones attract much. It is true, that sensations attract 
 attention in a greater or less degree, but attention does not 
 originate in them. What then is the origin of attention ? 
 
 This question does not propose to ascertain how atten- 
 tion is drawn forth after we are conscious of it, after we 
 by our will may charge ourselves to be attentive ; — its 
 aim is to examine attention as that activity of the mind, 
 which brings order and distinctness into our chaotic 
 feelings, and renders consciousness and judgment, and 
 all the other activities of mind possible. As such it is a 
 spontaneous^ but not a voluntary activity, and precedes 
 the whole development of mind, as the plastic power 
 precedes the growth of the plant. 
 
 In its origin, and as the common basis of all the other 
 activities of mind, attention is the power by which 
 mind gives itself a direction, when as yet it has none, 
 and is yet unconscious of itself. When we look into 
 the eye of a child during the first weeks of its existence, 
 we see that it is active, constantly moving, but we see 
 also that its activity has no direction. The light falls 
 upon it, images of surrounding objects are reflected on 
 its retina, but it does not yet see them, because its eye 
 is not directed to them. Thus it is with the feelings, 
 before we are conscious of them, they are of course ac- 
 tive ; they possess pain and pleasure, as they, for exam- 
 
SELF-COKSCIOUSNESS. 197 
 
 pie, precede hunger and accompany its sfratification : 
 but they are not directed to any particular object, and 
 are therefore without a conscious direction. The same 
 is the case with the whole mind. It is for a long time 
 in a state of unconsciousness, and while in this state, 
 has no direction. For when it is conscious of an object, 
 it must be directed to it : as long as it is not conscious of 
 any thing, it cannot have a direction, since no direction 
 which the mind takes can be entirely without conscious- 
 ness. The developed mind is then a self-conscious ac- 
 tivity. Attention in its beginning, is spontaneous ac- 
 tivity of the mind that is not voluntary ; but by which 
 only choice becomes possible ; it is that activity by 
 which mind, which as yet has no direction but gives it- 
 self one, yet noX to an external object, but to itself in 
 its first stage of existence that is to feeling. Reflecting on 
 feeling, it afterwards reflects on the causes of feeling. 
 By this direction of the mind to itself, distinction is 
 produced ; one feeling is separated from another, sensa- 
 tion from sensation, and subject from object. Were it 
 not for this activity — the name given it, is of little con- 
 sequence, we should be incapable of giving conscious and 
 voluntary attention to any thing ; the animal has not the 
 former and consequently not the latter. It may point the 
 ear when an unusual sound excites its nerves and irri- 
 tates the muscles, and correctly speaking, it cannot 
 avoid doing so, but must follow the direction from 
 which a strong impression reaches it : but it has no 
 mind to direct to these sounds. 
 
 The difference between attention, perception and 
 observation, may be shown in the following manner. 
 Attention is the psychological ground of observation, 
 and sensation must furnish it with the particular ob- 
 ject to be examined. Our sensations and observations 
 are limited to the sphere of visible objects ; we cannot 
 observe things to which the senses have no access : but 
 attention has no such limits. The last star that can 
 be seen by the eye, does not arrest and limit attention ; 
 it may direct itself farther, for its activity is infinite. 
 Sensation and observation therefore are limited, atten- 
 tion unlimited. Again, sensation is always of necessity. 
 
198 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 We cannot see without light, and cannot avoid seeing 
 when light is present. So we cannot hear without 
 sound and must hear when surrounded by noise. But 
 attention is a free activity — by it I examine what I 
 please ; analyze and re-unite parts, compare them with 
 each other, and determine myself to turn from one to 
 another. The condition of all thinking and willing, is 
 attention, as that direction which is not determined^ 
 but which mind determines itself to take. Finally, sen- 
 sation contains objects and contents all united, attention, 
 as preceding other mental activities, separates and dis- 
 tinguishes them from each other ; it is in this respect an 
 act of disruption, by which — and this deserves notice — 
 the objects of our sensations are placed without us, in 
 space and time ; by which their contents are separated 
 from our sensations, and our sensations from ourselves^ 
 It is judgment in its lowest stage, and judgment is at- 
 tention in its most refined form. As long as we have 
 merely a sensation of light, light and sight are yet un- 
 divided : but attention will enable us to perceive that 
 the one may be where the other is not. The power 
 perceiving this is higher than that of sensation ; it is 
 conception. Thus the transition from sensation to con- 
 ception is formed by attention. 
 
199 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CONCEPTION. 
 
 In commencing this chapter, I canndt avoid quoting 
 the words of Stewart ; " In a study such as this, sO far 
 removed from the common purposes of speech, some 
 latitude may perhaps be allowed in the use of words, 
 provided only we define accurately those we employ, 
 and adhere to our own definitions." 
 
 We have seen that attention in its commencement is 
 an activity that separates the objects of sensations, from 
 their contents, and from the sensations themselves. We 
 feel a smooth surface or touch something rough. 
 Smoothness or roughness are produced in our feelings 
 by the greater or less affection of the senses ; they are 
 therefore felt as being in ourselves. By attention,'how- 
 ever, we transfer them into the object and pronounce 
 them its qualities. As such they exist no longer in our- 
 selves, in our senses, but in the object that is in space and 
 time. Seeing things as contained in space and time, we 
 do not merely see them with the eye of sense, but with 
 the eye of the mind ; our seeing them is accompanied 
 by consciousness, it is an intellectual, not a merely sensu- 
 al sight by the senses. To distinguish this seeing as 
 accompanied by consciousness, from the mere sensa- 
 tion, we may call it an intellectual perception. It is the 
 same with sensation, and differs from it only by seeing 
 its objects in space and time, and by being conscious of 
 them. The example of the blind man to whom Chesel- 
 
200 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 den gave sight may be recollected here, but another in- 
 stance may serve to make the above still more clear. 
 The child before it is attentive undoubtedly has sensa- 
 tions ; it sees, hears, feels, and smells. But it does not 
 yet distinguish the objects and contents of its sensations 
 from the sensations themselves ; it does not separate 
 them from each other. It sees, for instance, the table in 
 the room, but runs against it and hurts itself; it sees the 
 precipice and does not shun it; it sees the moon and 
 stretches its little hands to seize it. Why does it so ? 
 Because all it sees, rests yet undivided on the retina of 
 its eye ; but no sooner does its mind reflect on its feel- 
 ings, than it will be induced by them to reflect on the 
 objects which called them forth, and thus learn to dis- 
 tinguish. This is not yet an act of judgment ; chil- 
 dren in their infancy,especially before they have become 
 conscious of themselves, do not judge. When the child 
 therefore no longer runs against objects, but shuns 
 them ; when it no longer sees things only with its bodi- 
 ly eye, but perceives them as they co- exist in space, or 
 as they succeed each other in time, when it sees them 
 with its mind, — then the child unconsciously and yet 
 freely has made distinctions by virtue of that abstract 
 attention, which is represented above as theorigin of all 
 attention. When I approach a large city for the first 
 time and view it from a neighboring eminence, it ap- 
 pears like a confused mass of houses : if after examining 
 it I see the houses and streets in their regular arrange- 
 ment, my sight of it is no longer merely bodily, but 
 mental. Orif we hear music below our windows while 
 asleep, we So not hear the melody or harmony, but only 
 sounds. We awake and a feeling is excited. We re- 
 flect upon it, that is our mind is directed to it and tries 
 to discover what is going on in it, and thus by it, is led 
 to attend to the sounds, and to discover the melody in 
 the sounds, as they fall upon the ear. This whole pro- 
 cess from feeling to perception may be very rapid, and 
 in most cases may not be at all noticed by us. Yet 
 though its single stages may melt into each other, they 
 must always be passed through. These few examples, 
 it is hoped, will sufficiently show that there is a differ- 
 
SELF-CaNSCIOUSNESS. 201 
 
 ence between seeing a thing only with the bodily eye 
 and seeing it as contained in space and time. 
 
 But though things are seen, as they exist in space 
 and time, though they are no longer present in the sen- 
 ses but separated from them, we must be able to repre- 
 sent them to ourselves, and this is the power of concep- 
 tion. This differs from all the preceding activities we 
 have considered and grows forth from them. When 
 what has been present to our sensations and been seen 
 by the eye of the mind, is united or formed into an 
 ijnage and received back into the mind, we have a con- 
 ception. An illustration or two will make this more 
 clear. When I name salt, every one will understand 
 what I mean, for he bears its image in his mind. To 
 form this image he must have united several sensations 
 into one. He must have tasted its sharpness, have 5ee» 
 its whiteness, have felt its hardness and angular form, 
 and then uniting these sensations and perceiving them 
 to be qualities of salt, he forms aa image of it, which is 
 received into the mind by conception. Or when the 
 child, passing through a fair, exclaims for joy on per- 
 ceiving a wooden horse like its own, then it has not 
 only a full image of its own horse, but recognizes this 
 image in the one which it perceives in the fair. 
 
 The contents of conception are those of our former 
 sensations ; their objects were, as we have seen trans- 
 ferred into space and time, and now they are received 
 back into the mind, not as they really exist, but by their 
 images. By these images, which are wholly ideal, a 
 relation is brought about between ourselves and the 
 things of which they are the images, for while the ob- 
 jects exist without us, or in space and time, their im- 
 ages are within us. What then are we to understand 
 by an image 7 
 
 1. There are many images which are no concep- 
 tions ; as when the infant is held before a looking glass, 
 its image is reflected, but it does not notice it. Here is 
 an image in the mirror, but not in the mind of the in- 
 fant. This image may be perceived by other persons, 
 and they may form a conception of it ; but it will be in 
 the mirror whether seen or not. So when a tree stands 
 
 26 
 
202 " ' SELF-CONSCiOUSNESS. 
 
 near clear and transparent waters, its image will be re- 
 flected by them ; tliis image rests on the surface of the 
 water, hut it is not a conception, until our eye has seen, 
 and our mind perceived it. The image of our mind 
 must be gradually formed ; the object of which it is 
 the image, must have been felt, it must have been sepa- 
 rated'.from our senses by. that act of disruption before 
 mentioned, and transferred, from our senses into the ob- 
 ject, and thus received back by us. Without sensation 
 then we could forni no image of an external object, and 
 those who are of opinion that Homer, whose works are 
 replete with imagery was blind, must have a film over 
 their own eyes. Milton and Ossian were blind, but had 
 sight in their youth. 
 
 2. The image is therefore the same as the thing which 
 it represen^ts, and yet there is a difference between them. 
 The thing is not the image, for it exists in space or 
 tinie. Thus the zebra is the object of which I have an 
 image ; and this is made up of life, feelings, sensations, 
 blood, nerves, limbs. All of them have reality, they ex- 
 ist in the animal, as they do not in the image we have 
 formed of it. On the other hand again, the image is 
 the same as the object, for it cannot be without it, and 
 unless it include, what the object includes, it is not its 
 true image. We see here two views of the same sub- 
 ject that are in direct opposition to each other. Neither 
 of them is wholly correct : the image is and is not the 
 object. It is not the object, for the object has reality, 
 independent of the image and of man ; — it would ex- 
 ist) whether we perceive it or not. So its contents are 
 all of them real qualities that exist independent of our 
 conceptions. Again, it is the object, for it could not be 
 found without it ; but it is the object, not as it exists in 
 space and time, as it is real — it is the ideal object. The 
 imoLge has therefore the same contents as the object, 
 with this difference, the one has them as they exist in 
 the mind ideally^ the other as they are in the material 
 thing, really. We would say, therefore : by the power 
 of conceiving, the contents of an object, and the object 
 itself become contents of our conceptions or images. 
 
 3. Though the image is the ideal object and fully 
 
SELF-CONSeiOUSNESS. 203 
 
 represents the latter, yet it is less complete than the ob- 
 ject represented by it. When we first see and examine 
 a thing, all its parts, whether essential or not, impress 
 themselves npon ns ; but these nnessential parts would 
 burden without benefiting us. Conception, therefore, 
 refines these contents and thrusts out what is not neces- 
 sary to give a faithful image of the nature of the thing. 
 In examining a beautiful statye, I observe every little 
 thing about it, and even such marks as do not form a 
 necessary part of it. When I leave the statue, I take its 
 image with me, but the accidental circumstances under 
 which I saw it, and all that does not strictly pertain to 
 it, I suffer to be left out of the image. The image of a 
 beautiful person has impressed itself deeply upon my 
 mind ; but the unpleasant voice or the large foot are no 
 longer included in it. And as the image in the course 
 of time grows less complete, so it becomes more general. 
 Every image is that of a single object^ and is consequently 
 itself single ; but the person that has the image, as he 
 sees one object, sees many others of the same kind, and 
 thus of the whole forms o. general image. I have the 
 image of a certain rose, which I saw in the hand of a 
 friend ; this rose has faded — but I have seen many 
 other roses like it, and the image of the former rose, 
 however well defined and accurate it may have been, 
 will at length become so general^ that it would repre- 
 sent all roses as well as it represents this one. 
 
 Though perception through the senses is the general 
 source of all images, so that a poet who had never seen a 
 sunset would be unable to depict it, yet it is not necessary 
 that all the images in our minds, should have originated 
 in our own sensations. The descriptions of travelers 
 are a rich source of images ; yet unless we have seen 
 something similar to what is described to us, we cannot 
 form a conception of it. 
 
 Of these images the mind is full, and as one after 
 another enters the mind, many must be rendered dim 
 and indistinct by those which are newer and more viv- 
 id, and sink as others rise to consciousness. Thus 
 they would be lost to us, like jewels dropped into the 
 ocean, if the mind had not the power to recall and re- 
 
204 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 vive them. It is the mind, and not a Ufeless receptacle 
 in which these images sink ; the self-conscious mind, 
 therefore, retains them as it formed them, and though 
 they are not present to consciousness, they are not lost. 
 If they have ever existed in the mind with clearness 
 and vividness, with order and accuracy, they will never 
 be forgotten, though their colors may fade. As the vase 
 filled with perfume will retain it as long as it exists, so 
 the mind will be aiFected by all its past images, and 
 must be able to summon them to re-appear, and this its 
 capacity is called 
 
 FANCY. 
 
 Fancy is a higher stage of conception. Its images 
 are those of the latter, perfectly free from all accidental 
 aidditions, from every appearance of impressions by 
 sense. This will appear from the following — an image 
 may exist in the mind independent of the perception by 
 sense of the object ; the image and perception may, 
 therefore, be separated, for though the image may disap- 
 pear from the sphere of consciousness, the mind has the 
 power to recall it, and has this power without being re- 
 minded of the image by the sight of the object. The 
 image is, therefore, freed from all dependence on the 
 natural object, or the perception of it. It is a true con- 
 ception, by which the mind can represent a thing or ob- 
 ject to itself, whenever and wherever it chooses, and 
 however distant in space or time may be the object to 
 be represented. Again, the recognition of the image in 
 the object, or of the object in the image, is an act of suh- 
 sumption. For when after we have a conception of a 
 thing, we recognize it as soon as it presents itself again, 
 we refer the image to our perception of the thing, and 
 thus recognize the one in the other. By this recogni- 
 tion, the image in our mind may be corrected, no less 
 than our perception of the thing may be guided by the 
 image previously formed of it. For example, the image 
 of a beautiful landscape remains in my mind ; traveling 
 the night, I approach the same scenery without know- 
 ing where I am — on awaking I at once feel as if the 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 205 
 
 scenery were known to me ; I observe more closely, 
 recognize in the scenery the image I had before formed 
 of it, and thus confirm my image no less by my percep- 
 tion than this by my image. Or, a beautiful melody 
 slumbers in my mind ; I have neither heard nor thought 
 of it for years ; when unexpectedly it is played in my 
 hearing, I do not at first recognize it, though it sounds 
 familiar to me. I listen with the ear of the mind and 
 joyfully salute in the melody an old acquaintance. Let 
 us now inquire, First, How this reproduction of past 
 images is possible ? And secondly, What are its laws ? 
 
 1. All images as we have before said, remain in the 
 mind ; they are numerous, and of very opposite natures. 
 Yet they are not isolated ; but all are connected by a 
 common tie ; this tie is our personal consciousness. A 
 thread may connect the most beautiful pearls ; but each 
 pearl is unconscious of the others, and the thread knows 
 nothing of the treasures it serves to unite. But 
 the / which connects these images, knows of all of 
 them, predicates them as its contents, and thus unites 
 them with each other and with itself. Though many 
 of these images disappear from present consciousness, 
 the / which keeps all in a relation to each other, and 
 holds them as its treasures, can at any time dive into 
 its own depths and raise the seemingly lost image to 
 light. And this reproduction is not connected with 
 much labor, but the images appear spontaneously, like 
 the chair of Homer that moved of itself wherever its 
 owner wished it ; or like Solomon's ring which pre- 
 sented a new assemblage of spirits with every turn. 
 
 It js then our personal consciousness that includes and 
 governs the images of the mind. Yet there are some, that 
 seem to force themselves upon us against our will, and 
 how much soever we may desire to repel them. Shak- 
 speare has illustrated this very forcibly in his Macbeth. 
 
 2. The images in the mind are related to each other 
 by the /, which formed them from the materials fur- 
 nished by the sensations, and which possesses and keeps 
 them all connected. Hence as a general rule it may be 
 stated, that as diiferent images are subjectively united 
 in the mind, so they will present themselves in this re- 
 
# 
 
 206 SELF-COXSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 lation to each otlier when one of them is^ reproduced. 
 This is tlie principal basis of the association of ideas, 
 w^d on it rest all its laws. These we will consider in 
 a few words : . . 
 
 And first, When; different images have been pro- 
 duced by diiTerent senses at the same time, the one will 
 be recalled to the mind vyhcn the other makes its ap- 
 pearance. We have spent a pleasant hour in agreea- 
 ble company; the room was filled with delicate per- 
 fumes, and we were dchghled by the fragrance. When- 
 ever we recall ilie fra2:rance, the imno-es of the persons 
 we then saw, the order in which they stood or sat, and 
 even the conversation that took place, will be vividly 
 recollected. 
 
 Secondly. Tlie images in the mind have their objects 
 in space. They exist together — none is isolated, but the 
 beautiful cathedral is surrounded by houses, streets and 
 open squares. When the image of the cathedral rises, 
 our fancy, if it be energetic and vivid, will reproduce the 
 images of all the objects surrounding the cathedral. 
 Any one who has seen the City Hall of New-York, and 
 preserved an image of it. will also have transferred to 
 his mind, the su wounding space as the common plat- 
 form of marty other objects ; when at a distance from 
 New- York he recalls the image of the Hall, the image 
 of the space around with all its objects will present 
 themselves, the park with its iron rtnlings, the broad 
 streets encompassmg the park, and the fine buildings 
 lining the streets, &c. 
 
 Thirdly. Space remains always the same, though what 
 in it may change. Time is but change and succession. 
 The place where old Athens stood, still remains; the 
 time when it first stood there is gone forever. Yet we 
 rarely remember a' place without remembering the 
 particular time when we saw it. The images, tlie ob- 
 jects of which are in time, must, like the latter, succeed 
 each other, so that the image of one thing is followed 
 and preceded by other images. In this connection im- 
 ages likewise exist in our mind, and one revives all of 
 them. We recall the image of a dying friend, and all 
 connected with it rise to view : we see his suffering face, 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNISS. 207 
 
 the positions in which he lay — and then his funeral pro- 
 cession. Persons of hvely but uncultivaied fancy, will so 
 fill their narrations of past events with accidental circum- 
 stances, that it is often difficult to keep the train of their 
 ideas. On the whole, images the objects of which were in 
 time, present themselves more easily than those the ob- 
 jects of which are in space. It is likewise more difficult 
 to represent the latter to others than the former. This 
 Homer knew, when, instead of describing the shield of 
 Achilles, he leads us totheplace where it is manufactured, 
 and shows us part after part as it is fabricated. Thus he 
 communicates in succession, what he would otherwise 
 have had to depict simultaneously. Hence too, poetry 
 is more generally attractive than painting. 
 
 Again, Images elicit each other by contrast or re- 
 semblance. An Otaheitan youth called the falling 
 flakes of snow, white rain. A chief of the Otaheitans 
 called a repeating watch, a little suri. ^ In both in- 
 stances, two images presented themselves together, 
 while they had onl^ SLsingle mark in common with 
 each other. The^rnage of a fine commodious rail-road 
 car may readily call up that of an old uncomfortable 
 rattling stage-coach. Images that contrast, at the same 
 time complete, and thus render each other more vivid. 
 Again, The law of cause and effect brings images in 
 connection. Whoever thinks of a Gothic building, will 
 involuntarily perceive in his mind the taste of the age 
 when Gothic architecture prevailed, the manners, laws, 
 habits, religion, all of which harmonized, and were ac- 
 tive in producing this noble style of architecture. 
 
 Finally, Many concrete images are brought in con- 
 nection by a general one, which comprises them as the 
 whole does its parts. Every image is at first as con- 
 crete as the thing of which it is the image ; it is therefore 
 single, occupying a certain place, and in a certain time. 
 But when once we have conceived it, and then per- 
 ceive it in ourselves we gradually free it, as we have 
 stated, of its individual peculiarities, and thus, ab- 
 stracting from them, we form an image that is more 
 general. I have, for instance, the imago of a mocking- 
 bird ; as such it is a single image, in which plumnge, 
 
208 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 bill, eyes and wings, are vividly represented. Sa of the 
 Baltimore Oriole ; its colors, and lively motions. But 
 abstracting from colors motions, bill, (fee. I retain 
 an image, which is that of birds in general, and not 
 of a single individual, so that when it presents itself, 
 theiraages of many species, a&eagles, ravens, doves, &c., 
 will be suggested, and in number proportional to my 
 knowledge of ornithology. So every one has a general 
 image of all butterflies, which he has gained from indi- 
 vidual ones. Having it once, he is by it reminded of the 
 different classes of butterflies. The image of a general 
 character, loses more or less its reference to the single ob- 
 ject of which it is the image, and gains a more direct re- 
 lation to the species, yet these genera/ images are not the 
 same as the classes or species into which judgment divides 
 nature ; the image by its general character, however, be- 
 comes thus still more free, and refined, and the activity 
 of mind we have called conception and fancy, are ele- 
 vated and become 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 Imagination. We must ever keep in view, that 
 mind is an identical life, but at the same time ex- 
 isting in diff"erent organs, which have been called facul- 
 ties. The comparison of the life of mind with that of 
 a tree, may be once more noticed- The contents of 
 sensations are those of conception, and they are also 
 those of imagination. As contained in imagination, 
 however, they are less sensuous and more general in 
 their character, and are, therefore, less limited in extent, 
 and leave us more free in their application. Imagination 
 is consequently a freer activity than conception. The 
 latter takes originally all its images as they peel off 
 from their objects ; fancy calls them forth from the 
 depths of the mind in certain connections and.combina- 
 tions ; imagination imites them freely^ independent of 
 the laws of association. There is another difference 
 between imagination and conception, which deserves 
 ipention here. The image of conception, as has been 
 stated, is not exactly the same as its object j for the ob- 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 209 
 
 ject has reality independent of the image. The images 
 of imagination on the other hand, are the free produc- 
 tions of imagination, and have no existence in reality, 
 as for example, the image of the centaur : these images 
 of imagination are therefore truly tlie objects themselves. 
 This independence of the mind, in uniting the most 
 different conceptions, begins to exhibit itself at least in 
 some degree in fancy. Every conception may become 
 the center, from which 1 may summon many others to 
 appear. What is there to prevent me, when I think of 
 the cathedral at Strasburg, from directing my attention 
 to Erwin of kSteinbach, its celebrated architect, or to 
 Goethe's treatise on it, or to the misconception of 
 Gothic architecture which so long prevailed. So I 
 may turn to the guild of architects of the middle ages, 
 to masonry or mysteries in general. Or I may direct 
 my thoughts to the stone of which the cathedral is 
 built ; to its pictures, its bells ; the French Revolution 
 that once threatened its destruction, or Alsace of which 
 it is the ornament. Now if law is the power which is 
 the union of the manifold, their common soul and which 
 unites the individuals and brings them in relation to 
 each other, upholding order and regularity, what is the 
 laio in the above transitions ? Fancy is undoubtedly 
 more free in associating conceptions or ideas, than those 
 who place so great a stress upon the laws of associa- 
 tion, or suggestion as some prefer, would be willing to 
 admit. Not ten nor twenty laws would fully show the 
 nature of association, for as the fancy of a person is 
 more or less vivid and distinct, more or less active or 
 inert, — so it will combine more or less freely. Why 
 may not the idea of substance call forth that of acci- 
 dence? or that of phenomena the idea of cause? or 
 that of end the idea of means ? It is certain therefore, 
 that fancy is free in its combinations, and more so when 
 it associates different ideas by its own power. In the 
 latter respect it rises towards imagination, yet it is not 
 the same, for fancy is only reproductive, while imagina- 
 tion more free is productive. The richer the former, the 
 richer the latter. To define imagination, we would say, 
 1. It is the activity of mind which with ease and free- 
 .27 
 
210 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 dom unites different images or creates new ones, having 
 been furnished with the materials for them, by sensation 
 and conception. Such images of imagination are those 
 of Amazons, Cyclops, Syrens, fairies, elves, giants and 
 dwarfs, &;c. These images cannot be seen in nature, 
 they are therefore, in one respect new^ and yet the parts 
 of which they consist, are furnished by sensation or 
 perception, and consequently met with out of us. 
 
 2. Imagination is the power to call forth images 
 for the purpose of clothing an idea or thought which 
 arises in the mind. The images thus called forth 
 may be variously modified to render them appropriate 
 vehicles of thought. This no one will dispute who 
 is aware that as the mind constantly grows in culti- 
 vation, its conceptions must likewise become more cor- 
 rect, so that as often as they are reproduced, they will 
 bear the impress of the mind's improvement. Imagin-^ 
 ation then, is the power which modifies the images 
 07ice received, creates 7iew ones of them, and gives 
 them contents which do not originally belong to 
 them. 
 
 Some examples will show this more satisfactorily: 
 I think of strength ; my imagination being lively, seeks 
 for an image by which to express it ; it takes the image 
 of the lion, places its thought in it, and thus the lion be- 
 comes the symbol of strength. Again, the idea that man 
 if left to himself, is without any knowledge of heaven- 
 ly things and cannot speak concerning them, is a thought 
 produced by reflection. This thought imagination de- 
 sires to represent in an externcll form. It therefore cre- 
 ates an image to which it gives it as its contents. The 
 Egyptian statue of Memnon was the symbol thus cre- 
 ated. It was made of marble, its face turned towards 
 the rising sun, and it gave forth lovely sounds when 
 the first rays fell upon it. So man is mute and dead 
 till heavenly light awakens him. Guido represents a 
 pious and beautiful virgin, sitting alone at her needle ; 
 two angels attend her. What does this mean ? Inno- 
 cence and dihgence are honored by heavenly spirits. 
 
 The contents placed in an image, may be a number 
 or c^?/s^er of thoughts, and then instead of one we must 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 211 
 
 have many images. When connected it is called an al- 
 legory. The thought that man consists of soul and 
 body, is connected with the idea, that whatever he is in 
 regard to intellect, he is by having freed himself from 
 his animal passions. The Egyptian sphinx is an alle- 
 gorical representation of this ; in it the head of a woman 
 grows forth and rests on a body composed of parts of 
 different animals, mingled with each other. This 
 means, that humanity, — here represented by a woman — 
 must by its own power emerge from the dominion ol 
 animal desires. Or Eros, love^ sitting upon a lion, 
 strength^ guides him with a silken cord, moderation^ 
 shows that love softens the strongest. Cerberus with 
 three heads, and Argus with a hundred eyes, express 
 the ideas that watchfulness must look in every direc- 
 tion. The centaur is the symbol of prudence, swiftness, 
 and considerateness. 
 
 Imagination as it may place its contents in the works 
 of painting and sculpture, may also express them by 
 sounds that is music, and words, which is poetry. A 
 person of imagination, not only feels anxious to express 
 his thoughts and ideas in a sensible form, but his feel- 
 ings and emotions likewise. Joy and grief, pain or 
 pleasure, fear and hope, anxiety and expectation, gayety 
 and melancholy fill the breast of man, and go and come 
 with never-ceasing changes. The greater part of our 
 inmost feelings and most tender emotions, do not become 
 entirely objective to ourselves, but are grown together 
 with the heart their common seat, mysterious and not 
 understood. Images have their objects existing in reali- 
 ty ; the images of imagination though they are not real, 
 may be made to assume an external form, and thus be- 
 come objective to us by the chisel or the brush ; but it 
 is utterly impossible to represent our feelings in an ex- 
 ternal form, or to convey them by language. For the 
 latter is also intended for general conceptions only. 
 The medium by which alone we can make a represen- 
 tation of our feelings to ourselves and others, is that of 
 musical sound. But sounds are not all musical ; the 
 murmuring of brooks, the roaring of forests, the hum- 
 ming of bees, the whistling of the wind, and the song of 
 
212 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 birds, are not in themselves musical; they also become 
 so in relation to us, after we place feelings with which 
 they harmonize in them, and hear the feelings expressed 
 by them. What is it — if this slight digression may be 
 permitted, — that interests ns in the mournful sounds of 
 the nightingale, when concealed in the thicket, she 
 sends forth her plaintive notes, that sweetly swelling 
 fill the valley and touch every heart ? Is it not that we 
 imagine the nightingale giving utterance to her grief, 
 as we would to ours, in song? Does not the Greek 
 mythos inform us that she is grieved, and that she 
 breathes forth her grief in melodious smiles ? Suppose 
 some one should accurately imitate her, should we af- 
 ter discovering it, consider this imitation attractive, or 
 the sounds musical ? Every bird that sings, expresses 
 the peculiar feeling of its own existence, by its peculiar 
 note, and how different is the note with which the 
 mother mourns, when a mischievous boy has stolen her 
 young, from those with which she calls them, and those 
 which she has in her common state of existence ! 
 Sounds become musical also by their richness, clear- 
 ness, fuUpess, purity, and by the relation of the differ- 
 ent sounds to each other, by rhythm, time, harmony 
 and melody, by their connections, transitions and vari- 
 ous modifications. 
 
 What is it now, that makes musical sounds susceptible 
 of representing our emotions and feelings ? Sounds like 
 feelings cailnot assume a shape or form in space ; they float 
 only in time. So our feelings have an existence in time 
 only, not in space, since they are without external form 
 and visible expression. They change and pass away 
 like sounds ; sounds, therefore, closely resemble feel- 
 ings in this respect, and are the very element in which 
 they may live and move. Hence the movements of mu- 
 sic easily enter the seat of feeling, the heart and its emo- 
 tions, and as while we listen, consciousness has nothing 
 external to engage its attention, as the music draws its 
 attention to the feelings of the heart, it becomes merged 
 in them and is borne along on the stream of expressive 
 harmonies and lovely melodies. Thus we see that mu- 
 sic is £^n excellent medium by which to express and call 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 213 
 
 forth the feelings. Again, as harmonies and melodies 
 affect our feelings and not our judgment hke paintings, 
 statues, (fee, so it is time that renders sounds in their 
 connection mtisical, and that affects us pleasantly. For 
 we are in time and time is in us ; and so sound again 
 rests only in time. Thus we and sounds have a com- 
 mon element, and when sounds are well measured and 
 follow each other in order, they enter into our feelings 
 and produce the same rhythmical motions in us. Time 
 is the first element of music ; yet no animal can keep 
 time, neither in its walknor in any thing it does ; neith- 
 er do birds keep time in their songs. The art of keep- 
 ing time belongs to man, and is not met with in all na- 
 ture even in the motion of the heavenly bodies, which 
 accelerate and retard their course ; the music of the 
 spheres must therefore differ from ours in this respect. 
 
 We see then that music has all its elements in com- 
 mon with ourselves. In it we do not hear any thing 
 different from ourselves, but the heart hears itself, as if 
 the light in its purity could see itself. Time is common 
 to our feelings and to sound ; sounds in themselves by 
 their purity or clearness, softness and richness accord 
 with particular feelings, like interjections and exclama- 
 tions ; while harmonies and melodies unfold our joy 
 and grief in all their depth and fullness. 
 
 But imagination does not only place o\x\ emotions and 
 feelings in music, but also thoughts and conceptions. 
 In this case we are in the habit of saying, music accom- 
 panies songs, while songs are themselves already music. 
 Music by itself and music as an accompaniment differ 
 only in their contents ; the former has feelings for its 
 contents, the latter conceptions. Here again we must 
 distinguish. For the musician places either the feeling 
 which has been produced in him by reading a poem, in 
 his music, or his desire is to represent by music concep- 
 tions themselves. In the former case the composer 
 studies a poem, until he enters fully into its sprit, and 
 receives an impression which will resemble the feeling 
 under the influence of which the poet composed the 
 piece. He then will, by his imagination, place this im- 
 pression or feeling in sounds. The character of the poem 
 
214 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 will be that of the melody, and this will call forth sym- 
 pathy in the hearts of the hearers. This is the case with 
 Zelter's beautiful and classical compositions to Goethe's 
 and Schiller's poems. Zelter says himself that he, learn- 
 ed thovse pieces by heart, studied their character, gave 
 himself up wholly to the impression received from 
 them, and swng the melody in his mind. 
 
 Haydn's Creation, on the other hand, Handel's Mes- 
 siah, Beethoven's oratorios, Mozart's operas, have as 
 their contents, conceptions and ideas placed in them by 
 imagination. These composers did not wish to throw 
 their private feelmgs into these compositions, but to 
 represent ideas themselves. Yet even here these ideas 
 are not represented by mwsicio i\\Q judgment ox under- 
 standings but to the hearty and the feelings called forth, 
 for example, by light, by the seasops, by tlxe crucifixion, 
 are intended to be awakened in us by sounds. We 
 shall feel the emotions produced by these phenomena ; 
 we shall merge ourselves in them and experience them 
 fully. It is scarcely necessary to say that nothing 
 arouses us more quickly than music. The Marseilles 
 hymn of the French Revolution, the classical church 
 music of the middle ages, the operas of Mozart, the love- 
 ly melodies in PreischutZj how they excite and ani- 
 mate ! The requiem of Mozart, his master-piece, how 
 it makes us feel the melancholy of the composer, which 
 remains so fully in it ! 
 
 After this rather long digression on music, in which 
 we have indulged because music generally receives less 
 attention than the other arts, it only remains for me to 
 say, that the poet also by imagination places his thoughts 
 in his poetry. To do this he makes use of language. 
 The sound as the articulate word is no longer desired 
 on its own account, but as means ; and words become 
 the mere vehicle of thoughts. Thus Homer embodied 
 his reflections on wrath, haughtiness and voluptuous- 
 ness, in the characters of Achilles, Agamemnon and 
 Paris, his reflections on connubial fidelity in Penelope, 
 on prudence in Ulysses, on life in general, in his Iliad 
 and Odyssey. Goethe in his Iphigenia represents the 
 thought, that truth and humanity in the beautiful ge- 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 216 
 
 niiis of a mild and tender girl will conquer even the 
 rudeness of a barbarian. Sophocles exhibits the power 
 of a sister's love, by bringing its divine power in con- 
 tact with the human statute of Creon, and by exhibit- 
 ing the victory of the former over the latter in the bo- 
 som of the tender Antigone. And what is the case in 
 epic and dramatic is of course so too in lyric poetry. 
 Does not Pindar's grave imagination place all its high 
 and noble thoughts in the stories it relates ? Does it 
 not use these fables as if they were invented for these 
 contents, which Pindar is desirous of representing in a 
 sensible form? 
 
 From the above it must sufficiently appear, that im- 
 agination as the basis of arts creates an unreal world. 
 By it all objects and images receive ideal substance, and 
 there is nothing too good to become the receptacle in 
 which imagination may place the contents of the mind. 
 While the man of business sees nothing in spring but 
 flowers and hills, the eye of imagination perceives in 
 the flowers and ornamented hills the connubial gar- 
 lands of spring; when the former hears nothing but the 
 noise of a running brook, imagination hears the mur- 
 muring waters express their joy, that they are no longer 
 chained by the ice, but have been freed by spring to 
 which they sing their song. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF IMAGINATION. 
 
 In continuing the subject of imagination, it must be 
 understood that its character is also that of art, that in 
 describing it, we in truth represent the nature of the lat- 
 ter. With tins view we suffer ourselves to indulge this 
 interesting topic somewhat beyond that symmetrical 
 proportion which the difterent parts of a book ought to 
 exhibit in their relation to each other. 
 
 And first, Imagination is originally imitative. This as- 
 sertion, however, has been disputed, for it seems at first 
 sight to make nature the teacher of man — to indicate 
 that he learned from the fish to swim, the beaver to build 
 houses, from the spider to weave the net with which he 
 can catch the fish in the water, and the bird in the air. 
 
216 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 This is repulsive to the laws of nature; all oiFence, 
 however, will be done away as soon as we ascer- 
 tain the true meaning of imitation. It means nothing 
 else than " to reproduce the exact measure of such phe- 
 nomena as we perceive in nature or in the lives of other 
 beings." This capacity is by no means to be despised, 
 for here also man shows himself to be the lord of na- 
 ture, since there is nothing in it which he cannot unite 
 wrth himself and make subservient to his purposes. All 
 the lower classes of animals, some of which are docile 
 in a high degree^ feel no inclination whatever to imitate, 
 and only birds are attracted by sounds, and monkeys by 
 the motions of man to attempt it. But this imitation of 
 animals rests on an instinctive, dark and confused sym- 
 pathy, while that of man is voluntary and designed for 
 certain purposes. These are at first the removal of 
 wants and necessity ; but soon man delights in the 
 skill he has acquired in imitating nature, and cultivates 
 art for their sake. This skill manifests to him his pow- 
 er; especially when, as was the case with several dis- 
 tinguished painters in ancient times and in the Dutch 
 schools, the resemblance deceives the eye. Who is not 
 here reminded of the grapes of Zeuxis at which birds 
 pecked ; of the painted insects, torn to pieces by a 
 monkey, anxious to take hold of them, of the horse on 
 canvass, neighed at by that of Alexander : and of the 
 painted linen cloth that even deceived a master in the 
 art of painting ? Yet imagination cannot for a long 
 time delight itself in this mere skill and dependence on 
 nature. The productions of nature have, on the one 
 hand, a decided superiority over those of imagination, 
 for the flower in my garden blooms, breathes and ex- 
 hales, while that on paper is but our imitation and has 
 no life. It is for this reason no doubt that the Moham- 
 medans object to art; for they say that all these works 
 of art resembling so much the works of nature, will rise 
 in the day of judgment and demand a soul of the artist. 
 On the other hand, if mere skill is that which delights, 
 heaiity cannot be the object but only correctness^ and in 
 this case it could not matter whether it is a blade of 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 21T 
 
 ^rass or a beautiful bird, if the resemblance is only af- 
 fected. 
 
 Imagination is not satisfied with such imitation ; 
 freeing itself from it, it will at first indulge fancies and 
 images that cannot be met with in nature. Elves peep- 
 ing forth from the cups of flowers, or fairies slipping 
 into them when the sun rises ; clouds surrounding a pic- 
 ture, that exhibit angels whenclosely examined, and gar- 
 lands of flowers, in the cups of which we discover beauti- 
 ful faces ; — such pictures are the products of an imagina- 
 tion freeing itself from nature. When the desire to be 
 perfectly free, is indulged to excess, we get caricatures, 
 witches, and faces that have no truly intellectual charac- 
 ter whatever. 
 
 By imitating all that nature contains, mar^ becomes 
 acquainted not only with its usefulness, but also with 
 its general nature. In it he soon recognizes something 
 divine ; for while all the individual beings are constant- 
 ly going and coming, appearing and disappearing, it re- 
 mains permanently the same, unchangeable and the 
 prototype of all the individual forms of a species. Hav- 
 ing compared image with image, the eye of genius sees 
 what is no where realized in one individual ; it sees 
 the prototype of all, which the individual is wholly in- 
 capable of expressing in a faultless manner. The idea 
 of perfect beauty has arisen in the mind of the artist. 
 He seeks for it in reality but cannot find it. A hair, a 
 mole, a large foot, will render the otherwise perfect 
 beauty of a lady imperfect. So it is with every thing in 
 history and elsewhere. Our purposes may be noble, 
 but external circumstances attach themselves to their 
 execution, and they are not what they were designed to 
 be. Historical actions may have been well and fully 
 designed, but only a part of the design has been carried 
 out, the rest of the actions were accidental. The im- 
 agination of the artist having conceived the ideal of 
 beauty, and having sought in vain for it in reality, 
 sketches it on canvas, represents it in the statue, or 
 breathes it into language. This idea of beauty is infi- 
 nite and invisible, and placing it in a sensible form, the 
 artist unites the infinite and finite, the invisible and visi- 
 
 28 
 
218 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 ble, and as by a magic mirror he renders the one visi- 
 ble in the other. This union of the invisible and visi- 
 ble, of thought and sensible form, is beauty. To see it, 
 there is more than an accurate bodily eye required ; and 
 he who has not the soul of beauty in his own mind, will 
 never discover it out of himself. Compositions like 
 those of Mozart ; cathedrals like those at Cologne and 
 Strasburg; landscapes like those of Claude Lorraine, are 
 not met with in nature. And here it may be well to 
 introduce the views of some celebrated artists on this 
 point. Raphael and Guido confess, the former, that he 
 could not find any model for his female beauty, his Oa- 
 latea ; the latter, that he sought in vain for a model for 
 his archangel. Raphael adds in his letter, in which he 
 states the above : " Because I cannot find the ideal of 
 my Galatea in reality, I make use of a certain idea." 
 [This word used in the sense of Plato.] When Zeuris, 
 requested by a city to paint Helena, asked for five of 
 the most beautiful girls as models, did he not say, that 
 there was no single virgin equal to his ideal of beauty 7 
 Hence Winkelmann is correct in saying : Nature may ex- 
 hibit single parts of as great beauty, as art ever pro- 
 duced ; but beauty as a whole, nature must yield to art. 
 Goethe said once to Eckermann: he heads of two hor- 
 ses of ancient date and lately found are of such beauty, 
 that the English, the best horsemen in the world, are 
 constrained to acknowledge that they never saw such 
 horses in reality . And again : when once asked respect- 
 ing a picture of Rubens', he said : such scenery has 
 never been seen in nature ; this we owe to the poetical 
 genius of Rubens . 
 ^ A good imagination, however, is not unnatural ; it 
 ,> makes use of the objects of nature, and puts the riches 
 ' of its own soul into them. So Goethe says of Claude 
 / Lorraine ; he knew the world and used it as a means by 
 "'} ' which to express his rich soul. 
 
 Though we fear to swell this portion too much we 
 cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of adding two ques- 
 tions more with regard to art ; , What is its truth ? 
 What is its aim ? 
 With regard to the former questioij a host of views 
 
SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 219 
 
 ought to be met if space would allow it. " Poetical 
 truth is fictitious, and hence having no reality, is of no 
 value." This is the creed of many persons. With them 
 all truth consists in the mere real existence of a thing, 
 and yet so much every falsehood, every theft, every 
 crime claims for itself, for all of them have at least an 
 existence. Real truth, however, is not the mere external 
 existence of a thing, but its rational and general na- 
 ture. If I say: ^^ this plant hlooms^^ and a few 
 days after any one goes to see whether it is so, it may 
 have ^shed its flowers, and consequently what I said is 
 no longer true. But if I name the species of the plant, 
 its kind, describe its form and manner of life, as this be- 
 longs not only to it as an individual, but to its species, 
 I have given truth ; and whether any one sees the plant 
 that I see, or another of the same kind, he will know 
 what I know. Or the truth is a historical one. Here 
 the opinion is that the correctness of the fact is the 
 truth of history. If so, the French would be right in 
 asserting that we have no history, but only the notions 
 of historians. For all history is related by language ; 
 language, however, is so general in its expressions that 
 it is wholly impossible for it to express any thing en- 
 tirely individual. If I say : he squints^ I can convey 
 only something general; many squint, but each one in 
 a peculiar manner, and this peculiarity cannot be repre- 
 sented by the word squint. It can only be pointed out 
 to the eye with the finger. Every historical action is 
 to be performed by individuals; their feelings enter into 
 it as elements ; it pre-supposes a certain place, a certain 
 hour, all will affect the feelings of the individuals ; — but 
 who would or who could by the strongest imagination 
 discover all the particulars of such an action 1 
 Hence it follows that what might be called the real ex- 
 istence of an action cannot be conveyed by language 
 which is so general. But it cannot utter our feelings at 
 all except by interjections. And again : the action as it 
 occurred, existed differently from what it does in our 
 conceptions. There is its reality, here its ideality. Now 
 all of us know how differently actions are described by 
 different spectators, though they are most impartial. 
 
220 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 And yet we speak of historical truth ! The truth of 
 history consists in the spirit that produces the action, 
 in the development of national intellect, prosperity, in- 
 tercourse, &c., so that one action is interwoven with 
 another by one and the same national spirit. This spirit^ 
 this national exertion to preserve, to improve, to ad- 
 vance itself, is the truth of history. I may know, for 
 instance, the hour and place, when and where a battle 
 was fought, the individual persons who fell, and those 
 who escaped ; and yet I may have no historical truth. 
 But when the design for which the battle was fought 
 becomes known to me, and its effects upon nations and 
 the succeeding history, then only I have truth. 
 
 From this it must appear that truth does not consist 
 merely in its having an existence in reality ; but that 
 it is the rational generality, the general spirit which ap- 
 pears in and through a thing. The thing is perishable, 
 the spirit eternal. Now in this respect the truth of art 
 agrees fully with truth in general. The artist's eye per- 
 ceives the truth resting in the objects or historical oc- 
 currences ; he perceives that it is clouded there by 
 many circumstances, and loving the truth he feels an 
 irresistible desire to represent it as he sees and loves it ; 
 free from every thing not pertaining to it, pure and 
 transparent. This of course can only be said of true and 
 genuine art, and not of its inferior branches ; of Shak- 
 speare, and not of Bulwer ; of the better parts of Byron 
 but not of his poetry in general. 
 
 Thus then we have answered the first question, and 
 with it also the second. For if the truth of art is what 
 we have seen it to be, the representation of this truth is 
 its aim. Artists do not merely desire to imitate, for then 
 their labors would be vanity ; nor merely to entertain, 
 for then they would stand on the same scale with jug- 
 glers, ventriloquists, &,c. Their aim is to represent the 
 invisible in the visible, the infinite in the finite, eternal 
 truth in its purity by rendering it manifest in a sensible 
 form and shape. By this its aim, art differs from all 
 sciences, all of which make constant efforts to jreneralize 
 single objects, and classify them, and therefore, proceed 
 in a manner directly opposite to that of art. Yet art 
 
4% 
 
 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 221 
 
 and science serve each other, for the latter ^ivesthe rule 
 for the former, and the former furnishes materials for the 
 latter, and by its pictures the study of natural history, 
 (fee. 
 
 Secondly. Our imagination is either rich or poor, 
 that is, it produces many or few new images, or it is 
 strong or weak, fiery in its productions, vivid and dis- 
 tinct, or cool and indifferent. Here according to the law, 
 that a power spread over a large surface will be less 
 strong than when apart in smaller circumference — the 
 rich imagination may be less accurate and precise than 
 a strong one, for the former will produce more new im- 
 ages than the latter. An imagination that has but a 
 few objects attractive to itself, cannot of course have 
 many materials for the formation of its productions. It 
 shows both strength and riches, when it knows how to 
 use the few materials it has, with the most various and 
 always new modifications. Such an imagination pro- 
 duces from the object the greatest variety of the most 
 beautiful imagery, as for instance, that of Ossian. It 
 differs likewise in quality. The imagination of the 
 gardener, the geometer, the man of business, and the 
 architect, easily perceives regularity and order, symme- 
 try and harmony. Th^ imagination of the painter and 
 sculptor is aided by the eye, and form, colors, light and 
 shade, flow easily from the chisel and brush — the ideas 
 of the artist's animating hand and fingers. Imagina- 
 tion aided by the ear, fits for music and language. 
 
 Thirdly. Imagination differs also with regard to its 
 form. This is either symbolical, classical, or roman- 
 tic. 
 
 The form of imagination is symbolical when it places 
 its contents in an object, which is more or less capable 
 of indicating them. Truth, for example, is the same in 
 the sphere of science, that light is in the sphere of nature. 
 Thus far both are homogeneous. But truth is spiritual 
 and cannot be felt by a sense, nor perceived by the mere 
 bodily eye, while the rays of light may be felt. When 
 now truth, as an invisible power, is represented by the 
 orb of the sun, we have a symbol. The symbol is some- 
 thing external — a form perceptible by sense, which by its 
 
222 SELF-CONSGIOUSNESS. 
 
 peculiar position convinces us that it contains a hidden 
 meaning. This meaning is invisible and internal. In 
 symbolical imagination, therefore, we must distinguish 
 the e^xternal form from the internal signification. The 
 owl at the feet of Athena, for instance, held by a chain, is 
 the symbol of darkness for it cannot see by day ; the chain 
 in the^hand of the goddess of wisdom is the symbol of the 
 powers of light over darkness. We can only see the 
 owl and the chain, but being connected with Athena we 
 must believe that the artist had some design in placing 
 it there, and that the owl is but the receptacle of some 
 of his thoughts, which we must discover by reflection. 
 
 Imagination is classical when form and contents so 
 fully receive each other, that the former is transparent 
 and seems only to exist in order to represent the latter, 
 and when the latter fully expresses itself so that the art- 
 ist not only shows the best form, but also knows how 
 to communicate by it every particle of its contents, leav- 
 ing nothing unexpressed, retaining nothing in his bo- 
 som. This entire intussusception of form and contents 
 is the only classical fo]:m of imagination, and we 
 meet with it in Greece alone. If in the symbolical 
 form, contents and form are only brought together ex- 
 ternally, if we must reflect in order to discover the one 
 in the other, the contents in the form, if consequently 
 we may make a mistake ; with the classical form all is 
 otherwise, for all is clear, transparent, and perfectly beau- 
 tiful. Who that looks at the statue of Apollo, will not 
 at once recognize an ever-blooming youth, that, free 
 from care and trouble, rejoices in the feeling of exis- 
 tence. 
 
 The form of imagination may be romantic. As such 
 it was not known to the ancients ; for it has become 
 possible only since the introduction of Christianity 
 which opened to the mind of man the world of infinite 
 spirit ; this world, filling the breast of artists, imagina- 
 tion seeks in vain for conceptions and images in which 
 to place, and by which to express it. Nothing in the 
 world can represent in an adequate form, that God whom 
 Christ has revealed. The spirit is only accessible to 
 the spirit ; we cannot convey it by any image. The 
 
SELP-CONSCIOUSNESS. 223 
 
 symbol, it is true, may represent the Infinite by the 
 finite ; but what a defective representation ! And yet, 
 however defective, it satisfied the ancients, for they had 
 no clear idea of the Invisible and Infinite; they felt it 
 darkly, but knew it not. Now the infinite is clearly re- 
 vealed ; hence it is that no representation given it by 
 imagination will sufiice, for our consciousness of the 
 Infinite will flow beyond every visible, finite form, and 
 leave it far behind. The poet is overpowered by the 
 riches of his theme, and yet he cannot dismiss it. He 
 feels that he cannot fully express what agitates his 
 breast and yet he is irresistiblj'- urged to give vent to 
 his deep and lasting emotions. The elements of the ro- 
 mantic imagination are, the love of Christ, the vanity of 
 all things, a desire for an eternal home, the transitori- 
 ness of this and the immortality of a future life. Its 
 elements are on the one hand the spirit and the world 
 for which it is destined, and on the other hand, this 
 world of sense in which it lives and which cannot satisfy 
 its spiritual longing, nor represent its ideas. This ro- 
 mantic character is indicated by the steeples which are 
 peculiar to christian churches ; they rise high into the 
 clouds, and point to a world above. 
 
 If we compare these three forms with each other, we 
 shall find the symbolical to be sublime^ the classical to 
 be beautifuljSiiid the lonidiniic to be sentimental Siud 
 mystical. 
 
 Fourthly. The power of imagination is susceptible 
 of cultivation. At first, it is rude, colossal, and without 
 measure. So, for instance, the mythus of Uma and 
 Siva, or of Sagaras and Vishnu in India ; of Faust in 
 Germany. It becomes cultivated when it produces ac- 
 cording to' laws. It will become piquant, paradoxical, 
 barroqti^, full of caricatures, when it is arbitrary. The 
 statues of an Italian count, made of the finest stone, are 
 examples of arbitrary imagination. He had the head 
 of a goose put upon the body of a lady ; or the neck of 
 a goose with the head of an eagle on the body of a lion. 
 
 Fifthly. Imagination and cool reflection seem to be 
 antipodes ; the youthful fire and warmth, and freshness 
 of the former, are extinguished by the considerateness 
 
224 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 and logical calculation of the latter. Yet imagination 
 needs the measure^ which thought only can give it. 
 In proportion, however, as pure thinking prevails, the 
 imagery of imagination becomes superfluous, and im- 
 , agination itself is made subservient to reflection. As 
 man lives in the sphere of theoretical truth, so he moves 
 in that of practical liffe ; in which the naked reality 
 only avails, and images and beautiful pictures are of no 
 value. Yet as was remarked above, the man of busi- 
 ness, and our practical life also, need the aid of imagi- 
 
 ^ nation. The yard, the scales in the hand of justice, 
 are the symbols in which imagination places the prac- 
 tical idea of right. It was imagination that taught 
 savages lo lick property when transferred from one to 
 another, for the tongue is the organ of assimilation ; or to 
 break a straw — 5^7pwZa, hence stipulation — for as a straw 
 exactly divided, so each receives full value. Here the 
 productions of imagination are no longer beautiful, but 
 useful. In the progress of time, these symbolical ac- 
 tions become superfluous; a word becomes sufiicient, 
 
 ^ and where it is not, a legal instrument of writing, or the 
 
 word larittenj is necessary. Thus the will of man be- 
 comes independent of external things. Imagination in 
 this practical respect takes the following course : It is 
 at first si/mbolical, then it becomes emhlematie^ and final- 
 ly semeiotical. It is symbol ica 1 , when the object by which 
 it represents a thought, and the thought itself are homo- 
 geneous. Darkness cannot he the symbol of light; but 
 " when a genius with an inverted torch is placed as a 
 monument upon a grave, it is symbolical. For there a 
 life has been extinguished, a light, an eye, beneath 
 that monument the dead lies without life, without 
 light — the light of the torch and the light of life are 
 homogeneous." On the other hand, the productions of 
 imagination are emblematical,, when the form and con- 
 tents become inadequate to each other, or are^heteroge- 
 neous. The feeling of thirst and a glass of beer on a 
 tavern sign have nothing homogeneous ; the sign is 
 therefore, not the symbol of thirst, but its emblem. 
 Yet there is still a relation between them ; or if a rela- 
 tion no longer exists, the imagination work? semeioti- 
 
 m 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. > 225 
 
 caUy, Here the form intended to represent certain con- 
 tents, does not in the least resemble them ; it therefore 
 represents something entirely different from itself ; the 
 imagination determines that a thing independent of its 
 fitness shall signify or indicate a certain thing, though 
 it bears not the slightest relation to the thing signified. 
 Two triangles, for instance, put into each other, are in 
 many countries used as signs before beer-houses ; there 
 is certainly no relation between two triangles and beer. 
 If the things used as symbols and emblems continue to 
 have an existence, whether we place contents in them 
 or not, the sign loses all importance when the thought 
 signified is drawn from it, or when it is no longer used 
 significantly. Many signs which we daily make can 
 be understood by no one except ourselves; the boy, for 
 instance, breaks down a few branches near where he 
 has discovered a bird's nest ; this is to him an indica- 
 tive sign, but not to us, hence we can attach no impor- 
 tance to these broken branches. 
 
 "We have yet to consider imagination, as producing 
 signSy and as such it may be called, 
 
 SEMEIOTIC IMAGINATION. 
 
 The term semeioiicAs not found in the English lan- 
 guage. It is of Greek origin from the word ff;?//aa, sign. 
 With this explanation we may be permitted to use it 
 here. Every thing in nature, upon which man may 
 impress his will, must suffer itself to be used by him as 
 a sign. Even rivers may become the signs of bounda- 
 ries. Yet the more susceptible a thing is of receiving a 
 mark from the hands of man, the better it is qualified 
 for a sign. Thus, the staff in the hand of Agamemnon, 
 " which sent forth no leaves, and retained no life, after the 
 knife cut it from its trunk and peeled and smoothed it," 
 is the sign of power ; so the hickory pole with its flags is 
 a sign, intelligible to all the citizens of the union. The 
 signs of semeiotic imagination are contained either in 
 space or time, either in rest or in motion, and may be 
 thus classified : Signs in space have different forms, yet 
 they are not to be ve^lued by their forms, but by what 
 
 29 
 
4 
 
 226 PSYCHOEOGY. 
 
 they indicate. The cockade, the flag, which indicates 
 a nation's ideas of its liberty, and which though at rest 
 themselves may cause the greatest commotions, as the 
 fkig when unfurled and waving in the air; are of more 
 importance than the most showy sign before a tavern. 
 The signs that are only in space are innumerable ; 
 those that I make in a book while reading it, in my 
 walks, and those made by private individuals in their 
 gardens or houses, used by companies on their seals, 
 by nations in the uniform of their soldiers, &c. At first 
 these signs had a meaning in themselves, but this mean- 
 ing was gradually lost, and semeiotic imagination used 
 them for whatever purpose it pleased. 
 
 When, on the other hand, the sign is something 
 which exists only in time, it must be always in motion. 
 The numerous signs that belong to the art of expres- 
 sing thoughts by the motions of the body, have been al- 
 ready alluded to in Part I, Chapter III, to which the 
 reader is referred. Other signs are ; rockets discharged 
 in the air; the waving of a handkerchief; the hoisting 
 of a flag, &c. These are all of them for the eye, and 
 naust be noticed at the very moment, when they are in 
 motion. Imagination is more rich, however, in the 
 signs it produces for the ear. Sounds become signals. 
 Clapping the hands may indicate applause, hissing, 
 disapprobation. The same sounds may affect us in the 
 most different ways, and these different effects depend 
 wholly on the meaning we attach to them. In Ger- 
 many, where in former times every occurrence of the 
 day was brought into connection with religion, it was 
 announced by the same bell that summoned worshipers 
 to the house of God on Sabbaths a:nd holy days. The 
 bell accompanied the life of an individual from bis cra- 
 dle to his grave ; and it was also the tongue to announce 
 the grand divisions of the day. All these things the 
 bell proclaimed by the same sound, and yet how differ- 
 ent were the feelings excited in us when its rich sounds 
 fell upon the ear at Easter, from those called forth by 
 the same bell on Good Friday, on the Sabbath, or early 
 in the morning when it announced the rising of the 
 sun! Again, the chimes of a bell, that reach us from 
 
 ■#% 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 227 
 
 the summit of a hill covered with forests, where silence 
 reigns and nothing^ is to be seen but a solitary chapel — 
 how sweetly are we affected by them ! Poets like Uh- 
 land, Schiller and others, have made these chimes the 
 themes of some of their finest poems. 
 
 Next in rank are organical sounds, or such as are 
 produced by the organs of man ; hence sounds of in- 
 struments, the trumpet, flute, &c. The sounds of the 
 trumpet govern the motions of a body of cavalry, 
 those of the flute are fitted for the expression of love. 
 Whistling is likewise a signal, but. a signal of uncertain 
 character. The watch-man in pursuit of a thief m.akes 
 use of it, and so does the thief. 
 
 Finally, articulate sounds must serve as signs. But 
 what sounds are articulate 7 Those produced by ar- 
 ticuloSj by the tongue, teeth and lips ; those therefore 
 that are formed by all of them. The sounds of animals 
 differ from those of instruments ; the latter are based in 
 the vibrations of bodies, the former rests in the voice. 
 The superiority of the latter may be seen even in the 
 external form. Musical instruments are either long, as 
 the flute, the horn, the clarinet, or voluminous as the 
 drum, &c. ; but the throat of the animal producing the 
 voice, unites both length and depth. Yet while the 
 voice of the animal is superior to the sounds of instru- 
 ments, the voice of man is superior to that of animals ; 
 for it is capable of producing the word. The Latins 
 have one root for voice and word, vox — vocabulum. The 
 word contains more than a mere sign — a sign for light 
 indicates only light as visible to the eye. The word 
 light contains all that natural philosophers know about 
 it. Hence with articulate sounds as words, we approach 
 a higher sphere of the mind, and as conceptions are 
 connected with each other by the power of our self-con- 
 sciousness, so are words as the signs of thought, and in 
 this union they form language. 
 
 LANGUAGE. 
 
 All our conceptions depend upon our sensations, and 
 are impossible without them. Our sensations depend 
 

 228 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 on our individuality, and are impossible without it ; for 
 that, which has no individual life, cannot feel. Con- 
 ceptions without words are, therefore, confined to the 
 individual, transient as itself, and limited to its pecu- 
 liar existence. But when a <jonception is expressed by 
 a word, it receives an existence independent of that of 
 th6 individual, and is rescued from the danger of being 
 lost with it. Through the word a conception becomes 
 permanent ; without it, it would disappear with the per- 
 son that formed it, as the gilded xiloud vanishes with the 
 setting sun. The conception is internal, hs we have 
 before seen ; the word is so likewise, for it has no es;- 
 isience in space, no external form ; yet it is for the ear 
 and consequently audible. Thus while the conception 
 originally is not for the senses, it receives by the word 
 an external utterance for the ear. Language, then, is 
 the external expression for our internal conceptions. 
 This, however, must not be misunderstood, for though 
 the word is external as sound, it must become internal 
 by hearing. This shows itself, when uncultivated per- 
 sons read ; here the word has its corresponding signs in 
 space, but such persons nevertheless either read aloud, 
 or imitate the sound with their lips. 
 
 Language is either that of signs^x that of words. 
 The former we have spoken of in the division on se- 
 meiotic imagination. It is not so much the product of 
 mind, as of the necessities and wants of our nature. 
 It is limited in its extent, and can only cause others to 
 feel as we do, or to understand our sensations. I am 
 hungry, another has food ; I make a sign, chew, or point 
 to his food and thus make him understand my appetite. 
 It would be difficult to express thoughts or ideas by such 
 signs, had they not been conveyed by words before, and 
 had they only been placed in these signs. Something 
 similar to a language of signs we undoubtedly meet with 
 in nature. The ants that touch each other, when danger 
 threatens ; the bird that on the watch, gives a sign to 
 warn ; the hen, that calls its young — have all of them a 
 language of signs; yet we must not say that they un- 
 derstand each other, for they live in the sphere of mere 
 sensation and perception. These signs only serve, to 
 
 

 •#• 
 
 , ,' PSYCHOLOGY. ' *229 
 
 call forth the same dark sensations, the possibility of 
 which is easily comprehended, when we consider that 
 one hen chicks like another, and that animals of the 
 same species have the same self-feeling, and that this 
 will express itself by the same peculiar voice, and note 
 in all the individuals. 
 
 The language of toords, on the other hand, has a dif- 
 ferent origin and one that is more disputed. And in- 
 deed we must confess that it is difficult to be ascertain- 
 ed. For the more carefully we examine the subject, 
 the more we are led by the consideration of the diifer- 
 ent elements of language to different views. These ele- 
 ments it may be proper to point out here : 
 
 It is admitted by all, that where there is design and 
 an adaptation of means to an end, there must be a culti- 
 vated intellect, there must be knowledge of the desio^n. 
 Without language, however, there can be no know- 
 ledge, since a conception will be without clearness and ^ . 4J < 
 distinctness, until it is expressed by a word. This shows- ^ .^* '^ 
 itself in children, who as long as, they do not speak /^ "^ \*>^ * 
 have no clear conceptions ; but when they learn to 
 speak, they learn to understand. Language here seems 
 indispensable for the development of mind. But any *'*[ • ,, 
 one who has paid a little attention to speech, must ob- * . * ' 
 
 serve from the etymological part of grammar to the 
 highest syntactical rules, the laws of reason ; so that it 
 may be said with truth that language is imbodied . 
 
 reason, or reason which has become objective to itself. 
 If reason is undeveloped before there is a language, and 
 again, if language is developed reason in an external 
 form or as it has uttered itself, how can the undeveloped 
 reason be said to have invented language ? Especially 
 when it is considered, that the languages of the most re- 
 mote times, have those words by which the relation of the 
 finite to the infinite may be expressed with the greatest 
 accuracy — such are, for instance, life, sight, being, truth, 
 spirit, good, right, holy, justice, salvation, dec. Again, 
 to say that man has invented language, would be no 
 better than to assert that he has invented law. To 
 make laws, there must be a law obligating all to keep 
 them ; to agree or make a compact, to observe certain 
 
 

 S^6> PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 
 institutes, there must be already a government protect- 
 ing this compact. To invent langnage, pre-supposes 
 language already, for how could men agree to name 
 different objects, without communicating by words their 
 designs ? From all this it must follow, that man did 
 not invent, but received his language from God. Thus 
 far it seems all correct, but this view is nevertheless 
 one-sided, and does not notice one fact of great impor- 
 tance. Reason and language, as the Greek word logoSj 
 indicates, are identical. The conception I have is a 
 word unuttered ; the word I pronounce is a conception 
 sounded with the lips. If I have to produce by my 
 mental activity the conception, I must undoubtedly cre- 
 ate the word for it, since the former is wholly impossi- 
 ble without the latter. The conception could no more 
 be received by the more word or its sound, than a 
 word could be understood without the conception which 
 it invests ; and if God had taught man language, he 
 must either have given him the conception together 
 with their comprehending words, and then it would be 
 incomprehensible how he could receive either without 
 his own spontaneous activity, or he must have given 
 merely the words as shells, in which to place his 
 thoughts. If the former were the case, man would be- 
 come a mere machine, through which another thinks 
 and speaks ; in the latter it would be impossible to see, 
 how man could be taught mere words without having 
 already an idea of language. Hence this view was 
 abandoned and one directly opposite embraced — " Man 
 has invented language by his own ingenuity." If God 
 taught Adam language, he of course taught him but 
 one ; but we know, that every savage tribe has its own 
 tongue, and that the less cultivated nations and savages 
 are, the more various their languages will be. Thousands 
 of languages have been already discovered. Klaproth, 
 on his journey through a small part of Asia, met with 
 no less than thirty-six ; among our Indians every tribe 
 has a language unintelligible to all the others. There 
 must have been more than one language from the be- 
 ginning of the world, as mankind spread and existed 
 in different races, its languages become multiplied, so 
 
.^- 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 231' 
 
 - V 
 
 ■^•1^' 
 
 that to understand the language of one tribe, an indi- 
 vidual belonging to another, must acquire it with hard 
 labor. Again, we see that birds sing, that quadrupeds 
 express their wants by their voice, the lion roars when 
 hungry, — should not man, gifted with reason and excel- 
 lent organs to articulate sounds, be able to express his 
 wants and necessities by sounds framed with words % 
 A close examination of many words will lead us to be- 
 lieve, that man imitated nature. This imitation could 
 not be difficult, since his organs of speech will enable 
 Jiim to form every sound that nature can produce. , 
 Words of this kind are, for instance, rustlings mur- 
 muring^ xvhistlingj rollings lisping, roaring. And 
 again we find many words, the sounds of which are the 
 same indifferent languages : Thus, Sanskrit, pi^a ; Lat., 
 /pater ; Gr., Trarrip ; Eng., father ; Ger., Vater ; &c. 
 Sanskr.j mata ; Lat., mater ; Gr., urtTvp ; Eng., mother ; 
 Germ., mutter. Sanskr, rohitah ; Lat., rufus ; Eng., 
 red; Ger. j roth ; Italian, rosso; Fr., row^e ; Dutch, 
 rood; Danish, rod. Sanskr., padas ; Gr., novi ; Lat., 
 •;^^ pe5 ; Eng., /oo^ ; Goth., fothus; Ger., fuss ; Frank, 
 vuoz. Sanskr. tan ; Gr., reiveiv ; Lat., tendere ; Eng., 
 extend; Ger., dehnen ; Goth, than] an ; Frank, 
 deneji^ <fcc. These parallels might be much mul- 
 tiplied, but the above examples are sufficient to make 
 us ask: Whence come these words into the dif- 
 erent languages? — Man will not only notice, but by 
 his attention distinguish sounds in the most precise 
 manner ; he will then imitate them, desirous of com- 
 municating some things to his fellow- men by their 
 sounds or form. Thus by an innate desire to imitate, 
 man was induced to form some words and finally the 
 entire language. It was not necessary for him, to be in 
 the full possession of the reason, for how many even now 
 speak without being aware, that there are rules, or gram- 
 mars, exhibiting them. — This also appears to be a very 
 mistaken view. It severs what God has joined together, 
 reason and language, conception and word. It admits 
 that the conception could exist long before the word, 
 and that man might seek for the latter after he has the 
 former. This idea is not much better than to say, that 
 

 
 232 
 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY^ 
 
 man invented sleep ; for the act of thinking and that of 
 speaking is so much the same, that no person can think 
 without speaking, if not loud, at least to himself, though 
 he should not notice it. Feelings and sensations may- 
 do without words, but thoughts need words, and think- 
 ing is but an internal speaking, as speaking is an exter- 
 ^nal thinking. Another mistake is this. The question 
 before us, has no reference at all to will ; it must be left 
 out of view ; yet both of the views exhibited refer more 
 or less to it. But the exercise of willpre-supposes the 
 existence of language. 
 
 1 shall attempt to answer the question above in the 
 following manner : — Reason is the source of all our con- 
 ceptions and thoughts ; thoughts are the same internal- 
 ly, that words are externally. As reason produces our 
 conceptions, so it produces inseparably with them also 
 their corresponding words. As the plastic power pro- 
 duces at the same time sap and barky form and con- 
 tents, so reason produces thought and language. Bat 
 reason has not its origin in itself; its author is God, 
 whose will lives in it as its law. The author of lan- 
 guage is, therefore, not man, but God. Yet we must 
 not understand this, as if God had taught man language 
 as a teacher makes a scholar learn ; but God gave man 
 a power, that in developing itself, would necessarily 
 with itself develop language. God did not give lan- 
 guage as something ready formed, as we give our schol- 
 ars the elements of the Greek tongue in dictionaries 
 and grammars, but, — and this God only could do, — gave 
 him a. power, by which to name all thmgs and made the 
 animals pass before Adam, to see what he would name 
 them, and the names he would give them should be their 
 names. This view comprises what is true in the two 
 former, and avoids their errors. Or in other words : 
 God gave man in his reason the possibility of thinking 
 and speaking, as he placed in the germ the possibility of 
 growing and developing a specific form. Without will 
 or design on the part of man, but naturally and uncon- 
 sciously, language proceeds from the development of 
 reason. 
 
 A few remarks will corroborate this idea. Reason, 
 
*' "^ V ^ 
 
 ** 
 
 .^ 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 233 
 
 the possibility of thinking and speaking, is essentially .• -^ 
 the same in all individuals ; its laws are the same, and *^ 
 its functions. So nature surrounding us, — however -Sl* 
 
 modified its phenomena may be,— is essentially the ^^ 
 
 same in all its laws and activities, and these are the 
 same as those of reason, given by the same divine being. 
 
 As by reason we think and reflect, so we receive all 
 the impressions of the senses, from which we form our * 
 conceptions, from nature. On account of this identity 
 of reason and nature we are able to know the latter, -'*- 
 otherwise no communication would take place between 
 it and ourselves. In so far as all persons have the 
 same laws of reason and are impressed by nature ac- 
 cording to the same laws, so far it is one and the 
 same substance or being, that lives in all and connects 
 all, so that every thought proceeding from this reason, 
 must be the same in whatever individual it may origin- 
 ate, and so that one can lead out a thought and render 
 it complete though it took rise in another. 
 
 But if reason is every where the same, whence the 
 difference of languages? Why have we not o?ze lan- 
 guage only, as we have one reason? We answer, 
 reason, though essentially one in its laws and nature, is 
 nevertheless modified by its connection with the body, the 
 constitution and through it with climate, as has been seen 
 in Anthropology. All the modifications caused by the 
 influences of nature, race, nation, occupation, &c., must 
 here be recalled, and must be admitted to have a con- 
 siderable influence on our attention, conception, fancy 
 and imagination, memory arid thinking. Reason is • 
 thus the same, and again difiers in the various regions 
 of the earth. So the flame remains the same, though ' 
 spread from one to a thousand torches, but the torches 
 kindled, may produce a slight difference, if one is of 
 hickory, another of pine. As now thinking is the same 
 on the one hand, but modified on the other, so language 
 is, in accordance with it every where language^ and 
 yet at the same time it has its peculiar differences not 
 only in different nations, but even in its dialects in the ^ 
 
 same nation. An example will illustrate this. The 
 Greeks living in a mild climate, under serene skies, sur- 
 
 30 
 
'■ ♦ ' ' 
 
 234 PSYCHOLOGY, -i 
 
 rounded by a beautiful country, and gifted by the Deity 
 with a vivid and strong imagination, had their thoughts 
 every where bent upon the diseovery and production of 
 beauty. They would therefore notice in all they ob- ;^ 
 served, the beautiful ; this would strike them and from ' 
 this quality they would name the thing, in which they 
 discovered it. The Romans, on the other hand, of an 
 entirely different cast of mind, looked every where for 
 the useful and waved all considerations of beauty in its 
 favor. The Germans finally, are pqculiarly inclined to 
 speculation, and seek for the foundation of all things. 
 This difference will exhibit itself no less in these respect- 
 ive languages, than in literature and art. The Greek 
 noticing the beautiful motions of lightning, calls it 
 oarpaTTTj ; the Roman attracted by the splendid light, names 
 itfulgur ; the German perceives the difference of this 
 motion from all others and signifies it by the term Blitz. 
 Leibnitz, conceived the idea of inventing one language 
 for all nations. Nothing could be more unfortunate 
 than the complete success of such an undertaking, if by 
 it — what Leibnitz did not intend — all the other lan- 
 guages would become superfluous. For as each lan- 
 guage views the same things differently, the human 
 mind is left free to express every shade of difference 
 in its thought. This liberty we desire in the same lan- 
 guage, where the best writers have their individual 
 style, so that while they use the general language, they 
 make it assume a peculiar form, and with it a peculiar 
 freshness. Every writer must of course observe the 
 general rules of his language, or his works would be 
 unintelligible. But the general nature of the language 
 will become tinged with that of the individual, it will 
 yield to it the more, the more flexible it is, and while in 
 the latter respect it may demand a hermeneutical ex- 
 planation, its general nature, which is modified by the 
 style of the writer will make such an explanation po55f6Ze. 
 We frequently hear it asserted, that man was urged 
 by necessity, to form language, and that this necessity 
 was that of communication. Though it is true that 
 man could not without language be what he is and 
 what he ought to be, yet many persons have been found 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 235 
 
 wild who lived without language. The use of language 
 rests therefore not on a physical necessity, so that man 
 could not live without it, as he could not exist without 
 breathing, or without food. The spider is driven by an 
 irresistible tendency to spin his web ; so man to eat, 
 but he may live without thoughts or words. While it 
 is time, however, that when all the necessary conditions 
 are present, — conditions which we have before consid- 
 ered — his reason will think and speak, it is not only 
 impelled to do so from necessity, from a mere desire to 
 communicate, but it delights in giving form to its 
 thoughts. A man desires every where to recognize his 
 own activity in that which surrounds him in this desire, 
 art has in part its origin, and fashion and ornaments. The 
 joint desire to communicate our thoughts to others and to 
 form them, originate the effort of reason to think and to 
 speak. The desire to form our conceptions produces 
 single words ; the desire to communicate them to others 
 forms language as such, or as speech. And this again 
 must not be understood mechanically, as if words were 
 first formed and imbodied in memory, as in a diction- 
 ary for future use ; but words are formed for the sake of 
 communication, so that a word is no sooner formed 
 than it enters into a relation with others, and thus a word 
 according to W. Yon Humboldt, originates as much in 
 connection with others, as a connection arises out of 
 single words. Hence language is not merely a compound 
 of words, but a system of kindred conceptions, all of which 
 are brought in connection by the forms of words, by 
 prefixes, affixes, by compositions, &c. The pleasure 
 we take in giving form to all surrounding us, in 
 impressing the traces of our mind upon all it touches, 
 is the self-activity which causes the child to speak, 
 while with reference to the particular language it is de- 
 pendent on the nation in which it is born, and conse- 
 quently receptive instead of spontaneous. In this depen- 
 dence an individual can only have such thoughts as 
 one already expressed in his language. Yet if this is 
 youthful and has the root of its life in itself, so that new 
 sprouts may come forth from it, 7iew thoughts will 
 clothe themselves in new words. The language of a 
 
236 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 nation will therefore exercise a considerable influence 
 on the thoughts of those who use it. As language is the 
 medium by which mind manifests itself to mind, by 
 which the barriers of an isolated existence are torn 
 down and man is drawn to man, it will justify us in ma- 
 king once more a slight digression, before approaching 
 the elements of language. Language as we have said, 
 is the individual existence of a national spirit. Study- 
 ing a foreign language we study the spirit of the nation 
 whose language it is, and thus our mind is united 
 with that of the nation. Now we may study a lan- 
 guage merely on account of the thoughts it imbodies, 
 and thus enrich our own mind ; for every thought, re- 
 ceived by it in ourselves, is like a spark, that kindles a 
 new light. But it may be studied to exercise our think- 
 ing, as there is no other science that will teach us bet- 
 ter, to think correctly and logically. For in the first 
 place, grammar contains the categories of thinking, it 
 is full of rules and laws, all of which are those of reason. 
 Studying grammar we study the logic of understanding 
 in its simplest form. We learn here to reduce the most 
 various phenomena to one head or union, which com- 
 bines all of them ; and if learning does not consist in 
 merely receivings but in understanding and reproduc- 
 ing what is given to us, — the exercises by which we 
 are made to apply rules in different ways, es- 
 pecially in writing, compositions and the like, will make 
 us wholly master of thenri. Thus we learn to think 
 logically. Learning a language for the purpose of ob- 
 taining access to the riches placed in it by a nation, or 
 for the purpose of speaking it, however, differs widely 
 from making language as such the object of our inves- 
 tigation. When we do this, we study the philosophy 
 of language, and this cannot be done without the study 
 of the human mind. Here rules as such are not the 
 object, but their reason and ground^ and necessity. 
 We know the rules, but we desire to know more. Such 
 study exercises pure thinking. We want to ascertain 
 the nature of a word not words, its connection with 
 others, the nature and law of sentences, periods, speech- 
 es, style. But words, sentences, and periods, cannot 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 237 
 
 be perceived by the senses ; here we must thmk^ if we 
 would understand them. When I say a pr^onoun or a 
 verb, or a noun, 1 pronounce words, but at the same time 
 in their quahfyinsf distinctions ; these distinctions can- 
 not be heard ; that by which a pronoun differs from a 
 verb, rests not in the sound, but only in the thought. 
 Hence the philosophical grammar must be studied, that 
 which is not satisfied with adding rule to rule, with 
 containing them only externally under a common head 
 as apples, pears, potatoes may be put in one ba^ ; but 
 which exhibits the nature of all rules, and unites them 
 as it finds them already united by their nature. Again, 
 every word includes a thought ; the nature of a word 
 may be fully ascertained by etymology, its contents not. 
 ReflectiHg on the word in this respect, is reflecting on 
 the thought ; my feeling reflects on itself as expressed 
 by a word. This thought, however, not being my 
 thought, nor reflecting on it on account of the thing of 
 which it is the thought, I can take interest in it, only" for ^ 
 
 its own sakCj and thus impartial and abstracting it from 
 every thing else, I discover the true nature of thought. 
 It is language then, that renders reason more manifest 
 than any other science, for all the conceptions and 
 thoughts, contained in all the sciences of the human 
 race, are imbodied in it as are language itself. Natural 
 sciences show likewise reason, history and philosophy p 
 but language is the external reason, as reason is the in- 
 ternal language. If I wish to know a nation, I must 
 know its language. Again, we acknowledge by these 
 views, that nothing can cultivate the mind more than 
 the study of languages, and especially that of ancient 
 languages, the perfections of which in every respect are 
 unrivaled. It will be necessary to speak a word on the 
 elements of language ; they are, 
 
 THE ETYMOLOGICAL ELEMENTS. 
 
 It has been a favorite idea, ever since grammar has 
 been treated philosophically, that there exists in the 
 sound of letters and words some fitness to express, the 
 conceptions placed in them. 
 
 This idea founds itself philosophically upon the fact 
 
 # 
 
238 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 that the sounds of all things rest on their internal vibra- 
 tions or trembling motions, which following certain de- 
 cided polar directions, announce the true nature of 
 every thing ; for nothing can vibrate against its suscep- 
 tibility of doing so. Water, fire, wood and metal, all 
 vibrate differently. The nature of water is without 
 strength in itself, without an elastic cohesion, flowing as 
 if' one drop was in pursuit of another, without reaching 
 it. Its sound is therefore hollow. Chladni has made the 
 discovery, that every vibrating motion which reaches the 
 ear in the form of sound, has its corresponding geomet- 
 rical figure in space. This may be seen, when sand 
 is scattered upon a pane of glass, or water poured into 
 a cup and when we then draw the bow of a violin across 
 the glass, every new stroke will call forth new figures, and 
 yet each particular note will repeat the one correspond- 
 ing to it. These specters of sound indicate the nature 
 of the internal Vibrations, and sounds may therefore be 
 said, to convey to us an idea of the nature of every 
 thing, and of what the hand of the Lord has written 
 upon all the bodies, that he has created. The idea allud- 
 ed to above, must be explained by this fact. Words are 
 either more or less correct, more or less happy imita- 
 tions of the sounds that are peculiar to the pheno- 
 mena indicated by them, and as every thing expresses its 
 nature by single sounds, according to which man^ames 
 it, man in his language expresses the true being of all 
 that exists. The single sound is enough for the animal ; 
 man stands in need of a language that will contain all 
 the sounds of nature. We must remark here that the 
 same desire which appears in language as such, to give 
 form and to communicate, strike us again in the con- 
 stituent parts of every word. For the vowels open and 
 sonorous, are communicative, while the consonants sur- 
 rounding: the vowels, and mute without them, give 
 form. Vowels then are the product of the desire of 
 communication, consonants that of our pleasure in 
 forming whatever comes in contact with us. Articu- 
 lation and formation of sound is the same. — The opin- 
 ion now is, that both vowels and consonants had orig- 
 inally some significance, some natural fitness to be the 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 239 
 
 signs of the ideas or impressions, to be represented by 
 them ; that for instance, what is lovely^ lights mildj 
 would be impressed by similar sounds, as what is rude, 
 rouo^h, harsh, by others. This fitness shows itself, 
 
 First in the vowels. — U and /, for instance, are indi- 
 cative of deep emotions and clear and lively colors, 
 Thus; Huhu ! hihi ! roth! looOposl rufus. ^signifies 
 pleasure, in general something handsome or great ; for 
 example, hrahma- This significance of voicels is 
 beautifully exhibited in the Persian imitation of the 
 nightingale : " Dani tscheh guest mara an bulbul sehhe- 
 ri— lu ehud tscheh ademi kes i' sehk bichaberi." 
 
 Secondly, in the consonants. — These are 
 
 1. Altogether imitative. Though produced by 
 articulation, they imitate inarticulate sounds. They 
 paint for the ear, they represent things by closely imi- 
 tating their sounds. Of this description are all such as 
 express emotions, joy or pleasures, disgust or mourning, 
 love or hatred. Pshaw ! sh ! tsch ! dsch ! These 
 sounds, however, grow less in number in proportion as 
 nations become civilized and languages cultivated. 
 
 2. Symbolical. — Sounds here are not immediately 
 imitative ; but they attempt only to produce the impres- 
 sions upon the ear, resembling that which the object pro- 
 duces upon the soul. The sound S, for example, is used 
 in words that express something strongs solid, fast, 
 hence : sto ; stand ; stehen ; larnjn ; schtha, in Sanskrit ; 
 stout; sturdy; stick ; stiff; stop; stone; stubborn; 
 steel; stuff; sturgeon. The Sanskrit sound /i, indi- 
 cates that which is meltings flowing asunder , the fluid 
 in general, the little, the similar. From it we have 
 
 \sino); X£7ra|w; \nTaiv(o; \ida§(o; Xinapog ; (fec. J light; Hcht ; 
 
 leuchten ; laut ; laugh ; smile. The sound W, indicates 
 whatever is wavering, restless, confused in its motio7i 
 as wind ; wave ; wish ; sioim ; swing ; swift ; whirls 
 pool; to ivind ; ivenden ; wirreu. The letter R sig- 
 nifies the crooked, the rough, the rude, the irregular, 
 separation ; as tremble ; shritjali in Sanskr. ; schrei- 
 ten ; ruehren ; trappeln ; tre?no ; zittern ; rennen ; 
 run ; rent ; rid. The letters b, p, and/, as they re- 
 quire full lips to be pronounced, so they are are expres- 
 

 240^ PSYCHOLOGY. . r 
 
 sive of fullness, as : bloom; blossom ; flower ; breast; 
 brust ; briost ; broad ; spront ; spr lessen ;flow ; blow ; 
 blast ; bundle ; glow. Plato in his Cratykis made some 
 attempts to discover the origin of letters and words, yet 
 he did it more in play, than in earnest, while what he 
 says on the origin of language belongs even now to the 
 best, that ever has been said on this subject. 
 
 THE GRAMMATICAL AND SYNTACTICAL ELEMENTS. 
 
 As it is reason that produces language, and as this reason 
 is in all nations the same, only modified by external cir- 
 cumstances and descent, we must discover in all langua- 
 ges the same logical elements, and thus only it is possible 
 for us to learn foreign tongues.. These logical elements 
 are, first, the verb ; secondly, the noun ; thirdly, the ad- 
 jective ; fourthly, the preposition, &>c. The nature of 
 sentences, periods, and speech, is likewise the same in 
 all languages ; for example, each subject and predicate 
 must be connected by a copula, for thus only can their 
 union be asserted. So is this union in all languages a 
 grammatical judgment. When sentences are connect- 
 ed, we obtain periods, &c. — One thing we will yet state 
 here. Words, as we have shown above, do not origin- 
 ate singly and disconnected, so that we carried single 
 words in our memory, and then united them like cents 
 to make a dollar. But words originate in connection 
 with each other, in sentences. As one thing in nature 
 is related to the other, so man perceives nothing entire- 
 ly by itself. This relation of things to each other, will 
 determine the word used by man to express a thing. 
 If 1 consider, for instance, a portion of land between two 
 hills, and direct my attention principally to its meander- 
 ing course, and the rivulet passing through it, bordered 
 with flowers, I call it a dale ; if, on the other hand, I 
 direct my attention principally to its usefulness to man, 
 I call it a valley. There is the same difference between 
 chalice and cup. Hence the difference between prosaical 
 and poetical expressions ; the former originates in our 
 desire to express the simple relation of things to each 
 other^the latter to convey their relation to beauty. 
 
PSVCHOLOGY. 241 
 
 WRITTEN LANGUAGE. 
 
 If languas^e as such is the memory of our conceptions, 
 writing is the memory of language. By writing, lan- 
 guage receives an existence in space, consequently 
 greater permanency. The external signs for mere 
 sounds are notes ; those for Words may be hieroglypli- 
 ics, pictures, images. These images may be symbolic- 
 al. " A lion, a sword, a man, if used as pictures, indi- 
 cate what they stand for ; or metaphorical—for instance 
 the image of a handle signifies authority ; or semeiotic- 
 al — as for instance a man below a line, indicates that 
 he is dead ; or allegorical — fire and a circle mean to 
 roast, — or it has characters^ Yet here every change 
 of ideas makes a change of characters necessary, and 
 hence their use is still imperfect and inconvenient. The 
 Chinese character for old^ for instance according to 
 Medhurst, expresses, when turned a little to the right 
 instead of the left, to examine. The only way of rep- 
 resenting words in space, is to represent the elements of 
 which they consist, letters and syllables. Hieroglyph- 
 ics cannot express the abstract, they cannot convey by 
 signs or symbols an idea of ^ea^?ie55 as such, of good- 
 ness, of beginning and end, cause and effect, (fee. They 
 render abstract thinking wholly impossible. This diffi- 
 culty is removed by the use of the alphabet. 
 
 Language gives to all our conceptions and through 
 them to all things, a higher, a more noble and more 
 permanent existence. Children that have yet no 
 names for the things, of which they have sensations 
 and perceptions, do not know them, and as long as they 
 do not know them, so long all is chaotic for them. 
 They see for instance the flamingo, its bright col- 
 or, its partly black bill, the size of its neck, the length 
 of its slender legs, — the flamingo exists for them, but 
 only for their senses. Black and scarlet are different 
 colors, and the sensations from them are different, yet 
 they are not separate and distinct to children. There 
 is no mark, no particular quality in the feeling the child 
 has of red, or white, or blue, by which to distinguish 
 
 31 
 
242 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 one from the other. Thus flamingos exist, yet merely 
 in nature. Children form a conception of them ; this 
 conception at first is that of a single bird, and has all 
 contents of sensation, including the particular red, the 
 particular size of the bird seen, and all its peculiarities. 
 As yet children need no name, for their fancy is suffi- 
 cient to call up the single image. But the conception 
 becomes more general, the particular contents of sensa- 
 tion are dropped, and children seek for names. The 
 child has, for instance, a conception of bread ; this con- 
 ception at first includes the taste, for it comes fresh from 
 sensation ; the bread is of wheat, baked in a particular 
 way ; as this particular bread it could not be named. 
 Now the single conception of this particular bread be- 
 comes a general one, and thus it not only can be named, 
 but the name is the only medium, by which it can be 
 communicated. Bread is a general name, whether 
 baked of wheat, or rye, or oats, or barley, makes no dif- 
 ference. So it is with the term apple, it stands for every 
 species of apples. Hence it is correct to say, that lan- 
 guage gives a higher and more noble existence to all 
 that it names. As much as thinking is superior to 
 mere feeling, to sensations or perceptions, so much is 
 the existence of a thing in language superior to that in 
 mere nature. It is by language, that whatever is in na- 
 ture is classified, and all confusion is removed from it. 
 As long as the thing exists merely in nature, as long as 
 we have merely a sensation of it, so long we have no 
 name for it, and need none because by our single image 
 of it, we can recall it. But when we have a ge?ieral 
 conception, a single image is no longer able to recall 
 it, we must have a name. Again, to have the thing as 
 it is in nature, I must go and see, and feel, or hear it. 
 The roaring of Niagara, the dashing foam, the silvery 
 spray, exist for my ear and my eye ; and to have it ex- 
 ist thus, I must be near it. But after I have formed a 
 conception of *it and have a name for it, it does not 
 matter where I am, whether in Europe or in Asia, in 
 the name Niagara I have the thing itself We easily 
 perceive, that here the same relation exists between the 
 thing and its name, that was observed between the im- 
 
r- PSYCHOLOGY. 243 
 
 age and its object. In the name I have the thing, but 
 not as it exists in nature — for there it would be only for 
 my senses — but as it exists in my conceptions. To il- 
 lustrate this I need only say, that my senses may per- 
 ceive a ^ree, but not the species or genus as such ; this 
 species or genus is the tree contained in my general 
 conception of it. A tree existingin nature is for my 
 senses, but it exists in my general conception as it does 
 not in nature. Thinking of this general tree, or tree as a 
 gemis, I need not have an image of a tree at all, of its 
 roots, trunk, branches, but my conception is altogether 
 general. This general conception is not one of a tree, 
 that blooms and grows — such a conception would be a 
 single one, that of a tree before my house. Of a kind 
 no sensation or perception is possible ; we can only have 
 a conception of it. Hence every name is the thing, in 
 so far as it exists in our conceptions. So far all seems 
 correct. But as there is a difference between an object 
 and its image, so there is one between our general con- 
 ceptions and their names. The former are wholly in-- 
 ternal ; names as words written or spoken are external. 
 And again our conceptions of a thing, of an individual, 
 species or genus cannot be manifold, but to be correct, 
 each genus can have but one corresponding conce^\\on. 
 But as regards the names for these conceptions they 
 may be various. So what we call food may also be 
 called nourishment or sustenance ; the idea of diminu- 
 tion may be expressed by the words small^ little^ V^tty, 
 shorty low^ or rnean. It is true all synonymous words 
 have slight shades of meaning by which they differ, yet 
 it is certain too that one and the same conception may 
 have different names without losing or gaining any 
 thing by it, as for example, the same animal may be 
 called giraffe or cameleopard. If now we say the 
 name is the thing as it exists in the sphere of concep- 
 tion, and again if we are constrained to admit that our 
 conceptions can choose any name, that they are inter- 
 nal, but names external ; that names are but the signs 
 for our conceptions, — we must admit the existence of a 
 contradiction. For what the one judgment asserts the 
 other denies. This contradiction must be removed, and 
 
244 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 the power to remove it is memory. It is the power which 
 always unites the external sign with the conception 
 for which it stands ; it unites the word and its meaning 
 so inseparably, that when the former is pronounced, the 
 latter is understood. This inseparable connection of 
 word and thought produces their real identity, so that I 
 need not ^o and see the thing in order to show it to 
 another, but naming it is sufficient ; for memory produ- 
 ces a complete identity of thing and name. Thus the 
 dispute of Nominalists and Realists is removed by that 
 power, which we have to consider — by memory. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 It may be easily seen, that this power differs from re- 
 productive fanpy, and that in this difference it has refer- 
 ence to conceptions and things, as contained in names, 
 while reproductive fancy recalls the image or concep- 
 tions of single things. It is an aet of reproductive fan- 
 cy, when I recall the image of a friend, or of a beauti- 
 ful landscape, or that of a sick-bed ; — or in other words, 
 places, times, single things, and persons, are the objects 
 of reproductive fancy, while the names and the general 
 conceptions, expressed by them are the objects of memo- 
 ry. Memory is that activity, which finds for every 
 general conceptiori or thought the appropi^iate word, 
 and recognizes in every word the conception it con- 
 tains. To speak well demands a good memory; to 
 know the thing, but not its name, immediately causes 
 confusion. Membry might also be defined thus : It is 
 the power that retains the contents placed in an exter- 
 nal sign, consequently recognizes a. general conception 
 in any free perception. Yet we know that all psychol- 
 ogists speak of a memory of things as well as of words, of 
 locality as well as of time, of numbers, persons, and lan- 
 • guage. But the fact is -that they commingle two dis- 
 tant activities of the mind, fancy and memory. These 
 pre-suppose each other, they belong together, as the ba- 
 sis and that which is founded upon it ; as the root and 
 the trunk ;yet ought they to be kept distinct; for the 
 objects of the one are not exactly the same with those 
 
PSVCHOLOGY. 245 
 
 of the other; they exist in a more refined manner in 
 memory. But even if they were one and the same, we 
 ought not tospeak of different kmds of memory, because 
 memory guided by the interests which differetit persons 
 take in different objects, retains conceptions of one class 
 more easily than those of another. It would excite a 
 laugh, if it should be said that we had different kinds of 
 eyes, because the painter's eye finds it easy to distin- 
 guish the slightest shades of colors ; and that of the 
 architect more readily perceives symmetry, regularity 
 and harmony. It is his great interest — on whatever that 
 may be based, — which constitutes the eye of the painter 
 different from that of the sculptor. So it is with memo- 
 ry ; whatever interests a man he will remember with 
 care. The interests of some men will spread over a 
 great many objects. Leibnitz took not only a great in- 
 terest in philosophy, but also in history, languages, (fee. 
 A long life enables such men to acquire an immense 
 knowledge. Memory retains either without will or by 
 virtue of it : 
 
 J . In the former case, it is a general conception that 
 unites all the particular ones belonging to it, and when- 
 ever it is recalled, these are included. The term the- 
 ology expresses such a general conception ; it includes 
 the particular conceptions of exegesis, hermeneutics, 
 critique, dogmatics, christian ethics, pastoral theology, 
 homileciics, &c. The recalling of these parts of the- 
 ology is not an act oi fancy, for all these conceptions 
 are without images, — they are the names of thought, and 
 memory, the power that retains them, keeps off" all such 
 names, as do not belong strictly under the general 
 head. It will not suffer, for instance, that the name 
 civil law be connected with theology, but will point out 
 a place for it in jurisprudence. Fancy gives the images 
 as it received them, memory exercises judgment con- 
 cerning the association of its conceptions. 
 
 2. In the above, words are held together by their com- 
 mon affinity, internally. The same is the case, when 
 noun and adjective are joined by a copula, when words 
 are brought together by the sense, to be expressed by 
 them, by meter, alphabet, by grammatical and lexico' 
 
240 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 graphical connections. But when there is ho objective 
 connection whatever between the different words, and 
 when we nevertheless desire to hold them together, 
 then it is our will that must determine us to do so and 
 determine their connection, while our intellect is the 
 power that enables us to retain them. The connec- 
 tion of the words here is an entirely mechanical one, 
 wholly external, wholly brought about by the will of 
 man and preserved by his intellect. This demands 
 little or no thinkings for the meaning of the words is 
 not observed here. I send a boy to a store, to fetch salt, . 
 sugar, snufF, and also a piece of linen, a quire of paper, 
 a pound of nails, and other things. There is certainly 
 nothing that sugar and nails, or linen and paper have 
 in common, and which would bind the one to the other ; 
 it is, therefore, the power of intellect, that keeps them 
 together not by reflection on them, but by will and the 
 simple power of the mind, as it does not think at all. 
 Hence it is that young persons who think less, commit 
 with the greatest ease to memory, and hence too, that 
 the false prejudice is so current, that men of very acute 
 judgment have generally a weak memory, and yet judg- 
 ment, in order to be acute must have materials to judge 
 of, and how can it get them without memory 1 The 
 strongest judgment, if memory is weak, will constantly 
 make mistakes, never find the right word, the right 
 comparison, the right fact and it will constantly have to 
 correct itself even in its common language, for it will 
 always seek for the right word, and yet miss it. The 
 spirit of ages, that makes things fashionable, or not, 
 has exercised its irresistible power even on the faculties 
 of the mind. There was a time when memory was 
 neglected, when especially in schools children were 
 taught to reason only, and when the mechanical memo- 
 ry was despised. The disciples of Pythagoras had to 
 be silent for four years, and o^ly to receive and listen. 
 Pythagoras thought no doubt, that to speak rationally 
 andintelligently on asubject,a student ought first to have 
 made himself acquainted with it ; and to do so he ought to 
 have learned to abandon all preconceived and immature 
 ideas, and to listen with obedience to those of his teacher. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 247 
 
 This is right. The mind must learn obedience as well 
 as the will, or else it will have no doctrine pure, but al- 
 ways commingle its own notions with it. Disciplirie 
 of mind is the true basis of study. The mechanical 
 memory ought, therefore, to be much exercised ; for by 
 it the judgment will gain materials for its reasoning. 
 
 Formerly, memory was, and at present is the most 
 fashionable faculty of the mind. Historical learning, 
 the union of all past experience in our memory, is the 
 most valued science, and this rests principally on 
 memory. Yet this view mistakes the term, science. 
 Not he who has collected a great number of facts and 
 knows their elements of usefulness, and how to apply 
 them, is the scientific man. For every man has some 
 such knowledge, and yet we would not say that all men 
 are men of science. Such a definition of science ren- 
 ders the term science relative, like that of riches. Ac- 
 cording to it all men of a country are scientific ; they 
 form a pyramid, and while the most scientific becomes 
 its head, those that are least so have to form the base, 
 and all the rest come to stand between according to 
 their greater, or less amount of knowledge. Yet the 
 accumulation of facts is not sciejice^ it is merely learning. 
 Learning may place value upon facts, and their cor- 
 rectness ; science requires the form and spirit of these 
 facts ; learning is satisfied with the focts and their ex- 
 ternal mechanical connection, science demands their 
 leading principle, their internal union, and hence it is 
 that we may speak of a scientific spirit, but not of a 
 learned spirit. Science has therefore, two sides, it has an 
 internal one, a soul, a union, a penetrating principle, on 
 which all the facts belonging to it must rest ; and again it 
 has an external one, which spreads itself over a large 
 surface and daily increases, for experience is added to ex- 
 perience. If it demands memory to acquire the external 
 materials of a science in our power, judgment is required, 
 and a nohle spirit, to enter into the life of a science, and to 
 perceive how it pervades and animates all. Judgment and 
 memory, the spontaneous and receptive activities ought 
 therefore to be exercised in an equal degree ; and neith- 
 er at the expense of the other. — In conclusion we must 
 
248 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 speak a word with regard to Mnemonics, or the art of 
 ^exercising the memory. 
 
 No doubt the memory may be strengthened: this, 
 however, is not so much the aim of Mnemonics, as by 
 certain means to facilitate the recollection of a particu- 
 lar name. I desire, for instance, a person who knows 
 mythology, but not geography, to remember the name 
 Athens, and tell him to recall the name of the Greek 
 goddesses, and Athena will certainly remind him of 
 Athens. Yet we- easily see that as I must 7'etain in my 
 memory the means by which to remember something 
 else, I only double my labor, fpr I may as well remem- 
 ber the thing at once, as the means which recalls it. 
 
 Memory may, however, be truly strengthened by 
 continued exercise. How this is possible and how 
 it is to be understood has been beautifully illustrated 
 by the nature of the magnet. This activity in the first 
 place slumbers in all kinds of iron, and maybe called 
 forth by an appropriate external influence oh it. The 
 light of the sun may awaken it, the rays of electricity, 
 the stroke of the hammer, but especially on already 
 magnetized iron, when drawn across in certain direct- 
 tions. We then see that it is the realized magnetic ac- 
 tivity in the one iron, which elicits the possible magnet- 
 ic activity of the other. The thus awakened activity 
 of the magnet is strengthened by exercise, and disap- 
 pears again for it is not used. To strengthen it we 
 must bring it in contact with other iron, and lay it for 
 this purpose in iron filings. Now the question is : How 
 can it thus be strengthened ? As the magnetic activity, 
 when once awakened, has the power to awaken that 
 which still slumbers, so this, when once active will have 
 the same power : it must, therefore react upon the 
 magnetic power, by which it was elicited and strength- 
 en it, in the same degree that it was itself acted upon. 
 It will excite as it has been excited ; it will strengthen 
 as it has been strengthened ; for it is one and the same 
 activity that awakens and that has been awakened. , 
 
 If we apply this to memory we may say, that all the 
 conceptions which we receive by memory, are the pro- 
 ductions of our thinking power j but as they are the 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 249 
 
 contents of words we must reproduce them, in order to 
 have them as conceptions. Or these conceptions rest 
 in names ; but language does neither speak, nor under- 
 stand itself; they are therefore like the slumbering mag- 
 net in the unmagnetized iron. Our mind approaches 
 them, and receives them by breathing the breath of life 
 into them : being thus received, and as our mind acted 
 ed upon them, so their life will act upon our mind and 
 strengthen it, as the magnetized iron strengthens 
 that by which its latent power has been roused. It is 
 the same mental activity that produces the conceptions 
 and places them in names, and which again receives 
 them by recalling them. The former might be called the 
 productive^ the latter the reproductive memory. From 
 all this it must follow, that as the body is strengthened 
 by appropriate food, so is the memory : that the many 
 conceptions and ideas are all of them filled with the na- 
 ture of our own intellect, and that as intellect is power, 
 they will strengthen memory in proportion as many or 
 few are received by it. 
 
 In conclusion we may remark that, however differ- 
 ent and manifold may be the objects committed to mem- 
 ory, its union will remain the same. As the globule of 
 quick silver, to which is added many other globules, in- 
 creases in size and bulk, and yet remains a perfect 
 sphere, so it is with memory. Memory in this respect 
 may be compared to a monad which constantly attracts 
 other monads, and thus becoming conscious of all of 
 them, strengthens itself and reigns over them according 
 to its own pleasure. 
 
 32 
 
250 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ON PURE THINKING. 
 
 The chapter now before us is one of the most diffi- 
 cult in Mental Philosophy. Its object is to ascertain 
 the nature of pure thinking as such ; it must therefore 
 abstract from thinking, as it is subjective, my or your 
 thinking, and it must look away from the objects of our 
 thoughts, whether material as the sun and moon ; or 
 life, as that of plants and animals, or man : we must in 
 a word direct our attention merely to thinking as such. 
 
 This is extremely difficult and cannot be effected 
 without much effort. Most persons employ their ex- 
 ternal senses more, than their internal thinking power, 
 and in proportion as one mental activity is exclusively 
 exercised, it will become more acute ; but the others 
 will grow weak. The feeling of ability and skill is 
 pleasant, and man delights, therefore, more in the in- 
 vestigation of objects in which he can enjoy the 
 feeling of power, than in such as demand effort, and 
 remind him that he has yet something to learn. Add 
 to this the aversion felt by all to well disciplined think- 
 ing — for all of us like to have our own thoughts and 
 opinions on subjects — and also, that we sooner have 
 sensations and conceptions than pure thoughts, that we 
 must consequently with considerable labor raise our- 
 selves into the region of pure thought ; that language 
 too, is better calculated to express general conceptions 
 than pure thoughts ; and especially that it must bor- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 261 
 
 row the words by which to convey the highest thoughts 
 from fancy and imagination, and that therefore the same 
 word may serve the lowest and highest — and we shall 
 find it natural that so few only should take delight in a 
 question like the one before us. And yet we cannot 
 dismiss it, but must request our readers to follow us 
 with patience. The question, What is pure thinking 7 
 must be solved. Thinking is the true basis of all our 
 knowledge, for until we have penetrated our concep- 
 tions by thought, until we know their nature, their 
 ground, their connection with each other, we have 
 neither knowledge nor science. The knowledge that 
 in the year 480 B. 0., the battle at Salamis was ifought, 
 is disconnected, as it stands here, neither solid, nor 
 valuable ; but when I by thinking discover the secret 
 causes that led to it, and perceive the influence which 
 it had upon the national cultivation of Greece, my 
 knowledge becomes valuable. I may have a conception 
 of blue, but unless I can show its origin and nature, I 
 have no knowledge of it. So pointing to the blue in 
 the sky, and defining it to be " darkness seen through 
 light," are very different. Again, as thinking must pene^ 
 trate all our conceptions, and the contents of our sensa- 
 tions and perceptions, so it must show their relations to 
 each other. Every object has a number of distinctions 
 in itself; these enter into our conceptions; but these 
 distinctions as contained in our conceptions, stand be- 
 side each other, and are not known in this common 
 origin : thus the thing is one, and yet it is many. 
 This is a contradiction which our conception does not 
 notice, or if noticed, it does not remove it. Thinking 
 perceives the one in the manifold, and again the mani- 
 fold as one. God is just, and is merciful ; these are 
 two qualities, which when penetrated by thought, have 
 one and the sam^e nature, so that justice is mercy, and 
 mercy, justice. And finally, thinking must show the 
 necessity of things, or show that a thing must be as it is. 
 This it can do only by exhibiting its ground and gen- 
 eral reason. 
 
 From all this it will follow, that though we should 
 at first feel indifferent to the present question, we shall 
 
252 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 take an interest in it, as soon as we desire to treat a sci- 
 ence logically, or to solve different questions, or to remove 
 doubts and scruples, ignorance and error. To free our- 
 selves from them, neither the decisions of an infallible 
 church, nor the majority of votes taken on such subjects, 
 nor any external object, as the magnet that may guide 
 t^e sailor, or a polar star, will suffice. Thinking alone 
 will avail. Bat if I do not know the medium by 
 which to remove an evil, or by which to acquire a good, 
 how can I make a proper use of it ? And again, if I de- 
 sire to know myself, but do not know my hghtest pow- 
 er, how can I pretend to be acquainted with my mind ? 
 Men like Plato, and Aristotle ; Cudworth and Locke ; 
 Leibnitz, Kant, and Hegel ; Spinoza and Des Cartes, 
 have therefore not hesitated to bestow much time and 
 labor on the subject of our present chapter, and what 
 man ought not to be willing to bestow at least some at- 
 tention on that noblest of all powers within him which 
 he daily uses? We shall therefore, 
 
 1. Inquire, How ifAm^*^^^^ differs from the other fac- 
 ulties of the mind ? 
 
 If we compare thinking with sensation and percep- 
 tion we shall find that both are activities , and that 
 in this respect they are the same. But sensation is 
 an activity, whose nature is receptive ; it receives im- 
 pressions, and receives them as they are made upon our 
 organs. The activity, as sensation or perception is 
 therefore wholly determined by the object felt; it must 
 feel the object as it presents itself, and must receive an 
 impression as it flows forth from it. It is consequently 
 an activity, that is not in the least/ree. Conception is 
 also an activity, but one that differs from sensation or 
 perception, for it is not merely rece/>^ive, but freeing sen- 
 sation more or less from its immediate contents, transfer- 
 ring them into space and time, and producing the images 
 of their objects, it is a form-giving and productive activ- 
 ity. In my conceptions I am therefore more free, than 
 in my sensations, more self-active, more independent of 
 the objects the images of which I conceive. Thinking 
 hbwever, differs both from sensation and conception. 
 Like them it is ^n activity, but an activity having both 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 253 
 
 for its medium, and impossible without them. Peeling 
 is possible without thinking, and so are sensations : 
 thinking demands feeling, sensation, and conceptions 
 as the fruit demands the preceding stages of growth. 
 What kind of an activity then is thinking 7 That ae- 
 tivity which ^eneraZJ^e^. And here we leave this de- 
 finition, expecting to take it up again at another place. 
 To make the above more clear we ask, What is the 
 object, and what are the contents of pure think- 
 ing? 
 
 By comparing them with those of the preceding activ- 
 ities of the mind, we may here also render our subject 
 more generally intelligible. The objects of our sensa- 
 tions or perceptions are al ways someth ing single, contain- 
 ed in a certain place, and existing in a certain time. Be- 
 yond this singleness the objects of sensation cannot ex- 
 tend. IseeasinglesheepjOr many at atime; but, however 
 many they are, they are only present to my eye each 
 as a single one. Conception receives its objects from 
 sensation ; it forms the contents of sensation, and no- 
 ticing that which many objects have in common with 
 each other, it forms a more or less general image, one 
 that needs no longer a sensual existence, though it was 
 gained from it. The object of sensation and that of 
 conception enter into our thinking, but exist in it as 
 they do not in the former. A few examples will illus- 
 trate this: Man as an individual may be the immedi- 
 ate object of my sensation ; I see him, I feel him, I hear 
 his voice. The same man may be the object of my 
 conception, yet not the latter without having been pres- 
 ent to my senses. As an object of my conception he 
 may exist in it merely as an individual ; as he lives, and 
 moves about, as he eats and drinks. But I may have 
 formed a conception of him as belonging to a certain 
 nation. As the object of this conception he is no longer 
 merely a single one, but of a more general character, 
 he is an American, because both the external features, 
 common to all Americans, and the spirit and manner of 
 thinking are represented by him. Thus he is the ob- 
 ject of my conception as he cannot be the object of my 
 sensation. As the object of my thinking he is neither 
 
254 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 a mere individual, nor belonging to a particular nation, 
 but he is man. This is his true being ; as such he can 
 neither be the object of sensation, nor of conception, it 
 is only pure thought, that can conceive the idea oi hu- 
 manity. For humanity is that generality that per- 
 vades all nations, and all individuals, that will survive 
 all the nations of the present time, and continue to live 
 in all the following generations. Or to give another ex- 
 ample, — Nature produces by crystalization the icicle and 
 the diamond ; by organization the moss and the beauti- 
 ful calla ; by animalization the toad, and the proud deer 
 of the forest. These productions of nature are and may 
 be perceived by our senses. But as far as they are ac- 
 cessible to our senses they will pass away. The calla 
 of which I had once a sensation may exist in my con- 
 ception, in my reproductive fancy. But when I place 
 it under its species, and this under its kind, I think and 
 judge, and the object of my thinking is no longer the 
 single calla, as it exists for my sensation, nor the image 
 of that calla as it was conceived by me, — it is the species, 
 the kind, that do not exist in nature in a particular 
 form or shape, having a peculiar color, or size ; but be- 
 come manifest only in individual beings. The kind, or 
 genus is the true generality and necessity of all the in- 
 dividuals belonging to it, and while the individuals may 
 be the objects of sensations and conceptions, kind as 
 such pan only be the object of tho2ight. Or finally, 1 
 have a conception of a knife, an ax, of scissors, saw, 
 and other instruments ; as such my conceptions have 
 their corresponding objects in space or time. But now 
 I place all of them under the general term, instrument, 
 by which to sever, to dissect, &c.; and this idea I again 
 place under that of means and end, and thus all 
 the single conceptions and their corresponding objects 
 are gone, and that which is left is their general charac- 
 ter, or that which makes each one of them an instru- 
 ment. The thought of instrument is identical with the 
 instrument; for this has no existence whatever inde- 
 pendent of the thought, and yet it is, it has an energy, 
 for by it as the general idea all instruments are pro- 
 duced. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 255 
 
 Now it is easy to understand that the objects of sen- 
 sations and conceptions are also those of thinking ; but 
 while those of sensation exist wholly in nature, and 
 while those of conception, though more general, are 
 still only collective^ those of thinking areivholli/ generalj 
 and as such have no existence independent of thinking. 
 Yet they truly exist ; they are not a mere abstraction ; 
 they are the pure being and nature of individual things, 
 their soul, and life. The abstract is lifeless ; it has no 
 being ; the general, the genns, the species, on the other 
 hand is. Morality as something abstract exists only in 
 my head, and nowhere else : but morality, as that 
 which is the general in all moral actions, is and is their 
 general nature. To make this clear we would state it 
 thus : — Morality in its generality is the agreement of 
 human will with the divine law. This human will 
 does not exist in the abstract, but it particularizes itself 
 and becomes national will, and thus morality in par- 
 ticular is the agreement of the national will, as expressed 
 by its history, laws, literature, &c., with the divine will. 
 But the national will cannot act as such, it must have 
 its organs, and these are the single citizens of a nation, 
 and hence morality is individualized, expresses itself by 
 the single actions of single persons, and may be said to 
 be the agreement of our personal will, with the divine, . 
 so that we observe all duties towards ourselves, our fel- 
 low-men, and God, because they are the expressions of 
 the divine will. Thus tbe general morality is realized 
 in that of the individual, and while otherwise it would 
 be merely abstract it thus becomes concrete. Or I say, 
 that one of the qualities of the divine law is its gejierali- 
 ty. How is this to be understood ? Is this generality 
 merely abstract 7 The generahty of the law is that 
 power which alone constitutes every other command- 
 ment a law, and without which there could be none. 
 This general law lives, therefore, in all individual laws, 
 and becomes manifest by them. No one feels himself 
 morally obligated to fulfil the mere arbitrary will of a 
 despot : it has not the law as its soul, and hence cannot 
 bind us to obey it by external force. 
 
 Thinking, then, being the same as generalizing, seeks 
 
256 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 every where for the true nature of things, for their gen- 
 erality and necessity, for their real and genuine truth. 
 This does not consist in the perishable part, which may 
 be seen with the senses ; but in that, which while the 
 individual dies, continues to live. It is the Dryad of 
 the Romans, for instance, which as the soul of the tree 
 passes into another, animating it, when the one in 
 which it lived is hewn down. The object of thought, 
 therefore, is not a single thing, not this, or that ; nor is 
 it a collection of things, or something they have in com- 
 mon with each other, but it is the general nature of all 
 those individuals through which that nature flows, and 
 that are internally united by it. - 
 
 If we consider that all nature is full of reason, that 
 every being is the expression of it, then we must ac- 
 knowledge, that what we thus perceive by thinking, is 
 reason itself, or flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone. 
 The laws of reason and nature are the expressions of 
 the same divine will, and they difier only by their ob- 
 jects, and by the fact that in nature they \vork uncon- 
 sciously but in man with his consciousness. The law 
 of gravity which attracts all particles to a common cen- 
 ter, and the law according to which in times of danger 
 all citizens incline to one great individual, as for in- 
 stance, to Washington, is the same. 
 
 Unwilling to leave the present subject in the least 
 dark, we will add yet a few words. — The objects of 
 sensation or perception are something material; the 
 contents of conception are images, however they may 
 be generalized ; language and memory can do in part 
 without these images. But the objects and contents of 
 thought are wholly without imagery. The living tree 
 may be seen and conceived as an image ; but life as 
 such has no image. So it is with the thoughts of jus- 
 tice, holiness, virtue, truth ; with the thoughts of cause 
 and effect, ground and consequence. They do not ex- 
 ist as such in space, and yet no one would deny their 
 existence. Here it is, where Nominalists and Realists 
 must cease their opposition, and discovering each their 
 one-sidedness they must unite ; for when I say holi- 
 ness, this thought has in its generality of course no cor- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 257 
 
 responding external object^ and yet it cannot be with- 
 out an object, or it would be an empty thought. What 
 then is its object ? The thought of holiness itself. 
 This then is the last and principal difference between 
 feeling, sensation, conception, and thinking — that feel- 
 ing cannot become objective to itself, nor sensation, nor 
 conception, or with other words, feeling cannot feel it- 
 self, nor can sensation, or conception perceive them- 
 selves : but thinking has this power'of doubling itself, 
 it may become objective to itself, perceive itself, think of 
 and reflect on itself As thinking has the power to ren- 
 der itself objective to itself, so it is the power that can 
 reflect on every thing else, on the lowest and the high- 
 est, on the rudest and the most refined. 
 
 2. The contents of our sensation are dark, and little 
 understood, before our thinking penetrates them ; and 
 so the contents of our conceptions are not perfectly 
 transparent. But those of thinking are clear and lucid. 
 Thinking is a simple^ undisturbed^ quiet activity ; 
 " cogitatio est actio sibi perspicua, et in se continua." 
 It flows without interruption, and is every where per- 
 fectly clear to itself Feeling is a tremblijig motion in 
 itself; sensation is a dark and confused iveaving of the 
 mind ; the act by which we become conscious of the 
 world and of ourselves may be called an awakening. 
 But thinking is a flowing activity, perspicuous to itself 
 and conscious of itself, and known to itself in everyone 
 of its pulsations. Its symbol in nature is the ether. 
 Ether fills-all space, and yet is transparent: it is con- 
 stantly in motion, and yet this motion is not perceptible 
 to the eye, for it is always equal, quiet, and undisturbed. 
 The air is thick, not clear, nor transparent : it is cloudy, 
 and blue or gray of color. But the ether is clear, color- 
 less, and pure ; of unfathomable depth, open to the eye, 
 but mysterious to the understanding. In the air it 
 storms ; its motions are not quiet and flowing, but cross- 
 ing each other. Again ; ether is contained in all that 
 has existence, whether animate, or inanimate, elementa- 
 ry, or concrete. Art may, therefore, extract ether from 
 every thing, because it is in every thing. .So it is with 
 thinking. That which truly is in nature, are the di- 
 
 33 
 
258 PSYCHOLOGY, 
 
 vine thoughts, the divine laws, and all the rest is but 
 matter ; that which truly is in history, are likewise the 
 thoughts and will of nations, that have realized them- 
 selves in actions, customs, institutions, art, &c. By 
 thinking we may extract those thoughts in nature and 
 history, as by art we .may gain the ether contained in all 
 things. We need not carry our thoughts into nature 
 and loan them to it ; they are there and all we have to 
 do is to open our eyes and perceive them. Reason like 
 ether is every where, but we cannot discover it by think- 
 ing, as a Sir Isaac Newton, a Kepler, a Cuvier. 
 
 Thinking as this uninterrupted flow, as this general-? 
 izing activity, is as yet without distinctions ; it is not 
 without contents, for being perspicuous to itself, it has 
 itself for its contents, it is the light that sees itself. But 
 thinking is an activity, that according to the divine laws 
 contained in it produces distinctions, and these are, 
 
 First, Comprehension or Apprehension, Think- 
 ing in this form unites the manifold in one, but accord- 
 ing to its internal nature. And this nature consists in 
 this — every single individual belongs to a species, and 
 through it to its kind. The kind is the generality, the 
 species the particularity, and the individual the singu- 
 larity. The general nature specifies and individualizes 
 itself by its own power. The comprehension consists 
 in this trichotomy. It comprehends the individual in 
 the species, the species in the genus, and the genus in 
 the individual. There is nothing arbitrary in this ac- 
 tivity, nothing depending on our will or j)leasure ; it is 
 thinking in the form of comprehension or understand- 
 ing, that by its own laws is necessarily thus active, and 
 that discovers the same^laws in the activity of nature. 
 
 Secondly, Judgment. By judgment thinking ren- 
 ders the contents of comprehension more distinct, by 
 separating them, on the one hand, and on the other 
 keeping them united by a copula. The term lion^ is a 
 comprehension, when I perceive the genus in the indi- 
 vidual lion. When I say, " this is a lion," I have in 
 the term this, a single lion in view, a lion that is per- 
 haps before me in a menagerie, but in the term lion the 
 whole class or genus of lions, and thus separating the 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 259 
 
 individual from the genus, I nevertheless keep them 
 connected by the copula is, and thus show their identi- 
 ty. Judging I do not comprehend the one in the other, 
 or the manifold in one, but subordinate the one to the 
 other, or analyze. Both are and remain distinct ; the 
 subject being the single individual, the predicate the 
 
 fenus, as when I say, " the rose is a flower,''^ yet in this 
 istinction they are related to each other. Thinking in. 
 this form is judgment, and as such it is the power, that 
 every where produces light and order. Yet we must 
 have comprehended, before we can judge, and hence it 
 is that children may understand a thing without being 
 able to judge of it. 
 
 Thirdly, Syllogism or Conclusions is the activity by 
 which thinking removes all difference, and effects a per- 
 manent identity. In every syllogism we have three 
 thoughts ; each is distinct and differs from the other, 
 but one of them is capable of removing the difference 
 and of uniting the others in itself. Hence this process 
 is called Conclusion or Syllogism, This activity of 
 thinking is reason, the fruit on the tree of knowledge. 
 
 REMARKS. 
 
 1. Feeling and sensations are as little the origin or 
 ground of thinking, as buds and blossoms are the origin 
 of fruit. The fruit depends on them as a condition, 
 but its origin precedes blossoms and buds, and is more- 
 over also their origin. Thinking, however, commen- 
 ces as feeling, and develops itself from it gradually till 
 it reaches its height. Human feeling and that of the 
 animal must consequently differ from their very com- 
 mencement, for the one contains thinking according to . 
 its possibility, in its latent state, the other not. Sensa- 
 tions and conceptions are related to thinking and its de-" 
 velopment as conditions ; for without them it could not 
 exist in man. 
 
 2. There is a difference between the expressions / 
 think, and I have a thought. The words " I have," ex- 
 press a being, but one, which is not itself, what it pos- 
 sesses. " To have a good thought," and " to think 
 
260 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 well" iSj therefore, not exactly the same. The thought 
 I have may he bojTOioed, but when I think well, the 
 thought being the product of my own thinking, is the 
 same with it. Yet this must not be understood, as if a 
 man might have a thought without thinking ; he may 
 have a word without the thought it contains ; but to 
 have a thought merely handed by another would be no 
 better than to have another eat and digest for him. 
 
261 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 ON WILL. 
 
 It is usual to consider Reason and Will as wholly dif- 
 ferent activities, and to speak of mental and moral facul- 
 ties. But the mind is one, and reason and will are so 
 inseparable, that the one includes the other. They have 
 one principle and one life ; and what is on the one hand 
 liberty of will, is on the other spontaneity of thought. 
 Man cannot will a thing, unless he knows of it ; he 
 cannot have any knowledge of it without the influence 
 of will. Before he resolves on a thing, he must con- 
 sider it, and again, he must resolve to consider it. The 
 more clear and distinct our thinking, the more it will be 
 pervaded by the will ; and the more considerate, wise and 
 correct our actions, the more the breath of understand- 
 ing will penetrate them. I investigate a subject by my 
 loill ; and my will is directed to it by the knowledge I 
 have of it. Will and reason constantly determining 
 each other, are one and the same — existing in different 
 forms ; or " Reason is nothing else than will with pre- 
 vailing consciousness J and will is reason with a pre- 
 vailing practical tendency ^^ 
 
 It must be remarked here, however, that xoill maybe 
 viewed in a twofold aspect, as nature and as moral 
 will ; in the latter respect it is to be viewed in the closest 
 connection with law^ moral ohligation^ duties and 
 rights ; in the former it manifests itself by desires, in- 
 clinations, emotions, and passions. Only the morally 
 good is free ; the merely natural will is wholly depen- 
 
262 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 dent on external objects or internal passions, it does not 
 determine itself by its own nature, but by the nature of 
 that which js different from itself. In the sphere of the' 
 natural will we can recognize nothing but determ- 
 inism. It will, therefore, be understood, that here we 
 shall examine the will of man, as it is by nature, and 
 not as it is by grace or religious influence. The natu- 
 ral will then lives in all our desires, inclinations and 
 passions ; and these, after a preliminary remark, we 
 shall try to define and distinguish from each other. 
 We may here recollect what has been said on the na- 
 ture of instinct. It is on the one hand a feeling of 
 want, and on the other the direction to the object by 
 which the want may be removed. There is a corres- 
 ponding relation between the wants of all animated be- 
 ings and the things which may relieve them, as there is 
 a relation between negative and positive poles. The 
 want is the negative, and the food intended for it, is the 
 positive. - As this relation is a natural one, the being 
 feeling the want, is excited and restless, for the want is 
 related to the thing desired, and cannot remain quiet ; 
 this excitement demands a certain direction, a direction 
 to the means by which to satisfy the want, and it is in- 
 stinct which gives it. Now if the feeling of want is 
 'painful^ that of satisfaction is delightful^ so that the 
 mere sight of food is exhilarating. Again : whatever" 
 can feel itself must feel external influences, and receive 
 from them pleasant or unpleasant impressions. The 
 stone exposed to the sun, does not feel it ; the flower 
 may wither, but the eye looking into it feels the most 
 severe pain. When now any external influence upon 
 a being which feels itself, excites its self-activity, pleas- 
 ure will be felt by its reaction ; when this self- activity 
 is weakened, and perhaps rendered in some degree im- 
 possible, pain is the result. Pain and pleasure are, 
 therefore, the two extremes, between which the exist- 
 ence of man vibrates, and upon which the general char- 
 acter of all desires and inclinations, emotions and pas- 
 sions rests. The nature of instinct proceeds, as we 
 have seen, from self-feeling ; for without feeling itself, 
 a being cannot feel want. Self-feeling is its channel. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. ' 263 
 
 It is no less determined by this self-feeling than it de- 
 termines the whole life of a living being ; it directs it 
 with an inflexible determination to its proper food, so 
 that no horse has ever yet been seen to eat flesh, even 
 in its greatest hunger, nor a tiger to eat straw. While 
 instinct, as long as it is in the sphere of mere self-feel- 
 ing has no choice with regard to the direction which it 
 takes, it loses all direction when it enters the sphere of 
 consciousness in man. As a stream, that flowing 
 smoothly along its course turns neither to the right nor 
 to the left, is, on plunging into the broad, deep^ ocean, 
 suddenly deprived of its direction, so is instinct, when 
 received by consciousness. Yox now feeling and con- 
 sciotisnes^ unite ; the mere feeling of want becomes a 
 consciousness of it, as likewise the feeling of pain ; what 
 we feel we become conscious of, and feeling entering into 
 our consciousness, gives it warmth and life, and fills it 
 with pain or pleasure. But consciousness will not suf- 
 ier itself to be driven to its objects by an instinctive 
 power ; where it reigns choice and arbitrariness, reason 
 and will prevail. Instinct grows dull, and loses its na- 
 ture ; but as man continues to have wants, What must 
 supply the place of instinct 7 The full import of this 
 question will be perceived, when we observe, that we 
 cannot desire the unknown ; and again that we cannot 
 know any thing unless we desire to know it. Hence a 
 desire cannot originate directly in our knowledge, nor 
 this in our desire. How is this contradiction to be re- 
 moved ? Instinct raises the animal above it ; but in- 
 stinct is not in man what it is in the animal. The 
 contradiction in man must be removed by what may be 
 called appetency. This is instinct which has lost its 
 direction ; for though the direction is lost, the activity 
 continues ; man continues to feel hunger ^nd thirst, and 
 a tendency of his nature to satisfy them. This tenden- 
 cy is instinctive, but as man is conscious of it, it is no 
 longer instinct as such. He feels hunger, but the ob- 
 ject by which to satisfy it, is not pressed upon him by 
 instinct. He sees, however, many objects that are 
 pleasant to his sight ; he feels an appetency to unite 
 them with himself, to eat them without as yet knowing 
 
264 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 whether they will he agreeable ox disagreeable. He 
 eats the apple and finds it good, and from this moment' 
 the remembrance of the pleasure derived from the as- 
 similation of it will always call forth the anticipation of 
 pleasure as often as he feels want, and perceives an ap- 
 ple or represents it to himself by fancy. By appetency 
 then, we understand the original activity of instinct^ 
 which having lost its direction by entering the sphere 
 of consciousness^ makes an attempt to give a new one. 
 Or appetency in man is the anticipation of a pleasure. 
 I see for the first time a plate of beautiful grapes ; their 
 transparency, their pure juice swelling beneath the skin', 
 attract the eye. As yet I have not tasted them, they 
 may taste sweet, or bitter, or acid, for all is not gold 
 that glitters ; I cannot yet say that I shall like them, 
 but I make the attempt, I taste and find them good, and 
 from that moment I desire grapes whenever I see them. 
 What then is a desire 7 
 
 DESIRE. 
 
 It is the positive direction which we have taken by 
 means of appetency to an object or objects, which agree 
 ^..with our natural wants. Two things then are necessa- 
 '•^ry for the origin of a desire ; a natural want and an 
 object to remove it. The want and this object must be 
 brought together, and that which unites them is not in- 
 stinc?^^a1s su<jh-^ but what we have called appetency. 
 This appetency woul(i be impossible without sensation ; 
 but sensation has here no reference to theoretical but to 
 practical knowledge, for as soon as I see the pear a 
 feeling of pleasure connects itself with my perception-, 
 and i already anticipate the enjoyment of eating it. 
 And so likewise I examine it only with reference to its 
 taste. Sensation and knowledge, therefore, enter into 
 the service of the desires. 
 
 Desires are either positive or negative. The posi- 
 tive desires are those the objects of which agree with 
 our nature, and thus produce the feeling of pleasure. 
 The negative desires on the other hand, do not find 
 what they seek, an object corresponding with our wants, 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. - 266 
 
 and pleasure resulting from its union with ourselves ; 
 but the object positively desired, is discovered to be in- 
 jurious or to produce an eifect opposite to what we ex- 
 pected, and hence we abhor it whenever we again see 
 it. No negative desire is possible without a. positive one 
 preceding it ; for we must become acquainted with the 
 nature of all things around us by our own experience, 
 and though the sheep selects safely sugar from arsenic, 
 man must either have eaten the latter himself, or have 
 seen it used by others, before he will avoid it. 
 
 The difference between positive and negative desires 
 will appear more distinctly if we inquire : What is to be 
 understood by the satisfaction of desire ? The satis- 
 faction of a positive desire is the assimilation of its ob- 
 ject with ourselves, making it part of our own existence 
 and receiving pleasure by doing so. 1 desire an apple 
 which I see hanging on a branch perfectly ripe and 
 pleasant to the sight ; I pluck and eat it and my desire 
 is satisfied. It exists no longer for itself, but becomes 
 flesh of my body and blood of my blood ; it is convert- 
 ed into an accidence of myself. So it is with every 
 thing else. The piece of sugar is desired by the child ; 
 its desire is half satisfied when it receives it and fully 
 when it eats it. The satisfaction of desire then consists 
 in this ; the want, the restlessness from which the de- 
 sire arises, is removed and the anticipation of pleasure 
 realized at the expense of the object desired, for it is de- 
 stroyed. — Our negative desires, on the other hand, are 
 satisfied when the thing we dislike is kept away 
 from us, consequently does not come in contact with us. 
 The manner in which we keep it at a distance, may be 
 effected by our turning away from it, by fleeing it, or if 
 necessary by annihilating it. Again, negative desires 
 and abhorrence differ. Every negative desire bases it- 
 self upon a positive one, and this upon a knowledge of 
 the object ; abhorrence, on the other hand, is the imme- 
 diate expression of instinct, and does not rest on know- 
 ledge, but on a sensation, especially on that of smell or 
 sight. ~ The horse abhors carcasses ; man, any thing 
 unclean in his food. 
 
 ^ demand J on the other hand, differs from a positive 
 34 
 
266 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 desire by basing itself upon a right ; while a wish is a 
 desire for something, which we either know to be out 
 of our reach or which we make no attempt to get into 
 our power. 
 
 Every desire, however, is transient ; for every satis- 
 faction of desire is like the pressure of an elastic body 
 that rises as soon as the hand is removed from it. Like 
 the phoenix, which ever rises anew from its own ashes, 
 or the liver of Prometheus which grew as fast as the 
 vultures ate it, so desire rises always anew from its satis-^ 
 faction. The life, spent in the sphere of desire is, there- 
 fore, without true satisfaction, and man cannot remain 
 within it. He wills something permanent and passes 
 over into the sphere of 
 
 INCLINATION. 
 
 If our desires cannot be permanently satisfied, and if 
 they are changeable, constantly passing from one object 
 to another, — ^our inclinations select a single object, fix 
 themselves upon it, and instead of destroying it by as- 
 similation, preserve it ; for an inclination \s the desire to 
 remahi in constant and permanent connection with a 
 certain object^ and to effect this, it must be carefully pre- 
 served. From this preliminary definition it may be 
 seen that the difference between desire and inclination 
 is not merely in degree, as some have asserted in say- 
 ing that inclination is a desire to which we have become 
 accustomed ; the difference is one of quality ; inclina- 
 tion is something else than desire; when under the in- 
 fluence of desire, we want the objects to yield to us, to 
 pass over into ourselves, and become accidents of our- 
 selves ; when we have an inclination to an object we 
 yield to it, bend towards it, and our aim is to remain in 
 connection with it. It is not the repetition of a desire, 
 therefore, that makes it an inclination so that the latter 
 would be the former, having only become habitual. We 
 cannot have an inclination, without having had a de- 
 sire, and yet the difference remains one of quality or 
 kind. If one desires to learn a mechanical business 
 merely for the purpose of gaining a livelihood by it, he 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 267 
 
 will not care for a particular one, but be satisfied with 
 any ; but an iiiclination will be bent upon some one 
 and no other, and whatever may oppose this inclination, 
 it will remain the same. A mere desire to drink when 
 we are thirsty differs not a little from an inclination 
 for a specific wine. 
 
 No desire can therefore pass over at once into an in- 
 clination, and we all know that it is impossible for us 
 to love a thing, merely because we desire to love it. 
 That which renders a natural inclination possible, is 
 an innate propensity. The wants of man and his feel- 
 ing of them are permanent ; appetency is the attempt 
 to give these feelings a direction to certain objects, by 
 which they may be removed. These objects are va- 
 rious, but only one is desired at a time, and it may be 
 one thing or another. Man needs food and drink ; what 
 this food and drink may be, is indifferent in the sphere 
 of desire ; but propensity is the innate tendency of our 
 wants and feelings to a certain particular object ; it is 
 the adaptedness contained in the knowledge of an ob- 
 ject and in the feelings connected loith this knowledge, 
 to our capacity of desiring it. This adaptedness or 
 relation between our knowledge of an object and the 
 desire for it is innate, and therefore precedes both in 
 their reality, and exhibits itself at the moment that we 
 for the first time perceive the object. How many la- 
 dies had Dante seen without being affected by them 1 
 But when he saw Beatrice, his heart was at once hers. 
 So it was with Petrarch when he saw Laura. This 
 propensity is so strong that no one can alter it, because 
 it is something as subjective in man, as instinct is in 
 animals ; it is instinct modified by the influence of rea- 
 son. Yet while none can change or extinguish it, 
 every one is expected to govern it. And again, as no 
 one can have an inclination for what he has no natural 
 propensity, so he cannot avoid feehng an inclination, 
 when a propensity exists in his bosom. Upon such a 
 propensity talents and genius are based. Inclinations 
 have, therefore, propensity for a medium. They pre- 
 suppose desires and are impossible without them ; they 
 must have an object, this object must be known and 
 
268 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 with the knowledge of it a feeling of pleasure must be 
 connected, as in desires. 
 
 How then is inclination to be dejiiied 7 When as 
 often as we think of an object^ we desire a connection 
 with it, we have a propensity to it y which, indulged will 
 become an inclination. We must not imagine, how- 
 ever, that as we have different inchnations, so we must 
 have different propensities. Propensity is a general ac- 
 tivity, which may individualize itself and produce the 
 most various inclinations, as one and the same reason 
 takes the most different directions to the various objects 
 of knowledge. I have a propensity to the past, to re- 
 flect on it, on historical facts; but hereby virture of 
 this general propensity, I may incline to heraldry, to 
 chronology, to the ethical portions of history, to criti- 
 cism, &c. An inclination is either positive or negative. 
 As positive, it is love of a thing, as negative, dislike. 
 
 The character of inclination is calm, it does not 
 storm like desire, it is not vehement like passion, and 
 yet it is full of warmth and life. When, however, this 
 calmness is disturbed, when the objects of an inclina- 
 tion render man subject to themselves, their slave, the 
 inclination loses its character and becomes something 
 more, it becomes, . 
 
 EMOTION. 
 
 "An emotion" according to Kames, "is an internal 
 motion or agitation of the mind, which passes away 
 without desire." This definition of emotion is not al- 
 together accurate, for mind is itself an internal motion, 
 it is an uninterrupted motion, and an emotion must be 
 something different from the usual state of the mind. 
 Emotion is a disturbance of the quiet, peaceful, and 
 otherwise uninterrupted Tnoiion of the rnind. From 
 this definition it follows at once that the animal having 
 no mind, cannot have emotions. Every emotion is a 
 strong feeling, yet not every feeling is an emotion. 
 The feelings of hunger and thirst, of fatigue or vigor, 
 ^re no emotions ; but feeling connected with a^ clear 
 thought of their origin may be emotions. By the 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 269 
 
 thought of its cause a feeling becomes united with con- 
 sciousness, gains a hold upon the mind ; and if this hold 
 is so strong, that the person loses self-control, that, as 
 Karnes says, no desire, no determined direction can 
 take place in him, that he becomes confused — then the 
 feeling is an emotion. A man who is quietly walking 
 alone in a beautiful grove, engaged in meditation, sud- 
 denly sees a rattle-snake before him ; he clearly perceives 
 his danger, and a feeling of displeasure connecting it- 
 self with his perception, he is so frightened that at first 
 he is neither able to defend himself nor to run away. 
 This is an emotion which deprives him of the com- 
 mand of his mind. Such an emotion may be com- 
 pared to the disturbance of the quiet mirror of a lake, 
 when a stone is dropped into it. The waters seem in 
 perfect rest, yet they are in motion. The stone dis- 
 turbs their quietude, and small circles form themselves 
 which constantly enlarge as they recede from the cen- 
 ter. Desires and inclinations have a determined direc- 
 tion to certain objects, but emotions have no direction 
 at all. For instance a person highly insulted by anoth- 
 er, feels wroth ; he clenches his fist, his eyes roll — but 
 he is at first unable to act ; the ofiender meanwhile runs 
 off and the angry man exclaims, " if I had him here 
 now I would give him what he deserves." But we have 
 not yet fully understood the nature of an emotion. We 
 must see its origin and foundation. We have said that an 
 emotion is a disturbance of the activities of mind : 
 What are these activities? Thmking^ willing and 
 feeling. When these three activities are of equal 
 strength and in harmony, or when thinking freely pre- 
 vails, then the mind is active, but in no emotion j 
 when desire prevails, the activity of the mind having 
 a direction, is likewise not agitated, but when the 
 thinking activity is impeded by that of feeling, when 
 thinking becomes clouded by it — then we have an emo- 
 tion. The possibility that " thinking may prevail in 
 us, and be at the same time impeded by our feeling," 
 has been called excitability. The greater this is in a 
 person the more will he be under the influence of emo- 
 tions. The correctness of this definition of emotion 
 
270 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 will appear too from the expressions we' use, when we 
 recover from an emotion. " I was overcome ;" " I was 
 unmanned ;" "I was led away:" ^' I was not myself;" 
 " I forgot myself;" (fcc. Animals, as was said above, 
 cannot have emotions, because the ground of every emo- 
 tion is thinkings connected with strong feeling. Yet 
 we know that they express pain and joy, fear and hope. 
 This only seems so however. Their pain and plea- 
 sure, proceeding from the measure of an external influ- 
 ence upon them, is of an entire bodily character, dis- 
 connected xoith any thought^ and what seems to be fear 
 or hope, is nothing but a confused and dark anticipation 
 of which they can give no account to themselves, neither 
 while they are agitated, nor afterwards. Their fear 
 does not proceed from the thought of danger connected 
 with strong feeling ; but like the bird charmed by a 
 snake, they have but an unknown dim feeling, not even 
 amounting to anxiety.. Emotions are likewise either 
 negative or positive, as their nature harmonizes with 
 that of the person. All positive emotions are strength- 
 ening, as joy,"" delight, hope ; all negative ones are weak- 
 ening, or of a melting character, as grief, melancholy 
 ifcc. 
 
 We have said, a Utle above, that instinct loses its 
 direction in man, and we have just stated that emotions 
 are without direction -; What then is the difference be- 
 tween instinct that has lost its direction, and emotions ? 
 Emotions are more intellectual than instinct after it en- 
 ters into man, and again instinct gains a direction by ap- 
 petency, while emotions pass away without taking any 
 certain direction. Emotions, however, are transient 
 like desires; and cannot be recalled. The joy I felt at 
 the reception of glad tidings, when once gone, is gone 
 for ever, as an emotion, and to pretend to have it again 
 in all its liveliness and freshness would be sheer affecta- 
 tion. Emotions being transient, they can gain perma- 
 nency only by connecting themselves with an inclina- 
 tion ; but thus neither the inclination nor the emotion 
 remain pure, they are mixed, and in this mixed state, 
 they are, 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. , 271 
 
 PASSION. 
 
 The difference between inclination and passion is 
 not always kept up very, distinctly, and the reason is, 
 that they have the same contents. For as we have 
 love of honor and of proper ty^ so we have ambition 
 and avarice, which are passions, the objects of which are 
 likewise honor and property. Again, every inclination 
 may become a passion, either transient or permanent, 
 and hence it demands much knowledge of human na- 
 ture to distinguish between an inclination and a passion. 
 They do not merely differ in degree, so that an inclina- 
 tion losing its proper measure would become passion ; 
 in this case it would be difficult to ascertain this projoer 
 measure. Passion has elements, which inclination has 
 not, and the relation of passion to its object is wholly 
 different from that of inclination to tVs object. What 
 then are the elements of passion, that are not met with 
 in inclination ? Passion in general is a vehement, im- 
 movable, and persevering inclination, that has received 
 into itself either a strong einotion or another inclina- 
 tion or a desire. A higher or lower degree merely, 
 cannot make the same state of mind, at one time an in- 
 clination, and at another a passion, but the difference is 
 produced by their entirely different nature. In passion, 
 thinking and feeling, are wholly subordinate to desire ; 
 hence passions are blind. Every passion is at the same 
 time negative and positive, a complete contradiction. 
 Avarice is positive as a determined desire for money ; 
 negative as a constant depriving ourselves of the most 
 necessary sustenance. So again with reference to the 
 relation of passion to its object, it may be said, that 
 passion, as its name indicates, is wholly under its con- 
 trol ; that the object so reigns in it, as to exclude every 
 other inclination or desire. A few examples may be 
 given : 
 
 1. When an emotion enters into an inclination, it causes 
 a transient passion. The father, for example, loves his 
 son ; this love is quiet and undisturbed. But the father 
 hears of some danger which threatens his son ; the 
 
272 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 thought of this danger connects itself with a strong feel- 
 ing and becomes fear, and this emotion entering his pa- 
 ternal love, changes it into a passion, that will last as 
 long as the fear continues, and will disappear with it. 
 The more excitable a person is, and the more determin- 
 ed in his propensity and inclination to a certain object, 
 the more easily passions of this sort will arise in his 
 mind. A man loves property ; this love is of a tran- 
 quil character, and he does not lose his equilibrium. 
 But war breaks but ; it renders property insecure — he 
 is excitable, fear enters into his love and converts it into 
 a transient passion. When the war is over and pro- 
 perty becomes safe, the passion subsides. 
 
 2. Again ; passions originate, when one inclination 
 enters into another, and thus strengthening it, changes it 
 into a passion. This passion will be permanent and al- 
 ways ready to break forth, as often as an emotion draws it. 
 A man, for instance, loves war and honor equally ; here 
 are two inclinations and if he observes that his reputa- 
 tion may be increased by his love of war, he will make 
 this subservient to the other, and instead of love of 
 honor, he will have ambition. 
 
 3. And finally, when a desire enters into an inchna- 
 tion, it likewise becomes a passion. The nature of de- 
 sire and that of inclination is dilFerent. The desire 
 wants the object to yield to us ; in inclination the per- 
 son bends towards the object. Desire, to satisfy itself, 
 destroys its object by assimilation, inclination is deter- 
 mined to preserve it. When desire and inclination en- 
 ter into each other, they form a shocking contradiction, 
 which is the essence of passion. To illustrate this, we 
 will take once more the example of the ambitious man. 
 He loves honor, and hence is ready to devote himself, all 
 his skill, all his knowledge, all his power and even life 
 to it ; at the same time, he desires honor to yield to him, 
 to be his, and longs for it merely for his own sake. If 
 it were not his honor, he would not take any interest in 
 it. On the one hand, then, he gives himself up to 
 honor, considering it the highest good ; on the other he 
 desires honor to become a mere accident of himself. 
 
 In conclusion we would define passion thus : " It is 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 273 
 
 a strongs persevering, blifid desire, that is either con- 
 nected with a strong emotion or an incli7iation, afid 
 deprives man of self-control, chaining all his thitiking 
 and icilling. 
 
 RELATION OF DESIRES, INCLINATIONS, EMOTIONS, 
 AND PASSIONS, TO THE WILL. 
 
 Acts of the will and those of desire resemble each 
 other, and hence are not always distinguished in com- 
 mon life. And yet their difference is considerable. The 
 motive of an action, prompted by desire, is always the 
 anticipation of pleasure, be this pleasure sensual, in- 
 tellectual, or rational. An action that proceeds purely 
 from will, on the other hand, has for its motive, the 
 knowledge and love of the divine law, and the feeling 
 of regard for ourselves. With this feeling also, it is 
 true, a pleasure is connected, but this pleasure is of, a 
 moral nature, depending on notions of right and duty. 
 Acts of the will always have reference to rights ; I may 
 demand what I will ; acts of desire do not regard them, 
 but we frequently desire what we have no right to long 
 for. Our natural desires, are therefore indifferent to 
 right and duty, and consequently have in themselves no 
 elements of moral goodness. Again : the soul of desire 
 is lust, pleasure ; being under its influence, we are un- 
 der that of pleasure, and if our life is confined to the 
 sphere of desire, it will know of nothing higher than 
 pleasure or Eudaemonism. In this case our 'Will does 
 not determine itself by the idea of the divine law, nor 
 by its own power, but it is determined by the notion of 
 pleasure, and consequently it is not free, but under the 
 dominion of something different from itself. It is true 
 that man, while under the dominion of desire, may turn 
 from one object to another, so that no one enchains him, 
 yet it is tlie power of pleasure alone, that controls him, 
 even when he is prudent, like Epicurus. 
 
 In inclinations, it is different, and man is even less 
 free in them than in desires. For when we have once 
 formed an inclination, it is a particular object, one out 
 of many, that fastens us to itself, and claims our inter- 
 
 35 
 
274 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 est, care and attention above all others. We can, there- 
 fore, no longer turn away from it, and bend to another, 
 as we please, but this object enchains us. Hence one 
 inclination excludes those that cannot harmonize with 
 it, and draws a circle around us, within which alone we 
 can move with a certain degree of liberty. Our mere 
 curiosity, for instance, finds every knowable object equal- 
 ly interesting ; but when we feel a strong inclination to 
 a particular science, it will limit our interest in other 
 sciences, and though we may speak in an animated man- 
 ner of them, yet they will attract us in proportion as 
 they approach the one that is our favorite. But if in 
 our inclinations we are not free, if in them we are de- 
 termined by the power of their objects and the pleasure 
 we take in them, — passion makes us wholly their slaves. 
 They deprive us of all self-control; they do not permit 
 any other inclinations to exist by their side, they are ve- 
 hement and importunate desires, insisting with might 
 on their satisfaction. They are like internal diseases, 
 working secretly, absorbing and poisoning all the healthy 
 portions of the will and subjecting it wholly to their 
 control. 
 
 Passions, unless their objects are of a noble character, 
 ruil a dagger through the heart of will ; destroying it in 
 the most direct way. Man in the state of nature is the 
 creature of passion. The highest good for man is lib- 
 erty^ civil or moral, external or internal ; yet moral and 
 internal liberty only renders civil liberty, or the inde- 
 pendence of nations on each other, and that of citizens 
 in the nations, and liberty of thought valuable or desi- 
 rable. Only when morally free, we may say with 
 right, the will of man is his happiness. To preserve liber- 
 ty, laws and duties and rights surround man. Now 
 that which most immediately destroys will is passion, 
 because it disregards all duties and all rights. Take, 
 for example, ambition ; it is undoubtedly the desire of 
 having others possess a good opinion of our characters. 
 This desire is so great that it darkens our reason with 
 regard to every thing else. It becomes the principle 
 and motive of all actions, it subordinates all inclina- 
 tions. The ambitious man does every thing because it 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 275 
 
 will increase his reputation, and not because it is hon- 
 orable in itself; the highest good he knows of, is his 
 own honor. This, however, is certainly a slavish de- 
 pendence on the object of our desire. The ambitious 
 man needs the influence of others to spread his reputa- 
 tion. Hence he becomes dependent on them externally, 
 as he is on his desire for honor internally ; for what- 
 ever does not promote it, can gain no hold on him. 
 Every permanent passion is a suicide committed by our 
 will and our reason. The influence of passion on our 
 will being so great, we add a remark with regard to the 
 different classes of passionate men. In this respect we 
 may divide them all into three classes : 
 
 1. Some men are only at times overpowered by pas- 
 sions, but generally free from them. They possess fine 
 talents, the power to acquire much and solid know- 
 ledge ; they readily take an interest in all that deserves 
 attention ; for they are left free from those deep impres- 
 sions which monopolize the interest of man. Their 
 thinking is no less extensive, than energetic and deep, 
 and so their feeling is both deep and expanded over 
 many objects. They lay plans and execute them with 
 perseverance and steadiness, for they are not drawn off 
 by any sudden and powerful stimulus. They may be 
 less inventive and ingenious, but they are clear, deep 
 and thorough, and their minds are principally active in 
 the form of pure reason. They are fond of specula- 
 tion and philosophy, for this science must be carried on 
 without prejudices or predilections, without passions or 
 emotions. 
 
 2. The second class comprises those who are pas- 
 sionate, whose passions however are transient. They 
 have many inclinations, and being highly excitable, 
 emotions will be easily called up, and through them 
 their inclinations will become transient passions. These 
 of course will affect their character. Their thinking" 
 and feeling will not be of equal strength, as regards 
 their extent and energy ; but they spread over a large 
 field and thus weaken themselves. Taking an interest 
 in every object cast before them, they persevere in 
 nothing, but pass from owo thing to another, knowing 
 
276 * PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 something of all, but not much of any thing. Their 
 desire for knowledge is mere curiosity. They rarely 
 ask for the principles of the arts or sciences, satisfied with 
 a few facts they have no idea of a systematic life that 
 pervades all sciences. Again : passionate men may take 
 a deep interest for a time in the objects of their passions, 
 but their interest contiijues only as long as their pas- 
 sion lives ; while at the same time it is confined to the 
 sphere of their passion. They take an interest in their 
 native country, but not in the whole world. They pre- 
 fer the useful to the good^ and right and dutiful. 
 
 3. The third class of men are those who are governed 
 by one strong and permanent passion. Their thinking 
 is strong and energetic, but limited as to its extent ; and 
 so it is with their feeling. The limitation of these ac- 
 tivities rendeft it possible to be more energetic and pow- 
 erful within the limits in which they concentrate them- 
 selves, upon some few objects. Persons of this charac- 
 ter are thorough in their knowledge. The envious 
 man will be a close observer, the avaricious a good 
 arithmetician. So it is with feeling. The proud man 
 will not care for the sons of his neighbor, but the more 
 deep will be his interest in his own. The man, whose 
 passions are permanent, may appear externally cool, de- 
 liberate and free from deep emotions ; for one great pas- 
 sion controls all his feelings and movements. The am» 
 bitious despot, for example, knows how to gain the con- 
 fidence of all, while none is permitted to pry into his 
 secrets, or to see his weak side. — To one of these three 
 classes every man belongs, and to know man, we must 
 study the nature of the passions. The study of the po- 
 ets, especially of Shakspeare, will be found very fertile. 
 
 Finally, we have yet to consider the relations of emo- 
 tions to will. Emotions, while they continue, render 
 desire impossible. This shows itself, when we have 
 lost a friend by death, \ye lose all desire for food or 
 drink. Emotions sometimes strengthen desire, but then 
 emotion enters into desire and puts forth all its energy in 
 the direction which the desire has tak-en. Again : it has 
 been observed that some persons speak better than they 
 write, while others write better than they speak : How is 
 
 '§^. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 277 
 
 this to be explained ? Emotions either strengthen or 
 weaken our thinking ; they strengthen it when think- 
 ing draws their power into itself and thus gains their as- 
 sistance. It becomes then enthusiastic and thoughts 
 flow more clearly, more rapidly and fully ; the thought 
 of that which causes the emotions, and the emo- 
 tions become inseparable and aid each other. Persons, 
 on whose thinking emotions have this effect, speak 
 better, because they are more easily excited in public*, 
 than in their private study. When, however, the emo- 
 tion so grows together with our thinking, that it wholly 
 fills the latter, becomes its soul and does not suffer it 
 to turn to any thing else, mental derangement may take 
 place. This is the case when all our thinking and feel- 
 ing has become one grief ; when whatever we look 
 upon, seems to be a mirror, reflecting only what agitates 
 us, and when all seems to be gloomy and dark as our- 
 selves. But emotions more generally weaken our think- 
 ing, and then we cannot speak as well as write. Our 
 judgment becomes slow and our perceptions obscure. 
 A young man appears for the first time in the pulpit ; 
 he desires to do well, but the feeling of danger arising 
 from the possibility of failure, impedes his desire, un- 
 mans his judgment, and becoming embarrassed he does 
 not know where he is nor what he is doing. Or a per- 
 son who has not often been in company, reluctantly en- 
 ters it; in the course of conversation some witty or 
 cutting remark is made which he keenly feels, but ip his 
 embarrassment cannot find a reply. 
 
 Lastly, emotions weaken our will ; when we are 
 wroth and act in it, we do not determine our ourselves 
 by will but by the power of an unpleasant feeling. Our 
 will is the slave of it and wholly determined by it. 
 There is, of course, no physical necessity in the emo- 
 tions to compel man to act in accordance with the im- 
 pulse received from them. When the cloud, filled with 
 electricity, strikes a house, it cannot do otherwise ; but 
 when a man filled with wrath strikes another, he might 
 have refrained, he might have restrained himself. But 
 in the latter case the question would be, What induced 
 him to refrain from discharging his wrath, on his fel- 
 
278 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 low man ; Was it a sense of duty, or some selfish de- 
 sign ? We have seen then, that in the sphere of our 
 natural will, there is no liberty to be found, and that 
 consequently what is called so, is arbitrariness, but not 
 freedom. 
 
 We shall now offer a few remarks on each of the 
 above subjects in particular, yet so that we shall include 
 inclination and passion in one chapter, as their objects 
 are the same. 
 

 279 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON DESIRES. 
 
 Desires may be divided according to their objects. 
 These are either sensual^ or sensual-intellectual^ or ra- 
 tional ; and hence we have so many different classes of 
 desires. 
 
 SENSUAL DESIRES. 
 
 The term sensual does not include any reproach 
 whatever, for it has here no reference to morality. Such 
 a reference it can get only by our will in its relation to 
 the divine, which is here wholly left out of view. 
 These desires are called sensual, because their object 
 becomes known to us by our senses ; and because our 
 knowledge of them is sensuous. Yet it must not be 
 thought, that any knowledge could exist without some 
 reflection, or thought ; we mean only to say, that sen- 
 sation is the condition, without which no knowledge of 
 the objects of sensual desires would be possible. The de- 
 sires under consideration are numerous as their ob- 
 jects, which extend from inorganic nature, as minerals, 
 waters, to the organic — vegetables of all kinds and ani- 
 rijals. Whether an individual has many or few of them 
 depends on his own constitution, and on the nature sur- 
 rounding him. The latter is conditioned by the influ- 
 ences of the sun and moon, and climate in general. If 
 the region in which a person lives, is productive, if it 
 exhibits to his eyes a great variety/ of fruits and vegeta- 
 f '^^ bles, his desires will be many : if the region is barren, 
 
JJ80 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 or if its productions, though rich and plentiful, are lim- 
 ited in their kinds, the desires of its inhabitants cannot 
 be various, though they may be vehement. No man 
 can desire that of which he has no knowledge ; he who 
 has never seen an oyster or a turtle, cannot long for one, 
 and he who has never tasted southern fruits, as oranges, 
 pine-apples, <fec., will not feel a desire for them. As re- 
 gards the constitution of man, it is as we have seen in 
 Anthropology, modified by various causes. Age affects 
 it, and hence we desire in youth that to which we feel 
 indifferent in manhood. Sexual difference likewise pro- 
 duces a difference in our sensual desires : woman has 
 more delicate, more refined desires ; those of man are 
 more vehement and more coarse. And so the number 
 and variety of our desires depend further on the race to 
 which we belong, on the tribe, the nation, the age in 
 which we live, on the family in which we are brought 
 up. The Germans are fond of sauerkraut ; the English 
 of roast beef; the French of bouillon; the Italians of 
 maccaroni, &c. So is each family a small whole of its 
 own, separated from others by a family-spirit, ex- 
 pressing itself in peculiar views and feelings, customs 
 and habits. Here also members of one family will have 
 desires, which those of another have not. Some feel 
 an aversion to' milk, and whatever is made of it ; others 
 again desire it more than any other food. 
 
 SENSUAL— INTELLECTUAL DESIRES. 
 
 The objects of these desires are those that may be per- 
 ceived by our senses, but become objects of desire by 
 reflection. Of this nature are all the objects of proper- 
 ty. As sensual objects they are perceptible to the eye, 
 but their character of being property/ is only known to 
 the understanding. For that which renders them pro- 
 perty, is the law : this cannot be seen with the eyes, 
 and though signs and landmarks may separate our pro- 
 perty from that of another, it is only by thinking, by 
 acknowledging the invisible law, that we perceive and 
 acknowledge property. The sign is there for the ani- 
 mal as well as man ; but for the former it is a mere 
 
PSVdHOLOGY. 281 
 
 stone, a mere post ; for unless we see that something is 
 indicated by a thing, it is no sign for us. Again : de- 
 sires are intellectual when objects are not desired so 
 ' much on their own account, as on account of some- 
 thing else, when they are therefore considered as useful, 
 more than merely agreeable. So we become conscious 
 of duration of time, and through it, of that of life ; we 
 desire a long life because we desire the pleasures and 
 enjoyments life grants us. Life is here desired on ac- 
 count of that which it offers. Should we be sick, the 
 desire of life would induce us to desire the most unpleas- 
 ant medicine, if we hoped to recover by taking it. So 
 we may desire life for the sake of gathering property, or 
 of acquiring reputation. The objects of sensual-intel- 
 lectual desires are, therefore, not only agreeahle.hut use- 
 ful. But the useful is worth more than the agreeable ; 
 an illuminated saloon may be agreeable, but a machine 
 is useful, and the latter stands higher. If the number of 
 sensual desires, depends oji many accidental circum- 
 stances, that of intellectual desires depends on the 
 cultivation of the mind ; and as the objects of intel- 
 lectual desires stand higher, or lower on the scale of 
 intellect, we desire most those that stand nearest to our* 
 selves. 
 
 There are some desires which, while the above are 
 natural, are wholly unnatural. Persons, whose systems 
 are weakened and incapable of any longer serving the 
 desires which they once enjoyed, still remember themj 
 and from remembrance desire them again ; or seeing 
 others enjoying themselves, they desire their pleasures. 
 This is the case with old voluptuaries especially, and 
 with persons who have exhausted their nature by excess* 
 ive indulgence. An alderman, who was importuned 
 by a beggar, when on his way to a dinner,- said; "I 
 would give five guineas for your appetite." 
 
 RATIONAL DESIRES. c 
 
 Their objects are those which are not at all percep- 
 tible to the senses, and which consequently can only be 
 perceived by thinking. Truth, for instance, is nothing 
 
 36 
 
 ^ 
 
282 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 sensual : the numbers written on the blackboard have 
 a sensual existence, but we may rub them off at any- 
 time. The relation on the other hand, in which num- 
 bers stands to each other, cannot be rubbed oif, but re- 
 mains for ever the same. The number two cannot be 
 less nor more than two under any circumstances, and 
 two added to three must always mQkQJive. This rela- 
 tion is the truth of numbers. But it is not visible to 
 the eye, it is only accessible to the understanding. So it 
 is with beauty. Not the marble, not the canvass and 
 the colors, are beautiful — they may be agreeable ; — it is 
 thought alone that is beautiful when it appears in a sens- 
 ible form. If we acknowledge beauty in nature, we 
 must also acknowledge a spirit addressing us from all 
 the productions of nature. The material by which 
 beauty is expressed may be destroyed ; languages die 
 and become extinct : the marble crumbles in the course 
 of time ; colors grow pale ; but beauty in its nature is 
 eternal, and as such it is only ah object to thought and 
 reflection. 
 
 Now we desire truth, beauty, and goodness, but as soon 
 as we enter these spheres, we have entered the sphere of 
 pure will, and our desires must assume a moral relation. 
 The nature of truth, of beauty, and honor is such that 
 they cannot become means ; they are the final end of 
 all that is. If any one, for example, should desire honor 
 merely because it is useful, and not because it is jntrin- 
 sically desirable, he would, as soon as this was known 
 of him, Se denied honor by every one, for such a desire 
 is dishonorable in itself The honorable man, on the 
 other hand, will sacrifice property and life to honor. 
 The same is the case with beauty, speaking here of the 
 beauty of art. It has the power to silence all desires, 
 to raise us above sensual feeling, so much that it has 
 for this reason at all times been considered an excellent 
 means of cultivation. ^For when our desires are at rest 
 we are left free to examine a thing ; but when the ob- 
 ject of our investigation excites desires by its sensual 
 life, we seek less for its true nature, than for the use we 
 may make of it. In all the beauties of art, sensual life 
 being absent, desires cannot be awakened by them. We 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 283 
 
 may, however, desire beauty for its own sake, but not 
 as means for any thing else. ' What then is the object of 
 a rational desire ? It is one that is likewise desired on 
 its own account, that in our view of it cannot be lower- 
 ed to become a mere means for something else, while at 
 the same time it is confined to the sphere of natural de- 
 sires. That which cannot become means again, and 
 which is infinite in its nature, is always rational, and 
 the object of a rational desire is happiness. The idea 
 of happiness is that of an uninterrupted well-being. 
 Man flees what is painful, and seeks what is pleasant ; 
 he is anxious to reduce the pain, without which no life 
 has yet been found, to the smallest, and increase pleas- 
 ure to the highest amount. The better he succeeds in 
 affecting this, the more will he approach the ideal of 
 happiness. All other desires have to serve that of hap-' 
 piness ; all other ends will become subordinate to it ; 
 all his other desires will be governed by it, and brought 
 into harmony with it. Wherein then does this happi- 
 ness consist 7 It is an uninterrupted well-being : well- 
 being is the feeling of pleasure ; pleasure proceeds from 
 the satisfaction of wants, for though pain is the opposite 
 of pleasure, and cannot be sought for on its own ac- 
 count, it becomes by its removal, the source of pleasure. 
 To satisfy wants we must have the means, and the idea 
 of happiness includes them. Happiness then consists 
 in the possibility of satisfying all our possible wants, and 
 the desires arising from them. But there are many de- 
 sires ; they cannot all be satisfied at once ; a man can- 
 not eat and drink, read and speak at the same time. 
 And again there are sensual and intellectual wants, and 
 desires which frequently interfere with each other, so 
 that if we indulge the former, we shall weaken the lat- 
 ter, and so the reverse. Hence prudence must compare 
 one with the other, lest we should indulge the less val- 
 uable desire, and deprive ourselves of one that might 
 have given more satisfaction. Yet, however prudent 
 man may be with regard to the preference he gives one 
 desire over the other, and with regard to the means 
 which he may collect, and the object of which may be 
 his study, he will, after all, not find what he seeks in his 
 
4M- 
 
 284 PSTCHOLOQY. ' 
 
 State of nature, for one thing alone renoains permanent 
 in him, his thirst for happiness, while all the rest is con- 
 stantly changing. Dante, in his celebrated Convito, has 
 shown this beautifully in the following passage. " The 
 original desire that draws us to every thing is implant- 
 ed in us by nature, and this is the desire to return to 
 God as our fountain. And as the pilgrim who' walks 
 on an unknown path, considers every cottage which he 
 perceives at a distance as the resting-place, and when 
 he discovers that it is not, directs his hope onward t6 
 another, and thus from cottage to cottage, until at length 
 he reaches the harbor ; — so it is with the soul ; as it en- 
 ters the new, yet unknown path of this life, it directs its 
 eye to the object of its highest good, and every thing 
 which it perceives to contain any good, it takes for it. 
 And as its insight is at first imperfect, and has neither 
 experience nor instruction, a little good seems great to 
 it, and hence its desire is. at first bent upon it. Thus 
 we see little children vehemently desire an apple, and 
 when they grow larger they desire a bird, and when 
 still larger beautiful dress, and afterwards a horse, and 
 then a wife, and then riches, and so on. The reason of 
 this is that the soul does not find in any one of these 
 things what it seeks for, and what it hopes to find else- 
 where. And thus we may see that one wish always 
 stands behind the other in the eye of the soul, like a 
 pyramid which increases more and more, and spreads 
 towards the basis, and the last ground and the basis 
 of all wishes, is God. In truth, as one loses his way 
 on a path here on earth, so the soul often loses its way 
 on that path on which our wishes wander. * * * * As 
 we see that he who walks in the right way, attains the 
 end, and fulfils his wish, and comes to rest after his la- 
 bors ; but he who enters the wrong path never attains 
 his object, and never comes to rest, so it happens also 
 in life. The correct pilgrim comes to the end and to 
 rest, but he that misses the path can never reach it ; 
 but with much disappointment of soul he will look with 
 a longing eye into an empty distance." 
 

 
 
 » -# -■ 
 
 « 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 * 
 
 .. V ^ "-^^ 
 
 3YCH0L0GY. 
 
 .*- 
 
 > 
 
 285*- 
 
 
 
 -*. 
 
 ' 
 
 REMARKS. 
 
 
 : 
 
 .'. ^~ '■ ■ - 
 
 1. Goethe, in his Faust, has represented the nature 
 of 'desire in a most terrible manner. It is probably the 
 "only tragedy in which c^esire, as such, is X\\q pathos 
 of the hero. Faust would like to have the whole 
 universe serve him ; he desires every thing, and is satis- 
 fied with nothing. He is never under the influence of 
 an emotion or passion : it is desire that destroys him. 
 
 2. In the sphere of desire we may discover pru- 
 dence • but not wisdom. Epicurus was a prudent man, 
 a man that would not. inconsiderately indulge desires ; 
 he was a useful man, whatever Cicero, de Jinihus 
 honoriuiiy may say against him. for he taught that to be 
 happy ourselves, we must assist others in becoming 
 happy. Man needs man and cannot live without him, 
 and knowing this, none should be selfish, but Qvery one 
 ought to live for others, that they again may live 
 for him. This is certainly prudent. But happiness 
 within this sphere of desires is not the highest end of 
 man, and however prudently it may be planned, however 
 prudently all means may be procured — there is an end 
 higher stilly and this is the salvation of the soul. This 
 cannot be converted into a means ; it is the final des- 
 tination of man. And that man is tvise, who endeav^ 
 ours to secure it to himself. 
 
 *? 
 
 # -. ^ 
 
2g6 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ON INCLINATION AND PASSION. 
 
 Thegeneral character of all positive inclinations is that 
 of love ; it lives in all of them, and hence it is that most 
 are named from it, as love of honor, love of life, self-love, 
 love of fashion, &c. Love is the entering the nature 
 and being of something else ; — loving a thing we unite 
 ourselves with it, without expecting it to [yield to us. 
 The character of love however, greatly differs. There is 
 di moral love which may be demanded of us : we ought 
 ^o love all our fellow beings, even our enemies. " Be 
 like the cinnamon tree that pours fragrance on him 
 who hews it down." There is a religious love, it is the 
 love of God, and to God, it is mercy towards those that 
 deserve no love, and it is the love kindled in our hearts by 
 the Holy Spirit. And there is finally a pathological love, 
 or natural love, which does not rest on principles of our 
 will, but on a kind of sympathy between ourselves and its 
 objects, on what has been called propensity. Its distant 
 analogy may be found in the animal world at the time 
 when the old attend to their young. Yet all conscious- 
 ness being absent, it is but animal sympathy, instead of 
 love, that we observe there. Hence it is that one gene- 
 ration of animals knows nothing of another, for they 
 neither remember, nor love each other, after the young 
 are once able to take care of themselves. No one would 
 say either, however dependent his dog may be on him, 
 that he is loved by him. Such doggish love would be 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. ,^ 287' 
 
 worth little. All pathological or natural love, arises 
 from a natural propensity to certain objects, and pre- 
 supposes some resemblance between ourselves and them. 
 In nature it is true that unlike poles attract each other, 
 but they are nevertheless the poles of the same power, 
 and have it in common with each other, and it is the 
 power itself that thus divided, unites itself with itself 
 by attraction. The objects of our love modify its char- 
 acter. They are either ourselves^ or something iiian- 
 imate, things and objects in nature, or they are our 
 fellow-men. When its objects are inanimate we can- 
 not properly speak of Zove, or if we do, we must use the 
 word in a lifnited sense. It would be strange to say 
 that we love a certain food or drink, or love a house, a 
 garden, a golden chain, a ring : but in all these in- 
 stances we would rather say we like such things. Only 
 the like can enter into the nature of the like, the spiritual 
 that of spirit, the sensual that of sensation ; but inaut 
 imate things have nothing that resembles any thing in 
 ourselves, and hence they cannot be loved, properly 
 speaking. But we may love ourselves, and love our< 
 fellow-men. Yet the basis of all pathological love, is 
 self-love, and no man ever lived that loved any thing 
 different from himself, but self-love was the open or se- 
 cret source of his interest. Christ alone was free from 
 all self love : he loved as none before, or after him ; he 
 loved the world sinful as it was, and loved it having no 
 scheme in view for himself, free from every calculation 
 in his own favor. His love, the prototype of all, was' 
 not chained to his self, but free and pure ; he loved the 
 world for its own sake. Our love, whatever be its ob- 
 ject, rests always on our self-love, and we love every 
 thmg else because it pleases us, because it has some- 
 thing which we love in ourselves. Yet though all love 
 commences in self-love, it is not necessary that the lat- 
 . ter should remain the prevailing soul of the former, but 
 it may become so strong and so pure, that self-love dis- 
 appears. This shows itself especially when love be- 
 comes mutual, when it exists between two persons. This 
 love like every other commences with self-love. We 
 love a quality, a trait in the character of another, be- 
 
288 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 cause it 'pleases us, because it corresponds with our 
 idea of nobleness, or because it is agreeable to our feel- 
 ing. The other loves himself as much as we love our- 
 selves, and the approbation of others is desired as much 
 by him as by us. He perceives our liking to one of his 
 qualities, and though he should find nothing else in us, 
 that could attract his attention, he will certainly like 
 our liking to him, and thus his self-love will make him 
 incline to us. But if our love could not leave the 
 other, in whom we discovered a pleasant quality, indif- 
 ferent, his love to our liking will certainly strengthen 
 our inclination to him; now, however, its object will 
 no longer be a quality in him, but his love^ so that our 
 love will lose his love, or that love will love itself, that 
 love will have itself as its contents. Thus self-love is 
 merged in love ; and love hovering over two like a 
 genius of peace and harmony, so unites them, that 
 though two in space and time, they will be one in spirit. 
 There is a difference, for there are two ; and yet there 
 is none, for they are one. They do not love, the one 
 something in the other, as his money, his beauty, his 
 character ; but each loves the love of the other ; and 
 love thus divided between two, resting in each, and be- 
 ing the same in both, only closes itself together with 
 itself It finds itself, and rejoicing in having found it- 
 self, it keeps together with itself. As the sOul, accord- 
 ing to Plato, was divided in two, before it entered the 
 world, and now each half seeks the other, and as they 
 will be delighted when they meet again, and are drawn 
 towards each other by a mysterious feeling of their be- 
 longing to each other, so it is with love between two 
 persons. Such love may commence in self-love, but 
 where it blooms and lives, self-love dies away. 
 
 All inclinations either have reference to man in his 
 relation to himself as an individual, or to him, as he 
 is related to his fellow-men, and hence we have two 
 general classes ; 
 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 289 
 
 ■ I. INCLINATIONS ARISING FROM THE RELATION 
 IN WHICH MAN STANDS TO HIMSELF: 
 
 Self-love being the mother of all other inclinations, 
 demands an attention above all others. Its object is 
 the person himself that loves. It is only love m which 
 the subject that loves, and the object loved, are the 
 same, for loving myself, it is I that love, and it is I that 
 am loved. It includes a consciousness of our existence, 
 and of every thing that can render it comfortable and 
 pleasant. Arising from our natural tendency to pre- 
 serve ourselves, we not .only desire a continuation of 
 our existence in the present life, but also after death, 
 and not only rejoice in our preservation, but especially 
 delight in every new mode of existence, in every devel- 
 opment, of our powers. We love ourselves as we are, 
 and love what we find in ourselves. Self-love is the 
 mother of all other inclinations, because unless we take 
 an interest in ourselves, it will be impossible to take it 
 in anything else. The relation, however, in which we 
 stand to ourselves, will render it impossible for us, to 
 be indiiferent to ourselves ; for there is no other object 
 ofAvhich we can be so immediately conscious, and there 
 is more of which we are conscious, that we can desire 
 as much, as we desire a continuation of our existence. 
 Every desire includes a knowledge of its object, which 
 here is the subject that has the knowledge and the de- 
 sire : but where knowledge and desire are so insepara- 
 ble, that if we have the one, we must have the other, 
 there must be a strong propensity, or such a possibility 
 for the organ of an inclination, that the inclination will 
 certainly be formed. Hence no man can help loving 
 himself, for it is as natural to him as to breathe. 
 
 The object of self-love, it has been stated, is our self; 
 and all it contains. Its contents are its existence, the 
 continuation of this existence, life, and all that consti- 
 tutes a part of ourselves. — We can, however, only love 
 ourselves as lining beings, and in proportion as we 
 love ourselves we shall love our life. This we love be- 
 cause it is oursj and because we love ourselves. Love 
 
 37 
 
 
290 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 of life is therefore next in importance, for unless we live 
 we cannot love. 
 
 LOVE OF LIFE. 
 
 The merfirtendency to live, and continue life, we have 
 in common with the animal: the worm when trodden 
 upon writhes beneath the foot, as if it were unwilling 
 to die ; the ox when struck with the ax of the butcher 
 moans and rages as if he resisted with all his might the 
 attempt to deprive him of his life. But no animal can 
 love its lifCj for to love a thing, we must be conscious 
 of it, and be able to desire it. Man may love his life ; 
 because he can render the idea of life objective to him- 
 self, he can in his thoughts separate life from himself, 
 and say, '''my life-''^ But we love life on account of its 
 contents, and these are the joys and pleasures of life. 
 Hence these become objects of our love. There are 
 two ways in which we may enjoy ourselves in life : — 
 life is activity; every activity that feels itself oscillates 
 between rest and labor ; the change from the one to 
 the other is pleasant. It is pleasant to recreate one's self 
 after labor, and it is pleasant to muscles and nerves to 
 be active again after rest. A desire for rest without la-" 
 bor is indolence, 3.ud desire for constant employment be- 
 comes an inclination to enterprise, business, and may de- 
 generate into restlessness. If the former by its power of 
 sloth, drags us down to matter,; the latter destroys the vig- 
 or of our system. But as rest becomes tedious, and activ- 
 ity exhausts, and consequently either by itself, becomes 
 unpleasent, man will try to unite them moderately, so 
 that neither one prevails above the other. This is the 
 origin of diversions and amusements of every kind. 
 For every play demands, on the one hand, some atten- 
 tion, some activity, yet one that does not fatigue, and 
 on the other, it permits us to rest ourselves. Hence 
 there is in children an inclination to play. But adults 
 may^ likewise incline to games. The constantly chang- 
 ing and always attractive manner in which this kind 
 of activity employs the mind, is highly fascinating, the 
 skill we have an opportunity of exhibiting ; the attrac- 
 

 PSYCHOl*dGY. 291 
 
 tion offered to the imagination by chance that prevails 
 in games, and by tempting a dark and concealed for- 
 tune, all of them render this kind of entertainment pleas- 
 ant. So it is with hunting. The elements of this 
 pleasure are manifold. All uncertainty is exciting; 
 the uncertainty of success is therefore among the first ; 
 we half fear, and half hope ; fear and hope mingling pro- 
 dace the emotion of anxiety, which is pleasant if hope pre- 
 vails over fear. The next elenients are, the exercise of 
 skill and judgment in discovering the haunts of the 
 game ; presence of mind in seizing the opportunity 
 quickly, and with confidence when it oflTers itself It 
 is delightful too, to rest under the green boughs of 
 trees, to move from place to place in pursuit of 
 an object we much desire ; the fragrance of woods is 
 invigorating, and the observation of the life of animals 
 is interesting. This inclination to hunting was greater 
 during the middle ages, than it was among the ancients, > 
 or than it is now. Among the ancients we find that 
 the Egyptians, Indians^ and all the Asiatic nations, con- 
 sidered animals sacred, and rather protected than des- 
 troyed them. Among the Greeks, too, certain animals 
 were consecrated to certain gods, and were used in sacri- 
 fices. Yet Hercules and other heroes hunted them, es- 
 pecially those that were inimical to man. Hercules 
 kills the Nemean lion, the Lernean serpent, (fee. In- 
 clinations to war, to adventures, and other tendencies 
 of our nature, rest on the same principle. 
 
 Closely connected with our life, are the means by 
 which we support it, and if we love the former we 
 must take interest in the latter. Hence we form an in- 
 clination to eating and drinking^ and to society/. A 
 good dinner in a good company has its attractions for 
 every one. The union of sensual with intellectual en- 
 joyments during meals, was highly cultivated by the 
 Greeks ; their syrnposia are well known. It seems 
 that by satisfying our sensual wants, we are left more 
 free, and alive to those of the mind. Food has certain- 
 ly a soothing influence upon the mind, and it is for this 
 reason, that while we eat and drink we forget past 
 troubles and listen less to the cares that either harass u& 
 
293 PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 m 
 
 for the present or for the future. Hence it is too, that 
 what is said during a meal, was thought by many na- 
 tions to be spoken in confidence and sacred ; and that 
 certain nations, as the Arabians, will not injure their 
 enemy after they have eaten with him. The citizens of 
 Moskau, gave their empress when visiting her, bread 
 and salt, and she accepting it, declared that all her ap- 
 prehensions were gone. And in modern times we do 
 not invite every one to eat and drink with us ; butlike 
 to feel at liberty during our meals, to say what we please. 
 Kant has very ingeniously pointed out the course good 
 conversation should take during a meal. Every thing 
 unpleasant to any one, absent or present, should be 
 avoided, and it should pass from the mere narration of 
 the novelties of the day, the contents of newspapers, to 
 arguing. For in speaking of novelties and of the 
 news of the day, different views will be expressed, and 
 as every one thinks well of his own he will politely de- 
 fend them. Conversation thus becomes more lively 
 and will finally end in jesting. Much reasoning fa- 
 tigues, especially towards the end of a festival, since eat- 
 ing makes one feel inclined to rest. Mirth, languishing 
 and pleasant allusions are useful to digestion, &c. In- 
 clinations to dancing, smoking, and fashion, likewise 
 proceed from our love of life and its enjoyments. 
 
 Our inclination to fashion concerns more the form of 
 objects, than the objects themselves. It extends not 
 only to dress, but to furniture, style of building, litera- 
 ture, art, and every thin^ else of which we make use. 
 The inclination itself rests on an innate tendency to give 
 form to whatever comes into our hands ; we are free in 
 giving this form, and not bound, like the spider or the 
 bee, to a particular one for every object. Hence forms 
 are changeable, and this changeableness of formis what 
 is called fashion. Many object to it because it is 
 changeable ; but every product of man is perfectible, 
 and man seeking constantly for the best form for dress 
 and every thing else, and never finding the absolute 
 best, changes it without interruption. Some form our 
 dress, our furniture &c., must have: placing no value 
 upon any particular one leaves us morally more free, 
 

 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 293 
 
 than if we either adhere to an old fashion, because we 
 consider it best, or are always anxious to be foremost in 
 every one. Kant therefore says correctly, that there are 
 fools in the fashion and out of it. It is weakness to speak 
 against fashion. Since our dress needs some form, and 
 which of the many possible forms this may be, is whol- 
 ly immaterial. Fashion may become useful ; for as it 
 extends over the productions of the mind : there are 
 times when certain institutions, the study of certain 
 languages and sciences become fashionable, when we 
 feel incUned to imitate what is good in other nations. 
 
 The inclination to smoking seems wholly unnatural. 
 It was unknown until the discovery of America, and 
 thence spread over all Europe. It is an ethereal eat- 
 ing, soothing and passing time. Though unnatural, it 
 no doubt had a very simple origin. Some think that 
 the Indians who kindled fire with a great deal of 
 trouble, tried to preserve it, by placing coals in the stem 
 of a plant, and by putting this plant into the mouth 
 whenever it became inconvenient to carry it in the 
 hand. Others are of opinion that the Indians, in order 
 to protect themselves from musketoes, made smoke 
 around themselves, and at first putting smoking plants 
 into, their mouths for convenience sake, they became 
 fond of them and so formed by degrees a habit of using 
 them. 
 
 So is our inclination to dancing natural in its origin. 
 The emotions of savages are few in number, but strong 
 and vehement in energy. They become sometimes so 
 agitated that they must open a vein to obtain relief. 
 Generally, joyful occurrences make them to jump and 
 run about, and in these irregular motions, those which 
 we call dancing and which keep time and rhythm, orig- 
 inated. Dancing is, therefore, the external representa- 
 tion of our internal emotions by the motions of the 
 body. So soldiers have diiferent marches for every 
 military motion, and these marches accompanied by 
 music have their effects upon them. In Liefland, the 
 • reapers in harvest keep time with music. With us, 
 however, dancing does not proceed from an emotion, 
 but we dance to excite one. The savage jumping about 
 
294 , PSYCIfOLtfGY 
 
 
 needs no music : he sings and daps his hands ; that is 
 enough for him ; we must have music the melodies 
 of which will inspire us and dispose us to dancing. 
 
 Manifold indeed ar<3 the inclinations that may arise 
 from the natural tendencies of our nature, all of which 
 have reference to man as an individual being. We have 
 desire for knowledge; when this desire is satisfied by 
 any one, when we observe his willmgness and zeal to aid 
 us, we love him, and this love is that of the scholar to 
 the teacher. We have a desire for health; if we are 
 sick and recover through the aid of a skillful physi- 
 cian, we again cannot but feel attached to him. And 
 so it is with the ward^ who unable to defend his own 
 rights, will, as he becomes conscious of their value, 
 strongly incline to his careful, attentive, and disinterest- 
 ed guardian. We shall now consider self-love in its 
 negative form, in which it is 
 
 SELF-HATRED. 
 
 By hatred in general, we understand here a constant 
 dislike to whatever could interfere with our self-love. 
 The object of this hatred may either be something ex- 
 tenial, or the person who hates himself so that he is 
 himself the object of his own displeasure. Hating 
 himself, man desires to direct his thoughts away from 
 himself; filled by the highest displeasure, he would 
 forget himself. Self-hatred seems wholly unnatural, 
 and the question is. What is its origin ? Nothing but 
 self-love. This is paradoxical. Self-love seems to 
 be the principle of self-hatred, and this certainly is no 
 better than to say : a man hates himself because he loVes 
 himself. The object of self hatred is man himself, yet 
 not the whole of man, but some one of his qualities, 
 closely and inseparalely interwoven with his whole 
 character and being. Man loves himself and would 
 like to be as perfect in every respect as possible. The 
 interest he takes in himself induces him to sketch an 
 ideal of what he ought to be : he then compares him- 
 self as he is, with this ideal, and finding that he is not 
 by any means like it, he receives pain from the result 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 295 
 
 of this comparison. Instead of making a resolute at- 
 tempt to improve his character, his will seems diseased 
 and is inactive, and the displeasure mingling with his 
 feelings of self-love, he avoids thinkino^ of himself and 
 hates himself. Thus selj-hatred originates only in 
 self-love. When in addition to this, man becomes 
 weary of life, either because he has spent his physical 
 powers in the excessive indulgence of sensual pleasures 
 and hates their consta^it and monotonous repetition, or 
 because he has suffered misfortunes without sufficient 
 firmness to support himself properly under them — then 
 it is possible he will commit suicide. And in the com- 
 mission of it we may see that man hates himself because 
 he loves himself. For what can be the reason, for 
 which he should desire to make an end to his own life ? 
 Either he must desire to withdraw himself from an ac- 
 tivity to which he would have to attend in order to live 
 as is the case with many persons who have lost proper- 
 ty or honor, or to free himself from suffering like Mira- 
 beau or Claviere, or to obtain an imagined happiness 
 like the Indian philosopher Calamus. In- all these in- 
 stances however, we must say that if the self-murderer 
 did not love himself, he could not care for life or death ; 
 but taking interest in himself, he kills himself to be free 
 from something that is painful to him, or obtain that 
 which he much desires. With some flattering hope the 
 self-murderer embraces death. The correctness of 
 these remarks are corroborated by the fact, that persons 
 who are particularly concerned for their life and its 
 preservation, very often have an irresistible tendency 
 to commit suicide. This has been observed by Gall. 
 Suicide committed in such an instance, is certainly the 
 fruit of an irregular self-love. — Nothing leads, however, 
 more quickly to the aversion to life than inactivity. 
 When a gradual transition from rest to labor is want- 
 ing, time is stript of interest and we feel oppressed with 
 its tediousness. The mind hates emptiness, it feels a 
 horror, a void : it desires to fill its life with deeds and 
 actions. Hence many, as has been remarked, hang 
 themselves, because time rests too hard on them. 
 
 Aversion'is the negative, not of self-love as such, but 
 
41 
 296 PSYCltOLOGY. 
 
 of a modification of it. When we do not love our self 
 as a whole so much as one of its qualities, say personal 
 beauty, or art, science, or anything that belongs to it, 
 then our inclination should be called ''Hove bf our qual- 
 itiesy or of that which is ours and not self-love J^ 
 This love of what is our own, is principally found 
 among children, who love th6ir hand or tlieir ei/e, or 
 sometiiing belongingto themselves, but cannot yet form 
 a notion of themselves as a whole. It is met with 
 among women,, and characterizes some nations as the 
 Athenians of ancient, and the French in modern times. 
 In proportion as we love everything belonging to our- 
 selves, we feel an aversion to all that may interfere with 
 it. I love, for example, health, and as soon as I hear of 
 a prevaiUng disease 1 feel a strong aversion to it ; I 
 love wealth and hate to see poverty wrapped in rags : 
 we love truth and in proportion as we feel inclined to it, 
 we shun ignorance. - Here, likewise, suicide may be 
 committed. The honor of a person is not the person ; 
 yet it is a high quality of his character, and he loves it 
 more than himself. If honor is wounded, and he des- 
 pairs of recovering it, he kills himself. So a lady loves 
 her beauty ; she is seized with the small-pox ; her face 
 is covered with, marks and she is ready to die. 
 
 SELF-LOVE AS A PASSION. 
 
 Self-love as a passion, is selfishness^ and originates 
 when a desire enters our self-love. Th^ desire is that 
 every thing shall serve us, and exist only for us to 
 the exclusion of every one else. Every desire the end 
 of which does not lie out of the sphere of him who 
 desires, is selfish ; and when such a desire enters into 
 an inclination, it converts the latter into a passion. 
 Passion renders the origin of other inclinations, if not 
 impossible at least difficult; hence the selfish man can- 
 not take interest in any thing unless it has some refer- 
 ence to himself The man who loves himself may love 
 others, but the selfish man is incapable of loving from 
 disinterested motives. Truth and beauty have value 
 for him as far as they are useful to himj if he cannot 
 

 X 
 
 ^ 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 297 
 
 see their immediate use, they leave him indifferent. 
 The selfish man expects the devotion of all, he expects 
 every one to be active for him ; but feels little inclined 
 to do any thing for others. If he is disappointed in his 
 expectation he feels unhappy. He is incapable of 
 forming friendship because he can only take interest 
 in himself. He will break any connection if it comes 
 in collision with his interest. Selfishness either con- 
 cerns our whole self or only parts of it. When the 
 latter is the case, passions arise, when a desire draws 
 itself into an inclination, which we have formed to 
 something, belonging to ourselves, to an attribute of 
 our character, to skill in art or knowledge, science, 
 (fcc. I love a science because by labor and application, 
 I have acquired considerable knowledge in it and have 
 made it my own. Now I desire that every one else 
 shall love it as I do, and if I discover that it is not 
 generally favored, 1 become passionate. Or I am 
 strongly inclined to some practical object which I have 
 in view ; I desire the assistance and interest of every 
 .one, and try to gain it by all means and ways. My 
 inclination will thus become a passion, and force me 
 to sacrifice rest and frequently honor to it. For to 
 gain the interests of others, I shall if my inclination has 
 become passion, accomodate myself to every one, agree 
 with every one's views and nowhere show my own in 
 opposition to those of others. 
 
 Another form of selfishness is passion for enjoyment. 
 When our inclination to pleasure is pervaded by the 
 desire for every thing that may serve it, when this de- 
 sire makes us hunt for pleasures, then our inclination 
 is a passion. As such, it renders all other inclinations 
 subordinate to itself, and takes interest in nothingunless 
 it can be eaten or drunk, or made in some way subserv- 
 ient to our pleasures. Works of art and literature, 
 sciences and all intellectual productions, have worth 
 only when they can be enjoyed by way of a refined 
 pleasure. This passion exhibits itself also thus. When 
 we love life and are willing to labor in order to enjoy 
 it, our love is an inclination. But when we desire en- 
 joyments independent of labor, when we desire to enjoy 
 
 38 
 
298 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 what others have gained by their labor, or when we de- 
 sire others to labor that we may enjoy the fruits of their 
 labors, then our inclination to life and its enjoyments is 
 a passion. 
 
 There is, finally, a theoretical egotism or selfishness 
 which we will merely mention here. It is that egotism, 
 which has either laid down certain rules and maxims 
 for practical pursuits and for intercourse with men, all 
 of whom it considers selfish and under the infiuence of 
 the same selfish rules which it has adopted, and on the 
 execution of which it insists with a singular perseverance. 
 Or it is egotism in theory, science, which considers its 
 judgments and views and hypotheses to be infallible, 
 and expects all others to yield to them. 
 
 SELF-LOVE AS PASSION IN ITS NEGATIVE FORM. 
 
 Here it is self-hatred, as represented above, that be- 
 comes a terrible passion, in which man constantly tor- 
 tures and vexes himself; for he is not satisfied either 
 with himself or with any thing in himself, and this pas- 
 sion may be compared to the bodily disease called epi- • 
 lepsy. In this disease every nerve touches and wounds 
 the other, and every muscle affects the other with pain; 
 the whole body seems to be in conflict with itself^ and 
 seems to be determined to ruin itself by its own remain- 
 ing strength. The individual is sick through his own 
 nerves and muscles ; nerves and muscles are not attack- 
 ed from without, but they afflict each other mutually. 
 So it is with self-hatred when it is kindled into o. pas- 
 sion. The dissatisfaction of man with himself is a per- 
 manent one and he cannot think of himself without the 
 greatest pain. He consumes his lite in bitterness, for in 
 all he does and undertakes, he will perceive frailties, 
 and these will so attract his attention that he cannot see 
 the good mingled with them. If he could do the latter, 
 he would mend what is imperfect and go joyfully from 
 one degree of improvement to another. The artist 
 while he finishes a work, may notice its frailties, but hav- 
 ing finished it, he has improved himself and commen- 
 ces a new work with a determination to execute it, as 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 299 
 
 much more skillfally as his own power has been raised, 
 and so he advances himself by every work and with him- 
 self all his productions. The man dissatisfied with him- 
 self finds all his thoughts constantly drawn to his frail- 
 ties and weaknesses, and cannot turn them away from 
 them. It seems as if every possible pleasure in life or 
 that man could take in himself was suddenly suppres- 
 sed, because the higher idea which man has of himself, 
 and of genuine pleasure cannot enter on such pleasures 
 as being beneath it. This discord like an electric spark 
 passes through every feeling of pleasure that man might 
 derive from his productions or life, or anything that life 
 offers. For once at war with himself he is so with every 
 thing else, and finds fault with whatever comes from 
 the hand of man. Every thing human is imperfect ; 
 but it has likewise something good ; the man dissatisfied 
 with himself and the world, will every where see only 
 the faults and not the beauties. He is morose, and as 
 the proverb says, finds fault with the fly crawling on 
 the wall. There is no innocent pleasure, no work, no 
 science in which he does not find something to cen- 
 sure. 
 
 And finally, one aversion to life may become a pas- 
 sion and then it may be called ill humor. In it man 
 desires every thing, and is satisfied with nothing. No 
 joy and no hope, no knowledge and no skill is equal 
 to his anticipations. Dissatisfaction alone is perma- 
 nent, but its objects are in a constant flow. This ill hu- 
 mor differs widely from the humor of the poet. He is 
 likewise conscious of the infinite and great, and of the 
 deficiencies of every human work and pursuit. But in- 
 stead of finding fault with these deficiencies and becom- 
 ing morose, the poet by his power of language represents 
 the contrasts between the infinite and the trifling anxiety, 
 and solicitude expressed by man for the finite and the 
 stress laid on little things, and thus renders the trifling 
 cares of man ridiculohs, yet without bitterness or satire. 
 ^e uses the infinite as a mirror, and making the pur- 
 suits of man reflect themselves in it, he effects all he de* 
 sires. 
 
 # 
 
300 ' PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 II. INCLINATIONS ARISING FROM THE RELATION OF 
 MAN TO HIS FELLOW-MEN. 
 
 LOVE OF PROPERTY. 
 
 The notion of property pre-supposes a relation of men 
 to each other, in which they are united at least for the 
 purpose of protecting each other and what they possess. 
 In this relation every one must have something, a bow 
 or a net, a staff or a herd of cattle. Separated from all 
 the rest, isolated like Robinson Crusoe on a distant island, 
 a man could not have property, for though the whole 
 island might be his by the law of taking first possession, 
 there would be no law to protect him in his property. 
 Only when many are united so that one has a property 
 from the possession and use of which every one else is 
 excluded, we speak of property and not until then. If 
 love of property is impossible without a relation of the 
 possession to other men, it is impossible likewise with- 
 out a notion of property and its value. There are ani- 
 mals that in collecting a small provision for the inclem- 
 ent seasons seem to have an idea of time as something 
 future, for they lay up for future wants, and oi proper ty^ 
 for they attempt to defend it when it is attacked. So 
 the bees guard their honey, cows on the Alps of Swit- 
 zerland seize certain objects, and defend them vehement- 
 ly from others. The German rat gathers in a great 
 quantity of wheat, and many poor persons seek its holes 
 and take the fruits of its labors. Yet no one would se- 
 riously say that animals truly have property, or else man 
 would steal, as often as he makes use of their provisions 
 without their permission. They have no idea of prop- 
 erty nor of time, and they defend what they instinctive- 
 ly gather from an impulse of their nature and not from 
 a feeling of right. The idea of property is therefore 
 necessary, to form an inclination to it. Where it is 
 wanting there is no inclination. Children of rich pa# 
 rents, may have a great deal of property, yet they have 
 no idea of it. They know not the value' of wealth and 
 hence do not care for it. If their parents are dead we 
 
 -<^- 
 %• 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 301 
 
 place them under the care of guardians, when they grow 
 and become of age, they generally form a strong incli- 
 nation to property, for they have then become conscious 
 of its value. As an inclination to property is impossi- 
 ble without an idea of it, so we must have an idea of 
 time, and its duration ; for property is to be permanent, 
 to endure in time. The apple when eaten, is no longer 
 the property of any one ; but the tree, from which it 
 was plucked will bear apples again. The child, how- 
 ever, will give the whole tree for a single apple. 
 
 The love of property pre-supposes therefore an object^ 
 from the possession and use of which every one else is 
 excluded^ a notion of time and the value of -property 
 as a m>eans of support in all time. The less persons 
 are accustomed to look ahead, the less strong will be 
 their love of property. Savages have no clear idea of lime 
 in its three great divisions, the past, the present, and 
 future ; their social life is not well-regulated, and their 
 loveof property is consequently weak. They live by- 
 fishing, and the chase, and their unerring shafts easily 
 make the wild bird or the stag their property. But such 
 property is of no duration ; the bow and the arrows, the 
 net and the trap are the only permanent property of 
 savages. The momentary want demands their labor, 
 but the want being satisfied they do not trouble them- 
 selves any further. The property of Nomades stands on 
 somewhat higher ground. Their social life is more close 
 and settled, and their notion of time is more accurate. 
 Living on the milk of animals, they must raise and pro- 
 tect them. Yet their property is still movable, like 
 that of savages. Cain kills Abel ; the farmer supplants 
 the wandering herdsman. Where agriculture prevails, 
 the notion of time becomes strong and clear, for the farmer 
 depends on seasons. Farms cannot be moved ; the ob- 
 ject of property is therefore permanent. But while thus 
 the character of property becomes permanent and im- 
 movable, it is not wholly adapted to the changeable- 
 ness of time and to our own mutability. The farm, the 
 house, the garden, will always remain on the same 
 spot, though we may desire to change our residence. 
 Now it might be that two, either of whom would 
 
 wt 
 
302 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 desire the property of the other, might make an 
 exchange. Such instances would, however, be rare. 
 It will be more frequently the case that, one anxious 
 to relinquish his estate for the purpose of seeking 
 another residence, might find one willing to sell his, but 
 not to exchange it, and then a medium would be re- 
 quired, by which to represent the respective value of 
 each property. This representative of property is found 
 even among savages, and consists principally in some 
 thing rare, as rare feathers, shells, or birds. In the 
 Old Testament, however, money is mentioned. It is 
 the representative among all civilized nations, and the 
 question is ; What is the reason that gold and silver arei 
 used for this purpose ? 
 
 The hypotheses on this subject are different, as they 
 -take into consideration one or the other quality of prop- 
 erty. One of its qualities is that it must have been gain- 
 ed by labor. The apple I eat, plucking it from the tree 
 of another, is not mine in the sense in which I call the 
 fruit of that tree mine, which I have grafted, and upon 
 which I have bestowed much care. Hence they say 
 that silver and gold, and the precious metals are only to 
 be brought forth from the bowels of the earth by much 
 labor, and for this reason they are well qualified to re- 
 present property, for it must also have been earned by 
 diligence, if not directly by our own, by that of those 
 from whom we inherited it. They are rare too, not 
 very abundant, and consequently their value will place a 
 proper estimate on property in general. Yet property 
 may be gained without labor ; a thing belonging to no 
 one becomes mine by my mere will to take possession 
 of it, for res nullius cedit primo occupanti. Others, 
 therefore, have directed their attention to the use to be 
 made of property, and said, the representative of proper- 
 ty ought to be something which cannot itself be used 
 for any thing else. The design of property is, to be 
 used ; if that which represents it, can be used, then it 
 becomes apart of property, and not its mere representa- 
 tive. It might effect exchanges, but not sales. Yet we 
 have innumerable articles made of gold and silver, and 
 this hypothesis is not therefore fully correct. Hence we 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 303 
 
 must keep a different quality of property in view, and this 
 is its permanency and duration. Of all bodies the pre- 
 cious metals are the most durable ; gold and silver re- 
 tain their nature in all the changes they may have to 
 undergo ; lead, iron, and copper are destructible. Again ; 
 precious metals cannot be imitated, and if mixed with 
 inferior substances, it is easy to detect it. It is remark- 
 able that many persons love its representative more than 
 property itself; they prefer money to that, the value 
 of which it represents. The reason perhaps is, that 
 money is more movable, that it is the same every where. 
 The elements of the pleasure we take in the posses-' 
 sion of property are many, and among them are the fol- 
 lowing : Property in general, the possession of earthly 
 objects, increases the feelings of our existence ; for what 
 we possess attaches itself to us. Hence the possession 
 of property gives us a feeling of greater importance, in- 
 fluence, and security. Again : all property is to serve 
 as means, either for the satisfaction of bodily^ or intel- 
 lectual^ or moral wants and activities, and if the satis- 
 faction of these wants is pleasant, the possession of the 
 means must be so. Property secures to us a certain 
 degree of independence. It is pleasant to be able to fol- 
 low out and execute one's own plans. But to do this de- 
 mands property. In proportion as any one has wealth, 
 he will feel inclined to think that he can do what he wills, 
 and this again is pleasant. Some love the acquisition 
 of property, more than property. Activity is pleasant 
 in itself and is the soul of life ; if the activity which we 
 employ for something that we may call our own is 
 successful, it may become the object of our inclination. 
 And as the acquisition, so i\\e preservation of property 
 may be the object of an inclination, which may be call- 
 ed economy. Property has reference to the future, and 
 every one who is wise will be impressed with the neces- 
 sity of preserving the means of support after they have 
 once been acquired, and of maintaining the balance 
 between one's income and expenses, lest the fruits of la- 
 bor be overbalanced by the pleasures of enjoyments. 
 This inclination is found in all classes of men, yet 
 the higher classes are much more frequently inclined 
 
304 psYCHotoay. 
 
 to spend freely. Artists, poets, and persons of the same 
 or similar employments are frequently poor. Socrates 
 had little or nothing ; Luther died, leaving his estate in- 
 volved in debt ; Melancthon knew not how to preserve 
 what he earned, or what was presented to him, and Cal- 
 vin left nothing oi*note. Nevertheless the inclination 
 to the preservation of property is a useful one, and if 
 exercised in the proper spirit is a virtue. 
 
 LOVE OF PROPERTY AS A PASSION-. 
 
 All property is to be considered as means for some end, 
 it is to be used, to be consumed, for it has no value what- 
 ever, unless it is employed, But when one's love to prop- 
 erty has degenerated into a passion, our relation to it has 
 been changed, and while before we considered it meansj 
 we now regard it as the end of all our activity and of 
 our life. It is generally said that too great inclination 
 to property or a desire for too great an amount becomes 
 a passion ; but both definitions are wrong. My incli- 
 nation to property may be very great, and I still may 
 feel at liberty to use it for my bodily support, for my 
 pleasures, or the promotion of benevolent objects, and 
 as long as I can do so, 1 am not under the dominion of 
 a passion. And again it is wrong to say that where a 
 too large amount is desired, we have yielded to a pas- 
 sion. For what is much or little on the scale of wealth 1 
 We call him well off who has as much as he needs. 
 But the rational man needs not much to live on, for na- 
 ture is satisfied with little, — Natura paucis contenta ; 
 yet another needs an amount which some would call 
 much. The ideas of riches are, therefore, relative, and 
 from them we cannot derive a definition of avarice or 
 coveteousness. It cannot be the object of an inclination 
 either that converts it into a passion ; it remains the 
 same, though its quantity should be greater or less. 
 Nor can it be the idea we form of this object ; for this 
 may be infinite as the object itself, and still not force us 
 to form a passion for it. When a man would rather 
 lose his life than his property, when he would rather 
 starve himself and his family, than use his money as 
 
PSYGHOLOG^J'. 305 
 
 means, when consequently his property is his idol for 
 which he labors and lives, when he is no longer free 
 but the slave of his idol, then instead of an inclination 
 to property he heis a passion for it. The relation of the 
 person to his property has been changed; the difference 
 between this inclination and its corresponding passions 
 is one relating to quality and not merely one to quan- 
 tity. Passions pervert what is originally correct. 
 What is means becomes an end, and what ought to be , 
 the end becomes means. Money becomes the end, and 
 the persons the means for its acquisition and preserva- 
 tion. It is not he that has the money, but the money 
 has him. Money is the substance and being of his life, 
 he is its accidence. This appears clearly from the man- 
 ner, in which the man whose idol is money, treats him- 
 self and all others. He that has nothing is worth no* 
 thing in his view ; ^property and not personality makes 
 with him the man ! WJien he holds iHte'rcourse with 
 men, his motive is the anticipation of some benefit or 
 advantage which he may derive from such an inter- 
 course. If he cannot gain somethings he will not seek 
 the society of any one. Again, he frets himself in the 
 same way. If he loses what he possesses, his joys are 
 gone, and life being stripped of its highest good for him, 
 he kills himself. 
 
 Love of property^ as a passion, presents itself under 
 two different forms, for we either delight in the acquisi- 
 tion of property, and then it is covetousness or self-in- 
 terest ; or we delight in its preservation and then it is 
 avarice. 
 
 1. Covetousness is the passion that desires constantly 
 to add to the stock we already have. The covetous man 
 knows of but one good, — property, or money — he there- 
 fore indulges not any other passion that might interfere) 
 with this. He desifres an infinite increase of his wealth, 
 and yet knows of no end, for which to use it. He does 
 not care very particularly how he obtains his posses- 
 sions if he has only a legal title to them. " He removes 
 landmarks, seizes every thing his debtor has, lest he 
 <should lose interest, demands the reward before he as- 
 sists the sufferer, and will rather see the corpsa of the 
 
 39 
 
306 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 Stranger exposed by the way-side than bury it without 
 being certain of his fee." It is not necessary, however, 
 that the covetous man cheat, and make use of immoral 
 means to obtain his possession. He may be the pru-: 
 dent, cool, calculating arithmetician who well knows 
 that honesty is the best means of attaining his grand 
 object. The covetous is always the self-interested. 
 For in all he does, says, and undertakes, he has only 
 his own advantage In view ; and nothing else can 
 move him to do any thing. - 
 
 - 2. Avarice has for its objects the preservation of its 
 property. The avaricious, mistakijig its true value, 
 will not suffer himself to use it for any purpose, not 
 even for the necessaries of lite. The miser who stumbled 
 against a stone and hurt his toe, exclaimed, " it was 
 wbU that I had not on my shoe, or else I should have 
 torn it." The avaricious man denies himself every 
 pleasure, lest he should receive detriment in that which 
 is so dear to him. He knows of ho "greater happiness 
 than to count his guineas again and again. He con- 
 ceals them with the mostanxious care, and returns alarm- 
 ed to see if he has left the slightest clew that might lead 
 to the discovery of his heart's treasures. The English 
 millionaire dressed in the rags of a beggar, and on a fam- 
 ished horse travels from province to province in search 
 of his idol ; he feeds his horse upon hedges, dips his 
 hard bread in water and returns with a full purse, con- 
 cealing the guineas thus gained in the torn hangings of 
 a distant room, where his son-in-law, to whom he had 
 given his daughter empty-handed, after much, seeking 
 finds them. This is the true character of the avari- 
 cious man. Yet he must live, he must eat and drink, 
 and must spend something; but he will try to get every 
 thing for the lowest price and of the cheapest kind. He 
 is cold and hard as the metal that he loves, selfish in the ■ 
 highest degree, unwilling to give or lend, or assist in any' 
 way ; hence he is hated by all, loved by none. — The con- 
 ditions required for the origin ofcovetousness or avarice, 
 may be the idea a person entertains of the influence 
 which wealth gives, and its power to grant access to 
 gratifications of every kind ; an avaricious man of this 
 
PSYCHbLOCfY. 307 
 
 character willbe anxious to have the full extent of his 
 wealth known; Or the idea of the usefulness of money- 
 is lost, especially when no other desire keeps it alive, 
 and the avaricious man Ibves money for its own sake 
 and finds his sole pleasure in hoarding it. Such a one 
 will wish to appear poor to the world. Others fear 
 poverty in the midst of plenty, like the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham, who though possessed of immense wealthj feared 
 he would die poor as a church mouse. 
 
 Prodigality is the opposite of avarice. The prodigal 
 spends what he has without thought of the future. 
 His desire is to live and enjoy life. " He loses self-con- 
 trol and stabilty of character, and is influenced in all his 
 resolutions by the allurements of sensuality. He pur- 
 chases what is offered and pays double interest to get the 
 money. Every whim that strikes his fancy is indulged, 
 and every duty neglected ; while his family is suffering 
 from want, he feasts his associates in pleasure. He very 
 generously pays those who assist him in the execution 
 of his wishes, but leaves his faithful servants who labor 
 for his real benefit, unrewarded. Louis XV., of France, 
 spent 2,000,000 o^ francs a week on his profligacy, and 
 suffered his most faithful officers to starve. The spend- 
 thrift makes presents when he cannot redeem his notes. 
 He must come to a miserable end, for his expenses are 
 sufficient to swallow up the greatest fortune. He will 
 then drown his cares in increased dissipation, in gam- 
 bling and drinking, and finally terminate 'his career by 
 suicide." The spendthrift may be amiable, the miser is 
 always detestable ; the spendthrift loves society and 
 shares his pleasures with others, the avaricious loves 
 none but himself He is proud and haughty to those 
 who ask his assistance, hard to his nearest relatives who 
 depend on him ; and prepared to encounter even con- 
 tempt if he can gain by it. The object of the co^?e^o?^5 
 man may be enjoyment and a splendid style of living, 
 but he is ever careful lest he should injure his estate by 
 his expenditures, and makes every effort to increase his 
 wealth at the same time that he appears to spend it free- 
 ly. It is said in the Bible that it is more difficult for a 
 rich man to enter the kingdom of God, than for a camel 
 
308 - PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 to go through the eye of a needle. The question here 
 oiFers itself; Why is this so? Is there any thing in 
 property itself that renders^t impossible to preserve pu- 
 rity of heart or to become a christian ? This cannot be, 
 for this Bible admonishes us to gather property, by say- 
 ing : "Let him that stole, steal no more, but rather let 
 him labor, working with his hands the thing which is 
 good, that he may have to give to him that needethP 
 It is said by some, that riches expose to many tempta- 
 tions, that they fill man with too great a love of earth, 
 &c. ; — but poverty and want are no less trying and 
 tempting, for if riches may lead to pride, haughtiness, 
 vanity and sensual pleasures, poverty may lead to flat- 
 tery, falsehood, fraud, theft and murder. The posses- 
 sion of property is necessary, and the greater or less 
 amount is here of no consequence. And yet the Bible 
 declares riches a great obstacle in the way of our salva- 
 tion. It is not riches T^ut ih^ value we place upon them, 
 that causes this difficulty. When w€ consider it as the 
 highest good, when our desire for it makes us forget our 
 duties to God and man, when we are covetous and ava- 
 ricious, then it is more difficult for us to enter the king- 
 dom of heaven than for a camel to go through the eye of 
 aneedle. And to be rich In this sense, it is not necessa- 
 ry that we should have great possessions ; the man who 
 has but a cottage may value wealth as much as he who 
 possesses millions ; he may be tortured day and night 
 by his thirst for wealth. Again : covetousness and ava^ 
 rice destroy all morality, As passions they regard noth- 
 ing that is in their way; but every impediment only, 
 serves to increase their energy and power and makes 
 them more violent. The avaricious man expects to be- 
 come rich without God, and does not hesitate to use any 
 means that may lead to his favorite object. Not faith- 
 ful to his God, he cannot be expected to be so to his fel- 
 low-men. His honor is to^gain his object by craftiness, 
 his happiness to increase his wealth. And from the 
 abundance of his heart, his mouth speaks. What does 
 not bring him gold is unworthy of, his .attention. He 
 will violate his duty to parents and children, friends 
 and benefactors if it comes in contact with his passion ; 
 
PSYCHOLOGY, 309 
 
 nothing is too sacred to be sacrificed to money, even 
 his honor has a price. No pledge is inviolable to him, 
 no contract will he keep unless forced by law or self- 
 interest ; he will betray his friend as Judas betrayed the 
 Savior. Thus he sunders the nerve of human society, 
 poisons the fountains of social life, destroys confidence 
 and good faith, and substitutes in their place suspicion 
 and distrust. 
 
 But there is another characteristic of covetousness and 
 avarice to be considered. It is cold and deliberate^ and 
 unlike other passions, increases- with age. The lower 
 the flame of light burns, the weaker the fire of imagina- 
 tion grows, the stronger and more exclusive it becomes. 
 With great care the avaricious man extinguishes all 
 nobler emotions, lest they should lead him off from the 
 great object of his desires, lest a kindly feeling should 
 in a moment of weakness cause him to overlook his ad- 
 vantage and to commit an inconsiderate action, as he 
 would Call it. With age the ardor of our feelings de- 
 creases, and avarice that had before to contend with 
 them, increases in proportion as our understanding be- 
 comes more cool, more calculating. With most other 
 passions this is the opposite ; Dante, in his Divina Co- 
 media, meets the avaricious in the seventh circle of hell, 
 and represents them as having a purse hanging around 
 the neck on which they look with childish delight. 
 
 The idea of property itself leads to great selfishness, 
 for property is exclusive ; and if instead of endeavoring 
 to enable ourselves, we yield to low passions, riches 
 must become a teeming source of selfishness. The 
 correct view on the subject before us is that all property 
 takes its rise in the will of God ; for the earth and all 
 that it contains, is his. Before the fall there was no 
 mine and thine^ but all was common to those that 
 could use it. With the fall selfishness rose in man, ab- 
 sorbing by its bitter root all healthful juice. . Now each 
 sought for the center of his existence in himself, and 
 forgetting the common origin of all, he no longer re- 
 cognized a brother in a fellow-man, but saw in himself 
 a stranger. In this selfishness man grasped after all 
 around him : without an intervening law the stronger 
 
310 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 of our race would have deprived the weaker ones of the 
 most necessary means of sustenance. But God, from 
 eternal love, appointed the right of property, lest men 
 fighting for possessions destroy.each other. Now every 
 right imposes a duty, and the enjoyment of all rights de- 
 pends on the fulfillment of our duties ; so that one can 
 preserve his property only by abstaining from that of 
 others. It was for this purpose that God permitted men 
 to divide the earth and its productions, that those who 
 in their sinfulness were inclined to say ; " all is mine !" 
 might learn to say, " these things are not mine ! from 
 them I must abstain however great my desire to possess 
 them." Property was intended not io strengthen our 
 selfishness, but to bridle it, to break and subdue our 
 selfish will. ,, As rich and poor must live together, a 
 great variety of duties of love and kindness, originate in 
 their mutual relation, which only become possible by 
 the possession of property. But the avaricious man 
 perverts all this, and makes wealth the source of rude, 
 resistless selfishness: of quarrels and law-suits, of en- 
 mity and hatred. 
 
 It may be well to remark, in conclusion, that the term 
 riches does not refer solely to that property the represen- 
 tative of which is money, but to every thing, science, 
 honor, skill or whatever it may be, in the possession of 
 which man feels himself rich, and which he desires as 
 the highest good. The objects of our riches may be 
 different, the power exercised over u& by them will be 
 the same. Is honor the object of our passion ? the tie 
 that fastens us to earth and draws us away from God is 
 ambition. Is the object beauty ? the tie is vanity ; 
 is \i knowledge 1 i\\Q tie is literary fame. In each of 
 them we are fettered by sin, for truth alone, that comes 
 from Christ, can make us free. Taking the term ava- 
 rice in this extensive sense, it may be justly said, that it 
 is the root of all evil. Christ demands our whole affec- 
 tion and whatever we love on earth, must have a refer- 
 ence to his kingdom, and we must love it only because 
 of this its relation. No rich man, none that feels rich in 
 any thing out of Christ, can therefore enter the king- 
 dom of heaven. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 311 
 
 LOVE OF HONOR. 
 
 Personal honor was as little known among the an- 
 cients as personal liberty. The honor and liberty of 
 the nation was that of each individual citizen, and 
 Cato living wholly in the thought of national liberty, 
 kills himself, when he considers it lost because he 
 knows of none, belonging to himself, as an individual. 
 "In the IHad it is the wrath of Achilles, which is the 
 moving principle on which all the rest becomes depend- 
 ent, but it is not what we in modern times understand 
 by honor. The offence felt by Achilles does not con- 
 cern his honor, but he is grieved because Agamemnon 
 has taken away his portion of the spoils, his yepas, an hon- 
 orary reward for his bravery. The violation^ concerns 
 something real, a gift, into which it is true some pre- 
 ference, some acknowledgment of bravery and glory is 
 placed ; and Achilles is enraged, because Agamemnon 
 meets him in an unworthy manner and declares that 
 he will not regard him among the Greeks — yet the true 
 feeling of honor is no where perceptible in Achilles. 
 This appears too from the fact, that he is fully satisfied, 
 when he receives back the- portion, taken away from 
 him, with some additional presents ; and also from the 
 circumstance, that Agamemnon is ready to make this 
 reparation, though both according to our vievvs have 
 rudely abused each other. They roused their anger 
 by abusive words,, but not their feelings of honor." 
 Our principal question here of course must be : What 
 do we understand by honor? By external honor we 
 understand the good opinion which our fellow-men have 
 of bur qualities, of our character or of ourselves. Hon- 
 or is therefore not anything tangible or material like 
 property, it wholly is ideal, and love of honor is but the 
 value we place upon the opinion, which others form of us 
 or of our qualities. A man that does not care for this 
 opinion, will not care for honor. Our fellow-men will 
 in general value what is calculated to promote the gen- 
 eral welfare and it will consequently receive their good 
 
312 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 will and pfood opinion. Hence whatever is of this 
 general character, whatever is generally desirable, will 
 also be honorable, and bring honor to him, who either 
 has or acquires it. Some honor is innate, as for exam- 
 ple that of being man, of being possessed of genius, of 
 talents ; other honor is inherited, as for example, the 
 honor to be born of honest parents, or descended from 
 an old and honorable family. From this latter honor, 
 
 ' that of nobihty arose, which was confined to a certain 
 separate rank, but which is now passing away, as civili- 
 zation dispels the remaining clouds of darkness. The 
 noble ancestors of some old families, had served their 
 country by their bravery, and the generous sacrifices, 
 which they willingly made for its sake, and thus had 
 gained the good opinion of their contemporaries in a 
 high degree. By distinguishing themselves, above 
 others, by lofty deeds, they were raised above them. 
 Yet what belonged exclusively to their own merit, was 
 appropriated by their sons, as if virtue could be inherit- 
 
 . ed like a piece of ground or like property, and so the 
 most degenerate sons frequently enjoyed that of which 
 they were wholly unworthy. 
 
 Honor, in the second place, may be gained by acquir- 
 ing whatever is of general value in the opinion of men. 
 Here then a man's honor depends on his will and natural 
 capacities. The means by which it is to be acquired, are 
 skill in the use of our limbs, especially for the produc- 
 tion of such works, as will benefit the community. 
 This is the case with the soldier, who knows how to 
 manage his horse, and to wield his sword. The honor 
 of the soldier differs however from the mere reputa- 
 tion of the juggler, whose skill has no reference to the 
 general welfare. Honor may be acquired by skill in 
 realizing useful designs and purposes, the invention of 
 new machines or tFie construction of such as were 
 already known; by works of the fine arts and by 
 science. The scientific man enjoys a more lasting 
 honor than the artist, though the latter may be more 
 honored during his life. Sciences are free from the 
 peculiarities of a national spirit, art is under its influ- 
 ence. The Aphrodite of Apelles and the Madonna of 
 
" PSYCHOLOGY. 3l3 
 
 Raphael, differ more than the logic of Aristotle and that 
 of VVhateley. Among the scientific, those ag^ain are 
 most highly honored, whose sciences are most closely 
 related to practical pursuits. Honor may be acquired 
 by every occupation, that has reference to the satisfac- 
 tion of our wants. Every one, who while lie is active 
 for himself benefits the community at the same time, re- 
 ceives honor. So the farmer' has honor, for on his oc- 
 cupation the basis of the whole government rests. The 
 mechanic labors indeed for himself, but if he is skillful 
 he will benefit the whole community in which he lives, 
 and will be honored. Honor is higher in proportion as 
 the occupation by which it is acquired, has less the 
 welfare of the individual than that of the whole com- 
 munity in view. The honor of a valuable justice of 
 the peace is j^reater than his, who lives entirely to him- 
 self; yet the justice of the peace may labor at the same 
 time, for the support of his feimily ; he may be a carpen- 
 ter, a farmer, or a merchant: hence the honor of the 
 minister or the judge is still sfieater, for they devote 
 themselves wholly to the welfare of the public. This 
 external honor may bs indicated by orders aiid insio-nia; 
 but it ceases to be honor, if it has no relation at all to 
 morality, and thus becomes mere reputation. 
 
 We now pass over to the consideration of internal 
 honor. 
 
 Internal or subjective honor is the idea which a per- 
 son has of himself, of his qualities or character. The 
 person is, however, free to seek for honor in any thing 
 he possesses or is; for the notion of honor is his own 
 creation and he may place it in what he pleases. It is, 
 therefore, not the object, which is honorable in itself, 
 but the notion of the subject, on which honor is depend- 
 ent. The contents of honor may be high virtues, such 
 as honesty^ faithfulness, courage, bravery, the exact 
 fulfillment of duties : these are honorable in themselves; 
 but with reijard to subjective honor, they become so 
 only, when the person raises them into the sphere of 
 honor by his own determination, when he resolves to 
 seek his honor in them. The question is not whether 
 a thing is honorable in itself, but whether it agrees with 
 
 40 
 
314 ^ PSYCQOLOGY. 
 
 our notions of honor. Hence a man of honor, in this 
 sense of the word, may neglect many duties and still re- 
 main an honorable man in his own opinion, and again, 
 he will often perceive obligations, and insist on their 
 most exact fultillment, when others can see none. He 
 creates his obligations by the principles of his own 
 honor, and considers it a point of honor to lead them 
 out. It is this kind of honor, which may lose all trne 
 substance and become wholly whimsical, a mere form 
 without any true life. In this case, trifling and insig- 
 nificant notions are frequently brought in connection 
 with our honor ; and we insist on having them regard- 
 ed as if they were really of great importance. We see 
 then, that it is wholly left to the arbitrary choice of a 
 person to extend /«5 honor as far and over as many of his 
 personal qualities as he pleases, and it is therefore natural 
 that such subjective honor, the limits of which it must 
 be difficult to ascertain, is easily wounded ; especially 
 when we consider that honor is something so subjective 
 and that the notions of it differ so widely, that no gen- 
 eral rule can be given as to what is offensive or not. 
 What leaves one cold, rouses another into passion. 
 And as no one is willing to have his honor estimated 
 by another, but claims the right to be his own judge in 
 such matters, every one will when offended on so de- 
 licate a point, himself seek for satisfaction, for he alone 
 knows how much or little is required to make a suffi- 
 cient reparation. This goes so far that unless the of- 
 fender is himself a man of honor he is neither able to 
 give nor take away the honor of another; hence un- 
 able either to offend or to give satisfaction. For sat- 
 isfaction consists in seeing honor acknowledged by 
 another, but if he does not appear honorable to me his 
 opinion cannot be of any value to me. 
 
 But neither the external nor internal honor is the 
 true honor. True honor can only be acquired by vir- 
 tue, by moral conduct, by a correct relation to the di- 
 vine law. The love of this honor is the root of many 
 good traits in the character of man ; itennobles, and with- 
 out it, it must be difficult to fulfill our other duties; 
 since this honor alone can gain for us the true confi- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. ' 3l5 
 
 dence of our fellow-men, without which we could not en- 
 joy a sphere of conscientious activity. This honor may 
 be acquired by every one ; woman by chastity and her 
 other domestic virtues; man by what he does and 
 eifects by faithfuhiess to a given promise, by scorning 
 undignified actions, by works of art and of science : — all 
 may acquire moral honor which alone can render any 
 other honor valuable. "Moral honor alone is permanent. 
 "Like a hymn it is always attractive, while the mere 
 objective or subjective honor is like a street song, which 
 wearies the ears." The honor of Napoleon and that of 
 Washington, differs as essentially as that of Robespeire 
 and Luther. "Moral hoLior cannot be taken from us. 
 Luther was striped of his titles by the council of Orla- 
 muende during his contest with Carlstadt,'but he never- 
 theless remained the honorable Martui Luther. A 
 panegyric on Cromwell, on the other hand, is like a 
 false coin, it will not become current. It is most inju- 
 rious to him, in whose mouth or hand it is last fouad." 
 
 LOVE OF HONOR AS A. PASSION. 
 
 When the love of honor becomes a passion, it is either 
 ambition, and thus stands connected with external hon- 
 or ; or it is pride and is fourided on internal honor. 
 Ambition is the vehement and blind desire for the good 
 opinion of our fellow-men ; this desire is blind and ve- 
 hement, because honor is not desired on its own ac- 
 count, not because it is noble and good, but on his ac- 
 count who desires it. The ambitious constantly thinks 
 of increasing his honor and hence is always bent upon 
 something future, the execution of which seems ardu- 
 ous and demands power and strength and mind, but in 
 all he does he has his own reputation in view, and he 
 could do anything, right or wrong, if his honor would 
 be advanced by it. The truly honorable man will 
 everywhere do what is good and right, and so he is de- 
 termined to avoid what is dishonorable in itself. The 
 ambitious man only asks : Will it bring honor in the 
 opinion of others ? for this opinion alone sanctions in 
 ,bis view what is honorable, and without it there is no 
 
316 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 honor. He longs to see every thins: ficknowledged that 
 is his, while the truly honorable man is satisfied with 
 knowing that what he does is honorable in itself, and 
 that he is worthy of honor. He will, therefore, perform 
 what is honorable and not look for applause. External 
 honor has its expressions in society ; rank, offices of dif- 
 ferent kinds &c.,. include an honor in themselves which 
 they confer on any one, who occupies them whether he 
 deserves it or not. Hence the ambitious desires, pro- 
 minent positions in public life, he will not strive to be 
 at the head of afH^irs ; he cannot bear to have any one 
 above him, and would rather be the first in a village 
 than second in Rome. Ambition leads to many views. 
 It courts public opinion and consequently must yield to 
 it and become unfaithful to its own principles, if it has 
 any. It will distinguish itself, and seeks originality 
 and pretends to what it has not. It leads to hatred and 
 especially to envj/, for it cannot avoid drawing compari- 
 sons between itself and others, and perceiving that 
 others have tli3 same or more than it has, and at the 
 same time de.viring to have the sole title to honor, it 
 enviously asperses the qualities of others. Envy con- 
 sists in the strange opinion, that we alone ought to 
 have, what others nevertheless have likewise^ that 
 others ought not to make any pretensions to it, because 
 we are superior to them; that because others are in 
 ourwai/, therefore we are not first in rank, and that 
 
 nothing is wanting to our elevation but their removal.r 
 
 It will be generally found connected with ambition, for 
 the ambitious will always meet his equal, and this he 
 cannot endure. Envy is not excited by the dead. By- 
 ron did not envy Shakspeare, nor Napoleon, Alexan- 
 der or Cesar ; nascitur m vivis livor, post fata qnies-, 
 ci/,— Envy rages among the living, alter death it dies 
 away. It is for these reasons that it is honorable to be 
 called a man of honor, but despicable to be charo-ed 
 with ambition. Tiiough an ambitious man stands 
 higher in public opinion, than an avaricious one, be- 
 cause the object of the former is ideal that of the latter 
 wholly material. 
 
 Prtd^f as was stated, is founded upon internal honor, 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 317 
 
 and differs consequently from ambition, as the internal 
 from external honor. Ambition endeavors to gain the 
 good opinion of others and possess it, whether right or 
 wronjr; pride is satisfied with its own. It does not, hke 
 ambition, yield to the opinions of others or court them, 
 but rather expects all to look up to it. Wiien others do 
 not feel and express by their actions this subordination 
 to the proud, he either grows cold or beconjes distant. 
 If the ambitious desires to be foremost and first every 
 where, the proud will demand it in a much higher de- 
 gree, and jealousy will be more incident to his charac- 
 ter, than to that of the ambitious ; lor nothing but the 
 highest of all can satisfy him. The ambitions may ac- 
 knowledge some weakness and frailty in his character, 
 but the proud makes the higliest pretensions in every 
 respect, does not acknowledge every frailty, insists on un-' 
 limited admiration, raises himself above all others, and 
 expects them to be humble in his presence. The am- 
 bitious is constantly in search of honor, the proud con- 
 siders himself in possession of it, and would not be wil- 
 ling to appear to be seeking for it. Pride differs from 
 haughtiness. The haughty man expects others to 
 consider themselves a mere nothing in liis presence, and 
 to feel happy if he calls upon them for their services. 
 "When this haughtiness grows still more excessive, it be- 
 comes superciliousness, which desires others to despise 
 themselves, when they perceive its splendor and great- 
 ness. — We have repeatedly had occasion to remark, that 
 passions include extremes, that they are living contra^ 
 dictio7is. This remark may agam be made here. For 
 the proud, the haughty, the supercilious, while they ex- 
 pect all others to bow before them, will themselves bow 
 before others and do homage if the occasion requires it. 
 This is expressed by Tacitus, in his forcible manner : 
 Aliis humiliter inserviunt, dum aliis crndeliter super- 
 biant, — They serve some in humility, while they mako 
 their pride felt by others. Pride may be divided into as 
 many classes, as there are objects of pride. There is a 
 pride of learning, which easily passes over into vanity j 
 there is a pride of virtue, which is thefruitof self-right- 
 eousness ; there is a pride of piety, that humbly acknovv-t 
 
318 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 jedo;es human depravity, while at he same time it thinks 
 well of itself, as havinjj- left behind the mass of concep- 
 tion ; there is a pride of nationality, when we consider 
 our nation superior to all others ; there is finally, a pride 
 of genius, originality, money, property, a pride of rank 
 from the soldier to the prince, including every rank and 
 <; condition of men. One kind of pride we must mention 
 \here, as arising from the true and genuine honor, from 
 I that honor which can alone be acquired by virtue. This 
 / pride is correct and moral, and is felt, when any one 
 ' suggests to us any thing base, and when we reject such 
 a suggestion with scorn. It consists in our own con- 
 viction that our honor has tzo price, that it cannot be 
 bribed either by money or ftnything else, and that we 
 cannot be induced to do wilfully anything mean. If, 
 nevertheless, any one approaches us with sinister inten- 
 tions, we feel indignant at him. 
 
 • Finally, it is necessary to distinguish vanity from 
 pride. By vanity we do not understand here the trans- 
 itoriness and perishableness of all things, but the dis- 
 position which induces man to place a high value upon 
 every thing that is his, and because it is his. The man 
 is vain in a somewhat different respect, that expects the 
 finite and transitory to be permanent, and seeing him- 
 ^self disappointed, exclaims: all is vain ! while in fact 
 his imagination alone is vain. For transitoriness does 
 not make things, the nature of which it is to be finite, vain. 
 They go and come again. Youth, beauty and under- 
 standing are valuable, and not vain, though youth de- 
 cays, beauty fades, and understanding loses its vis^or. 
 But why should we not enjoy these things, though they 
 are transitory ? Have they no value m reteren-ce to our 
 higher duties? Things are not vain because they are 
 transitory, but lue are vain, when we place our affec- 
 tions upon the transitory, and expectit to remain the same 
 for ever. We transfer. our own vanity nito the things 
 of the world and pronounce n)their quality, while in 
 fact it is ours. The vanity we here speak of is the de- 
 sire for the immediate notice of our qualities, and an ex- 
 pression of a good opinion. It is a modification of am- 
 bition, and it enters more into the retail sale of honor. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. ^ 319 
 
 It is therefore little, and differs by this bitterness from 
 pride. It either places particular stress on things, that 
 must be wholly indifferent to public opinion, as for in- 
 stance, on the day on which we were born, on dress or 
 personal beauty, or on such, as are of more general 
 value, as wit, language, skill. The latter objects may 
 easily lead to vanity ; for as they please the person who 
 has them, so they are attractive to all. The vain per- 
 son noticuig their general, attractiveness desires that 
 they shall please others, because they are his^ and so his 
 interest in any object is not immediately derived from 
 the object itself, but from the impression it makes upon 
 others. / Hence, the vain person will constantly contrive 
 to have an object that impresses others favorably seen 
 by them. Perhaps a lady is vain of her beautiful hand, 
 and she will certainly kiiow how to exhibit it with a full 
 appearance of modesty. As honor is a high good, but 
 is abused by ambition, so are beauty, talent, genius, 
 much to be desired ; but when we love them, not be- 
 cause we consider them high and noble, but because 
 they are ours — because we possess them — when we 
 could not take any interest in them, in case we were de- 
 prived of them, then our love of them is vanity. This 
 vanity is closely connected with the one before described, 
 and the only difference is that it is more selfish. It is right 
 to love all things that God has created, but it is wrong 
 to expect of them, what God has not given them ; and 
 so it is right to love our personal qualities and that 
 which belongs to us, but it is wrong to believe them 
 good, because they are connected with us. Both kinds 
 of vanity may pervade the spirit of whole ages. About 
 the middle of the last century, a melancholy feeling, of 
 the vanity of all things, spread itself over the world. 
 Young's Night Thoughts, Sterne's Sentimental Journey, 
 and Werther's Sorrows, induced or encouraged that si- 
 lent consumption of mind and energy. And so again 
 whole ages may be diseased with vanity as a modifica- . 
 tion of ambition ; especially such as are without a de- 
 termined character. Much depends too upon the char- 
 acter of individuals and nations. The English, for in- 
 stance, are inclined to pride, the French to vanity. 
 
320 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 The inclinations vvhiah we have had under eonsider- 
 ation thus far, as arising- fron:i the relation of man to 
 his fellow-men, had for their contents objects, that could 
 neither understand nor answer them. These inclina- 
 tions rest, therefore, solely in him who has them, and 
 cannot be reciprocated. The inclinations we now have 
 to examine are divided between at least two persons. 
 They are, therefore, mutual inclinations, and social in 
 the highest sense of the word, and the first among 
 them is 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love, in general, is the devotion of one person to ano- 
 ther. In it we surrender the independence of our exist- 
 ence, and desire to become self-conscious, not in our- 
 selves only, but especially in the consciousness of ano- 
 ther. In him we seek ourselves, by him we desire to 
 be acknowledged and received with our whole person- 
 ality and all connected with it. His consciousness we 
 desire to penetrate, to fill with our person all his will 
 and knowledge, all his desires and wishes. Then the ^ 
 other lives only in us, as we live in him. Thus both 
 are identical, and each lays his whole soul into this 
 identity. Love is, therefore, ennobling ; for loving we 
 do not belong to ourselves, but to him whom we love, 
 as he belongs to us. Thus our selfishness is broken ; 
 we forget ourselves as isolated beings, and seek and find 
 ourselves only in each other ; we do not exist and live 
 fpr ourselves alone, but at the same time for him, whom 
 we love, and principally for him ; for in him the root 
 of our joys and pleasures rest, in him we possess our- 
 selves wholly, out of him the world is dreary and dead 
 to us. Whatever cannot be drawn within this circle of 
 our love, leaves us indifferent. " Especially in female 
 characters is love most beautiful ; for with them this 
 devotion, this surrender is the highest point, as they cen- 
 ter their intellectual and real life upon this feeling of 
 love, in it find their only hold on life, and if misfortune 
 touches it, they disappear like a light which is extin- 
 guished by the first rough breath. In this subjective 
 
HSYGHOLOGY. 321 
 
 tenderness of feeling love is not found in the classic 
 art of Greece, where it appears only as a subordinate 
 element for representation, or only in reference to sens- 
 ual enjoyments. 
 
 In Homer, either no great weight is placed upon it, 
 or love appears in its most worthy form, as marriage in the 
 domestic circle, as, for instance, in the person of Pene- 
 lope, or as the solicitude of a wife and mother in An- 
 dromache, or in other moral relations. The tie, on the 
 Other hand, which attaches Paris to Helen, is acknow- 
 ledged as immoral, and is the cause of the terrors and 
 misfortunes of the Trojan war, while the love of Achil- 
 les to Briseis has little depth of feeling, for Briseis is a 
 slave, and at the disposal of his will. In the odes of 
 Sappho, the language of love is raised to lyric inspira- 
 tion, yet it is more the lingering, consuming fire of the 
 blood that is expressed, than the warmth of feeling and 
 the emotions of the heart. In another respect, love as 
 expressed in the delightful little songs of Anacreon is a 
 cheerful, general enjoyment, which without suffering, 
 without struggles, and without the resignation of an op- 
 pressed and longing heart, joyfully seizes the immediate 
 pleasure, not regarding it as necessary to possess this 6b- 
 ject of affection and no other. Neither does the noble 
 Tragedy of the ancients know the inclination of love in 
 its romantic significance. Especially with iEschylus and 
 Sophocles it does not claim any particular interest. For 
 though Antigone is destined to be the wife of Hasmon, 
 though Haemon defends her before his father, and even 
 kills himself because he cannot save her — bespeaks be- 
 fore Creon only of objective relations, and not of the 
 power of subjective passion, which in fact he did not 
 feel in the sense of a modern passionate lover. Euri* 
 pides makes use of love as an essential pathos in his 
 Phedra, yet there it is represented as a criminal 
 aberration of blood, as a passion of sense, as instigat- 
 ed by Venus, who desires the destruction of Hippolytus, 
 because he will not bring sacrifices to her. So we haA^e 
 in the Venus de Medici a beautiful image of love, and 
 n-othing can be said against its neatness and plastic exe- 
 
 41 
 
822 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 cution, but the expression of internal warmth and life, 
 as modern Art demands it, is wholly wanting. 
 
 The same is the case in tiie Roman poetry, when af- 
 ter the dissohuion of the republic, and of the rigidity of 
 moral life, love degenerated more or less into sensual 
 enjoyment. Petrarch, on the other hand, though he 
 wrote his sonnets for amusement only, gained his im- 
 mortal reputation by the fancies of his love, which un- 
 der the warm Italian sky, connected itself in the depths 
 of his heart with religion. Dante's exaltation also pro- 
 ceeded from his love of Beatrice which rendered 
 sublime m him became a religious love, while his bold- 
 ness and bravery was transformed into a religious intui- 
 tion of art, in which — what no one else would venture 
 — he made himself the judge of all men, and consig^ned 
 them to hell, to puriratory, or to heaven. As a contrast 
 to this exaltation Bocaccio represents love, partly in 
 vehemence as a passion, partly as stripped of all morali- 
 ty, making in his various novels the morals of liis age 
 and country pass in review before our eyes. 
 
 In iheGenna.nminnesong, love is full of piety, tender, 
 without richness of imagination, playful, melancholy, 
 monotonous ; with the Spaniard, it is full of imagina- 
 tion in its expression, knightly, subtle in seeking and 
 defending its rights and duties as a matter of honor, and 
 fanatical in the time of its highest splendor. With the 
 French, especially in latter times, it becomes gallant, 
 inclining to vanity, a forced feeling created by so- 
 phistry, a kind of sensual enjoyment without passion, 
 or passion without enjoyment, a feeling and sentiment- 
 ality full of reflection. From the above it will be seen 
 that at present we have under consideration 
 
 SEXUAL LOVE, 
 
 This is founded on a tendency of nature, which; di- 
 vided between two of different sexes, draws them irre- 
 sistibly, yet mysteriously towards each other, and makes 
 each feel, that it cannot find its completion in itself, and 
 must seek for it in another. This love is pure and 
 noble, when it is called forth by love. " The purest 
 
■PSYCHOLOGY. 323 
 
 love is the effect of the most perfect, external beauty in 
 its union with an equally perfect internal beauty of the 
 heart. It calls forth noble and delightful feelings in 
 ourselves, silences every desire, and renders us happy by 
 its presence. It is a perfect union of the most beautiful 
 in us with the most beautiful out of us. Its removal 
 leaves a void in the heart ; we are drawn after it." 
 This is the case with all lovers. Every one considers 
 his love the fairest, most beautiful, and most virtuous 
 of all that ever lived. If personal beauty is wanting, 
 other charms will compensate for it, or make the lover 
 overlook the deficiency. Sexual love is the bloom of 
 our intellectual and bodily life, and as the flower reveals 
 by its color and fragrance the life of the plant, so love 
 will render manifest the ideal of beauty and loveliness, 
 and the kind of life which a person conceals within him- 
 self Again : love is the intellectual and physical devel- 
 opment of youth, for it is the joint product of imagin- 
 ation and fancy, and of bodily vigor and freshness of 
 nerves and muscles, all of which have arrived at the 
 stage of maturity. If love induces us to seek for all 
 that is noble and beautiful in order to adorn with it the 
 object of love ; if we desire to seek for honor and every 
 virtue, to lay it at the feet of the beloved one ; if we long 
 for nothing more than the entire union of soul with soul, 
 —then our love is noble, and the beingof whom itis the 
 blossom must be so likewise. Such love excites us to vir- 
 tuous and magnanimous actions, and many a youth of 
 amiable qualities, but who was exposed to dangers has 
 been rescued by love and raised by it into the sphere of 
 beauty and nobleness from that of sensual enjoyments. 
 In sexual love now, if it is to be pure, love must be the 
 only object desired, not money, not mere external beau- 
 ty. Such love will desire its preservation, and this it 
 can obtain only by a permanent union, which is mar- 
 riage. Marriage is the external representation of the 
 internal union, produced by love between two persons 
 of different sexes, and sanctioned by the usual ceremo- 
 ny. Husband and wife are truly one. The interests 
 and wishes of the one are also those of the other ; they 
 enter so wholly and entirely into each other's feelings, 
 
324 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 views, and desires, that they seem to have but one 
 thinking power. Genuine marriage cannot, therefore, 
 be produced by a mere ceremony, but must have its 
 possible existence in love. Yet what is once joined to- 
 gether, let no man put asunder, and hence the choice is 
 short, and the regret is longf. 
 
 From the above it must follow that true love renders 
 Monogamy indispensable, and that Polyandry or Poli- 
 gamy are wholly unnatural. We can exchange our 
 tSelf but once, and receive but one tSelfin exchange for 
 it. And here is the point too, on which it must appear 
 possible, that love may become a passion. For, as we 
 cannot love every one, but must naturally be limited in 
 our choice, the idea may take hold of our mind after we 
 think we have found the person, that she and no other 
 in the world is the one whom we can love. Centering 
 our affections upon her, it seems wholly impossible to 
 us, that we should be able to love any other. If now 
 impediments are thrown in our way, if we fear the loss 
 of our love, and know that no reparation can be made 
 to us, our love will be changed into a transient or per- 
 manent passion* 
 
 SEXUAL LOVE AS A PASSION, . 
 
 • The impediments laid in the way of love, are either 
 external or they are contained in one of the lovers, and 
 may be termed internal. The external impediments 
 -proceed from the world around us, from its manners 
 and views, from the family spirit, its interests, from laws 
 and prejudices, and the prose of life. The lovers think 
 of nothing but their love ; they are satisfied with it. 
 Yet man is not to live to his feelings only, he has duties 
 to perform, and to honor the many relations, in which he 
 finds himself. Thus a collision between his love and 
 his duties may easily take place. Among these possible 
 collisions none is more frequent than that of honor. 
 This may demand the resignation of love, merely be- 
 cause the two are not of equal rank. This opposition, 
 however, will only strengthen the power of love, and 
 ins|ead of yielding to the suggestions of honor, it be- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 325 
 
 comes so irresistible as rather to. sacrifice life than yield 
 to any obstacles. Again: the will of parents, family 
 duties, duties towards the country, or faithfulness to a 
 vow, may interfere with love, and here again it will be- 
 come passion. Now it may be that this passion over- 
 comes all difficulties, and effects its final union, or that 
 the person acknowledges the power of these objective 
 rights and duties, and struggles silently with himself 
 and the power of his own passions. On the latter pas- 
 sion the play of the Maid of Orleans, by Schiller, rests. 
 Very often, as we have said already, it is the prose 
 of life — intrigue, prejudices, and the like, that op- 
 pose love, determined to destroy the fairest prospects. 
 In this case, also, love becomes a passion and makes 
 every sacrifice to conquer difficylties. If the difficul- 
 ties will not yield, if all daily grows darker, love may 
 be driven to suicide, or terminate in insanity. 
 
 The internal impediments are always to be sought 
 for in the lovers themselves. Here it may be, that love 
 on the part of one has never fully developed itself. 
 When now the other demands the exclusive possession 
 of the love of the first, and when he feels that this is 
 not fully given, that, perhaps, a third receives as much 
 attention as himself, he will become passionate, and his 
 passion will hQ jealousy. When love is pure on both 
 sides, all fear is banished. It is often a feeling of weak- 
 ness, a feeling that we do not deserve the possession of 
 the love of the other, that causes this fear. So Othello 
 is certain of Desdemona's love ; he fears nothing. lago 
 cannot succeed at first in filling his heart with suspi- 
 cion, until he mentions his age, his dark color, (fee. 
 From that moment suspicion is ripe in Othello's 
 breast. 
 
 Love may become a transient passion, when the great- 
 ness of the new feeling, the darkness of the relations, 
 that are yet indistinct, the late youthful pride, which is 
 now to surrender, to confess itself conquered, embar- 
 rass : love would not betray itself, and betrays itself 
 by this very wish for concealment. It desires to meet 
 the beloved, and trembles or flees when he approaches. 
 It seeks solitude to give free course to its tears, and 
 
326 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 keeps secret from others what moves the heart. It does 
 not venture to pronounce the name, hut it finds circuit- 
 ous routs to hear from the beloved object. — So love may- 
 become a transient passion in a moment, when after we 
 have secretly anticipated a kind reception from tlie per- 
 son in whom we are interested, we receive a distinct 
 and marked sign of it, one that can no longer be misin- 
 terpreted. 
 
 The passion of love is one of the most painful. The 
 object appears to him who is under its influence as the 
 only possible one he could choose; a certain fatality, a 
 necessity against which he strives in vain, chains him 
 to this one, which is in his eyes the most perfect. With- 
 out him or her the passionate lover does not expect to 
 enjoy life or to become happy in any way. Hence the 
 most bitter feeling of an irreparable loss constfiutly agi- 
 tates the breast, and presents nothino: but misery. Love, 
 as was alluded to above, may mitigate and even expel 
 other passions, but when once a passion, it cannot itself be 
 rendered less strong by any other inclination. It is too 
 certain of its loss, it feels that no reparation can be 
 made, that it must carry its grief with it for ever. 
 
 After these remarks on love as a passion, we shall 
 now approach some inclinations which spring from 
 sexual love, and the first among them is 
 
 PARENTAL AND FILIAL LOVE. 
 
 All love between parents and children commences in 
 the love of the mother to the children and father. The 
 mother in loving the newly born child loves herself, for 
 its life is hers. She nourishes it with her milk, it comes 
 from her and lives through her. She attends to it be- 
 cause she loves it. The child grows and observes ; 
 its wants are satisfied by the mother, from whose eyes 
 love and sympathy stream into its own. It loves the 
 mother and this love remains the same throughout life. 
 " A true son will clmg to his mother, and never part 
 with her. For that which enters most deeply into the 
 heart of man and his whole character is his love of the 
 mother, wiio loved him first. Coriolanus suffered him- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 327 
 
 self to be conquered only by bis love to bis motber, and 
 there bas, probably, never been a great man who did 
 not speak of bis mother, when she was alluded to, with 
 the most heartfelt love, as did Frederick I., Napoleon, 
 &/C." It is the love of the motber to the child that calls 
 forth that of the father to it ; for the flitber loves it be- 
 cause he loves the mother. The child, on the other 
 hand seems to love the fitther because it loves the moth- 
 er, and she loves the father. And so again it is with 
 the love of the children to each other. The mother 
 loves all, and all love the mother ; but when all are lov- 
 ed by the mother to the same extent, then all loving the 
 mother will love what she loves, and consequently love 
 each other. This family love will be ruined when one of 
 the children is made a pet by the mother, as in that case 
 jealousy and envy will be jjenerated. When all is right 
 the love of the mother will be the center of all the mem- 
 bers of the family ; all will incline towards her and 
 a^ain spread from her, but like the branches of a well- 
 proportioned tree, that, while they each turn away from 
 the trunk, only do so to form a more beautiful and per- 
 fect crown. One needs only to ^.vatch a little family to 
 perceive the correctness of tlie alx)ve remarks. Child- 
 ren will constantly quarrel with each other, but the 
 mother reitrns among them, commands peace, reconciles, 
 quiets, and silences them, and makes them love and in- 
 dulge each other. Tims it may be truly said that all 
 the moral relations in the family and government, have 
 their strong hold in the love of the mother, and that she 
 ' is the basis on which the whole fabric rests. 
 
 ' FRATERNAL LOVE. 
 
 This is the love between sisters and brothers, and its 
 character is of the brightest purity. There are, how- 
 ever, some differences in it, for it is either love between 
 two sisters or two brothers, or it is love between sister 
 and brother. As love between two sisters or between 
 two brothers, it is not so fine and strong ; for one sister 
 is what the other is, and one brother what the other ; 
 the attraction is not so irresistible, and if a desire should 
 
328 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 arise in both for one and the same object, as is often the 
 case in the division of property, or it, for instance, two 
 brothers should fall in love with the same lady, as was 
 the case in Schiller's celebrated Bride of Messina, the 
 fraternal love might easily turn into hatred. There are 
 other causes from which hatred may arise between broth- 
 ers. The relation of the members of a family to each 
 other is not one resting immediately on duties and rights 
 like that ofcitizens to each other. One brother may, there- 
 fore, make demands on the other as if he had really a 
 risfht to them. If the other declines fulfilling these de- 
 mands, he may charge him with want of love. This 
 miofht occur when the one of two brothers is a spend- 
 thrift, and the other a prudent man. No hatred can be 
 more hitter or more terrible than that between two sisters 
 or two brothers ; and the reason is that when they love 
 each other, it is in the purest and warmest manner ; that 
 durino^ the time of their love neither has a secret from the 
 other, neither thinks of concealing his frailties and weak- 
 nesses, as one stranger would from another ; hence 
 when they hate each other, each feels himself betrayed 
 and consequently fraternal hatred is more bitter than 
 any other, unless principles of honor and morality re- 
 strain it. The warmer the love, the more intense the 
 hatred ; this is a general law. There can be no purer 
 love, on the other hand, than that between the brother 
 and sister. For the sister loves the brother, as she 
 cannot love any one else. She cannot love mother or 
 father as she may love her brother, for the difference cf 
 age, and the dependence upon them, makes her feel un- 
 der some restraint ; the same is the case with her love 
 to aunt and uncle. Her love to her husband, however 
 pure it may be, is already more selfish. But her love to 
 her brother is free from all selfish emotions, is perfectly 
 pure. This love was called by the Greeks a divine love, 
 resting upon a divine law, and when in Sophocles it 
 comes in contact with the human statute of Creon, An- 
 tigone fulfills the former, violating the latter. In modern 
 times we are much inclined to seek for its ground mere ; 
 ly in the blood. But love does not cling to the blood- 
 it rests in spirit, and family love has its ground in fami- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. . 329 
 
 ly spirit. In this spirit all incline to each other, and to 
 their common trunk ; all are constrained by it to love 
 each other, and hence, every family forms a whole, that 
 excludes every one not belonging to it, not pervaded by 
 that spirit which produces a resemblance of feeling and 
 views, of desires and inclinations in all the members of 
 the same family. It is remarkable, however, that among 
 the members of a family, grandparents and grandchild- 
 ren feel more attraction for each other, than children 
 and parents. To what is this owing? The parents 
 standing between grandparents^ and graridchildren, as 
 the present between the future and the past, are full of 
 vigor, strength, and insist on the execution of their 
 plans, on discrpline, &c. The grandparents are, on the 
 other hand, losing their vigor, the root of their existence 
 is in the past, they better remember early impressions, 
 those of their childhood, than those they received in 
 more advanced age. They can, therefore, enter more 
 easily into the feelings and life of children, than parents. 
 Children receiving more indulgence from them,^ will, of 
 course, incline more strongly to them. 
 
 But if each family is a whole that does not admit any- 
 thing from without, then selfishnessmust be its Character^ 
 and all mtercourse between the niembers of different 
 ffimilies must be rendered impossible. The question is : 
 How may thi-"; selfishness be broken ? In two ways : 
 First, by intermarriage, and secondly, by th 
 mon love of all citizens to their native cour 
 
 NATIONAL LOVE. 
 
 The love of all families to each other is,' 
 effected by the love of their different mem 
 other. The love between son and daughter, as l5rTt*e 
 and bridegroom, will unite two families ; and their chil- 
 dren again will unite others, until all the families of a 
 nation grow together by sexual love, and form one great 
 whole. If the love of the mother to her children and theirs 
 to her, may be compared to a tree, the branches of which, 
 while they spread, bend nevertheless back to the com- 
 mon trunk ] the love of one family to another may also be 
 .43 
 
330 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 compared to a tree the full grown branches of which sink 
 themselves into the soil, send forth roots and form new 
 trees, remaining nevertheless connected with the par- 
 ent-tree. The thus connected families again form a 
 whole, and this is the nation, — nanciscor. And here, 
 secondly, jiational love develops itself All the cit- 
 izens of a nation have the same objects of aifection, one 
 country, one language, one manner of thinking, the 
 same customs and morals. Every one that loves them 
 will love those who agree with him in their inclinations. 
 Hence it is that when two citizens of the same country, 
 who while at home took no notice of each other, meet 
 in a distant foreign land, they will form an imme- 
 diate acquaintance. Hence too, we delight to hear 
 our native tongue again after we have for a long time 
 spoken the language of other nations. But the country 
 also, its soil, its valleys and mountains, its rivers and 
 streams^, its productions, its skies, its villages, towns and 
 cities, its public roads and canals, and in short all be- 
 longing to it become the objects of our love, and this love 
 is that to the Fatherland. "Yet I know nothing more 
 sweet than home," says Homer. The love for the Fa- 
 therland was stronger in ancient times than in modern. 
 The Christian religiouihas taught us to consider every 
 stranger as a friend and brother, and civilization has 
 rendered rnanners and customs more similar to each 
 other among all nations. 
 
 • LOVE OF MANKIND. 
 
 As every family is at first exclusive, so every nation 
 again forms a whole, kept together by a national spirit, 
 and thrusting out whatever does not proceed from it. 
 Thus our nation stands opposed to another, and all are 
 enemies to each other. This is proved by history ; for 
 all intercourse among nations commenced in wars 
 rather than in mutual love. Each nation, as a whole, is 
 selfish ; considers its own productions in art and 
 science, its heroes and victories, its laws and institu- 
 tions superior to those of other nations and expects them 
 to be acknowledged thus, and as the same pretensions 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 331 
 
 are made by each nation, and none is willing to do 
 what the other demands, — all will feel opposed to each 
 other. How is this general dislike to be removed? It 
 miofht at first sight seem that commercial intercourse 
 and general cultivation would effect this, but when 
 more closely examined, it must be acknowledged that 
 snch intercourse rests on national selfishness and close 
 arithmetical calculation, and that it may for this reason 
 often lead to ruptures, from which the most bitter ha- 
 tred and wars may proceed. Science and art on the 
 other hand, as loui:^ as national prejudices exist, cannot 
 penetrate all nations in a perfectly free form, and iheir 
 power is consequently limited to a national form, and in 
 it they become a matter of national pride, and conse- 
 quently an object of national jealousy and quarrel. The 
 only power left to remove national enmity and produce 
 peace among all nations is the christian religion, which 
 teaches us, to " love all menP We cannot love the whole 
 race as a mass, but we may love every one whom we meet 
 with, and take an interest in every nation and tribe of 
 mankind on the face of the earth. This is the spirit of 
 Christ and of missions ; this ought to be the spirit of 
 every man. The general possibility of loving all Vnen 
 becomes a duty^ and this duty is the crown of all path- 
 ological inclinations. It commences with sexual love; 
 it passes over to connubial love and refines itself still 
 more in the paternal and filial love, in fraternal, family, 
 and national love, until it appears in its highest beauty, 
 in the love to all men. As the model of this love we have 
 Christ, who persecuted by all, by the Jews, and Romans, 
 and Greeks, surrounded by malice, voluptuousness, 
 faithlessness, standing alone in the midst of enemies, 
 loved allj and hated none. . 
 
 REMARKS. ' 
 
 1. It is usual to considier friendships^ an inclination, 
 a view thafis wholly erroneous. It is not founded on the 
 relations of our organ ism,! but rests on the affinity of 
 two souls, on the perception of an internal quality, and 
 its pillars are unlimited confidence^ and as unlimited 
 
332 PSYCHOLOGY* 
 
 faithfulness. Friendship is therefore a virtue^ and 
 though it may commence in an inclination, and may 
 include love, it ^oes far beyond it. Frankness and 
 opeiiness, communication and participation, are indis- 
 pensable to it. The beautiful poem of Schiller, entitled 
 Die Buergshaft, represents the nature of friendship in 
 a masterly and a most impressive manner. Friendship 
 is impossible without mutual regard, but we rnay love 
 without it ; we may say, " 1 love thee, but I cannot res- 
 <( pect thee !" friendship rests on a moral respect for each 
 other ; on principles and needs no love, though it may 
 , have it. • 
 
 2. Family love and national love qiay easily pass 
 over into passions. The former may then be called 
 Nepotism. This passion makes us prefer whatever is 
 connected with our families to anything that proceeds 
 from other families. It is a family pride that is ready 
 at all times to defend the meanest actions of its relatives, 
 to praise beyond measure what is good in them, and if 
 power and influence allow, to raise them to rank and 
 positions of honor, whether they deserve it or not. 
 'Nepotism will not benefit but ruin a government ; it is 
 - Despotism. on a small scale, and will become one on the 
 largest if permitted to take its own course. So nation- 
 al love may become a passion, but always in the form 
 of a disinclination. Two nations dislike each other; 
 they have the same common object in view ; only one 
 of them can obtain it, and hence this collision arouses 
 their dislike, and converts it into a passion, which has 
 for its desire mutual destruction. Such a passion may 
 more easily originate between two particular nations 
 than between others. The French and English 
 dislike each other; the Germans and English love 
 each other. It will be more difficult for the latter than 
 the former to become arrayed against each other. 
 
 3. A nation is an organized body ; it has therefore 
 different ranks, as it has different aictivities. Members 
 of different ranks may dislike each other, and this 
 dislike may break forth into passion in times of revolu- 
 tion. This dislike may seem very insignificant at its 
 commencement and continue so for a long time. It then 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 333 
 
 is a mere indifference of the persons to each other. 
 One man discovers an inclination in another which he 
 has not ; he is therefore wholly indifferent to it. The 
 other notices this indifference and feels chagrined. — A 
 merchant, for instance, loves money ; to acquire it de^ 
 mands a certain amount and a certain kind of know- 
 ledo^e. The learned man on the otherhand, inclines to 
 knowledge for its own sake, and he will feel as indif- 
 ferent to the money of the merchant, as the merchant 
 to what he thinks useless knowledge. If they become 
 acquainted with each other, they will at first leave each 
 other cold, and by degrees dislike each other. This dis- 
 like will express itself thus : they either avoid each 
 other, or when brought together are polite, while each is 
 aware of the dislike of the other.^Such a dislike for 
 a long time existed between Cuvier and Geoffrey St. 
 Hilaire, both of whom labored in the same sciences, and 
 in the same institution, but carried out different views. 
 This dislike may, however, increase till it becomes ha- 
 tred, which desires the destruction of the object hated, and 
 ends in open hostility. F^or these are the three degrees 
 of all disinclinations : First ^ Dislike^ which is a mej-e 
 indifference and desire to have nothing to do with him, 
 whom we dislike. Secondly, Hatred, or a desire to in- 
 jure him whom we hate. And thirdly, Enmity, or a'de- 
 terminationto hurt, destroy, and injure him whose enemy 
 we are. This dislike takes place principally, as was 
 said, between persons of different ranks and occupations, 
 as between the nobility of a country and the farming 
 class, between philosophers and cler<rymen; but it 
 takes place also between members of the same profes- 
 sion, between lawyers or physicians. So Plato and 
 Xenophon are said to have secretly disliked each other, 
 yet this has never been fully, ascertained. Party ha- 
 tred is likewise found among the members of a nation, 
 The cause is the partial inclination of some to a com^ 
 mon object, to common principles and their prominent 
 representatives. This inclination will attract those 
 that cherish it to each other, and unite them in propor- 
 tion, as it separates them from all those that have it not, 
 and have perhaps a similar arid equally strong predi-. 
 
334 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 lection of other objects and principles. It is not love 
 to each other that unites tho members of a party, but 
 love to the same inclination, harinouy of views and 
 feelings, of desires and etforts. The separation of the 
 different parties includes indifference ; this indifference 
 may become hatred^ and in limes of revolution enmity, 
 as that between Loyalists and Democrats. As these 
 parties in the government may rage against each other, 
 so the different sects in religion. The Catholic hates 
 the Protestant; the Jew the Christian; the Turk the 
 Persian, — And among the Protestants again, there was 
 a time, when Lutherans and the Reformed hated and 
 persecuted each other. 
 
 4. All disinclinations have the same conditions, that 
 positive inclinations pre-suppose for their origin. They 
 are the dislike on tfie part of one to somethinor on that 
 of the other ; as, for instance, the dislike of one to the 
 slow tedious manner of speaking of the other. . The 
 other perceives this dislike and dislikes it. The former 
 now will dislike in addition to the slow speaking this 
 dislike of the other, and both will at first be cool in their 
 intercourse, but soon hate and become hostile to each 
 other. 
 
3^3 
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 EMOTIONS. 
 
 " Emotions act like water, that breaks away the dam ; 
 passions like a stream, that ditrs its bed constantly deep- 
 er. Emotions affect the health like apoplexy; passions 
 like consumption. Emotions are like intoxication that 
 passes over in sleep, but leaves its traces in the head- 
 ache that follows; passion is like a disease arismo: from 
 swallowed poison, and it needs a physician of the soul, 
 who after all cannot prescribe radical, but only pallia- 
 tive medicine." Emotions have been divided into two 
 classes, the one of which comprises those that are 
 strengthenings as cheerfulness, joy, hope ; and the 
 other, those that are weakenings as tear, anxiety, ^rief. 
 This division, as will be seen, is taken from the effects 
 which emotions have upon us, and though correct in 
 this respect, it is not founded on emotions, as they are in 
 themselves. Anotherdivision, founded wholly upon tiie 
 nature of emotions, has therefore been adopted, which 
 we shall follow in its whole arrangement without at- 
 tempting to make any essential changes. According to 
 this view, emotions are either simple^ mixedj or com- 
 pound. 
 
 SIMPLE EMOTIONS, -^ 
 
 They are pleasiire and pain ; both as emotions are 
 feelings connected with a thought,, and differ thus from 
 mere bodily pleasure and pain. They neither of them 
 require any otlier emotion or feeling for their existence 
 except that of agreeableness or disagreeableness. This 
 
336 PSYCHOLOaY. 
 
 may be connected with a perception or sensation ; but 
 here it is the feeling", that attciches itself to the /t^zoi^- 
 ledge of an object. They are called sifnple or pure 
 emotions, because they are the same, whatever may be 
 the object in the knowledge of which they origmate, 
 not depending as a condition on an additional feehng, 
 neither in their energy nor in their duration. He that 
 for the first time enjoys the view of a beautiful landscape^ 
 will experience the. emotion of pleasure in which all 
 desires are silenced. This pleasure arises from the 
 agreeable feeling, accompanying the examination of the 
 landscape. It is simple and pure, though the scenery^ 
 is variegated and our reflections on it are manifhld. Wie 
 rejoice in nature and are satisfied with this pleasure, as 
 long as It continues, desiring nothing for the time be- 
 ing. Or a friend unexpectedly visits us ; our pleasure 
 is so great, that at first we do not think of asking bira 
 how long he will stay with us. — So the emotion of pain 
 is simple and pure, not a bodily or sensual pain, but like 
 pleasure, a feehng, arising from our knowledge of an 
 object and always the same, though the objects of our 
 knowledige may be different. Like the emotion of pleas- 
 ure, it exists Independent of the organs of sense, sensual 
 pain and pleasure always demand organs, tbe physical 
 ability of which is either raised or depressed by some 
 external influence upon them. Their energy and du- 
 ration dilfer, their nature is the same. There is aU'emo- 
 tion of pain " that thrusts its long proboscis into the 
 heart and draws forth tears in streams. The whole 
 heart swells and flows, and convulsively compresses its 
 inmost fibers."^ Such pain dissolves itself in tears, it is 
 an infinite feeling, but pure and simple. In it the suf- 
 ferer does not feel or desire to injure or remove the ob- 
 ject by which the pain is caused. — The purity of the 
 emotions of pain and pleasure, expresses itself too, by 
 their relation to the present. The object which they 
 concern may be in the past, the emotion rests wholly and 
 entirely in the present. Thus these emotions are con- 
 tained wholly in themselves, need nothing else for their 
 existence, and are therefore both simple and pure. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. - 3Ut 
 
 MIXED EMOTIONS. 
 
 Here, also, we have but two, fear and ho-pe ; and if 
 pain and pleasure had only reference to the present, 
 these refer to the future. They are called mixed, be- 
 cause they cannot originate without the former two, but 
 pre-suppose them for their existence. Again : fear and 
 hope having reference to the future, are impossible 
 without the idea of time, and demand, therefore, much 
 reflection. Hence they are of a higher character, than 
 ^pleasure and pain. The thought of the future draws 
 out the soul of man and renders him great, that of the 
 immediate present, contracts his mind. Jean Paul is 
 therefore right in saying : " Neither pleasure nor pain, 
 but only hope can give us rest." 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope is a pleasure in the present, strengthened by the 
 expectation of pleasure in the future, or it is a pleasure 
 connected with the anticipation of some future occur- 
 rence that will be agreeable to us. Its element is pleas- 
 ure, but pleasure on the one hand as felt in the present, 
 and pleasure on the other as anticipated in the future. 
 This two-fold reference of hope to the present and fu- 
 ture, gives it a mixed nature. Every thing future is 
 only possible ; the degree of the probability of an occur- 
 rence will condifrion the energy of hope. The beggar 
 who hopes to become a king, is insane ; the impedi- 
 ments that may seem to be in the way of a future good 
 must be such as can be surmounted, and there must be 
 a high degree of probability that this will give away, or 
 there can be no hope. So when we perceive all imped- 
 iments yielding to the approach of the hoped for good,- 
 our hope will become confidence. Hope, as the expecta- 
 tation of something future, is indispensable to enterprise 
 and activity. The farmer sows his seed, hoping that 
 it will germinate and grow, the sailor leaves his native 
 shore, hoping he shall see it again laden with wealth ;■ 
 hope of victory accompanies the soldier in war, and 
 hope that the seeds of truth will find their appropriatsf 
 
 43 
 
338 PSYCHOLOOY. 
 
 soil, and bring forth frnit, if not now, after his death j . 
 encourages the teacher to persevere in his arduous work. 
 Who would he eager to endeavor and act, to advance 
 and improve himself and all around him, were not hope 
 
 m playing in his bosom 7 Every person, from the ciiild to 
 the aged, hopes ; but as imagination and understand- 
 ing, are more or less developed or naturally more or less 
 energetic, hope will correspond with them. The hope 
 of the child is but an uncertain, dark and confused an- 
 
 ^ ticipation, or a wish ; the hope of the youth needs little 
 -probability ; imacfination loves to calculate on the fa- 
 vor of fortune. The hope of manhood is of a general 
 character ; its objects are better times and the benefit of 
 posterity ; it rests on cool understanding, and a know- 
 ledge of the present and its elements, and is firm, strong 
 and persevering, even when surrounded by misfortunes 
 or preyed upon by disease. The old man, submissive 
 and resigned, continues to hope though near the grave, 
 but his hope is directed to another wofld, and if of any 
 value, it must rest on faith. 
 
 One who has been frequently disappointed, will find 
 it difficult to hope ; yet no one is entirely without hope. 
 When all hope disappears, despair takes its place. Des- 
 pair is that situation of mind, in which fear and grief no 
 longer give room to hope, in which sadness consumes 
 every joy, and neither present nor future good can find 
 any access to us. A willing resignation of the world 
 differs from despair ; such a resignation is blessed with 
 internal peace and rest, and \<^hile it hopes nothing for 
 itself, it may hope for others. Resignation is the result 
 of character, of principle, of views which we have form- 
 ed of life and the value of its enjoyments ; it is a princi- 
 pled limitation of our wishes and desires. 
 
 ' ' FEAR. 
 
 This is the opposite of hope ; a feeling of strong dis- 
 pleasure connecting itself with the thought of a future 
 evil or of an unpleasant occurrence, that in all proba- 
 bility will take place. The future evil, the occurrence 
 of which is not very probable, cannot alarm us. We 
 
PSYCHOLOQY. , 330 
 
 all believe that there will be a time, when the eaVth 
 shall be no more, but every one of us expect to be gone 
 before it arrives. Hence we do not fear it. No one is 
 ashamed of hope, but many dislike to have it known 
 that they can fear, and yet fear is older and more pow- 
 erful than hope. It is natural to man, for dependent as 
 he is on powers that are not under his control, it would 
 be foolish to pretend to be above fear. — Fear has its 
 different degrees, and much may depend on nge, expe- 
 rience, constitution, and temperament to which of these 
 degrees we are principally subject. These degrees are : 
 First : A mere feeling of uneasiness^ when we have to 
 exercise our strength to avert an impending evil, and 
 feel ui]certain of success, or when the danger is indefi- 
 nite. Secondly : It becomes terror^ when it is suddenly 
 excited, and when it deprives us of all presence of 
 mind ; then we ^row pale and tremble. This is the 
 case when we at once perceive a destructive power of 
 nature threatening us and see no possibility of escape. 
 Thirdly : It may become sttipefactioti, when the evil 
 feared falls upon us and really harms us. 
 
 There must of course, always be an object in which 
 we take an interest, and whose existence we consider 
 endangered. These objects of fear may be manifold ; 
 and as they differ, so fear differs in its character. We 
 may fear jjhysical evils, or moral crimes and their pun- 
 ishments, the reproaches of conscience, the violation of 
 7«o/ior or of that which is sacred and inviolable. Rev- 
 erence is a fear, the objectof which is Beauty, Holiness, 
 Truth, God. And so again with the fear that our hon- 
 or might be violated, a feeling of shame and confusion 
 is connected. Of these many species of fear, we shall 
 consider only two : Rei-erence and Shame. 
 
 Reverence is the regard we feel for the true value 
 contained in a thing, and the fear to approach or abuse 
 it. Regard or respect is the beginning of reverence, and 
 he only who can perceive the true value of a thing is 
 susceptible of regard and reverence. In proportion as 
 a man is truly cultivated, in proportion as he can discern 
 an eternal and indestructible value in nature, in beauty, 
 and truth, he will revere ihemjand the more wnWrever- 
 
340 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 ence be the bloom of all his cultivation. This fear is 
 therefore delicate ; its object is not the occurrence of a 
 physical evil, but that of an ideal, a nnoral misfortune. 
 Such would be the violation of any thing sacred to 
 him whose mind is truly cultivated. The barbarian 
 destroys whatever comes in his way ; not having the 
 most distant idea of the value of beauty, he ruins the 
 finest works of art. In times, when all fear of laws, 
 and the fear of all that is sacred is gone, as in those of 
 revolutions, no monument of former greatness however 
 grand, is protected from the hand of destruction. It is 
 easy to/ear, but difficult to revere. Reverence, then, is 
 the tender fear which we feel in the presence of per- 
 sons, or in handling things, the value of which has be- 
 come known to us, and which we fear, to injure or 
 abuse. — Shame, on the other hand, is the fear felt by us 
 of losing the good opinion of others, by a mistake or 
 error which we have committed, that would offend de- 
 corum, morality, or custom &c., it has reference to 
 sexual relations, and in this respect is the fear that 
 others might consider us impure in our feelings. This 
 feeling may be very painful and pervade our whole 
 mind. It may be called forth suddenly when anything 
 which we desire to conceal from the world is exposed ; 
 when a weakness is detected, or a frailty noticed. Go- 
 ethe has represented this emotion by a most beautiful 
 likeness. He says in his Notes on his West-Oestliche 
 Divan. " In countries where they have no layers of 
 lime, the shells of muscles are used for the preparation 
 of a very necessary building material, and piled up be- 
 tween dry branches, they become glowing hot, with the 
 flame which is kindled beneath them. The beholder 
 cannot resist the feeling, that these creatures a short 
 time before full of life, growing and thriving in the 
 ocean, enjoyed in their way the general pleasure of exist- 
 ence and now, not burned to ashes, but penetrated by the 
 fire, retain their full form, while ail life is extinguishecj 
 in them. Suppose that nigtit comes on and that these 
 organical remnants really appear glowing to the eye of 
 the spectator ; no more appropriate image of the pain of 
 jhe soul can be placed before our eyes. If any one de- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 341 
 
 sires a perfect picture of this, let him nsk the cbimist 
 to put oyster shells into a state of phosphorescence when 
 he will confess with us, that the glowinaf hot feeling 
 which pervades man, when a just reproach meets him 
 unexpectedly in the midst of the self-conceit of confi- 
 dent self-feeling, could not be more terribly expressed." 
 Thus shame penetrates nran and the blood rushes to 
 the face, till it glows like the shells that are penetrated 
 by fire. 
 
 REMARKS. 
 
 1. Fear and hope cannot exist at the same time in the 
 same breast, for they exclude each other as pleasure 
 and pain. And so again pain and hope exclude each 
 other as pleasure and fear. When we deeply mourn, it 
 is difficult for us to hope, and it is wholly wrong to en- 
 deavor to excite hope in the mourner during the time 
 that his grief is greatest. The best consolation is to 
 mourn with him, to sympathize with his grief. So we 
 cannot enjoy ourselves fully, when in the midst of our 
 pleasure we fear poison. It is therefore equally impru? 
 dent to introduce tidings of misfortune, by first exciting 
 a cheerful mood in him whom they concern. 
 
 2. If the animal can feel sensual pleasure and pain, 
 and thus may have something similar to the two cor- 
 responding emotions, it is wholly deprived of hope and 
 
 /ear, for these are impossible without a full and clear 
 idea of futurity, and this idea is impossible without unr 
 derstanding. Now it is well known that the animal flees 
 from certain objects, and this might seem to resemble 
 fear ; but the cause of flight is not a knowledge of the 
 danger; it is only a feeling of displeasure instinctively 
 connected with the sight of the object. The perception 
 of such an object has the same effect upon the animal 
 that lightning has upon the eye of man. 
 
 COMPOUND EMOTIONS. 
 
 These emotions are called compound, because theijr 
 elements are not simple, but always partake of the n^- 
 
342 PSVCHGLOGY. 
 
 ture. of two other emotions. These two emotions do 
 not constitute a third one m an external manner, but 
 receive each other so, that their elements grow together 
 and form internally one. Tlie sap of a plant consists 
 likewise of many different substances, and is after all 
 but one in its nature. The compound emotions may 
 be divided into depressing and invigorating affection's 
 of the mind ; the former being founded on pain and 
 fear, the latter on pleasure and hope. 
 
 DEPRESSING EMOTIONS. 
 
 Melancholy or Sadness. Pleasure and pain, as was 
 said above, exclude each other, and where the one is, 
 the other cannot be. And yet we find them united in 
 melancholy. But they exist in it as mere elements ^nd 
 not as emotions ; neither is any longer what it original- 
 ly was, but each has entered into the other and exists 
 in an impure state. Melancholy is, therefore, both pain- 
 ful and pleasant. The union of pain and pleasure de- 
 pends on our remembrance of the past — hence it is, that 
 melancholy is not found among children, for their re- 
 membrance is either weak or as yet they have none at' 
 all.. The remembrance of the past is connected with a 
 feeling of pleasure, for it in some degree recalls past en- 
 joyments. But at the same time the past with its en- 
 joyuients cannot be revived, so that it is again real ; 
 the remembrance, therefore, includes the knowledge of 
 a loss and with it a feeling of pain. This enters into 
 the pleasure and both become sadness. This emotion, 
 which is at the same time both sweet and bitter, joyful 
 and sorrowful, expresses itself in three different ways : 
 
 First, In old age, when man looks back upon his 
 youth. Then he was strong and vigorous, then little 
 was required for his joys and yet they were full of life 
 and of warmth. Cares were strangers to him, and the 
 future smiled upon him like a balmy May day. Such 
 recollections are delightful, but they are not without 
 sadness, for those days of youth are gone, and never 
 will return. No power on earth can bring back even 
 a single hour. Nor were they without their labors and 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 343 
 
 sorrows, which will likewise enter into our recollection, 
 and pain will minorle with pleasure. So Goethe says of 
 himself in advanced ao^e : "They have called me a 
 child of fortune, nor have I any wish to complain of th^ 
 course of my life. Yet it has been nothing? but labor 
 and sorrow, and I may truly say that in seventy-five 
 years, I have not had four weeks of true comfort. It 
 was the constant rolling of a stone that was to be always 
 lifted anew." At another time he said, "Ishould not like 
 to live my life over again; as the mature plant could 
 not desire to return again to the contracted state of buds 
 and seeds." At another. " When I look back upon 
 rny earlier and middle life, and consider how few are left 
 of those that w'ere young with me, I am reminded of a, 
 summer visit to a watering place. On arriving one 
 makes the acquaintance of those who have been already 
 some time there and leave the week following. This 
 loss is painful. Now one becomes attached to the 
 second generation, with which one lives for a time and 
 b3Comes intimately connected. But this also passes 
 away and leaves us solitary with the third which ar- 
 rives shortly before our own departure, and with which 
 we have no desire to have much intercourse." In such 
 words deep sadness breathes. 
 
 Secondly, The recollection of our home likewise 
 calls forth this sad delight or delightful sadness. Our 
 fancy carries in itself the scenery of our native country 
 to which a part of our life, of our feelings and desires 
 were once closely linked. As these images emerge from 
 the depths of our mind and present themselves to us, 
 our numerous connections, friends, relatives, the happy 
 hours spent in the circle of sisters, brothers and parents, 
 will likewise appear before the eye of the mind, and 
 when we consider that we are far off from parents and 
 home, when then our thoughts are constantly bent upon 
 the scenes of our infancy — we feel sad and though un- 
 happy, nevertheless desire to retain this feeling of sad- 
 ness, because it is the only consolation remaining to us. 
 
 Thirdly, The remembrance of a friend, whose loss 
 is not recent, but of by-gone-days. If recent, we feel 
 grief and mourn. But when al a distance and when the 
 
 :.*^ 
 
344 psYCHOLoar. 
 
 first bitterness of grief is over, we delight in the remem- 
 brance of the hours we spent with him. and at the same 
 time feel sorrowful because they will never return. So 
 Yictor in Jean Paul's Hesperus, exclaims of his friend. 
 "O ! that I could once more speak to thee, good, dear 
 and noble friend of my youth." It is not necessary, 
 however, that we should have suffered a loss which we 
 bewail, but the beautiful and divine may make a sor- 
 rowful impression upon us, and we may become melan- 
 choly by it. Music heard at a distance has this effect. 
 Hence Plato said, that it reminds us of a better home. 
 
 These feelings of desire, and longing, of pain and 
 pleasure, constitute the theme of elegiac poetry. In it 
 grief either prevails over pleasure, as for instance, in 
 the noble Elegy in a Country Church-Yard ; or pleasure 
 over grief, as in Goethe's Elegies. And again, this poet- 
 ry sings either of the sadness called forth by the con- 
 sideration of the vanity of all things, by the sight of 
 ruins, the standing, but broken remnants of the life of by- 
 gone ages ; or it sings the grief caused by our own dis- 
 appointments. In the former case, its character is noble, 
 in the latter selfish. Yet the mouth of the poet is bless- 
 ed, for in his grief melody and speech are granted him 
 to mourn in the deepest fullness of his distress, and if man 
 in his sadness grows silent, God has permitted him ta 
 tell what he suffers. " , - 
 
 ANXIOUS EXPECTATION. 
 
 This likewise belongs to the depressing emotions, for 
 as the person can do nothing whatever with regard to 
 the object expected, its long delay must weary and ex- 
 haust ; what we possess we can no longer expect, but 
 what is yet at a distance from us, we may expect. The 
 object of expectation is, therefore, always something 
 future ; but that which is entirely future is only possi- 
 ble, and hence uncertain. Expecting a thing, we hope 
 and /ear at the same time. We hope that our expecta- 
 tion will be realized, and we fear that we may be disap- 
 pointed. The more intense our interest in the object, 
 the more fear and hope will mingle in our breast. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 345 
 
 This is beautifully illustrated in the poem of Schiller 
 called Die Erwartung, Expectation^ where hope pre- 
 vails over fear, and yet cannot entirely free itself from 
 the latter. A lover sits in a garden expecting his be- 
 loved. Every rustling leaf makes him imagine that he 
 hears her approaching footsteps, and he looks anxiously 
 around for her whose presence he desires ; every mo- 
 tion startles him, and his heart is divided between hope 
 and fear. — Anxious expectation is always caused or de- 
 pends on a doubt entertained by the person; if the 
 possibility, that an occurrence will take place is great, 
 we have hope in the place of anxious expectation ; or, 
 if the occurrence be of an unpleasant nature, /ear. For 
 example, we watch the disease of a friend : if his 
 danger is uncertain and his disease yet undeveloped, we 
 are constantly under the influence of anxious expecta- 
 tion ; if the danger be great, wefearj if it seems dimin- 
 ishing, we hope. 
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 This emotion arises from the union of fear and 
 pain, and is the opposite of cheerfulness. It may be 
 produced when we see a friend sufier; the sight of this 
 suffering is painful ; we perceive at the same time the 
 danger threatening him, and fear for him. This fear 
 uniting itself with our pain, makes us despondent. If 
 our fears are realized, our despondency becomes grief. 
 This becomes mournfulness when grief continues, and 
 it becomes still more bitter if the grief is not softened 
 by a sintjle ray of hope. Despondency is increased by 
 the recollection of former pleasures, or by the sight of 
 the happiness of others. Hence it loves solitude. — The 
 emotion of despondency manifests itself in different 
 ways. It unnerves the system, fills the eyes with tears, 
 makes us silent, solitary, and reluctant to take an inter- 
 est in anything. It extends time, for " sad hours seem 
 long." Weeping is an interesting phenomenon ; it is 
 the effect of the influence and power exercised by the 
 emotions of the mind upon the body ; all weakening 
 emotions strongly affect the glandular system, and espe- 
 ■ . 44 
 
346 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 daily the muscles of sight and respiration ; when these 
 are weakened, sloshing and tears will be the natural 
 consequence. These effects are however not only pro- 
 duced by such emotions as naturally tend to relax the 
 system ; those that are in themselves strengthening, be- 
 come the opposite, when their measure exceeds our 
 capacity to receive them. So violent laughter brings 
 tears into the eyes. , The extreme of a strengthening 
 emotion becomes weakening. The deepest grief is 
 sil6nt and tearless ; weeping would relieve the breast. — 
 The emotion of despondency likewise weakens the soul ; 
 it discourages, renders us indifferent to the world, even 
 to life, and makes the sight of cheerfulness painful to 
 us. Its effects on the soul and body may ruin the con- 
 stitution, and not only attract disease, but render medi- 
 cine ineffectual. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 This is the deep feeling of a present evil or misfor- 
 tune, connected with the hopeof overcoming it by yield- 
 ing ; or it is pain combined with the hope, that by en- 
 during and giving way to it for a time we may obtain 
 relief. This emotion does not excite, but weakens. In 
 courage, the hope of overcoming an evil by resistance, 
 excites our activity; in patience, no desire to resist is 
 felt. The courageous man suffers the pain, hoping to 
 remove it by his own power and strength ; the patient 
 man bears it, hoping to be freed from it in the course of 
 time. To resist disease or. misfortune would avail 
 nothing; they come from a higher hand, and it would 
 be childish to clench the fist, and, grind the teeth, or 
 attempt to overcome them by a sinful obstinacy. Pa- 
 tience may be exercised as a virtue, and is then the 
 result of will, and not an emotion. As such it is an or- 
 nament of the christian, and assumes tlie character of 
 an entire resignation of ouroVvn will in misfortune, and 
 a readiness to leave all with God ; or it is the resigna- 
 tion we feel, when we must suffer wrong, and cannot 
 obtain justice; we then prefer suffering to doing wrong. 
 A different species of resignation, not in any way a vir- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 347 
 
 trie, is sometimes manifested by warriors, who seeing 
 themselves surrounded by a host of enemies, throw 
 away their weapons, speak not, move not, ask for no 
 favor, but suffer themselves to be hewn down, or taken 
 captive. Such resignation is an expression of pride, a 
 pretended fortitude. Patience may also be exercised in 
 public life, and here as an adjunct locouraire, it may be 
 cultivated by soldiers. Fabins Cunctor effected more 
 by tirinof out Hannibal than if he had impatiently met 
 him in battle. — The orreater irritability of man renders 
 coiirage more natural to him, than inactive patience, 
 while the greater sensibility and inclination to retire- 
 ment, and a feeling of dependence will cause patience 
 to be more common in woman. Yet women may be 
 as courageous as men, and there have been some who 
 have showed more presence of mind, and greater deter- 
 mination in executnjg a plan, than many men would 
 have done. A young girl who could repeatedly venture 
 upon the strong billows of a raging river to rescue her be- 
 loved friends from danger ; a woman that in the moment 
 of the highest danger, thrusts the dagger into the bosom 
 of an ill-fated sedjiicer; sufficiently prove, that woman 
 may be courageous. — Patience is not the opposite of 
 courage, but its opposite is cowardice. 
 
 AWE. - 
 
 This is an emotion, that arises either from our relation 
 to the supernatural or to the natural. Man stands in a 
 relation to the supernatural^ by his reason and will, 
 and the pillars of this relation are faith on the one 
 hand, and morality on the other. When we believe' 
 that God is just and holy, that nothing sinful can en- 
 dure his presence, the feeling connected with this be- 
 lief will be a reliijious awe; when we are convinced 
 that the divine will is sacred and inviolable and that all 
 duties are imposed upon us by it, the feeling will be a 
 moral one. But man jiiay enter into a relation to 
 the supernatural by his imagination ; the supernatural 
 world' would then be filled by his imagination, with 
 good or evil spirits, who in his opinion may exercise 
 
^ 
 
 348 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 either a benevolent or malicious influence upon this 
 world in accordance with their natures. This is the 
 orio^in of the fear of specters ; they are the products of 
 a diseased imagination and a corrupt conscience; and 
 man in fearino^ specters, fears himself, his own thoughts 
 and fancies. When this fear reigns, the emotion of 
 secret atce may easily njake its appearance. When a 
 man really believes that he may see specters, /ear will 
 seize him, and the emotion will not be that of a%ue. 
 But when we ourselves feel safe, when instead of seeing 
 specters, we read well-written stories of them, the fear 
 ^and pleasure will mingle in our breast and the emotion 
 in question will result from them. So children will 
 cluster around their nurse in the hour of twilight, and 
 listen with delight to her stories, but at the same time 
 they will approach more and more closely to her, and 
 would not for the world leave the room, without a 
 light. If they felt only fear, they could take no pleas- 
 ure in these stories. — The emotion of secret awe pre- 
 supposes, however, several conditions : First, A belief in 
 the possibility that supernatural beings can make their ^ 
 appearance in the world and affect us. Secondly, A 
 particular time; night, twilight: when the light illu- 
 mmates and defines the forms of all things around us, 
 we do not fear specters. When during the day we be- 
 come interested in the stories of specters and supernat-- 
 ural apparitions, it is the poetical manner in which 
 they are represented, that interests us, and our 
 feeling is that of the sublime.— The other form of 
 secret awe, arises from the relation in which man stands 
 to nature. Whatever be the power man may exercise by 
 his ingenuity over nature, there are some powers before 
 which he must recede. Such are the elements of water 
 and fire, earthquakes, hurricanes, and storms. When 
 a conflajjration breaks out in a large city, and in a part 
 of it filled with merchandize, when we see the flames 
 spread with the swiftness of the wind, and rise high into 
 the air, when we hear the report of explodiUg powder 
 casks, and see hundreds of persons endeavoring to com- 
 bat the flames : we are at the same time penetrated by 
 fear and apprehension, and rejoice to see man oppose 
 
-m 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 349 
 
 the elements of destruction. Or when we see a coura- 
 geous person venture upon a boisterous river, when we 
 see him strucrorle and gain his object, by ingenuity and 
 presence of mind, we feel fear and pleasure mingle, and 
 their union forms what we have called an emotion of 
 awe. < ~ 
 
 We may here remark that a few emotions are yet to 
 be mentioned, which may be ranked among the com- 
 pound emotions : — The first of these is astonishment. 
 It arises when either the opposite of that which we 
 feared, or of that which we expected takes place. 
 Another is surprise or wonder: it is the emotion that 
 takes place in us, when we see a power, with which 
 we believed ourselves to be intimately acquainted, pro- 
 duce effects, for which we could not have looked. 
 When on the other hand, man compares his own power 
 with that which he sees producing actions in another 
 that would seem wholly impossible to him, and for 
 which his energy would not in any way be sufficient, 
 he will admire it. No man on earth, unless he be 
 stupid and sluggish, can avoid the emotion of admira- 
 tion, for every one will find a power far exceeding his 
 own, and Horace's " Nil admirari" is incorrect. Who 
 would not look with admiration upon a Shakspeare, or 
 Calderon, or Goethe? We nowhere read in the Bible, 
 that Christ, when he was on earth, was under the influ- 
 ence of admiration, but we read that once or twice he 
 expressed surprise : what power could exceed his, 
 and deserve his admiration ? The other class of com-^ 
 pound emotions next demands consideration and this is 
 that of 
 
 STRENGTHENING EMOTIONS. 
 
 And first among these we may mention courage. 
 This is grief, connected with the hope of overpowering 
 it by resistance. Courage demands, therefore, as its 
 conditions. First ; An evil, future or present, and a feel- 
 ing of pain derived from an apprehension of this evil. 
 Secondly ; A prospect of removing it by our own efforts. 
 Hope, one of the constituent parts of courage, is 
 
.t 
 
 350 PSYCHOLpGT. 
 
 pleasant, and if connected with a feeling of strength, it 
 produces a desire to encounter danger and to seek op- 
 portunities for exhibiting courage. Courage may, how- 
 ever, be a virtue, and is then not an emotion, but the 
 product of moral principles, of a morally good will, and 
 of a conviction, that the object in danger, demands our 
 assistance. — Courage as an emotion becomes bravery^ 
 when a feeling of honor inspires to action ; it becomes 
 rashness^ when the dans^er is not only very great, but 
 seems to require a greater amount of power than is 
 possessed by him who braves it. It demands a strong 
 inclination for action, much confidence and a lively 
 imagination. Courage becomes temerity^ when the 
 object of bravery or courage is not promoted but frus- 
 trated by it. The object of courage is victory ; this, 
 temerity loses, for it is passionate and blind. Courage 
 is considerate and self-possessed, while temerity is 
 wholly devoid of prudence. It may be called forth by 
 disgust with life ; in this case the person meets his foe 
 in combat wishing to lose his life in the encounter ; or 
 it is produced by intoxicating drinks, or by physical 
 means, by religious notions, as among the Turks who 
 believe that whatever is allotted to man, will seize him, 
 whether he be at home or in war, active, or indolent. — 
 Boldness J finally, is courage that ventures to say or ex- 
 press what others would hesitate to convey in sueh 
 language. 
 
 WRATH. 
 
 The strong feeling of displeasure accompanying the 
 idea that others have injured us either wilfully or with- 
 out design, may excite wrath, as likewise the perception 
 of wrong, inflicted upon others. Wrath itself is a sud- 
 denly excited feeling of displeasure, with the sudden 
 hope, either to resist, or to destroy the cause of the 
 evil. The greater our bodily excitability, the more 
 easily we are brought under its influence. While it 
 continues, the ofiendingobject absorbs our whole atten- 
 tion, puts us off our guard, and deprives us of due con- 
 sideration, so that we say what we afterwards regret, in- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 351 
 
 jure the innocent, and even inflict an expression of our 
 displeasure on inanimate objects, like the boy who stum- 
 bling- against a stone vents his rage upon it. Modifica- 
 tions of wrath are refractoriness, which we feel, when 
 anything is urged upon us against our will, or when it 
 is suggested to us that we ought to love what we dis- 
 like; indignation, when we perceive anything offen- 
 sive to good-breedins:, to politeness, or to justice and 
 equity ; obstinacy^ when others insist on our changing 
 our views and opinions, without showing sufficient rea- 
 sons for our doing so. This is the kind of wrath, the 
 absence of which in a man Aristotle considers a sign of 
 a slavish disposition. Anger is the dissatisfaction we 
 feel with ourselves, when we have committed an error. 
 Chagrin pre-supposes a purpose, an end, which we feel 
 ourselves justified in endeavoring to attain, but which 
 we cannot execute. While under its influence, we be- 
 come discouraged from attempting anything else ; and 
 take an interest in nothing. We consume ourselves in 
 silent anger. Malice is the pleasure we take in destroy- 
 ing, or seeing destroyed that which is the favorite en- 
 joyment of others, or which we envy them. Wrath, in 
 general, was more common with the ancients than it is 
 with us. To conquer it shows more greatness of mind, 
 than to express or cherish it. Children and rude per- 
 sons express their displeasure by using ofiensiv.e lan- 
 guage. 
 
 JOY. 
 
 This emotion differs from that of mere pleasure. The 
 latter has only reference to the present, joy always more 
 or less to the future, and hope is one of its necessary 
 constituents. Joy is therefore pleasure, strengthened 
 by the hope of future happiness. Without this hope no 
 one can be really joyful, since the prospect of future 
 misfortune would make us unhappy. Joy rests on a 
 pleasant present, and a smiling future^ it is the union 
 of pleasure and hope, of the present and the future. Joy 
 becomes delight when the long-wished-for occurrence 
 takes place as we expected, and when at the same time 
 
352 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 a new hope arises in our breast so that care and trouble 
 can gain no hold upon us. In such cases the emotion 
 of joy has often proved fatal ; for hopes suddenly reahzed 
 while tlie mind is again drawn powerfully into new 
 future prospects, distract the mind and by its connection 
 with the body, cause the entire derangement or destruc- 
 tion of the physical system ; as wrath is said to make 
 every thing: appear blue to us, and as fright dulls the 
 hearing. The degrees of joy are very numerous, begin- 
 ning with satisfaction and terminating in rapture. 
 Cheerfulness is a lively joy; mirth a joy connected 
 with mischief, &c. — Joy expresses itself externally by a 
 cheerful countenance, by singing and laughing. Its 
 peculiar songs are lyric poems, dith?/rambi, in which 
 the poet either fully or significantly expresses what 
 moves and agitates him. It may also express itself 
 without words by merely humming a melody. Birds 
 likewise sing and express their peculiar state of self- 
 feeling, their feeling of sensual pleasure or pain, but 
 man alone can laugh^ and hence many have considered 
 laughing the peculiar distinction between man and ani- 
 mals. This definition that man is an animal that can 
 laugh, has been laughed at, and yet it is correct in one 
 respect, unless the definition of laughing, by Kant, is 
 wholly wrong. "Whatever is to excite hearty laugh- 
 ter, must contain something contrary to reason. Laugh- 
 ing is the transformation of an excited expectation into 
 nothing." This definition, as will be seen, has refer- 
 ence to understandings to thinking. It presupposes 
 an expectation^ and this expectation, highly excited, 
 sees what is expected result in nothing. The nothing 
 here is that which is contrary to reason^ hence either 
 the physical impossible or the logical impossible. When 
 a fother has high expectation of his son, and this expec- 
 tation is changed into nothing, he will not laugh, but 
 feel pain ; his expectation is, therefore, properly speak- 
 ing, not changed into nothing, but into pain. Or when 
 we expect great results from the convention of a public 
 body or from the operations and eflfects of a law, and find 
 our expectation deceived, we do not feel like laughing, 
 for our expectation has resulted in grief. The expecta- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 353 
 
 lion in these instances is not changed into nothings but 
 into the opposite of what was. expected; instead of the 
 law benefiting the community, it injures it. Animals 
 cannot have any clear expectation, nor an idea of what 
 is to be understood by the term " nothing" they cannot 
 laugh, for laughing, according to Kant, is an expression 
 of intellect. A few examples will make this definition 
 of laughing more clear : A person relates, that an Indian 
 when at the table of an Englishman in Surat, saw him 
 open a bottle of ale, which burst forth in a torrent of 
 foam. The Indian expressed his astonishment with 
 many exclamations, and when asked by the Englishman 
 what he found so amazinof, he answered ; I do not won- 
 der at its coming outj but I wonder how i/ou got it in. 
 Of course we expected a good reason for the astonish- 
 ment of the Indian and instead of it we get nothing, (or 
 what he says is itself impossible, since no one would be 
 able to get the spreadina: foam of ale into a bottle. 
 Again : A rich merchant gives us an account of the dis- 
 tress and anxiety he suffered on his return from India ; 
 he states every thing circumstantially, how he had to 
 cast much of his wealth overboard, and how he was 
 penetrated and overcome by thti deepest despondency ; 
 and finally, directs onr -attention to the effect the mis- 
 fortnn'v' had upon him ; .we, full of sympathy, anxiously 
 listen to hear what it was, aild when our expectation 
 is raised to the highest pitch, he informs us that : " the 
 effect of these troubles was so great, that during the 
 nijfht following all the hair on my wig became gray." 
 This is physically impossible, for this hair has no life, 
 and is not in any way connected with the life of the 
 person. So when it is asked, why Hudibras wore bitt 
 one spur, we shall certainly laugh if we are directed to 
 look in the poem for the answer, and find the follow- 
 ing : 
 
 For Hudibras wore but one spur, 
 
 As wisely knowing could he stir, 
 
 To active trot one side ofs horse, ^ 
 
 The'other would not hang. 
 
 This answer of course changes our expectation into 
 45 . 
 
354 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 nothing, for it gives no reason, but what it states may- 
 be understood of itself. The definition of laughing by 
 Kant, agrees in part with that of Aristotle, who says, 
 that the absurd or incongruous excite laughter ; it ex- 
 plains, however, but one kind of laughter, for there are 
 other kinds that cannot be included in it. Laughter, in 
 general as to its causes, is a real Proteus; they can- 
 not be reduced to a single and common class — and all 
 attempts to do so, have as y^t proved vain. 
 
 CONCLUSIOX. 
 
 ON RELIGION. 
 
 We have now considered man in his different rela- 
 tions to nature, to himself, and to his fellow-men; yet 
 one we have omitted, that to his Creator. This relation, 
 if it is to be pure, must rest on faith, and faith is the 
 gift of God. The soul in its state of nature is selfish in 
 all its feelings, words and actions ; it is blind and cor- 
 rupt, it poisons whatever it touches, and all its notions 
 of right and wrong, of equity and justice, have for their 
 measure the selfishness of man. Hence constant wars 
 and litigations, deceptions, theft and murder : courts of 
 justice, police, prisons, punishments and even execu- 
 tions. Self-interest and selfish desiress move tfie 
 mass of mankind. There is nothing good in man 
 from which pure religion or a knowledge of divine 
 thino:s might proceed, and hence as long as man is in a 
 state of sinfulness, God is veiled from hnn, and though 
 he might see the divine wisdom and power of the teleo- 
 logical relations and grand phenomena of nature, he 
 cmild not discover in them the holiness of God. But 
 what is a relio:ion without the idea of holiness? What 
 is a knowledije of God if this is not included in it? 
 Deris a dlabolo diffcrt castitate^ says Melancthon. 
 Yet, I hear it stated, t|iat there were religions indepen- 
 
^ PSYCHOLOGY. 365 
 
 dent of a revelation : Whence are these ? Did 
 they not grow forth from something in man? — To an-- 
 swer this question satisfactorily, we must agree on what 
 we understand by religion. And here we shall have 
 at once to reject a host of views, but particularly the> 
 following: . 
 
 1. Relicjion is not the mere knowledge that there is 
 a God. Such knowledge may be the source of much 
 philosophical speculation, but it leaves the heart cold, 
 and does not animate the wilt to good actions. The 
 devils know that there is a God and tremble, they know 
 what they hate to know, and what they cannot love. 
 Asfain : If relig^ion consisted in knowledg^e it would neces-. 
 safily follow, that the most learned divines must be the 
 most devoted and r-ligious ; that the degree or amount of 
 knowledge must also be that of godliness ; which is by 
 no means the case. On the contrary the same amount of 
 knowledge may be found in persons who have very dif- 
 ferent degrees of piety ; and so piety may be tlie same, 
 thono^h the knowledge of different persons should differ 
 widely. 
 
 2. Religion is not mere morality, so that our will 
 driven by the conviction of a future state of retribution, 
 desires every where to fulfill the will of God, and the 
 manifold duties iniposed upon us. Words and actions 
 are mere empty sounds and forms j that which is iheir 
 soul is the motive producing them. Motive and design 
 exist before action, and are the offspring of our sanctified 
 or depraved disposition. That which renders an action 
 good or evil, lies not in the deed itself, but in the will, 
 and the power that sanctifies the will. The same ac- 
 tion performed by the religious and irreligious has an 
 entirely different value as to its moral goodness. An 
 unsanctified will can only lead to stoic pride. 
 
 3. Religion does not proceed from a feeling of depen- 
 dence in man. This feeling in its lowest stage, it is 
 said, is a mere feeling of dependence on nature, its prO' 
 ductions, its terrible or benign phenomena. While 
 feeling dependent on nature in these respects, man feels 
 free as regards his will and moral actions and does 
 what he pleases. But when the original feeling is cul- 
 
356 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 tivated, it becomes a feeling of dependence that will 
 leave nothing perfectly free in man, but will include 
 his will also, so that he is and feels wholly dependent 
 on ihe Infinite. This feeling includes the other, that 
 there is a progressive union of man with God, and this 
 is the germ of all religion, whether Feticism or Poly- 
 theism, only that Monotheism is the purest of all reli-' 
 gions. 
 
 This view on the origin of religion is one that seems 
 highly plausible, and to refute it we shall consider for 
 a moment the nature of /eeZf/i^.— We understand by it 
 " the general susceptibility of pleasure and displea- 
 sured Activity whether physical or organic, has its 
 limitations ; these limitations have different degrees, and 
 the notice we take of these degrees of limitation is that 
 which we call feeling, and this is either pleasant or 
 painful. Every activity of. man has a certain capacity 
 to receive impressions, and cannot receive any beyond 
 it; if excited beyond measure it is destroyed. The 
 stone lying in the heat of the sun, does not suffer, be- 
 cause it remains what it is though broke in pieces, and 
 beccUise it cannot feel, though it is burning hot to our 
 sensation. The plant cannot receive the rays of the 
 sun in every degree, but only in one commensurate to its 
 life or strength ; exposed to too great a degree of heat, 
 it withers yet it cannot feel. But the eye looking into 
 the light of the sun, feels pain and may become blind. 
 We say nowthat when any activity of man is promoted 
 by any cause whatever, a feeling of pleasure is expe- 
 rienced, when impeded, that of displeasure.. And as the 
 activity differs, so the feeling. Our bodily activity, 
 when the different functions are harmonious and regu- 
 lar, is accompanied by a feeling of pleasure, of hilarity, 
 and this is a feeling of health; when these functions 
 are impeded, when digestion is sluggish and heavy by 
 a feeling of displeasure, of a tendency to rest, of sick- 
 ness. So feelings accompany our thinking power, as 
 those of pleasure, when we find what we seek for in 
 the sphere of truth without great labor, and when the 
 difficulties in oiir way yield, and those of pain, when 
 we meet with different results from what we expected, or 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 357 
 
 when we do not find at once what we seek • this is so 
 with feelings connecting themselves with the sight of 
 beauty, when we see the infinite in the finite, the 
 thought represented is a sensible form in an image. 
 These feelings are not merely physical, not merely in 
 the nerve, but their ground is the soul. Every merely 
 sensual feeling is in a particular nerve, local ; the feel- 
 ings under consideration are spread throughout the 
 whole inner man ; and again the feeling of beauty can- 
 not arise from a sensual impression, but must finally 
 rest in an act of judgment. Neither have the feelings 
 of which we speak any external objects ; but ihey are 
 wholly subjective^ the Tnost siibjective possessed b3'' 
 man. This can easily be shown by comparing them 
 with sensation. When I feel the heat of the sun, 
 Wcirmth is the object of my feeling; when I hear the 
 voice of a person, sound is the object of my feeling; 
 when I feel the smoothness of a surface, 1 feel with my 
 hands or fingers, and the object is the thing felt. But 
 when a feeling of pleasure is connected with the hear- 
 in'j of the voice of a friend then ih'is pleasure has no 
 object that is felt ; it arises from the recog7iition of a 
 friend, and the object of the feeling is pleasure. Or 
 when the feeling of pleasure unites with that of smooth- 
 ness, this has not for its object smoothness, it has no re- 
 lation whatever to it, but merely to ourselves. All feel- 
 ings are either agreeable or disagreeable when they 
 have merely reference to our sensuality ; or when they 
 refer to form and contents, their expression is that of 
 the beautiful, sublime, or the opposite. Now I may 
 say, the lily is beautiful ; or the fragrance is agreeable, 
 in all these instances the predicates express feelings, 
 which have in reality no object. For the predicate 
 beautiful, is not continued in the rose, nor that of agree- 
 able, in the fragrance : these predicates are my feelings 
 which 1 transfer and place into these objects, pronouur 
 cing these their qualities. When on the other hand I 
 say, the lily is a bulbous plant, then the predicate is a 
 constituent part of the lily, a predicate resting in its 
 logical subject. The rose will remain a rose whether* 
 
358 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 I declare it to be beautiful or not ; but it will no longer 
 remain a rose if it is not a flower or a plant. 
 
 The first objection then to be made to the assertion, 
 that rehgion originates in a feeling of dependence on 
 the Infinite is this : — Feeling is witiiout an object and a 
 mere feeling of dependence leaves the object on which 
 we depend, wholly undefined ; it demands therefore 
 knowledge from some other source, but knowledge is 
 more than feelins^. Feeling: without knowledge is 
 bhnd. 
 
 Ao-ain : This feeling of dependence on the Infinite is 
 not fumd everywhere ; on the contrary we find in its 
 place a slavish feeling of dependence on nature, on the 
 finite, on animals, vegetables, stones, &,c. If this feel- 
 ing of dependence on the finite, is the feeling of depen- 
 dence on the Infinite but in its rude state, it demands 
 cultivation, and Can be found only amon^ the culti- 
 vated, since it would be- impossible to cultivate feeling 
 alone, and independent of the other activities of the 
 mind. But religion is not merely intended for the cul- 
 tivated, it is for all, for the rich and the poor, for the 
 learned and the ignorant. Nor is it true, that the most 
 cwltivated are always the most religious. 
 
 And in the third place : Feeling and thinking are 
 inseparable. There is a feeling connecting itself with 
 the thought of the Tnjinite, but it is not the origin of 
 this thought; it only accompanies it, as a feeling of res- 
 pect accompanies our morally good actions. The feel- 
 ing of regard may act as a motive, but it is not the 
 principle of our actions, since to know whether they 
 are good or not, we must compare them with the law, 
 and every comparison is an act judgment and not of 
 feeling. And this feeling of self-regard^ or respect, 
 while originating in the most different actions, will 
 nevertheless be the same. So it is with the feeling of 
 despondency, of joy, of grief; they all may have va- 
 rious causes and still be the same feeling. ^-Feeling be- 
 ing without a definite object, demanding knowledge for 
 its very existence, is even not a sure sign of truth, much 
 less its origin. Or in other words^ feeling may give 
 (Certainty to him that has it, but not truth. Heathen 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. - , 359" 
 
 whose religions are superstitions, the systems of siii 
 and wickedness, have as much feeling as Christians, as 
 much zeal, and as much fervor. How many are will- 
 ing to sacrifice themselves for the supposed truth of 
 their religion, how many desirous of becoming martyrs ! 
 All mysticism and superstition take their rise in feeling, 
 when connected with fancy and imagination. Feeling 
 without knowledge is blind, mystical, dark, inexpressi- 
 ble and unintelligible ; its contents may be the highest 
 or lowest, right or injustice, joy or grief, wrath or ha- 
 tred, hope or fear, the royal flower or the most noxious 
 weed. All feeling is changeable ; now it raises our zeal 
 and interest, and now again it leaves us cold. and indif- 
 ferent ; now it elevates us to heaven, and now again it 
 suffers us to sink down to despair. 
 
 WHAT THEN IS TRUE RELIGION]^ 
 
 It is di. peculiar activity of God, which announcing 
 itself to the heart of man, changes it, converts it, and 
 restores man to peace with himself, with the world, and 
 with God. A few words on this definition will render 
 it perfectly clear. — The object of religion is the restora- 
 tion o^ peace ; this can be restored only by an union of 
 man with his Creator, through whom alone he can per- 
 ceive the true value of every thing created by him aild 
 estimate it properly. This union is to be produced by 
 a peculiar activity of God upon the heart of man. This 
 activity is ^^ecwZiar, because it differs from every other 
 divine agency and announces itsell as such to the heart, 
 so that it needs no further proof, but is its own author- 
 ity ; as the lijrht of the sun needs no other light to 
 make itself seen or manifest, so this activity of God, di- 
 rected upon the heart, makes it certain of its nature. It 
 is the heart upon which it acts, purifying and convert- 
 ing it. Feelings and knowledge are changeable, the 
 heart is permanent. Again: It is the center of man, 
 nnitiny in itself thought and will and feeling, for from 
 it good and evil thoughts proceed ; it is according to the 
 Bible the source of desires and passions, the seat of con- 
 sciousness, of the conscience and of our whole inner 
 
360 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 man. It being changed the whole man is changed ; it 
 being converted from the world to God, from sin to ho- 
 liness, all the activities of which it is the seat will be turn- 
 ed contemporaneously and for ever. Hence while in the 
 state of nature the different activities of mind were at 
 war with each other — while thinking delighted perhaps 
 in abstract, cold and useless speculations, in s^eneralizing 
 every thing so that no form in reahty could any longer 
 correspond with it ; or while imagination would sup- 
 press thinking and beget as in India the most fantasti- 
 cal and shapeless productions, or while will wholly di- 
 rected to the sensual, was entirely absorbed by desires 
 and passions ; — they are now brought into harmony 
 pervaded by one spirit, by one love, and by one object, 
 so that man having God in his heart, will have him in 
 his thoughts, in his will, his actions and his feelings, so 
 that none of these mental activities will feel healthy 
 and joyful without this reference- to God. Religion 
 then is always based upon a communication of God to 
 man, arrd where this communication is wanting, whete 
 the regenerating power of the spirit is absent, there can- 
 not be true religion.^ We must-j therefore, consider all 
 heathenish religions as superstitions ; they rest on a faith 
 created by themselves and not produced by God in 
 thein ; they do not free man from sin by converting him, 
 but lead him deeper into it. A glance at them must 
 prove this and especially prove too, that the activities of 
 the soul, while man is in the state of nature, are atvvar 
 with each other. For all religions are either the produc- 
 tions of desire to the exclusion of the other activities or 
 of imagination^ or of cool reflection andi understanding. 
 
 RELIGIONS OF DESIRE. 
 
 1. The lowest of all superstitions and one sprea.d 
 among the numerous tribes of Africa, is that oi enchant- 
 Ttient or feticism. It is wholly produced by desire and 
 a feeling of want. By his immediate will man expects 
 to effect what he desires, to exercise power over nature 
 and its elements, to conjure storms, diseases and death. 
 " Enchantment is in itself nothing else than the expres- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 361 
 
 sioii that sotnethino^ opposes the purposes of man. and 
 that it ought not to be." This opposition is pronounced 
 without the use ©f any means in a direct manner, or 
 means are called in aid and the enchantment is indirect. 
 The principal thin^ is, that man by his mere will, here 
 and there, desires to coerce nature to be at his disposal. 
 Again : Whatever may injure or benefit man, receives 
 his adoration ; whatever may serve as remedy or means, 
 all stones, and herbs, and animals, deserve his devotion^ 
 for each is possesed of a peculiar power and each good 
 for something. Gold differs from copper, the hare from 
 a stag, the fur of the former from that of the latter 5 each 
 has an efficacy different from that of the otherj <fcc. 
 The deity is the fetish; it has no univoirsal form, no un- 
 changeable existence, but now it is a stone, which the 
 Negro carries about with him and whtch he worships 
 until he gets tired of it. Then he chooses something 
 else for his deity and so on. Now it is the water, that 
 attracts his curiosity, by its transparency, penetrable- 
 ness, liveliness, murmuring ; now the stormy wind, 
 now the fire, which is no less destructive than benefi- 
 cial. Or it is a plant, a tree, — as it grows forth 
 spreading and clothing itself in a lovely green, on the 
 top of which the flower in all its splendor makes its ap^ 
 pearance — which attracts his admiration, and to which 
 he ascribes a power, it does not possess ; or it is the 
 animal which moves freely about, seeks its food, and 
 resembles the savage in its actions, yet is mute, mys- 
 terious, and hence a wonder to him. 
 
 2. The second form of superstition in wFiich desire 
 is still perceptible is Buddhism as met with among the 
 Mongols, Birmans and Chinese in the west. In it de- 
 sire is controlled, for the individual recedes before the 
 one, indistinct and unknown substance, which all in 
 all, is unconscious of itself; the individual retiring into 
 itself grows mute and silent. This superstition teaches 
 that all has proceeded from nothing ; this is the deity 
 and does not mean an abstract absence of being, but an 
 undefined, incomprehensible, shapeless being, a being 
 so vague and so without contents that if we are asked 
 what it is, we must say nothing of all that we can 
 
 46 
 
362 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 know. All will return to nothing. tSilence^ obedience , 
 resignation, are the highest virtues. The silence of 
 the grave is the element of eternity. Cessation of all 
 morion, both in body and sonl, is the highest happiness 
 of man ; when once reached, man is the same with Fo 
 or Buddha. Buddha himself stands in a position of 
 deep meditation ; feet and hands cross each other, and 
 one of his toes is placed in his mouth, indicating that he 
 feasts on himself, on his own meditations. The high- 
 est end man may attain is to connect himself by 
 meditation and silence with iiothing ; then he will be 
 the same with God, not to be distinguished from him. 
 
 The belief in a metamorphosis of the soul causes 
 the worship of animals, for which they erect temples. 
 Even hospitals for diseased cows are met with. A mis- 
 sionary relates the history of a dying Chinese, who sent 
 for him and complained, that a bonze had told him, that 
 as he was in the service of the emperor, so he would 
 remain in it after his death, for his soul was to pass into 
 an imperial post-horse, and he ought then to attend 
 faithfully to his service, not kick nor bite, nor stumble, 
 and be satisfied with little food. This religion, how- 
 ever, worships its deity in the form of living men, called 
 Lamas. There are especially three of them, that re- 
 ceive the honor of being considered gods ; the one is 
 Dalai Lamn, in Lassa; the other is Lama, in Thibet, and 
 the third in Tartary. 
 
 RELIGIONS OF IMAGINATION. 
 
 1. Brahminism. This is a fantastical wild produc- 
 tion. Imagination is not bridled in it by reason, its form 
 is shapeless without measure or prnportiou, and hence 
 though symbolical, by no means beautiful. It is pan- 
 theistic, for it makes no disiinction between the free ac- 
 tivity of God and that of the world and man. "The 
 whole world is Brahma, erew forth from Brahma, con- 
 sists in Brahma,and will finally be absorbed by Brahma." 
 The creation of the world is rather an emanation, for 
 the deity tlows forth in innumerable gradations, down 
 to the being and existence of finite things, which are 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 363 
 
 the being of the deiii/ itseU. The whole world is the 
 result of a desire in the deity for change. Hence all is 
 divine, a part of deity ; every flower and every star, 
 every leaf and every twitr. Yet the Jndiuns have not 
 one idea only of the creation, bnt many, and these diifer 
 essentially. In the Vedas we find the following ac- 
 count. — Br.-ihma sits in solitude, another being hiiiher 
 than himself tells him to extend hiujself and be^et him- 
 self But Brahma was not capable during a thousand 
 years, to comprehend his extension, and [lence he re- 
 turned into himself Cosmogonies m the law-book of 
 Menu, in the Vedas and Puranas differ, hence nothing 
 can be said with certainty. The Brahmins are the ex- 
 istence of Brahma; they came forth from his mouth ; 
 but every one may become Brahma by ffreat rigor of 
 life, especially by remaining for ten years inactive, by 
 living on leaves and dried grass, by standintr on one 
 leg, crossin<r the arms above the head, (fcc. Great phe- 
 nomena of nature, the Gantjes, the sun, the Himma- 
 lehs, are identified with Bralima ; every activity being 
 divine, imagination personifies all, and hence an innu- 
 merable host of gods, at the head of whom stands In- 
 dra. Finally, sin is nothing but a limitation of Brahn)a, 
 for iiifi'iite in himself, he exists in the finite; to con- 
 quer these limits by asceticism is conquering sin. 
 
 2. 7%e Persian Religion. In this we perceive the 
 deity divided in itself, a diuilism that is external as to 
 its origin. In the Christian religion we iiave likewise 
 kino:dom of Satan, opposing that of God : but Satan is 
 a created being, and God is in himself one; again, Satan 
 is conquered, but Ahriman and Ormuzd are continu- 
 ally at war. The ancient Persians revered the sun or 
 fire as the highest 6em^. Zervane Akerene or eterni- 
 ty is the original ground of all. As nature does not 
 produce anything pure, as all in it is of an impure and 
 mixed nature, there must be two principles and not 
 one that is like a tavern keeper, who pours out of two 
 casks, mixing the drink. These are contained in Zer- 
 vane Akerene, and are Ormuzd or the light, and 
 Ahriman or darkness. Light and darkness are conse- 
 quently not mere symbols, but the one is the good an4 
 
364 PSYCHOLOGY. , • 
 
 the other the evil. The difference between physical and 
 moral evil is destroyed. The good is the light itself; 
 whatever contains light and life, contains therefore 
 good and is Ormuzd. Mithra stands between them, 
 assists Ormuzd, and desires the destruction of Ahriman. 
 The latter is sometimes called the first-born of light, 
 but is said to have forsaken it. 
 
 The kingdom of light is unshaken above the solid 
 sky in heaven ; also on the mountain of Albordi ; the 
 kingdom of darkness was below the earth until it broke 
 forth into the world of bodies of Ormuzd. Hence it is 
 that the space between heaven and earth is divided by 
 night and day. Before this corruption, Ormuzd had a 
 kingdom of spirits of light, and Ahriman one of spirits 
 of darkness. But afterwards the two kingdoms oppose 
 each other. Those that believe the lies of Ahriman 
 will, however, be thrust into darkness after death, while 
 those, faithful to Ormuzd, will be received into the 
 kingdom of light. This then is the religion which 
 makes God fight with God. 
 
 3. The religion of enigma or the religion of the 
 Egyptians. In it we meet first with the god Hermes, 
 the personification of mind, the god that invented lan- 
 guag^e, writing and science ; the spirit of light that lives 
 in heavenly bodies. Osiris, however, is the god that 
 was most adored by -the people. His sister was Iris, 
 the goddess of the earth and the moon. Osiris, the god 
 of goodness, the principle of all life, like Ormuzd, has 
 an enemy in Typhon. Osiris dies by his hand, the god 
 himself is killed. Death, this great enigma of human 
 life, is the principal theme of the Egyptian religion. 
 Even their god dies, and the highest happiness of man 
 is to be buried near his tomb, to slumber near him 
 after a life of care and disappointment. But Osiris 
 rises again, becomes the judge of all the dead and thus 
 Typhon is conquered. Ahriman continues to oppose 
 Ormuzd, but Typhon's power is destroyed by the death 
 and resurrection of Osiris. As Osiris is principally 
 honored as the god of the dead, as their judge, so the 
 Egyptians seem to have paid more attention to the dead, 
 ^han the living. The palaces of their kings an4 nobles 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 365 
 
 are crumbled to dust, but the monuments and tombs 
 erected to the dead, are not injured by the tooth of time. 
 Grottos destined for their reception extend many miles ; 
 and the pyramids attract our attention at present, as they 
 have gained the admiration of thousands long before 
 us. This relio-ion is certainly full of seriousness, it 
 seems to have discovered that all is vain, to have a full 
 idea of the immortality of the soul— for Herodotus 
 -expressly states, that the Egyptians had been first in 
 believing the soul to continue after death — and yet they 
 adored cats and dogs, birds and monkeys, and especial- 
 ly Apis. 
 
 The religion of the Egyptians, deserves to bo called 
 enigmatical ; its hieroglyphics, the symbolical charac- 
 ter of art among them, in which every thing is signi- 
 ficant, even the number of pillars, of steps, of pots set 
 around the tomb of Osiris, has meaning and is not de- 
 cided on from considerations of proportion. But 
 Oedipus, a Greek, solved the enigma of the Sphinx, 
 thrust her down the precipice and slew her. As we 
 approach the religion of Greece, we perceive every 
 thing grow clear and transparent, enigmas recede ; 
 stones and blocks as mere signs are no longer sufiicient ; 
 in the place o{ symbols ^ we have mythi and the produce 
 tions of an art, that renders the most dark and diificult 
 lucid, and sets forth all that may move the breast of 
 man. 
 
 4. The religion of Beauty^ or the religion of Greece. 
 The gods of Greece were persons, whose will was free, 
 and who were not subject to any power of nature, nor 
 limited to it. The highest among these gods was Ju- 
 piter ; he had given the laws of justice, was himself jus- 
 tice, and both Gods and men had to obey it, yet with- 
 out being forced by necessity, but freely and willingly. 
 But there was an iron necessity, avayKti, reigning over 
 Gods and men, of which it was unknown, whether it 
 was blind or intelligent, possessed of will, or a power 
 that could neither determine itself, nor could be deter- 
 mined by anything else, but could not be otherwise than 
 it was. This power allotted to every god his portion 
 of power, and the manner of his existence, and if men 
 
26^6 FSYCHOtOOY. • ^ ^ 
 
 sought counsel from the gods through their oracles and 
 attempted to discover the future, the gods could tell them 
 only what this hliiid fate had granted them to know. 
 Yet Zeus had given the law and Sophocles sings beau- 
 tifully : " Be it the lot of my life, to preserve holy purity 
 in word and deed, faithful to eternal rights that came 
 down from above, born in ether's space, which no earthly 
 being, no mortal man begot ; Olympus is their father ; 
 never will they sleep in forgetful ness, for a god lives 
 powerfully in them, never growing old." " There is 
 nothing that is not Zeus, and Zeus is justice." Thus 
 justice, right, the law is acknowledged and man is 
 willing to obey it. But at the same time there is the in- 
 comprehensible, irresistible i^«/e,against whose decisions 
 mortal man can do nothing, and through whose power 
 he may be forced against his will, to violate the law. 
 Laius for instance receives the oracle, that he will be 
 killed by a son, not yet born ; to prevent this misfortune, 
 he exposes the infant child on the mountain Cithaerouj 
 and considers himself safe. But Oedipus taken up by a 
 shepherd, fell into the hands of the king of Corinth, 
 was educated by him a distance from home, and when 
 grown up being offended, he consults the oracle concern- 
 ing the truth of the insult and receives the answer, that 
 he was fated to marry his mother. Believing Corinth to 
 be his home, he leaves it, lest the oracle should be fulfill- 
 ed. On his wanderings he meets Laius, whom he does 
 not know; insulted by him he strikes and kills him. 
 Thus Laius falls by the hand of his son, who commits 
 parricide, Without having any idea of it. He arrives at 
 Thebes, the home of his birth, but not known toliim as 
 such ; here he solves the enigma of the Sphinx and re- 
 ceives the publicly promised reward, the hand of the 
 widowed queen Jocasta. She was the wife of Laius and 
 the mother of Oedipus, Thus Oedipus violates two di- 
 vine laws ngainst his will, beingguided by fate. Andhere 
 we must remark, that the Greek heroes imputed all the 
 consequences of an action, all that connected itself with 
 it, to themselves, whether these accidental circumstances 
 were mcluded in their resolutions or not. In modern 
 fimes, we hold , ourselves responsible only for as mucji 
 
 A 
 
» ^ PSYCHOLOGY. 367 
 
 as our resolution and calculation, our intention and de- 
 sign contains and all that accidentally attaches itself to 
 our actions, we exclude from the amount of guilt. — So 
 again in another tragedy of Sophocles, in Antigone, we 
 see the divine law of family love enter into a collision 
 with the civil law or human statutes of the king 
 Creon. Both laws are to be kept sacred, but Antigone, 
 seeing the corpse of her brother unburied, finds herself 
 in the dilemma, that she niust either break the one or 
 the other law. The family law was considered divine 
 in Greece, the civil, human ; she therefore resolves at 
 the peril of her own life to offend the civil and obey the 
 divine law. This, that she knowingly and by a resolu- 
 tion of her will must break one of two laws, was her fate. 
 Here we may remark, that before the Greek religion, 
 there was no distinction made between divine and hu- 
 man laws, and that at present the possibility of a collis- 
 sion ofduties is no longer admitted. 
 
 This dependence on fate rendered it impossible for 
 the Greeks to feel perfectly free ; but instead of forming 
 resolutions of their own, and from the elements contain- 
 ed in their own self-consciousness in important under- 
 takings, they took refuge in the oracles, as the Romans 
 in their angnria, auspicia^ and haruspicia. The un- 
 certainty whether their undertakings would meet the 
 approbation of the gods, and their feeling of an entire 
 dependence on them made them seek their counsel in 
 every public or private affair. — We have called the re- 
 ligion of Greece that of beauty ; thus far it has exhibit- 
 ed itself only as that oi necessity. It is beautiful, how- 
 ever, in the following respects : — The gods of Greece 
 are free and intelligent beings; as such they were to 
 be represented. Nothing in nature was sufficient to be 
 this representative, hence it was to be produced by art. 
 All beauty has the following elements. First ; Sensa- 
 tion^ that of seeing or hearing. Secondly ; A pure 
 thought. Every sensation is finite, limited ; but a thought 
 is infinite. Here is a contradiction, and it is remov- 
 ed by the artist, who unites thonght and sensation in 
 Thirdly ; An image. The more this image seems to ex- 
 ist only for the purpose of exhibiting the thought of the 
 
 '0. 
 
368 , PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 artist, the more it seems only the transparent body of 
 this idea, which is the soul, the more it deserves to be 
 called beautiful. The Greek artist, creating by his 
 imagination in his soul an idea of the being and nature 
 of his gods, felt an irresistible urgency to represent this 
 idea to others by an external form, so that they also 
 might possess it. The idea of Apollo was that of a be- 
 ing, free from care, cheerful in itself, vigorous, and 
 powerful, that of intellect personified. Such an idea is in- 
 finite in itself; the artist possesses the power to represent 
 it by an image, in a sensible form, and the god appears 
 before us, creating in us the idea, which inspired the artist. 
 
 THE RELIGION OF UNDERSTANDING OR COOL 
 REFLECTION. 
 
 This was the religion of the Romans. It was Eu- 
 daemonism, a religion of usefulness. Cicero praises the 
 Romans on account of their piety, because they desired 
 the approbation of their gods in all their undertakings. 
 But the truth is, that the Romans honored their gods 
 because they stood in need of them, for they had their 
 designs, which they expected by honoring the gods to 
 induce them to execute. When the old gods were not 
 favorable to them, they created new ones. It is known 
 that neither the Greeks nor the Romans had a doctrinal 
 part of religion ; festivals, the theater, were the only 
 means of preserving religion in public. In Greece it 
 was principally the tragedy, which unlike that of 
 Shakspeare, did not mingle mirth with sadness, but 
 was serious throughout. Its themes were justice, pu- 
 rity of disposition and action, the holiness and the in- 
 violability of the divine law. If these laws were offend- 
 ded, man had to atone for the offense, and it was only 
 by submitting patiently and humbly to the punishment 
 inflicted by the gods, that he could become reconciled 
 with them, and with the law. This is beautifully ex- 
 hibited in Oedipus in Colonna. The Romans received 
 their tragedies from Greece, and the only entertainment 
 of the kind, which grew forth on Roman soil and was 
 peculiar to the Romans, was the butchering of animals! 
 and men. Hundreds of men, four or five hundred lion& 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 369 
 
 at a time were killed, or forced to destroy each other 
 before a delighted public. In such entertainments 
 we cannot discover any moral worth, any thing that 
 could refine or cultivate. So the whole religion ot the 
 Romans was mean and worthless. A religion 
 that has its roots in the idea of usefulness^ is contempt- 
 ible. In it the notion of gain or the apprehension of 
 loss, hope and fear for himself, determine man to be 
 pious ; love is not to be met with where usefulness is 
 the ground of religion ; here the question is : What is 
 the end 7 and again : Is it a private or public one 1 
 If that of a whole government, is it dominion^ as it was 
 with Rome ? Whatever be the object and end, the 
 followers of such a religion look to their gods for the 
 satisfaction of some interest, and thus make them mere 
 tools, means for the purposes of man. Man may honor 
 them, but in doing so he hopes that they will pay him 
 for his trouble, that his designs and purposes will fill 
 their breast and make them willing to promote his 
 wishes. Such creeping humility is hypocrisy. 
 
 The end, the Romans had in view, and for the sake 
 of which they desired the favor of their gods, was to 
 conquer all nations and enrich themselves with the 
 spoils of war. Hence their highest god was Fortuna 
 Publica ; Roma is a governing, a divine, holy beisg, and 
 in the form of a god it is Jupiter Capitolinus, the high- 
 est of all gods. Other gods had to preside over the 
 fertility of the earth, the skill of man. There was a 
 Jupiter Pistor, who presided over the art of baking. 
 Fornax was the oven, in which the grain was dried. 
 Vesta the fire, over which the bread was baked, — Com- 
 paring a single god of Greece with one of Rome, we 
 shall find a striking difference. "Athena was the god- 
 dess of Athens ; she had not to serve Athens or its in- 
 habitants, was not their tool, but their /Spirit, and 
 Athens was only the external existence of this spirit. 
 Jupiter Capitolinus, on the other hand, is not the Bo- 
 man spirit, but he is a god that has to serve it." 
 
 Having thus touched upon the most important forms 
 of superstitious religion, we must come to the conclu- 
 sion, that man left to himself, is wholly unable to restore 
 
 47 
 
^.fO PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 5^ proper relation between himself and God, to restore 
 
 l|§4rmony and peace. Sin has its root in the will ; un- 
 
 1^^ it is sanctified, Holiness^ the soul and substance of 
 
 ij^%ion will and must be absent. But this will can 
 
 qi^l^ be sanctified by the regenerating power of the 
 
 y^te Spirit. Yet corrupt as these religions were, they 
 
 ■^^5^ a faint echo of the knowledge of Divine things, 
 
 4^^t(^an received in paradise, a dark and confused re- 
 
 iliej^l^fance, held down by sin, and not able to emerge 
 
 fep^^j^he depth of corruption, it being itself pervaded by 
 
 sj!%io'5he knowledge of death however, the fear of evils 
 
 ^hW^^. kind, the perception of the vanity of all things, 
 
 t|ii($}Uii^i^t warnings of conscience even in its state ofde- 
 
 gfl^.jl^y-j- roused this dim remembrance, which in con- 
 
 nj^Qljp^^i^ith a sinful imagination, with desires and evil 
 
 q(^^»^^i^.€nce, produced idolatry, the worship of ani- 
 
 }^f(\f,T^rj^ces and all other parts of superstitious be- 
 
 5jj^;^^fi^. correctness of this view appears _from the 
 
 i^<\\ \)^^\iikfi remembrance of the flood, and a hope of 
 
 the restor^pn of man to the favor of God, run through- 
 
 oill^j^UilP^pns more or less clearly. This remem- 
 
 1^19(9^ ^HiJjvth is hope include the idea, that there was 
 
 WSQe,^j?^^t^<j)Jf mankind purer, and better than thepres- 
 
 ^Ijjp^iidi ti>(ij^ the present is not what it ought to be. 
 
 '5"^ji^^>j^5J'i>^(lic!?i>lied too, by the great number of sacrifices. 
 
 -ilKiH^§£^^.#R\ the one hand, that man cannot create a 
 
 r^|^ipj:^/^f4tife'9iwn, and on the other, that he is anxious 
 
 tp XMPi#sbif]i{(f] higher being, we sliould expect nothing 
 
 le^^,i^j]ftni^i|^]^e(,would seize with joy upon a revelation, 
 
 n|^^og^>n£i$jy(TGod himself. And yet the opposite of 
 
 tiy^j:js_tr^<9>ji;tlM8Q without religion is incomplete; a 
 
 {^f\^tj;j:|)f{|li|^ r^^ flowered; a bell, without a tongue, 
 
 \j?[J)i^,h,p§iftfl9;tgvi^ft{9 clear and distinct sound; a planet, 
 
 tJlft^^^Hi^P§fuWfWri®^pd from its sun, is without light; a 
 
 i^yg, >Y'^^j\a«it fio^^mpass, a stranger without a home. 
 
 45p4(fWngn:i<^^^^A^Als;P) his sin veils the light of revela- 
 
 tj^ a^ij^ QJQpdith^liiM the sun. Revelation is there, but 
 
 he cannotj?e^/ijt,jipanse the eye of his soul is filled with 
 
 tfefiii^'^te^^^^flf'is^^ri^^t^^fi^^ ^ith its state, it feels pain, 
 
 ^h§ficJ9oi{Pgl4ntoibeilight of revelation. We cannot 
 
 Wi^fefe|14)&p5kifli\«iB«Wiers an extract from the begin- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 371 
 
 ning" of the seventh book in Plato's Republic, which 
 though written by a heathen, expresses the relation o 
 the sinner to the gospel in a masterly manner. Per- 
 haps it may have more weight with some, than if it 
 were written by a distinguished divine of modern 
 times : — 
 
 " See men in a subterraneous, cavernlike dwellinj^, 
 which has an openinor along the whole cavity towards 
 the light. Suppose that from their infancy they were 
 chained by the neck and limbs, so that they must remain 
 on the Same spot and can only \oo\i forward^ but are 
 unable on account of the fetters to turn their heads 
 around. A fire burning above, and at a distance behind 
 them, gives them light. Between the captives and the 
 fire, a road passes ; along it runs a wall, like one which 
 jug^glers erect before the spectators, from behind 
 winch they exhibit their skill. Along this wall men 
 are carrying all kinds of vessels, which overtop the wall, 
 and statues and other stone and wooden images of all 
 kinjds of art. Some of these men speak, others are 
 silent. This whole comparison now applies to us. For 
 in the first place these chained persons see nothing of 
 themselves and of each other, except the shadows cast 
 by the fire upon the opposite wall of the cavern. And 
 so of all that is carried along the wall, only the shadows 
 are seen. Now if they can speak with each other, they 
 certainly name what they see. And if their prison had 
 an echoy they would, when one of the passers by should 
 speak, imagine the fleeting shadows were speaking. 
 Hence they would not consider anything else to be true 
 than the shadows of those works of art. — Let us then 
 consider the cure and redemption from their chains and 
 ignorance; how it will be, if they should meet with the 
 following things : — Suppose one was unchained and 
 forced to walk up, and to look into the light, and iii 
 doing so, he felt pain and could not on account of the 
 dazzling splendor perceive those things, the shadows of. 
 which he saw before ; if then any one should assure 
 him, that before he saw only vanities, but now, nearer 
 to reality and turned to that which truly is, he saw more 
 correctly, and if he showing him all that passed by, 
 
372 PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 should ask him, what each is and force him to answer, 
 he certainly would be confused and would believe, that 
 what he formerly saw, was more real, than what now 
 was shown him. And if he were urged to look into 
 the light, his eyes would pain him, he would flee it and 
 return to that, which he is able to look at, firmly con- 
 vinced that it was more true than what was shown 
 him last. Suppose too, some one would violently lead 
 him up the rough and steep ascent and not release him, 
 until he had brought him to the light of the sun ; he will 
 feel much pain, and be dragged up against his will. And 
 when he now comes to the light, and has the eyes full 
 of rays, he will be unable to see any thing of all that is 
 shown him, as being real and true. In order to see, 
 what is above, he must become accustomed to the light, 
 at first he would most easily perceive shadows; then 
 the reflections of men and other things in the water, 
 and at length men themselves. And thus he would prefer 
 contemplating what is in the sky, and the sky itself at 
 night, and seeing the light of the moon and stars to look- 
 ing at the sun and the light in the day. But after some 
 time he will be able to view the sun itself instead of 
 the image in the water, and then he will And out, that it 
 is he, that causes the revolutions of time and years, and 
 disposes all in the visible space, and is also the cause of 
 what the captives saw in their cavern. And if he should 
 now remember his first dwelling and his fellow cap- 
 tives, he would certainly consider himself happy and 
 pity them, — if they were in the habit of giving 
 honor, praise and rewards to him who could most ac- 
 curately see the passing shadows and remember best 
 what came first, what last, and what at the same time, 
 and who could best foretell what will come next, he 
 would no longer desire this reward, nor envy those in 
 power apd honored among them. He would much rather 
 like Achilles in Hades, prefer cultivating the land of a 
 poor man and enduring every thing else, to having such 
 notions and living there again. And this we will consider 
 yet, that if he should go down again and sit in his 
 place, his eyes would be full of darkness, coming direct- 
 ly from the sun. And if he should again emulate those 
 
PSYCHOLOGY. 373 
 
 who had always been captives there, in the examination 
 of those shadows, while there was yet a gUmmer be- 
 fore his eyes, and while they had not yet accustomed 
 themselves again to darkness : — he would be laughed at, 
 and they would say, that he had come down with spoiled 
 eyes, and that it was not worth while to ascend ; but 
 that every one ought to be killed, that would attempt to 
 force them and take them np to the light of the sun." 
 [The Jews really did so.] 
 
 " The whole picture must now be applied thus : The 
 region, which becomes manifest to us by sight, is the 
 cavern ; the power of the sun is the light of the fire in 
 the prison, the act of ascending and the view of the 
 things above, is the elevation of the soul into the region «^' 
 of knowledge. Now my belief is this, [Plato speaks] and 
 God knows whether it is correct. What 1 know is 
 this, that last of all, that may become known, and only 
 with great pains the idea of the good is perceived ; but 
 when once perceived^ it is acknowledged as the power 
 of all the good and beautiful, wherever it be met, of the 
 light and the sun from which it flows forth, in the visi- 
 ble ; of truth and reason in all knowable things, so that 
 every one must see this idea, if he will act rationally 
 either in private or public afiairs." , 
 
 FINIS. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 NOTE I.— ON ANIMAL MAGNETISM. 
 
 When treating on nctural Somnambulism, we promised to 
 give in an appendix a theory on the artificial Somnambulism 
 which we shall now present in some extracts from Wirth's 
 Treatise on this subject, without expressing an opinion as 
 to its correctness. It is given, however, because it is the 
 newest theory : 
 
 SUBJECTIVE CONDITIONS. 
 
 In an organic respect. 
 
 A healthy state of the system is unfavorable to Somnam- 
 bulism. For the organic support which conf^ists in the 
 completion of the organic life by that of another, pre-sup- 
 poses in the former the want of an independent union, of a 
 harmonious c< operation of all the organs, and this want 
 is sickness. Nervous diseases, a prevailing excitability of 
 the nerves, and suppressed spontaneity, epileptic, catalep- 
 tic, and other diseases of the kind, as hysterics, hypochon- 
 dria, &c., dispose to magnetic life. 
 
 In an intellectual respect. 
 
 The soul of the sick person must be dependent on the 
 physical life of the nerves. A strong mind that has ob 
 tained independence of thought by thinking, cannot be put 
 into magnetic sleep. The magnetic relation in its full ex- 
 tent is this : — the magnetizer possesses an unbounded influ- 
 ence over the whole being of the magnetized ; it is a rela- 
 tion of the most internal union of two individuals, both 
 
376 APPENDIX. 
 
 bodily and mentally, yet the one wholly depends on the 
 other. Hence a disposition is required on the part of the 
 one, that will yield entirely to the other. This is especial- 
 ly the disposition of woman : yet here also it demands a 
 specific development, so that all women are not equally 
 susceptible of animal magnetism. Feeling must prevail, 
 the understanding must be but of moderate strength. 
 
 OBJECTIVE CONDITIONS- 
 
 The nervous power of the magnetlzer must be an exact 
 measure, neither too weak nor too strong ; it must be 
 stronger than that of the magnetized, yet not overpower- 
 ing, otherwise it causes cramps, &c. Again : As woman is 
 particularly disposed to animal magnetism, so man is best 
 qnalified for magnetizing. The magnetizer is to strength- 
 en the magnetized. — As regards the cures to be effected by 
 animal magnetism, they will be the easier the more healthy 
 the magnetizer. Diseases of the magnetizer are transfer- 
 red to the magnetized. — Persons without sympathy for the 
 sufferings of the somnambulist excite her antipathy, and 
 committees appointed to investigate somnambulism, if preju- 
 diced, will never discover its nature. Their scepticism sup- 
 presses all magnetic phenomena in the somnambulist. 
 
 How the rapport itself is originated, is too well known 
 to be mentioned here at length. The means are either 
 Volar) or Dorsal, or Jl/ar^maZ- manipulation. Each of these 
 has its subdivisions, for the volar manipulation may be ef- 
 fected either by the palm of the hand or the fingers. We 
 shall however, omit these external means and ask : Wherein 
 does the magnetic agency consist ? Some answer, " In the 
 particles of evaporation,^' and these are either considered to 
 be alive or dead. Others say : " It is the mind as appears 
 from the fact that persons can be magnetized at a distance." 
 But mind cannot be entire without some material substra- 
 tum, hence it is said that, *' it is organico-psychical life," — the 
 union of matter and mind which flows ibrth from the mag- 
 netizer and communicates itself to the magnetized. This 
 agent acts therefore in those particles, in which the indi- 
 vidual life begins to dissolve itself and returns to the cosni- 
 cal powers, consequently the matter of evaporation and 
 warmth, yet not as dead matter but as the excretions of an 
 internal process of life which imposes its specific character 
 
APPENDIX. 377 
 
 on them. A magnetizer held a piece of glass in his hand, 
 and then covered it with silk, and nevertheless his soinnarn- 
 bulist fell asleep as soon as he touched it. This agent acts 
 upon the somnambulist hy manipulation ; for being still alive 
 and organic in its nature, though separating itself from an 
 organism it is powerful and " indestructible." But how are 
 we to understand the whole process ? This question is the 
 same as that concerning the origin of sensation or percep- 
 tion. For every perception of a foreign object is the re- 
 ception of an impression, which this object makes upon us, 
 and this is what we consider to be essential in the magnetic 
 rapport. Perception is something sensual-intellectual, and 
 the soul is its ground. By perception we find some exter- 
 nal object in ourselves, the inanimate cannot find anything 
 in itself; the power of finding \s psychical. Finding some- 
 thing in ourselves we on the one hand enter it, and on the 
 other remain nevertheless within ourselves. Perception be- 
 comes possible, therefore, only by the union of soul and 
 body, for it demands nerves and psychical activity, both in 
 one. The life of the magnetizer enters that of the magne- 
 tized, as the ray of the sun coming from so great a distance, 
 enters the life of the eye. If we cannot understand the 
 latter we shall not be able to understand the former, for both 
 rest on the same principle. The objection that this mag- 
 netic agent is not felt by all, is of no weight. The nerv- 
 ous system of the magnetized must be deranged, weak, and 
 incapable of resisting external impressions to the same ex- 
 tent as a healthy person. Perception among the rest is 
 this ; we extend our feeling into an external object, and yet 
 remain wliolly within ourselves, do not become changed, do 
 not suflTer in our own identity. When we are weak, how- 
 ever, the impression of an external object will more fully 
 and irresistibly affect us and communicate its union and 
 harmony to our disordered nervous system. It is this 
 communication that causes the cures ; for the life of 
 the magnetized becomes saturated with that of the magne- 
 tizer. 
 
 The rest thus communicated exhibits itself at first as sleep; 
 this rest passes over into activity, it becomes Somnambulism 
 as soon as the organic union with the magnetizer is com- 
 plete. 
 
 48 
 
^ * # ^ 
 
 378 -* APPENDIX. 
 
 PHENOMENA OF THE MAGNETIC RAPPORT. 
 
 1 . Organic Rapport between the Magnetizer and the Magne- 
 
 tized, 
 
 This exhibits itself above all by a transfer of the sensi- 
 bility of the magnetizer to the magnetized. She feels, 
 smells, sees, hears, and tastes as the magnetizer. A mag- 
 netizer took a pinch of sniifT, and scarcely had he done so 
 when his somnambulist complained of itching in her nose, 
 produced by tobacco. Another somnambulist felt all the 
 dryness caused in the throat by thirst, from which her mag- 
 netizer suffered. [The examples introduced are too nu- 
 merous for our purpose.] 
 
 2. Reflex condition of the psychical activities of the Mag- 
 
 netizer in the body of the Somnambuli&i. 
 
 The magnetizer can produce the desired effects in the 
 magnetized by his mere will. A somnambulist was lame in 
 both of her right limbs, and at the same time found it dif- 
 ficult to speak. The magnetizer could, by merely willing 
 it, so shake the lame limbs that she jumped from her chair. 
 
 3. Spiritual rapport between the Magnetizer and the Mag- 
 
 netized. 
 
 When the magnetizer removes, the somnambulist is griev- 
 ed, and feels herrelf drawn after him ; if he for a time for- 
 gets her, she feels anxious, and if he withdraws his confi- 
 dence, she ft els completely unhappy. On the other hand 
 she feels well and cheerful when she is the sulject of his 
 thoughts. The union grows daily stronger, until the feel- 
 ings, views, and thoughts of the magnetizer communicate 
 themselves to the magnetized. 
 
 Somnambulists feel sad when the magnetizer feels so ; if 
 he is angry at them they have convulsions ; if he is chet^r- 
 ful they are so likewise. This is to be explained by the 
 fact, that every feeling and sensation has its expression in 
 some of the bodily organs; joy in the heart, wrath in the 
 liver; the psychical lifie communicates itself to the bodily, 
 and the magnetic agent is the union of both, as separating 
 
V i. 
 
 APPENDIX. 379 
 
 itself from the living organism ; all the feelings of the mag- 
 \netizer, according to the above theory, are transferred by 
 this agent into the magnetized. It may here be remarked 
 that the aj^ent will always communicate itself to the same 
 organs from which it flows forth, and consequently produce 
 the same effects from which it resulted. 
 
 Again ; Somnambulists know the conceptions of their 
 magnetizers. Those that before were by no means noble 
 in their manner of thinking, have pure and elevated ideas 
 in their state of magnetism, if the magnetizer is of a noble 
 character, and the same is the case when the relation is tl^ 
 reverse. This is to be explained simply on the former 
 principle. Every idea originates in sensations; the con- 
 tents of sensation and perception are the same, and only 
 the form is different. And as we receive the conceptions 
 from {sensations, they again communicate themselves to the 
 sensations, and thus affect the same organs in which the 
 sensations from which the conceptions proceeded, originally 
 took place. Thus the conception of beauty enters intothesen- 
 sation of sight, of music the ear. Hence it is that the mere 
 idea of something disagreeable will cause nausea in the 
 stomach. Conceptions, therefore, impress themselves upon 
 the nerves and their motions, so that an adequate motion 
 ot the nerves always accompanies the activity ot our con- 
 ceptions and reproductive fancy. Hence, if the above the- 
 ory be correct, the ftonceptions of the magnetizer are easi- 
 ly transferred to the magnetized. The same sensation is 
 first produced up(jri the nerves, and then with the satne ne- 
 cessity that a determined sensation is formed by the mind 
 of the matrnetizer into a conception, a similar conception 
 will be called forth in the magnetized. The whole process 
 is this : The images of the fancy of the magnetizer are ori- 
 ginally the result of a purely mental activity; they becoine, 
 however, images which impress themselves upon the nerves 
 in a perfectly adequate manner; this affection of the nerves 
 communicates it itself to the magnetized in whom it is again 
 spiritualized and becomes a conception. Thej same princi- 
 ple explains the transfer of thoughts from the magnetizer to 
 the magnetized ; for even the most abstract thoughts will 
 seek for examples and images to illustr..td itself. Kvery 
 thought, however pure, has some sensual side by which its 
 communication from the magnetizer to the magnetized be- 
 comes possible. A number of instances are recorded, 
 
 m 
 
380 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 where the magnetizer, as, for instance, Eschenmayer, had 
 formed a mystical system of philosophy, and the magnetized 
 in her somnamhuhsm would think and speak as if she were fa- 
 miliarly acquainted with it. The mystic numbers constitute 
 an element of Eschenmayer's philosophy, and " die Seherin 
 von Prevorst" handled this element with perfect case. Yet 
 when awake, she was wholly ignorant of it. The possi- 
 bility of all this is not to be doubted when we consider how 
 manifold are the motions of the nerves and muscles of the 
 face, and that almost every thought seems to have a cor- 
 responding motion. Many remarkable instances are given 
 in which the magnetized seem to obtain the skill and ability 
 of the magnetizer. A boy of fifteen years spoke Latin 
 more fluently when in the magnetic sleep, than he could 
 speak his native tongue when awake. With another per- 
 son who understood English, and with whom he was en rap- 
 port, he spoke English, though he had never learned it. 
 Skill, and ability in anything, must have an adequate expres- 
 sion in the nerves of the body to a higher degree than mere 
 thoughts, since they must have become a habit, and could 
 have become so only by repetition. So we see that in one 
 who speaks many languages with ease, the body, eye, lips, 
 muscles, become a transparent veil of the mind. The more 
 fluently one speaks a language, the more the organs of 
 speech adapt themselves to it. Lastly : Many magrret- 
 ized persons prescribe for their diseases, and such reme- 
 dies as their magnetizer, if a physician, would himself have 
 prescribed. Thus also the thoughts singly or in connec- 
 tion, pass from the latter to the former. 
 
 In this Theory, Animal Magnetism is considered a dis- 
 ease, and consequently by no means a privilege of the mag* 
 netized ; this is the only correct view ; Animal Magnetism 
 is not above, but below the common and healthy life of man ; 
 those that praise it and raise it above the waking mind, do 
 not understand its nature. Nor can any moral person be 
 willing to make himself wholly dependent on another, and 
 the practice of animal magnetism has therefore something 
 revolting to a truly moral feeling. 
 
 NOTE 11.— ON IMAGINATION. 
 
 It is generally thought that no necessity whatever pre- 
 vails in matters of fine taste, but that every one as he has 
 
APPENDIX. . *f^ 381 
 
 a sensual taste of his own, concerning which no rules can 
 be given, has also a taste of his own with regard to beauty. 
 Ttie sensual taste has reference only to matter and its qual- 
 ities and hence nothinij depends on the ybrm, in which this 
 matter is presented. The man who is hungry, desires to 
 have bread ; the form in which it is baked, is of no impor- 
 tance to him, whether oblong, round, or quadrangular, if 
 only well baked. So it is with all the sensual wants of 
 man. The house which is to protect from storm, may have 
 any form, if it only answers the purpose for which it is 
 intended. In the sphere of sensual desire and taste no law- 
 reigns ; for it is the character of law to have necessity and 
 generality, but here one likes what another cannot endure. 
 1, for instance, like dishes prepared of flour, another dis- 
 likes them ; 1 like the fragrance of the hyacinth, to another 
 it is disagreeable. Taste, and the sensations of smell and 
 feeling are, therefore, wholly relative ; they cannot be so 
 regulated by law that the same object, offered in the same 
 degree or measure, must please all men. 
 
 The common opinion is, that in the sphere of beauty 
 likewise, every one has a taste peculiar to himself, and 
 that consequently no rules can be given for its formation. 
 In this sphere however, matter or the material is of no im- 
 portance, because the form alone interests us. If in the 
 sense of taste, the properties of the object become the qual- 
 ities of our sensations, the contents of our perception of 
 beauty is form. Hence he who admires a beautiful picture, 
 takes no interest in the canvass, but only in the forms which 
 appear on it. But form has necessity and generality, it has 
 consequently a law. We have therefore the science of 
 Aesthetics^ which treats on the forms of beauty ; the study 
 of this science will soon teach us, that from prosody up to 
 the knowledge of poetical characters and situations, all is 
 subject to distinct and well defined rules ; that even the sim- 
 plest melody in music must rest on them in order to be at 
 all pleasing to the ear. The form of the most beautiful 
 woman is nothing arbitrary ; the artist cannot follow his 
 fancy, he must study the character, the proportions, the na- 
 ture of the female frame, and then his picture may express 
 that in perfection, which exhibits itself in all women both 
 with generality and necessity, and without which no being 
 could be woman. Bread is what it is, independent of its 
 form ; but a human being in the form of an animal, is no 
 
.f^ 
 
 392 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 longer human. Beauty has laws then, though we hear it 
 constantly asserted that beauty is a matter of taste and 
 taste is relative — one person considering beautiful, what ano- 
 ther considers ugly. Such a jiidiimfnt would not be met 
 with in the sphere of moral philosophy ; there none would 
 be willing to say that some consider it right to utter false- 
 hood and others not, but all condemn falsehood because the 
 law is against it. What then is the reason that we differ 
 so much in reference to beauty ? 
 
 1 "Some do not judge aesthetically. They extend beauty 
 over the merely agreeable, which is well known to be of a 
 relative character, because it depends on the susceptibility 
 of individuals. It is easy to see how desire and its excite- 
 ment may here exercise an influence. An evil concu- 
 pisence, a restless mobility of mind is delighted by many, 
 representations, forms and changes, which could not receive 
 the approbation of the aesthetical judgment. Vanity also, 
 which only seeks for the costly and striking belongs here, 
 while the vanity of others makes them dislike to be out- 
 done. To these influences may also be asked the incli- 
 nation to repeat the opinions of others and form our judg- 
 ment by theirs. Egotism and partiality may afiect the 
 judgment no less than harmless inclinations, attachments, 
 love, a particular practical interest which prevents many 
 persons from enjoying certain kinds of beauty. Nor must 
 we forget to mention that which merely excites, which 
 begets a lively feeling, as the excitement of the senses 
 which prevails in youth, and with uncultivated persons con- 
 tinues to old age ; vivid colors please the eye, noise the ear 
 of such. The basis which without sensual desire is alone 
 favorable to the comprehension of form, must first be cul- 
 tivated in the soul, before we can speak of an aesthetical 
 judgment. 
 
 2. Different persons do not judge of the same subject. 
 The utiderstanding of the form according to the nature of 
 its contents, pre-supposes much exercise in the correspond- 
 ing sphere and a clear consciousness of the parts and their 
 connection. Many perceive the whole, it is true, but (me 
 in accordance with a prevailing impression, which includes 
 many indistinctions, another according to a review of all 
 the parts. The one understands it. the other does not, and 
 consequently he cannot have the form. Of the many who 
 think they understand the whole, one seizes this part, ano- 
 
APPENDIX. .iMKm. 383 
 
 iB^^. 
 
 ther that, one notices more particularly the coloring, ano- 
 ther the drawing ; hence their judgments cannot he the 
 same." — From the above it will a[)pear that the ditTerence 
 of taste has its origin, not in the idea and nature of bc^iuty, 
 but in the degree of individual cultivation. Beauty has 
 its laws, and if all were possessed of an equally cultivated 
 taste, any masterpiece would unite the judgments of all as 
 readily as a moral virtue. But why is it, that while in the 
 sphere of morality the judgments of different persons agree 
 on the same subject, as on the immorality of suicide, aes- 
 thetical judgments depend so much more on the cultivation 
 of the individual ? — The reason may be easily shown : Beau- 
 ty has in part reference to sensation and feeling ; but mor. 
 al judgments only to pure reason. To explain this we 
 offer the following remarks : — No one finds it difficult to 
 admit that every triantile must have three sides ; or that a 
 horse is a quadruped ; such judgments are wholly theoretical 
 and their predicates analytical, that is, the predicate is con- 
 tained in its logical subject and is only to be drawn out. But 
 aesthetical and moral judgments are not analytical, hui syn- 
 thetical and these are more difficult. When I say. This gold 
 piece is mine, the judgment expresses the idea of property, and 
 though gold may be seen, the idea of property has no refer- 
 ence to any sense, cannot be seen, nor heard. Neither is 
 the idea of property contained in gold ; its nature is not 
 affected by it ; it is wholly indifferent to this idea, and it 
 matters not whether it is in my possession or that 
 of another. Gold is yellow, has a specific weight, is mal- 
 leable &;c. — these are theoretical and at the same time ana- 
 lytical judgments ; these properties can be seen by the 
 senses; but, This piece of gold is mine. — this is a moral, 
 judgment — here the predicate mine, is synthetically con- 
 nected with the subject gold ; it expresses its relation to me 
 and this relation is placed in the predicate l)y myself. Sen- 
 sation has nothing to do with it. Aesthetical judgments, 
 on the other hand, have still a reference io feeling, for beauty 
 is the existence of a pure thought in a sensible form and 
 by the latter it appears to our senses, and hence they re- 
 ceive a relativeness by the greater or less cultivationof our 
 subjective feelings. Proper^]/ is without a sensible form ; 
 its form is a purely rational one, and as such invisible ; 
 hence our sensual feelings cannot affect our judgment. 
 The difference there between aesthetical and moral judg- 
 
384 " APPENDIX. 
 
 ments is this : Both connect synthetically a predicate with a 
 logical subject, by which they express the relation of this 
 subject to him who jud^res : but the one connects it by feel- 
 ing, the other by comprehension. When I judge aesthetically 
 1 pronounce the feeling produced in me by the sight of an 
 object, as its quality and say, the horse is beautiful, the storm 
 is sublime ! When 1 judge practically, I pronounce a 
 thought, an idea that I have of the object, as its predicate, 
 as for instance when judging teleoJ agio ally I say, iron is 
 useful, the predicate useful does not belong to the nature of 
 iron, but expresses its relation to a certain end, to which it 
 is wholly indifferent ; or wtien judging morally, I say, 
 ibis pearl is mine, — then the connection of subject and pre- 
 dicate is brought about by him who judges, and by the idea 
 he has of right, duty and moral obligation. 
 
 NOTE III.— TO THE CONCLUSION OR REMARKS ON 
 RELIGION. 
 
 We said, that feelings in general were without objects. This 
 assertion may appear somewhat abrupt, ^nd it seems there- 
 fore necessary to add a note on this subject. — The feelings 
 spoken of, are not those connected with a sensual percep- 
 tion, nor those of an entirely local nature, but the feelings 
 of the heart. It is the union of Feeling and Thinking ; 
 both penetrate each other in it. Its feelings differ therefore 
 from merely bodily feelings, though there are the feelings 
 of health, which not merely local, spread cheerfulness over 
 our whole existence. So, the feelings of rest and recreation. 
 These feelings however have reference to life itself, the en- 
 joyment ; the feelings of the heart stand related to knowledge, 
 and are therefore connected with thinking. They refer to 
 the good, the beautiful, sind the true, likewise to the opposite 
 of all of them ; yet as mere feelings they are nothing but 
 the general susceptibility of men, to enter into a relation 
 to them and comprehend their nature by thought. With- 
 out feeling, our knowledge would be without animation 
 and life, cold and abstract ; without knowledge our feeling 
 would be blind. Feeling would give warmth and life to 
 knowledge, knowledge light to feeling. These are conse- 
 quently inseparable, and their union is what the Germans 
 call Gemueth, a word, that cannot be translated into En- 
 glish. Feeling however differs from Thinking; the latter 
 stands higher than the former ; the former has to pass over 
 
APPENDIX. 385 
 
 into the latter. A man of mere feeling, a lawyer, who ap- 
 peals to his feeling of rif^ht or wrong instead of referring 
 ad titulum et legem is worth little. What then is the dif- 
 ference between feeling and knowing a thing? When I 
 know a thing, I acknowledge its existence independent of me ; 
 there is consequently a relation of myself to something out 
 of myself. VVhen I merely feel a thing, the feeling and 
 the thing have but one existence, for the thing felt is not sep- 
 arated from the feeling, but merged in it. Both are there- 
 fore identical ; the one is not objective to the other. Hence 
 it is, that what I feel I am certain of, but cannot say clearly 
 what it is. Feeling gives certainty, we said, but not truth. 
 No sooner do I distinguish between feeling and its contents, 
 than I judge, I am above feeling. W^hen feeling is made the 
 ground of religion, when it is said to be its origin — the 
 meaning must be, that God or the Infinite is felt, and only 
 felt ; is not known, not objective, has no existence inde- 
 pendent of the feeling. Thus God is merely internal, wholly 
 subjective in man, God is in our heart, but the heart is 
 more than feeling, as we have seen; it is the permanent 
 center and union of all our activities, while feelings are 
 changeable, go, and come. 
 
 Feelings then are merely subjective, have no object. This 
 must sufficiently appear from the note and the text, to which 
 it refers ; but let us ask yet. — How does this feeling of de- 
 pendence on the Infinite originate 1 The feelings oi truth, 
 beauty and moral goodness accompany our theoretical, aes- 
 thetical and moral judgments, but this feeling of dependence 
 is to be the source of all our knowledge concerning di- 
 vine things, it is to be primordium and principium religionis. 
 There are but two ways in which it can be excited : 1. We 
 pre-suppose a sense for religion, as there has been one sug- 
 gested for morality the (sensus moralis.) This sense produces 
 the religious feeling. It is not a sense like that of the eye 
 or ear, none, the organ of which Gall or his followers could 
 discover. It is a mere capacity of ^mw^ the feeling of de- 
 pendence. The nature of sense is to receive, that of the 
 sense for religion is to give. A celebrated divine has illus- 
 trated this by the following comparison : " We might take 
 this sense in an image, like the grotto, in which Pythia 
 has placed her tripod sitting on which she becomes inspired 
 by the vapors ascending from below. So this sense is the 
 oracle ; the dark feelings are the vapors. But in the sphere 
 
 49 
 
386 APPENDIX. 
 
 of intellect all must be clear, distinct, precise, and definite." 
 Man must have cognitions knowledge of his religious duties 
 and rights, of the divine law or will ; when he has them, 
 his religious feelings may aid him, but these cognitions will 
 never proceed from Feeling as such, no more than light 
 will proceed from sight, 
 
 2. The second way of exciting the religious feeling of 
 dependence of the Infinite would be an immediate influence 
 of God upon the feeling. " Feeling as such is slothful in- 
 ■ * difference, a general inactivity waiting ^ot ^n excitement, 
 
 M\^ * * Since the feeling and piety is one as to hind so that 
 %'-^-^f:^ %\t cannot be the same with other feelings, it follows that 
 *♦ f .. . ., : God must give the impulse of the excitement and that thus 
 .^' *• -*...the feeling becomes a pious one." Thus the full feeling of 
 J' *■ piety becomes one of an absolute dependence, because it 
 cannot excite itself, but must wait for being excited by ano- 
 ther power. But as God is only felt, it cannot be said, what , 
 he is. The feeling is therefore, though full of contents, nev- 
 ertheless empty, for whatever it contains is unknown to 
 it. — If this feeling then is the origin of religion and if it 
 must be excited by God, it will follow, that all religions are 
 but a gradual development of the religion and that Chris- 
 tianity itself is co-ordinate to the Jewish religion and to 
 Islamism. And again it will follow, that God must excite 
 the religious feeling, from which Feticism proceeded, no less 
 than that from which proceeds the Christian religion. The 
 idea of a revelation becomes superfluous, it being nothing else 
 than the external manifestation of this internal feeling, 
 which when spreading over and communicating itself to 
 others and forming a communion among them, is revelation, 
 the same feeling, only more spread. 
 
 We then find no cause to change our view on the origin 
 of religion. It is the gift of God. History shows that all 
 knowledge of God was handed down by tradition from the 
 earliest times to all the tribes of mankind. All nations pro- 
 fess, to have received their religion from God directly and 
 those that are cultivated and have written books, have also 
 a volume, sacred to them, because it contains a revelation ; 
 the idea is therefore generally spread, that man can have 
 knowledge of God only through God ; this idea would be 
 less general were the notion that the feeling of dependence 
 is the origin of religion correct. 
 
 w 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 From the Author's being at a distance from the place of publi- 
 cation, a few errors have crept into this volume, which the reader 
 is requested to correct as follows : — 
 
 Page 9, after Introduction insert Chap. I. 
 " ° 18, for Chap. 1 read Chap II. 
 
 " 47, line 9 from the bottom for internal read external. 
 " 48, line 5 from the top, before " sulijected" insert wholly. 
 " 60, line 17 from the bottom, insert a semi-colon after " learned" 
 
 also the word while before " Linnaeus," and in line 16 erase the 
 
 word while, also in line 15 from the bottom, insert before " two" 
 
 and after Meiners the word accepted. 
 " 81, line 9 from the top, for all read in. 
 " 88, line 15 from the bottom transfer the examples given line 15 
 
 to Une 7 from the bottom to line 8 from the top. 
 " 164, line 6 from the bottom, for moon read noon. 
 " 195, line 11 trom the bottom, for s^-i^c;^ read 5^r?<cA-. 
 " 190, line 10 from the top, for on the other, read on the one. 
 " 196, line 10 from the top, for different, read difficult. 
 " 197, line 14 from the top, erase but. 
 " 208, line 17 from the top, for activity, read activities. 
 " 209, line 10 from the top, insert before what, double commas (" j 
 
 also line 17 from the bottom, after means. 
 " 212, hne 1 at the top, for also, readonly. 
 " 212, line 12 from ihe top, for smiles read songs. 
 " 219, line 6 from the bottom, for but read that. 
 " 221, line 10 from the top, for apart read contained. 
 " 222, line 17 from the top, for shows read chooses. 
 " 226, line 5 from the bottom, for were read are. 
 " 235, line 6 from the top, for it is time, read while at the same time. 
 « « " 12 " " " erase il: line 13 put a colon after Am and 
 
 erase the comma after desire. 
 " 235, line 4 from bottom, for one read are. 
 " 244, line 5 from the bottom, for distant read distinct. 
 " 245, line 15 from the top, for care read ease. 
 « 248, hne 21 from the top, for en read an. 
 " " line 27 from the top, for /or read if. 
 " 251, hne 14 from the bottom, for this read their. 
 
 i 
 
388 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 251, line 24 from the bottom, before Thinling, insert double 
 commas (") and also line 2 after the word thi7ig. 
 
 " 258, line 10 from the top, for we cannot, read we can only. 
 
 " 272, line 17 from the top, after dravn read out. 
 
 " 288, line 14 from ihetop, for lose read love. 
 
 " 289, line 17 from the bottom, for more read none. 
 
 " " 10 " " {ox organ resL& origin. 
 
 « 292, line 20 from the bottom, for Languishing read laughing. 
 
 " 299, line 18 from the bottom, for o%e read our. 
 
 " 306, line 17 from the top, insert inverted commas (") before the 
 words. The avaricious, &c. — also in line 11 from the bottom 
 after the 'woxAs,find thern. 
 
 " 309, line 12 from the top, for light read life. 
 
 " " 3 from the bottom, for himself read him. 
 
 " 318, line 2 from the top, for conception red^A corru/ption, 
 
 *' 319, line 1 from the top for bitterness read littleness. 
 
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