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eKEFACE.
The fol levying pages contain the substance of the Lectxrei
which, for several years, have been delivered to the classes in
Intellectual Philosophy, in Brown University.
Having been intended for oral delivery, they were, in many
respects, niodiSed by the circumstances of their origin. Hence,
illustrations have been introduced more freely than would other-
wise have seemed necessary. In preparing them for the press,
however. I was led to consider the class of persons for whose
use th'iy were principally designed. I remembered the diffi-
culty of fixing definitely in the mind of the pupil the nature
and limits of subjective truth ; and therefore allowed my instruc-
tions to retain in general the form which they had previously
assumed. Whether I have in this respect judged wisely, it is
not for me to determine.
I have not entered upon the discussion of many of the topics
which have called into exercise the acumen of the ablest meta-
physicians. Intended to serve the purposes of a text-book, it
was necessary that the volume should be compressed within a
compass adapted to the time usually allotted to the study of
this science in the colleges of our country. I have, therefore,
ntteniptcd to present and illustrate the important truths in intel.
lectual philosophy, rather than the inferences which may bo
drawn from them, or the doctrines which they may presuppose.
These may bo pursued to ajiy length, at the option of the teacher.
If I have not entered upon these discussions, I hope that I iiavi
prepared the way for their more ample and truthful develop-
PRETACK.
It lu8 been mj desire to render this work an aid to ineola<
naprowtmemfL For this purp>ose, I hare added practical Bug*
gCBtioae on tbe cultirution of the sereral faculties. Kanicft^
nundeJ joang men frequently err in their attcmptB at iH:ll-iin-
proTcoitat. It has Beeme<J to me, therefore, that a work cf thii
ki>i vmld be manifest! j imperfect, did it not. direct! j aa wel!
W iodirectlj, aid the student in hia efiorta to di»ci{ line abd
ftrengthen hifl intellectual energies.
In order to encourage more extensive reading upon the buI»-
)ect than can be furuii»hed in a text-book, I have added refer-
eooes to a numl^tir of works of enBy acccbe, Bpecifyiiig the [docxj
in which the topics treated of were dij>cuhi>ed. In thia laL»or, I
have availe-l myBcif of the aa«ii>tanoe of mj former pujtil*, Mr.
Samcel BacxjKB, now iuutructor in Greek, in thin Univcruitj,
and Mr. Lcciue W. hASCUorr, of Worcester, MaBS. To theM
gentlemen the student is indebted fur whatever benefit he maj
derive from thLs feature of the work.
For the manj imperfe<;tion8 of this volume, the author con-
Boles himuelf with the reflection, that it has lx;en written and
prepare*] for the press under the pressure of other iin{x*rtant
and frequent! J dihtracting avocations. In the humble hop«
tliat it maj, nevertheless, facilitate the stud; of tt!* intcrert.
ing department of human knowledge, i^ j* with difiir,iwi%.
•ul>mitte'i to the ju<igmont of the public
Baowa Uhivucitt, Sopt 14 1^54.
PREFACE TO TIIE PRESENT EDITION.
h woA my (lestigTt, soon after thui volnme wan pahlUhed,
to snhject it to a thorough revwion, and make irach cor-
rections in the text as were evidently needed. I fonnd
my*ielf, however, enable at the time to accom plinth my
ictention, in conseqaen^^ of several other unexpected and
imperative obli'^ations ; and, subiMfqnently, by reason of a
long f»eriod of imf>erfect health. I have devot«d to this
work the first leisare that I have \jeen able to command ;
and have correcte^l the text with all the attention in my
power. I hope that I have iraproverl it.
In this IaV>or I have been greatly anwted by the aid of
aijother. Some time since, I received from an anonymon*
friend a copioas list of valuable correctionii, of which I
have freely availerl myseIC I Like this method of express*
ing my sincere gratitade to my onknown benefactor ; and
I beg him to receive my thanks for his careful rending o(
the text, and for his many valuable suggcstionji. Moii
Off these I hAve thankfully adopted.
?. WATLASn
MHiiii
iHii
CONTENTS.
orrsoi'CcnoN and defiothons, •
en AFTER I.
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES.
Section I. — Of our Knowledge of Matter and Mind 16
Section I [. — Tbe Perceptive Powers in general, 28
Section m. — Of our Mode of Intercourse with the External World, . 32
Section IV. — The Sense of Smell 41
BtCTioN v. — The Sense of Taste, 46
Section VI.— The Sense of Hearing, 50
Section VII. — The Sense of Touch, 59
Suction VIII.- The Sense of Sight, 63
Section IX. — Acquired Perceptions, 77
Section X. —The Nature of the Knowledge which we acquire by the
Perceptive Powers, °6
Skction XI — Conception, 103
CHAPTER II.
CONSCIOUSNESS, ATTENTION AND REFLECTION.
Section I. — Consciousness, 110
Becxion U. — Attention and Reflection, 119
V en AFTER III.
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION, OR TUE I NTUITI 0N3 DF THE IXTELLECK'^
gicnor I. — The Opinions of Locke, .^180 /
SiTiON 11. — The Nature of Original Suggestion 18«
Seltio.s III. — Ideas occasioned by Objects in a State of Rest, . . • 112
BtimoN IV. — Suggested Ideas occasioned by Objects in the Condi-
tion of Change, 150
BacnoN V. —Suggested laeaa accompanied by Emotion 168
Tin CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IV
PACI
ABSTBACnOn, < • • . 177
CHAPTER V.
MEMORY.
BwJKON 1. — Association of Ideas, .202
Sbctiom n. — The Nature of Memory, 228
BucnoN m. — The Importance of Memory, 245
Bbction IV. — The Improvement of Memory 254
CHAPTER VI.
REASOXIXO.
Bbction I. — The Nature and Object of Reaioning, and the Manner
in which it proceeds, 279
Section H. — The different Kinds of Certainty at which we arrive
by Reasoning, 307
Section IIL — Of the Evidence of Testimony, 317
Section IV. — Other Forms of Reasoning, 338
Section V. — The Improvement of the Reasoning Powers, 34i
CHAPTER VII.
IMAGINATION.
Section L — Nature of the Imagination 351
Section II. — Portic Imagination, 357
Section in. — On the Improvement of Poetic Imagijiation, . . . .370
Bbction IV. — Philosophical Imagination, ... , , , . 877
CHAPTER VIII.
TASTE.
BBCnoR L — The Nature of Taste, 381
Sectiok n. — Taste considered Objectively. Material Qoalities as
Objects of Taste 302
teTnoN lEL — Immaterial Qualities as Objects of Taste, .402
Section IV. — The Emotion of Tajte ; or Taste considered Subjec-
tively 4oa
APPENDIX.
Note to pai x^, 102 423
Note to page 115, . r • t ........ 422
INTRODUCTION.
DEFINITION OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS
Intellectual Philosophy treats of the faculties cTtlic
human mind, and of the laws bj which thej are governed.
The only forms of existence which, in our present state
we are capable of knowing, are matter and mind. It is the
mind alone that knows. When, therefore, we cognize
matter, the olject known, and the subject which knows, are
numerically distinct. When, on the other hand, we cog-
nize mind, the mind which knows and the mind which ia
known are numerically the same. The mind knows, and
the mind is the object of knowledge.
1. The mind becomes cognizant of the existence and qual-
ities of matter, that is, of the world external to itself, by
means of the Perceptive faculties. It knows not what
matter is, or what is the essence of matter, but only its
qualities ; that is, its power of aflfecting us in this or that
manner. When we say, "This is gold," we do not pretend
to know what the essence of gold is, but merely that there
is something possessed of certain qualities, or powers of crc-
aling in us certain affections.
2. In a similar manner we become acquainted with tho
energies of our own mind. We are not cognizant of the
mind itself, but only of the action of its faculties or sensi-
bilities. When we th'«ik, remember, or reason; when we
10 INTRODUCTION.
are jojfui ot iad, when we deliberate or resc ve, we knovk
that these ?e\ irul states )f the mind exist, and that they are
predicated of the being whom I denominate I, or myself.
The power bj which we become cognizant to ourselves of
these mental states is called Consciousness. "When, by an
act of volition, a particular mental state is made the object
of distinct and continuous thought, the act is denominated
Rejlectlon.
3. An idea of perception or of consciousness terminates aa
Boon as another idea succeeds it. It is perfect and complete
within itself, and is not necessarily connected wnth anything
else. I see a ball either at rest or in motion ; I turn my
eyes in another direction and perceive a tree or a house ; in
a moment afterwards they are both violently thrown down.
I am conscious of several separate perceptions, which follow
each other in succession. Each one of these mental acts is
complete within itself, and might have been connected with
no other. We find, however, that these ideas of perception
are not ihus disconnected. They do not terminate in them-
Belves, but give occasion to other ideas of great importance ;
ideas which, but for the acts of perception, could never have
existed. Thus, we saw a house standing, we now see it
fallen ; there at once arises in the mind the idea of a cause,
or of something which has occasioned this change. Several
ideas following in succession, occasion the idea of duration.
The existence of these secondary ideas under these circum-
stances is owing to the constitution of the human mind
itself It suggests to us these ideas, which, when once con-
ceived, are original and independent. This power of the
mind is termed Orl<rinal Suggestion.
4. The knowledge acquired both by our perceptive facul-
ties and by consciousness, as well as much that is given us
by original suggestion, is the knowledge of things or acts
OS individuals We perceive single objects ; we are con-
DBflKinOX OF TUE INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 11
icious of single mental states. These pass away and become
recollections. The recollections are like their originalS;
merely recollections of individuals. Had we no othei
power, our knowledt^e would consist of separate isolated
ideas, without either cohesion or classification. Our knowl-
edge would be all either of single individuals, or of single
acts performed by particular agents. When, however, wo
reflect upon our knowledge, we find it to be of a totally
different character. It is almost all of classes. "With the
exception of proper names, all the nouns of a language des-
ignate classes ; that is, ideas of genera and species, and not
ideas of individuals. There must, therefore, exist a power
of the mind by which we transform these ideas of individuals
into ideas of generals. We give to this complex power the
name of Abstraction.
5. We have thus far considered the intellectual faculties
without reference to the element of time. We, however, all
know that the ideas obtained in the past remain with us at
this present. The history of our lives from infancy is con-
tinually before us, or. at the command of the will, it may be
Bpread out before our consciousness. We know that the
ideas which we now acquire may be retained forever. Nay,
more, we are conscious of a power of recalling at will the
knowledge which we have once made our own. The faculty
by which we do this is called Metiiory.
6. Possessed of these powers, we might obtain all the
ideas arising from perception, consciousness and original
suggestion ; we might modify them into genera and species,
we might treasure them up in our memory and recall
them at v.ill. But we could proceed no further. Our
knowledge would consist wholly of facts, or the informa-
tion which we have derived either from our own observa-
tion or the observation of others. But this manifestly ig
uot our condition. We are able to make use if the knovl-
J 2 INTRODUCTION.
edge ac(|uired by the powers of which I have spoken, it
Buch a manner as to arrive at truth before unknown, truth
which these powers could never have revealed to us. Id
this manner Ave make use of the facts in geology in order to
determine the changes which have taken place in the history
of our globe. Thus, from the axioms and definitions of
geometry, v,e proceed to demonstrate the profoundest trutha
of that science. The faculty by which we thus proceed in
the investigation of truth is termed Reason.
7. Thus far we have treated of those powers which give
us knowledge of things and relations actually existing, oi
which modify and use this knowledge. Were v;e limited to
these, we could consider no conception but as actually true.
We could conceive of nothing except that which we hud
perceived, or which some one had perceived for us. But we
find ourselves endowed with- a' power of taking the element?
of our knowledge and combining them together at will. Wo
thus form to ourselves pictures of things that never existed,
and we give to them form and substance by the various
processes of the fine arts. It was this power which con-
ceived the group of Laocoon, or Milton's Garden of Eden.
We give to this power the name of IinagLnat'xon.,
8. The exercise of all our faculties is generally agreeable,
and sometimes is productive of exquisite pleasure. I look at
a rainbow, I pursue a demonstration, I behold a successful
effort in the fine arts, and in all these cases I am conscious
of a peculiar emotion. The causes producing this emotion
are unlike, but the mental feeling produced is essentially
the same. Every one recognizes it under the name of the
beautiful ; and the sensibility by which we become capable
of this emotion is called Taste.
The faculties which will be treated of m the present work
may, then, be briefly defined as follows :
1. The Perceptive faculties are those by which we ''lecoxna
lllillilSSSillSlillllilHii^^i^HRiii^^
DEriNITlON OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS. IS
»<X]|Uainted with the existence and [ualities of the external
world.
2. Consciousness is the faculty by which we become
cognizant of the operations of our own minds.
3. Original Suggestion is the faculty which gives rise
to original ideas, occasioned by the perceptive faculties or
consciousness.
4. Ahstrnction is the faculty by wliich, from concepti na
of individuals, we form conceptions of genera and species, or,
in gcnei al, of classes.
5. Memory is the faculty by which we retain and recall
our knowledge of the past.
6. Reason is that faculty by which, from the use of the
knowledge obtained by the other faculties, we are enabled to
proceed to other and original knowledge.
7. Ima gination is that faculty by which, from materials
already existing in the mind, we form complicated concep-
tions or mental images, according to our own will.
8. Taste is that sensibility by which we recognize the
beauties and deformities of nature or art, deriving pleasure
from the one. and suflfering pain from the other.
It is by no means intended to assert that these are all the ■♦^^
powers of a human soul. Besides these, it is endowed with • if'-
conscience, or that faculty^ by which we are capable of
moral obligation ; with will^jor that motive force by which
we are impelled to action ; with the various emotionSj;/<m- ' „
stincts and biases, which, as observation teaches us, are v\,y
parts of a human soul. These are, however, the most im- W-^
portant of those that are purely intellectual. In the follow-
ing ]iages we shall consider them in the order in which thej
havo been named.
2
14 IXTROL>UCTION.
REFERENCES
TO PASSAGES IJ WHICH ANALOGOOS SUBJECTS ARE TREATED.
Import.ance of Intellectual Pliilosophy — r Reid's Incjuiry, chap. 1, sec. 1
DitBcnlty of the study — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sec. 2.
Cultivation of mind distinguishes us from brutes — Inquiry, chap. 1,
Bcc. 2. — X
What are matter and mind — Reid'^Introduction to Essays on tne In
tellectual Powers. ^ ^_ ~
Matter and mind relative — Stewart's Introduction to vol. i.; Iteid*)
Essays on certain powers, Essay 1, chap. 1. —
Origin of our knowledge — Locke, Book 2d, ciup. 1, sec 2 — 5 aad 24
mmmmmmmmmmmm
CHAPTER I.
THE PERCEPTH^E FACULTIES
8BC1I0N I. — OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF MATTEK AND MISi/
THERE IS NO REASON FOR SUPPOSING THE ESSENCE 01
MATTER AND MIND THE SAME. THE RELATION OF MIND
TO MATTER IN OUR PRESENT STATE.
Op the essence of mind, as I have remarked, we know
nothing. All that we are able to aflQrm of it is, that it ia
something which perceives, reflects, remembers, believes,
imagines, and wills ; but what that something is, which ex
crts these energies, we know not. It is only as we are con-
scious of the action of these energies that we are conscious
of the existence of mind. It is only by the exertion of its
own powers that the mind becomes cognizant of their exis-
tence. The cognizance of its powers, however, gives us no
knowledge of that essence of which they are preilicatcd.
In these respects, our knowledge of mind is precisely
analogous to our knowledge of matter. When we attempt to
define matter, we affirm that it is something extended, divis-
ible, solid, colored, etc. ; that is, we mention those of ita
qualities which are cognizable by our senses. In other
w)rds, we affirm that it is something which has the power
of aflecting us in this or that manner. "When, however, the
question is asked, what is this something of wluch these
qualities are predicated, we are silent. The knowledge of
Uie '^juaHties gives no knowle<lge of the essence to which
16 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
tLey belong. We cognize the qualities by means of oui
perceptive powers ; but we have no power by which we are
able to cognize essence, or absolute substance.
-This does not seem to be the fact by accident, but from
necessity. If we reflect upon the nature of our faculties,
we shall readily be convinced that, by our perceptive pow-
ers, we learn that a particular object affects us in a particu-
lar manner, creates in us a certain state of mind, or, in
other words, gives us a certain form of knowledge. I look
upon snow, and there is created in my mind the idea of
white. I look upon gold, I have at once the idea of yellow.
Besides this, there is another idea created, which is, that
this quality, or power of creating in me this notion, belonga
to the object which I contemplate. I thus not only gain
the idea of white or yellow, but the additional conviction
that snow is white and gold is yellow.
The same remarks apply to our knowledge of mind. I
am conscious of perception, of recollection, of pleasure, or
pain. I thus acquire a notion of these several mental acts,
and thus a certain form of knowledge is given to me. Be-
sides this, I have an instinctive belief that the mental en-
ergy which gives rise to this particular form of knowledge
is predicated of the thinking being whom I call I, or myself.
If the knowledge which we derive from perception and con-
sciousness be analyzed, I think it will be found to go thug
far, but that, from the constitution of our nature, it can go
no farther.
But, while our knowledge of mind and our knowledge of
matter agree in this respect, that neither of them gives ug
any information concerning essences, these two forms of
knowledge are in other respects quite dissimilar.
1. In the first place, it is obvious that the energies of the
one and the qualities of the other are made known to us by
iifferent powers of the mind. The qualities cf matter ara
kkkkkmkkkmkkim^kkk^^^^^^^
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. Vt
revealed to us by our perceptive faculties m which (ui
npiritual and material natures are intimately united. The
energies of mind are revealed to us by consciousness, one of
the elements exclusively of our spiritual nature. It ia
almost needless to remark, here, that this difference in 'the
mode in which these forms of knowledge are revealed tc ug
does not affect the evidence of the truth of either. Percep-
tion and consciousness are both original and legitimate
bources of belief. We cannot philosophically deny the ex-
istence of either. The world without us and the world
within us, the me and the tiot me, are both given to us by
the principles of our constitution as ultimate facts,, which,
whatever may be his theory, every man, from the necessity
of his constitution, practically admits.
2. We always express the attributes of matter and the
energies of mind by terms generically dissimilar. The
qualities of matter we designate by adjectives, or termg
neaning something added to a substance, and wholly inca-
pable of an active signification. Thus, we say of a ma-
terial object, it is hard, soft, white, black, warm or cold.
On the other hand, we designate the energies of mind by
active verbs or participles, terms which indicate a power
residing in the substance itself. We say of mind, it thinks
remembers, wills, imagines ; or, that it is a thinking, will-
ing, remembering, imagining substance. This difference
in our mode of speech is not accidental, but of necessity. If
any one will make the experiment, he will find it impossible
to express his conceptions on these subjects in any other
manner. We are unable to conceive of thinking, reasoning,
remembering, as qualities, or of white, black, or color, as ener-
gies. We are so made that we are obliged to think of these
different attributes as at the farthest remove from each
Ither.
From these remarks we discover the limit which has be^
9*
18 intelle:)tual philosope
fixe! by our Creator to our investigations on these subjects
We perceive in the objects around us various qualities, and
we know that these qualities must be predicated of some-
thing, — for nothing, or that which does not exist, can have
no qualities, - -but what that something is we know not. Sc^
again, we are conscious of the energies of mind, and we
know that these energies must be energies of something,
while of the essence of that something we are equally igno-
rant. Hence, in all our investigations respecting either
matter or mind, we must abandon at the outset all inquiries
respecting essences or absolute substance, and confine our-
selves to the observation of phenomena, their relations to
each other, and the laws to whicli they are subjected. The
progress of physical science within the last two centuries
has been greatly accelerated by the practical acknowledg-
ment of this law of investigation. Intellectual science can
advance in no other direction.
If, then, it be affirmed that the soul or the thinking prin-
ciple in man is material, or that its essence id the same as the
essence of matter, we answ-^r :
First, that the assertion is unphilosophical, inasmuch a3
it transgresses the limits which the Creator has fixed to
human inquiry. We have been endowed with no powers for
cognizing the essence of anything, and therefore we pass
beyond our legitimate province in affirming anything on the
subject. We can neither prove nor disprove it. We may
show that no evidence can be adduced in favor of it; that all
the analogies bearing on the su!)ject would lead to a different
conclusion ; and thus we may form the basis of an opinion
merely, but we can go no fuither. The nature of the case
excludes all positive knowledge.
Secondly, we reply that the asser'^ion is nugatory. It is
B-ffirmed that the essence of the soul is tho same as the
essence of matter. But what is ibe essence of matter ? We
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. IP
ire obliged to confess that we do not know. "Whc-n, there-
fore, we assert that the essence of the soul is the same as
the essence jf matter, we merely assert that it is the same aa
something c f which, by confession, we know absolutely noth-
ing Were this assertion granted, it would then add nothing
whatever to the sum of human knowledge Would it not be
better frankly to confess our ignorance on the subject?
Thirdly, so far as the grounds for an opinion exist, they
favor precisely the opposite opinion.
The qualities of matter and the energies of mind are ag
widely as possible different from each other. In all lan-
guages they are designated by different classes of words
We recognize them by different powers of the mind, powers
which cannot be used interchangeably. Our senses cannot
recognize the thoughts of the mind, nor can consciousness
recognize the qualities of matter. To assert, then, that the
essence of mind and of matter is the same, is to assert, with-
out the possibility of proof, that two things are the same,
which not only have no attribute in common, but of which
the attributes are as unlike as we are able to conceive.
It may not be out of place to enumerate the several men-
tal states consequent upon the enunciation of any given
proposition. In the first place, the assertion is made with-
out any evidence either in favor of or against it. In thia
case (supposing the veracity of the assertor not to be taken
into view) my mind remains precisely as it was before.
The assertion goes for nothing. I have no opinion either
fhe one way or the other. I neither believe nor disbelieve,
nor have any tendency in either direction. In the second
case the assei tion is made, and though sufTicient proof is not
presented to create belief, yet considerations, as. for instance,
analogies, are shown to exist, which create a piobal)ility
either in favor of or against the thing asserted. Here,
tien, is ground for an opinion, and the state of mind it
20 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
changed. We neither believe nor disbelieve, but yre hold
an opinion either in favor of, or contrary to the assertion.
In the third ca?e, the assertion is sustained either by syllo-
gistic reasoning, or by testimony conformed to the laws
of eviden^^e. Here a different state of mind is produced,
I believe it. I rely upon it as I would upon a matter which
came within the cognizance of my own perception or con-
sciousness. To illustrate these cases. A man asserts that
the moon is a mass of silver. His assertion leaves my
mind where it was before. I know nothing about it.
Another man asserts that the planet Jupiter is or is not
inhabited. He cannot prove it, but he presents various
analogical facts in harmony with this assertion. I form
an opinion on the subject. In the third case, a man asserts
that the sun is so many millions of miles from the earth,
and he proves, by testimony, that the observations forming
the data were made, and he explains the mathematical rea-
soning by which this result is obtained. I believe it, and
in my mind it takes its place with other established facts.
Any one, who will reflect upon the evidence presented in
favor of the materiality of the mind, can easily determine
which of these mental states it is entitled to produce.
But it has been sometimes said that the brain itself is the
mind, and that thought is one of its functions. The reason
given for this belief is, that diseases of the brain and nerves
affect the condition of the mind ; that the mind declines as
they become djbilitated by age, and that the mind becomes
deranged when the brain suffers from disease.
To this I would reply, that, so far as I have observed,
the facts are hardly stated with accuracy when this course
of argument ii adopted, and a large class of facts bearing
in an opposite direction is too frequently left out of view.
But, granting tlie facts, they do not justify the conclu-
sion that is drawn from them. Suppose the train to bf
■■■■I
THl;; PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. Zl
iiie instrument -which the mind uses in its intercourse with
the external world,— as, for instance, suppose the brain
to secrete the medium bj which the mind derives impres-
sions from without, and sends foith volitions from witliin.—
any derangement of this organ would, by necessity, create
dcranoff^ment in the forms of mental manifestation connected
with that derangement. Disease of the nerves may creato
false impressions, or may lead to acts at variance with the
spiritual volitions. As the facts may be thus accounted for
on the supposition that the brain is an organ used by tho
mind, as well as on the supposition that the brain is itself
the organ of thought, they leave the question precisely
where they found it.
If, then, it be asked, what is the relation which the mind
holds to the material body 7 our answer would be as follows :
The mind seems to be a spiritual essence, endowed with a
variety of capacities, and connected with the body by the
principle of life. These capacities are first called into
exercise by the organs of sense. So far as I can discover,
if a mind existed in a body incapable of receiving any im-
pression from without, it would never think, and would, of
course, be unconscious of its own existence. As soon
however, as it has been once awakened to action by impres-
sions from without, all its various faculties in succession ara
called into exercise. Consciousness, original suggestion,
memory, abstraction, and reason, begin at once to act.
These various powei-s are developed and cultivated by sub-
sequent e.xercise, until this congeries of capacities, once so
blank and negative, may at last be endowed with all the
eusrgies of a Newton or a Milton.
Locke compares the mind to a sheet of blank piper;
Professor TJphana, to a stringed instrument, which is silent
antil the hand'of the artist sweeps over its chords. Both
of these illustrations convey to us truth in respect to the
22 rKTELLECTUAL PEIL0?OPHY.
relation existing bet\\ ^en the mind and the mate, ial system
wiiich it inhabits. The mind is possessed of no innate ideas ^
its first ideas must come fiom \vithout. In this respect it
resembles a sheet of blank paper. In its present state it
call orijjinate no knowledge until called into action by im-
pressions made upon the senses. In this respect it resembles
a stringed instrument. Here, however, the resemblance
ceases. Were the paper capable not only of receiving the
form of the letters written upon it, but also of combining
them at will into a drama of Shakspeare or the epic of
Milton ; or, were the instrument capable not only of giving
forth a scale of notes when it was struck, but also of com-
bining them by its own power into the Messiah of Handel,
then would they both more nearly resemble the spiritual
essence which we call mind. It is in the power of com-
bining, generalizing, and reasoning, that the great diifer-
ences of mtellectual character consist. All men open their
eyes upon the same world, but all men do not look upon
the world to the same purpose.
REFERENCES.
Mind first called into action by the perceptive powers — Locke, Book 2,
chap. 1, sec. 9 ; chap. 9, sections 2 — i, and sec. 15.
— ^Qn the proper means of knowing the operations of our own minds —
Bcidj^ssay 1, ch:ip. 5.
"~No idea of subsunce or essence, material or spiritual — Locke, Book 2
th.ip. 23, sections 4, 5. 16, 30.
Energies of mind expressed by active verbs — Reid, Essay 1, chap^ 1.
Explanation of terms — Ibid.
Affirmation concerning the essence of mind unphilosophical — Stewart,
Introduction.
As much reason to believe in th» existence of spirit as of l>ody — Lock ft.
Book 2, chap, 23, secti ns 5, 15, 22, 30. 81.
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES 28
BSCTIOS II, — OF THE PERCEPTIVE POWERS I>" GENEHAL
Before entering upon the consideration of the iudividua)
Boijses. it may be of use to oflfer a few suggestions respecting
the perceptive powers in general, i propose to do this in
the present section.
1. I find myself, in my present state, in intimate con-
nection with, what seems to me to be, an external world. I
cannot help believing that I am in my .study; that, looking
out of the wiuduw, I behold in one direction a thronged
city, in another green fields, and in the distance beyond a
range ot hills. I hear the sound of bells. I walk abroad
and am regaled with the odor of flowers. I see before me
fruit. I taste it and am refreshed. I am warmed by the
Bun and cooled by the breeze. 1 find that all other men in
a normal stitte are affected in the same manner. I conclude
that to be capable of being thus affected is an attribute of
human nature, and that the objects which thus affect me are,
like myself positive realities.
I cannot, then, escape the conviction that 1 am a conscious
existence, numerically distinct from every other created
being, and that I am surrounded by mateiial objects pos-
ses.sed of the qualities which I recognize. The earth and the
trees seem to me to exist, and I believe that they do exist.
The grass seems to me to be green, and I believe that it ia
green. I cannot divest myself of the belief that the world
(iround me actually is what I perceive it to be. I know that
jt is something absolutely distinct from the being whom I
call myself I am conscious that there is a we, an egc. I
peT-ceive that there is a not me. a non e^o. I observe that
nil men hive the Barae convictions, and that in all their
2i INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHT
conversation and reasonings thej take these things fo!
granted.
2. I, Viowever, observe that my power of cognizing tie
existence and qualities of the objects around me is liinhed
There are but five classes of external qualities -which I am
able to discover ; these are odors, tastes, sounds, tactual,
and visible qualities. For the special purpose of cognizing
each of these qualities I find myself endowed with a partic-
ular organization, which is called a sense. These are the
senses of smell, taste, hearing, touch, and sight. Each
sense is limited to its own department of knowledge, and
has no connection with any other. We cannot see with our
ears, or hear with our fingers. Each sense performs its
own function, irrespective of any other. That matter has
no other qualities than those which we perceive, it is not
necessary to assert ; but if it have other qualities, inas-
much as we have no means of knowing them, we must
be forever, in our present state, ignorant of their existence.
This limitation, however, exists, not by necessity, but by
the ordinance of the Creator. He might, if he had so
pleased, have diminished the number of our senses. The
deaf and the blind are deprived of means of knowledge
which other men enjoy. The number of the senses in many
of the lower animals is exceedingly restricted. We might
possibly have been so constituted as to hold intercourse with
the world around us without the ir tervention of the senses.
We suppose superior beings to possess more perfect meang
of intelligence than ourselves ; but no one imagines them
to be endowed with material senses. Our Creator might,
probably, have increased the number of our senses, if he had
Been fit, and we should then have enjoyed other inlets to
Knowledge than those which we now possess. It is not im-
probable that some of the inferior animals possess senses of
fthich we are destitute. Migratory birds and fishes ari
THE PERCEPTIVl. FACJLTIES. 26
endowed with a faculty by which, either by day Dr by night,
they pursue their way, with ineviuible certainty, through
the air or the ocean. May not this power be given them by
means of an additional sense ?
3. When our senses are brought into relation to their
aj'propriate objects, under normal conditions, a state of
mind is created which we call by the general name of
thought, or knowledge. If a harp is struck within a few
feet of me, a state of mind is produced which we call heax-
mg. So, if I open my eyes upon the external world, a
state of mind is produced which we call seeing. This men-
tal state is of two kinds. It is sometimes nothiiig more than
a simple knowledge, as when my sense of smelling is
excited by the perfume of a rose. At other times it goes
further than this, and we not only have a knowledge or 4
new consciousness, but also the belief that there exists some
external object by which this knowledge is produced.
The external conditions on which these changes depend
are as numerous as the senses themselves. Each sense has
probably its own media, or conditions, through which alone
its impressions are received. We see by means of the
medium of light. We hear by means of the vibrations of
air. 2sone of these media can be used interchangeably
Each medium is appropriated to its peculiar organ.
4. Physiologists have enabled us to trace with consider-
able accuracy several steps of the process by which the
intercoui^e between the spiritual intellect and the material
world is maintained ; by which impressions on our material
organization result in knowledge tnd the volitions of the
•oul manifest themselves in action. A brief reference to
our organization in this respect is here indispensable.
The nervous system in general is that part of our phys-
ical organization by which the mind holds intercourse with
the external world, and through which it obtains the ele-
INTELLECTU/ L PHILOSOPHY.
menta of knowledge. The nervous system is, ho never, it
a two-fold character. A part of it is ei.iploycd in giving
energy to those processes by ■which life is sustained. These
have their appropriate centres either in the spinal marrow,
or in the different ganglia. Thus the heart, arteries ani
lungs, have their appropriate system of nerves, with the r
proper centre. The digestive apj,aratus has its own nervous
system. These are all parts of the general arrangement of
brain, spinal marrow and nerves, but their functions are
performed without volition or thought. Hence many of the
lower animals, which have no need of thought, have no other
nervous apparatus. The brain may be removed from some
of the cold-blooded animals without, for a considerable pe-
riod, producing death. In such cases sensation will pro-
duce motion, the arterial and digestive processes will con,
tinue for a while uninterrupted. Thus a common tortoise wil
live for several days after its head has been cut off Thus wo
also perform these various functions without an^ interven-
tion of the will. We digest our food, we breathe, our
hearts pulsate, without any care of our own ; and these
functions are performed as well when we sleep as when we
wake, — nay, they proceed frequently for a while with entire
regularity, when consciousness has been suspended by in-
jury of the brain.
As this part of the nervous system has nothing tc do with
thought and volition, we may dismiss it from our considera-
tion, and proceed to consider that other portion of it which
stands in so intimate connection with the thinking prin-
ciple.
The organism which we use for this purpose consists of
the brain and nerves. The part of the brain specially con-
cerned in thought is the outer portion, called the cerebrum.
From the brain proceed two classes of nerves, which have
«)een appropriately termed afferent and efferent. The affe*
kmmk^^^^^^
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. «i
(rent nerves connect the various organs of senae witt* th«
nrain. and thus convey to it impressions* from without.
When an image from an external object is formed on tht
retina of the eye, a change is produced along the course of
the optic nerve, which terminates in the brain, and the re-
sult is a change in the state of the mind which we call see-
ing. When the vibrations of the air fall upon the ear,
another change is produced on the auditory nerve which ig
continued until it reaches the brain, and the result is a
change in the state of the mind which we cili hearing. Tlie
other, or the efferent class of nerves, proceed from the brain
outwardly, and terminate in the muscles. By these the vo-
litions of the mind are conveyed to our material organs,
and the will of the mind is accomplished in action. The
process just now mentioned is here reversed. The volition
of the mind acts upon the brain, the change is communi-
cated through the nerves to the muscles, and terminates in
external action. Thus the brain is the physical centre ta
which all impressions producing knowledge tend, and from
which all volitions tending to action proceed.
Tlie proof of these truths is very simple. If the connec-
tion betwen the organ of sense and the brain be interrupted
by cutting, tying or injuring the nerve, perception imme'
diately ceases. If, in the same manner, the connection be-
tween the brain and the voluntary muscles be interrupted,
the limbs do not obey the will. Sometimes, by disease, the
nerves of feeling alone are paralyzed, and then, while the
power of voluntary motion remains, the patient loses en-
tirely the sense of touch, and will burn or scald himself
without consciousness of injury. At other times, while the
* I of course use the word impression here, in a general sensf , to convej
the idea of a change produced, and not of literal impression oi chanjse et
material torxL
23 INTBLLECTLAL PlIILOSOi HY.
nei res of sencation are unaffected, the nerves of volition are
pai alyzed. In this case, feeling and the othor senses are un-
impaired, but the patient loses the power of locomotion.
Sonetimes an effect of this kind is produced by the mere
pressure upon a nerve. Sometimes, after sitting for a long
time in one position, on attempting to rise we have found
one of our feet "asleep." We had lost the power of mov-
ing it, and all sensation for the time had ceased. It seemed
more like a foreign body than a part of ourselves. Long-
continued pressure on the nerve had interrupted the com-
munication between the brain and the extremities of the
nerves. As soon as this communication was reestablished,
the limb resumed its ordinary functions*
These remarks respecting the nerves apply with somewhat
increased emphasis to the brain. If by injury to the skull
the brain becomes compressed, all intelligent connection be-
tween us and the external world ceases. So long as the
enuse remains unremoved, the patient in such a case con-
tinues in a state of entire unconsciousness. The powers of
volition and sensation are suspended. If the brain becomes
inflamed, all mental action becomes intensely painful, the
* Sometimes this communication is so entirely suspended that a limb in
this state, when touched by the other parts of the body, appears like a
foreign substance. An instance of this kind, which many years since oc-
carreJ to the author himself, may serve to illustrate this subject. He
awoke one night after a sound sleep, and was not agreeably surprised to
find a cold hand lying heavily on his breast. He was the sole occupant
of the room, and he knew not how any one could have entered it. It was
eo dai k that he could perceive nothing. He, however, kept hold of tne
hand, and, as it did not move, was somewhat relieved by tracing it up
to his own shoulder He had lain in an awkward position, so that ha
had pressed upon the nerve until all sensation had ceased. Probably
many stories of fipparitions and nightly visitations may be accounted foi
by supposing a simiKr cause.
XBK PI ICEPTlVfi FACULTIES. 2!»
perceptions are false or exaggerated, and the volitions aa-
Bume the violence of frenzy.*
It may illustrate the relation which the nervous system
sustains to the other parts of our material structure, to
suppose the brain, nerves and organs of sense separated
from the rest of the body, and to exist by themselves, with-
out loss of life. In such a case, all our intellectual con-
nections with the external world could be maintained. Wo
could see, and hear, and feel, and taste, and smell, and re-
member, and imagine, and reason. All that we should lose
would be the power of voluntary motion, and the con-
veniences which result from it. If, then, we should put
this nervous system into connection with the bones, muscles,
and those viscera which are necessary for their sustentation,
we should have our present organization just as we actually
find it. We see, then, that the other parts of our system
are not necessary to our power of knowing, but mainly to
our power of acting.
5. Of sensation and perception.
I have said that when our senses, under normal condi
lions, are brought into relation to the objects around us.
the result is a state or act of the mind which we call know-
ng. A new idea or a new knowledge is given to the mind.
This knowledge is of two kinds. In one case it is a simple
* Sometimes, however, astonishing lesions of the brain occur without
ither causing dest-ruction of life or even any permanent injury. A case
ras a few years since publishfl in the daily papers, under the authorifj
if several eminent physicians, more remarkable than any with which I
iwi bsen previously acquainted. A man was engngcl in blasting rocks
knd as he stood over his work, and was, I think, drawing the priming
irii«, the charge exploded, and drove thi-ough his head an iron rod of some
wo or three feet in length. The rod came out through the top of hij
lead, ami w:is found oovercd with blood and bra'n Re nevertheleai
iralked home without assistance, and under ordinary mcdioal care reuov^
•red in a few wceka
3*
80 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
knowledge, connected with no external thing. Thus, suj>
pose that I had never yet received any impression from tha
external world. In profound darkness a rose is brought
near to me. I ara at once conscious of a new state of mind.
I have a knowledge, something which I can reflect upon,
which we call smell This knowledge, however, exists solely
in my mind. I refer it to nothing, for I know nothing to
whicli I can refer it. This simplest form of knowledge ia
called sensation.
But there is another form of knowledge given us through
the medium of our senses. In some cases we not only ob-
tain a new idea, or a knowledge of a quality, but we know,
ako, that this quality is predicated of _sorae object existing
without us. We know that there is a 7iot mcy and that thia
is one of its attributes. Suppose, as in tlie other case, I
am endowed with the sense of sight, and in daylight the
rose is placed before me. I know that there is an ex-
ternal object numerically distinct from myself, and that it
is endowed with a particular form and color. This act is
called jwrception.
These two forms of knowledge are united in the sense of
touch, and may be clearly distinguished by a little reflec-
tion. The illustration of Dr. Reid is as follows : " If a man
runs his head with violence against a pillar, the attention of
the mind is turned entirely to the painful feeling, and, to
speak in common language, he feels nothing in the stone,
but he feels a violent pain in his head." " When he leans
his head gently against the pillar, he will tell you he
feels nothing in his head, but feels hardness in the
slone ' — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 5, sec. 2. So I prick
4 person with the point of a needle ; a new knowledge ia
neated in his mind, which he denominates pain. I draw
the needle lightly over his finger, and I ask him what it is ;
he replies, the point of a needle. So, if I place my f rger»
TUE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 81
dglitlj on a table with my attention strongly directei tc tha
feeling. I am conscious of a sensation. If I move my hand
slowly over the tivhle in order to ascertain its qualities, I am
conscious of a perception ; that is, of a knowledge that the
table is smooth, hard, cold, etc. The smell of a rose, the
feeling of cold, the pain of the tcjthache. are sensations
The knowledge of hardness, of fo' m, of a tree, or a house,
arc perceptions.
It has been commonly suppo ed that every perceptioii
was preceded by and consequent upon a sensation. Hence
the question has frequently arisen, since the perception ia
predicated upon the sensation, and the sensation conveys to
us no knowledge of an external world, whence is our knowl-
edge of an external world derived ? From these data it has
seemed difficult to answer the question satisflictorily. Dr.
P»rown has attempted to solve the difficulty by supposing
the existence of a sixth sense, which he calls the sense of
muscular resistance. He suggests that the pressure of the
hand against a solid body produces a peculiar sensation in
the muscles by which we become cognizant of the existence
of an external world. To me this explanation is unsatisfac-
tory. The question is, how does sensation, which is a mere
feeling, and gives us no knowledge of the external, or the
not me, become the cause of perception, which is a knowl-
edge of the external ] Dr. Brown attempts to remove the
difficulty by suggesting another sensation, which, being a.
mere sensation also, has no more necessary connection with
tlic knowledge of the external than any other.
It is my belief that the idea of externality, that is, of
objects numerically distinct from ourselves, is given to mm
spontaneously by the senses of touch and sight. When "i^e
feel a hard substance, the notion that it is something exter-
nal to us is a part of the knowledge which at once ari.ses in
the nind When I look upon a tree I camiot divest my*
82 INTELLECTCAi. PHILOSOPHY.
self of the instantaneous belief that the tree and myself xu
distinct existences, and that ; t is such as I perceive it to be.
Unless this knowledge were thus given to us hj the consti-
tution of our minds, I know not how we should ever arrive
at it. That this view of the subject is correct, is, I think,
evident from what we observe of the conduct of the youn^
of all animals. The lamb, or the calf, of a few hours old;
seems bj sight to have formed as distinct conceptions of ex-
ternality, of qualities, of position, and of distance, as it ever
obtains. We cannot suppose that its knowledge arises from
any sense of muscular resistance, but must believe that it
is given to it originally with the sense of sight. So an in-
fant turns to the light, grasps after a candle, just as it does
after any visibb object in later life. I therefore believe that
this complex knowledge is given to us by the senses of sight
and touch, just as the simpler knowledge is given to us by
the senses of smell and taste.
REFEREXCES.
Perception in general — ^Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6, sec. 20.
Process of nature in perception — Reid's Inquiry, chcp. 6, sec. 21.
Mode of perception — Essays on Intellectual Powers, Essay 2, chap. 1.
Perception limited by the senses — Essay 2, chap. 2.
The evidence of perception to be relied on — Essay 2, chap. 5.
Sensation and perception — Abercrombie's Intellectual Powers, Part 2.
lec. 1.
8BCTI0N in. — OF THE MODE OF OUR INTERCOURSE WITH
THE EXTER¥AL WORLD.
Tn^ the prccediiig sections we have treated of both tha
physical and spiritual facts concerned in the act of perccp
tion. We have seen diat in order to the existence of per
ceptioa, some change must be produced in the organ of
THE l-ERCEPrrVB FACULT1S3, 8l
gcnae , this must give rise to a change transmitted bj th«
nerves to the brain, and the brain must be in a normal stat«
in order to be affected by the change communicated by the
nerves. If either of these conditions be viohited, neither
sensation nor perception can exist. When, however, these
organs are all in a normal state, and its appropriate object
10 presented to an organ of sense, the result is a knowledge
or an affection of the spiritual soul. The first part of the
process is material — it consists of changes in matter; the last
part is thought, an affection of the immaterial spirit. The
question is, how can any change in matter produce thought,
or knowledge, an affection of the spirit ] Or, still more,
how C4in this modification of the matter of the brain produce
in us a knowledge of the external world, its qualities and
relations 1 The lighting of effluvia on my olfactory nerve
IS in no respect like the state of my mind which I call the
sensation of smell. The vibrations of the tympanum, or
the undulations of the auditory nerve, are in no respect
similar to the state of my mind when I hear an oratorio of
Handel. The two events are as unlike to each other ah
any that can be conceived. In what manner, then, does the
one event become the cause of the other 1
A variety of answers has been given to these questions.
The manner in which the subject has been formerly treated
is sulistantially as follows : It was taken for granted that
the mind was a spiritual essence, whose seat was the brain ;
that the mind could only act or be acted upon in the place
where it actually resided, and that, as external objects were
at a distance from the mind, it was necessary for images of
external objects to be present to it, in order that it might
obtiiin a knowledge of their existence.
Hence arose the doctrine of what has been called repre-
sentative images. By some of the ancient philosophers it
was supposed that forms or species )f external objectft
34 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
enter '-1 the organs of sense, and through them becam«
present to the mind, i!; was the opinion of Locke, so fa?
as I can understand him, that, in every act of perception,
there is an intermediate image of the external object pres-
ent to the mind, -which the mind cognizes immediately, in-
stead of the object itself. I am aware tha' the language of
Locke is, on this subject, exceedingly unceitain and ambig-
uous. Sometimes he seems to use the word idea to express
merely an act of the mind, and, at other times, something
present to the mind, but numericallj-- distinct from it. which
is the immediate object of knowledge. That, however, he
really believed that in perception there must exist something,
a positive entity, different both from the mind and its per-
ceptive act, is evident from such passages as the following :
'• There are some ideas which have admittance only
through one sense which is peculiarly adapted to receive
them." — " And if these organs, or the nerves which are the
conduits to convey them from without to their audience in
the brain, the mind's presence-room (as I may so call it),
ai-e any of them so disordered as not to perform their func-
tions, they have no postern to be admitted by, no other way
to bring themselves into view and be perceived by the un-
derstanding." — Book IL, chap, 3, sec. 1.
Again: " If these external objects be not united to our
minds Avhen they produce ideas therein, and yet we perceive
their original qualities in such of them as singly fall under
our senses, it is evident that some motion must be thence
continued by our nerves or animal spirits, by some parts of
our botlies. to the brain or seat of sensation, there to produce
the particular ideas we have of them. And since the ex-
tension, figure, number and motion, of bodies of an observa-
ble bigness, may be perceived at a distance by sight, it la
evid(;nt some singly imperceptible bodies mnst cotiie from
them to the eyes, and thereby convey to the brain aom«
Hij
THE PERCEPTIVE FACILTIES. 35
ffiDtion which produces these ideas which we have of them.'
— Book II., chap. 8, sec. 12.
Again : '• I pretend not to teach, but to inquire, and thero
fore cannot bat coufi-.ss here, again, that external and interna,
sensation arc the only p;>..ssages that I can find of knowledge to
the understanding. These alone, as far as I can discover,
are the windows by A\hich light is let into this dark room;
for, raethinks, the undtrstantling is not much unlike a closet
wholly shut from the lislit, with some little opening left to
let in external visible resemhlances or ideas of things
xnthout. Would the pictures coming into such a dark
loom but stay there and lie orderly, so as to be found upon
occasion, it would very much resemble the understanding of
a man in reference to all objects of sight and the ideas of
them." — Bwk ii., chap. 2, sec. 17.
From these quotations, — and many of the same kind might
be adde<l, — two things are evident : first, that Locke used
the word idea to designate both the act of the mind in per-
ception, a mere spiritual affection; and also something pro-
cee^liiig from the external object Avhich was the cause of thia
state. Secondly, that he did really recognize this interme-
diate something as a positive entity which the soul cognizea
instead of the outward object. He speaks of the nerves as
the conduits to convey these id'ias to their presence-
chamber, the brain ; of imperceptible bodies which must
come from them (external objects) to the eyes, and be
conveyed to the brain. These expressions are too definite
to l)e used figumtively, and we must, therefore, accept thig
exfilanation of the phenomena as a statement of the belief
of our illustrious author. This belief, however, was by no
means peculiar to him. It was a common belief at the time,
and he always refers to it as a matter well understood, and
received without question, by his cotemporaries. The stu-
dent who wishes to pursue this subject farther, will read
Rb TNTELLE^TUAL PHILOSOPHY.
with pleasure the passages referred to at the clase of Iha
chapter.
The belief, then, prevalent at the time of Locke, may be
stated briefly thus : The soul is located in the brain. It
can cognize nothing except -sphere it exists in space. Exter-
nal objects, being separated from it, can never be the imme-
diate objects of its perception. There must, therefore, pro
ceed from the external object to the mind some images oi
forms, which, entering by the senses, become present to the
mind, and are there the objects of perception. Hence the
mind never cognizes external objects ; this is, from the na-
tm-e of the case, impossible. It only cognizes these images
m the brain, and, from their resemblance to external objects,
it learns the existence and qualities of the external world.
Dr. Reid for a while believed this doctrine, but, startled
at the conclusions to which it led, was induced to examine
the foundations on which it rested. Upon reflection, he
soon arrived at the following conclusions :
1st. The existence of these images is inconceivable. We
can conceive of the image of a form, but how can we con-
ceive of the image of a color as existing in absolute d.irk-
ness ; and still more of the image of a smell, a soand, or a
taste ? Or how can we conceive of distinct images vtf all of
these various qualities forming the conception of a single
object ?
2d. Were this theory conceivable, it is wholly destHute
of proof. It is merely the conception of a philosopher's
brain. Who ever saw such images ? Who, by his own
consciousness, was ever aware of their existence 1 What
shadow of proof of their existence was ever given to the
world '^ Are we, then, called upon to believe an ijiconceiva-
ble hypothesis on no other evidence than merely the asser-
tion of philosophers 7
8d. Viere the existence of intermediate images proved, it
lilliiiiiHHiiili
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 31
would relieve the subject of no essential diflficultj. It might
reasonaUy bj d'^roanded, is it easier to cognize a small
object than a large one ? If the image be matter, then the
question still remains unanswered, how does a change of
matter cre;ite thought, an affection of the soul ? Is the im-
age spirit ] Then it cannot resemble the external object, and
can give us no notion of its qualities. And. more than all,
if re never cognize the object, but only the image, how can
W'j have any knowledge whatever either of the external
ooject or of its qualities 7
The suggestion of these considerations abolished at once
the doctrine of a represenUitive image. Since the time of Dr.
Reid. it has, I think, been conceded, by the most judicious
writers on this subject, that we know nothing concerning the
mode of perception beyond a statement of the facts. There
is a series of physical facts which can be proved by experi-
ment to exist. When these terminate there arise knowl-
edges of two kinds : the one a simple knowledge, as when I
am conscious of a smell or a sound ; the other a compound
knowledge, embracing a simple idea, as of color or form,
and also an idea of an external object of which these quali-
ties are predicated. Both of these are pure and ultimate
cognitions. We are as perfectly convinced of the truth of
the oue as of the other. I as fully believe that I see a
rose, that its leaves are green and its petals red. as that I
Bmell an odor which I have learned to call the smell of a
rose. I cognize no image, I cognize the rose itself: and I
am as sure of its existence as I am of my own. Such seems
to be the law of perception under which I have been created.
I can neither change these perceptions, nor help relying with
r)erfect confidence on the truths which they reveal to me,
if I am asked to explain it any farther, I confess myseli
'mable t) do so. If investigation shall enable us to establish
any additional iacts in the aeries by which th^ material
4
S8 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPL.Y.
change terminates in thought, vre will accept its discoveni
with thankfulness. Until this is done, it is far bettor, whoii
we have reached the utmost limit of our knowledge, humbly
to confess our ignorance of all that is beyond.
The doctrine of a representative image would not, at +he
present day, deserve even a passing notice, were it not foi
the consequences which were deduced from it. Some of
these are worthy of remark.
In the first place, it was difficult to conceive how the soul
could be affected and thought produced by any change in
matter. It was supposed that this difficulty could be re-
lieved by the hypothesis of representative images. But
then it was demanded, are these images matter or spirit 1
If they are matter, and matter cannot act but upon matter,
since they act on the mind, the mind must be matter. Hence
was deduued the doctrine of materialism. Or, on the other
hand, are dicse images spirit 1 In this case, spirit might
act upon spiiit; but then how could spiritual images proceed
from matter, dixd, more still, how could they resemble mat-
ter? If, then, we cognize nothing but these, whence is
the evidence of any material world ] Hence the doctrine
of idealism.
But again. It is granted in this hypothesis that we can
cognize in itself nothing external. We cognize nothing but
images, and it is impossible for us to cognize anything else.
But it was apparent that no images, which could by possi-
bility pass through the nerves, could resemble external qual-
ities ; what reason, then, have we to believe that the exU^rnal
quality is, in any respect, like the image which alone we
are able to contemplate 7 Again : in order to know that the
images are similar to the objects which they represent, we
must know both the ol)ject and its representative. But by
necessity we can know only the one , how can we affirm tha<
\t resembles the other 7 If I enter a gallery of painting
■HH
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 39
kow can 1 determine whether the pictures are likenesses oi
are mere productions of the fancy; if neither I nor any other
man had ever seen any originals of whicli tliey could be the
resemblances? Hence it is manifest that the evidence of the
existence of a material world, or jf anything existing out
of the mind, is at once swept away. Reasoning in thia
manner, Bishop Berkeley arrived at idealism. He denied the
existence of an external world, and concluded that notliing
existed but spirit and the aflfections of spirit.
But this idea was generalized. It was admitted that we
could not cognize external objects directly, but only through
the medium of representative images. If this is true of
material, why is it not true of spiritual objects, — of the
cognitions of consciousness 7 Why do we not cognize them
by means of representations 7 But if we cognize them
thus, and have no cognition of the objects themselves, how
do wc know that there is any such existence as mind or its
faculties 7 In short, how do we know that anything exists
but ideas and impressions 7 Ho^s do we know that any such
realities exist as time, space, eternity. Deity 7 All is re-
solved into a succession of ideas, wliich follow each other by
the laws of association, and besides these there is notliing in
the universe. This is nihilism, and such consequences were
actually deduced by some philosophers from this doctrine.
It was surely important to examine tlie evidences of an hy-
pothesis which led to such results.
This imperfect fragment of the history of intellectual
philosophy is not without its value. It teaches us the vast
superiority of the acknowledgment of ignorance, to the gratu-
itous assumption of knowledge. When we have reached iLo
limits of our knowledge, there is no harm in confessing that
beyond this we do not know. But to look out into the
iarkness, and dogmatically to affiim what exists beyond the
r3ach of our vision, may exclude invaluabl-^ truth, and in-
to INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
troJuce the aiost alarming error. Thus, in the present in
stance, a hypothetical explanation of a fact, which in oui
present state does not seem to admit of explanation when
carried out to its legitimate results was found to terminata
in universal scepticism, and furD'sh a foundation for consis-
tent atheism. Philosophy will certainly have made impor-
tant progress when it shall have been able accurately to
determine the limits of human inquiry.
REFEREN CE S.
Representative images — Loose, Book 2, chap. 3, sec. 1 ; chap. 8, sec
12 ; chap 11, sec. 17. Raid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sees. 3 — 7; 2d Essay,
chaps. 4, 7, 9, li. Stewart, toI. 1, chap. 1, sec. 3. Introduction, Pari
1, vol 2 chap. 4, sec. 1 ; chap. 1, sec. 3. Cousin, Psychology, chaps. 6
and 7.
Kuowleage an agreement between the idea and object — Lockfc Book 4,
chap. l,sec. 2 ; chap. 4, sec. 3. Cousin, chap. 6.
Consciousness an authority — Chapter 1.
Three things existent in perception — Reid, 2d Eeaay, chap. 5.
Idealise and Nihilism — CoTuin, ehap 6, laet psut, and chap 7 BaU
V Easoy, shaps. 10—12.
Thl INDIVIDUAI SENSES SEI ARATELT CONSIDERED
8ECTI02S IV. — OP THE SENSE OF SMELL.
Having, in the preceding chapter, treated of our percep-
tive powers in general, I proceed to describe the particulai
senses with which we have been endowed. Proceeding from
the simpler to the more complex, I shall examine, in order,
smell, taste, hearing, toucQ and sight.
The organ of smell is situated in the back part of the
nostrils. It is composed of thin laminae of bone, folded
together like a slip of parchment, over which the olfactory
nerve is spread, covered by the ordinary mucous membrane
which lines the mouth and posterior fiiuces. It is so situ-
ated that the whole surface of the organ is exposed to the
current of air in the act of inspiration.
In those animals which seek their prey by scent, this or-
gan is found larger, exposing a greater amount of surface
to the air, than in those which pursue their prey by sight
The perfection in which this sense is enjoyed by some of the
lower animals has always been a subject of remark. A
d>g will track the footsteps of his master througli the streeta
cf a crowded city, and, after a long absence, will recognize
him by smell as readily as by sight or hearing.
When we are brought near to an odoriferous body, we
immediat.dy become sensible of a knowledge, a feeling, or a
*- INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
partj.ular s>tate of mind. If a tuberose is brought ncr a
person who has never amelled it, he is at once conscious of
a form of knowledge entirely new to him. If we do not
by our other senses, know the cause of the sensation, we
havo no name for it, but are obliged to designate it by re-
firring to the place where we experienced it. If, by our
other senses, we have learned the cause of the sensation, we
designate it by the name of the object which produces it.
Were the perfume of a rose present to me for the first
time, and did I not see the flower, I could give to it no name.
As soon as I have ascertained that the perfume proceeds
from the rose. I call it the smell of a rose. We thus set
cle;!) ly that from this sense we derive nothing but a sensation,
ii simple knowledge, which neither gives us a cognition of
inylhing external, nor teaches us that anything exists out
)f ourselves.
The exercise of this sensation is either agreeable, indif-
ferent or disagreeable. The perfume of flowers, fruit, aro-
matic herbs, &c., is commordy pleasant. The odor of ob
jeets in common use is generally indifferent. The odor ot
putrid matter, either animal or vegetable, is excessively dis-
agreeable. In general, it may be remarked that substances
wiiich are healthful for food are agreeable to the smell;
while those which are deleterious are unpleasant. The
final cause of this general law is evident, ami the reason
why the organ of smell in all animals is placed directly over
the mouth. Odors of all kinds, however, if they be long
continued, lose their power of affecting us. We soon
become insensible to the perfume of the flowers of a garden ;
and men, whose vociiion requires them to labor in the midst
of carrion after a short time become insensible to the offen
sive efiluvia by which they are surrounded.
Pleasant odors are refreshing and invigorating, and re-
store, for the time, tye exhausted nervous energy. Offen*
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. J3
pvc odcr.x, OQ the other hand, are depressing to the spirits.
and tenv\ to gkom and despondency. The former of thes*
effects is alhided to with great beauty in the wcii-kucwu
hues \.i Milt/jn
" As when to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambique ; off at sea, north-east winds blow
Sabean c-djrs fi'om the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest ; with such delay
Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league,
Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles."
Paradise Lost, Book 4, lines 159 — 1G5,
Concerning the manner in which this sensation is pro-
duced, I believe that but one hypothesis has been suggested.
The received opinion is that what is called effluvia, or ex-
tremely minute particles, are given off by the odorous body,
that these are dissolved in the air, and brought in contact
with the organ of this sense in the act of breathing. That
this may be so is quite probable. It is, however, destitute
of direct proof, and is liable to many objections. It is dif-
Bcult to conceive how a single grain of musk can, for a long
time, fill the area of a large room with ever so minute par-
ticles, without visible diminution of either volume or weight
Until, however, some better theory shall be presentetl, we
seem justified in receiving that which even imperfectly ac-
counts for the facts in the case. Still, we are to remember
that it is merely a hypothesis, to be abandoned as soon as
xny better explanation is established by observation.
From what has been already remarked, it must be, I
think, e\ndent that the sense of smell g.ves us no percep-
tion. It is the source of a simple knowledge which alone
would never lead us out of ourselves. This sensjition clearly
gives us no notion whatever of the i^uality wliich prjdaces
14 INTELLfiUTUAL PHILOSOPHY
It, noi have philosophers ever been able to determine whal
that quality is. It is possible that the suggestion of causa
and eifect might indicate to us the probability of a cause
but the sense itself would neither awaken this inquiry noi
furnish us with the means of answering it.
Does the sense of smell furnish us with any conctption 1
By conception, I mean a notion of a thing, such as will
enable us, when the object itself is absent, to make it a
distinct object of thought. Thus I have seen a lily ; I can
form a distinct notion of its form and color, and I can com-
pare it with a rose, and from my conceptions point out the
diflFerence between them. I could describe this lily, from
my conception of it, so that another person could have the
same notion of it as myself Were I a painter, I could ex-
press my conception on canvas. Now, is there a similar
power of forming a conception of a smell I Can I form a
distinct notion of the smell of an apple or a peach, and can
1 compare them together, or describe them by language, or
in any other manner transfer my conception to another 7
So far as I can discover, from observing the operation of
my own mind, all this is impossible. After having smelled
an odorous body, I know that I should be able to recognize
that particular odor again. I cannot form a conception of
the smell of a rose, but I know that I could, if it were
present, immediately recognize it and distinguish it froji all
other odors. Beyond this I am conscious of no power
whatever.
This, however, I am aware, is but the experience of a
guigle individual. Other persons may be more richly en-
dowed than myself I have frequently put this question to
the classes which I have instructed, and I find the testimony
not altogether uniform. Some few young gentlemen in every
class have assured me that they had as definite a conception
of a smell a? they had of a color or a form. The greater
THE INDIVIDUAL SEXSE3. 45
p&ft, however, have agreed with me that they had no power
to form the conception in question.
It has very probal)ly, occurred to the reader that tho
words, "the smell of a rose," convey two entirely diScvent
meanings ; th<> one objective, the other subjective. The
"smell of a rose" may designate a peculiar feeling or
knowledge existing in my mind, or it may designate the un-
known cause of that feeling. Thus, when I say the smell
of a rose is sometimes followed by fainting, I mean the sen-
sation produced in the mind. I say the apartment is filled
with the smell of a rose. I here mean the unknown quality
existing in the rose. Both of these expressions I suppose
to be correct, and in harmony with the idiom of the Eng-
lish language. The same ambiguity exists in all the terms
commonly used to designate sensations. Thus, the taste ot
an apple, heat, cold, sweet, sour, and many others, admit of
a similar twofold signification.
Chemical philosophers, aware of this ambiguity in lan-
guage, have wisely intixxluced a new term, by which, in a
particular case, this difficulty may be obviated. Observing
that the term " heat " may signify a certain feeling in my
mind, as well as the unknown cause of that feeling existing
m a burning body, and as they were continually treating
of the one, and almost never of the other, they have desig-
nated the two ideas by different words. Retaining the terra
heat to signify the sensation of a sentient being, they use
the word "calorie " to designate the unknown cause of the
Ben«ition. Every one must perceive how much definitenesa
tlie use of this term has add^d to this branch of philosoph
kal inquiry.
REFERENCE.
Beid's luqi iry, chapter 2, the whole chaptm.
46 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOl ttr.
SECTION V. — THE SENSE OF TASIB.
The nerves of taste are spread over the tongue and thd
back part of the fauces. They terminate in numeious
papiUfB, or small excrescences, which form together the or-
gan of taste. It is almost needless to observe that the
nerves are everywhere covered with tiie mencbrane lining
the mouth, and never come in immediate conaict with the
sapid substance. These papillae are most ni.merous on the
tip, the edges, and the root of the tongue, leaving many
portions of the intermediate surface almost destitute of thia
sensation.
The sense of taste is never excited except by solutions.
The saliva, which is copiously furnished by the glands of the
mouth, is an active solvent. By mastication, the solid food
becomes intimately mixed with tiiis animal fluid, is partially
dissolved by it, and, in this condition, is brought into rela-
tion to the papillae which constitute the organ of taste.
Insoluble substances are, therefore, tasteless. When the
pnpilh« of the tongue either become dry, or are covered
with the thick coating produced by fever, taste becomes im-
perfect or is wholly suspended.
When a sapid body, under normal circumstances, ia
brought into relation with the organ of taste, a sensation either
pleasing or displeasing immediately ensues. When the sen-
sation is pleasant, we are instinctively impelled to swallow,
and with the act of swallowing the sensation is perfected
and ceases. When the sensation is unpleasant, we are, on
the other hand, impelled to reject whatever may be the cause
of it, and frequently it requires a strong effort of the will
to control this impulse. The sensation of taste is not con
Bummated without the act of swa'lowing. It would seem
mHiiil
THE u:dividual senses. 47
probable that the anterior and posterior nerves of the tongue
^ere designed to perform different offices, the former giv-
ing us an imperfect sensation, which creates the disposition
el*:her to swallow or to reject the sapid substance; the latter
awakening the perfected sensation as the substance passea
over it.
As in the case of smell, so in that of taste, I think that
«ith the sensation no perception is connected. A particular
aeniibility is excited ; a feeling either pleasant or unpleasant
18 created : a simple knowledge is given us ; — but no cog-
nition of anything external can be observed. Whatever
notions of externality come to us, by means of this sense,
are derived from otlier sources than the sense itself. Thus,
we can receive nothing into tiie mouth except by bring-
inc it into contact with the lips. The sense of touch
then cognizes it as something external to ourselves. The
suggestion of cause and effect might lead us possibly to tlu
same conclusion. These, however, are no parts of the sense
of taste. The taste in the mouth which frequently accom-
panies disease, awakens no idea of anything external.
Wlien, however, by means of our other senses, we have
learned that a particular flavor is produced by any sub-
stance, we associate the flavor with the substance, and ojve
it a name accordingly. We thus speak of the taste of an
apple, a pear, or a peach.
So far as I am able to discover, the remarks made in the
last section, respecting conception as derived from smell,
apply with equal truth to the sense of taste. I think that
men generally have no distinct conception of an absent t;iste,
but only a conviction that they should easily recognize it if
it were again presented to them. This form of recollection
may be so strong as to create a longing for a particular fla-
vor, but still there is no conception like that produced hi
either sigh\, or touch.
m INTELLKCTUAl, PHlLOSOPmr.
The same ambiguity may be observed here aa in tbi.
analogous sense. The taste of an apple, means bjth the
quality in the fruit which produces the sensation and the
affection of the sentient being produced by it. The one ia
ol)jective, belonging exclusively to the tion ego; the other is
sutjoctive, belonging wholly to the 'go. Of the sensation
wc have a very definite knowledge ; it can be nothing but
what we feel it to be. Of the cause we are, as in the sense
of smell, wholly ignorant.
Tlie number of sensations derived from taste is, I think,
much greater than that derived from smell. An epicure
becomes capable of multiplying them, and distinguishing
them from each other to a very great extent. We are able,
also, to classify our sensations of taste much more definitely
than those oi smell. Thus, we speak of acid, subacid,
8weet, bitter, astringent, and many other classes of tastes, to
which we refer a large number of individuals. In this
manner we designate various kinds of fruit, medicines, &c.
While, therefore, these two senses seem to be governed
by the same general laws, I think that in man the knowl-
edge derived from taste is more definite and more varied
than the other. By means of the sense of touch, which so
completely surrounds the sense of taste, we should, in the
use of it. also arrive at the idea of externality. In this
respect it is indirectly the source of knowledge which is not
given us by the sense of smell. In blind mutes, however,
to whom the sense of smell becomes much more importjmt,
in all probability the case is reversed, and smell furnishes
u^}re nun.erous and definite cognitions than taste.
1 have said above that the sensation of taste is not pc-r-
fe;!tly experienced unless Ae sapid substance is swallowol.
Whatever is swallowed enters the stomach, undergoes the
process of digestion, and, whether nutritious or deleteiious,
enters the circulation and becomes assimilatetl with our ma-
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES.
49
tenal sjstem It i^ manifest, therefore, that if a substance
be pleasing to th( caste, we maj, by gratifying this sense,
^w-llow eitlier what is in itself deleterious, or that which
.ecomes deleterious by being partaken of in excess. It is,
.ence, evidently important that the gratification of the
sense be made subordinate to the higher design : that of
promoting the health and vigor, physical and intellectual,
of the whole man.
In brutes, for the most part, the gratification of the appe-
tite is controlled by instinct. The instances are very rare
in which one of the lower animals has any desire for food
■which is not nutritious, or desires it in larger quantity than
the health of the system demands. Man, however, is en-
dowed with no such instinct. The regulation of his appe-
tite is submitted to his will, directed by reason and con
science. Guided by these, a perfect harmony will exist
between his gustatory desire and the wants of his material
and intellectual organization.
But suppose it to be otherwise. Suppose the human be-
ing to swallow neither what nor as much as his health
requires, but what and as much as will furnish gratification
to his palate. He will eat or drink much that is delete-
rious, and much which, by excess, becomes destructive to
health. "When, by frequent indulgence, this subjection to
appetite has grown into a habit, the control of the spiritual
over the sensual is lost, and the man becomes either a glut-
ton or a drunkard, and very commonly both.
The effects of these forms of indulgence are too well
known to require specification. Gluttony, or tiie excessive
love of food, renders the intellect sluggish, torpid and inef-
ficient, cultivates the most degrading forms of selfishness,
exposes the body to painful and lingering disease, and fire-
tjuently termuiates in sudden death.
5
50 INTILLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
" The full-fed glutton apoplexy knocks
Down to the ground at once, aa butcher felleth ox."
Thompson'' s Cadle of Indolnve.
The appetite for deleterious drinks leads to consequenckJ
Btill more appalling. In a very short time it ruins the
health, enfeebles the intellect, maddens the passions, de-
Btrojs all self-respect, and, in the most disgusting manner,
brutalizes the whole being. It speedily and insensibly grows
into a habit which enslaves the nervous organism, sets at
defiance the power of the will, and thus renders the ruin of
the being, both for time and eternity, inevitable. We hence
perceive the importance of holding our appetites in strict
subjection to the dictates of reason and conscience, and
especially of excUnling the possibility of our ever becoming
the victims of intemperance.
RE FERENCK
Reid's Inquiry, chapter 3
SECTION VI. — THE SENSE OF HEARING.
The organ of this sense is the ear. It is composed of
two parts, the external and mternal ear. The external ear
13 intended merely to collect and concentrate the vibrations of
the air, and conduct them to the membrana tympani^
which separates the two portions of this organ. The
external ear thus performs the functions of an ear-trumpet.
The meinbiana tympani is a thin membrane stretched
across the lower extremity of the tube in which the outward
ear terminates. The vibrations of the air, thus produced
upon the tympanum, are, by a series of small bones occu-
pying its inner chamber, transmitted to certain cells filled
with fluid, in which the extrem'ty of the auditory nervn
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 51
lerminates. From these cells the nerve proceeds directly tc
the brain.
The medium by which the auditory nerve is affected, ia
the atmospheric air. Sonorous bodies of all kinds produce
vibranons or undulations in the air, which strike upon the
kympmum, and are, by the apparatus above alluded to, con-
veyed to the auditory nerve. The effect produced upon the
nerve is simply that of mechanical vibration, and this vibra-
tion, so far as we can discover, is the cause of the sensation
of sound. A mere fluctuation in the extremities of the
nerve is the occasion of all the ielight which we experience
in listening to the subliraest compositions "of a Handel or a
Mozart. No more convincing proof can be afforded that
there is no conceivable resemblance between the change in
the organ of sense, and the delightful cognition of the soul,
which it occasions.
The number of sounds which the human ear is able to
distinguish is very great. Dr. Reid remaiks that there are
five hundred tones which may be distinctly recogniiied by a
good ear; and that each tone may be produced with five
hundred degrees of loudness. This would give us two hun-
dred and fifty thousand different sounds which could be per-
ceived by an ear of ordinary accuracy. This I presume ia
true; but a little reflection will convince us that the number
)f sounds which we are able to distinguish far transcends
all human computation. The voice of every human bfiing
may easily be distinguished from that of evei-y other, while
the number of separate sounds which every individual ia
able to produce, including tones, loudness, stress and em-
phasis, is absolutely incalculable. If the same note be
struck by ever so many different instruments, the ^ound ef
each mstrument can be readily recognized. If ten thou-
•aad instruments of the same kind were collected, it is prob-
fcble that no two could be found whose sounds would b«
62 fNTELLECT DAL PHILOSOPHY.
identical. Numbers woich accumulate bj such masses set
all computation at defiance.
Although our power of distinguishing the smallest varia-
tion of sound is so remarkable, it has been observed that
there are some sounds which are inaudible to particular
persons. It seems probable that each ear is endowed with
the power of cognizmg sounds within a particular range,
but that this range is not the same in every individual
This difference is, I think, most observable in the shrillest
sounds, or those pitched on the highest key, and producer,
by the most rapid vibrations. I have known some persons
who were unable to hear the sound produced by a species of
cricket, while to other persons the sound was so loud as to be
unpleasant. I think that Dr. Reid remarks the same pecu-
liarity respecting himself.
We all possess, to a considerable degree, the power of
determining the direction from which sounds proceed. We
derive this powder, probably, in part, from the fact that our
ears are separated at some distance from each other, on op-
posite sides of the head, and hence a sound must, in many
cases, affect the one differently from the other. Persona
w ho have lost the use of one ear much less easily determine
the direction of sounds. This power, moreover, is greatly
improved by practice. We learn, in this manner, to form a
judgment of the distance of sounds, and to associate with
them much other knowledge which properly belongs to the
other senses. Thus, it is said that Napoleon was never de-
ceived as to the du-ection or distance of a cannonade, and
the remarkable precision of his judgment always excited the
wonder of his friends.
It is in this manner, I presume, that ventriloquism, as it
is termed, is to be explained. We have learned by experi-
ence to determine the distance and direction of scunds.
For instance, I hear a person speakmg. The quality of th«
THE I.SDIVII' AL SEXSEJ. -Jl
noiind, its degiee of loudness and distinctness, teach me
that it is produced by some one on my left iiand, and in the
street which passes by my window. If a person in the rcom
with me were aole to produce a sound which should stiike
upon my ear precisely like that which I just now heard, I
should suppose that it proceeded from the same place aa
betore. The effect would be more remarkable, if he sliould,
by some ingenious device, direct my attention to the window,
and create in me the impression that some one was outside
of it. In order to accomplish this result, it is necessary
that the performer be endowed with an ear capable of de-
tecting every possible variety in the quality of sound, and
vocal organs of such extreme delicacy that they are able
perfectly to obey the slightest intimation of the will 1
have never witnessed any performance of this kind, but I
have known one or two persons who possessed this power in
a modified degree, and this is the account which they have
^.ven me concerning it. I am told that those who perform
these feats publicly are also able to create the sounds which
■we hear, without moving, in the least, the visible organs of
speech. How they are able, in this manner, to produce
articulate sounds, I am unable to explain.
Is hearing a sensation or a perception 7 That is, does it
furnish us with a simple knowledge, without giving us any
cognition of an external world ; or does Jt furnish us with a
complex knowledge, that is, a knowledge of a quality and
of the object in which it resides ?
The knowledge furnished by this sense seems to me to bo
of the following character : it is purely a sensation, a simple
knowledge, giving us no intimation of anything external
The knowledge, however, derived from this sense, differs
from those which we have already considered, in manv
particulars. Some of ihese are worthy of attenticn.
The sensation of hearing is much more definite. uan«^
5*
i\ INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHT.
and intensely pleasing, than that derived from either of the
preceding senses. It has, moreover, a power of strongly
affecting the tone of mind of the hearer. These impressiona
being made upon a being endowed with original sugges-
tion, would naturally occasion an inquiry for a cause.
While hearing a strain of music, it would at once occur to U3
that we did not produce it, that we could not prolong it, and,
hence, that it must originate from something external to our-
selves. We should thus learn that there existed something
out of ourselves ; but what that something was, the sense of
hearing would furnish us with no means of determining.
Let a man hear a violin, a bugle, or a piano, and, though he
would readily observe a difference between them, he could
by this sense alone form no conception of the nature of
either instrument, or of the medium through which an im-
pression was made upon his auditory nerve. When did a
peal of thunder ever suggest to man the nature of the cause
which produced it ? In this respect, therefore, the sense ot
hearing differs from those already considered. It suggests
to us the idea of a cause, but gives us no knowledge of the
nature of that cause.
In another respect, however, the sensation of hearing ia
peculiar. It enables us to form very definite conceptions.
Smell and taste possess this power, if at all, in a very lim-
ited degree. By no power of language can we convey to
another the knowledge which they give us. The sense of
hearing enables us to proceed much farther. We hear a
gound ; we can repeat it. We hear a tune ; we can mentally
reciill it without producing any sound whatever, and wo can
derive jileasure fiom this silent conception of it. Still
more, we are able to designate a great variety of articulate
sounds by the alpliabet. By means of this notation, the
^unds of a speaker's voice can be so recorded, that anothei
person who has not heard him, and who may not even under
TlIF TXDIVIDUAL SENSES. 50
itand tbo language in which ho has spoken, may be able
ftccuratf ly to repeat all that he has said. The case is still
strongei when the words uttered are set to music. Here
It )i not only possible to note down the words, but also
the precise musical notes in which they were expressed, so
that the scng. and the tune in whicii it was sung, may bo
iccuratcly repeated by a person on the other side of the
gbbc.
I have remarked that our conception of musical sounds
may give us pleasure in perfect silence ; as when we remem-
ber a strain which we have heard on a foimer occasion.
This is yet more observable when sounds are described by
their appropriate notation. A skilful musician will read
the noles of an opera or oratorio, form the conception as he
proceeds, and derive from them as definite a pleasure as he
who reads the pages of a romance or a tragedy. It has
frequintly happened that the most eminent musicians have
been afflicted with deafness. It is delightful to observe that
this infirmity in only a modified degree deprives them of
their accustomed pleasure. They sit at an instrument,
touching the notes as usual, and become as much excited
with their own. conceptions as they were formerly by sounds.
Under these circumstances, some of them have composed
their most elaborate and successful productions. These
facts establish a -vvide difference between the sense of hearing
and the senses of taste and smell. The latter produce in
us no definite conceptions, and are susceptible of being formed
into no such language. Hearing is evidently a much more
intellectual sense than either of those which we have tbiia
far considered.
Besides, musical sounds have an acknowledged power
over the tone of the human mind. By the tone of mind, I
mean that condition of our emotional nature which inclinei
as to be gi-ave or gay, lively or sad, kind oi austere. a]>f re-
56 INTELLE^rUAL PHILOSOPHT.
hensive or reckless. New, it is well known that niusic hai
the power not only to harmonize with any of these tones cf
mind, and thus increase it, but in many cases to alter and
control it. Every one knows the difference between a sport-
ive and a melancholy air, between a dirge and a quickstep;
and every one also knows how readily his tone of mind as-
similates with the character of the music which he chances
to hear. Sacred music, well performed, renders deeper the
spirit of devotion. The hilarity of a ball-room would in-
stantly cease if the music were withdrawn. I question if
the martial spirit of a nation could be sustained for a single
year, if music were banished from its armies ; and military
evolutions, whether on parade or in combat, were performed
under no other excitement than the mere word of command.
From these well-known facts, an aesthetical principle may
be deduced of some practical importance. The design of
music is to affect the tone of mind. To do this, it must be
in hariTiony with it. No one would think a psalm tune
adapted to a charge of cavalry ; and every one would be
shocked to hear a devotional hymn sung to the tune of a
martial quickstep. It hence follows, that what may be
good music for one occasion, may be very bad music for
another. If we are called upon to judge of the excellence
of any piece of music, it is not enough that the music be
good, — the question yet remains to be decided, is it good for
this particular occasion ; that is, does it harmonize with the
particular tone of mind which the words employed would
naturally awaken 7 If it do not, though it may be very
good music for some occasions, it is bad music in this par-
ticular case. The II Penseroso and the L' Allegro of Mil-
ton have, I believe, been set to music, and, if the musio
v/ere adapted to the thought, the effect of these beautiful po-
ems would be increased by it. But every one sees that ths
music adapted to the one must be very unlike that adapteJ
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 5*
to tLe Other. Let the music be transferred fiom the
one to the other, and the incongruity would be painful ;
and what was just now good music would become at once
intolerable, ^luch of the chuich music at present in vogue
acems to me to partake of the incongruity of such a trans-
position
Here, also, the question may be asked, whether all poetry
is adapted to music. From the preceding remarks it would
seem that it is not. unless it awaken some emotion. And
again, the emotion in some cases may not be adapted to
music. Terror, horror, the deepest impressions of awe, are
probably not adapted to musical expression. The attempta
which have been made to convey such emotions by music
have, I apprehend, generally failed. They may, like much
other music, display the skill of the composer or the per
former, but they leave the audience unmoved.
Another peculiarity of this sense deserves to be mentioned
By it we are capable of forming a natural language under
stood by all men. Our emotions mstinctively express them-
selves by the tones of the voice, and these are easily recog-
nized by those to whom they are addressed. Every one
understands the tones indicative of kindness, of authority,
of pity, of i-age, of sarcasm, of encouragement and contempt
Should a man address us in an unknown tongue, we
should immediately learn his temper towards us by the
tones of his voice. The knowledge of these tones is common
to all men, under all circumstances. Children of a very
tender age learn to interpret them ; nay, even brutes seem
to understand their meaning very distinctly. I: would seem,
then, that the tones of the voice form a medium of communi-
cation, not only between man and man. but even between
man and some of the inferior animals.
I have said that these tones of the voice are universally
understood. It is also true that they have the power of
b& INTELLECTOAL PHILOSOPHr.
awakening an emoticn, similar to tliat which produced them,
in the mind of the hearer. A shriek of terror will convuls€
a whole assembly. It is said that Garrick once went to
Lear Whitefield preach, and was much impressed with the
power of that remarkable pulpit orator. Speaking afterwai Ja
of the preacher's eloquence, he is reported to have said, '' I
would give a hundred pounds to utter the word Oh ! as White-
held utters it." It is probable that it is in the power of
expressing our emotions by the tones of the voice, more than
n anything else, that the gift of eloquence consists. This
was, I presume, the meaning of Demosthenes, who, when
asked what was the first, and the second, and the third ele-
ment of eloquence, replied, successively, "Delivery, delivery,
delivery ! " This is, I think, illustrated in the case to which
I have alluded. Whitefield's printed sermons do not place
him high on the list of English preachers ; while, as they
were delivered by Whitefield himself, they produced effects
which can only be ascribed to the very highest efforts of
eloquence.
The relation of these remarks to the cultivation of elo-
quence is obvious. Suppose a public speaker to be aMe to
construct a train of thought which shall lead the minda
of men, by logical induction, to a given result. Suppose,
moreover, that this train of reasoning is clothed in appro-
priate diction, so that it is adapted not only to convince,
but to please an audience. It is now to be delivered in the
hearing of men. It may be delivered in so monotonoua
t^jnes as to put an assembly to sleep, or in tones so inappro-
priate and grotesque as to provoke them to laughter. It ia
now necessary that the orator be deeply moved by his own
sonceptions, and that he be able to give utterance to his own
emotions in the tones of his voice. His organs of speech
n)uat be capable of every variety of expression, and they
must so instinctively respond to every emotion, that the
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES S'J
thought wbich the speaker enunciates is lodged in the mind
of the hearer, animated by the precise feeling of him who
utters it. He who is thus endowed can hardly fail of
becoming an orator. Hence, if we ' would improve in
eloquence, we must studiously cultivate the natural tones
of emotion; in the first place by feeling truly ourselves,
and, in the second, by learning to express our emotions in
this language which all men understand.
REFERENCE.
Rcid's Inquiry, chap. 4, sections 1, 2
SECTION VII. — THE SENSE OF TOUCH.
The nerves of feeling are situated under the skin, and
are plentifully distributed over the whole external surface
So completely does the network which they form cover tho
whole body, that the point of the finest needle cannot punc-
ture us in any part without wounding a nerve, and giving ua
acute pain. It is in this manner that we are guarded from
injury. Were any portion of our body insensible, we might
there suffer the most appalling laceration without being
aware of our danger.
The chief seat of the nerves of touch is, however, in the
palm of the hand, and in the ends of the fingers. The
other parts of the body render us sensible of injury from
external sources, but they are incapable of furnishing ua
with any definite perceptions. The hand, on the contrary,
conveys to us very exact knowledge of the tactual qualities
of bodies. For this purpose it is admirably adapted. Tha
Boparation of the fingers from each other, their complicated
Qexions, the extreme delicacy of their muscular power, ikl;
I
f)0 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
combine to render this organ susceptible of an infinite vari |t^
of definite impressions.
Though the fingers are separated, yet in using then)
together, when a single object is presented, but one percep-
tion is conveyed to the mind. It would seem, however^
that, in order to produce this result, corresponding points of
the fingers must be applied to the object. If we change
them from their normal position, by crossing the second over
the fore-finger, two perceptions will be produced, and a
small object, as a pea, will seem to us double.
Th(j sensation of touch is of two kinds, as it is caused,
first, by temperature^ and secondly by contact.
The sensation produced by temperature is that of cold or
heat. It is awakened by any body whose temperature diflfers
from that of our external surface. When we place our
hands in water only blood warm, we are not conscious of
this sensation. If we place one hand in hot, and the other
in cold water, for a few minutes, and then remove them both
to tepid water, we experience the sensation of heat in the
one and of cold in the other.
The eifect produced upon us by temperature is a simple
knowledge, a pure sensation. It gives us no knowledge
of anything external. During the first chill of a fever we
are unable to determine whether the weather is cold, or our
system diseased ; that is, whether the sensation proceeds
from without or from within. And when the sensation pi >
ceeds from without, it gives no information respecting ita
cause, or the manner in which it affects us.
Heat and cold are merely aflfections of a sensitive organ-
ism. That which causes them is called by chemista
caloric, This quality in bodies has opened a wide field for
philosophical investigation, Avhich, by developing the lawa
of steam, has modified the aspects of modern ciuliisw
lion.
THE INDIVID AL SENSES. 6i
Secondly, the sense of touch is excited Dj contact. 1
Use the term contact here in its common, and not in ita
Btrict meaning. The nerves are alwavs covered with the
ekin, and when by accident the skin is abraded, we feel pain,
but we are conscious of no perception. Nor, in fact, is the
skin itself ever in absolute contact with the external object.
A layer of air always interposes between them.
When the hand is thus brought into proximity to an
external body, we are immediately made conscious of its
existence. In this act there may, I think, be discovered
both a sensation and a perception I have referred to this
fact in a previous section. Nothing further will here be
necessary than to appeal to the experience of every
individual. Let any one place his hand lightly upon a
piece of marble, or any external object, fixing his attention
as much as possible upon his sensation, and he will, I think,
find himself conscious of a feeling into which the idea of
extern:ility does not enter, and which gives him no knowl-
edge of the qualities of body. Let him now take up the
marble, and attempt to cognize iis several qualities, and I
think he will be conscious of a very different knowledge,
involving the notions of externality, hardness, smoothness,
form, and, it may be, some others. In this case he pays no
attention to his sensations It does not occur to him that
they exist. All he is conscious of is the various qualitie.3
of th-j external object, and of these he obtains a very dis-
tinct cognition. It may require a small effort at first to
distinguish these two fonns of knowledge from each other,
but I am persuaded that any one may do it who will be at
the pains for a few times to make the experiment.
The perceptions given us by this sense arc exceedingly
definite and perfect. By it we not only know that a quality
exists, but also what it is. We have the knowledge, and
ve know what it is that produces it. In this mannei tb«
62 IN TELLE JTtAL x"'HILO<L_Pnr.
perceptions by touch lie at the founrlation of all our knowl-
rdge of an external world. We relj upon tbera with more
3ertaiiit3' than any other. Many of the qualities revealed
to us by touch are also revealed to us by sight. If, how-
ever, in any case, we have reason to doubt the evidence of
sight, we instinctively apply to the sense of touch in order
to verify our visual judgment.
The principal qualities cognized by touch, besides extcr-
nahty, are extension, hardness, softness, form, size, motion,
situation, and roughness or smoothness. Besides these,
however, there are various sensations of pain and pleasure
given by this sense, the specific effect of particular agents,
as of electricity and galvanism, the sensation of tickling,
and many others of the same kind. To this sense have also
been ascribed the sensation of hunger and thirst, and the
various affections belonging to our sensitive organism.
Confining ourselves, however, to the perceptions of touch,
■we find that they are almost exclusively given us by the
hand. In this manner we obtain a distinct knowledge of
extension, of size, of hardness, softness and form. When
the body is small, or the discrimination delicate, we rely
almost wholly on tlie perceptive power of the fingers. In
this manner we obtain, experimentally, neaily all our knowl-
edge of the primary qualities of body.
We may here remark the difference between the knowl-
edge obtained by this sense, and that obtained by the senses
previously considered. The others give us each a particular
Lilass of sensations, and only one kind of knowledge. By
touch we are conscious of heat and cold, together with a
great variety of other sensations, and also of the various
perceptions of primary qualities mentioned above. The
others give us no direct knowledge of an external world.
This gives us that knowledge directly and immediately,
Ihe others, when the existence of an external world is sag-
TEE IXDIVirjAL SENSE? 63
jTffttcd. give us no knowledge of its qualities. This givea
us a positive knowledge of scleral of the most essential of
thein. We know, for instance, that form is precisely what
it appears to be, and that our knowledge of it exactly con-
forms to the reality. We know that it must, under all
circumstances, be exactly what we perceive it to be. We
thus derive from it a distinct conception ; we can make it
an object of thought, and can form concerning it the most
complicated processes of reasoning. When we see a blind
J erson read with his fingers, we must be convinced that he
has as definite a conception of the forms of letters as we
ourselves have by sight. We thus learn that not only does
this sense enable us to make large additions to our knowl-
edge, but that it is really the original source of a great part
of our knowledge of the world around us. Of its intrinsic
importance we may form an opinion from the fact that there
is no case on record in which a human being has been born
without it. By it alone, as in the case of Laura Bridgraan,
we may learn our relations to the world around us : may
be tiiught the use of language, and may even acquire the
power of writing it with considerable accuracy. This sense
is lost only in paralysis, and in those cases in which the
mdividual, drawing near to dissolution, has no faither need
uf any of the organs of sense.
REFERENCE.
Reid'3 Inquiry, chap. 5, sections 1, 2.
SECTION VIII. — THE SENSE OF SIGHT.
The organ of vision is the eye. It is an optical uistru-
cent, of exquisite construction, adapted in the most perfi-sct
84 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
manner to accomplish the purposes of its formatiyn. At
will, we can admit the light or surround ourselves with total
darkness. As we frequently pass from darkness to light
the eye is provided with a curtain, by means of which the
pupil is either expanded or contracted, so that no more light
than is required falls upon the retina. "We can turn the
eyes in every direction. By them we can discern objects
either gigantic or microscopic, within a few inches of us,
or at the distance of several miles. It gives us instan-
taneously a knowledge of the qualities of bodies, which
could be discovered by the other senses only after a long
and patient investigation, and of many qualities which, with-
out this sense, could never be discovered at all. Although
capable of such complicated action, and always in use ex-
cept when we sleep, the eye is comparatively seldom liable
to accident or disease. It is protected from ordinary vio-
lence by the overhanging brows. The fine particles of dust
which fall upon it are perpetually washed away by the com-
bined action of the eyelids and the lachrymal gland. Ita
rapid and incessant change of position, by calling into ac-
tion diflferent portions of the optic nerve, preserves it from
severe exhaustion. Thus it happens that a large portion of
mankind pass through life without ever knowing that their
eyes are even liable to disease.
The manner in which the impression is produced upon
the organ of vision has been fully explained by physiolo-
gists. The human eye is a small globe, so constructed that
the rays of light coming from a visible body which flill upon
it, are formed into a small image upon its inner posterior
BUI face. This image is inverted. The rays of light fii-st
fall upon the visible object, and are from it reflected upon
the eye. Of course, where there is no light, that is, when
no rays can be either received or reflected, there can be no
rision.
THE INDIVIDUAL SEN^SEi 66
Ovei the back part of the eye is spread out an expansioii
of the optic nerve, called the retina. Immediately behind
this, is a thin membrane, on which is laid a black pigment
for the absorption of the light producing the image. In
order to produce distinct vision, this image must be accu-
rately defined. Hence, in twilight, when the light is insuf-
ficient, an object is but imperfectly seen. When, owing to
Blight malformation of the eye, as in near-sighted or in aged
f/ersons, the image is not accurately delineated on the retina,
rision is also indistinct; nor can the infirmity be relieved
until by artificial means we cause the rays of light to form
a true image on the expansion of the optic nerve. If the
nerve become paralyzed, vision ceases. If it be inflamed,
vision is so intensely painful that the patient cannot, with-
out severe suffering, bear the least glimmer of light. The
nerves of vision do not proceed from each eye directly to the
brain, but first meet at what is called the decussation of the
optic nerve, where their fibres intermingle, after wiiich they
separate and enter the substance of the brain. What pur-
pose is answered by an arrangement so different from that
observed in the other nerves of sense, has not yet been dis-
covered.
When, under normal circumstances, the visual image ia
formed on the retina, a mental state succeeds which we call
vision. What this is we all know by experience. The
question, however, remains, Is sight a sensation or a per-
ception] and, if a perception, is it like the sense of touch
preceded by a sensation } Before proceeding further, let ug
attempt to answer these questions.
Is sight a sensation or a perception ? A sensation is a
limple knowledge, a state of mind terminating in itself,
fcnd. S3 far as our consciousness is concerned, having no
original connection with anything external. Now. if merely
the co-'nition of color is considered, w# must admit that it
6*
5^ INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
reseiQ *e3 in many respects, the cognition of hearing. Tfaa
notioD ^r icnowk-dge of red. for iristuuce. is an affection of
the vAivd. and wholly unlike the cause from whjch it pre
ceeds No one sup[)0ses that the rose has the simple knowl
3dge which we designate by the word red. And, moreover
Jiis simple knowledge gives us not the most distant idea ot
its cause. Sight gives us no more knowledge of that <iual-
ity in bodies which produces in us the notion of color, than
acaring designates the size and form uf the instrument
■nhich produces the sound to which we are listening, or the
atmospheric change which precedes the clap of thunder at
wiiich we tremble. In this respect the act of seeing resem-
bles a mere sensation.
On the other hand, it is to be remarked, that, although
the knowledge of color is a sensation, a subjective affection,
vet we are so made as to refer this knowledge directly and
immediately to the external object. When we reflect upon
the subject we know that the notion of red is a spiritual
affection, and yet that affection seems to be a part of the
rose. When we are conscious of an odor, we do not. so far
;i3 the sense of smelling is concerned, assign it to any ex-
ternal location. When we hear a sound, so far as this sense
is concerned, we do not determine the place of its origin
The music seems to float around and envelop us, like the
atmosphere. But when we are sensible of a color, we see
it in a determined locality, we see it now and there, and at
once fix the limit of its existence.
Here, however, it may be said, that in this respect the
perception by sight is similar to that of touch ; that in
tfjuch we equally transfer our notioD of form to the object
Wiiich we perceive. The cases, I admit, are similar, but 1
think by no means identical. When I feel of a cube, ana
obtain a knowledge of its firm, it is obvious tliat the thought
of my mind is not like the cube — that is, it is not sMid
THE INDIVIDUAL SE.NSES. 01
equiangular an- 1 equilateral. It is, nevertheless, a posilivs
knowledge that such are the qualities of the cube. I know
that the thou^^Iit of mj mind reprcrients to me these quali-
ties just as they are. They are th«^ sufficient cause of that
particular idea, and nothing else could have been the cause
of it. It ifl a definite knowledge of a mode of the not me
admitting of no intermediate question. When, however^
I see a color, the case is quite dissimilar. My notion of
color gives me no knowledge of its cause. I have by it n^-
knowledge of a particular mode of the not me, which, of
necessity, if it produce in me any knowledge, must produce
precisely that of which I am conscious. My sense of sight
does not inform me at all what color (objective) is. Tiiat
the existence of light is necessary to it, all men know ; but
what light is. in what manner it produces color, whether by
rectilinear rays reflected from the object, or by a succession
of waves oC a universal medium, is yet a matter of dispute
among philosophers. In the case of sight, then, if the
question be asked, what produces this knowledge, we can give
no answer. In the case of touch, we answer at once, the
form of a cube, — we all know what that form is, — and the
subject admits of no farther discussion.
I do not know whether I have made this distinctly ob-
vious to othei-s, or whether I have analyzed the act of
vision accurately. I have, however, endeavored as well as
I am able to stiite the facts in the case as they appear to my
8wn consciousness.
Is there in sight, as in touch, a sensation antecedent tc
perception, or a sensation which it is in our power to dis-
tinguish from perception 7 For myself, I have never bet n
ible to discover it. I place my Jiand. under different con-
JitioMS. on a cube, and I am able to distinguish the sensation
from the perception, and can make either of them, sepa-
rately, a matter of thought. I can discover no such di*
53 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
tinct states of mind in the act of vision, I open my eyes
1 see a bock. The first thing of which I am conscious it
the cognition of an external object. I am conscious of no
intermediate or different mental state. I must, therefore,
believe that none exists. It may be said that one has existed,
but that, from long neglect, we ha\e lost the power of ob
serving it. To this I reply, that we habitually neglect the
sensation in the perception of touch, but, when it is pointed
out to us, we easily recognize it. If it existed in the sense
of seeing, I see no reason why we should not as easily ob-
serve it. The simple fact seems to be, that, as soon as we
are conscious of the knowledge of color, we are, at the same
instant, conscious of the knov\ ledge of the object in which
the color seems to reside. We cannot separate the one
from the other.
The perception of an object as endowed with color is,
however, in some respects, unlike the perception of an ob
jcct as endowed with foi-m.
The perception by touch is fixed and definite, in all posi-
tions remaining precisely the same. The perception by
sight varies by every change of position. For instance, if
a small cube is placed in my hands, I turn it over and feel
of it on all sides, and it ever presents itself to me as the
same figure. On the other hand, I look upon it with one of
its faces directly before me, and it presents one appearance.
I turn one of the angles towards me, and it presents another.
I change its position a hundred times, and at every time it
presents a different appearance.
Again, the perception by touch is unafiected by distance.
I feel of a cube, and I derive a clear knowledge of its form.
I extend my arms to their utmost length, and the perception
is the same. I think of it a mile off, and my notion of it
does not 'ary. But it is not so with the perception of sight.
I look at a cube at a distance of twelve inches from mj^
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 69
pyea, it has one magnitude. I remove it i«.n feet iff, jind
its apparent magnitutle is ten times less. Its color is lesa
vivid, and its outline less distinct. I remove it to the dis-
tance of an hundred feet, and it is diminished to an indis-
tinct speck. If I would represent it to another person, 1
must represent it thus indistinctly. Hence the distinction
made between tactual and visual form and magnitude.
We have the means of associating these two ideas together
in a manner hereafter to be considered. We are able to
translate the language of sight into the language of touch.
This, however, would be unnecessary, were there not thia
difference in the two perceptions to which I have here re-
ferred.
If we observe the relation in which the senses stand to
each other, we shall at once perceive the importance of
sight. Smell and taste give us simple knowledges, without
any cognition of the not me, and, also, I think, without the
power of forming conceptions. Hearing sugo-esls tLe not me.
and gives us the power of forming conceptions; but it gives
us no knowledge of any of the attributes of the sonorous
body, save its power of awakening this sensation. Touch
gives us an immediate and positive knowledge of the not
me, and of all its primary attributes, and leavv,-s upon the
mind a most definite conception. Sight enables us to deter-
mine most of the qualities revealed to us by touch, not only
near at hand, but at great distances : by the delicacy of its
language, it enables us to discover many of the qualities re-
veak'd by the other senses ; and, while performing all these
functions, it is a source of most exquisite pleasure.
That the conceptions of sight are more definite than tho9«
f ?ceived by our sense of touch. I will not affirm. It i.s,
however, certain that they are mucn more easily retained
in the memory. When we recollect an external obj:ct, I
think we much nore readily recall the visual conceftioD
TO INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
thar anj other. I may feel of a sphere, and obtain a
knowledge of its form and magnitude ; but when I think of
it. the visual appearance presents itself most readily to my
mind. Almost all the conceptions of figurative language
are derived from sight. The power of originating such con-
ceptions is called imagination, or the power of forming im.
ages. The fine arts, with the exception of music, address
themselves wholly to this mode of perception. Alm.ost all
the other senses are, in some manner, tributary to it, and
thus enable us to employ it in order to arrive at the most
varied and distant forms of knowledge.
Let us now proceed to inquire, what are the qualities of
the external world which are cognized by means of thia
sense ?
1. If the above remark be true, that we are so made aa
to refer our visual conception to the external object, it will
follow that we derive our cognition of externality as truly
from this sense as from touch. Touch gives us a distinct
and immediate notion of the existence and qualities of an
external object. Sight gives us a conception of an unknown
cause of a known effect ; it also teaches us that this c;»^use is
numerically distinct from ourselves, and assigns to it its
position in space.
The existence of this function of vision has frequently
been denied, and it has been affirmed that, until aided by
:x)uch, sight gives us no idea of externality, any more than
smell or hearing. The principal ground for this opinion ig
the authority of Cheselden,* who, long since, published an
account of a young man whom he coucl-.ed for cataract, and
who, on restoration to sight, thought, at first, that every
object touched his eyes. On this statement I would observe,
lliat 3n the first admission of light to the unnaturally sensi-
• Philosophical Transactions, 1778, No. 402.
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 71
tive retina, a sensation unlike to sight ^vould be lik'^ly tc
(iiHse, which the patient might very j)Vobably designato hy
Baying that the object touched his eyes. Every one, in
passing frcm daikness into a strong light, has felt a sensa-
tion of this kind, and he may remember that it is more
nearly akin to touch than to sight. If we had before known
everything by touch, we should naturally use this language
in describing it. On this account, I think the case does not
warrant the stress that has been laid upon it. But, secondly,
if it were so, if he thought that the objects touched his
eye, then, as Sir W. Hamilton has happily remarked, " still
they appeared external to th.e eye," for it is evident that
two things cannot seem to touch each other, unless, at the
same time, also, they appear numerically distinct. That
which is numerically distinct from the eye must be the non
ewo. Besides, the young of all animals, as soon as they
open their eyes, recognize external objects as external, and,
with evident design, move either towards or away from
them. In fact, they use their eyes at first just as they use
them afterwards. A new-born infant teaches us the same
truth. Who ever saw a young child place its hand on its
eyrs when an object was placed before it / It reaches out
its hand towards the object, without, it is true, any correct
idea of distance, but with a correct conception of external-
ity and direction. I think that all our observation upon
cur own use of this faculty must lead us to the sanie C(m-
clusion.
2. From this sense, exclusively, we obtain our know ledge
of color. Of the nature of this cognition I have already
had occasion to express my opinion. It is a simple knowl-
edge hi itself, an affection of the sentient being, which, how-
ever, we naturally and immediately refer to the external
object. Of this quality, thus recognized, the varieties ar€
nomercus, and they are indefinitely multiplied ly <hp cir
72 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
cumstances of light and shade, distance and proximity
degiee of illumination, and manj others. Hence it is that
exte)nal nature presents to us an exhaustless and ever- varied
scene of beauty and sublimity. Every object in the -svoild
around us, which the hand of God has formed, is made to
minister to our happiness. But this is only a small part of
the benefit which we derive from this function of sight.
pAxry change of color, and every variation in tiie degree of
rolor, is indicative of some change which is originally cog-
nized by some other sense. Hence it is that sight, which
acts instantaneously, and cognizes its objects at large dis-
tances, 's enabled, by changes of visual appearance, to detect
an immense number of qualities wiiich vision alone could
never h'ive discovered. All tlie senses become tributary to
it, and it does the work of all. Of the manner in which
this is done, we shall treat more particularly in the follow-
ing section.
3. To the qualities of external bodies, rendered cognizable
by sight, we must undoubtedly add extension. If we refer
our notion of color to <in external object, I do not see how
it is possible to exclude from our minds the knowledge that
the colored object is extended. If we look upon anything
colored, that color covers a definite portion of space. Let
any one look upon a surface marked alternately by different
colors, and the limitations of each are distinctly defined.
Hence also, arises the idea of form in one dimension. We
can as well cognize a circle or square by sight as we can
do it by touch. We read as rapidly by the eye as the bl-'iid
by their fingers.
4. Lastly, we must now add solidity, or extension in
three dimensions, to the perceptions given us by sight.
Until (juite lately, this power has been denied to the faculty
of vision. It has been the generally received opinion that
«i^ht gives us nothing but the different shades of color.
THE INDIVIDLAL SENSES. |8
represented on a plane surface, as we perceive them in a
painting ; but tliat by touch we learn to associate the
shading with the form, and thus indirectly learn to cognize
solidity by the eye. This view was universally received,
until the researches of Professor Wheatstone, of King's Col-
lege, London, threw new light upon the whole subject. The
brilliant discoveries of this philosopher have added a new
function to the organ of vision, and demonstrated that, by
the eye alone, we are enabled to cognize solidity as well as
simple extension. He has shown that, in consequence of
binocular vision, we are able to determine the form of
bodies within a certain distance. The manner in which this
is accomplished is as follows : It must be obvious to every
one, that, inasmuch as the right and left eye occupy different
positions in space, the images which an external object forms
dn the two eyes must be slightly dissimilar. I look upon
an inks:and on the table before me, closing first my right
eye and then the left. I can clearly discover a differ-
ence between the right and left image. Now, it is this
difference of figure in the two images that gives us the
notion of solidity. This is proved by the stereoscope, an
mvention of Professor Wheatstone. This instrument is so
constructed that we can see separately the image of an
object formed on the right eye, and then that formed on the
left.
When seen in this manner, each figure appears to us as a
mere di awing on a plane surface. When now we look at
them with both eyes, we do not perceive two plane drawings,
but a distinct, and, I had almost said, palpable solid. It is
however evident that this effect can be produced only when
the body is at so small a distance, and of such a magnitude,
ihat two images can be formed. If it be far off, so that
the rays become parallel, and thus form the same image on
both eyes, no effect from binocular vision is produced. We
7
r-i intellectijal philosophy.
observe the tru'.h of this law in our daily experience. Wuea
we look upon a well-executed painting, every figure, when
viewed from a proper position, appears to stand out from
the canvas. It seems to us impossible that it should be a
plane surface. But if we draw near, the illusion vanishes.
When we arrive at the position at which the figures, if sclid^
would form different images on the two eyes, and no sucb
difference exists, we know at once that the surface is a plane.
If it be objected that persons Avith one eye are able to dis-
tinguish solidity, it is replied that they do it less perfectly
than others ; that they are obliged to do it by observing
the shading of the surface, and that they are frequently seen
to move the head in a horizontal direction rapidly, in order
to form the different images on the same eye.*
In consequence of this discovery, a very beautiful optical
instrument has been invented, by which the effect of
daguerreotype pictures has been much improved. A picture
is taken separately for each eye. When these are looked
at together, through glasses adapted to the purpose, we per-
ceive only one figure ; but it has all the appearance of
Bolidity. Daguerreotypes of statuary have thus all the
effect of the original marble.
The question has frequently been asked, How do we see
objects single with two eyes 7 To this question I do not
know that any more satisfactory answer has been given than
the plain statement of the fact that so we were created. It
seems to me not half so strange as the fact that we see at
all. But I would inquire, is it more remarkable that we
receive a single impression from two organs of sight, than
from any of our other senses 7 All our nerves of sense are
double. Every other sense has a right and a left nerve ; yet
fcll the impressions made upon us from a single object are
« Transactions of the Roya S«>ciety, vol. 56, p. 371. June 21, 1838.
THE INDIVID CAL SENSES. 7f)
•ingle Each ear receives an auditory impulse, yet we heai
but one sound. When we feel of an object, each hand
receives a distinct impression, yet we perceive but one
object. It does not seem strange to us that we do not heai
two sounds with two ears, or that we do not feel two cubes
when we hold one with our two hands. The case, however,
seems to me precisely similar to that in whi<Jh we look upon
one object with our two eyes. The sense of sight, then,
merely conforms to the general law by which all our senses
are governed. It would seem, then, unnecessary to proceed
farther than to refer the case of sight to the general law
of the senses. The question thus resolves itself into the
general one. How are single impressions made v.ith double
organs 1 To this I do not know that any answer has been
either given or attempted.
Again, it has been asked, How do we see objects erect,
when the image on the retina is inverted] Dr. Reid
answers this (question by stating it as a general law that we
see every object in the direction of the right line that
passes from the picture of the object on the retina to the
centre of the eye, " as the rays from the upper part of the
object form the lower part of the image, and, vice versa,
we see the upper part of the object with the lower part of
the retina, and the contrary ; and thus we see the object as
it is, that is, we see it erect." In how far this relieves the
difficulty, or carries us back to a moie general law, I will not
pretend to determine. To me it does not seem to throw that
h'dit on the subject which seems obvious to others. I have
thought that, possibly, this eflfect was in some way connected
with the decussation of the optic nerve. No nerves, except
those of sight, unite before entering the brain, and in no
other case is this peculiarity observed. May there not be
lome connection between the facts 7
Persons who have been couched for cataract see objects
76 JlIM -t.U;<^T AL PHILOSOPHY
erect as .oor a? tb^ir pow« of vision is restore _ At least,
Oiieselden and other observers have never stated anything
to the contrary. This could hardly have been the case if
90 striking a phenomenon had passed under their notice.
To this there seems but one exception. Sir W. Hamilton
quotes a case from Professor Leidenfrost, of Duisburg, 1793,
in which the fact was otherwise. A young man. blind
from birth, had reached his seventeenth year, when his sight
was restored after an attack of ophthalmia. When he first
saw men, they seemed to him inverted ; that is, their heads
w. -re towards his feet ; and trees and other objects seemed
rJ hold the same position. I am unable to account for
this difference from ordinary experience. I would only
remark, that we are always liable to err in reasoning from
instances of this kind, because, when the condition of au
organ is decidedly abnormal, it is impossible to say to what
extent and in what direction the abnormal cause has been
%xerted.
REFERENCES.
Sense of sight — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6.
Sight the noblest of our senses, " •* section 1.
No sensation in sight, " •' section 8.
Relation of visual to real figure, " " sections 23 and 7.
Color a quality of body, " «« sections 4 and 5.
Parallel motion of the eyes, '• •• section 10.
How we see objects erect, ** " sections 11 and 12.
How we see objects single, *' " section 13.
We know not how the image on the retina causes vision, section 12
Carpentei 's Physiology, article eight.
Cheselden's case— Phil. Transactions, 1728, No. 102,
Wheatstone's paper, Phil. Trans., vol. 56, p. 871.
Pfof Lie<leifro8t's case, Sir W. Hamilton — Beid, p. 158L
ACQUIRED PEKCEPTIONS. 71
iRCTION IX. — OF ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS, OR THE INTER-
GHANOEABLE USE OF TlIE SENSES.
It has been already remarked that each of our senses
furnishes us with a distinct species of knowledge. We
cognize odors by smell, sounds by the ear, colors by the
eye, and so of all the rest. Neither of the senses can be
used in the place of the other. We can neither see with
our ears, hear with our fingers, nor smell with our tongue.
Such is manifestly the fact, if our senses be considered
separately.
But when the senses are considered collectively, we find
♦hat the above statement does not convey the whole truth.
One sense seems to convey to us knowledge which could
have been gained only by another. A single perception
will frequently furnish us with knowledge, which we find,
upon reflection, to have been originally given us by the
action of another sense ^r by the combined action of several
of the senses. Considered in this light, our whole sensual
organism seems to be one complicated system, designed in
the most rapid and convenient manner to make us ac-
quainted with the external world. We find ourselves, in a
thousand cases, using one sense for another, whenever we
can do it with advantage ; and if by misfortune we are de-
prived of any particular sense, it is surprising to observe
how readily the remaining senses come to our aid, and enable
us to cognize objects in a manner which, at first view, would
Beem uttei ly impossible.
The process by which this effect is produced is the fol-
lowing : We have already observed that the variety of
impressions which may be received by several of our sensea
is beyond the power of computation. Who can estimate thfl
infinite number of sounds which we are capable of heariDj^ ;
7*
• 5 INTELLECT AL PHILOSOPHY.
or of color and shading which we are capable of seeing,
and of distinguishing from each other ? Now, wc find that
a quality cognized by one sense is, by the kind provision of
our Creator, connected with some modification of a quality
perceived by another sense. Observing this connection, we
learn to associate the original with the secondary quality,
and, from the observation of the one, to infer the existence of
the other. For example, if I wish to learn whether a body
is hard or soft, I employ the sense of touch. This is the
sense originally given to me for the purpose of gaining
this knowledge. I see before me a piece of polished marble,
and a piece of velvet, of the same color. I feel of them
both, and ascertain that the one is hard, and the other soft.
But I also observe that the visual appearance of these two
substances is dissimilar. I carefully note this difference.
When I see the same objects again, I shall not be obliged
to feel them ; I know, at a glance, not only the visual but
the tactual character of each. I go farther ; I generalize
this difference. I know that one visual appearance, where-
ever it is seen, indicates hardness, and another softness.
Hence, when we, for the first time, look upon a substince,
we commonly form an opinion of its hardness or softness
from its peculiarity of color. Hence, also, we frequently
use the language of one sense for that of another. We say
of a surface that it looks hard or it looks soft. So paint-
ers, hav ing observed that warm weather in summer is accom-
panied by a particular appearance of the sky, associate the
language of feeling with that of sight, and speak of a warm
sky, of wirm or of cold coloring, and of other distinctioug
of a similar character.
Illustrations of acquired perceptions are presenting them-
Belves to us every day, in the ordinary experience of life.
The apothecary learns how to distinguish medicines by their
Bmell as accui-ately as by their taste. The mineralogist ^>^
ACQUIREL PEIICEPTIONS. 78
breathing upon a mineral, and observing its smell, ■will know
in an instant whether it is or is not argillaceous. Or
again, he will distinguish a calcareous from a magnesian
mineral by the touch ; or he will determine the charactei
of another by its fracture. If a grocer wishes to know
wlu'ther a cask is full or empty he does not look into it,
but merely strikes upon it, and ascertains the fact in an
instant by sound. A mason who wishes to know if a wall
in a particular spot is solid, does not pull it down, tut
Strikes it with his hammer. In the same way we determine
whether an object before us is made of wood, or metal, or
stone. When these indications are closely observed, the
accuracy of the judgments to which they lead is frequently
very remarkable. It is said that an Indian hunter, on the
prairies, by placing his ear on the ground, will discover the
aj)proach of an enemy long before he can be recognized by
the eye, and will distinguish a herd of buffaloes from a troop
of dragoons with unerring certainty. We are told that the
Arabs will tell the tribe to which a passer-by belongs, by the
print of his foot in the sand, and by the track of a hare
will know whether it be a male or a female.
Inasmuch, however, as our visual perceptions are more
varied and more rapid than those of our other senses, and
as we, by the eye, cognize objects at great distances, the
greater part of our acquired perceptions are referred to this
sense. We judge of the qualities of almost all the sub-
stances in daily use by the eye alone. We continually
determine distance and magnitude by the eye. The manner
in which this is done is worthy of special notice. It is Avell
known that, as an object recedes from us, its visual appear-
ance presents several observable changes. First, its magni-
tude diminishes. Secondly, its color becomes dim and misty.
Thiidly, its outline becomes indistinct; and, fourthly as ita
distance increases, the numl-er of intervening object!
50 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
becomes greater, it is by tlie observation of these changei
that we determine whether objects are receding from, oi
advancing towards us. In the same manner, by comparing
these indications, we judge of the distance and magnitude
of any object. In every case of this kind we go through a
complicated act of judgment ; yet, from habit, we do it so
rapidly, that we should hardly be aware of it but from the
mistakes which we occasionally commit. For instance ; 1
see an object presenting a certain dimness of color, of a
certain indistinctness of outline, and of a given visual mag-
nitude, and observe various objects intervening between it
and me. This is all that the sense of sight gives me. J
immediately judge it to be a man of ordinary size, half a
mile off; and my judgments are so generally accurate, that
I am surprised if I find myself in error.
When, however, any one of these conditions is changed
we are liable to be deceived. This is commonly the case
when objects are seen through a mist. The deception here
is not occasioned, as is generally supposed, by refraction
of the rays of light, causing the object to seem larger.
The object really seems to us of the proper size. The
mist, however, rendeis the color and the outline indistinct,
and we suppose the o1)ject to be at a much greater distance
than it is. The body has the magnitude belonging to a
quarter of a mile in distance, with the indistinctness of half
a mile. With this magnitude, at the latter distance, it would,
of course, seem to us much larger than it actually is
An incident, illustrative of this fact, once occurred to the
author. lie was, early in the morning, in a dense fog
Bailing through the harbor of Newport, and passed near the
wharf of Fort Adams. He observed on the wharf some \ery
tall men, and mentioned their remarkable size to the friends
who accompanied him. Piesently he was struck with their
behavioi'. They were jumping and playing like children
ACQCIBED PERCEPT. ONS. 8l
in a m;innei that seemed to him uhollj unaccountahle
Presently, as the sun dispersed the fog, he found himself
close to the v^harf, and these gigantic men dwindled dowii
to a company of playful little boys, who were amusing
themselves in childish gambols.
In the same manner we mistake if the atmosphere ia
lEore transparent than that to which we are accustomed.
Bishop Berkeley, I think, remarks that English travellera
in Italy, unaccustomed to the clear sky of southern Europe,
were liable to continual misjudgment respecting the distance
of objects seen in the horizon. The clearness of the color,
and the distinctness of the outline, led them to suppose
castles, mountains, &c., much nearer than they really were.
In the same manner, when there are no intervening objects,
we frequently find our judgments at fault. Thus, in looking
over a sheet of water, we always underrate the distance.
When we throw a stone at an object in the water, we always
find that our eye has deceived us, and the stone falls far
phort of the mark. For the same reason, objects seen on the
shore from the water seem much less than their natural
size. The fiict is, they appear of the magnitude which
belongs to the distance, but we suppose the distance less
than it is ; and, associating this magnitude with diminished
distance, they appear to us less than they really are.
In order to form these judgments correctly, one of these
elements must be fixed. From this we learn to institute a
comparison, and then an accurate opinion is formed. If we
have the magnitude of the object, the change in its color
and outline teaches us its distance. If we know its distance,
we can judge of its magnitude. Hence, painters, in order
to give us a correct notion of an object which they repre-
sent, always place in its vicinity something with whose real
magnitude we are familiar. Thus, if I drew a pyramid, it
mijiht be ditficult to determine whether I intended to repre*
52 INTELLECTUAL PHIL 3S0PHT.
gp.nt it as large or small. If, however, I diew an Aral
standing bj his camel at the foot of it, my intention tvould
at once become apparent. Every one knows the size of a
camel, and from this he would judge of the magnitude ci
the pyramid.
The benefits which we derive from this interchangeabk
Qse of the senses are innumerable. We are thus enabled
to transfer to one sense the cognitions which belong to
another, always using that which we can employ with the
greatest rapidity and convenience. Our whole sensitive
organism is thus capable of being used for almost every
form of cognition. Very much of our early education,
especially the education which enables us to perform any
art, consists in the acquisition of these secondary percep-
tions. It is thus that the physician, from symptoms, or
external indications which another person would not observe,
is enabled to discover the locality, the nature, and the pro-
gress of disease, and frequently to foretell the result with
unerring accuracy.
The l>enefit of this arrangement is specially evident when
we are unfortunately deprived of any one of our senses.
Our acquired perceptions are then almost indefinitely mul-
tiplied, and the knowledge which we derive fi'om our re-
maining senses is sometimes so great as to appear almost
incredible. Thus, the blind, by paying strict attention to
the indications derived from touch and hearing, acquire an
accuracy of judgment, respecting things known to others by
sight alone, which greatly surprises us. It is said that they
can learn to determine, with great accuracy, the number of
persons in a room by observing the sound of a speaker's
voice, and that, by striking on the floor, they will form &
very correct opinion as to the size of an apartment. Dr.
Abercrombie mentions two blind men who were remark
ably good judges of ha'ses. One of then discovered, 05
ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 00
R parcicular occasion, that a horse was blind by cleernng
the manner in which he pLiced his feet upon the ground
when in raotion. ahhougli the fact had not been noticed by
any other person of the company. Another discovered that
a horse was blind of one eye, by observing that the temper-
ature of the eyes was different. On the other hand, the
deaf acquire great skill in judging of the qualities of bodies
by touch and sight. They will learn to understand a
speaker by the motion of his lips, and to interpret the
minutest shades of emotion by the changes in the counte-
nance. AVhen both sight and hearing are denied, a large
amount of knowledge may be acquired by smell and feeling.
Persons in this unfortunate condition have been known to
select their own clothes, out of a pile of clean linen, by smell.
The most remavkabb instance on record of the education of
a person under these circumstances, is found in the case of
Laura Bridgnian. who has been for several years under the
care of Dr. Samuel G. Howe, of the Massachusetts Asylum
for the Blind. She has from infancy been deprived both of
hearing and sight. She has, nevertheless, been taught the
alphabet for the blind ; she converses rapidly with her
fingers, writes very intelligibly, and uses the language
which designates the qualities of color and sound with con-
siderabli; accuracy, knows her friends and instructors, and
feels for them every sentiment of gratitude and affection.
It will readily occur to every one that great use may be
made of acquired perceptions in the practice of the various
arts and professions. "We thus are enabled to determine
facts and form judgments which would otherwise be impos-
sible. An illustration of this kind presents itself in the
ttsfe of the stethoscope, a small ear-trumpet, by means of
which physicians listen to the sound midc by the lungs in
breathing, and by the heart in pulsation. A few yean
fcuce. it waa observed that these sounds varied with the oon
a^ INTELLECTUAL PHIl JSOPHT.
dition of these organs in health and in disease. This obser.
vation led to a verj impoitant result. First, the sound
made by the lungs in health was distinctly ascertained.
Then the variations from it were noticed. If the disease
terminated in death, the condition of the lungs was ascer-
tained by inspection. The sound was thus associated with
tne particular disease wliich occasioned it. This mode of
observation was continued until almost every form of disease
in the chest was recognized and made to speak an audible
language. When this language has been learned by one
man, it can be taught to another ; and thus this important
means of acquiring knov/ledge has become common to phy-
sicians. Practitioners, who have paid sufficient attention to
this subject, and who are endowed with great delicacy of
hearing, have been able to discover with remarkable ac-
curacy the condition of the organs of the chest, the form of
disease under which the patient has been laboring, and even
to mark out on the surface the precise portion of the lunga
which was suffering from inflammation.
The manner in which our acquired perceptions may be
improved is manifestly as follows. In the first place, we
learn to observe with the greatest accuracy the minutest
dififerences in the impressions made upon our organs of
sense. ^Ye are thus enabled to discover the slightest change
of color or of outline, the minutest differences in hardness,
smoothness or temperature, and the almost imperceptible
variations in sound and interval. The nicer our d-'ecri mi-
nation in these respects becomes, the wider is the field of
observation open to discovery. In this respect, much must
depend upon the original perfection of the organs themselves :
but that more depends upon careful cultivation, is evident
from the fact that whole tribes of savages, of by nc meana
delicate organization, attain to remarkable accaracj la th«
asc of their organs of sense,
ACOriRED «>ERCEPTION0. 8&
Secondly, we must learn to associate with each variation
observed by one sense, the quality or condition discovered
by another sense. In this manner we acquire the language
of nature, and are enabled to interpret it for our own bene-
fit and the benefit of others. We are thus able to form
judgments which, to the uninitiated, seem like the result of
magic. Thus, distinctness and indistinctness of color and
outline teach us the magnitude and distance of objects many
miles off. Thus the Indian, by observing minute differ-
ences of sound, will form an accurate judgment undei
circumstances Avhich would leave other men wholly in dark-
ness.
The physician, by placing his ear on the chest of his
patient, can tell whether the organs within are healthy or
diseased, and can thus the better employ such m^ans of
cure as will accomplish the result which he proposes.
It is hardly necessary to remark that the progress of
the arts enables us to cultivate our acquired perceptions
with greater success. The microscope and the telescope
have greatly increased our power in this respect. Instru-
ments for observing infinitesimal changes in temperature
will probably lead to similar results. The tendency of
science is in this direction, and it will, without doubt, lead
to a rich harvest of discovery.
Before closing this section, it is proper to remark that
in the use of acquired perceptions we are liable to form
false judgments, and then to complain that our senses have
deceived us. I once saw, on a door-post, the painting of
a key hanging on a nad, and it was so well executed that
1 was not aware of the deception until I attempted to take
it down. Here it might be said that my senses deceived
me, but such was not the fact. My ey;:s testified truly to
all that they promised to mike known. They testified to a
certain color and shading. This <*Y'denco wa.3 in its naiuro
86 irfTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
ambiguous tor the effect might be produced either by 8
painting or bj a real key. Without sufficient attention, 1
inferred that it was a key, when I ought to have examined
it more carefull3^ But nij senses did not deceive me. for
the eye testified truly, and when I applied to another sense,
it enabled me to form a true judgment. I was misled ]>y
my own negligence, and not by any defect in my senses. I
ought, perhaps, to add that the deception in this case waa
aiiled by my companion, who directed my attention to the
door, and asked me to hand him the key that he might open
it. Had it not been for this circumstance, I should probably
have discovered the truth from the effect of binocular vision
It will be found that all the cases which are commonly as
cribed to deception of the senses are of the same character
as that to which I have here referred. Our senses always
testify truly, but we sometimes deceive ourselves by the
inference which we draw from their evidence. The defect
resides in our inference, and not in our senses, for it is by
the use of our senses, alone, that we are enabled to correct
the error into which we have fallen by our own inadver-
tence.
REFERENCES.
Original and acquired perceptions — Reid's Inquiry, chap 6, sec. 20—
23. Abercrombie, Part ii., sec. 1.
Improvement of the senses — Reid, Essays on the Intellectual Power«
Eisay '2, sec. 21.
BECTION X. OF THE NATURE OF THE KNOWLEDGE WHICH
WE ACQUIRE BY THE PERCEPTIVE POWERS.
Having, in the preceding sections, treated of the mannei
n which our knowledge of the external tvo)ld is acf][uired
QUALITIES OF BODIES. 87
i propose, in the present section, to offer some suggestions
OEi the nature of tliis knowledge.
1. Tiie knowledge which we acquire bj pcrceptioi
is always of individuals. If we see several trees, we see
them not as a class, but as separate and distinct objects
of perception. If we see several men, as John, James,
Edward, we see each one as a distinct individual. The
same remark applies to the acts which we observe. We see
John strike James ; that is, we see a particular individual
perform a particular act. We thus see, that while, from
the knowledge gained by the perceptive faculties, we subse-
quently form genera and species, yet, without the aid of
some other powers of the mind, to form genera and species
would be impossible. Our several items of knowledge
would be like separate grains of sand, without cohesion and
without affinity.
2. The knowledge derived from the perceptive powers
is always knowledge of the concrete. When we perceive a
body, we do not cognize the color, figure, temperature, etc.,
each as an abstract quality, and then afterwaids unite them
in one conception ; but we perceive a body, colored, of such
a figure and temperature ; that is, a body in which all these
qualities are united. The fii-st impression made upon us is
the cognition of an external object possessing all these
qualities ; or, at lea.st, so many as are cognizable by
the senses which are at the time directed towards them.
We have the power of separating these qualities, in thought,
the one from the other, and of making each of them a dis-
tinct object of attention. This, however, is the function of j i p
R f iculty of the mind to be treated of hereafter. ! j }\
3. Of primary and secomlary qualities. j ''
It has been already stated that our knowledge is of qual- M
ities. not of essences. We do not cognize the objects arouo j
as absolutely, we cognize them as possessel of certain means
88 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
of aflfecting us, and thus giving U3 notice of the modes of
their existence.
The qualities of matter have, of old, been divided int<!
two classes, which, at a later period, have been denominated
primary and secondary. The primary qualities are those
which, by necessity, enter into our notion of matter ; which
we must conceive of as belonging to body, as soon as we
conceive of body at all. Such are extension, divisibility,
magnitude, figure, solidity, and mobility. "We cannot think
of matter, without involving these qualities in our very
notion of it. If we conceive of matter as the only thing
created, before any sentient being was created to cognize it
we think of it as possessing all these qualities in as perfect
a manner as at present.
The secondary qualities are those which are not necessary
to our conception of matter as matter, yet which give it
the power of variously aflfecting us as sentient beings pos-
sessed of such or such an organism. Such are smelly
taste, sound, color, hardness, softness, and many others.
These might all be absent, or wholly unrecognized, and yet
our idea of matter as matter would be definite and precise.
They are only cognized by means of their appropriate media
If the media had not been created, no conception of thcL
could ever have been formed. We cognize them only by
means of our peculiar organism. Had this organism been
created of a different character, these qualities could never
have been known. Of the primary qualities themselves wo
form a definite idea: we know that they are what they
eeom to us to be. Of the secondary qualities, in themselves,
we know nothing more than this, that some occult cause
possesses the power of aflfecting us by means of our senses in
this or that manner, or of creating in us such or such
cognitions.
These secondary qualities have been, more lately, very
QUALITIES OF BO JlES. 89
properly divided into two classes. First, those which we
(>ogQize bj their relation to our own organism : and, sec-
ondlj, those which we cognize by their relations to othei
bodies. Thus, malleability, ductility, and various othei
qualities, are cognized by the action of various metals on
each other. Gold and steel are, to our organism, equally
unmalleable ; that is, we can make no impression upon either
by voluntary effort. But when gold is brought into forcible
contact with steel, its quality becomes manifest. The same
is true of brittleness, and various other qualities.
Sir William Hamilton, after examining this subject with
unsurpassed acuteness. has suggested another classification of
the qualities of matter. It will be found, treated of in full
in note D to his edition of the works of Dr. Reid. To pur-
sue the subject at length, would be impossible within the Lmita
that must be assigned to the present work. I shall attempt
no more than to present a condensed view of some of the
most important elements of his classification.
Sir William Hamilton divides the qualities of matter int
three classes. First, primary or objective ; second, secundo-
primary or subjecto-objective ; and third, secondary or sub-
jective qualities. The primary are objective, not subjective,
percepts proper, not sensations proper ; the secundo-primary
are both objective and subjective, percepts proper and sensa-
tions proper; the secondary are subjective, not objective,
sensations proper, not percepts proper.
1. Of the primary qualities.
These are all deducible from two elementary ideas. "We
are unable to conceive of a body except, first, a^ occupying
space, and second, as contained in space. FroBC the fiist of
these follow, by necessary explication, extension divisibility,
size, density or rarity, and figure ; from the second ari
explicated incompressibility t.bsolute, mobility, situatioa
2. The secundo-primary.
90 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
These have two phases, both immediately apprehv^nded
" On their primary or objective phasis. thej manifest them«
selves as degrees of resistance opposed to our locomotive
energy ; on their secondary or subjective phasis, as modes
of resistance, a presence affecting our sentient organism.''
" Considered physically, or in an objective relation, they are
CO be reduced tc classes corresponding to the diffeient
sources in external nature, from which resistance or pressure
springs. These sources are three.
I. Co-attraction. II. Repulsion. III. Inertia.
From co-attraction result gravity and cohesion.
From gravity result heavy and light.
From cohesion follow, 1. Hard and soft ; 2. Firm ani
fluid ; 3. Viscid and friable ; 4. Tough and brittle ; 5.
Rigid and flexible; 6. Fissile and infissile; 7. Ductile
and inductile; 8. Retractile and ii retractile ; 9. Rough
and smooth ; 10. Slippery and tenacious.
From repulsion are evolved, 1. Compressible and incom-
pressible ; 2. Resilient snd irresilient.
From inei tia are evolved, Movable and Immovable.
8. The secondary qualities.
"These are not, in propriety, qualities of bodies at all.
As apprehended, they are only subjective affections, and
belong only to bodies in so far as these are supposed fur-
nished with the powers capable of specifically determining
the various parts of our nervous apparatus to the partic-
ular action, or rather passion, of which they are susceptible;
which determined action or passion is the quality of which
we are 'mmediately cognizant; the external concause of
that internal effect remaining to the perception altogether
unknown.''
"Of the secondary qualities," that is. those phenomenal
affections determined in our sentient organism by the agency
of eKternal bodies, " there are various kinds; the vaiiet'
QUALITIES OF BODIES. 91
principally depending on the differences of the different
parts of our nervous apjxiratus. Such are tht proper sensi-
sibles, the idiopathic aflections of our several organs of sense,
as color, sound, flavor, savor, and tactual sensation ; such
are the feelings from heat, electricity, galvanism, etc., and
the muscular and cutaneous sensations whicii accompany the
perception of the secundo-primary qualities. Such, though
less directly the result of foreign causes, are titillation,
gneczing, horripilation, shuddering, tlie feeling of what is
called setting the teeth on edge, etc. etc. Such, in fine,
ore all the various sensations of bodily pleasure and pain,
determined by the action of external stimuli."
Concerning these in general, it may be remarked,
1. " The primary are qualities, only as we conceive then^
to distinguish body from not-body ; they are tlie attributes
of body as body, corporis ut cor/nis. The secondary and
secundo-primary are moi-e properly denominated qualities,
for they discriminate body fiom body. They are the attri-
butes of body, as this or that kind of body, corporis ut tale
corpus. ^^
2. " The primary arise from the universal relations of
bod^ to itself; the secundo-primary, from the general rela-
tions of this body to that ; the secondary, from the special
relations of this kind of body to this or that kind of sentient
organism.
3. '' U'.der the primary we apprehend the modes of the
non ego ; under the secundo-primary we apprehend the
modes be .h of the ego and the non ego ; under the second-
ary we apprehend modes of the ego, and infer modes of the
ion ego.
4. " The primary are apprehended as they are in bodies;
he secondary, as they are in us ; the secundo-primary, ai
hoy are in bodies and as they are in us.
6. '• The terms designating primary qualities are univ(>cal
V^ INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
marking out one quality ; those designating the secundo-pri
mary and secondary are equivocal, denoting botk a mode oi
existence in bodies and a mode of affection in cur organism.'
Of these qualities, in particular, considered as i.n bodies,
1. " Tlie primary are the qualities of a body in relation
to our organism as a body simply ; the secundo-pri msry ara
the qualities of a body in relation to our organism as a pro-
pelling, resisting, cohesive body ; the secondary are the
qualities of body in relation to our organism as an idiopath-
ically excitable and sentient body.
2. " The primary are known immediately in themselves;
the secundo-primary, both immediately in themselves and
mediately in their effects on us ; the secondary, only medi-
ately in their effects on us.
8. " The primary are apprehended objects ; the secondary,
inferred powers ; the secundo-primary, both apprehended
jbjects and inferred pov/ers.
4. "The primary are conceived as necessary and perceived
as actual ; the secundo-primary are perceived and conceive<J
as actual ; the secondary are inferred and conceived as pos-
sible.
5. "The primary may be roundly characterized as mathe-
matical ; the secundo-primary, as mechanical ; the secondary,
as physiological."
Of these qualities considered as cognitions,
1. " We are conscious as objects, in the primary qualities,
of the modes of the not-self; in the secondary, of the modea
of a self; in the secundo-primary, of the modes of a self and
ft not-self, at once.
2. " Using the terms strictly, the apprehensions of the
primary are perceptions, not sensations ; of the secondary,
aensatious, not perceptions ; of secundo-primary, sensationa
and perceptions together.
3. "In tbo primary there is thus no concomitant seconi
QrALITIES OF «0i:iE3. &3
ary quality; in the secondary, no conoot^Hun* primary
qualitv ; in the secundo-priniarj, a secondary and q:\a3i-
primary quality accompany each otlier.
4. "In the apprehension of the primary, there h «.o Au^-
ject-cbject determined by the object-object ; in the secucdo-
primary, there is a subject-object determined by the object-
object ; in the secondary, the subject-object is the only
object of immediate cognition."
I have not, in the above quotations, inserted all the acute
and valuable distinctions of our author. I have selected
those only which seemed to me the most important, and
which discriminate most clearly the characteristic elementa
of these modes of cognition. For a more extended view of
the subject I must refer the reader to the work itself,
where he will find every distinction wrought out with a
power of metaphysical analysis which has never been sur-
In regard to Sir William's classification, if I may hazard
an opinion, I think that his distinctions are rendered obvi-
ous and beyond dispute. Whether his classification includes
all the secundo-primary qualities, I am by no means certain.
In so far as these qualities are apprehended by their eflfecta
on our organism, his classification appears exhaustive. But
what shall we say of that class of qualities which arise from
the relations of insentient bodies to each other, as malleabil-
ity, chemical afiinity, and various others 7 These are not
known by any impression on our organism, as a propelling,
resisting, cohesive body. They are not primary qualities.
They are not cognized by our idiopathic sentient organism.
They must be secundo-primary, but I think are not included
m our author's classification.
4. Leaving now the subject of primary and secondary qual-
'ttiea. I proceed to remark, that the knowledge derived froin
94 INTELLECTUAl PHILOSOPnT.
perception is truly knowledge ; that is, the evidence jf oui
senses is worthy of belief.
Tlius, I open my eyes, and I perceive before me a book
I put forth my hands, and feel of it. My percf ptions per-
fectly coincide. Tliey both testify to the existence of an
external object, numerically distinct from myself, of such a
magnitude, form, situation. I am conscious of a state of
mind which I call perception; and of that state of mind one
of the elements is an unalterable conviction that the object
exists now and here, just as I perceive it. This conviction
is a necessary part of my state of mind, if, indeed, it bo
not the state of mind itself This conscious perception ia
to me the knowledge that this book exists. If I am asked
■why I believe thus, or have this conviction, I can give no
other account of it than that I am so made It k a cogni-
tion given me in virtue of my creation. It I am asked tc
prove it, I must plead my inability to do so. I can prove
no proposition except by some other proposition of higher
authority. But there is no proposition of higher authority
than this cognition given me by my Creator, who made me
so ih it, under certain conditions, I cannot choose but have
it. If I am asked to prove that I exist, I am unable to do
it for the same reason, namely, that I have no more evident
proposition which can be 'used as a medium of proof I am
so made that the existence of an external world is revealed
to me at the same time and just as obtrusively as my own
existence. By the constitution of my mind, the one fact
is as clearly revealed to me as the other.
But this subject is capable of more extended illustration
and explication.
1. •• Our cognitions, it is evident, are not all at second
hand." Demonstration must at last rest upon propositiong
which carfy their own evidence, and necessitate their own
admission. Were it otherwise, were there no truths which
Validity of percepttojt. ^5
revealed themselves to the human mind, all projf wjuld
je nugatory ; it would be a succession of ar^amr ctj, each
one resting on something yet to be proveJ. Sorae truth
must then be given to us in our creation aa iu'.epjgent be-
ings, on which we may found our reasoning, aud from which
all demonstration must proceed.
If it be asked, how do these prima' y cogTi'cions assure ug
of their truth and certify us of their ^'er.cy, tao only answer ig
that they are results of our mental 'X)j':,t'.tution. As soon
as a human mind apprehends them, T/i'.hout arguraent or
proof, it immediately knows them to be true. The only
answer we can give to him who asks us a reason of these
beliefs is, that we are so made, we are created to believe
them. To suppose thfir falsehood, is to suppose that we are
created thus simply in order that we may be deceived.
And as, besides this, it is upon these beliefs that all subse-
quent knowledge is founded, if we deny them, all knowl-
edge is a delusion, and truth and falsehood are unmeaning
terms. This, surely, without any proof, cannot be asserted ;
and, hence, I think it must be conceded that we must in the
first instance receive these beliefs as true, until they are
shown to be false, and just in so far as they are shown to be
false. That we do thus by the constitution of our nature
believe in the testimony of our senses, that we do thus uni-
versally admit it. is, I think, beyond controversy. It is,
therefore, to be believed until it is shown to be unfounded.
But it may possibly be denied that this belief is one of
those wiven us by our creation, or one of the first truths
reveakd to the common sense of man by virtue of his intcl-
Vctual constitution What, then, are the characteristics bv
which these truths may be known 7
Sir "W. Hamilton reduces these characteristics to the- foui
fbllowing :
1. They are incomprehensible. " A conviction Is in
96 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
comprehensil'le when there is merely given us in conscioiis
ness that its object is, and when we are unable to compre«
Lend, through a higher notion or belief, whi/ or hotc it is.
" When we are able to comprehend why or how a thing is,
the belief of the existence of that thing is not a primary
datum of consciousness, but a subsumption under the condi-
tion or belief which affords its reason."
2. Thf"!/ are si?7iple. "It is manifest that if a cogni-
tion or belief be made up of, and can be explicated into, a
plurality of cognitions or beliefs, that, as compound, it can-
not be original."
3. Thei/ are necessary and imiversal " If necessary,
they must, of course, be universal. The necessity here
spoken of is of two kinds. The first kind is when we can-
not construe it to our minds that the deliverance of con-
sciousness is not true, or when the opposite of the assertion
is unthinkable. Thus the proposition that a part is greater
than the whole, or that two stiaight lines can at the same
time be parallel and at right angles in the same plane, is
unthinkable. There is another necessity, however, which
is not unthinkable, when the deliverance of consciousness
may be false, but when, at the same time, we cannot but
admit that it is of such or such an import. This is the case
in contingent truths, or what may be called matters of fact.
In this case, the thing is not conceived as absolutely impos-
sible, but impossible under the present constitution of things.
or we being as we are. Thus, I can theoretically suppose
that the external ohjeet of which I am conscious in percep-
tion may be in reality nothing but a mode of mind, or self.
I am unable, however, to think that consciousness does not
3'nnpel me to regard it as external, as a mode of matter or
not self Such being the case. I cannot practically believe
the supposition which I am able speculatively to maintain;
for I cannot believe this supposition without believing that
VALIDITY OF PERCEPTION 97
she last ground of all belief is not to be believed, wliich is
self-contradictor J.
4. Their comparative evidence and cntabiiy. "These
truths are so clear and obvious that nothing more clear or
obvious can be conceived bj which to prove them." Ac-
coriing to Buffier, they " are so clear, that if we attempt to
pr^^ve or disprove them, this can be done only by proposi-
tions which are manifestly neither more evident nor more
certain."
Now, so far as I can perceive, all these characteristics
belong to the deliverance of consciousness in perception.
They are incomprehensible, simple, practically necessary,
and of such clearness of manifestation that they can neither
be proved nor disproved by anything more evident. We are
then entitled to consider them first truths, or truths revealed
to man in the constitution of his nature. If such deliver-
.nces are not to be believed, then nothing is to be believed,
and all knowledge is essentially impossible.
But the subject may be finally considered from another
point of view.
The data of consciousness may be considered as two-fold.
1. "As apprehended facts or actual manifestations." As
when I sa}', I see a tree, or I feel a cube, there is an actual
manifestation to me that I am in that particular state of
mind described by these words. Consciousness reveals to
me that fact as the present state of my mind.
2. " These deliverances of consciousness may be consid-
ered as testimonies to the truth of facts beyond their own
phenomenal reality." These acts of consciousness are the
testimonies to the fact tha* tLat tree and that cube are now
existing. It is. however, to be observed that the testimony
to the existence of this state jf mind, and to the existence
of the tree which tliis state of mind cognizes, is given ua
in the same act.
9
•J8 INTELLECTUAL PHI10S0FH7.
The truth cf this first testimony of conscious! .ess is ad
inittcd by all. When consciousness testifi'js that I am now
in a mental state which I call perception, it cannot be
doubted that such is the fact. The doubt, in this case, is
clearly suicidal. The state of mind caJed perception is at
tested by consciousness. The state which I call doubting
is attested by the same consciousness. If, then, conscioug-
ness is not to be believed when it testifies to perception,
neither is it to be believed when it testifies to doubting. So
that, if a man doubts whether he is really in the state of
mind called perception, he must equally doubt whether he
is in the state of mind which he calls doubting. He musr
doubt whether he doubts, just as much as he doubts whethei
he perceives, meaning, by this term, a mere subjective act.
a state of the thinking subject.
There may, however, be without absurdity a doubt as to the
other part of the act ; that is, to the truth of this testimony
as to something numerically different from the subject. It
may be said that this is merely a subjective state of the mind
itself; that it is merely a form of the ego produced b_y the
action of some subjective cause, and that it givjs us no
knowledge of anything external.
To this objection it may be answered,
1. "It cannot but be acknowledged that the veracity of
consciousness must, at least in the first instance, be conceded.
Neganti i?iciimbit probatio. Nature is not gratuitously to
be assumed to work, not only in vain, but in counteractir-n
of herself. Our faculty of knowledge is not, without a
ground, to be supposed an instrument of illusion. Man,
unless tlie melancholy fact be "iroved, s not t'^ be held
organized for the attainment and actuated by the love of
truth, only to become the dupe and victim of a perfidioui
Creator."
2. " But, granting that these convirtiona are at the b*
VALIDITY OF PERCEPTION. ;*9
pmmng to be received as true, it is yet competent tf» attempt
to prove them false, and thus correct an error into which
we have been led by our constitution. But how shall this
be done 7 As the ultimate grounds of knowledge, these
convictions cannot be redargued from any higher knowledge:
and as derivative beliefs they are paramount in certainty to
every derivative knowledge. They cannot, therefore, be
disproved by knowledge derived from any other source, for
the most certain knowledge which we possess must rest upon
the same foundation as the testimony of our own con-
sciousness."
3. " If, then, these convictions be disproved, they must
be disproved by themselves. This can be done only by one
of two methods. First, it mu.st be shown that these pri-
mary data are diref tly and immediately contradictory of
themselves." "Tbey are many, they are in authority co-
ordinate, and their testimony is clear and precise.' Now,
if this testimony is intellr ctually or in fact, at variance, then
we must conclude either that one or the other, or both, tes-
timonies are false. Or, secondly, it must be proved "that
they are mediately or indirectly contradictory, inasmuch
as the consequences to which they necessarily lead, and for
tiie truth or fulsehood of which they are therefore responsi-
ble, are repugnant. In no other way can the veracity of
consciousness be assailed. It will argue nothing to show
that they are incomprehensible, for nothing can be more
absurd than to make the comprehensibility of a datum of
consciousness, the criterion of its truth. To ask h:w an
immediate fact of consciousness is possible, is to ask how
consciousness is possible ; and to ask how consciousness ia
possible, is to suppose we have another consciousness above
and before that human consciousness concerning whose mode
©f operation we inquire. Could we answer this, verily we
ihoold be as gods." Neither of these attempts \n\s ever been
100 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
made. We may, therefore, receive the testimony of ayu
sciousness as true beyond the reach of argument or contra-
diction.
4. And, lastly, consciousness testifies to two things : first
that there is now existing a state of mind; and, secondly
that that state of mind is an actual cognition of an extewial
Wi^rld possessing such or such qualities. Suppose we admit
the first testimony; how, then, admitting this, can we reject
the other testimony of which it forms a part ? What dis-
tinction can we take between the two items of the same tes-
cimony, by which we can receive the one and reject the
.:>ther. Or, on the other hand, suppose we deny the testi-
mony of consciousness to the truth of the perception, how
can we admit it when it attests to an existing state of mind'.'
If the one is false, the other may be true, but it is surely
not to be credited. Thus the very fiicts of our subjective
existence would be shown to be unworthy of belief, and the
evidence of the existence of the ego and the non ego would
be s\\ept away together.
In this and the preceding article I have used the thoughts,
and, for the most part, the language of Sir W. Hamilton.
It gives me pleasure to acknowledge my obligations to a
gentleman, whose boundless learning in every department of
human knowledge, united with unrivalled acuteness and
rare power of examining with perfect distinctness the mi-
nutest shades of thought, have long since given him a posi-
tion among the profoundest philosophers of this or any other
age.
5. I close this section with a few remarks upon the law of
perception in its relation to evidence. This law may bo
stated in few words.
1. When all our faculties are in a normal state, and an
appropriate object is presented to an organ of sense, a sen-
sation or a perception immediately ensues. We cannr t by
VALIDITY OF PEKt'EKi'lUN. 101
jrar will prevent it. If I open my eyes, I cannot escape the
Bi^^ht uf the object before me. If a sound is made, near tc
2ie, I cannot by my will prevent hearing it ; and the same
IS true of all other senses.
2. On the other hand, my faculties being in their normal
condition, if no object is presented to my organs of sense,
1 can perceive none. I cannot perceive what I will, but
only what is presented to me. I cannot see a tree, unless a
tree is before me. I cannot hear a sound, unless a sound is
produced within hearing ; and so of the rest.
3. Hence it follows that if, under normal conditions, I
am conscious of perceiving an external object, then that
object exists when and where I perceive it. The conscious
perception could exist under no other conditions. It is a
fact which admits of being accounted for in no other man-
ner. And, on the other hand, if, under normal circum-
stances, I perceive no object, then no object exists to be
perceived.
These simple laws lie at the foundation of the evidence
of testimony. If* we perceive an event, we know that that
event is transpiring. If we remember that we perceived it,
■we know that it has transpired. So, if we are satisfied
that credible witnesses were conscious of perceiving an ob-
ject, we know that the object existed as perceived. If un-
der circumstances, such that if it were present they must
have perceived it, and they were conscious of no percep-
tion, then we know tliat the object was not present. The
further consideration of the conditions by which these lawa
are limited belongs to the science of evidence. The state-
ment of the law itself is all that concerns to our present
inquiry.
Within a few years past various statements have been
made which seem to modify the above laws. It has been
aasertod that persons, under the influence of wh'\t is called
9*
102 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
meamerisir can be rendered perfectly unconsc joua of what
is passing around them; that thej are able to cognize per-
sons and events without the intervention of the appropriate
media, and unler circumstances which render it certaii.
that such cognitions could not have originated in the ordi
nary use of the organs of sense. This subject has attracte \
oonsiderable attention, both in this country and in Europe.
Sir W. Hamilton remarks: " However astonishing, it is low
proved, beyond all rational doubt, that, in certain abnormal
states of the nervous organism, perceptions are possible
through other than the ordinary channels of the senses." —
Hamilton's Reid, page 2-16, note 2, Edinburgh edition.
It has been, I believe, proved beyond dispute, that pa-
tients under this influence have submitted to the most dis-
tressing operations without consciousness of pain ; that other
persons have cognized events at a great distance, and have
related them correctly at the time; and that persons totally
'blind, when in the state of mesmeric consciousness have
enjoyed for the time the power of perceiving external ob-
jects. So far as I have been inforn^ed, while these distant
cogtiitions are sometimes correct, they are as frequently
wholly erroneous, and the person is totally unable to distin-
guish the true from the false. The subject seems to nr.e
well worthy of the most searching and candid examination.
The facts seem to indicate some more general laws of exter-
nal cognition than have yet been discovered. The matter
is by no means deserving of ridicule, but demands the atten-
tion cf the most p' ilosophical inquirers.
REFEREXCES.
KnoTi ledge acquired by perception is of individuals — Locke, Book 4,
thap. 7, sec. 9 ; Reid, Essay 5, chap. 1.
The knowledge acquired by perception is real — Beid, Essay 2, chaps, i
%ad20
coNCEPTroN. lOa
l»Timarj and seconAiry qualities — Locke, b)3k 2d, chap. 8, sec. 9, 10.
M, 24 ; Reid, Kssny -id.ch. 17 ; Cousin, ch. 6.
yir W. Hamilton, Dissertation supplementary to Reid ; note D.
Laws of Perception — Reid, Essay 2d, ch. 1, 2.
The credibility of the evidence of perception demonstrated — Sir W
Hamilton's Dissertation on Co' Vnon Sense. Note A, as above.
SECTION XI. — OF CONCEPTION.
The subject of conception is, in its origin, so intimately
ftllied to perception, that, although it enters as a constituent
eh;ment into almost everj act of the mind, there seems a
propriety in treating of it here.
The word conception has already frequently occurred in
the preceding pages. It is proper that it should be more
defii.itely explained.
Ct.nceptiou has been defined as that act of the mind in
which we form a notion or thought of a thing. To this,
however, it has been objected, that the word notion or
thought in this place means the same as conception, and
tliat we might with the same propriety reverse the defini-
tion, and say that the having a notion of a thing was the
forming a conception of it. There seems to be force in this
objection. Tlie fact is, that a simple act of the mind is in-
capable of definition. We can do no more than present the
circumstances under which it arises, and our own conscious-
ness at once teaches us what is meant.
1. To proceed in this manner, then, I would observe that
when I look upon a book, or any external object, I instantly
Term a notion of it, of a particular kind. I know it as an ex-
ternal body, numerically distinct from myself, of a certain
tvyfra color and magnitude, at this moment and in this
place existing before me. When I handle a book, I have th«
1U4 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
same notion, the quality of color onlj excepted. Thii
knowledge is called perception.
2. Secondly, I find that when the object of perception ia
removed, and Uie act of perception ceases, a know ledge of
the object is still present to my mii-i. This is called a cuu-
ception. Thus, the book which I just now perceived is re-
moved, but the conception of it is still an object of con-
sciousness. A cube which I saw is burned to ashes, but I
have a distinct conception of its form and dimensions. I can
recall to my mind the cataract which I saw last summer, the
house in which I slept, or particular portions of the road over
which I passed. In these cases, however, the conception ia
not simple ; it is combined with the act of memory. I have
not only the conception, but the assurance or belief, that at
a certain time these objects actually existed as I now con-
ceive of them.
3. But let us now separate this act of conception from
the act of memory. We can conceive of a tree or a cataract
without connecting it with the idea either of present or
past existence. We are doing this continually in the course
of our own thoughts. We do it when we read a romance. We
are here continually forming images of things, places, and
persons, which we know never existed. So, in a geometri-
cal demonstration, we form for ourselves the conception of a
figure, and proceed to reason upon it, though we have never
Been it represented to the eye.* A concept or concep-
* The word conception is commonly used in two or three significations,
tt is employed to designate the power or faculty, the individual act of that
f-iculty, and that act considered as an object of thought. On this subject
Sir W. Hamilton remarks, " We ought to distinguish imagination and
image, conception and concept. Imagination am' conception ought to b|
employeil in speaking of the mental modification, one and indivisiole, coft
Bidered as an act; im.age and concept, in speaking of it, considerea t«
product or immediate object " — Note to page 263,
CONCEPTION. lO.*)
Uon Is, therefore, that representation or cognition of a
thing which we form in the mind when we are thinking of
it.
4. A.gam, when we think of an act of the mind as thmk-
ing, willing, believing, or of any emotion, as joy or sorrow,
ire form a conception of it. We cannot think it unless wa
can do this. Hence, when a state of mind is spoken of which
we cannot represent to ourselves in thought, we say we can-
not conceive of it ; that is, the words spoken do not awaken
in us any corresponding conception.
5. Again, by the faculty of abstraction we may analyze
the elements of these concrete conceptions, and combine
them into general or abstract ideas. Thus, from several in-
dividual hoi-ses we form the general notion of a horse, mean-
ing the genus, and having respect to no individual horse
existing. These are general conceptions, or conceptions of
genera or species.
6. We have also conceptions of general intuitive truths,
Buch as the axioms of mathematics. We conceive of the
truth that the whole is greater than its part, or that if
equals be added to equals the wholes are equal. So we form
conceptions of general relations, as of cause and effect
power, and many others.
7. Lastly, we are able to form images by combining into
one whole, elements previously existing in the mind, as when
a painter conceives of a landscape, or of a historical group.
This form of conception is more properly styled imagination.
In all cases of conception where the act is completed, if I
do not mistake, we form something of the nature of a pic-
ture, which the mind contemplates as the object of thought.
I am aware that, in speaking and writing, when the termd
are perfectly familiar, we do not pause and form the con-
ception. Thus, we use the axioms, in demonstration, without
pausing to reflect upon the words we employ, and yet we
106 ixtelle:tual philcsophi.
use tliem \^hh entire accuracy. Thus we speak of caogC
and effect, number, and various other ideas. When, how-
ever, Ave attempt to dwell upon any one of these ideas, sc
far as I can observe, we form a concept of it in the mind.
Thus, when I think of the term horse as a genus, and dwell
upon it in thought, there is before me, as an object, a con-
cept of such an animal. So. if I think the axiom the whol^
is greater than its part, two magnitudes corresponding to
these terms present themselves before me. From this
remark, however, must be excepted those cases in which we
recognize a truth as a necessary condition of thought, as
duration, space, and ideas of a similar character. Even
here, however, we find the mind from its natural impulse
striving to realize something which shall correspond to a
concept.
Of conceptions thus explained it may be remarked in
general :
1. In conception there is nothing numerically distinct
from the act of the mind itself From the analogies of Ian -
guage we are liable to be misled in thinking of this subject.
We speak of forming a conception, and of forming a machine ;
of separating the elements of a conception, and of separating
the parts of an object from one another. As in the one
case there is some object distinct from the e^o, we are prone
to suppose that there must be also in the other. There is,
however, in conception nothing but the act of the mind
itself We may, nevertheless, contemplate th?s act from
different points of view ; first, as an act of the mind, or as
the mind in this particular act, and, secondly, as a product
of that act which we use in thinking. There is, however
Dumerically nothing but the act of the mind itself
2. Conception enters into all the other acts of the mind.
In the simplest sensation there is, for the time being, a
knowledge or a notion, though it may remain w^th ug nvt 9
CONCEPTION 101
CQOmsnt after the object producing it is withdrawn. We
can have a knowledge of our own powers only as we luive
conceptions of them. "We can remember, cr judge, or rea-
son, only as we have conceptions. In fact, all our menta.
processes are about conceptions. Of them, all our knowl-
edge consists.
3. Our conceptions are to us the measure of possibility
When any proposition cannot be conceived, that is, is un-
thinkable, we declare it impossible or absurd. Thus, if n
be said that a part is greater than the whole, that two
straigh* lines can enclose space, or that a change can take
place in a body while all the conditions of its existence re-
main absolutely the same, I undei^tand the assertion ; but
when I attempt to form a conception of it, that is, to thinK
it. I find myself unable to do so. I affirm it to be impos-
sible. On the other hand, I may think of a communication
between the earth and the moon. In the present state of
science it is impracticable, but it is within the limits of
thought, and my mind is not so organized that I feel it to
oe impossible. This case, is, however, to be distinguishea
from the unconditional, the incomprehensible. This, from
the nature of our intellect, we know to be necessary ; it is
not contradictory to thought, though to grasp the concep-
tion is imjtossible. In the other case we are able to com-
prehend the terms, but we are unable to construe them in
thought : in other words, the relation which is affirmed ia
unthinkable.
4. In simple conception, or where it is unattended by
any other act of the mind, there is neither truth nor false
hood. I may conceive of a red mountain, of a blue rose, of
A winged horse, but the conception has nothing to do with
my belief in the existence of either of these objects. If the
■jonception is united with an act of judgment or memory
Oien it at once becomes either true r false. In the conceiv
108 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
tion itself, however, I can discover neither. Stewart, 1
know, advances a contrary opinion ; but 1 must confess my-
self wholly unconvinced by his reasoning.
5. Conceptions may be either clear and distinct, or obscure
and indistinct. We easily observe the difference here spoken
of in the effects produced on us by different descriptions.
Some authors describe a scene with so graphic a power that we
at once form a conception as definite as though we had our-
selves beheld it. Others use emphatic and imposing lan-
guage, but they leave on us no distinct impression. Wc
are deluged by a shower of words, but no conception is
imprinted on the memory.
6. Conceptions may be strong and vivid, or faint and
languid. The same scene may with equal faithfulness be
described to us by two persons. The one deeply affects us,
while the other hardly interests us sufficiently to command
our continued attention. We observe the same effect in
ourselves, resulting from the accident;al tone of our own minda.
At some times we find our conceptions much stronger than
at others, under precisely the same external circumstances.
From what has been observed, it will readily appear that
the power of forming conceptions differs greatly in differ-
ent individuals. Every teacher must have remarked this
fact, in his attempts to communicate instruction. Some per-
sons will at once seize upon the salient points of a concep-
tion, discover its bearing and relations, and hold it steadily
before the mind, until it becomes incorporated with their
knowledge. They never can be satisfied until they have
attained to this result. Others require repeated explana-
tions, and, when they suppose themselves to have mastere'J
a conception, we are surpi-ised to observe that no important
point seems to have arrested Uieir attention, but that there
rest on their minds only considerations of inferior impor
tanco blended together in dim and uncertain confusion.
CONCEPTION. 10&
The differeno3, in this respect, is still more remarkable it
the connection of conception with the fine arts, though per-
haps this exercise of the power belongs rather to the imngi-
nation. A portrait-painter will form so distinct a concep-
tion of a countenance tlat, years afterward, he will lepro-
aent it correctly on canvas. The same power f forming
distinct conceptions is essenuai to the poet or novelist. No
one can read the descriptions of Sir Waller Scott without
being sensible of his high endowment in this respect. Kor
was this power limited to the scenes which he himself had
witnessed. His description of a summer day in the deserts
of Syria could not have been surpassed by the most gifted
Bedouin Arab. It was to this power that he owed much
of that brilliant conversational eminence, which rendered
him the centre of attraction in every circle in which he
chose to unbend himself.
REFERENCES.
Conception — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 1
Formed at will — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1.
Enter into every other act of the iniud — Reid, Essay 4, chap 1.
Neither true nor false — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1.
Ingredients derived from other powers — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1.
Analogy between painting and conception — Reid, Essay 4, chap. I
Conception in general — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3.
Attended with belief — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3.
Power of description depends on — Stewart, vol. L, chap. 3.
Improved by habit — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3.
Conception — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect. 1.
Clear or obscure — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect. 1.
In conception neither truth nor falsehood — Lock* Pook 2d, chap 2S
mxts. 1—4, 19, 20.
Clear or obscui • — Locke, Book 2, ch 29, sect. 1
10
CHAPTER II.
OONSC10,7S>5ESS, ATTENTION, AND REFLECTIOW.
SECTION I. CONSCIOUSNESS.
Consciousness is that condition of the mind in which i)
is cognizant of its own operations. It is not thinking and
feeling, but that condition in which we know that we think
or feel. Thought, however, is necessary to consciousness
for unless thought existed, we could not be conscious of it.
We may nevertheless suppose a mental act to be performed
of which we have no consciousness. In such a case we
should have no knowledge of its present existence, and
should only know that it had existed by its results.
On this subject, however, a considerable diversity of opin-
ion obtains Sir W. Hamilton and many philosophers of
the highest authority believe that consciousness cannot prop-
erly be separated from the act to whose existence it tes-
tifies, and that to make a distinction between the assertions,
'I perceive" and "I am conscious of perception," is im-
p'xssible. They hold that -vxhen we are not conscious of an
act, the act is not performed ; and that when consciousness
does not testify to anything, it is because there is nothing
concerning which it can testify.
In answer to this, it may be granted tliat when it is said
" I perceive," the meaning is the same as when I say '•*
am conscious cf perceiving." When I say '* I perceive,'
CONSCIOUSNESS. Ill
there is involved, by necessity, in this assertion, tne evi-
dence of consciousness. The question still returns. Is there
a state of mind which involves perception, of which we are
not conscious, and which is not expressed by the words " 1
am conscious that I perceive' 7
Let us, then, proceed to examine the facts A perscE mny
be engaged in reading, or in earnest thought, and a chxk
may strike within a few feet of him without arresting hia
attention. He will not know that it has struck. Let, now
another person ask him, within a few seconds, if tbe clock
has struck, and he will be conscious of a more or less dis-
tinct impression that he has just heard it; and, turning tc
observe the dial-plate, finds such to have been the fact.
\Vh;>t, now, was his state of mind previous to the Question 1
Had there not been a perception of which he was not con
ecions 7
But we may take a much stronger case. While a person
is reading aloud to another, some train of thought fi-equent-
ly arrests his attention. He, however, continues to read,
until his opinion is requested concerning some sentiment of
the author. He is unpleasantly startled by the reflection
ihat he has not the remotest conception of what he has been
reading about. He remembers perfecily well up to a cer-
tain point, but beyond this point he is as ignorant of the
book as if he had never seen it. Wiiat, then, was the state of
his mind while he was reading ? He looked upon the page.
He must have seen every letter, for he enunciated every
word, and observed every pause correctly. No one had a
suspicion that he did not cognize the thoughts which he
was enunciating to others. Yet, the moment afterwards, he
has not the least knowledge either of the words or the ideas.
Can we say that thfre was no perception here ? Could a
man read a sentence aloud without perceiving the words m
which it was wntten? Yet. so far as we can discover this
state of mind was unattended by corcciousness.
112 IXTELLECTUAi. PHILOSOPHY.
Another case of a very striking character, was related t«
me hy the persson to whom it refers. A few years sinc«,
while in London. I became acquainted with a gentleman
who had, for many years, held the responsible office of short-
hand writer to the House of Lords. In conversation one
day, he mentioned to me the following occurrence. Some
time during the last war with France, ho was engaged in
taking minutes of evidence in a court of inquiry respecting
the Walcheren expedition. In this duty he was incessantly
engaged from four o'clock in the afternoon until four o'clock
the ne.\t morning. At two o'clock in the morning he waa
aroused from a state of unconsciousness by Sir James E., one
of the members of the court, who asked him to read the min-
utes of the evidence of the last witness. It was the testimony
of one of the general officers who had described the fortifica-
tions of Flushing. My friend, ^Ir. G., replied, with some em-
barrassment, "I fear I have not got it all." "Never mind,'"
replied the officer, " begin, and we will help you out." The
evidence consisted of two pages of short-hand, and Mr. G
read it to the close. He remembered it all perfectly ex-
cepting the last four lines, of which he had no recollection
whatever. These last lines were, however, written as legibly
as the rest, and he read them without difficulty. When he
came to the end, he turned to General E., saying, " Sii
James, that is all I have." " That," replied the other, " is
all there is ; you have the whole of it perfectly." He had
reported the evidence with entire accuracy up to the very
moment when he was called upon to read, and yet the last
four lines had been written, and written in short-hand, sc
far as he knew, during a period of perfect unconsciousness.
The condition of the mind which we term derangement
conveys some instruction on this subject. Here, it is not
uncommon for the patient to suppose that he is not the per-
son speaking or acting, but soire other and that some othe)
vONSCIOUSNESS ll?
mini than his c^.n is occupymg his body and performing
the intellectual operations, of which he is conscious. Thus.
Pinel mentions the case of a man in France who imagined
that he had been sentenced to death and guillotined ; but
that, after his execution, the judges reversed their decision,
and ordered his head to be replaced ; the executioner re-
placed the wrong head, and hence he was ever after think-
ing the thoughts of another man instead of his own. We
have said that consciousness is that condition of the mind
in which it becomes cognizant of its own operations ; that
is, we are cogniaint, not only that certain intellectual opera-
tions are carried on, but that they are our own. In this
case of deranged consciousness, the individual was aware
that there were thoughts, desires, remembrances, &c., going
on w ithin him, but he could not recognize them as the opera-
tions of his own mind.
These cases would seem to show that a distinction may
fairly be made between consciousness and the faculties to tiie
operation of which it testifies. Yet it would scarcely seem
proper to denominate it a faculty ; I prefer to call it a con-
dition of the mind.
Such being the nature of consciousness, it is of course
unnecessary to specify the various kinds of knowledge which
we cognize by means of it. If it be the condition neces-
sary to the cognition of our mental operations, then all
forms of thought are made known to us through this
medium. Hence, as I have before suggested, to say I
know, and to say I am conscious of knowing, mean the same
thing : since the one caimot be true without involving the
other.
Consciousness always has respect to the state of the mind
tself, and not to anything external. We are not conscious
of a tree, but conscious that we perceive the tree. We may
be conscious of hearing a .S')und ; we are not conscious of a
10*
114 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
Bountl. Those writers who deny the existence of consck)u»
ness as a condition distinguisha')le from the act to which ii
testifies, of course, adopt a different form of expression.
Thej would say that I am conscious of a tree, or of a
Bound, assuming that perception in all its varieties is but so
roanj' forms of consciousness. I have no desire to enter
Uf on d further discussion of this subject. So far, however,
as I am able to observe the operations of my own mind, 1
am constrained to believe that the form of expression which
I have used represents my act in perception more accurately
than the other.
Consciousness has respect to the present, never to the
past. We can be conscious of nothing that does not exist
now and here. We may be conscious that we now remem
ber the sunset of yesterday, but we cannot now be conscious
of the perception of the sunset of yesterday. We may be
conscious that we remember the appeai-ance of an absent
friend, but we cannot be conscious of the appearance of an
absent friend.
In the normal condition of the mind, consciousness, with-
out any effort of the will, is always in exercise, and is
always bearing witness to the existence of our own mental
acts. It may be turned off" involuntarily from the object
directly before us to some other, but, during our waking
hours, it always bears witness to something. Hence, con-
sciousness, united with memory, gives rise to the conviction
of personal identity. We know by means of this fixculty
that certain thoughts and feelings exist, and that they are
the thoughts and feelings of the being whom I denominate
[, myself Memory connects these various testimonies of
consciousness into a connected series, and thus we kno^v that
Dur intellectual acts, from our earliest recollection, proceed
from the same being, and not another. I thus know that
die thoughts and feelings which I repiember to have hc&k
CONSCIOUSNESS 115
fionscious of yesterday are the thoughts and feelings of thfl
same being who is conscious of other intellectual acta
to day; that is, tliat through all the changes of the present
Btiite, the ego, myself, is the same individual and rontinuou?
subject.
Tlierc have been observed occasionally abnormal casea
of what may be termed double consciousness. In such a
case, the present existence of the individual is at one time
connected with one period of his life, and at another time
with another. A young woman in Springfield, Mass , some
years since, was affected in this manner. She was at first
subject to attacks of what appeared to be ordinary somnam-
bulism. These were then transferred from the night to the
tlay-time, and during their continuance her powers of per-
ception were in a strange manner modified. With her eyes
thickly bandaged, in a dark room, she could read the finest
print. She was removed to the hospital for the insane at
Worcester, in oider to be under the care of the late Dr.
Woodward. Here it was immediately observed that her
noi-mal and abnormal states represented two conditions of
consciousness. Whatever she leained in the abnormal state
wa^ entirely forgotten as soon as she passed fiom this state
to the other, but was perfectly remembered as soon as the
abnormal state returned. Thus she was taught to play
backgammon in both states. What she leai-nod in the ab-
normal state was entirely disconnected from v hat she learned
in her natural state, and vice versa. The acquisition made
in one state was lost as soon as she entered the other : and
it was remarked that she learned more rapidly in the abnor-
mal than in the normal state. The first symptom of her
recovery was the blending togetlier of the knowledge
acquired in these separate conditions. As the cure ad-
vanced, they became more and more identified, until tha
testimony of consciousness became uninterrupted and thea
116 INTELLECTUAL PHlLOSOPtr.
the abnormal state vanished altogether. Several cases are
also on record in which persns have been subject to this
double consciousness without any manifestation of soranam •
bulism. In such instances, the individual has suddenly
awaked to a recollection of his former life, with the excep-
tion of a portion immediately preceding, of which he has na
recollection. A p'riod of his existence seems perfectly
parenthetical, and h.s present consciousness connects itseK
only with that portion ©f his life which preceded the change
in his condition. This peculiar affection will be best illus-
trated by an example. A few years since, a theoVgical
student, represented to be a person of unexceptionable char-
acter, was suddenly missing from a city in the interior of
New York. All search for him was fruitless, and he was
supposed to have been murdered. A few months afterwards,
his friends received a letter from him, dated Liverpool,
England. He stated that a short time before, he had found
himself on board of a vessel bound from Montreal to Liver-
pool, without the least knowledge of the manner in which
he came there. He recollected nothing from the time of
his being in the city where he had last been seen by his
friends. He however learned from his fellow-passengers^
that he had embarked on board the vessel at Montreal, — and
he must have walked about two hundred miles in order to
arrive there, — that he sometimes seemed peculiar on the
passage, but that there had been nothing in his conduct to
excite particular remark.
Consciousness suggests to us the notion of existence.
When we are conscious of a sensation there immediately
springs from it the idea of self-existence. The conscious-
ness of a perception suggests the idea of the existetce both
of the object perceived, of the subject perceiving, and fre-
quently of some particular condition of that subject. Thus
tuppose 1 am looking upon a waterfall. I arn conftcic la of
CONrfCIOrSNESS. Ill
rognizing an external object ; I am conscious of the state
of mind called percept'on, and I am conscious of the emotion
of beauty or sublimity occasioned by the object which 1
perceive.
It is obviously in our power to contemplate at will either
of these objects of thought. I may direct my attention tc
the external object, or to the internal mental act. or to the
emotion which the object occasions. Thus, in the instance
just mentioned, I may direct my whole power of thought to
the observation of the waterfall. I may examine it so care-
fully and minutely, that its image is fixed in my remem-
brance forever. Or, on the other hand, I may turn my
attention to my own intellectual state, and analyze the
nature of the act of perception. Or, still more, after
having become deeply impressed with the external object. I
may contemplate my own emotions, and, fullowing the train
of thought which they awaken, may lose all consciousness
of the perception of the object, wholly absorbed in the sen-
sibilities which it has called into action. We may do either
of these in any particular instance. "We may from natural
bias, or from the circumstances of education, form the habit
of pursuing either the one or the other of these trains of
thought.
Hence arises the distinction between objective and sub-
jective writers. The objective writer describes with graphic
power the appearances of external nature, the march of
pageants, the shock of battles, and whatever addresses itself
to the perceptive powers. This habit of mind is also of
special importance in all the researches of physical science
The subjective writer turns his thoughts inward, and either
as a metaphysician, analyzes his crn m.ental phenomena,
or pours forth in the language of poetry the emotions of
his soul. Thomson and Scott, especially the latter, ar«
eminently objective. Young and Byron are ecpiilly eul>
118 IXTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHf.
jective No one can compare a canto of tht Ladj of th«
Lake ^\ih a canto of Childe Harold, or -with one of
Young's Night Thoughts, without observing the difference
which I am here attempting to illustrate.
It is, however, obvious that no writer can be either wholly
objective or whollj subjective. Were two writers wholly
objective, their representations of external nature would be
exactly alike. But how dissimilar are the most objective
passjiges of Scott. Thomson and Moore ! Each one tinges
every description with the hues of his own subjectivity.
Nor, on thj other hand, can the most subjective writer be
wholly subjective. He needs some objective starting-point,
and he will choose it in conformity with the peculiar bias of
his mind, and pursue that line of thought which best har-
monizes with his general temperament. Thus Young com-
mences a train of subjective reflection by reference to an
external object.
" The bell strikes one ! We take no note of time
But by its loss. To give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I fee] the solemn sound ! If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours."
Minds of the very highest endowment have the objective
and the subjective equally at their command. Not only the
descriptions of Shakspeare and Milton, but their delinea-
tions of human emotion, are the theme of universal eulogy.
And we may also remark that for its power over the human
heart genius depends less upon the circumstances by which
it is surrounded, than upon its own inherent energies.
Cowper has so described the bogs and fens of Olney, that
ve seem to have been contemplating a picturesijue land-
scnpe ; and " ihe turning up of a mouse's nest with the
plough " is reflected back in images of afl'ecting loveliness
from the bosom of Burns.
ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 11^
SECTION TI. — ATTENTION AND REFLECTION.
I HAVE remarked in the previous section that conscious-
aesSj in the ordinary states of the mind, is involuntary. Wc
are sensible of no effort of the will when we either observe
the objects around us, or are conscious of the mental changea
taking place within us. I have also above alluded to the
fact that we may make either the object perceived, or the
state of the perceiving subject, an object of thought.
But, besides this, our consciousness may be accompanied
by an act of the will. We may, for instance, will to ex-
imine,with the greatest possible care, an object of percep-
tion, as a mineral, or a flower, or some paiticular woi'k of
art. Excluding every other object of thought, the effort of
the mind is concentrated upon the act of perception. We
thus may discover qualities which we never before perceived.
But in what respect does this stute of mind differ from ordi-
nary consciousness 7 The effort of the will cannot change
the image formed on tlie retina ; for it can exert no influence
whatever on the laws of light to which this imago is sub-
jected. It must consist in a more intense consciousness, by
which every impression made on the organ of sense id
brought more directly before the mind. Our perception
is excited and directed by an act of the will. This condi-
tion of mind, when directed to an external object, is properly
called Attention.
The difference between consciousness and attention may^
I think, be easily illustrated. In \ assing through a streei,
we are conscious of perceiving every house within the range
of our vision. But let us now come to a row of buildings,
aii3 of which we desire to find, and which has been pre-
viously described to us. We exnnune erery one of these
houses earnestly and minutely. We can, if it be necessary
!20 IKTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
lescribe every cue of them with accuracy, while of the
Dthers which we have passed in our walk we can give nc
iccount whatever. We say that we have observed every
house in that row attentively, but that on the others we
bestowed no attention. Or, to take a too common instance ;
we read a book carelessly, we see every letter and form a
conception of every sentence ; but all is done listlessly, and
we close the book hardly aware of a single idea that we
iiave gained while we have been thus occupied. Let, how-
ever, our whole mental eSbrt be directed to the subject on
which we are reading, and we fix it in our recollection, and
we can, at will, recall it and make it a matter of thought.
We say of ourselves, that in the foi-mer case we read with-
out and in the latter case with attention.
We sometimes, I think, speak of attention as practically
distinguished from every other act of the mind. Thus,
suppose we are striving to catch an indistinct sound that is
occurring at intervals, we then listen with attention. We
say to another person, " Give all your attention that is pos-
sible, and you may hear it." lie may possibly reply, "I
am all attention." Here we seem to recognize the condition
Df attention directed to no present object of perception, bu
jve merely place ourselves in a condition to perceive any
jbject wliich presents itself.
Sometimes the object to whi'^h our thought is directed is
internal ; that is, it is some state of the mind itself Oidi-
Dary consciousness testifies to the existence of these stater
without any act of the will ; nay, it is not in the power of
the will to arrest this continuous testimony. But we some-
'.imes desire to consider some particular mental state, as the
;t of perception or memory ; or some emotion as that of
dike beautiful or sublime. It is in the power of the will tc
detain such mental state, and hold it up before us as an
•bject of thought. When, by volition, we make our owr
ATTENTION AND KKFLECTION. 121
mental states objects of observation, we denominate this act
Itejlection. As the etymology of the word indicates, we
tuin the mind backwards upon itself, so that it contemplates
its own states and operations, very much as in the case of
attention it concentrates its effort upon objects of percep-
tion.
I do not pretend that the words attention and reflection
arc always used in this restiicted sense. Attention is fre-
quently used to designate voluntary consciousness both ob-
jective and subjective. Reflection is not so commonly used
to denote both mental states. It has, however, seemed to
me that these mental states should be designated by different
terms, and that the etymology of the two words, as well as
the general current of good use, tends in the direction
which I have here indicated.
This general power of rendering the various faculties of
the mind obedient to the will is of the greatest possible
importance to the student. Without it, he can never em-
ploy any power of the mind with energy or effect. Until
it be acquired, our faculties, however brilliant, remain
undisciplined and comparatively useless. From the want of
It, many men, who in youth give, as is supposed, great
promise of distinction, with advancing years sink down into
hopeless obscurity. Endowed with fertility of imagination
and unusual power of language, they are able to follow any
train of thought that accident may suggest, and clothe the
ideas of others with imagery which seems to indicate ovw-
inal pDwer of scientific research. But the time soon arrives
when the exigences of life require accuracy of knowledge,
soundness of judgment, and well-placed reliance on the
decisions of our own intellect. The time for display has
passevl. and the time for action — action on which our success
or failure depends — has come. Such men. then, after per-
haps dazzling the circle of their friends with a few wild and
11
122 IXTELLECTUAL PHrLOSOPHT.
taiicifui scnemes, which gleam at intervals ami.l the »p«
preaching darkness, sink below the horizon, and are seei^ no
more forever.
One of the greatest advantages derived from early and
systematic education is found in the necessity which it
imposes of learning thoroughly and at stated periods certain
appropriate lessons. We are thus obliged to direct our
attention for a time to the earnest pursuit of some object.
By being placed under this necessity for a few years, the
power of the will over the faculties, if we are faithful to
ourselves, becomes habitual. What we learn is of impor-
tance, but this importance is secondary to that of so culti-
vating and disciplining our faculties that we are ever after-
wards able to use them in enlarging the boundaries of
science, or directing the courses of human thought and
action. If a system of education, besides cultivating the
habit of attention, cultivates also the habit of reflection and
generalization, so that the student learns not only to acquire
but from his acquisitions to rise to general principles, ob-
serve the operations of his own mind, and compare what \ a
has learned with the instinctive teachings of his own under-
standing, the great object of the instructor will be success-
fully accomplished.
To acquire habits of earnest and continued attention and
reflection, is one of the most difficult tasks of the student.
At the beginning, he finds his mind wandering, his atten-
tion easily turned aside from the object to which he wouM
direct it, and disposed to yield to the attraction of external
objects, or to seize upon every fancy that the memory or
the imagination may present. Much of that time is thus
spent in dreamy idleness, which he had really determined
to employ in laborious study. It is evident that his success
Snust depend wholly on the correction of these habits. Our
nainds are comparatively useless to us, unless we can render
ATTENTION 4:ND REFLECIIOX 123
ihem o^jdicnt servants to the will, so that, at anj time and
under any circumstances, we can oblige them to think of
what -.ve wish, as long as we wish, and thou dismiss it and
think of something else. We should strive to attain such a
command of all our faculties that we can direct our whole
mental energies upon the most abstruse proposition, until
we have either solved it, or ascertained that, with our pres-
ent advantages, a solution is impossible.
Perhaps the section cannot be more profitably closed
than by the suggestion of some means by which the power
of cho will over the other faculties may be increased.
] . Much depends upon the condition of the physical sys-
tem. ( )ur intellectual faculties are in more perfect exercise
in health than in sickness, and as the condition of the body
tends to sickness our power over them is proportionally^
diminished. Every one knows how difficult it is to command
his attention during a paroxysm of fever. In recovering from
illness, one of the first symptoms of convalescence is a return
of the power over the mind, and a disposition to employ it in
it« accustomed pursuits. Now, it is obvious that anything
which interferes with the normal condition of the system,
during the continuance of its action, produces the same
efipct as temporary indisposition. Such causes are over-
fef^ini:, either occasionally or habitually, the use of indiges-
tible food, the want of sleep, or of exercise, undue mental
excitement, or excesiv fatigue. Every one in the least
attentive to this subject must have v^bserved the effect of
some or all of these causes upon his power of mental con-
ceiitraiion. A large portion of the life of many men is
ep<^ut in habitual violation of the laws by which the free use
of the mmd is conditioned. If, by accident, they foi a
short time obey the laws of their nature, their intellectual
powftrs recover their tone, and they enjoy what they call a
lucid interval. They postpone all important mental laboi
1 2-4 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
Qntil this favored period arrives, without ever suspecting
that it is owing to their own follj that they are not in this
condition continually. Our Creator manifestly intended
that our intellectual light should shine with a clear and steady
brilliancy, not that it should gleam out occasionally, after
long periods of mist and gloom and darkness. But. if we
would obtain the power of using our intellect to the greatest
advantage, we must habitually obey those laws which have
been imposed upon us by our Creator.
The diet of a student should be light, and rather spare
than abundant. A laboring man needs nutritious and
abundant food, to supply the waste caused by physical exer-
tion. The diet which is indispensable to the one is exceed-
ingly injurious to the other. A student also requires reg-
ular and sufficient daily exercise, which should generally be
carried to the point of full perspiration. His sleep should
be all that health requires, and he should invariably retire
at an early hour. His study and sleeping room should be
well ventilated, and his ablutions should be daily and
abundant. To specify more minutely in detail the treat-
ment of the physical system, would be out of place here ;
and, besides, no rules which could be given would be appli-
cable to every case. Every man, observing the laws of the
human constitution, shoulr" apply them honestly to his own
case. All that is required is that the student form all hia
physical habits with the direct and earnest purpose of giv-
ing the freest scope and the most active exercise to all hia
litellectual faculties.
It is. however, the fact that students are liable to err in
almost all of these particulars. They pay no attention
either to the quantity or quality of their food. Though,
perhaps, in early life, accustomed to labor, as soon as they
commence a course of study, they forsake, not only labor
but all niannci of exercise. If anxious to improve, thef
ATTENTION AN1» REFLECTION lliA
Mudj until late at night, thus destroying the power of ap-
plication for the following day. They live in heated and
ill-ventilated rooms. Measuring their progress by the num-
ber of hours employed in study, they remain over their
books until the power of attention is exhausted. Much cf
their time is thus spent in ineffectual efforts to comprehend
the proposition before them, or, after they have compre-
hended it, in equally ineffectual attempts to fix it in their
recollection. The result of all this it is painful to contem-
plate. Broken down in health and enfeebled in mind, the
man in early life is turned out upon society a confirmed and
mediocre invalid, aqually unfitted for the habits either of
active or sedentary life. This is surely unfortunate. There
can be no good reason why a student, or the practitioner of
what are called the professions, should be an invalid. To
study, violntes no moral or physical law. A student may,
then, be is healthy in body and vigorous in mind as any
other man. If he be not, his misfortune is the result, not
01 mere mental application, but of the violation of the laws
under which he has been created.
2. I have already intimated that the power of prolonged
and earnest attention depends upon the will. But we find
that until the mind becomes in some manner disciplined, the
influence of the will is feeble and irregular. Of course,
our first attempt must be to increase the power of the will
over the other intellectual faculties.
Here, however, I am aware that proDwdy great differ-
ences exist in mental constitution. The will in some men
is by nature stronger than in otliers. Some men surrender
a deliberately-formed purpose at the appearance of a trifling
obstacle ; others cling to it with a tenacity which nothing
but death can overcome. In this latter case, every physical
and mental energy is consecrated to the accomplishment of
the purpose to which the life of the being is devoted. Wheo
11*
126 Intellectual philosophy.
sach a will, moved by high moral principle ind giiided by
sound judgment, is directed to the accom])lishment of a
great enterprise, it wins for its possessor a name among the
benefactors of the race. John Howard was an ilhistrious
example of this class of men. The most masterly delinea-
tion of this form of character found, so far as I know, in
any language, is contained in John Foster's Essays ; a book
which I should fail in my duty did I not recommend to the
thouglitful perusal of every young man.
Such instances of energetic will are, however, rare, and
it becomes us to inquire whether the control over our facul-
ties can be obtained by those who are less happily consti-
tuted. The most important means of cultivation, if wo
desire to improve ourselves, lies in the will itself. The more
constantly we exercise it, the greater does its power become.
The more habitually we do what we resolve to do, instead of
doing what we arc solicited to do by indolence, or appetite,
or passion, or the love of trifles, the more readily will our
faculties obey us. At first the effort may yield only a partial
result, but perseverance will render tlie result more and
more apparent, until at last we shall find ourselves able to
cmph)y our faculties in such manner as we desire. If, then,
the student finds his mind unstable, ready to wander in
search of every other object than that directly before him,
let him never yield to its solicitations. If it stray from the
sulyect, let him recall it, resolutely determining that it shall
do the work that he bids it. He who will thus faithfully
deal with his intellectual faculties will soon find that his
labor has not been in vain.
But, in order to arrive at this result, we must be thor-
oughly in earnest, and willing to pay the price for so inval-
uable an acquisition. We must forego many a sensual
pleasure, that the action of our faculties may be fiee and
unembarrassed. "We must -esolutely resist all tendHnciy»
ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 127
to indolence, both physical and mental. We must learn t4
be alone. We mjst put aAvaj from us all reading and all
conversation that would encourage the tendencies which we
wish to suppress. By doing this, and exerting to the full
the present power of our will, we cannot fail to make pi og-
ress in mental discipline.
It may not be improper to add a remark respecting a kind
of reading in which a student is, at the present day, strongly
tempted to indulge. I have no disposition here to discusa
the advantages and disadvantages of the reading of w^orks
of fiction. It is sufficient for my purpose to observe, first,
that this kind of mental occupation evidently requires no
eSoYt of the will to arrest the attention. Tlie mind follows
pleasantly and unconsciously the train of conceptions pre-
sented by the author. Disquisitions requiring mental effort are
always considered blemishes in a romance, and are, I believe,
generally passed over unread. And, secondly, the mind be-
comes filled with interesting and exciting images, which
remain Avith us long after the reading has been finished.
From these causes, reading of this character must enfeeble
the A^ill, and create a tendency to wander from a course of
thouglit wliich follows entirely different laws of association.
These reasons seem to me sufficient for advising any person
desirous of cultivating the habit of attention, either to
abandon the reading of fiction altogether, or, at least, to in-
dulge in it with such severe discretion as shall prevent it
from fostering those habits which we desire to eradicate
After we have accomplished our object, and the victory of
the will over our other powers has been acknowledged, we
may allow ourselves a larger liberty. Until this is done,
the stricter the discipline whicli we enforce upon curselves,
the more rapid will be our attainment in the habit of
self-government.
3. The power of the Avill over our other faculties i
128 INTELLECTUAL rfllLOSOl'HY.
greatly issisted by punctuality ; that is, by doing everything
in precisely the time and place allotted for the doing of it
If, when the hour for study has arrived, we begin to waste
our time in frivolous reading or idle musing, we shall find
our real work more distasteful, the longer we procrastinate
If, on the contrary, we begin at once, we the more easily
conquer our wandering propensities, and our minds are full_y
occupied before trifles have the opportunity of alluring us.
The men who have accomplished the greatest amount of in-
tellectual labor have generally been remaricable for punc-
tuality ; they have divided their time accurately between
their different pursuits, have rigidly adhered to the plan
which they have adopted, and have been careful to improve
every moment to the utmost advantage.
4. The control of the will over our fiiculties is much as
sisted by the use of the pen. The act of writing cut our
own thoughts, or the thoughts of others, of necessity in-
volves the exercise of continuous attention. Every one
knows that, after he has thought over a subject with all the
care in his power, his ideas become vastly more precise by
committing them to paper. The maxim of the schoolmen
was stud'nnn sine calamo somniiini. The most remark-
able thinkers have generally astonished their contemporaries
by the vast amount of manuscript which they have left be-
hind them. I think that universal experience testifies to
the fact that no one can at!;ain to a high degree of mental
cultivation, without devoting a large portion of his time to
the labor of composition.
It is a very valuable habit to read no book without oblig-
ing ourselves to write a brief abstract of it, with the opinions
which we have formed concerLJng it. This will oblige us to
•ea^.' with attention, and v/ill give the results of that atten-
tion a permanent place in our recollection. We should
thus, in fact become reviewers of every book that we real
ATTL'NTION AND REFLECTION. 12D
The learned arul indefatigable Rcinhardt was thus able to
conduct one of the most valuable reviews in Germany, hy
writing his opinions on every work which came under his
perusal. The late Lord Jeffrey commenced his literary
career in precisely this manner. AVhen a youthful student
at the university, he not only Avi-ote a review of every book
■which he read, but of every paper which he himself com-
posed. His strictures were even more severe on his own
writings than on the writings of others. He thus laid the
foundation of his immense acquisitions, and attained to so
great a power of intellectual analysis, that for many yeara
he was acknowledged to be the most accomplished critic of
his time.
RE FEREN CES.
Oonsciou.sness — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 1 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sect
2 ; Locke^ book 2, chap.^, sect. 2 ; chap. 9, sect. 1.
Is consciousness distinguished from perception ? — Stewart, voL L
chap. 2.
Cases of Abnormal Consciousness — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect 4 ; part 2
Attention and Reflection — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 5 ; Essay 4, chap. 4
Stew.art, vol i., chap. 2. Abercrombie, Part 2, chap. 1.
Improvement of Attention and Reflection, Part 2, chap. 1.
Consciousness — Cousin, sect. 1, p 12, 8vc • Uiutford, 1834. Hesr/
^aoslatioi, and cote A, by } tot H.
CHAPTER IIL
OStCnWAL SUGGESTION, OR THE INTUITIONS <j¥ TUI
INTELLECT.
SECTION I. —EXAMINATION OF THE OPINIONS OF LOCKE.
We have thus far considered those powers of the human
mind by v^bich it obtains a knowledge of the existence and
qualities cf the external world, and of the existence and
energies of the thinking subject. This knowledge, as I
have said, is all cither of individual existences or of individ-
ual acts, or stiitta of the subjective mind. It is, of course,
all concrete, and the conceptions derived from it are of ttie
same character. This knowledge is original, direct and Im-
mediate. It is the constitutional testimony of our faculties
as soon as they are brought into relation to their appropri-
ate objects. It always contemplates as an object something
now existing, or something which at some time did exist.
Let us, then, for a moment consider what would be the
condition of a human being possessed of no other powers
than those of which we have thus far treated. He would be
cognizant of the existence and qualities of the objects which
he perceived, and of the state of mind which these objects
called into exercise: and. if endowed v.'ith memory, be could
retain this knowledge in recollection. Here, however, hia
knowledge would terminate. Each fact would remain dis-
connected from every other, and each separate knowledge
wculd terminate absolutely in itself No relation between
OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 131
an J tno facts ■would be either discovered or sought for
The questions why, or "wherefore, •would neither be asked
nor answered. The knowledge acquired would be perfectly
barren, leading to nothing else, and destitute of all tendenej?
and all pjwer to multiply itself into other forms of cognition
The mind would be a perfect living daguerreotype, on which
foiras were indelibly impressed, remaining lifeless and un-
changeable forever.
It was the opinion of Locke, that all our knowledge either
consisted of these ideas of sense or consciousness, or was"
derived from them by comparison or combination. Thus,
says he, " First, our senses, conversant about particular
sensible objects, do convey to the mind several distinct per-
ceptions of things, according to those various ways in which
those objects do affect them. Thus we come to those ideas
we have of yellow, Avhite, heat, cold, soft, bitter, and all
those which we call sensible qualities ; which, when I say
the senses convey to the mind, I mean they from external
objects convey into the mind what produces these sensations.
This source I call Sensation.'^ — Book 2. chap. 1, sec. 3.
Secondly. '• The other fountain from which experience
furnlsheth the understanding with ideas, is the perception
of the operations of our own minds within us, as it is em-
ployed about the ideas it has got ; which operations, when
the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do furnish the
understanding with another set of ideas, which could not be
nad from things without. Such are perception, thinking,
doubting, believing, reasoning, knowing, willing, and all
those different acts of our own minds, which, we being con-
scious of and observing in our ownselves, do from these
receive into the understanding as distinct ideas as we dc
from bodies affecting our senses. I call this Reflect iony^ I j'
--Ibid. sect. 4. ^-^'^'^
"The understanding seems tome not tc \iave the leaai "^"^ ,-J"/
16Z INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY
glimmering of any ideas which it does not receive from onfl
of these two. External objects furnish the mind with the
ideas of sensible qualities, which are all these different per-
ceptions thej produce in us, and the mind furnishes the
understanding with ideas of its own operations." Again ;
" Let any one examine his own thoughts, and thoroughly
search into his understanding, and let him tell me whether
all the original ideas he has there are any other than of the
objects of his senses, or of the operations of the mind
considered as objects of his reflection, and how great a mass
of knowledge soever he imagines to be lodged there, he will,
upon taking a strict view, see that he has not any idea in
his mind but what one of these two have imprinted, though,
perhaps, with infinite variety, compounded and enlarged by
the understanding, as we shall see hereafter." — Ibid. Sec. 5.
Again: "If we trace the progress of our minds, and
with attention observe how it repeats, adds together, and
unites its simple ideas received from sensation and reflection,
it will lead us further than perhaps we should have imagined.
And I believe we shall find, if we warily observe the orig-
inals of our notions, that even the most abstruse ideas, how
remote soever they may seem from sense or fi-om any oper-
ations of our own minds, are yet only such as the under-
standing frames to itself by repealing and joining together
those ideas that it had from objects of sense, or from its
own operations about them." — Book 2d, chap. 12, sec. 8.
.' From these extracts it appears e\'ident that Locke be-
( lieved all our original kno?rledge to proceed from perception,
N)r, as he calls it, sensation, and consciousness. Whatever
other knowledge we have, is produced secondarily by adding
together, repeating, and joiniug together, the simple ideaa
derived from these original sources. I have before re-
marked that these ideas are of individuals and are concrete.
If, therefore. tkt> theory of Locke be correct, all our othei
OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 13&
knowiecl>^e ii created by adding, repeating, and joining
together these indivi<lual and concjete concepticns.
Now, if this be so, — if it be the law of our nature that the
human intellect is incapable of attaining to any other knowl-
edj.';e than the ideas of sensation and reflection, that is, of
perecption and consciousness, — in other woids, than the
knowledge of the qualities of matter and the operations of
our own minds, then it follows that all our notions which
cannot be reduced to one or the other of these classes, is a
more fiction of the imagination, unworthy of confidence,
and is, in fact, no knowledge at all. But it_is obvious that
there are in our minds many ideas which belong to neither
of these classes ; such, for instance, are the ideas of relation,
power, cause and effect, space, duration, infinity, right and
wrong, and many others. Can these be produced by the
uniting, joining, or adding together our conceptions of the
qualities of matter, or of our own mental acts 7 Let any
one try the experiment, and he will readily be convinced
that they can be evolved by no process of this kind. It
will follow then, if the theory of Locke be admitted, that
these notions, which I have above specified, and all others
like them, are mere fancies, the dreams of schoolmen or of
fanatics having no real foundation, and forming no sub-
stantial basis for science, or even valid objects for inquiry.
Nothing, then, can be deemed worthy of the name of science
or knowledge, except the primitive data either of perception
or consciousness, or what is formed by adding, uniting, join-
ing together, these primitive cognitions. Hence, the i ieag
of which I have spoken, such as those of space, duration,
infinity, eternity, cause and effect, all moral ideas, — nay,
the idea of God himself,— are the figments of a dream, and
all that remains to us is merely what we can perceive with-
out and be conscious of within. This was the conclusion
at which many men arrived at the close of the last century
12
134 INTELLECirAL PHIIOSOPHY
luasmuch as Ueir principles were said to be derived fronj
Locke, he has sometimes been considered the fovuder ol
the sensual school.
It is, however, to be observed, that Locke did not perceive,
much less would he have admitted, the result to which hia
doctrines led. He speaks yi the ideas to which I have
alluded, such as space, power, &c., as legitimate objects of
human thought, and gives quite a correct account of th eir
origin. Thus, speaking of power, he remarks : " The mind
being every day informed by the senses of the alteration of
those simple ideas it observes in things without, and taking
notice how one comes to an end and ceases to be, and an-
other begins to exist which was not before ; reflecting, also,
on what passes within itself, and observing a constant change
in its ideas, sometimes by the impression of outward objects
on the senses, and sometimes from the determination of its
own choice ; and concluding, from what it has always ob-
served to have been, tliat like changes will for the future
be m.ade in the same things by the same agents, and by
the like way considers in the one thing the possibility of
having any of its simple ideas changed, and in another the
possibility of making that change, and so it comes by that
idea which we call power." — Book 2, chap. 21, sec. 1.
Here we perceive that Locke acknowledges the existence
of ideas or knowledges derived neither from sensation nor
reflection, and gives a very intelligible account of their
origin. It is obvious that the idea of power is not derived
from the senses ; we neither see, nor feel, nor hear it. It
is not an operation of the mind, therefore is not derived
from reflection. And, besides, comparing, adding together,
a: iting. are acts of the mind, wholly different either from
pel ^eption or consciousness. It is evident, therefore, that
Locke, Avhen he examined the ideas in his own mind, ob-
ierved among them many whicli neither perception n' r con*
OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 135
Bcunisness could give ; and he. perhaps carelessly, accouuUid
for their origin by the use of the indefinite expressions,
'' takes notice of," " concludes," "conies to the idea," &o.
We see, therefore, that Locke went beyond his own theory,
and really saw what his theory declared could not be sf>en.
Had he pursued a diflferent method, and first observed the
ideas of w Inch we are conscious, and afterwards investigated
their origin, his system would probably have been greatly
modified. He, however, pursued the opposite course ; first
determining the origin of our ideas, and then limiting our
ideas by the sources which he supposed himself to have
exliausted.
The manner in which Locke was led into this error is
apparent. He had been at great pains to refute the doctrine
of innate ideas, and to show that the human mind could
have no thought until some impression was made upon it
from without. It was also obvious to him that the only
objects which we are able to cogaize are matter and mind.
He compared the mind to a sheet of white paper, entirely
blank until something is written on it by a power external
to itself This, however, although the truth, is only a part
of the truth. As I have before remarked, if the sheet of
paper had the power of uniting the letters written upon it
into words, and these words into discourse, and of proceed-
ing forever in tlie elimination of new and original truth, it
would much more accurately represent the intellect of man.
This illustration of a sheet of white paper evidently misled
our philosopher, and prevented him from giving due prom-
inence to the originating or suggestive power of the mind.
Tbis brief n-)tice of the opinions of Locke seemed neces-
sary, especially since so great and important conclusions
nave been deduced from his doctrine. The whole subject
Has been treat 3d in a most masterly manner by Cousin, is J
136 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPlIi.
his RevieA^ of the Philosophy of Locke, to whicl I wculi
specially refer the student.
But tc what conclusion are we led bj this brief examina-
tion of the theory of Locke 1 We haN' e seen that, on th*
supposition that all our ideas are derived from perception
and consciousness, a large portion of the most important
ideas of '^hich the human soul is conscious must be aban-
doned as the groundless fictions of the imagination, having
no foundation in the true processes of the understanding.
On the other hand, we know from our own consciousnesa
that these ideas are universally developed in the human in-
tellect as soon as it begins to exercise independent thought
We must, therefore, conclude, that the theory of Locke is
imperfect, and that it does not recognize some of our most
important sources of original knowledge. It is, then, our
business to inquire for some other sources besides those
recognized by Locke.
REFEEENCES.
Sources of our knowledge — Locke, Book 2, chap. 1, sec. 3, sec. 4,
■ec. 5 ; Book 2, chap. 12, sec. 8, chap. 22, sec. 1, 2, 9.
Suggestion a power of the mind — Reid, Inquiry, chap. 2, sec. 7 ; Int
Powers, Essay 3, chap. 5 ; Essay 2, chap. 10, 12.
Examination of Locke's Theory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 1.
Before all others. — Cousin's Examination of Locke's Philosophy, chap
1,2,3,4.
SECTION IL — THE NATURE OF ORIGINAL SUGGESTION, OB
THE POWER OF INTUITIVE COGNITION.
Locke has truly stated that all the substances to which
hi our present state we are related are matter and mind.
By perception we obtain a knowledge of the qualities of the
one, and by consciousness a knowledge of the operations o1
OKIGINAL SUGGESTION 13T
die othjr. Ea;h is distinct and complete -n-ithiri itself, and
each terminates definitely at its own appropriate limit.
The thought, however, thus awakened, does not thus ter-
minate. The mind of man is endowed not only with a
; ecepiive, but also with what may be called a siftr^^estive
power. When the ideiis of perception and consciousness
terminate, or even while they are present, a new series cf
mental phenomena arises by virtuo of the original power
of the intellect itself These phenomena present them-
selves in the form of intuitive cognitions, occasioner] by the
ideas of consciousness and perception, but neither produced
by them nor in any respect similar V) them. They may be
considered acts of pure intellection. To the ideas of per-
ieption or consciousness there by necessity' belongs an
object either objective or subjective. To those ideas of the
mtellect I think no such object belon,^. Hence they could
not be cognized originally either by perception or conscious-
ness. They could not exist within us except we were
endowed with a different and superior iutellectual energy.
We can give but little account of these intellectioiis, nor
can we offer any proof of their verity. As soon as tliey
arise within us, they are to us the unan.»werable evidence
of their own truth. As soon as we are conscious of ihem,
•we know that they are true, and we never oflfer any evidence
in support of them. So far as our powers of perception
and consciousness are concerned, the mind resembles in
many respects a sheet of white paper. Here, however, the
analogy terminates. There is nothing in the paper which
in any respect resembles this power of intuitive knowledge
of which we here speak.
What we here refer to may. perhaps, be best ilbv-strated hy
R familiar example. A child, before it can talk, throws a
ball and knocks d)wn a nine-pin. By perception aidetl by
memory it derives no other ideas besida* those of a ^^ol^'iia
12*
138 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
ball anil of a fulling ninepin. This is all that the sense!
couli give it. It might be all that would be apparent tc
the n.iiid of a brute. But is this the case with the child]
Far othfiuise. There arises in his mind, by viitue of its
own energy, the notion of cause and effect; of sc mething in
the ball capable of producing this change, and of something
in the nine[)in which renders it susceptible of this change.
He instinctively cognizes a most "important relation existing
between these two events. Still more, he has an intuitive
belief that the same event can be produced again in the
same way. Relying on this belief, he sets up the ninepin
again, and throws the ball in the confident expectation that
it will produce the same result as at first. There has thu3
been cieated in his mind, not only the relation of cause and
effect, but the important conviction tliat like causes will
produce like eff:;cts. In consequence of the relations which
have thus been revealed to him, he sets a value upon his
toys which he did not before. The same idea is developed
as soon as the intant puts his finger in the candle. He will
not try the experiment a second time. He immediately
ol)tains a knowledge of the relation of cause and effect, and
that the same cause will again produce the same effect.
He does not see this relation ; it is not an o'lject of percep-
tion, nor is it an operation of the mind. He does not feel
it when he is burned. As soon, however, as he cognizes
the relative ideas, the relation in which they stand to each
other presents itself to him as an intuitive cognition.
I have here used an illustration from external objects. I
however, by no means assert that in this manner we first
arrive at the knowledge of- cause and effect. The same idea
is evidently suggested by every act of voluntary motion.
A child wishes to move his hand ; it moves, but perhaps not
m the right direction. He tries again with better success.
At last he accomplishes his object. Hei e is, perhaps, th<
OTliniNAL SUGGESTION 1.^9
roost strikinjjj instance of this reiation whicli he ever wit
uosaes, and it is brought home directly to his own conscious-
ness, lie is conscious of the act of volition, he knows that
he wills ; this mental ac*- is followed by a cluuige of position
ni his hand, and by motion in something A\ith wliich his
Land conies into contact. This succession of events, the for-
mer of which is within the cognition of his own conscious-
less, and the latter of his perception, would be sufficient tc
give occasion to this intuitive knowledge at a very early
pel iod.
It may be proper to observe, that although this power of
original suggestion is developed and perfected with advanc-
ing years, yet it commences with the first unfolding of
the intellect. Both the perceptive and the suggestive
powers belong to the essential nature of a human mind
Were a child destitute of the power of intuitive cognition,
even at a very early age, we should know that it was an
idiot. If, for instance, it manifested no notion of cause and
eifect, but would as soon put its fingers into a candle the
second time as the first, we should be convinced that it waa
not possessed of a normal understanding. Nay, we form
an opinion of the mental capacity of a child rather by the
activity of its suggestive than of its perceptive powers. It
may be blind or deaf, or may suffer both of these afflictiona
together ; that is, its perceptive powers may be at the mini-
mum, and yet we may discover that its intellect is alert and
vio'orous, and that it discovers large powers of acquisition
and combination. Such a case occurs in the instance of
Laura Bridgman, a blind nmte, whose suggestive powers are
unusually active, and who has, with admiiiwle skill, been
taught to read and write, so that she is at present able to
k'«p a journal, and correspond with her friends by letter
With respect to these ideas of suggestion, or intuititti. twc
14 J INTELLKCTUAL PniLOSOPHT.
important remarks are made 'dj Cousin. I gi\e hia idea*
here, rather than his words. ^"-- —
1. " Unless we previously obtained the idea of perception
and consciousness, we could never originate the suggested or
intuitive cognitions. If, for instance, we had never observed
the fact of a succession, we could never have obtained tha
idea of duration. If we had never perceived an external
object, we should never have obtained the idea of space. Ii
we had never witnessed an instance of change, we should
have had no idea of cause and effect. As soon, however, as
these ideas of perception and consciousness are awakened,
they are immediately either attended or followed by the
ideas of suggestion. We perceive, then, that, chrono/og-i-
cally considered, tlie ideas of perception and consciousness
take precedence. They appear first in the mind, and. until
they appear, the others could have no existence. It was
this fact which probably gave rise to the error of Locke.
Because no other ideas could be originated except through
means of the ideas of perception and consciousness, he in-
ferred that our knowledge could consist of nothing but these
ideas, either in their original form, or else united or added
to each other. The fact, on the contrary, seems to be, that
our suggested iJeas are no combination or modification of
our receptive ideas ; they form the occasions from which the
mind originates them by virtue of its own energy. We are
80 made, that, when one class of ideas is cognized, the other
spontaneously arises within us, in consequence of the con-
stitution of the human intellect.
2. "But, secondly, when we have thus obtained these
ideas of suggestion, we find that their existence is a neces-
sary condition of the existence of the very ideas by which
thcsy are occasioned. Thus, as I have st^id, toe r^otkni of
an external world is the occasion in us of the 'A°>% of .^p'ic<»
but, when we have obtained the idea of space, t:c se^ ih U
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 141
It in a necessary condition to the conception of an external
world : for. were there no space, there could be no external
world. If we had never witnessed a succession of events,
we should never have obuiined a conception of duration.
Having, however, o'btiiined the conception of duration, we
perceive that it is a necessary condition of succession ; for.
were there no duration, there could be no succession. And
again, had we never observed an inst;ince of chang*, we
should never have attj\ined the conception of cause and
eflfect. or of power. But the conception of power once
gained, we become immediately sensible that, had there been
no power, change would have been impossible. We thus
learn that, logically considered, the suggestive idea takes
the precedence, inasmuch as it is the necessary condition of
the idea by which it is occasioned."'
With these remarks of this most acute and very able meta-
physician I fully coincide, so far as they apply to a large por-
tion of our ideas of suggestion. I think, however, that there
is a large class of our intuitive cognitions, of which the second
of these laws cannot be affirmed. Take, for instance, our
ideas of relation and degree, arising from the contemplation
of two or more single objects. I do not see how it is true
that the relation is a necessary condition to the existence of
tiie bodies which occasion it, or that the idea of degree is a
necessary condition to the existence of the qualities by which
it is occasioned. I dissent with diffidence from an author
so justly distinguished ; nevertheless, in treating on this, as
on any other subject, I am bound to state fully the truth aa
it presents itself to my individual consciousness.
In order the more fully to illustrate tliis subject, I have
thouf^ht it desirable to present a num))er of instances in
which these original suggestions or intuitions are occa-
Bioned by the ideas of perception and cunsciousness. I by
no means attempt an exhaustive catalogue. Jt will be suffi-
142 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
cient for mj purposes, if I am able to present sach a viv.w
of the subject as will direct more definite attention than haa
generally been given to tbis part of our intellectual consti-
tution
It has seemed to me that these intuitions might be class-
ified as follows
I. Th -)se unaccompanied by emotion.
II. Those accompanied by emotion.
I. Those unaccompanied by emotion are,
1. Those occasioned by objects in a state of rest
2. Those occasioned by objects in the condition of chan^
II. Those accompanied by emotion are,
1. Esthetic ideas.
2. Moral ideas.
REFERENCES.
Cousin, chaps. 2, 8, and 4.
SECTION III. IDEAS OCCASIONED BY OBJECTS IN A STATE
OF REST.
We may contemplate objects in a state of rest either aa
one or many. Let us, in the first place, examine a single
object.
Suppose, for instance, a solid cube is placed before me.
I look at it, and perceive its color and form ; I handle it, and
perciive that it is hard and smooth, and that its form is the
same as I have discovered by sight ; I strike it, and it gives
forth a sound ; I attempt to smell it and taste of it, and
thus derive all the knowledge of its qualities which I am
tt,ble to discover. I reflect on these various acts of percep-
tion, and thus obtain a knowledge of the state of my mind
when performing these mental acts. I have then all th«f
ORIGINAL SfGGESTION. 113
knowledge which I can derive from perception and con-
Bciousness. Had I no other mental energies, my know}-
edge would here arrive at an impafsable limil. If, however,
we reflect upon our own cognition i, we shall be conscious of
much important knowledge occasioned by these mental acts.
wliich the acts themselves do not give us.
I look up^n the cube ; I perceive it to be extended ; I re-
move it to another place. What is there where the cube
was a moment since 7 "What is that which the cube occu-
pies, and in which it is contained \ It can be occupied by
matter, or left vacant. I become conscious of the fact that
it is a condition necessary to the existence of all matter.
Abolish it, and I abolish the possibility of an external uni-
verse. I call it space. "What is it 7 It has no qualities
that can be cognized by the senses. It is neither an act
nor an affection of the mind. It is not matter ; it is not
spirit. It differs from both in every conceivable particu-
lar. The existence of matter is made known to us by the
senses. Space is cognizable by none of them. It is neither
seen, nor felt, nor heard, nor smelled, nor tasted. Matter
is a contingent existence ; it may or may not exist here, or
it may not have existence anywhere. I can conceive of an
era in duration when it never existed. I can conceive of
another era w hen it will cease to exist. Not so of space ;
as soon as I form a notion of it I perceive it to be neces-
sary. I cannot con'^eive of its non-existence or annihilation.
This cube and all other matter is limited and is so from
necessity ; space is by necessity unlimited. M.stter being
limited, of necessity has form; space has no form, for it has
no limitation. The conception of a body, however vast,
suggests an image ; space suggests to us no image. We find
tjurselves, therefore, in possession of a conception, revelled
to us neither by perception nor consciousnes?, which, never-
theless, is cognized by the mind, from the necessity of ita
144 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
own nature. Without perception it would never have heca
cognized. Chronolo^ncally. it is, therefore, subsequent to it
As soon, however, as I obtain this conception. I know tha\
it is a necessary condition to the existence of that which is
perceived. It is necessary physiologically ; for witliout
Bpace there can be no matter. It is necessary psycholo^'i-
cally : for we cannot in our minds conceive of matter with-
out conceiving of space as a necessary condition of our
conception.
But let us reflect upon this idea somewhat more atten-
tively. We all have a knowledge of what is meant by space;
we c.mnot e:isily confound it with any other idea ; yet no
one can describe it. It has no qualities. It liolds no rela-
tion to our senses, or to our consciousness. What are its
limits ? As I have before said, it has none. The house in
which I am writing occupies space, and is contained in space.
The eai-th and the whole planetary system move in space.
The whole sidereal system either moves or reposes in space
We pass to the utmost verge of the material universe — space
still stretches beyond, unmeasured, imme:isurable. We have
appioached no nearer to its confines th.;n at first ; for, were
such creations as now e.xist to be nmltiplied forever, sjwce
woiiM be yet inexhaustible. What do we call this idea,
which, by the constitution of our minds, emerges necessarily
from this conception .' It is the idea of the boundless, the
imioensurible. the infinite. It is an idea wliioh we cannot
coniprelien<l. and yet from which we cannot escape, W€
aiay. perhaps, remember how, in childhood, we wearied our
feeble understandings in the attempt to grasp it. It is at
present as far beyond the power of our comprehension a.«« at
first, yet we find the mind ever tending towards it. It is an
idea neither of perception nor consciousness, nor can it b>
avolved from any union or combination of those ideas. It
evolves itself at once, on our conception of space, from *Ji«
wm
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 146
energies of the mind itself. Having been onct) formed, it
holds its place independently in the mind, and depends not
for its existence on any other idea.
Again ; I cannot be conscious of my own existence with-
out being conscious at the same time that I am an individ-
ual, separate not only from the rest of the material, but
from the other individuals of the spiritual universe. I am
in myself, a complete form of existence, distinct from every
other form that has existed, or that may exist. When I
ob&?rve the cube, it suggests to me the same idea, that of
unity. I retain this idea of oneness, apart from any object
which at first suggested it. It cannot be called a quality.
It is not an energy of the mind ; yet it is an idea which
immediately arises within us, on such occasions as I have
suggested.
It may, however, be proper to remark, that this idea of
unity is always relative. It always has respect to the
relation in which we contemplate an object. An individual
human being is one ; yet it possesses one body and one
spirit, and without both of these, in our present stat€, it
would not be a human being. A human soul is one ; but, in
order to be a human soul, it must be possessed of various
faculties, each one of which may be considered distinctly.
A regiment is one, and yet it could not be a regiment, un-
less it were composed of several distinct companies united
under a single commander. A company is one ; but it is
made up of single individuals, as privates, subalterns, cap-
tain, etc. We thus see that, in speaking of unity, the rela-
tion in which we contemplate the object is always to be
taken into view : and that there is no absurdity or contra-
dicticn in saying, that it is one in one relation, indmany in
another relation.
JiCt us look once more upon our cube. We perceive in it
Fcrm, solidity, divisibility, color, etc. These we call quali-
18
146 intellectjAL philosophy.
ties of matter, or the powers which it possesses of affecting
us in a particular manner. But is either cf these qualities
matter 7 Are all of them combined matter 1 Were we to
say that color and form and divisibility, etc., are matter, or
substance, would this assertion express the idea of which wr
are conscious when we reflect upon this subject 7 So far ia
this from the fact, that the assertion would seem to involve
an absurdity. We always say of a material object, it is
something divisible, solid, colored, etc. ; plainly distinguish-
ing, in our conceptions, the something in which the qualities
reside, from the qualities which reside in the something. We
thus find ourselves possessed of the two ideas, essence and
attribute, substance and quality. We know that there must
be one, whenever we perceive the other. But where does
this idea of substance come from 7 Surely neither from the
senses nor from consciousness ; yet we all have attained it
It must have originated in the mind itself. We perceive
the quality. The mind affirms the existence of the sub-
stance, and affirms it not as a contingent, but as a necessary
truth.
It is almost superfluous to remark, that we arrive at the
Hame idea from consciousness. Consciousness testifies to the
existence of mental energies. From this knowledge, the
mind at once asserts the existence of an essence to wliich
these energies pertain. Were there no mental energies, we
could never become cognizant of a spiritual substance ; but,
having been cognizant of it, we know that it is a necessary
condition to the existence of the energies of which we are
conscious
2. These instances are sufficient to illustrate the nature of
the cognitions which are suggested by the energies of the
mind itself, when we contemplate a sbigle object. Let U3
now suppose several objects, seme of similar and others t>f
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION 1 /
dissimilar qualities, to be present before us. Suppose ^he \,
for instance, cubes, pyramids, cylinders, etc.
If I observe them singly, each will furnish me with all
the primary and suggested idetis to which I have just now
referred. I observe several io be of one form. I compare
their aggregtite with unity, and there arises in my mind the
idea of number. As soon as I have formed this notion, I
find myself abstracting it from the cubes, and from every
otLer object, and treat it as a conception by itself, capable
of enlargement or diminution at my will. So readily doe3
this conception separate itself from the objects which gav*
occasioo to its existence, that, in the rudest conditions of
society, men give names to the several ideas of number, and
very soon form a symbolical language to represent them.
Every one knows that his ideas of number were originally
derived from the observation of a plurality of objects: and
yet no one. thinking of ten, twenty, thirty, to say nothing
of thousands and millions, ever associates these ideas with
any actual existences. We always consider them as abstract
ideas, yet ideas of the most fixed and determinate character.
But these ideas are not objects of perception. We neither
see nor feel nor taste number; yet perception occasions
these ideas. We know number as soon as the occasions
which suggest it present themselves.
In enumeration, we always proceed by unity. We re-
peat unity until we arrive at a certain aggregate, which we
then consider as a unit. Thus, in our enumeration, we
repeat unity, giving a different name to every increasing
aggregate, until we arrive at ten. We then make this our
unit, and add to it other similar units, until we arrive at a
hundred ; in the same manner, we make this our unit until
ivc airive at a thousand then to a million, etc. Suppose,
aow, I carry on this process to any assignable limit, can I
exhaust my idea of number ? Suppose I proceed until mj
lis inteilectual philosophy.
powers of computation fail, have I yet pvoceeded so fiir thai
I cannot add to the sum millions upon millions ? Can 1
conceive of any number so vast that I cannot add to it aj
many as I choose 7 We perceive this to be impossible.
Here, again, we recognize the same xlea which lately
evjlved from our notion of space. It is the idea of infinity.
We see that it springs at once, by the operation of our
minds, from every conception capable of giving occasion
to it.
Again; we cannot observe a number of objects at the same
time, without recognizing various relations which exist be-
tween them. I see two cubes possessing in every respect
the same qualities. Hence arises the relation of identity
of form, color, etc. Others possess different qualities; hence
the relation of divei-sity. When the forms are precisely the
same, or when they occupy exactly the same space, there
arises relation of equality. When they occupy different
measures of space, there arises the relation of inequality.
These latter relations are specially used in all our reason-
ings in the mathematics. All our demonstrations in this
science are designed to show that two quantities are either
equal or unequal to each other.
Still further, I perceive that two or more objects are not
in contact. Space intervenes between them, and we recog-
nize the relation of distance. Each one has a definite rela
tion in space to all the others. Hence arises the relation
of place. Place always refers to the position which a body
h'jlds in respect to other bodies. Were there but one body
in space we could not from it form any notion of place.
As soon as other bodies are perceived, and their relation to
it recognized, we obtain this idea respecting it. Thus, I
Biiy this paper lies where it dii ten minutes since. Here I
refer to tlie table and the objects uj>on it, whose position in
relation to the paper is the same as it was before, leaving
ORIGINA: SL'GliEsTION.
Hi
tut of account altogether the fact that the table has moved
with the diurnal and annual revolution of the earth. A
man in a railroad car will say that he has not changed hia
place for half a day, -when he knows that he has been
moving at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour.
Again ; we perceive that, of several cubes, the first occu-
pies a larger portion of space than the second, and the
eecond a larger portion than the third. All of them are
rei, but the tinge of one is deeper than that of another.
Hence arises the relation of degree. This idea is so univer-
Bally recognized, that, in all languages, it is designated by
a special form, entitled degrees of comparison.
But it is not necessary that I pursue this subject further.
I think that every one must recognize in his own mind a
power of originating such knowledges as these, as soon as
the occasion presents itself They are not ideas of p'^rcep-
tion or of consciousness, but ideas arising in the mind, by its
own energies, as soon as we cognize the appropriate objects
which occasion them. Having once obtained then? thejf
immediately sever themselves from the objects which occa-
sion them, and become ideas of simple intellectioD which
ve use as abstract terms in all our reasonings.
REFERENCES.
Space — Locke, Book 2, chap, 13 ; Cousin, chap. 2 ; Kei^ Essay 2,
chap. 19.
Space and bo<ly not the same — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13 Onusin
ehap. 2.
Infinity from space — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13 ; Cousin, chap^ 8 ; K«id
Essiy 2, chap. 19.
Unity — Locke, Book 2, chap. 7.
Substance and solidity — Locke, Book 2, thap. 4 ; Ciuisin, ca»p 8
Nunber — Locke, Book 2, chap. 16, 17 ; Cousin, chap 3.
Eelition — Locke, Book 2, chap. 25.
Identity and Diversity — Locke, Uoo'k 2, chap 27.
Place — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13.
13*
1 50 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
8B0TI0N IV. — Sl'GGESTED IDEAS OCCASIONED BT IHB
CONSIDERATION OF OBJECTS IN THE CONDITION OP
CHANGE.
Every one must be aware that motion, change, progress.
&nd decay, are written upon everything within us, and
upon eveiytliing without us. It is natural to suppose that
a variety of suggestions, or intuitive cognitions, would be
occasioned by the development of this universal law.
Our thoughts are in a condition of perpetual change.
Thought succeeds thought ; one conception follows another
without a moment's cessation, at least, during our waking
houis, from the commencement to the close of our present
existence. The idea of incessant change is essential to
Dur notion of life. Abolish it, and the result is universal
death.
Destitute of memory, we should be unconscious of these
changes, and cognizant only of the thought or emotion of
the present moment. Endowed with memory, however, we
become aware of the fact that the thought of which we are
now conscious is not the thought of which we were con-
scious a few moments since ; and that the thoughts oi
yesterday, or of boyhood, are very different from the
thoughts of to-day.
The same knowledge is also derived from the acts of per-
jeption in connection vith memory. We perceive a cloud
overspreading the heavens. When last we looked upward
all was clear; now all is lurid. Again, the cloud is dissi-
pated, and all is sunshine. We arise in the morning, and
light is gradually stealing over the heavens. Soon, the sun
irises, and all nature is aioused to life. In a few hours it ia
mid- day, and animal and vegetable droop w?th the ex-
cessive heat. Soon the sun declines ; it sinks beneata the
DrRATION.
151
licrizon ; we are fanned by the breezes of the evening, and
behold the blue expanse above us dotted with innumerable
Btar3. Had we no memory, we should be cognizant of the
existence of but one phenomenon, — that which presented
itstU to us at a particular moment. Our existence in con-
Bc.'ousness would be limited to the smallest conceivable por-
tion of duration. Constituted as we are, we become aware
that one event succeeds another ; and we hold the fact of
this succession distinctly within our knowledge.
From both consciousness and perception, then, united with
memory, we acquire a knowledge of succession; that is,
tliat some other event or events preceded that of which we
are now cognizant. But another idea is immediately occa-
sioned in a human mind by the idea of succession, different
from it, and from any which we have thus far considered
It is the idea of duration. I cannot define it. I cannot
ex[)lain it. Yet it belongs to the very elements of human
thought. We can neither think nor act without taking it
for granted. It is a condition of existence ; for, were there
no duration, nothing could exist. It is neither an idea of
perception nor of dmsciousness. We cannot cognize it by
our senses, nor is it an operation of the mind. Tlie intel-
lect seizes upon it as soon as we recognize the fact of
succession. No one can give any further account of its
origin. No one can enumerate its qualities, for it has no
qualities. Yet, every one has the idea, and no one can con-
ceive of its non-existence.
\Ve perceive, in th^s case, the difference between the
chronological and the logical order of these two ideas.
Chronologically, the idea of succession takes the precedence;
fur, unk-ss we had first cognized the fact of succession, we
shouhl never have obtained the idea of duration. But when
both have been acquired, we immediately perceive that dura-
tion is the necessary condition to succession ; f^r, withou*
J 62 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY
Juration, succession would be impossible. Logically, there-
fore, duration takes the precedence.
The first measure of duration seems naturally to be the
succession of our own thoughts. A portion of duration
seems long or short, in retrospect, according to the numbei
of events to which we have attended, and the tone of mind
or the degree of earnestness with which we have observed
them. But it is obvious that these elements vary greatly
with the same individual at different times, and with dif-
ferent individuals at the same time. We, therefore, seek for
some definite portion of duration, as the unit by which we
may measure with accuracy any other limited portion.
Such natural unit is found in the revolution of the heavenly
bodies ; and hence we come to measure duration by days, and
months, and years, or by some definite portion of these
units. Duration measured in this manner we call time.
If I do not mistake, we mean, by time, that portion of dura-
tion which commences with the creation of our race, and
which will terminate when " the earth and the things therein
shall be dissolved."
But let us take a year, and add to it by unity. We soon
arrive at a century. Taking this as our unit, we add again,
until we arrive at the era of the creation. We go backward
still, until we even find ourselves in imagination at the com-
mencement of the sidereal system. Duration is still unex-
hausted; it is yet an unfathomable abyss. We conceive
of ages upon ages, each as interminable as the past duration
of the material universe, and cast them into the mighty
void ; they sink in darkness, and the chasm is still unfathom-
able. We go forward again, and add century to century,
without finding any limit. We pass on until the present
system is dissolved, and duration is still immeasurable. We
add together the past and the future term of the existence
of tha universe, and multiply it by millions of millions and
DURATION. 153
we have approached no nearer than at first to the limits of
duration- We are conscious that it sustains no relations
either to measure or limit. It is beyond all computation
made by addition of the finite. It is thus, from the con-
templation of duration, that the idea of the infinite arises
in a human intellect from the necessity of its nature.
'This idea of the infinite, to which the mind so necessarily
tends, aud which it derives from so many conceptions, is
one of the most remarkable of any of which we are cogni-
zant. It belongs to the human intelligence, for it arises
within us unbidden on various occasions, and we cannot
escape it. Yet it is cognized by none of the powers either
of perception or of consciousness. It is occasioned by
them ; yet it differs from them as widely as the human mind
can conceive. The knowledge derived from these sources
is by necessity Hmited and finite. This idea has no rela-
tions whatever to anything finite. It has no qualities,
yet we all have a necessary knowledge of what it means.
Is there not in this idea some dim foreshadowing of the rela-
tion which we, as finite beings, sustain to the Infinite One,
and of those conceptions which will burst upon us in that
unchanging state to which we are all so rapidly tending?
Of cause and effecl, and of power.
I proceed to the consideration of this important subject.
I have no expectation of adding anything new to a discus-
sion, which, from the earliest history of philosphy, has
engaged the earnest thought of the ablest men. I shall not
enter upon the consideration of many of those questions
which emerge out of it. Were I to attempt to present
them ever so briefly, I should transcend the limits to which
a work of this kind must be restricted. I shall content
myself with stating the views which, after some reflection,
havii presented themselves to my own mind.
L«it us, then, commence with the observation of a single
154 TXTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHi.
pbencraenon ; that is, a case of change. Suppose, for in*
stance. I observe that water, which a few minutes since was
Quid, has now become solid. I find myself unable to think
of this change as an isolated Hict, or as the commencement
of a series. It must have had antecedents. Nor is this
all. The antecedents must have stood in a certain relation
to it. Suppose I attempt to think of this change as occur-
ring while all the conditions of the existence of the fluid
remained throughout just as they were at the beginning. 1
cannot think it. There is a book on one end of my table.
I leave the room for a moment, and, on my return, 1 find it
at the other end of the table. I ask what moved it. I am
answered, nothing. I am told that all the conditions of the
existence of that book had been absolutely the same during
its change of place ; that no agency of any kind had been
exerted upon it, and yet the book had been removed from
one place to another. I am obliged to reply I cannot think
it. It is as unthinkable as the proposition that two straight
lines can at the same time be parallel and at right angles
with each other, or that two circles can cut each other in
more than two points. I intuitively know that there must
have been a cause which rendered the water hard, which an
hour ago was fluid; and a cause which removed the book
from one place to another. If I am asked why I think in
this manner, I can give no account of it. I am obliged to
say I am so made. To think in this mann^'- seems to me
necessary to the normal condition of a human intellect.
T)iis. however, is but one form of causation ; the case in
which the antecedent and cons^^juent, the cause and effect,
are both brute matter. A variety of other cases deserves tsj
be considered.
2 Brute matter may be the cause of change in spirit
Thug, I open my eyes and see a tree. A sonorous body \a
struck, and I hear a sound. Here brute matter produces in
POWER CAUSE AXD EFFECT. loA
me a change. A new condition of mind is produced within
mc, which I denominate a knowledge. This could not have
existed but for the presence of the material objects which
have caused it. Under some circumstances, the effect is as
'nevitable as when both cause and effect are material. The
.Tect. however, is liere modified by conditions unknown in
'i? former case. For instance, a considerable portion af
.av ?ife is spent in sleep, during which time the effect of
ordiii.:ry agents upon my mind is suspended. Again ; no
knowledge is created in my mind except through the medium
of consciousness. But consciousness is indirectly subject to
the will. If, by the effort of the will, it is earnestly directed
to another object, the tree may be present, or the sonorous
body may be struck, and no appropriate knowledge is created
in my mind. Here, we see that a new element entere into
the conditions of cause and effect, by which the universal
relation of the one to the other is considerably modified.
3. Spirit or u''ind may be the cause of change in matter.
The simplest initince of this mode of cause and effect is in
Lbe movement of the limbs. I put forth my hand and t<ike
a pen between my fingers. I dip it in the ink and proceed
to write a sentence. Here. I am conscious of an effort of
the will. I perceive the movement of my hand, and I
observe on the paper precisely the words which I intended
to write. In the normal condition of my spiritual and mate-
rial faculties, this effect is universal. But I observe hero
another peculiarity. The event to be produced is foreseen
by the n:ind. and it takes place precisely according to ita
predetermination. I ought, however, to add that, though
this event is always foreseen and intended, yet, by education,
the connection between the volition and the material result
is rendered more perfect. Thus, when I began to write, I
at first made nothing but straight lines, and could net for
some time make them as correctly as I intended. By prao
166 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHT.
tice, however, I rendered the connection between the voli-
tion and the physical act more and more perfect, so that
thej cani3 at last to correspond with considerable accuracv
to each other.
4. Spirit may be the cause of change in spirit. This
includes two cases : First, when we effect changes in the
condition of our own minds ; and, secondly, when we effect
changes in the minds of others.
1. When we effect changes in our own minds. For in-
stance, I am thinking of some subject ; I resolve to banish
it, and think of something else ; I succeed. The fii-st thought
is displaced; it is to me, for the time, as if it had never
existed, and I now think of something entirely different.
Here, however, we may observe a considerable range in the
conditions of the phenomena. In the first place, much de-
pends on the general, and, also, on the particular energy of
my will. It may be constitutionally feeble, or, by neglect,
I may have lost the power of self-control. I try to banish
the present thought, and it will not leave me, or, if it leaves
me for the moment, it immediately returns. Again, I may
know that I ought to banish the thought whicii now occupies
me, and I resolve to do it ; but, on the other hand, the
thought is pleasant to me, and I am unwilling to relinquish
it. Either no result, or a very imperfect one, is accom-
plished. Or, again, some peculiar thought has seized upon
me with overwhelming power, and, under my present cir-
cumstances, I cannot displace it by any effort of my will.
For instance, suppose I am a miser. I have cultivated
within myself the habit of esteeming wealth the greatest of
earthly blessings, and have given it the first place in my
affections. By a sudden calamity, a large portion of my
property is destroyed. Thinking of it will not restore it. I
desire to banish the subject from my mind. I cannot ; it ia
present with me by day and by nigh\ tormenting me, and T
POWER, CAUSE AND ErFECT. 151
eannot help it. Here the p:wer of the will is conditioned
by the present sUite of the uiind itself, which state is tiio.
result of successive previous volitions. We hence perceive
that the act Df the will here is suiiject to conditions wholly
unknown in the third cise considered; that is, where the
inmd acts on material substances.
2. The mind may produce change in other minds. Ilere
the conditions become more complicated. I will suppose
myself in the possession of some truth, which is, in its na-
ture, adapted to effect a change in the mind of anoiher ; for
instance, a change in his course of action. Now, the effect
pro<luced will depend both on the state of my own mind and
the state of mind in those whom I address. Thus, I may con-
ceive the truth imperfectly, feebly, so as to leave an indefinite
impression on others. I may conceive of it adequately, but
I may be unaffected by it myself, and may have no particu-
lar desire to affect others. Or, again, having a clear con-
ception of it myself, I may have an all-absorbing desire to
cause others to be affected as I am affected myself. Each
of these conditions will probably vary the effect produced
on the minds of others. Or, in this List case, supposing
myself to be ever so much in earnest, the effect of my com-
munication may be different in the case of each auditor.
The effect will, in each case, be determined by the state of
every man's mind. In one I may create joy, in another sor-
r.w ; one may be pleased, another displeased ; one may re-
solve to take the course which I recommend, and another to
resist it to the uttermost. Here, the same cause produces
diametrically opposite effects ; the effect in each individual
case being determined hy the present condition of the mind,
»nd its relation to the truth which I exhibit.
Now, concerning these various cases, I wouLl offer a fen
suggestions.
1. So far as 1 ."m able to discover, these are all leg'ti-
U
158 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPUT
mate instances of cause and effect. Whether I hare incla<]e<l
them all, I pretend not to determine, but I think no exhaust-
ive classification can be formed A\iihout including those
which I have mentioned.
2. The link which binds together the cause and the effect
is in all cases, hidden. This is, I believe, universally
granted. We may observe the cause and then the effect,
but a veil is in all cases spread over the nexus between
them, which it has not been given to the human mind to
penetrate.
3. When I examine these several cases, they seem to me
very unlike. The matter affecting and affected is, in the
different instances, exceedingly dissimilar, and the results
produced are very widely different. What can be more
unlike than the freezing of water by cold and the change
of the moral character of a human being by the presenta-
tion of truth 7
4. Hence, I would ask, may there not be different kinds
of causation 7 May not causation in matter be a totally dif-
ferent nexus from causation in mind I Were we endowed
with faculties capable of knowing perfectly all the phenom-
ena, might we not find them as dissimilar in themselves as
they are in their eflects 7
5. Such being the possibility, can it be legitimate to rea-
son from causation in the one case to causation in the other;
that is, to conclude that because causation in matter is one
thing, therefore causation in spirit is the same thing 7 Is
not the argument for fatalism deduced from a view of the
inlissoluble nature of cause and effect founded on this as-
sumption 7
6. Granting, what is evidently true, that, under precisely
the present conditions, any given cause mus' inevitably
produce, whether in matter or spirit, a definite »nd certain
POTTER, CAUSE AXD EFFECT. 151)
effbct; are there not many things predicahle of the inevita-
Ueness in the one case which cannot be predicated of it
in the other ? For instance, I present to a miser a case of
distress, precisely calcuhited. in its nature, t^ awaken benevo-
lent emotions in the mind of an intellectual and moral being
in a normal condition. But, by a course of previous volun-
tary action, he has so changed his mind from its normal
condition, that the recital serves no other purpose than tc
harden his heart against suffeiing. In his present condition,
this /-esult as inevitably full)\vs from my appeal, as hia
death would follow from plunging a knife into his bosom.
Now, granting the inevitubleness in both these cases to be
the same, is the nexus between the two events of the same
character? Suppose me to know the inevitablcness to bo
the same, is the moral character of the two actions equal 7
If, then, finally, the nature of causation in matter and
causation in mind be so unlike, when finite beings alone are
concerned, that we cannot reason from the one to tlie other ;
how much greater must be the disparity when the cause is
infinite, and the eifect produced is on the finite! IIow, es-
pecially from causation in matter, can we reason respecting
ihe acts of the Infinite Spiiit, whose thoughts are not as our
;houghts ? It would surely be a humbler and wiser pliilos-
Dphy, if we believe in a Universal Cause of perfect holiness
and perfect love, to receive the facts of his government as
be has revealed them, assured that in the abysses of his
wisdom, far past our finding out, mercy and truth go before
his face, and justice and judgment are the habitation of his
throne.
The notion of cause, by the constitution of the human mind,
involves ihe idt-a of f)Ower. It is the logical condition to
this idea: without it, the idea of cause could not exi3t. It
hi that in the cause by virtue of which 't pr duces iis e6«t
ICO INTELLECTUAL PHILOsOFHY.
It is a cause simply, and for no other reason, than that UB
it resides the power.
The notion of power is always fixed and invariable. Wf
cannot conceive of it as, under the same circumstances,
sometimes producing an eflfect and at otiier times produc-
ing none. When we find such an antecedent, we at once
determine that it is destitute of power, and that it is not, ia
this case, a cause. It is essential to our conception of
power, that under the same conditions it shall invariably
produce the same change.
Hence, we perceive the difference between invariable suc-
cession and cause. Cause is invariable succession with the
additional idea of power. Cousins illustration here is ap-
posite. "I sit in my room," he observes, " and wish
that I could hear a certain air. Some one in another room
plays it. I wish for it again, and it is played again. But
this is a very different thing from taking up an instrument
and playing it myself The one is a case of succession, the
other of cause and effect. In the latter, I recognize my
own volition, not merely as the antecedent, but the cause of
the sounds." And we may observe, still further, that the
power, by reason of its in variableness, is the sole reason of
the in variableness of the succession. Were not power such
as I have suggested, the succession might intermit, vary,
and fluctuate, indefinitely.
This idea of cause and effect, and power, is not derived from
experience, as some philosophers have asserted. It springs by
aecessity from the original constitution of the human mind.
When we observe a change we cannot do otherwise than
think of the cause. The change furnishes the occasion for
the creation of this idea ; but, as soon as we have arrived at
It, we know that the existence of the power residing in the
cause was the necessary condition to tha existence cf th«
effect. It arises as ti\i]y on the fii'st ob-er ration of a change
PO^YER, CAUSE AXl. EFIECT. 161
M on the thousandth. It is as obvious to the apprehension
of children as of adults If i" was not apparent in the lirsl
instance, it could not be in the thousandth. If, in the lii-st
instance, we recognize nothing but succession, and had no
idea of cause and of power, the second instance would be
preci.?ely like it, and the third, and thus indefinitely
Every one remembers the case reported of Dr. Beattic. llo
rrote, on the prepared soil of his garden, the name of iiis son,
& ^ery young child, and sowed some delicate seeds in the
lines which he had thus traced. In a few days the child
came running to inform him of the wonder whicli lie had
discovered — his own name plain.y growing in the flower-
bed. The father, for a while, pretended to believe that there
was no cause for the phenomenon, but that the letters had
grown in their present form of themselves, and be attempted
to create this belief in his son. It was all in vain ; the child
could not believe it. The necessary relation of cause and
effect was as deeply fixed in his mind as in the mind of hia
father. Dr. Beattie then made use of this illustration to
teaoh him the necessary existence of a First Cause. The
same incident, I observe, has been related of the father of
Gen. Washington.
But, it may be asked, has experience nothing to do with
our investigation of the laws of cause and effect ? I answer,
nothing ^\hatever with our original idea of cause and of
power. This is given us in the very constitution of our
intellectual nature. If it were not so given, we should have
no conception of a cause, and should, of course, have nc
occasion to institute any inquiries concerning it.
But, although experience, or more properly experiment,
famishes us with no origimil ideas of causation, yet, when thia
idea h.ts been given us, and we know that by necessity the
cause of a certain phenomenon must exist; it is by experiment
adone that vye are able tc discover what :hat cavse is Ex
162 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
perimcnt, tli n-efore, follows directly upon the suggestion of
causation in any particular instance. This may be clearlj
illustratetl by observing the principles which govern us in
carrying forward a case of philosophical investigation. The
sti'ps in such a piocess aie, I think, the following :
1. We observe an instance of obvious and manifest ciiange
or in the language of philosophers, a phenomenon. We aie
er made that we cannot think of this change without also
thinking of the cause which produced it. Every one knows
that to speak of a change producing itself, or of a change
occurring with no relation whate\er to any other event, ii
not only to speak nonsense, but to utter what is unthink-
able.
2. Tiiis notion of cause, which, in these circumstances,
has arisen within us, involves the idea of power. It is, in
fact, this power which makes it a cause. But, since power
is a fixed and unchangeable idea, we cannot conceive of it
without conceiving of it as always acting in the same way
under the same circumstances. Hence, we know that in
whatever antecedent the power resides, that antecedent
must be the cause of the phenomenon. And, on the other
hand, when we observe any antecedent to be fixed and in-
variable, in that we suppose the power to reside ; that is,
we aiEim this antecedent to be the cause of the consequent
effect.
8. In order, then, to ascertain the fixed and invariable
antecedent, we institute our experiments. We place the
phenomenon under every variety of antecedents. When we
find an antecedent which, under all circumstances, invaria-
bly precedes the change, we assume this to be the cau^e.
[lonceforth. these two events hold this relation to each
i)ther,
4 Hence, we perceive that if two distinct and separate
tfvents were the stated and 'invariable antecedents of motheJ
POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECl. 1C3
event, it would be impossible to determine which of the twr
was the cause. One would fulfil the conditions of the prob
lem as well as the other. Hence we see that our knowl-
edge of causation is never absolute, being always conditioned
hy the actual progress of human knowledge. Thus, so fai
na human observation has gone, the event A has always
been the invariable antecedent of the event B. But subse-
quent investigations may reveal the fact that A is not tho
invariable antecedent, or that the antecedency of A is condi-
tioned by some other event with which it must be combined
in order to produce the effect. Thus, it was observed that
water boiled at 212° of Fahrenheit, and it was, for a long
time, supposed that this law was universal. It was, how-
ever, subsequently ascert-iined that it boiled on the tops
of high mountains at a lower temperature. Hence it was
necessary to condition the former law by the pressure of the
atmosphere, and say that water boi!! at 212° at the level
of the sea. If it should be found tha: the electrical condi-
tion of the atmosphere had any power ii modify the result
it would be necessary to add this new condition to the origi-
nal law.
It may be useful to illustrate these remarks by observing
the manner in which we proceed in determining any particu-
lar cause. I will take, for example, the fieezing of water.
I perceive, on some occasion, for the first time, that
water, which I left fluid at sunset last evening, is solid this
morning. I, first of all, inquire whether it be the ider tical
Bubstance which was a short time since fluid. I examine
the vesse! in which it is contained ; I ascertain that no human
being has approached it ; that all the other water in the same
vicinity has undergone the same transformation. I am
aaiislieJ that here is a case of legitimate change.
i?rom the constitution of my mind, I am unable to conceive
that this change could have been produced without an afie-
164 IK'TELLECTUAL rHILOSOPHT.
quate cause. Had the water i-emained through tl i night
with all its rcLitions to all other things unchanged, it must
by necessity have continued in its original condition. This
is to me as obvious as that if a body be at rest, it must forever
remain at rest, unless some power from without comj el it to
assume the condition of motion. There must, therefon, b<?
some cause for this event. The instinctive impulses of mv
nature lead me to inquire for this cause. This inquiry Icon-
duct by experiment or trial. In what manner shall I proceed?
I first observe all the antecedent events which I am able
to discover. For instance, the water was fluid in daylight;
it became solid in darkness. Darkness may have been the
cause of its solidity. It became solid in the open air ; it
returned to its former fluidity as soon as it was brought intc
the house. Change of place may have been the cause cf
the phenomenon. Or, again, I observe that tliere was a
sudden change of temperature during the night, and that
the mercury in the thermometer fell from 40° to 20°. This
change of temperature may be the cause of which I am in
search. I proceed to institute a series of experiments for
the purpose of determining which of these is the invariable
antecedent of the plienomenon. I find that water, in various
instances, becomes solid in light as well as in darkness, and
that again it becomes fluid in darkness when it had become
solid in daylight. Darkness cannot, then, have been the
cause. I examine the other hypothesis. Was change of
place the cause 7 I find that, without any change of place,
the water which was solid at sunrise becomes fluid at noon.
Change of place will not, therefore, account for the phenom-
enon. Was the cause, then, the change of temperature ?
I subject water to this trial. I find that everywhere,
and under all circumstances, when the temperature falla
below 82° Fahrenheit, water becomes solid, whether by
iay or by night, and without any regard to locality. *
POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 165
therefore arrive at the conclusion that the tetnperature of
K)''!" is the cause of the freezing of water, and that watei
has the susceptibility of being frozen at this temperature
The two events thus stand to each other in the relation of
cause and effect I have discovered the cause of the event,
cr, in other Lmguage, I have accounted for a phenomenon.
It 13 on these principles, and in this manner, that we proceed
in any legitimate case of philosophical investigation.
Having thus obtained the idea of causation and of power,
and having learned how to deteimine the cause in any par-
ticular case, the necessity of our intellect obliges us to pro-
reed a step further. As we look about us, we observe that
every tiling bears witness to the exertion of power. The
universe is subject to perpetual change, and change without
the idea of power is unthinkable. Day and night, sun-
shine and storm, summer and winter, spring and autumn,
are names indicative of changes and classes of changes
Dore numerous and more complicated than the human mind
ian comprehend. Power is, then, one of the most univer-
sal ideas of which we are able to conceive. But let us look
%t the case a little more carefully. We s;iy that atmospheric
lir, moisture, and sunlight, are the causes of vegetation.
Let us, then, examine the growth of a vegetable, from the
putting forth of its first leaf, through all the changes of it3
development, to its beautiful flower and its ripened fruit.
Let us examine a single leaf, and investigate all its func-
tio3a, and their exquisite adaptation to cooperate in the
general design. Let us generalize /his case, and we find
t£ surface of our globe to be thickly covered with just
euch instances. We cannot fail to observe that the beautj^
jknd adaptations of the effect infinitely transcend any attri-
bute possessed by tlie physical cause. We cannot conceive of
the gases of tlie atmosphere, the drops of water, and the rays
■»f the sun, as ailequate causes of all these wonderful results
166 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
We conceive by necessity of some cause or causes autoon,
beyond, directing, cortiolling. energizing, those jjerceiveJ
causes, in wLich, at first view, this power seemed to reside.
To ascend thus from apparent to unseen causes, from
{ihysiciil to supernatural power, seems to be the necessary
tendency of our ijitellectual nature. The human mind is
hardly capable of so intense degradation as not to lecognize
the existence of some power unseen, by ^hich all that is
seen is governed and sustained. Hence have arisen the
innumeriible systems of idolatry wr.ich have prevailed am(mg
men. Every nation recognizes some invisible powers as the
causes of visible changes, and hence as obj.tcts of worship.
The very absurdity of many of these systems teaches ua
this tendency in the clearest possible manner. The more
absurd the object of worship, the stionger is the proof that
the necessities of the human intellect demand some cause
to which the changes of visible nature can be referred ; and
that it will accept the most preposterous notion of an ulti
mate cause, sooner thaii believe that no such cause exists.
But the human mind, having advanced thus far, proceeds
by necessity a step further. As we contemplate the vari-
ous phenomena of the universe, we observe that no class of
facts, nor any single fact, is isolated. All are parts of one
pl.in, tlie development of one idea. The vegetable and
animal kingdoms, the laws which govern organic and inor-
g-.nic nature, and the relations which subsist between them,
all represent portions of one idea, which must have been
conceived by a single intelligence before anything visible
waa created. Hence we are called upon to a'^count for thia
perfect harmony in this infinite variety of parts, the perfect
order which exists among beings in themselves so diverse
from each other. We can account for it only on the sup-
position that the cause of causes is not many, but one, in-
finite in power and -yisdom, the sufficient reason why every
t»01VKR, CAUSE AND EFFECT.
167
thing IS, and why it is as we now behold it. That this
opinion has universally prevaikd among men who have
addicted themselves to thinking, is manifest. The piiih>so-
^^hers who paid an outward respect to the classic mythology
ackno\vle<lged and reverenced the Supreme Divinity. And
everywhere, among men of reflection, it has been acknowl-
edged that, if tliere are causes beyond those which we per-
ceive, there must be one universal Cause, all-powerful, all-
wise, all-good, self-existent, and, of course, eternal.
But, supposing this to be granted, other (piestions emerge
from this belief If there be a universal, all-pervading Cause,
what is the nature of his agency ? In material causation, la
he the sole operator in every change, so that every event ia
an immediate act of the Deity, or the result of such an
ict'l Or, on the other hand, has he constituted matter with
such attributes and relations that all which we see is tiie
necessary consequence of the original creation, from which
the Creator has withdiawn, and over which he now exerts no
agency 7 And, again, in spiritual changes, similar questions
arise. Does the free will of man act independently of any
controlling agency of the Deity, or is the Deity the causd
of spiritual change, as in the first supposition above ia
regard to matter l Or has he so created spirits that the
chan:es of which we ai-e conscious proceed by necessity
from the elements of our original creation I These ques-
tions, and many more, arise from the conception of ai. uni-
versal, all-pervading, and all-powerful Cause.
With res[)ect to these inquiries, I would remark, in gen-
eral, that I believe the most opposite answers to either of
them can probably be proved to be true, by arguments
which it would be difficult to confute ; and that the clearest
reasoning may lead us to results at variance with the sim-
plest dictates of our moral and intellectual nature. To w iiat
tonclusion, then, shall we arrive / I arewer, to the belief
163 INTELLECTUAL I'HILOSOPHT.
ihat the subject is clearly beyond the reach of our under-
standing. The point in which the infinite and the finite
come in contact has been, and must ever be, hidden from
mortiil eyes. It is the dictate of reason and religion that
the Deity is all-wise, all-good, and all-powerful, and there-
fore that he is the only being capable of governing the uni-
verse whioh he has made. It is not possible that such a
being should govern it too much. On the other hand, we
have the evidence ot our own consciousness that we are per-
fectly free. We know that such a being as the Deity must
carry on his wise and just and merciful intentions, and that
he must carry them on through the agency of his intelli-
gent creatures; we know, also, that we are perfectly fiee
to act as we choose, and that this freedom is an essential
clement of our moral responsibility. Of the manner in
which these agencies cooperate, I think we must be contend
to remain in ignorance.
REFERENCES.
Idea of powci- -Locke, Book 2, ch.ip. 7, sec. 8.
Power, active and pa.«sive — Locke, Book 2, chap. 21, sec. 2.
Cause anil effect — Locke, Book 2, chap. 26.
Idea of a God — Locke, Book 4, chap. 10, sec 1 — 8.
Cause and effect — Reid, Essays on In. Powers, Essay 6, chap. 6
Power, c;iuse and effect — Reid, Essays on Active Powers, Essay 1.
Locke's id&i of power exau>ined — Cousin, chap. 4.
Notion of power dorived cither from the objective or subjective —
Cousin, chap. 4.
r,Kcricx V. — suggested ideas accompanied by e.motion.
We have thus far considered those ideas which are sug-
2;ested to us by the contemplat'on of oojects which pioduce
'ill us no emotion. They are purely intellectual, and hav«
SUGGESTED EMOTIONS. 169
no othei effect upon us than to increase our knowledge.
Thus, the ideas of duration, cause and effect, space, and a
variety of others, are simple knowledges, and produce in us
no ulterior state of mind.
Were we merely intellectual beings, these would be all
the suggestive ideas of which we need be conscious. But
we find the case to be otherwise. We are made not only to
knnic, but iofepl. As we look abroad upon the world, we
find ourselves not only capable of knowing that things are or
are not, but also of deriving pleasure or pain from the con-
templation of them. Who does not know with what eager
g3ze the eyes of the child are turned towards the rainbow]
Who has not been deeply moved at beholding the glory of a
summer's sunset? Again, it is undeniable that we are
variously affected by our observation of the actions of our
fellow-men. Some of them awaken in us admiration, re-
spect, gratitude and love ; others fill us with disapprobation,
disgust and abhorrence. These various cognitions, and the
emotions which they create, belong, I suppose, to the class
of original suggestions. They may be divided into two
classes : 1, Ideas of the beautiful and the sublime, or ideas
of taste ; and, 2, Moral ideas.
1. Ideas of the heaiil'ifid and siihVime.
Let us commence the exposition of this subject by an
example. Suppose there were placed before us an antique
marble vase of exquisite workmanship. We look at it, and
observe its color, and form, and proportions. We feel of it, and
discover that it is solid, smooth and heavy. We test it by
our other senses, and ascertain whether or not it possesses
any qualities which they can recognize. When we have
done this, we have obtained all the knowledge concerning it
which our perceptive faculties can give.
Let us now place by the side of it a rough block of mar
ble. of a similar magnitude. The senses give us, as before,
15
170 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
a kiiOMleage of its color, form, solidity, roughness or smooth-
ness, sonorousness, taste and smell. Thia knowledge is all
that our perceptive faculties can give us in either case.
Were we merely intellectual, that is, unemotional beings,
no other impression besides that of knowledge would be
produced upon us. Both of these objects would be con-
templated with equal indifference ; n;iy, the rough block
might be preferred, if we could devote it to a purpose of
utility of which the other was not susceptible. Thus, we
are told that, not unfrequently, the remains of a beautiful
statue are found imbedded in mortar, in the wall of a peas-
ant's hovel, in the neighborhood of an ancient city on the
plains of Asia Minor.
Let us now observe these objects together, and remark
the feelings which they awaken within us. We cannot fail
to observe that the one has a power of affecting us very dif-
ferently from the other. As we look upon the one, we are
conscious of an emotion of exquisite pleasure. We attach
to it a value such as wealth can scarcely estimate. We look
upon the other with total indifference, or, it may be, with
disgust, and cast it away as an incumbrance. To the one
we are powerfully attracted, while from the other we are
repelled. We recognize in the one the quality of beauty,
of which we perceive the other to be destitute. A child at
an early age would make this distinction. Every one
knows how strongly even very young persons are attracted
by brilliant colors and agreeable forms. Yet this emotion
cannot be defined. It arises unbidden at the contemplation
of outward objects of a particular character, under such
circumstances as have been appointed by the Creator to
occasion it within us.
This idea is not, however, cognizable directly by th«
senses. We neither see, nor hear, nor feel, nor taste beauty;
nor is it an energy of our minds. Yet, whenever we per*
EMOTIONAL SI GGESTIONS. 173
*yive certain external objects, there arises within us the
knowledge that they are beautiful, and we are conscious ot"
the subjective emotion which this quality occasions. In
this respect it resembles the other suggested ideas. They,
as we have seen, are not cognized by the senses, but the
cognitions derived from the senses are the occasion of
tlieir existence. So, in this case, as soon as we are con-
Bcioas of the perceptions, w^e are conscious of the cogni-
tion of this quality, and of the emotion which this quality
produces.
The emotion of the beautiful is suggested by an infinite
variety of objects in the external world. It arises from the
contemplation of form, of color, of motion, of proportion,
and, in fact, from almost every object in nature. I shall
not here enter into an illustration of these obvious facta.
It is suflBcient merely to allude to them, reserving the more
extended discussion to another place.
If we observe the various objects which give occasion to
this emotion, we shall observe them to be exceedingly dis-
similar. The objects are unlike, but the emotion is the
same. We thus learn to distinguish the emotion produced,
from the causes Avhich produce it. Having done this, we
ascribe to any object this quality, if it produces in us this
paiticuhir emotion. Thus, the mathematician speaks of
the beauty of a demonstration ; the critic, of the beauty of
a metaphor ; the moralist, of the beauty of a social relation ;
and the mechanic of the beauty of a machine. In each
case, the emotion of the beautiful is awakened in the mind
of the speaker, and he ascribes the quality of beauty tc
that which produces it.
There is also another emotion, suggested by the contem-
pi ition of material and immaterial objects, in many respects
similar to the emotion of beauty. The mode of its origin
is the same. It is suggested, in the first instiince. '7 ohjecta
172 INTELLECTUAL PUILOSOPHY,
In nature , it is a source of exquisite pleasure ; it arist-^ on
B great variety of occasions; but jet the emotion itself J3
always the same. Its character may perhaps be best illu.-i-
trated by an example. lie who has stood by the sea-side in
a storm may perhaps remember the ceaseless roar of the
waves, the rude shock of the surge, which, heaving itself
against the cliflf, made the solid rock to tremble beneath
him, and the tossing of the white foam as it flew from the
crest of the billow. All this might have been equally well
perceived by the dog at his feet, or the wild sea-bird, as,
screaming in gladness, it dashed into the thickest of the
spray. But these are not all the ideas that arise within the
bosom of the man. Besides all these, he feels an emotion
of awe, and yet of exultation; of solemnity, and yet of
ox?itement; of humility when he thinks of his own little-
ness, and yet of greatness when he yields himself up to the
conceptions which crowd upon him. His imagination roama
Dver the ocean ; he muses upon its matchless power, its vast
3xtent, its deceitful smiles, and its sudden wrath, until he ia
bewildered in the throng of his thick-coming flincies. Every
one recognizes in this the emotion of sublimity.
Here, as before, we perceive that this idea, and the emo-
tion which accompanies it, are entirely different from the
simple perceptions by which they are occasioned. They
could not arise without the perceptions, and the perceptions
would be perfect without them. They are called forth un-
der peculiar circumstances in obedience to the principles
of our constitution, and, having once arisen, they rei:3ain
with us, irrespective of the circumstances that gave them
birth.
Having. how?ver, obtained this idea, with its corrfspond-
mg emotion, we find that it is excited by a variety of spirit-
ual conceptions, as well as external perceptions. The infi-
nite in space and duration, immaculate justice, heroic self
MORAL SUGGESTIONS. IT!*
denial, self-sacrificing love, and a large rarietj of the more
majestic moral qualities, excite this emotion in a very higb
degree. How dissimilar soever thcj may be in themselves,
if they awaken this emotion we class them under the same
designation, and call them all sublime. Hence we speak
of the sublime in nature and in art, of the sublime in elo-
quence, in poetry, and in action. The external objects
which awaken this emotion are dissimilar, but, producing
a similar effect, we comprehend them all under the same
classification. \
Of moral ideas derived from suggestion. \
Thus far we have observed chiefly those suggested ideas
which may be derived from irrational objects. It would b«
natural to expect that suggestions of a peculiar character
would be occasioned by observing the actions of our fellow-
men, intelligent and accountable agents.
Thus, foi instance, I find myself in possession of a cer-
tain amount of power. I can move my limbs in any direc-
tion. Iknow, however, that these motions are not uncaused ;
they are consequent upon, and caused by, the energy of my
own will. I look further, and find that my will does not
act at random. I will to perform an action, in order to ac-
complish a certain purpose. So long as I am sane, that is,
governed by the established laws of my being, I find these
two antecedents, will and motive, always preceding everj
act of power which I exert.
If I observe the acts of others, I come to the same con-
clusion. I cannot conceive of an act of a man in a normal
condition, without considering it as emanating from his will ;
nor can I conceive of an act of the will uninfluenced by any
motive. Hence, when we contemplate the act of an intelli-
gent being, we always inv >lve in our conceptions not mer{ ,y
the outward change, but also the will in which it ori^i)iated
and tl^9 motive by which the will was governed
15*
174 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
But c ir acts commonly influence the happiness, or aSocl
the ri<^hts of our fellow-men. Whenever we observe such
an act, there arises in the mind a wholly new idea, unlike
any which we have thus far examined ; it is the idea of
right or wrong. A particular quality in that action is im-
mediately recognized. Perception gives us nothing but the
eKternal act; but by virtue of our constitution there is sug-
gestol to U9 a moral quality, something very different from
the external action itself; and the cognition of this quality
is always attended by certain subjective affections. These
Bubjective affections are the most important of any of which
we are susceptible. The faculty of the mind which gives
rise to these objective cognitions and subjective affections
is called conscience. It belongs co moral philosophy to
treat of this subject at large.
I might mention various other instances of original sug-
gestion, but the above will suffice to illustrate my meaning.
It will, I think, be obvious, from what I have said, that, by
virtue of this power, we possess a distinct and most impor-
tant source of knowledge. The ideas which w^e derive iu
this manner are unlike those either of perception or con-
sciousness, yet they are no less truly clear and definite,
and really lie at the foundation of all our subsequent
knowledge. They seem, more than any other of our ideas,
to result from the exertion of the pure intellect. We
know them to be true, without the intervention of any
media. The intellect with which we are created vouches
f')r their truth, and we cannot conceive them to be false
If it be asked how we may improve this faculty, I answer
that m a matter so simple, when our knowledge is intuitive,
rules seem almost useless. \. few suggestions may, how-
ever, not be wholly without advantage.
It must he obvious to every one, that our train of
thought may follow in the line of our perceptions, or of oui
ORIGINAL SUttQESTIONS.
17£
laggestjona. We may pass from perception to perception
without heeding the suggestions to which they give occasion;
or. detaining every perception, we may follow out to theii
utmost e.xtent the suggestions which spring from it. The
former is the habit of the superficial, the latter of the re-
ilective mind. The one cognizes only the facts which are
risible on the surface ; the other arrives at a knowledge of
the hidden relations by which all that is seen is united
together and directed. Millions-of men, before Sir Isaac
Newton, had seen an apple fall to the ground, but the sight
awakened no suggestion ; or, if it did, the suggestion was
neither reUiined nor developed. He seized upon it at once,
followed It to its resultii, and found that he had caught hold
of the thread which could guide him through the labyrinth
of the universe.
If, then, we would cultivate the faculty of original sug-
gestion, we must exercise it by patient thought. Sugges-
tions will arise in our minds, if we will only heed them,
and they will arise the more abundantly the more carefully
we heed them. We should attend to our own intuitions,
e.xamiue their character, determine their validity, and follow
them io their results. We should have due respect for the
teachings of our own individual intelligence. What other
men have thought is valuable, but its chief value is, not to
save us from the labor of thinking, but to enable us to
think the better for ourselves. If. with patient earnestness,
we thus follow out the suggestions of our own minds, we
bhall find them enriched and invigorated. Instead of drink-
ing forever at the fountains of other men, the mind will
tbu« di.scov3r a fountain within itself " If," said Sir Isaao
Newton, " I am in any respect different from other men, it
is in the po^er of patient thought."
176 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
REFERENCES.
OrigiD of moral ideas — Locke, Book 2. chap. 2, sees. 1, 2 ; book S(
ehap. 21, sec. 42 ; book 2, chap. 28, sec. 5.
Cousin, chap. 5.
Necessity of patient thought in sultivating orig'nal suggestion - LockJ
Bock 4, chap. 3, sec 22—30.
Abercnunbie, Put 4. as. 1.
CBAPTER IV.
ABSTRACTION.
In 01 ler the more definitely to understand the nature ot
Abstraction, let us review the ground which we have passed
over, that we may the more distinctly perceive the point
from which we are about to proceed.
We have seen that by perception we cognize external
objects, and that by consciousness we cognize our internal
energies. Our knowledge, however, derived from both of
these sources, is individual and concrete. I perceive a tree ;
it is an individual tree. I perceive fifty trees ; they are all
indi"iduuls, differing in various respects from each other
but each a distinct and unique object of perception. So,
also, I am conscious of an act of memoiy, that is, of remem-
bering a particular object. I am conscious of remembering
another. Each act is numerically, and as I think of it, dis-
tinct from every other act. Our conceptions of these .acts
are of the same character as the acts themselves, and, with
these powers alone, every idea would be as distinct from every
other idea as the grains of sand on the sea-shore, without
either cohesion or fusibility.
The same remark applies in substance to the ideas dorivcJ
from oiiginiil suggestion. Of these ideas some I know aro
general, and can be referred to no particular object. Such
are the ide:\s of space, duration, infinity, and perhaps some
others. These are cognized as universal and uenessar) la
178 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
soon as the mind begins to think ; and, as thej are at the
beginning, so they remain forever unsusceptible of either
change or modification. Another class of our suggestive
ideas is, however, of a different character. I ptrceivo, for
instance, a case of change, as the rolling of a ball, or the
falling of a pin. The idea of cause and power at once sug-
gests itself, but it is of the power requisite to produce thia
effect, and this only. It is the idea, not of causation in
general, but of causation in this individual instance. Should
I see another case of change, the same notion of causation
would arise, but it would again be of an individual change,
and would be wholly disconnected from that which I ob-
served before. That is, every idea of causation would be
indissolubly connocted with that change by which it was oc-
casioned, and thus our knowledge of causation would be
nothing more than the remembrance of these several isolated
and separate facts.
If, then, our intellectual powers were limited to those
which we have already considered, it is easy to imagine
what must be our condition. We could perceive individual
objects, and be conscious of tbe exertion of individual ener-
gies, or of the putting forth of certain intellectual acts.
Every object of perception would be distinct and discon-
nected, and equally so the conceptions which it originated.
Our knowledge would be all of individuals, and every object
must have its own proper name, or that which is equivalent
to it. When we speak of different men, we call them John,
James, William, meaning by each of these terms to desicr-
nato an individual unlike every other in existence. Such
would be our knowledge if we had no other faculties than
those already examined.
But, if we look into our own minds, and observe the minda
of other men, we find our condition to be the reverse of all
this. Proper names, or those used to designate individuala
ABSTRACTION.
ITS
are the rarest words in a language. "We use them only to
point out persons and places, and when these are not alluded
to such words are never employed. In works of science
they have no place whatever, unless we find it necessary to
refer to some historical fact. Language is made up alto-
gcthsrof words designating classes of things, as book, house,
tree, idea ; or of qualities, as red, white, blue, warm, cold ;
or of actions, as walk, ride, think, give, take ; or of relationa,
as by, to, upon, &c. When we use these words we have
no reference to individuals, and desire merely to indicate
Classes of things, actions, qualities or relations, signified by
';hese terms. So universally is this the case, that, when we
wish to individualize a particular object, we are obliged tc
use several descriptive terms, in order to distinguish it from
its class. Thus, if I wish to direct attention to a particular
table, I am obliged to refer to it as my table, of such a
color and size, or standing in such a place, or bought of
such a person. In this manner we select an individual
from a class, in order to make it an object of particular
attention.
Wri observe, then, Avhat our conceptions would be, were
we endowed with no other powers than those which we have
thus far considered. We see, on the other hand, what our
conceptions actually are. With no other powers than those
of perception, consciousness, and original suggestion, our
ideas would be all of individuals. But we find, in fsujt, that
they are the reverse of this— that they are all of classes.
We naturally inquire, How does Ais change take place? How
do we pass from the conception of individuals to the concep-
tior of generals 7 How, from single, isolated, concrete facts,
Jo wc form notions of classes, or of genera and species';
[t is to this subject that we are now to direct our attention
Abstraction is that faculty of the mind by which froir
180 INTELLECTUAL PfllLOSOPHr.
individual, concrete conceptions, we form general ana a<v
Btract ideas.
Though I speak of abstraction as a fiiculty of the mind,
1 am aware that it is, in manj respects, unlike those of
■which I have thus far treated. It gives us no new knowl-
edge, like perception, consciousness and original suggestion ;
it only modifies the knowledge which we have acquired by
these faculties. It does not, like them, perform its office
by a single act. On the contrary, it accomplishes its object
by a succession of acts, each one different from both the
others. Yet^ as it performs a function which could be per-
formed by nc other power, — as it actually does something,
and as a faculty is the power of doing something, — I think
we cannot err in designating it by the same general name
which is given to the other intellectual energies.
In the mental process by which we pass from individuals
to generals, three separate acts can be distinctly perceived ;
these are analysis, g-eneralizaHon and comb'mation.
1. Analysis. I have remarked, when treating of concep-
tion, that we have the power of retaining a notion of any
object of perception after the object is removed, precisely
similar to that which we formed when we were perceiving
it. For instance, I saw a rose yesterday. I cognized it
then as present, and observed its color, form, magnitude,
as a distinct and concrete object, uniting in itself these
various and dissimilar qualities. I retain to-day a notion
of it as an object absent, uniting in itself all the various
qualities which I cognized in it as present. The difference,
subjectively, is merely between the notion of the objev3t
as presen*^^ and the notion of it as absent. Now, when I
make the conception of this rose an object of reflection, 1
nm able to separate, in thought, these qualities from each
other ; tliai is, to think of each quality separately, without
thinking of the others. Thus, I may think, exclusively, of
ABSTRA\.TI0N. 18J
Its color, then of its form, its woiglit, & ^. ; at each tira:
banishing from my mind the conception of all the othei
qualities. I look upon a lily ; I form a conception of it in
the same manner, and in the same manner can I, in tbought,
separate its qualities one from the other, making each one
of tLera the exclusive object of attention. I behold a moun-
tain as present. I form a conception of it as absent. I can
think exclusively of its form, or its magnitude, or its color,
or its trees, or of the strata of which it is formed. The act by
which we thus, in thought, separate the elements of a con-
crete conception from each other, and consider each one by
itself as a distinct object of thought, is commonly termed
abstraction. I prefer to call it analysis, as this worr" suf-
ficiently designates its character, and distinguishes il ."rom
the other acts which with it go to make up the prooe & of
abstraction.
I wish it, how^ever, to be distinctly remembered, that this
act, in every ca.se, has for its object an individual conception.
I have analyzed my conception of a rose, and considered its
qualities separattly. But they are the qualities of this
particular '-ose, and nothing more. The case is the same
when 1 analyze a lily, or a mountain ; it is not the analysis
of any and every lily, or mountain, but only of that one
which I saw and of which I now form a conception. The
color is not the color of roses, or lilies, but only of this par-
ticuhir ro.se, or of that particular lily. The same remark
ap[>lics to the form, fragrance, or any other of its qualities.
It is just the same as if 1, for the first time, saw one of
tlnse objects, and were never to see it again. In thought, I
separate each one of its qualities from the other, and then
the mental act terminates.
2. Geiteralizution. By analysis I have separated the
qualities of an individual rose. Suppose I were called upcn
to give to each of them a name ; I could do it in no othei
IG
IS2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
manner than by designating each of them by tlie name o{
the object from which the concrete conception was derived
I must call them, for instance, the color, the form, the fra
grance, the weight, of the rose A. But suppose, now, anothei
rose is presented to me. I analyze the conce[)tion which ]
have formed of it as before, and find it made up of color,
fcrm, fragrance, etc. These qualities now cease to be the
qualities of the rose A ; they become the qualities of the
roses A and B. I see a hundred roses. I analyze the con
ception3 which I form of them, and find the same qualities
jji each. These qualities cease, then, to be the qualities of
the roses A and B, but become the qualities of roses.
But I proceed further, and analyze the conception I have
formed of other objects, as, for instance, of a carnation, a
peony ; and I find that the color of the rose is also the
color of these flowers. I observe again, and find that
cherries and other fruits present the same color. It ceases,
then, to be the color of roses, or flowers, or fruits ; and, by
necessity, separating it from every object in which I per-
ceived it, I designate it by a particular name, and call it
red. Again ; I observe a violet : I analyze the conception
which I f)rm of it, and call the color, the color of this par-
ticular violet. I see several violets, all having the same color,
and then this color becomes to me the color of violets. I
observe monks-hood, and various other flowers, different
kinds of fruit, the heavens above mc, and many other objects
clothed in the same color ; and it is no longer the color of
B violet, or of violets. I give it a name to designate this
^^articular quality, and call it blue. Henceforward I think
of It by itself, without any reference to all, or any, of the
objects in which I at first detected it. It forms, in my mind,
a distinct conception. Again ; I find that every object
which 1 perceive has a particular mode of addiessing the
eye Some are red, sorre are blue^ some are brown. I
ABSTRACTIO!?. 183
(Onsider thi? impression, aside from the vdiioi' objects which
produce it, and give it a general name, color.
In this manner we form simple abstract 'detis of tho
several qualities which we observe We derive them origi
nally from individuals, in the manner above stated ; but we
conceive of them without respect to any individuals what-
ever.
When these simple abstract ideas are thus formed, they
constitute the alphabet which we use in thinking. As we unite
the letters of the alphabet into syllables, syllables into
words, and words into sentences and discourse, so these sim-
ple abstiact ideas, combined into tlie various forms of com-
plex conceptions, form the matter which we use in the exer-
cise of the powers of reasoning and imagination.
3 Combination. The process in this c;ise is exceedingly
obvious. Having obtained these simple abstract ideas, dis-
connected from any subject in whicli ihey originally existed.it
is manifestly in oar power to unite them together so as to form
any complex conceptions that we may desire. Thus, to
refer to the previous instances, I have formed simple abstract
ideas of red, blue, the form and the fragrance of a rose, the
color, form, and fragrance of a lily, or violet, the magnitude
and form of a mountain. It is evident that I may recom-
bine these different simple ideas just as I choose. I can. in
coni^eption, unite the form of a rose with the color of a lily,
and the fragrance of a violet. I should, then, have the
conception of a white rose with the perfume of a violet. I
can unite the idea of the form of a mountain with tiie color
red, and I then have a red mountain. I may combine tne
notim of red with the leaves and gre^n with the petals of a
TDse. and I have a green rose with red leaves, &c.
In this manner we are every moment forming conceptions
by means of language, either written or spoken. A few
iays since I read in a newspaper an account of a new varier.j
134 INTEl.LECTUAL PHJLDSOPHT.
of roses -which had been discovered in North Carolina ; itt
peculiarity consisting in this, that the petals of tlie flowei
were green. I unite together the simple abstract ideas in-
dicated by the words, and I have almost as definite concep-
tion of it as if I had seen it. So, when any new j lant.
or animil, or work of art, is described to us, we immediutoly
unite the several simple ideas in the manner indicated by
our informer, and the conception stands befoi-e our miuda
like a reality.
From this view of the subject, we see that abstraction —
meaning by this term the three several acts entering into
this process — is indispensable to the formation of language.
To make the most simple affirmation by the use of proper
names, or individual concrete conceptions, such as they
are delivered to us by perception, consciousness, and orio^-
inal suggestion, is manifestly impossible. We must, by such
combinations as I have mentioned, form ideas designating
classes; or language could not exist. If we examine
the words of a language, we shall find that, except such as
designate simple ideas, they are all used to express a group
of ideas united under a single term. The definition of a
word analyzes it, and shows the various simple ideas of
which it is composed. Thus, if we take any words at ran
dom, as debtor, creditor, father, brother, friend, country
patriotism, treachery, murder, robbery, &c., we shall find
that each of them is composed of several distinct ideas. A
correct definition gives us every element that essentially
belongs to the compound conception.
We thus learn the manner in which the communication
of thought Is rendered practicable. A single word is made
the vehicle of ever so large a group of conceptions. If, in-
stead of using such words, we were obliged at length to
enumerate all the ideas which they designate, human inter-
course by language must cease. Th3 thought now expressed
ABSTRACnON. 18r
fli a single sentence ^ould require pages ijt its develop-
ment, and the multitude of apparently disconnected ideaa
would render the comprehension of an ordinary statement
almost impossible.
From tliese illustrations of the nature of abstraction, it
appears that the exercise of this faculty may give rise to
two different classes of conceptions. The first chiss is
formed entirely in obedience to our own will. Having
formed simple abstract ideas, we have the power to unite
them together in just such compound conceptions as we
please. We may conceive of the magnitude of a mountain
with the form and color of a rose ; we have then a concep-
tion of a rose as great as a mountain. We may unite the
form of wings with that of a horse, and we have the concep-
tion of a winged horse. We may go further, and unite in
one complex conception various distinct images of b&iuty.
Thus, Milton, from various scenes which he had beheld,
selected those portions best adapted to his purpose, and
formed the complex conception of the Garden of Eden. So
the sculptor, from several specimens of the human form,
selects those features which seem best suited to his purpose,
and unites them in one conception more perfect than any
which he has seen in actual existence. When we use this
faculty for these purposes, we call it Imagination.
But we use this faculty for another purpose. By means
of it we form all our classifications of the objects of nature,
and hence it lies at the foundation of all natural science.
Here, however, we find it acting under different condi-
tions from those which we have last considered. The ele-
ments Df our complex conceptions were then subject to
nothing but the will. Our object was to please, and, if thia
was accomplished, our whole end was attained. Here, our
object is to instruct. We desire our classifications to coin-
cide with objects in nature, and if they do not our labor uf
16*
1 ^6 INTELL3CTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
wcrse than tb.owu away. We are, therefore, restricted
in our materials to the matters of fact before us. In form-
ing a complex conception from nature, we must combine
precisely thuse elements which nature herself has combined,
and neither more nor less. In just so far as my coiiception
departs from the fact in nature, it is imperfect, superfluous,
or monstrous. If I am foi-ming a scientific conception of .1
lion, I must admit into it precisely those elements which
nature has united in this class of animals. If I form a con-
ception of a lion at will, I may add to it wings, any color
that pleases me, and any magnitude that will answer my
purpose. In the one case, we have the conception of a phys-
iologist; in the other, of an imaginative sculptor, such aa
designed the winged lions in the temples of Nineveh.
The manner in which we form the clussificutions of sci-
ence may, then, be easily illustiated. Suppose a physiol
ogist wishes to form a scientific conception of a horse. A
specimen is presented to him : he e.vatnines the outward
appearance of the animal, its form, color, motion : he dis-
sects it. and examines its internal structure tlie peculiarities
of its skfleton, the number of its bones, their position and
relations to each o;her. He takes note of these elements
with all the caie in his power. These vaiious simple ideas
belong to nothing but this individual specimen, the horse
A. Let another specimen be in a similar manner e.xam-
ined. He notes, as before, all its elementary ideas, and pro-
ceeds until he has satisfied himself that further investigation
is useless But these various elements have now ceased to
be the elements of any particular horse ; they are the ele-
ments of the class of animals whose character he is investi-
gating.
He ii nov desirous of uniting these several ideas into a
3onception that shall apj)ly not to one or another horse,
but to all horses. He compares these elementary ideaa, and
ABSTRACTION 181
horses he has seen. Others of them ;ire inconstant : that is,
they belong to some, and not to others. He separates the
one from the other, uniting in one complex conception all
the consUint elements, and leaving out of his conceptien all
that are variable. For instance, the form of the skeleton,
the number of vertebrae, the structure and number of the
teeth, the organs of digestion, etc., are constant. These are
found to be the s;ime iu all. On the other hand, color, size,
ukI m:>.ny other elements, are variable. It is by the union
)f those coiist-int c:ualitics that he forms his general abstract
xiea of a horse, referring to no horse in particular, but being
ihe conception which answers in his mind to that word when
it is used either by himself or others. In this manner all
our j^e^icral conceptions, that is, conceptions comprehending
a numbar of similar objects, are formed. That we are
always c-ocucious of every step of the process. I do not affirm.
We are so continually performing this mental operation, that
we give no boed to the manner in which we proceed. If,
however, any tnc will pause, and observe his own mental
operations, I iLink he will hud them such as I have
attempted to describe.
I h^ve spoken of the mode in which our general abstract
conceptions are formed in matters of science. It is proper
to rtuark that all men, whether learned or unlearned, pro-
ceed precisely in the same manner. A common man. in
forming his notion of a horse, acts just like a physiologist
The only difference is, that the one is able to detect a
greater nui.iber of elementary ideas, and is the better able
to distinguish the constant from the variable. The one ob-
serves merely the elements which are obvious to the senses ;
the other, by dissocti'~n, ox:\n:in'is the organs whirh perform
;he functions necess^vy *o tie o.vvtence of the animal. The
difference, then, is th.Ai v\3 ooav^ation of the one covers a
188 INTELLtJTUAL THILOSOPHY.
larger field, and is m."di -with more minute accuracy, than
the other. Both, howev.r, depend on the same principleb,
and obey the same intellectual impulses.
It will be readily seen, from what has been remarkel, thit
abs'.raction, or the faculty by which we form classes, is indi&.
pcnsable to enumeration. Whenever we speak of any num-
ber of objects, we must first reduce them to a class. Thus,
if I were asked how many are there in this room, how
would it be possible to reply 7 I ask how many what I —
how many persons, or books, or chairs, or tables, or things ?
Until I know the class to which the objects to be enumer-
ated belong, I can never reply to the question.
I have thus explained the manner in which we form
general abstract conceptions, or conceptions of classes. Let
us examine the manner in which we proceed when we form
our conceptions of genera and species.
Let us take, for instance, our conception of horse ; it is a
conception formed by the union of all the constant elements
which we have found existing in that animal. Suppose I
proceed, and examine a zebra, an ass, an elephant. I form
general conceptions of these, as I did of the horse. I now
compare these several conceptions together, and find that
there are certain elements in which they all agree, while
each one has additional elements peculiar to itself. I com-
bine in one conception the elements which they all possess in
common, and gave to it the name pachydermata, which in-
cludes all these several classes. This general name distin-
guishes the genus, while the additional elements, by which
those subordinate classes differ from each other, maik the
species. Thus it may be said that these several classes of
animals form species, included in the genus pachydermata.
As we proceed in our investigations, we observe various
other classes of animals, as cainivora, rodcntia, and a mul-
titude of others. We compare tliose genera top;8ther, and
ABSTRACTION. 189
Gn>3 tlia in certain elements, gradually grow ng less numer-
ous, tliey all ngree. I torui a larger class by uniting those
less numerous elements into a simple conception, aiui give
to that conception the name mammalia. Pursuing my
examination further, I find other classes of journals, as
numerous as mammalia, diflFering from them in many im-
portant respects, yet having one or more elements in com-
mon ; for instance, they all have vertebrae. I then form a
generic class by uniting in one conception the few and sim-
ple elements which they all hold in common. This forms
my widest and most comprehensive geneialization.
We see, then, that vertebrate comprehends under it an
immense number of individuals; that is, every one endowed
vsith this form. Under this are several subordinate classes,
each one {wsscssing this clement, and also something addi-
tional peculiar to itself, as mammalia, fishes, etc. If I now
take one of these second classes, I find that under it nie
several sub-genei-a, each one possessing all the elements of
the genus, and also some other elements by which it differs
from every other sub-genus. In this manner I descend, un-
til I come to the lowest species or variety, in which all the
iuilividuals are, in all constant elements, similar to each
other. In this manner we form the genera and species of
science. "We of course find that, the greater the number of
elements which enter into the idea of a class, the smaller is
the number of individuals under it ; and, on the other hand,
the smaller the number of elements in the idea of a class,
tlie greater the number of individuals which it comnre-
bends.
Fiom what we have here observed, we perceive the
difference between the process of investigation and of in-
struction. Ir investigat-on, we proceed fiom particulars to
generals ; we discover particular facts and reduce them tc
plaases. and then, going still further, comprehend ihcM
190 INTELLECTS IL PEILO SOPHY.
classes under more general classes, until we have ai rived at
the widest genei-alizations in our power. But, when we
vMsh to instruct, or communicate knowledge to o1 hers, this
process is reversed. We then begin with the simplest and
most universal principles, comprehending the greatest num-
ber of individuals under them. From these we proceed to
the largest subordinate genera, from these to sub-genera or
species, until we have mastered the whole class of objects
which our most generic classification comprehends. At
each step, as we proceed downwards from the more to the
less general, we add some new elements, until we at last
arrive at the conception of the individuals, with which, ia
the labor of investigation, we commenced.
And hence we learn the nature of a definition in science.
When we define any scientific conception, we first men-
tion the genus to which it belongs, and then the specific
difference, or those other elements, which, being added to
the conception of the genus, designate its peculiar species.
Thus, in geometry, we define a figure as " any combination
of lines which encloses space." Here "combination of lines"
is the generic idea, and "enclosing space" is the specific
diifeience, or the element added to the generic idea which
n)akes out our conception of a figure. Again; "a plane
triangle is a figure bounded by three straight lines."
Here, again, "figure" denotes the genus, and "bounded
by three straight lines " is the specific difference, or the
element added to the conception of figure which gives us
the conception of the species, triangle. So, again, " a
right-angled triangle is a triangle one of whose angles is a
right angle." Here, again, "triangle" is the genus, and
'one of whose angles is a rig^t angle" is the specific dif-
fererxce, or the element added to the idea of triangle ^hicb
3reates the conception of a right-an;^ied triangle.
Hencej we see that simple cbjeLts, or those vhich have
ABSTRACTION 1?]
00 parts, or into the conception of which no plurality of ele-
ments enters, can never he defined. Thvy can fuiiiisli nc
specific diflorencc, nor can tliey, by analysis of elements
be classed v,iihin any genus. In such cases, we are obliged
merely to describe the circumstances under which the object
i3 f resented to our cognition, or else place the subject him-
self under these circumstances. Thus, if we wish to make
known to any man a simple energy of the mind, we mention
the circumstances under which it arises; he refers to his
own experience, and instantly recognizes our meaning. If
he lias had no such experience, he can never anive at the
knowledge. Thus, I cannot define seeing to a blind mm,
for it is a simple act. I describe to him the circumstances
under which it occurs to me, but under the same circum-
stances he receives no impression. There is, therefore, an
-impassable gulf between us, so fir as this cognition is con-
cerned. The case is similar in all our simple cognitions.
The question has arisen, and formerly it was argued with
great bitterness, what is the object of our thought when we
furm a gener.il conception ? Thus. I think of animal, quad-
ruped, mammal, man, tree. etc. There is nothing in nature
answering to this conception, fur every individual posse.ss<;3
all the elements which enter into my conception, and also
many more. What, then, is the object of thought, when
we think any of these ideas? Some philosophers asserted
that there was an actual oljcct corresponding to this concep-
tion : and others, that, when we formed a general concei-
Iion. the only object wits the word which designated it. The
>ne class was called realists, the other nominalists. It ia
needless to enter into this discussion at present. It is evi-
dcnt that cf nception is a mode of thought, and that there ia
in this act nothing numerically di.^tinct ficm the mental
4Ct itself It is true, as Sir W. Hamilton has observed
ih»t we may in thought make a distinction between the fao
V32 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
ulty or state of the mind in conception, and the concept cr no-
tion in which this act exhibits itself. But there is no exist-
ing thing numerically different ftom the act, and, therefore,
it seems evident that both nominalists and realists were
fw^ually wide of the truth.
I'rom these illustrations, I hope that the manner in which
TC form classes and general conceptions will be sufficiently
understood. It is, however, evident that this process iLay
be employed in a great variety of ways. Abstraction ena-
bles us to classify, but we may classify for diftcrent pur-
poses, and thus, under different circumstances, select differ-
ent elements as the basis of our classification.
It may be useful to mention some of the more common
and obvious principles by which our classifications are deter-
mined.
1. We very frequently form classes from our observation
of the external appearance, the form, color, magnitude, etc.,
or from an examination of the internal structure. Thus, ag
I have before remarked, men classify the objects which they
behold, as animals, birds, etc., according to their external
appeaiance ; the pliysiologist classifies them by an examina-
tion of their internal stiucturc, and the manner in which
they perfoim the various functions necessary to life. Such
are, in gr^neral, the classifications in the various departments
of natural histoiy.
Here it is proper to remark that, having once formed our
ilassification, we naturally refer a new specimen to someone
of the clusses which we have found already existing. It seems,
however, strange, that, while knowledge is ever advancing,
men are disposed to believe, at every successive step, that
they have arrived at its ultimate limits. Yet such is mani-
festly the in6rmity of man. Hence it is that our classifi-
sations are fre(juently incorrect. Supposing, incautiously^
that the classes which we have •ecosnized include all the
ABSTRACTION. 193
ipecimcng or fill the facts that can exist, we are liable to
refer a new specimen or a new fact to a class to which it
does not belong. Thus the islanders of the Pacific, who
had never seen any other quadrupeds than hogs and goats.
upon seeing a cow, declared that it must be either a large
goat or a horned hog.- These being the only classes they
had ever observed, they naturally supposed that this new
specimen must be referred to either the one or the other.
This was the error of savages, but the same error is liable
to occur among philosophei-s. What is called accounting for
a phenomenon is nothing more than referring it to some
law, or general classification, under which it is compre-
hended. Thus, if I am asked why a stone falls tu the
earth, I account for it by replying that all matter is recipro-
cally attractive ; that is, I refer *his individual fact to a
general law, or the expression of a more general fact.
From the disposition to refer a new phenomenon to some
established law, philosophers as well as savages are exposed
tc error. In the case of philosophers, however, the error is
liable to be carried a step further. When they cannot
account for a phenomenon, — that is, when they know of no
class to which to refer it, — they not unfrequently deny its
existi nee ; taking it for granted that if they cannot account
for a phenomenon, it could not have occurred. It is for
this 3ause that every new discovery is oldiged to fight its
way to a place in science, against the whole influence of phi-
loso|.hic incredulity. So far as this leads to a more thorough
investigation of whatever claims to be a discovery, it is well
and reasonable ; but so far as it rejects whatever cannot be
accounted for as unworthy of examination and deserving
only of ridicule, it is neirher well nor reasonable, and ig
directly opposed to all tiue progress in science. Philoso-
phers woulil frequently be wise would tliey bear iu mind the
instruction of the poet :
17
194 INTELLECTTAL PHILOSOPHY.
" There are more thiaga in heaTen and earth, Horatic,
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy "
2. Individuals may be classified by similarity of caase
Here we neglect entirely all consideration of external ap«
pearance or of internal structure, and, forming the concep*
tion of a particular cause, combine into one class every indi-
vidual to which that cause gives origin. Thus, the geologist
may arrange rocks into two classes, the one of which has
resulted from the action of fire, and the other from the
action of water. The physician may arrange diseasea
according to the causes which have produced them, one clasa
resulting from the affection of the nerves, another from the
affections of the lungs, the stomach, etc.
3, We may classify individuals from similarity of effects.
Here, omitting all consideration of appearance, structure,
and origin, we form a conception of a particular effect.
Having formed this conception, we comprehend under it
every individual which will produce the effects in question.
The physician arranges all the substances in the materia
medica on this principle. It matters not to him whether
the articles which he is examining belong to the animal,
vegetable or mineral kingdom. We classify them as nar-
cotics, stimulants, sudorifics, emetics, etc., according, solely,
to the effects which they are known to produce upon the
human organism. Thus, the critic classes objects in nature
or art according to the effect which they are known to pro-
duce upon the human mind. He calls a landscape, a meta-
phor, a picture, beautiful, graceful or sublime, as he observes
it to produce tlese particular emotions on the mind of man
It will appear, fr»,m these few illustrations, that the vari-
eties of classification are as numerous as the principles on
which classifications may be formed. Every art has ita
own principles, on which it classifies the substiinces oi*
which its labor is exerted The same individual may ihui
ABSTRACTION. 19.1
be comprehei'Jevi under as miny different classes as tnere
are different conceptions formed in the minds of those who
contemplate it. The physician, the botanist, and the poet,
may all examine the same plant, and each will assign it tc
a different class, according to the controlling ideas by which
his classification is governed.
It is obvious that a faculty, which enters so essentially
iiito all the modes of thought, must greatly influence our
intellectual character. This will be rendered the more evi-
dent if we consider the separate acts which form the pruccsa
of abstraction, and observe the manner in which the pre-
dominance of either affects the tlemencs of our intellectual
constitution.
1. Analysis. This power to detect and distinguish froix
each other all the various qualities of an external object,
and all the various changes of a material or a spiritual phe-
nomenon, is frequently denominated acuteness of observa-
tion. It is essentially what we have spoken of under thi«
name of analysis. Its importance to a thinker or discoverer
is manifest. As every variety of external appearance iudi-
cates a modification of internal quality, and as every varia-
tion in the process of a change indicates some alterjtion
in the condition of the cause, it is obvious that this [/ower
must be of prime importance to a philosopher. He who
is best able to analyze the constituent elements of the ob-
jects to which his attention is directed, whether in the world
within or the world without, is the most rid ly provided
with the materials for accurate judgment. It is thus that
an accurate observer frequently detects facts which result in
'mportant discoveries, that ha e always been w thin the
reach of his contemporaries, but which had never l)eforo
attracted their attention. From the want of this power, the
effects of one cause are sometimes ascribe<l to another : im-
portant causes are undetected ; cause axid effect, antecedent
196 tNTLLLECTUAL PHI. OSOPHY.
and oor sequent, are blendd together ; and, in generai,
reseaich becomes vague, unsatisfactory, and unw:>rthy of
reliance. He, then, -who desires to attain to accuracy of
philosophical inquiry, should strive to cultivate this powei
to the greatest perfection. Nor is this all. By this instru-
ment we are able to detect sophistry, and lay bare the
insuflSeient foundations of all false reasoning. It was from
Want of acuteness of observation that Locke fell into many
of his most important errors. The value of this endow-
ment is also conspicuously seen in the review of his Philos-
ophy, by Cousin, an author of surpassing mental acuteness.
This power has always been largely developed in those fa-
vored individuals who have made the most important addi-
tions to our knowledge of the laws of nature.
2. Of different, hut not inferior, importance to a culti-
vated mind, is the power of generalization. Acuteness of
observation will discover new facts, and observe changes
heretofore unknown ; it will analyze what is concrete, and
unravel what is complicated ; but it will do no more. If
we possess only this power, we may do important service to
science by collecting valuable materials ; but we shall col-
lect them only that they may be wrought into philosophical
laws by the genius of others. Besides this, therefore, ar
inquirer after truth needs a power which, having discovered
an important relation, shall enable him to detect it under
whatsoever changes of condition it may be hidden. He will
\hus be able to arrange under each class those individuals
which the Creator himself has arranged under it, and trace
out a given cause through all the diversities of time and
place to which its influence may have extended. Probably
no power of the human mind has been so fertile in discov-
ery as this. From a single observation of an hitherto un-
noticed phenomenon, or from the minute and almost micro-
Bcopic experi'Jients of the laboratory, the philas<:>pher ifl
ABSTRACriON.
197
»t)le frequently to enunciate a law wliicli controls the most
imponant changes of the universe. It was thus that Sii
Isaac Newton, having accurately determined the law which
governed the fall of an app}.e, at once began to generalize
this idea. If this law governs bodies at small distances
from the earth, why should it not govern bodies at great
distances 7 If it governs bodies at great distances from tho
"sarth, why may it not reach to the moon, and govern lier mo-
tion in her orbit 7 and if the moon in relation to the earthy
why not the earth and planets in relation to the sun 7 Thus,
by following out this elementary law, the germ was evolved
of the greatest discovery recorded in the annals of science.
In a similar manner, Dr. Franklin made himself acquainted,
by experiment, with the laws of the electric fluid. He observed
the phenomena of lightning in the thunder-cloud. Compar-
ing them together, and making due allowance for the difler-
ence between the vastness of nature and the littleness of
man, he detected the same elementary phenomena in both,
and the question at once occurred to him. Are they not
identical 7 A simple experiment decided the question in
the affirmative, and added a wide domain to the empire of
human knowledge. It was also a rare combination of these two
powers of observation and generalization that gave to Cu-
vier the first place among the naturalists of his own, and.
perhaps, of every age.
3. Intellectual character is also affected by the degree in
which we are endowed with the power of combination.
I have already remarked that the power of combination
nay be either poetic or scientific ; that is, that we may
form cur combinations at will, or they may be limited by
the objects in nature from which they are derived. Tiiis
difference of endowment distinguishes the class of IMiltun
and Shakspeare from that of Newton and Franklin.
But, passing this general distinction, it is evident that
17*
103 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
the po\Nvr 01 g.ientific combination is possessed \>j m^n ifi
very unequal degrees. Suppose a philosopher to have ob
served with accuracy a series of phenomena. He has them
before him, — the facts and the order of their succession.
He knows that under the same conditions the same sucoes-
gi'^n will be repeated. But this :s not enough. What are
the unseen changes of which these phenomena are the m?n-
ife,stations ; and what are the relations which they sustain
to each other 7 In a word, what is the rationale of these
several changes ? As, for instance, he places a piece of wood
on the fire ; it inflames and bums to ashes. The facts are
visible and common, and he knows that another piece of
woo<l, under the same conditions, will be subject to the same
changes. But what is the rationale of these changes 1
What is combustion 7 What is flame ? What is ashes 7
What are the combinations formed and dissolved during the
change of wood to a substance so utterly unlike itself 7
Here, then, is a demand for philosophical combination.
The ne.Kt step is to form a conception of such unseen causea
as will be sufiicient to account for the phenomena.
The power of forming such conceptions exists in very
different degrees. Some men merely observe the facts, and
give themselves no trouble to ascertain the cause. Others,
in seeking for a cause, form conceptions after the manner of
the poets, which have no relation to established laws, and
can never be verified by observation or experiment. Ho
■who is endowed with true philosophical genius seems
instinctively to originate combinations analogous to truth,
ffhich become the immediate precursors to discovery. I do
QOt say thai there is anything of the nature of pro )f in a
conception of this kind, only that it serves to direct the
inquiiies of the original investigator. Having fojmed hia
conce[>tion, his next business is to prove it to be true.
When he has done this, his discovery is made. Without
ABSTRACTION. 19|»
proof, nothing has yet been determined ; but without some
coQceptiou to direct i)ivcstigation. there could be no proof
for there would be nothing to prove. Sir Isaac Newton and
Sir Humphrey Davy seem to me to have been richly en-
dowed with the power of scientific combination. On the
other hand, Dr. Priestley, though an eminent philosopher,
seems to have possessed it in a very imperfect degree.
Though his discoveries were numerous, and of the highest
importiince, yet all his theories of the changes which he
observed have long since been exploiled.
The power of philosophical combination, of necessity,
improves witli the progress of science. As the laws of
nature and her modes of operation are better understood, we
form conceptions more and moi'e analogous to truth. We
learn to think more and more in harmony with the ideas of
the Creator ; and, from a larger and more accurate acquaint-
ance with the known, we are the better able to unravel the
mysteries of the unknown. When it was observed that
water woul«l rise in a pump, the solution of the phenomenon
at first said to be given was that nature abhorred a
vacuum. \\''hen it was found that it would not rise more
thai, thirty-two feet, this fact was explained by the theory
that mture 'lid not abiior a vacuum for more thin thirty-
two feet. Can it be that any of the hypotheses of the present
day will seem as strange to our successors as this theory
docs to us ?
With regird to the improvement of this faculty, a few
rords nay be added at the close of this chapter. Let ug
refer to each of the three acts into which abstraction haa
been divided.
Analysis, or the power of distinguish'ng and separating
from each otlier things which differ, may be employed
either objectively or subjectively, as we are inquiring into
200 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
the qualities and relations of the world without ns or th*
energies and relations of the world within us.
So far as the accurate observation of the external woild
is concerned, much depends upon the delicacy of our senses.
but probably no less upon the earnest attention with which
ye use them. A listless, careless observer never discovers
anything. It is only by an intense direction of tho mind to
the objects of our inquiry, that we are able to detect changes
and relations which have been hidden from preceding
observers. Truth reveals herself not to those who pay her
mere formal and perfunctory service, but to those who
render to her the earnest and heartfelt homage of the whole
soul.
Acuteness in the analysis of mental phenomena requires
an equal earnestness, though it is differently directed. We
here find it necessary to cultivate the habit of withdrawing
from all external objects, and fixing our attention on the
revelations of our own consciousness. Few men can do this
without long-continued and patient effort. With sucr
effort, however, most men can attain to it. We must learn
to look calmly and steadily upon a mental phenomenon. If
there appear m it the slightest indications of complexity ;
if, when examining it from different points of view, the least
shade of difference be cognizable in our consciousness ; or,
if, on comparing two forms of thought, which seemed to us
identical, there arises within us the intellectual feeling of
dissimilarity, we must pause until we are thoroughly satis-
fied on the subjects of our inquiry. It is by listening to
the first suggestion of a difference, that we learn to deter-
mine the character and relations of our mental phenomena.
If we would enlarge our power of generalization, I know
of no better method than to study the generalization.! of
nature. Admirable lessons of this sort are found in the
natm-al sciences, — chemistry, physiology, geology, etc. N'c
ABSTRACTION. 201
finer exercise for the power of generalization can It desired,
thiinto take a single important chemical law, and trace out
Its operations on the vast and the minute throughout the
kingdom of nature. Having become familiar with these
wide-spreading classifications, we shall be the better able to
pursue the generalizations of the subjective. We may then
take an intellectual or moral law. and, having clearly marked
out its nature and limitations, follow out its effects on the
character of individual and social man. The light which
will thus dawn on the mind will frequently astonish the
student himself Patient thought in this direction will
furnish explanations of phenomena, and suggest rules of
conduct, which would hardly reveal themselves to any other
mode of investigation.
To improve the power of philosophical combination, we
nped. most of all, to study the actual combinations of nature.
The more familiar we become Avith them, the clearer will be
the light shed upon the unknown. Much may also be
learned from the lives of those who have been so fortun-ite
as to extend the limits of human knowledge. By observing
the manner in which they have labored, we may hope to be
able to follow their example. This subject will, however,
come again under consideration, when, in a subsequeut
chapter, we treat of scientific imagination.
REFERENCES.
Abstraction — Locke, Book 2, chap. 11, sections 9, 6, 10, 11 ; chaptei
12, section 1 ; Stewart, voL i., chapter 4 ; Reid, Essay 5, ehapters 2, 3,
Mhy most words general — Locke, Book 3, chap. 3, ac-jtions 1 — 10
Beid, Essiy 5, chap. 1.
8imple words not definable -Locke, Book 3, chap. 4, BOitions 4—11
Nominalism and Re.ilisir -Cousin, sect. 6, last part ; liuwarl wa> i
■bap. 2, sections 2 and H
CHAPTER V.
ME^IORY.
8SCTI0N I. — ASSOCIATICN OF IDEAS, OR A IRilN 01
TIIOUGUT IN THE MIND.
The next faculty which we shall consider is Memory.
As, however, its nature cannot be unfolded without a knowl-
edge of the laws which govern the succession of thought in
the mind, we shall devote to this subject a preliminary
section.
Every person is conscious of the fact that, during his
waking hours, his mind is continually engaged in thinking
Were any one to ascertain that an hour, or even a few
minutes, had elapsed, in which he had been conscious of no
thought, he would know that, unless he had fallen asleep, he
must have been affected with some disease which had for the
time paralyzed his intellectual powers.
And yet more ; we are all conscious that it is impossible,
without severe and long-continued effort, to fix the mind
continuously upon any particular thought. It naturally,
and without effort, passes fiom one idea to another, and it
re^iuires a determination of the will to detain it upon any onf
subject. No interval seems to intervene between one
thought and another. They succeed each other without any
volition on our part, and frequently take a direction whici4
we strive in vain to control. A train of thought will some
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 203
times seize upon the mind, and we are unable to disengage
it. We strive to turn our attention to other objects, and,
nfter repeated and strenuous efforts, succeed but imperfectly.
And in general it may be remarked, that he has attained
to uncommon intellectual self-discipline who is able to think
at will, and for any considerable length of time, upon any
subject that he chooses.
But, while all this is true, it is, on the other hand, true
that our thoughts do not follow each other at random. There
are what may be called laws ^f connection, by which their
succession is governed. Whenever an unusual idea occurs
to U5, nothing is more common than to inquire for the reason
of its appearance at that particular time and place. We
take it for granted that it could not have occuired to ug
without being related to some other idea previously existing
in t''.e mind. We, therefore, refer back to the thoughts which
were just before present to our consciousness, and endeavor
to tnvce some connection between them and that for whose
origin we are inquiring.
This fact may be abundantly illustrated by our own expe-
rience. The following examples will recall other instances
to our recollection. Mr. llobbes relates, in his Leviathan,
that, upcn some occasion, several gentlemen were engaged
.'n a conversation respecting the civil war. One of them
i.brujAly inquired the value of a Roman denarius. The
question sounded oddly, and strangely at variance with the
subject under discussion. Mr. Hobbes relates that, on a little
reflection, he was led to trace the train of thought which led
to the inquiry. The subject of conversation, the civil war,
naturally led the mind to the history of Charles I. The
remembrance of the king suggested the treachery of those
who delivered him up. Tlie treachery in this case intro-
duced the treachery of .Judas Iscariot. The crime of Judai
waa at on:e associated with the price for which it was com-
204 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
mitted, and hence the question what was the value of i
Roman denarius-
Stewart give^ an illustration from the voyage of Captain
King, the companion of Cook, of the power of a single
ol'joct to awaken a train of reflection. " While we wcie at
dinner in this miserable hut, on the banks of the river
Awatska. tlie guests of a people with whose existence we
had before been scarcely acquainted, and at the extremity
of the habitable globe, a solitary half-worn pewter spoon,
whose shape Avas familiar to us, attracted our attention -,
and, on examination, we found it stamped on the back with
the word London. I cannot pass over this circumstance
in silence, out of gratitude for the many pleasant thoughts,
the anxious hopes, and tender remembrances, it excited
in us. Those who have experienced the effects that long
absence and extreme distance from their native country pro-
duce on the mind, will readily conceive the pleasure such
a trifling incident can give."
A touching incident, illustrative of the same principle, is
related by Mrs. Judson in her reminiscences of her late hus-
band. During Dr. Judson's long captivity, in the death
prison at Ava, his heroic wife, intending to create an agree-
able surprise, had taken great pains to prepare an article
of food that might cheer his spirits by reminding him of
home. " In this simple, homelike act, this little unpretend-
ing effusion of a loving heart, there Avas something so touch-
ing, so illustrative of what she really was, that he bowed hia
head upon his knees, and the tears flowed down to the chains
about his ankles. Presently the scene changed, and there
came over him a vision of the past. He saw again the home
©f his boyhood. His stern, strongly revered feather, hia
r;c7itle mother, his rosy, curly-haired sister and p'llo yoyjig
biother, were gathered for the noonday meal, and he wai
once more among them. And so his fancy rebelled tbera
AS30CIA.TI0N OF IDEAS. 205
I'inally, he lifted his head, an>l the misery that sur-
rounded him ! lie moved his feet, and the rattling of the
heavy chains was as a death-knell. He thrust the care-
fully prepared dinner into the hands of his associate, and
as fa^t as his fetters woull permit, hurried to his c ^n little
sh3d"--yol. i, pp. 378-9.
Il is unnecessary to illustrate more fully the general fact
that our ideas thus follow in succession independently of our
will. We may remark, still further, that when thought fol-
lows thought without any connection, we recognize it imme-
diately as a proof of insanity. To say of another that he
talks incoliereidly, is to say that he is not in his right mind.
Without any knowledge of the laws of mental association,
we, in this manner, intuitively distinguish a normal from an
abnormal state of the intellect. Thus, in the annual report
of the Massachusetts General Hospital for 1853, one of the
patients is referred to as continually talking after the fol-
lowing manner ; "I have a commission as a justice of the
peace, and an asparagus bed. I like lightning best at a dis-
tance. Whoever puts his name on paper in the Wiscasset
Bank, has a maik on his forehead, and is worse off than if
he was dining with one of the selectmen. Look out."
It is obvious, then, that our thoughts follow each other
in a train subjected to certain general laws, and that they
only move at variance with these laws when the mind is in
an abnormal state.
Tlic laws by which the tram of thought is governed, or.
as they are called, the laws of association, are of two kinds,
objective and subjective. The objective laws are those arising
Q'om the relations which our thoughts sustain to each other ;
the subjective arise from the relations whicli our thoughtg
sustain to the thinking sul)ject. Among the objective laws
are luimbered resemblance, contrast, contiguity, and causf
♦ni eAect : auv ng the subjective are. interval )f time, fro
106 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
quencj of repetition, coexistent emotion, and the menta.
Londiticm of the particular individual.
I. Of the ohjectice laws of ctssociadnn.
1. Resemblance. Every one knows that when we are
thinking of any interesting object or event, other objects or
events in any respects similar to it, naturally present them-
lekes. If we look, for the first time, upon a river in a
fceign land, we instantly recall some river in our own cc un-
ify which it resembles ; and we are never as well satisfied
13 when we find a marked similarity between them. We
never pass over ridges of snow-clad mountains without be-
ing reminded of the x\lps. When we visit a battle-ground,
Tf/e find rising up within us the recollection of other buttles
which may have resembled it in the fierceness of the con-
test, the number of the slain, the principles which nerved
the different combatants, or the results which flowed from
the action over the destinies of humanity. This universal
tendency is seen in the manner in which we designate
remarkable events by giving to them the name of some re-
markable event of a similar character. Thus any battle in
which a small number of patriots have resisted a host
of invaders is called a Thermopyl;^ or a Marathon. A
distinguished general is called an Alexander or a Julius
Cjesar, a patriot is a Washington. These instances all illus-
trate the facility with which one event suggests to us an-
other which resembles it.
If however, we examine the cases which we associate
b; lesemblance, we shall find them to be of tv.o kinils.
Sometimes we associate objects by resemblance in their ex-
ixirnal qualities. Thus, when we see a vast mountain, we
think of Mont Blanc, Chimborazo, or the Himalayas. We
rompare a vast river to the Mississippi or the Amazon. So,
when distinguished men are mentioned, we are continually
compaiing them together, if, in the'r character or circum
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 207
itanocfl. there bv anj elements of similarity. Hence Crom«
well and Naptlton, Charles I. and Louis XVI.. Pitt and
Fox, Scott and Byron, are so commonly spiken of in con
ncctiv?n. In fact, a large portion of our conversation con-
sists of comparisons of this character.
Another mode of association belonging to the same class,
but a source of far greater pleasure, is that in which objects
and events are connected, not by resemblance in their ex-
ternal appearances, but by their effects. Here the mind
is delighted, not simply by the addition of another image in
itself beautiful, but by the peculiar effect of novelty and
unexpectedness. Thus Ossian describes the oiusic of his
Qiinstrel by saying, '' The music of Caryl, like the memory
)f joys that are past, was pleasant yet mournful to the soul."
Uere the objects themselves, music and a recollection, are
Bntirely unlike ; but, agreeing in the effect which they pro^
duce, we derive a peculiar pleasure from associating them
together, and we are conscious that the pleasure is greatei
from the fact that the resemblance is unexpected. Thu.'i
Job compares his friends to a brook in the desert, wliich, in
3ummer, wlien it is most needed, is diied up. and disappoints
the hope of those who relied upon it for succor. There ia
QO similarity here in the objects themselves. A man can-
not reseml)le a brook. In one thing, however, ihey are
alike : they disappoint hope. Hence the beauty of the figure.
It is on this circumstance that the success of metaphorical
language depends. Hence the rule of rhetoricians, that
those metapliors are most beautiful in which the objects
themselves are most dissimilar, while in the effects which
they proiluce, or the point in which (hey are compareil. they
are the most alike. Hence the beauty of the passage in
Longinus, in which he compares the Iliad of Homer to the
xucridian sun, and the Odyssey to the sun at his setting,
when the magnitude is increased, but the effulgence is di-
minished
£08 INTELLECTUAL IfllLOSOPHT.
2. Contrast. We find ourselves frequently associating
Ideas on the principle of contrast ; that is to say, one idea
at one time suggests to us another which resembles it ; at
another, an idea exactly opposite to it. Thus, happiness
frequently recalls to our mind the idea of misery, as in the
verse of Young : " How sad a sight is human happiness ! '
Height and depth, power and weakness, greatness and little-
ness, poverty and riches, the palace and the hovel, the cra-
dle and the grave, are mutually suggested by each other.
Hence in rhetoric the frequent use of antithesis.
As I remarked respecting resemblance, that it may be
either in external appearance or in effect, the same is true
of contrast. We here derive pleasure from contemplating
similarity of external appearance, while the effects are
exceedingly unlike. Thus, in the beautiful passage from
Milton's Comus :
" I have often heard
My mother Circe, with the sirens three,
Amidst the flowery kirtled naiades.
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs,
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned goHi
And lap it in Elysium. Scylla wept
And chid her barking waves into attention.
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause.
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense.
And, in sweet madness, robbed it of itself ;
But such a sacred and homefelt delight.
Such sober certainty of waking bliss,
I never heard till now ' '
CoMus, 254—262.
3. Contiguity. This may be either of time or place.
1. Of time. When we reflect upon any event, we natur-
ally find our attention called to other events which occurred
Bt the same period. When we think of a distinguished man,
we always recall his cotemporaries. Whoever thinLs of
Johnson without finding him surrounded, in our concei'tion
ASSOCIATICN OF IDEA3. 209
5y Boswell, Goldsmith, Garrick Burke, and Sir Joshua
Reynolds ? When we think of ]S:ipoleon, we sai round him
with his marshals, and the sovereigns whose destmies he so
greatly changed. An event of historical importance sug-
gests the events contiguous to it in time. The advent of
our Saviour could hardly be thought of wi hout leading u&
to reflect upon the condition of Rome, and of the then civ-
ilized world. Hence we learn the appropriateness of the
rule, in the study of history, to fix definitely in cur minds
the culminating events in each particular era, an:l then the
contemporaneous occurrences will easily group themselves ia
their proper places.
2. Contiguity in place. "When any important place is
visited or thought of, it at once suggests to us the other places
in its vicinity. Who can think of Jerusalem, and not think
of the hills of Calvary, the mount of Olives, the garden of
Gethsemane 7 Who can think of Waterloo without thinking
of Brussels, and Quatre Bras, and the localities in the neigh-
borhood, on the possession of which the issue of the contest
80 frequently turned ? It is on this account that we survey
with such impassioned interest any spot from which, at an
earlier age, have emanated influences which have been deeply
fell in the liistory of our race. The sentiments of Johnson
at lona find a response in the bosom of every cultivated
mind, " We were now treading that illustrious island
■which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions,
whencv savage clans and roving barbarians derived the ben-
efits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract
the mind from all ocal emotions would be impossible if it
wore endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible.
Whatever withdraws us from the power of the senses, what-
ever makes the past, the distant, or the future, prcdomimiie
over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking
beings. Fur from me and from my fiiends he mch frigid
18*
<J10 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHV
philosophy as mav conduct us indifferent and unraovel cvei
any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery,
or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose patriotism
would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whoso
piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona." —
Juinney to tlit Western Islands.
Ilcnce we perceive the reason why names of places, per-
sons, etc., frequently add so much vivacity to style. In-
stead of an abstract and it may be disconnected idea, they
present us with a visible image, surrounded by a multitude
of associate ideas. Thus, when we wish to render impress-
ive the idea of successful resistance to oppression, we refer
to particular localities, as Runnymede, Nascby, Lexington,
Bunker Hill, or Yorktown. And hence we learn that the
Rtudy of histoiy should always be connected with that of
geography; that is, we should study history with the map
before us We thus associate events with localities, and
remember them more perfectly, as well as comprehend them
more accurately.
4. Cause and effect. I have already, when treating of
original suggestion, referred to the fact that the observation
of a change always leads us to ask for the cause. In tho
same maimer, when we observe the manifestation of power,
we instinctively ask for the results which have followed it.
We associate in obedience to this universal tendency. If we
think upon the reformation by Luther, we naturally think
of tlie caujes which led to it, and strive to trace out its con-
sc'iupnces. If we think of the landing of the Pilgrims, we
ask oui-selves what causes could have led them to forsake the
couifcrts of a civilized home, and plant themselves, in mid-
winter, upon a continent inhabited only by savages; and,
before we have answered this inquiry, we find ourselves
turning to the changes which this event has wrought upon
the destinies of the world So, when, for the fii-st time, I
A530CIATI0N OF IDEAS. iill
observe a philosopliical experiment, I am wholly unsiitisfied
aiitil I understuuti tlie rationale of the changes which it pre-
sents. I see, for instance, a t;\per lighted, when placed in
the focus of one concave mirror, if a heated cannon-ball is
placod in the other, though the taper is carefully protected
from the diiect rays of the ball. It is a disagreeable puzzle
until the doctrine of the radiation of caloric is explained t<.
me. As soon as this is done, my mind is at ease, and I
proceed at once to explain other phenomena by the applica-
tion of the same principle. Now, it is obvious that, this
connecf.on having been thus established, either one of these
ideas will almost infallibly suggest the other. The law of
caloric radiation will suggest the effect which has been men-
tioned, and the effect will suggest to us the law. So, hav-
mg examined the causes which led to the first settlement of
tliis country, and the consequences which have flowed from
It, either one will bring to our mind the other, almost as a
matter of necessity. It will readily occur that, as this is a
permanent relation, like causes always producing like effects,
this mode of association must be one of the most iinportaut
m. ms of enlarging and retaining our knowledge.
It will be easily porceival that these various forms of
objective association intermix with and modify each other.
Thus, the relation of cause and effect would naturally asso-
ciate two events together; the association by resemblance
would recall similar causes, and that by contrast, causes and
effects of a dissimilar character; while events connected by
the relation of contiguity of time and place would be mere
iikcly to occur to us than events remote and Icng since
passed away. Thus, were I thinking of the landing of the
Pilgrims, I would naturally think of the causes which led
tc this event ; resembhince wouhl lead me to think of simi-
lar cases of colonization, and contrast would bring to mj
recollection other instar xs in which men had left their ua?
212 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY
tive country, for love of adventure or thirst for gold. As 1
traced the results, I "would naturally compare those which
resembled the enterprise of the Pilgrims with those oiigin-
ating in a dissimilar cause ; and. as the most contiguous ia
'jrae and place. I wou'i naturally turn to the states of
South America, and contrast the causes and effects of these
two modes of colonization together. In this manner, by the
blending of these various forms of association, a vast range
of thought is opened before us ; •while, at the same time, it
is always under the control of established and recognized
laws.
II. Of the subjective laws of association.
The laws commonly comprehended under this class are,
as I have remarked, interval of time, fiequency of repetition,
coexistent emotion, and the mental state of the particular
Individ uah
1. Interval of time.
Every one knows that if two ideas are associated together
from any cause whatever, the one readily recalls the other,
if only a short interval of time have elapsed. But, if both
of the ideas have been for a long time absent from our
recollection, the association becomes indistinct, and the sug-
gestion occurs less readily. To the truth of this remark
everyone's experience bears testimony. The events of a
journey, by the relations of contiguity of time and place,
readily suggest each other in regular succession, immedi-
ately after our return. But, if we enter upon our usual
avocations, and have no occasion, either by writing or con-
versation, to recal"! the scenes which we witnessed, all but
the most prominent events fade from our recollection. We
forget most of the localities, and those which we remem-
ber cease to suggest the events connected with them. All
becomes blended together in one confused remembrance ; we
forget both when and where we saw pirticular persons car
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 213
tiuflgs. and nothing -.rinams to us but a recollecti m of the
most iinpoitjint events, and a general impression m:ide b^
the facts, which are themselves fast sinking into oMivion
The same truth is illustrated hy the reading of a book, and
iu a thousand other instances.
2. Repel U ion.
It is obvious that an association which Las been frequently
r2called presents itself to us much more i-eadily than anoth
er which has only once or t*vice, and at long intervals, passed
through the mind. By every successive act of repetition,
the connecting link between the two ideas is strengthened,
until, at length, the association between the two becomea
indissoluble. Hence it is that the beliefs of chddhood are
with so great difficulty eradicated, and that, even after the
belief has passed away, the association still remains. Thus,
many persons who in youth have been taught the belief in
goblins, and night after night have hstened to the recital of
ghost stories and spectral appearances, although now per-
fectly convinced of the groundlessness of their former belief,
never pass by a grave-j'^ard, in darkness, without a tremor.
They have so firmly associated a grave-yaid with ghosts,
that, in spite of the most deliberate conviction, the one idea
recalls the other with its former unpleasant emotions.
The value of this power of rendering associations perma-
nent by repetition is seen in the acquisition of practical skill
He who has been in the habit of performing the most com-
plicated operations never finds himself at a loss ; each step
in the process instantly suggesting that which is immediately
to succeed it, and each successive emergency calling to mind
the means by which it has been previously encountered.
Hence, we see the difference between theory and practice,
»Tid the peculiar advantages of each. He who is only ac-
quainted with the theory is obliged tc |)ursue a course of
reasoning in order to arrive at a result; while, to a rracticai
214 I?:iELLEJTUAL PHILOSDPHT.
man, tL} result is 3uggt«ted bj the principle of reiterated
association. A man may have studied thoi oughly the theory
of navigation, and may understand the laws by which a vessel
is governed in moving through the water, both in fair weathct
and foul. But let him be called on to reduce his knowledge
to practice in any trying emergency, and he will be obliged
to curapaie and reason, and form a judgment from various
conflicting elements, so that he will probably not arrive at a
result until the time of action is past. He, however, who has
been long in the practice of navigation, who has witnessed
storms in all their variety, and has frequently been called
upon to employ the means necessary to escape their violence,
finds that at the critical moment the course proper to be
pursued suggests itself spontaneously. He will, therefore,
have taken all the measures necessary for safety, before the
theoretical navigator has determined what they are. The
extent to which practical skill may be carried, without any
knowledge of piinciples, is often remarkable. A very intel-
ligent Ciiptain of a steamer once told me that he had, for
sevLial years, emjiloyed an engineer, in whom he reposed
entire confidence, and whom he had found, on every occa-
sion, perfectly competent to the discharge of his duties. It
happened that on one occasion the engineer made some
remaik which led him to ask the question, what makes an
engine go. Tlie man rc[)lied, at once, that he never knew,
and he never could understand it, although he knew the
several parts perfectly, and could, by the sound of the ma-
chinery, tell in an instant the nature and place of any ureg-
ularity, and the manner in which it should be rectified.
By ti.tse remarks, however, I do hot wish it to be under-
stood that I consider practical skill preferable to thecretical
knowledge. Were events always to follow each other in
the same succession, and always to recjuire the same mode oi
treatment, practice would seem nearly all that was neoes-
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 2l5
sary i.i education. But the reverse is the fuct. Cases ara
continua!ly occurring which can only be provided for by a
knowledge of general laws ; and here, if we have no guide
bur praciieal skill, we must be inevitably disconcerted.
When a new emergency arises, nothing but general laws
will enable us either to undei-stand or to piovide fcr it.
The j»erfection of education requires that both of these elo*
ments be combined, — that is, that we learn the laws by
which changes are governed, and acquire so thorough a
knowledge of the modes of their application, ami, by repeated
practice, associate so strongly the steps of the process we
perform, that, while we act with the promptitude of the
practised artisjin. we may comprehend the reasons of our
action, and be able, on the instant, to form a correct judg-
ment under the pressure of an untried emergency. Thus
the affairs of a government, under ordinary circumstances,
may be sufficiently well conducted by a mere official, guided
Bolely by precedent, provided he be familiar with the rou-
tine of daily administration. But when new combinationa
arise, and events transpire, for which official rules furnish
no direction, there is demanded, besides a knowledge of the
forms of proceeding, a comprehensive acquaintance with
geneial prmciples, which shall unfold the true relations of
things, under what conditions soever they may present thom-
Belves. Thus says Mr. Burke, in his speech y.x\ American
taxation: "It may truly be said that men too much con-
versant with office are rarely minds of remarkable enlarge-
ment Their habits of office are apt to give them a turn to
tliink the substance of business not to be mo-e important
than the forms in which it is conducted. These foims are
adapted to ordinary occasions, and iherefore persons who
are nurtured in office do admirably well so long as things
go on in their common order; but when the iiigh roads are
broken up, and the waters aie out. — when a new and
216 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
troubled scene is opened, and the file affords no precedent
— then it is tliat a greater knowledge of mankind, imd a ffii
more extensive comprehension of things, is requisite than
ever office gave, or than ever office can give."
I: !.!:« fiequently been observed th.it military commandera
h.'iv2 generally succeeded remarkably well in the adminis-
tratijn of civil affairs. As examples of this, the founders
of dynasties may be referred to ; or, if particular instances
need be given, we may mention the names of Frederick the
Great. Washington, Napoleon, Wellington, General Jack-
son, and a multitude of others. The reason of this may be
found in the remark made above, that the perfection of edu-
cation consists in the combination of theoretical knowledge
with practical skill. The iuties of a military commander
give him this education. He is obliged to form for himself
the plans which must be carried out upon his own responsi-
bility. Hence, he must study them thoroughly for himself,
understand their bearings, and take no step which he haa
not decided upon after the most mature rellection. He
must then execute his decisions himself, and thus the rela-
tion of theory and practice, of the conception and the e.Kecu-
tion of it, must be cotistantly present to his refl 'Ction. The
advantage which this habit of mind must confer, over that
of theorists who never practise and practical men who never
reason, must be apparent. India has been called the cradle
of great men, and for this same reason. In the inmiensc
enr.pirc of Great Britain in the East, the government of sc
many provinces must cieate a vast number of situations in
which alu.ost the sole authority must resile in the chiet
idministrative officer of the district. He must learn to
dcci k' for himself, and decide wisely, and also provide the
means for carrying his decisions into effect. In such 9
school as this, talent is rapidly developed, and thus not
unfrcquently a man of thirty-five attains the clearness of
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 217
mind, fenility of resources, and promptness of action, of k
man. under oi dinar j circumstances, of fifty.
5. Coexistent emotion is Cie third law of suVjectivo
association.
By the law of coexistent emotion, it is meant th it -when-
ever an e-ent awakens in us strong emotion, it becomes
deeply fixed in the memory, and is more readily associated
with any other event to which it is related.
Of the existence of such a law in our mental constitution
our own experience will furnish us with innumerable exam-
ples. The events of several days will frequently pass away,
without leaving more than a dim and shadowy trace of their
occurrence. But if on any particular day a fact has been
communicated to us by which we were strongly excited, as
the death of a friend, the unexpected arrival of a relative,
or an event of great importance to our country, that day
will long stand out vividly before us. The place where and
the time when we first received the intelligence are indis-
solably associated with the event itself, and the fact, with
all its attendant circumstances, is engraven on the mind for-
ever. So, in travelling over a country for the first time, ita
ordinary features, awakening no emotion, are soon forgotten ;
but if we chance to pass by a celebrated river, an overhang-
ing precipice, a magnificent waterfall, or any other object
that awakens the emotion of novelty, beauty, or sublimity,
we find it indelibly fixed in our recollection, with all its at-
tendant circumstances ; and it is ever afterwards ready to be
associated with similar scenes which we witness ourselves, or
which are described to us by others. The power of emotion
is here two-fold ; — in the first place, it rivets the event on
the memory, and, in the second, it recalls it whenever, on »
subsequent occasion, the same emotion is awakened.
It is on this principle that felicity of style, splendor of
imagery and power of description become important aids in
19
218 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
all our efforts to convince men bjargumeit When via
desire to change the opinions of men, it is Lecessarj that our
reasonings be retained in their recollectijn, and frequently
dwelt upon in reflection. When an argument is associated
•with emotion it is more easily retained; and when the crao
tion is pleasant it is more readily recalled, and more
earnestly considered. Under these circumstances it will
produce a more distinct impression on the judgment, and
the judgment itself is associated with agreeable emotions.
Every one will remember, after hearing a discourse, that
different passages present themselves to his recollection with
different degrees of distinctness ; and he always finds that
those which affected him most strongly during delivery are
those which fix themselves, afterwards, most firmly on his
memory. Of the thousands who have read Burke's speech
on the nabob of Arcot's debts, probably very few have any
distinct conception of the argument, while all remember hia
magnificent description of the descent of Hyder Ali upon
the Carnatic, commencing, "When, at length Hyder Ali
found," etc. The facts and the reasonings may have long
i»mce passed away, but we remember the scene of devasta-
tion which the orator describes, and, whether justly or
unjustly, hold in abhorrence the men whom he stigmatizes
>tf the authors of the calamity.
4. Peculiarities of mental character. Some of these
are permanent, and some accidental.
Men differ very greatly in mental constitution. In scnie
the reasoning element predominates, in others the imagin-
ative, and in others the practical. These intellectual biase?
must modify very materially the train of thought. Let,
for instance, a poet and a philosopher, on a clear night,
go out to survey the vault of heaven, studded with in-
numerable stars. The trains of thought which will arise in
the minds of the two men will be exceedingly unlike
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 219
The Oiie would associate all that he saAV with various idea?
of moral suhlimitj with which he is familiar, and would per-
haps express his emotions in a hymn of praise, or an O'le to a
planet. The astronomer would think of the distances, mag-
nitudes and revolutions, of the heavenly bodies, and would
find himself striving to solve some problem which their pres-
ent position suggested. A devout man, on the other hand,
would probably give utterance to his emotions in the words
of David : " When I consider the heavens the work of thy
iingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained,
what is man, that thou art mindful of him, or the son of
man, that thou visitest him?" To a mind like that of
Newton the fall of an apple might give rise to a train of
thought which would lead to the most magnificent dis-
coveries ; to a boy it might suggest no other idea than the
desire of eating it ; while to the botanist it would recall the
class and ord-er of plants to which the tree belonged. Agas-
Biz and Coleridge would be very differently affected by a view
from the vale of Chamouni. On the other hand, in an un-
cultivated mind, none of these trains of thought would b«
awakened. Thus, the poet, describing a mind of this order,
tells us,
•• A cowslip, by the river's brim,
A yellow cowslip was to him ;
And it was uothiflg more."
Besides these intellectual differences, there are j-ermanent
varieties of character depending on the tone of mind of the
individual. Some men are always cheerful, the present and
the future being always tinged with the roseate hue of hope.
Every change seems to them indicative of prospeiity. Such
is, more commonly, the character of youth. To others the
present, but more especially the future, seems clothed with
gloom ; and the prospect of change awakens no other emo-
tion than apprehensiveness. Such is the character of the
2:^0 nVTELLEClCAL PQIDS-jPHY.
niL'laiicholj man. and such is apt to be the tendency of age
Milton, in his L' Allegro and II Penseroso. has, with strik
ing beauty, illustrated these two forms of character.
These are permanent varieties ; but there are accidental
varieties, depending on the circumstances of the individual
The mind, deeply affected by any train of reflection, will
pursue it for some time, though at variauce with its
natural bias. Thus, an astronomer, fresh from the reading
of Milton, might look upon the heavens for a time with the
emotions of a poet ; and a poet, rising from the study of
the Principia, might look upon them with the eye of an as-
tronomer. And then, again, our tone of mind frequently
varies from its accustomed bias. A cheerful man is some-
times sad, and a melancholy man is sometimes mirthful.
Images exquisitely ludicrous occasionally flitted across the
gloom which habitually shrouded the mind of Cowper. We
all know how different are the trains of thought which press
upon him who walks abroad for the first time after the
death of a friend, and him who. after confinement by sick-
ness, rejoices in the freshness of invigorated health.
These subjective laws again modify each other. Thus,
for instance, lapse of time is modified by coexistent emotion ;
that is to say. an event which has strongly interested us will
much more readily be associated with surrounding circum-
stances, even after a long interval, than an event which
awakened no emotion, though of more recent occurrence.
Or, again, the objective and subjective laws may modify
each other. Thus, we know that we associate ideas in
obedience to the laws of resemblance or contrast, but whether
we shall associate by the one, or the other, may depend
upon the permanent or accidental tone of mind of the indi-
vidual. Thus, if a cheerful sctrne be presented to a happy
man, he associates by resemblance, a melancholy man by
jonirast. The loveliness of spring to a mourner suggests
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 22)
jnly imago? of disappointed hope and speedj dissolution
To tne cheerful man even the gloom of "vinter a^vakens the
anticipations of returning spring, and he thinks only of the
contrast which, in a few months, will renew the whole face
of nature.
It is, in this manner, by the combination of these several
laws, that the train of thought is directed. As these vari-
ous causes operate with unequal power at different times,
and are modified bj each other, and by the present circum-
stances of each individual, there arises an infinite variety in
the modes of mental association. Hence we should consider
it almost miraculous if two men should be affected in exactly
the same manner in precisely the same circumstances, so that
they should give utterance to their sentiments in the same
language. Yet, while all this diversity is known to exist,
we are conscious that it is still governed by laws ; for we
recognize in an instant an abnormal or incoherent associa-
tion and attribute it at once either to idiocy or insanity. So
delicate are oui' mental instincts, that he who knows nothing
of the laws of association is intuitively aware when they
are violated.
It is on the perfection of this delicate instinct, which spon-
taneously recognizes all the laws of association, that the
power of the dramatist essentially depends. He forms con-
ceptions of a variety of characters, and places them in cir-
cumstances designed to call forth the intensest emotion.
But these circumstances will affect each individual according
to his peculiar idiosyncrasy. The dramatic poet has the
power of throwing himself into each character, and of feeling
instinctively the emotions to which such a human being,
under such circumstances, would give utterance. This ia
jne of the rarest gifts with which genius is ever endowed.
It is to this power that Shakspeare owes his preeminence.
Considered simply as a poet, there are other men of geniui
19*
222 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
with whom he may come into comparison ; but in dramatic
exhibition of character he stands, hj confession, with'^ut a
rival.
• Our Shakspeare's magic could not copied be;
■Within that circle none dare walk but he."
It may seem, from what I have said, that associatior
evinces a power beyond our control, and that hence we arc
Dot responsible for our trains of thought, or the conse-
quences to which they lead. This inference, it is almost un-
necessary to add, is unwarranted. By association ideas are
suggested, but it still depends on our own volition to deter-
mine whether the suggestion shall be heeded. A thought
is presented by the law of association ; we may accept or
reject it. Two dissimilar thoughts are suggested, and we
may select either of them at our option. When a particu-
lar association is followed repeatedly, we form the habit of
thinking in that particular train ; but the formation of that
habit depended, at each successive step, upon our own will.
It is, then, evident that the formation of our characters,
whether intellectual or moral, is dependent on ourselves.
Hence it is that circumstances are said to form men ; that is.
the conditions in which we are placed accustom us to cer-
tain modes of thinking, which, becoming habitual, render
our character fixed and determinate. Hence, also, we see
how much character depends upon energy of will, by which
the development of our own powers ceases to be the result
of accident, and follows in the line marked out for it by
re^-S'">nable and predetermined choice.
It ha3 been truly remarked, that our associations are fre-
qr.'^ntly the cause of great errors in judgment. When wa
repoatediy associate two ideas logether, we are prone, with-
out examination, to consider the connection by its nature
indissoluble. Thus, in youth, having observed many good
KATUBE OF MEMORY. litiS
mei mrmbors of our own religious sect, we associate th*
Her of goodness witli that sect, and, going furtlier, consider
piety exclusively confined within its limits. Having, agaia
experienced innumerable benefits arising from a republican
government, we not only associate the idea of freedom anJ
intelligence with our own institutions, but suppose that
these advantages can be enjoyed under no other conditicna
of humanity . A multitude of cases of a similar kind will
readily suggest themselves. These errors are manifestly
to be removed by a larger knowledge of the world, and a
more careful and frequent examination of the reasons of
our opinions. This subject is treated with great beauty
and sound discrimination in Stewart's chapter on Associa-
tion.
REFERENCES.
Stewart — Vol. L, chap. 5 ; Locke- -Book 11, chap. 83 ; Reid — Essay
4, chap. 4.
SECTION ir. — THE NATURE OF MEMORY.
Memory is that faculty by which we retain and recall
our knowledge of the past. I saw a tree yesterday. I
know now that I saw it then and there. I have a concep-
tion of a tree, with a certain knowledge that I saw the tree
which corresponds to this conception, at some previous time
How I know this I cannot tell, but my consciousness rcveala
It to mc as positive and reliable knowledge.
I have, in the above definition, ascribed but two func-
tions to memory, — the power by Avhich we retain, and that
by w hich we recall, our knowledge of the past. The distinc-
tion between these powers is easily observed, for they are
not always bestowed in equal degrees. Some men retain
their knowledge more perfectly than they recall it. Othen
224. INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
have their knowledge always at command, and make even
small acquisitions eminently available.
Stewart divides the first of these functions into suscepti-
bility and retentiveness. A foundation for this distinction
evidently exists. Some men acquire with great rapidity,
hut they very soon forget whatever they have learnc-d.
Others acquire with difficulty, but retain tenaciously the
knowledge which they have once made their own. Others,
again, as I have just remarked, have a remarkable command
of their knowledge on all occasions. It must be evident
that memory is perfect in the degree in which it is endowed
with all these attributes. Men of the highest order of in-
tellect are often preeminently gifted in all these respects.
It will be sufficient to mention the names of Leibnitz,
Milton, Johnson, Scott, Napoleon, Cuvier, Goethe, Sir W.
Hamilton, in order to confirm the truth of this remark.
Such men acquire with incredible flicility, rarely forget any-
thing which they have learned, and, at will, with remarkable
accuracy, concentrate all their knowledge upon the point
which they are at the moment discussing.
The knowledge which we obtain by memory may prop-
erly be called, in the words of Sir W. Hamilton, represen-
tative and mediate, in distinction from presentative and
immediate knowledge. When I see a tree, I am conscioug
of an immediate knowledge, the object being presented
directly before my mind. When I remember a tree, there
is no external object presented. The tree is represented by
the act of the mind itself I know the tree through the
medium of this representation. The immediate object of
my thouglit is this conce| tion of the thing, while, by a power
inher?nt in ray intellect, I connect this image with the idea
of past reality. That this is true, is evident from the fact
that the mental state is precisely the same, whether the
•bject at present is or is not existing. I remember a hou?«
NATURE OF MEMORY. 22i
Which I saw a year ago. The image of it is distinitlj be-
fore my mind. I am told that the house has been burned
down, and that nothing remains where it stood but a heap
of sra-^ildering ruins. This does not at all affect the image
I have in my mind. The only difterence in the two cases
is, that before I contemplated it as the representation of
scmething existing, now only of something that did exist
Concerning this faculty, as thus defined, several important
(acts may be observed.
1. I have before remarked, when treating of the percep-
tive faculties, that our knowledge derived from this source
is of two kinds, simple and complex. Simple knowledge ig
merely a state of mind, a consciousness of a peculiar impres-
sion made upon our sensitive organism, witliout giving us an
intimation of anything external; a mere affection of the
ine. without any relation to the not me. The other kind
of knowledge is complex ; that is, together with this affection
of the me. there is communicated to us a knowledge of the
not me, in some of its modifications. In this latter case,
we form a notion of the not me as something numerically
distinct from the me.
Whenever our knowledge is of the latter character our
recollection of it is always attended by a conception, and
this conception forms a part of the act of memory. Sir
W. Hamilton, on this account, happily describes memo y a?
a recollective imagination. We have before us an image of
the object remembered, and are conscious that it represents
Bome past existence. Thus, when we remember a visible
object, we form for ourselves a distinct conceptioA of its ap-
pearance. We never consider an act of memory complete
antil this conception is created Thub, if I am asked
whether I remember a village .vhich I passed through
some years since, if I can ret-^ll the conception of the
locality, I answer in the affirmative ; if I only knoM Liaf
226 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY-
from tin: route which I took I must have passed through itj
but have no conception of its appearance, I answer in the
negative If. however, after an interval, I am able tc recall
it as I perceived it. I reply that now I recollect it.
With respect to simple knowledge, or that which is
limited to sensations, the case is different. We hero form
DO conception, and the act of memory is imperfect. I re-
member^ for instance, the visible appearance of a peax^h, its
color, magnitude, form, etc., and I represent it to myself
in thought. I have, however, no .such recollection either of
the smell or taste of the peach. I form no ref resentation
of these qualities, nor, so far as I know, am I able to do it
My recollection amounts to no more than this : I know
that I have, at various times, both smelled and tasted of
peaches, and that I should instantly recognize these qualities
were they present; but I can do no more. An exception
to this remark is, however, to be made in the case of hearing.
Here, though the knowledge is simple, that is, merely an
affection of our sensitive organism, it is, however, capable
of forming a conception. Hence, our recollection of it is
remarkably perfect. After once hearing a tune, we can,
if skilled in music, recall it with perfect accuracy, and can
do it in perfect silence, merely forming a conception of the
sounds by the memory.
2. A complete act of the memory is always attended by
belief He who remembers, is conscious of an original con-
/iction that the conception which he forms is the true repre
uentativo of some preexisting knowledge. He knows it to
ue, as has been said, a recollective imagination. How wo
kiiDw this, how we are able to diatinguish a simple imagina-
tion from a recollective imagination, we are unable to ex-
plain. Consciousness reveals to us the difference, and wo can
diacovei nothing beyond the simple fact. It has been said
that we icarn to rely upon the testimony of memory by ex
NATURE OF MEMORI. 227
perionce. This, h jwever, must be incorrect, for we eviflontl^
rely upon it anterior to experience. And. besides, the very
experience on which we are here said to depend, presupposes
ihe validity of the testimony of memory. Unless I rely on
mem<>ry to give me a knowledge of the past, I can gain no
experience respecting the character of memory itself.
I am, however, aware that there are frequent cases in
vhich, while we have a clear conception of an act. our recol-
lection is imperfect, so that we doubt whether the state of
mind be merely a conception or a recollection. Thus, I
intended several days since to write a letter, and formed a
purpose to write it at a particular time. The question now
occurs to me, did I write it or not? When I think of the
act, is my menuil state that of recollection, or only of con-
ception ; in other words, did I actually do it, or did I only
resolve to do it ? Here our consciousness enables us to
distinguish between certainty and doubt, though it does not
enable us to resolve the doubt. So far, however, as I have
observed, it ^ generally the fact that when we doubt the
doubt if entitled to precedence, and we find on inquiry that
the thing was not done. When, on the other liand, the
testimony of consciousness to our recollection is perfect, we
rely u|)on it witii as much ceitainty as on the present evi-
dence of our senses. I am as sure that I saw a certain tree
yesterday, as I was sure yesterday that I was then seeing
it. It is upon this attribute of memory that all our belief
of the existence of the past and the distant depends. We
r(!po3e the same confidence in the memory of competent
\vitnesse3 as in our own. I just as fully and perfectly be-
lieve in the existence of Constantinople as of London, thougli
the one I have seen and the other I have not seen. Ou
this belief in the veracity of memory, all the evidence of
testimony depends; and hence, with entire confidence io iti
'2'2S IXTELLECTUAL 1 HILOSOPflT.
raliditj. we proceed to decide questions involving pro})erty
reputation, and life itself.
It is proper here to remark, that this consciousness, hy
which we determine a representation in our minds to be a
recollection and not an imagination, is liable to be greatly
impaired. He who forms the habit of deliberate lyiug. or
of affirming that his conceptions are recollections, will grad-
uall v lose the power of distinguishing the one fi-om the other.
Bj passing fi-om truth to falsehood and from falsehood to
truth, without moral consciousness, the line which separates
them from each other becomes more and more indistinct,
until it is at last obliterated. I have known men who
would utter the most absurd falsehoods, without seeming to
be conscious either that thej were ijing or that their hear-
ers knew them to be liars. A more just retribution for
the abuse of our moral faculties cannot be conceived.
Another peculiarity connected with this part of our sub-
ject deserves to be remarked. "We are sometimes led into
innocent mistakes concerning our recollection. If we hear
an event frequently related, until every minute incident is
engraven on our recollection, we may, after a considerable
period has elapsed, seem to ourselves to have witnessed it.
I think it is Burke who says, '• Never let a man repeat to
you a lie. If he tell you a story every day which you know
to be false, at the end of a year you will believe it to be
true."' A distinguished justice of the Supreme Judicial
Court of Massachusetts once related to me a case which
pertinently illustrates this remark. He was once trying a
cause relating to a will, and a lady testified most distinctly
CO some occuiTences which she had witnessed when she was
1 cliild. Her evidence was distinct and minute as to all
tlie circumstances of person, time, and place. She was a
person of mature age, of a character above suspicion, and
incapable of testifying to what she did not believe to li«
NATURE GF MEMORY. 229
irue. It aowever appeared, in the course vf the trial, froiis
incontestable documenuiry evidence, that the events had
transpired several yeai-s before she was born. When a girl
she had heard the occurrence so frequently related, ^^ith
gicat particularity, that in mature years it presented itsdi
ic her as a matter of personal knowledge rather than of
lt3Collection of the narrative of others.
Lastly ; the act of memory involves two subordinate be-
liefs. First, it presupposes a belief in the past existence of
the object recollected ; and, secondly, in the past and present
existence of the subject recollecting. From both of these
we derive the idea of duration, for were there no duration,
there could be no past existence ; that is, the idea of dura-
tion logically precedes the idea of memory. From th»^
second of these beliefs we derive the idea of personal
identity. The belief that we, who are now existing, cog-
nized an object at any previous point in duration, supposes
both the cognitions to appertain to the same subject; that is,
that the ego in botli these cognitions is one and the same.
3. The power of recollection in different individuals
differs greatly, both in degree and in kind.
Some men are so remarkably gifted in this respect, that
without apparent effort they seem to remember whatever they
have read, and every person whom they have even casually
seen. Others, though possessing many eminent qualities
of intellect, find difficulty in recollecting the persons and
things which daily surround them. Cyrus is reported to
have been able to call by name every soldier in his army,
ar. I Themistocles to have known individually every citizen
of Athens. I have been told that General "Washington
never found it necessary to be twice introduced to the same
person. Boswell records of Dr. Johnson, that once, when
lidin^^ in a stage-coach, he repeated with verbal accuracy
tt pumbei- of the Rambler, some ten or twelve years iftej
20
230 INTELLECTUAL PHILDSOPHY.
Its publication ; at the same time stating tliat he bad not
Been it since he corrected the original proof sheets. In hi-j
life of Rowe he criticizes the poets works with a very accu-
rate conception of their merits, frequently quoting whole pas-
sages as though he were transcribing them from the printed
page. When he had finished it, he said to a friend, " 1
think this is pretty well done, considering that I have not
read a play of Rowe's for thirty years." On the contrary,
Montaigne, though a man of original genius, and one of the
marked men of his age, was always complaining of the bad-
ness of his memory. " I am forced," says he, " to call my
servants by the names of their employments, or of the coun-
tries where they were born, for I can hardly remember their
proper names, and if I should live long, I question whether
I should remember my own name." In this case there seemg
to be some peculiar idiosyncrasy; for while he forgot so
readily the individual, he was able to remember the class to
which he belonged.
Diflferences of memory exist not only in degree, but in
kind.
I have already observed that some men are more remark-
able for susceptibility, others for retentiveness, and othera
for readiness of memory. Every one who has observed the
minds of young persons, must have seen frequent illustra-
tions of the truth of this remark. But these difterences do
not terminate here. There exist what may not inappropri-
ately be termed objective differences of memory ; that is, thia
power seems in different individuals to manifest an affinity
foi different classes of objects. Some men remember num-
bo.TH and dates with remarkable accuracy, and easily retain
jiot only figures, but even long and complicatsd algebraic
formulae. Other men remember permanently and without
eflbrt, localities, the faces of persons, and every form of
external natuie. Some have great facility in recollecting
NATURE OF MEMORY. 231
words and their relations to each other; and heiicc at &n
early age manifest a fondness for the study of language and
the puisuits of philology. Others again, ^vho are po»
sessed of none of these po^Yers in a remarkable degr<^c,
acquire principles and general laws without effort, and will
frequently remember the law, while they forget the facts by
•which it is established. It is said that the late Dr. Gall
was first led to the investigations which terminated in his
system of phrenology, by observing that some boys possessed
peculiar skill in finding their way out of a forest, while
others, under the same circumstances, would be completely
bewildered. He remarked, that those of the first chiss wen',
marked with a protuberance in the forehead just above the
eye. He also observed that those who displayed a remark-
able aptitude for languages were formed with a depression
of the roof of the orbit of the eye, which gave to the eye
the appearance of unusual fulness. Generalizing these ob-
servations, he was led to conclude that every modification
of mental character was accompanied by some corresponding
peculiarity in the form of the brain. Whether there be the
connection between the mental and physical organization
which phrenologists assert. I will not determine ; but that they
have aided us in remarking with greater exactness many
peculiarities of mental constitution, may, I think, be fairly
admitted.
That these differences may be accounted for, in some
degree, by education, I have no doubt. In the most re-
markable instances, however, they seem to depend chiefly
on natural endowment. I have known several persons who
have been gifted with some of these forms of recollection in
a very uncommon degree, and they have uniformly told me
that the things which they remembered cost them no more
pains than those which they forgot. All the account
which they coul 1 give of the matter was, that some cla?se«
232 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHl'.
of facts, without any special eifort, remained permanenllj
fixed in their recollection, while others were t\s readily for
gotten by them as by other men. A highly-esteemed cler-
gyman of Massachusetts, lately deceased, who could tell the
year of the graduation of every alumnus of his university
and the minutest incidents relating to every ordination ia
his vicinity for the last half-century, assured me that it cost
him no labor, but that it was. so far as he knew, a mental
peculiarity.
The large development of any particular form of memory
is not, of necessity, accompanied by any other remarkable
intellectual endowments. Instances have frequently been
noticed of men, with prodigious powers of lecollection,
whose abilities in other respects were even below medi-
ocrity. Very remarkable memory has even been observed
in persons of so infirm an understanding that they did
not even comprehend what they accurately repeated. In this
case, probably, the power was mere susceptibility of memory;
that is, the power of acquiring on the instant, without the
ability of permanent recollection. A very remarkable case
of this one-sided power is mentioned in the life of the late
Mr. Roscoe, of Liverpool. A young Welsh fisherman, of
about the age of eighteen, was found to have made most re-
markable progress in the study of languages. He was not
only familiar with Latin and Greek, but also with Hebrew,
Arabic, and other oriental dialects. Some benevolent gen-
tlemen, in that city, provided means for giving him every
literary advantage, in the hope that his vast acquisitiona
might be made useful to society, and also that he might un-
fol 1 the processes by which his singular attainments had
been made. The attempt was. however, unsuccessful. He
Beemed not to be peculiarly capable of education, but, witl
the exception of ttis peculiar gift, hh mind partook eutireij
5ATURE I. F MEMORY. Zda
OT the character of the class with A\hich he had boon asao-
eiatcd.
4. The character of memory changes materially with
age.
Memory is one of our faculties which is developed at a
very early age, specially in the characteristics of suscepti-
bility and retentiveness. Of this any one will be convinced
who will observe the prodigious number of particulars which
a human being acquires almost in infancy. A child of four
or five yeai-s old has already learned the names and uses
of the ordinary objects which he sees around him ; and hag
acquired a tolerable knowledge of his native language. A
boy, before he goes to school, is better acquainted with his
mother tongue, than he will be with Latin and Greek after
ten or twelve years of study. Nor is this all. Cbildren
educated in a family in which several languages are spoken,
learn them all with equal facility.
As might, however, be expected, this faculty, which first
comes to maturity, is also the first to decline. The first intel-
lectual indication of advancing years is a conscious failure in
the power of recollection. When the memory becomes im-
paired from this cause, we do not forget so much the
knowle ige acquired in youth, as that acquired at a later
period. Hence, old men recite the deeds of their youth,
not those of maturer years. Horace describes an old man
as laudator temporis acti. The heroes of our revolution
are never so well pleased as when relating the events of that
illustrious struggle, and the rem.niscences which they have
treasured up of the career of Washington. The reason
for this is two -fold. An event which transpires in youth
awakens in us a deeper coexistent emotion than in age : and,
pecondW, the social character of youth leads us frequenth
to relate the incidents which please us, and hence every in
tcresting event becomes more deeply engraved on the mem
20*
234 INTELLECTUAL PHIL:)S0PHY.
ory. To an old man, the Idter period of his life resemblej a
dream ; the period of youth and early manhood alone seems
like realiry.
As old men are naturally inclined to recite the events of
tLeir youth, so this very recital is most pleasing to the
young. A child wearies his parents with the request that
they will tell him what they saw and did when they were
young. We are all conscious of the eagerness with which
we li:-ten to the relation, by eye-witnesses, of occurrences
which transpired sixty or seventy years since. The final
cause of this arrangement is as obvious as it is beautiful
These conesponding dispositions were conferred upon us for
the sake of binding together the young and the old by the
tie of mutual sympathy. The tedium and infirmity of age
is beguiled and alleviated by the society of youth ; and the
young are taught those lessons of experience, which they
would seek for in vain from those who, like themselves, are
just commencing the warfare of life.
From these facts, we learn the more correctly to appre-
ciate the importance of a diligent and well-spent youth. If
the spring-time of life is consumed in frivolity and sin, the
mind, in the winter of age, must sink into decrepitude; and
nothing will present itself to the memory, but the recollec-
tion of deeds which tinge the cheek with shame, and goad
the conscience with remorse. If, on the other hand, the
memory is stored in youth with valuable knowledge, and the
faculties are disciplined by strenuous exertion, we sow the
seeds of a green old age ; that condition in which, without
the vigor and elasticity of youth, there exist the accumu-
lated knowledge of a laborious life, and the calm, ripe wis-
dom of a large experience. If to these be added the con-
gcionsness of purity of motive, and the beautiful simjdieit)?
which results from a virtuous life, old age becomes one of
the mo^t favored periods of our present state. It 3ay then
NATURE OF MEMORY. 2Zt
be worth while for the young to remember, that ^Yhile dili
gence and mental discipline aftbrd the only reasonable hope
lor success in manhood, they present the only security
against the evils of an imbecile, unhappy, and neglected old
age-
It is to be remarked, further, that the memory of youth
differ? in kind, as well as in degree, from that of mature!
life. In youth, as might be expected, we remember facts ;
as we advance in age, we observe, .appreciate, and remem-
ber laivs and their relations. In the early peiiod of life, wo
collect the materials ; as we grow older, we learn to use
them. In youth our tendency is to the objective and con-
crete; in maturer years we tend to the subjective and the
abstract. If we were to be more particular, we might
affirm, that in childhood susceptibility seems more active ;
in youth, retentiveness ; and in manhood readiness. In
childhood, as I have said, we learn a multitude of things
which we soon forget. The ordinary events of the first
fo-ir or five years of our lives soon pass into obliv:on. In
w'vancing youth, while we lose in some degree the powei
of committing to memory, we retain what we have learned
cr.uch more tenaciously. I have remarked on the facility
with which young persons will learn several languages at
the same time, and, what is scarcely possible for an adult,
they will learn them idiomatically.* It is, however, a singu-
* I singular confirmation of this remark is found in the life of Dr.
Z&n^y the pioneer Protestant missionary in India. Dr. Carey had a d<r
eidf'l -alent for languages, and accjuired them with gre.at facility before ha
lift England. When he arrived in Bengal with his family, he commenced
the study of the native tongues with his usual perseverance, assisted by
the best helps, both printed and oral, which the country then alRjrded
Hia children, without any instruction, were left to nniuse themselves with
natives of thjir own age. It Wiis not long before the f ith«'r was obliged ^
to call in his children to explain to him phrases and idioms wliiob he waf
unable to unlerstand. They had lesirned, by playing wiih their felJi «rs
more rapidly than he by tH combined aid of books and p audits.
236 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
lai fact, that if a young person stulies an ancient language
as Latin or Greek, and, from change of residence, forgets hii
native tongue, he will remember the language which he ac-
quired by grammatical study longer than his vernacular
This difference may arise either from the fact that reten-
tiveness of memory increases with age, or because whatever
is learned by a protracted effort is more indelibly fixed in
the recollection.
5. Memory may be improved in a shorter time, and t« a
greater extent, than any of our other faculties.
The change that may be produced in this respect is i i-
quently remarkable. Pupils in a school may, in a 1 jw
months, be taught to commit to memory an amount which, at
first, would have seemed incredible. It is not difiicult to
teach a class to recite from beginning to end the acquisitions
of a whole term, w ithout any aid from the instructor. A
gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, informed me
that he once determined to ascertain the extent to whic a the
improvement of his memory could be carried. H( soon
found himself able to repeat verbatim, two or three p? ^es of
any book after it had been read to him only once. ] le was
able to go into a legislative assembly, and write dowi from
recollection, after its adjournment, the proceedings of the
day, with as much accuracy as they were reportea by the
stenographers.
While, however, it is generally true, that the mea,ory may
be greatly and permanently improved by judiciou? practice,
*t is probable that the rapid improvement, of whicU we have
frequent instances, has respect more tc susceptibility, than
tither to retentiveness or readiness. What we acquire so
suddenly is learned only for a particular occasion ; «nd
when the occasion has passed away, all we have learned lias
passed away with it. Clergymen, who with case commit
their sermons by once or twice reading them over, are obliged
NAirRE OF MEMORY. 231
lo commit ttem anew as ofton as tbey are called to deliver
tliem. WLen we desire to cultivate the memory in general,
and render our knowledge permanently available, greater
care is necessary. The process is more difficult, and musi
be conducted on principles which depend on the general laws
of the human mind.
The following case, related by Dr. Abercrombie, illus-
trates the extent to which the susceptibility of memory may
be increased by the pressure of circumstances. " A distin-
guished theatrical performer, in consequence of the sudden
illness of another actor, had occasion to prepare himself, on
very short notice, for a part which was entirely new to him ;
and the part was long, and rather difficult. He acquired it
in a very short time, and went through it with perfect accu-
racy, but, immediately after the performance, forgot every
word of it. Characters which he has acquired in a more
deliberate manner he never forgets, and can perform them
at any time without a moment's preparation ; but, in regard
to the character now mentioned, there was the further and
very singular fact, that, though he has repeatedly performed
it since that time, he has been obliged each time to prepare
it anew, and has never acquired in regard to it that facility
which is familiar to him in other insttinces. When ques-
tioned respecting the mental process which he employed the
first time he performed this part, he says that he lost sight
entirely of the audience, and seemed to have nothing before
him but the pages of the book from which he had learned
it ; and that, if anything had occurred to interrupt this illu-
Bi;n, he should have stopped instantly." — Abercrombie,
Part 3, section 1.
b. The power of recollection depends much .n the man-
ner in which our knowledge has been acquired.
Knowledge acquired by the assistance of our perceptive
Swjulties, is much longer remembered than that acquired b^
238 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY-
ronception through the medium of language. An i. further,
B proposition which can in any manner be represented by an
imagii is more easily remembered than a purely abstract
proposition, of which no image can be formed. We remem-
ber a landscape far better by having seen it, than by tho
most elaborate description. Every one knows that the
sceneiy depicted in the writings of travellers and novelists
leaves scarcely a trace on the recollection. A machine may
bo desciibed to us with the most careful particularity, and
we may be able distinctly to comprehend it ; yet, if we see
neither it nor a model of it, we soon find that our recollec-
tion has become exceedingly shadow^'' and vague. The use
wliich may be made of this fact is evident. It teaches U8
the importance of illustrating, by figures, diagrams, or ex-
periments, whatever we desire to communicate to others,
wherever the subject admits of it. Hence the use of a
black-board in a class-room ; and hence the value of skill
in drawing, to an instructor, in every branch of physical
science.
7. It is, however, the fact, that, in our present state, time
gradually obliterates the impressions made upon the memory.
What we learned yesterday, may be fresh in our recollection
to-day, but we shall remember it much less perfectly in a
month. If a year elapse without having had occasion to
recall it, it will in a great degree have faded away from our
recollection. I say, in a great degree; for, although the
principle which it involves, or the conclusion which it estab-
lishes, may remain, the sharp and definite outline of the
facts will have dissolved into forgetful ness. In this respect,
wo are all the victims of a perpetually recurring delusion.
It seems to us that what Ave remember so perfectly, and
understand so clearly, to-day, can never be forgotten.
Thvugh repeated trials, and lamentable ignorance of vrhal
«ve have once known, might seem sufficient to convince ua of
NATURE OF MEMOR"i. SJ8j^
OUT error, we press blindly onward, ever learning, and yet
ever fliiling peiinanently to treasure \ip what we have
already acquired.
VVliile til is, however, is the general fact, it is suhjeci to
several modifications. Some of these are the following :
1. Exact and definite knowledge is much longer remeni-
Itered than vague and indeiinite conceptions. A proposition
tut half known, and indistinctly conceived, is almost imme-
diately forgotten ; while that which we have thoroughly
thought, and adequately comprehended, does not easily
escape us. Hence we see that our progress in knowledge
does not 80 much depend upon the amount which we read
as upon the manner in which we study. lie avIio reviews
his past history will observe that his present acquisitions are
the sum of all that he has at some time thoroughly learned.
That which was only imperfectly understood is lost in the
mass of confused and useless reminiscences.
2. An isolated proposition is soon forgotten, Avliile one
of which we perceive the connections and relations is more
easily remembered. A single number, as the height of a
mountain, the area of a field, the page of a book, a law of
mechanics expressed in abstract terms, or any truth viewed
without relation to any other truth, easily eludes our recol-
lection. We obviate this diflBculty, if we can establish any
relation, even though it be but fanciful, between the fact
which we desire to remember, and some other truth perma-
nently known. Thus, if we wish to remember the height
of a mountain, we associate it with the height of some well-
Vnown object, and we find our power of recollectiou
jnoreased. If we associate a law with the facts for which
it accounts, tlie same effect is produced. It is on the prin-
ciple of associating something to be remembered, \>ith some-
thing else well known, that the systems of artific.iJ uaenicrjf
wre construc'ied.
j 240 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
3. Knowledge "wbich is beginning to vanish from oui
recollection is rendered more permanent by even a cursory
i|j review. By occasionally repeating this review, the truth
Dccomes incorporated with our permanent knowledge. It is
a good rule never to commence the reading of to-day, until
we have carefully reviewed the reading of yesterday, and
never to lay aside a book until we have leisurely impnnted
on oar minds its most important truths. Conversation on
what we have read is of great service in this respect. I
think it is Johnson who mentions that it was his custom, in
youth, as soon as he had finished a book, to find some one
to whom he could explain its principles. Full and free
discussion upon the truths which we have acquired, gives not
only permanency but definiteness to our knowledge. It i?
on this account that studious men derive so much advantage
from associating together, and communicating the result of
their researches for the benefit of each other.
8. From remarkable and well-authenticated facts, it ap-
pears that, probably from some unexplained condition of the
m-aterial organs, the recollection of knowledge long since
obliterated may be suddenly revived. These cases have been
observj^d to occur most frequently in extreme sickness, and
on the near approach of death. May it not be that, in our
present state, the material and immaterial part of man being
intimately unued, our failuie of recollection is caused by
some condition of the material organism ; and that, as this
union approaches dissolution, the power of the material over
the immaterial is weakened, and the knowledge which we
have once acquired is more fully rpvealed to our conscious-
ness, indicating that when the separation is complete it will
remain with us forever ?
A variety of cases are mentioned by writers on this sub-
ject, a few of which are here inserted :
An instance is mentioned by Coleridge of a servant-gir
NATTJRE OF MEMORI 241
in Germany, who, in extreme sickness ivas obiei ve<l to
re{>eat passages of Greek, Latin and Hebrew, tliougb she
was known to have no acquaintance with these languages.
Upon inquiry into her history, it was found that, many yeara
before, she had been a domestic in the family of a learned
professor, who was in the habit of repeating aloud passages
from his favorite authors while walking in his study, which
adjoined the apartment in which she was accustomed to labor.
This case is the more remarkable, inasmuch as the person
bad never been conscious herself of having acquired the
knowledge which she, under these circumstances, exhibited.
The Rev. Mr. Flint, a very intelligent gentleman, who, in
ft series of interesting letters, has related his experiences in
the valley of the Mississippi, informs us that, under a des-
perate attack of typhus fever, as his attendants afterwards
told him, he repeated whole pages from Virgil and Homer,
which he had never committed to memory, and of which,
after his recovery, he could not recollect a line.
Dr. Aborcrombie, in his work on intellectual philosophy,
mentions a variety of cases in which persons in extreme sick-
ness, and under operations for injuries of the head, con-
versed in languages which they had known in youth, but had
for many years entirely forgotten.
Dr. Rush mentions the case of an Italian gentleman, who
died of j^ellow fever in New York, who, in the beginning of
his sickness, spoke English ; in the middle of it, French ;
but on the day of his death, nothing but Italian. A Lu-
theran clergyman informed Dr. Rush that the Germans and
Swedes of his congregation in Philadelphia, when near
death, always prayed in their native languages, though soma
of them, he was confident, had not spoken them for fifty or
sixty years.
Dr. Abercrombie mentions another case, of a bry, who, at
the age of four, received a fracture of the skull, for which
21
842 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
he unvlerwent the operation of the trepan. He was at the
time in a state of perfect stupor ; and, aftar his recovery,
retained no recollection either of the accident or of the opera-
tion. At the age of fifteen, during the delirium of a fever,
he gave his mother a correct description of the operation,
and the persons who were present at it, with their dress and
other minute particulars. lie had never been observed to
allude to it before, and no means were known by which he
could have acquired a knowledge of the circumsumces which
he related.
What conclusion we are authorized to draw from theso
facts, it is difficult to determine. They, however, indicate
that what we seem to forget, can never be irretrievably lost
to the percipient soul. The means for recalling it in some
inexplicable manner appear to exist, and when, under some
unknown conditions, they are called into action, all or any
part of our knowledge may, on the instant, be brought to
our recollection.
The moral lesson which these facts inculcate is obvious.
£f every impression made upon the mind is to remain
upon it forever, if the sou\ be a tablet from which nothing
that is written is ever erased, how great is the importance
of imbuing it with that knowledge which shall be a source
of joy to us as long as we exist ! And, again ; since knowl-
edge which lies so long dormant may be revived unex-
pectedly, under conditions which we cannot foresee, and at
times when it may have the most important bearing upon
our decisions and our destiny, it is of the greatest conse-
quence to us to store the mind with such knowledge as shall
invigorate our principles and confirm our virtue. He who
reads a corrupting book for pastime may thoughtlessly lay
it down, and suppose that in a few days all the images which
it has created will have passed from his remembrance for-
ever. But these latent ideas may be recalled by some caauaJ
MATURE OP MEMORY. 243
RBSOciation or some physical condition of the brain, and give
that bits to his mind, in the hour of temptation, which will
determine him to a course that shall tend to his final
undoing.
It may not be inappropriate here to suggest the harmony
between this condition of memory and the scripture doctrine
of a general judgment. The teaching of the New Testa-
ment on this subject is, that the whole race of man will be
summoned before God, to be judged according to the deeda
done in the body. We can easily perceive how all this may
be done, if the view which we have taken on this subject be
correct. Suppose every being to be perfectly conscious of
all the events of his past life, and of all the obligations
which he has violated, and his character in a spiritual world
to be as manifest to others as it is to himself; and the judg-
ment concerning every individual must be immediately
formed by the whole universe. No examination is needevi,
for the facts which in each case form the basis of the con-
demnation are apparent to all. Like choosing its like, tho
good would be separated from the bad ; and the decision pro-
nounced by the Judge would be reechoed back from the
conscience of every individual, with the assent of every
moral intelligence.
It may be well, in closing this section, to refer to some
singular effects produced on memory by disease. They
do not come under any law with which I am acquainted,
yet they deserve to be recoided for the purpose of directing
attention to the subject. It is by the observation of anom-
alous cases in science, that we are led to the discovery of
new and important laws.
Somt!times, in consequence pf injury or disease, the mem-
ory of a particular period is lost altogether, while what
uccurred both before and after that period is remembered
with accuracy Dr. Beattie mentions the case of a clergy*
244 rKTELLECTFAl PHILOSOrHT.
man who, in consequence of an apoplectic attack, los. the
recollection of precisely four years.
Sometimes the loss of memory relates to particular per-
flODS. Dr. Abercrombie mentions the case of a surgeon ^Yho
was thrown from his horse and carried into a neighboring
house in a state of insensibility. From this he soon recov-
ered, and gave minute and correct directions respecting his
'>wn treatment. In the evening he was so much relieved,
that he was removed to his own house. The medical friend
who accompanied him in the carriage made some observa-
tion respecting the precautious necessary to be observed to
prevent unnecessary alarm to his family, when, to his as-
tonishment, he discovered that his friend had lost all idea
of having either a wife or children. It was not until the
third day that the circumstances of his past life began to
recur to his mind.
Oases have occurred in which, from an injury to tlie head,
the knowledge of a particular language has been lost. In
other cases, not a language but a particular class of words
has been dropped from the recollection. A case is men-
tioned, in which a patient suflfered from an attack of apo-
plexy. On his recovery, he had lost the power of pronounc-
ing or writing either proper names or any substantive.
while his memory supplied adjectives in profusion. He
would speak of any one whom he wished to designate, by
calling him after the shape or color for which he was dis-
tinguished ; calling one man "red," from the color of hig
hair, and another "tall," from his stature; asking for hig
bat -as " black," and his coat as " brown." As he was a
gcod botanist, he was acquainted with a vast number of
plants, but he could never call them by their names. A
similar instance occurred, lately, in Livingstori county. Now
York.
A remarkable case is mentionexi in the life of Rev. Wu
NATURE OF MEMORY. 245
Tennent, a distinguished clergyman of New Jersey, about
the middle of the last ccnturv. While prosecuting his
.studies preparatory to the mmistry, he was taken ill and
apparently died. After lying for some days without man-
ifesting any signs of life, he was resuscitated and recov-
ered. When he regained his health, it was found that he
had lost all knowledge of the past, and was obliged to com-
mence his studies anew, beginning at the alphabet. lie had
proceeded in this manner for some time, and had advanced
as far as the Latin grammar, when, on a sudden, he placed
his hand on his head, complaining of violent pain, and, on
the instant, his fonner knowledge had returned to him just
as it existed previous to his illness. The whole account is
very remarkable, but I believe its authenticity to be above
suspicion.
Of these, and a vast number of similar facts, I believe oui
present knowledge is unable to furnish us with any expla-
nation. They deserve to be recorded as material for future
investigation. Subsequent inquirers may be enabled to use
them so as to point out more clearly the connection between
the mind and the material organism, and thus enlarge our
knowledge of our intellectual faculties and the conditions of
their exercise.
REFERENCES,
Nature of memory — Reid, Essay 3, chap. 1; Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6.
Implies the power of retaining and recalling — Stewart, vol. i., chap 6,
lec. 1. Lncke, Book 2, chap. 10, sec. 1, 2, 8 ; chap. 19, sec. 1.
Includes susceptibility, retentiveness and readiness — Stewart, toI. i.,
chap. 6, sec. 2.
An original faculty — Reid, Ess.iy 3, chap. 2.
Involves conception— Reid, Essay 3, chap. 1; Stewart, vol i., chap. €,
Bec.l.
Attended with belief of past existence and personal identity — B«id.
Essay 3, chaps. 1, 4, 6.
Varies in ditfereut individuals — Abercrjmbie, Part 3, sec. i .. Stewart
»ol u, chap. 6, sec. 1. 2.
21*
246 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
Local and philo'«phical memory — Abercrombie, Part 3, see. 1.
Greatly improvable — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6.
Objects which awaken emotion easily remembered — Stewart, Tol )
thap. 6, sec. 1
Ideiis fade from memory — Lccke, Book 2, chap. 10, sees. 4, 6.
Reviewing fixes knowledge — Abercrombie, Part 4.
Effect of diicase on memory — Abercrombie, Part 3, sec. 1.
SECTION III. — THE IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY.
In treating of this subject, I shall consider, first, tlie re«
lation of memory to our other faculties ; and, secondly, tb«
importance of a cultivated memory to professional success.
I. The relation between Tnemory and our other intel-
lectual faculties.
Memory is not necessary either to perception or con-
sciousness. We could see, and hear, and feel, and be con-
scious of all the operations of our faculties, as well without
memory as with it. It is not necessary to some acts of orig-
inal suggestion. Without it we might have a notion of
existence, both objective and subjective. We could not,
however, without it, form those original suggestions which
involve the idea of succession. Thus, without it, we could
have no notion either of duration or of cause and effect.
Memory, on the other hand, is essential to the existence
of all those ideas into which the element of time enters.
Without it our whole knowledge would consist of the im-
pressions made upon us now and here. Our intellectual
existence would thus be reduced to a single point. Whatever
we had known previously to the present moment, whatever
ideas had occupied our minds before the one which novr
occupies them, would be blotted out forever. Hence, though
we could form a notion of that which was immediately be-
fore us, we could not retain thct notion, or anything corre
IMrORTAXCE OF MEMORY. 247
iponding to it, after it was withdrawn. Being unable tc
tbrm conceptions, wc could perform no acts either of analv-
Bis, generalization, or combination. We could form no
notion of classes, and could have no general ideas. We
could exercise no power of association, for there would be
nothing within the scope of our mental vision, except the
single idea with which we were at the moment occupie 1.
Equally impossible would it be for us to reason. We reason
by the comparison of propositions : but every proposition in-
volves two ideas, and one of these must designate a class;
and without memory, as I have remarked, the notion of
classes would be impossible. But if this be true of the sin-
gle propositions which form a syllogism, ho«- much stronger
is the case when we consider the syllogism itself, and, still
more, the sei ies of syllogisms which form an argument.
Thus, memory holds an intermediate place between those
mental acts into which time does and those into which it doea
not enter. It originates nothing : it gives us no new ideas ;
it merely retains the ideas given us by the originating fac-
ulties, and presents them to those other fliculties whose
office it is, by modifj'ing. comparing, and combining, to
enlarge our knowleilge, and extend indefinitely the range
of human intelligence. Thus, though memory originates
nothing, yet, without it, the faculties which originate would
be useless. Though it neither analyzes nor compares, yet,
without it, the powers by which we analyze and compare
might as well not exist. Were we possessed of this alone,
our existence would be an absolute blank ; yet, possessed
of every other but tin's, our existence would be reduced to
a single point. If this be the relation which memory sus-
tains to our other faculties, it must evidently be one of the
aiost invaluable of our intellectual endowments. The greater
ihe perfection in which it exists, the broader foundation ii
'iiid f >r the exercise of our powers of analysis, combination
248 IXTELLECTU^L PHILOSOPHY.
and reasoning The more accurately we retain and the
more promptly we recall our knowledge of the past, the
richer is our supply of material for every form of intellectual
exercise.
II. The importance of a cultivated memory to p? o-
fessional success.
By a cultivated memory, I mean a memory so improved
by education that it can treasure up with ease, retain with
firmness, and recall with promptitude, the knowledge ac-
quired by the other faculties.
1. Without such a memory it is evident that reading
must be, to a great degree, useless. Without it, a man may
be what Horace calls a "Ae/Z/zo Ubroriim,'^ a devourer of
books ; but he will rarely be anything more. We some-
times meet with men of this class, omnivorous readers, who
Beize upon books with avidity, with no other object than,
either present enjoyment, or the reputation of vast general
knowledge. They are pleased with the images spread be-
fore them. These pass away to be succeeded by otherSj
until the labor is completed, and nothing remains bu<i a
confused recollection of pleasant or painful emotions, and
the consciousness that another unit has been added to the
number of books which they have read. It is evident that
a man may read, in this manner, forever, without any in-
crease of mental energy, or any real addition to the amount
of his knowledge.
2. A cultivated memory is also indispensable to a vigor-
ous imagination. Imagination is the power of forming com-
plex concef.tions out of materials already existing in the
mind. But it is evidently impossible to combine into im-
ages elements which we have never collected, or which, if we
have previously collected, we are unable to recall. Hence
we find that those authors who have been remarked foi
boundless fei tility of imagination have always been endowed
IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 24S
with the high'.st gifts of memory. Scott, Goethe, Coleridge,
Milton, Macauley, might be easily referred to as illustrations.
A distinguislied poet must be an intense and accurate ob-
server of nature, and the conceptions formed from actual
observation must be the materials from which he creates
the images of btauty or sublimity which please or subdua
US. The case is similar in philosophical imagination. Un-
less we are possessed of all the facts in a phenomenon or a
series of phenomena, we can never form any adequate con-
ception of the rationale which binds them together hi one
scientific idea. Without an accurate knowledge of the facta
in astronomy, Copernicus could never have formed his idea
of the solar system.
3. The importance of a cultivated memory to reasoning
is equally obvious. Reasoning is a series of mental acts by
which we pass from the known to the unknown. Whenever
a proposition is capable of being proved, there exist certain
other propositions, which connect it indissolubly with truths
already known. These intermediate propositions are called
the argument or proof. Suppose, now, that we desire to
demonstrate a particular proposition ; if we can summon at
will all that we have ever known on the subject, we can
easily determine whether we possess the required media
of proof If, on the other hand, our knowledge is vague
and undetermined, and we are unable to recall it to our
recollection, we weary ourselves and perplex others by mul-
tiplying irrelevant truths by which nothing is determined.
The value of this power is specially illustrated in the case of
"orensic or legislative orators. They are frequently obliged to
construct an argument, or reply to an opponent, when there
t6 neither opportunity for consulting authorities nor e.xamin-
ing digests. All that can possibly avail a man is the knowl-
edge which he has previously acquired, and hemustbeabU
to bring it to bear it once on the point at issue, or the ap
250 fNTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
portunitj is lost forever. On tbis power must, therefore,
frequently depend the skill of a debater, or the success of
an advocate.
4. A cultivated memory is necessary to the attainment
of accuracy of practical judgment.
By practical judgment I mean an ability to predict tha
future from a knowledge of the past, and to form an opinion
of the doubtful from a knowledge of the true. This talent,
more than almost any other, gives us influence among men ;
and sometimes seems, in the most favored individuals, to at-
tain almost to the certainty of prescience. Burke, in hia
writings on the French Revolution, predicted the course ^f
events almost precisely as they subsequently occurred.
Other skilful statesmen have been able, from the present
aspect of aflliirs, to anticipate the changes which were ap-
proaching in the distance. Several of Napoleon's predic-
tions of the course of '-vents in Europe, have been, in a re-
markable manner, verified by the political revolutions that
have occurred since his death.
The dependence of this talent upon memory is easily per-
ceived. As our judgments respecting the future must pro-
ceed upon the supposition that the course of nature is uni-
form, how can we predict the future without a knowledge
of the past ] But mere general and indefinite knowledg/^
will not here suffice. He who would attain to soundness of
judgment must possess himself of facts in particular, with
the circumstances by which thej? were surrounded, the limi-
tations by which they were fixed, and the conditions under
which they existed. This, of course, supposes an accurate
aiil ccmprchensive memory. We shall find that the most
emmeiitly sagacious men have been favored with a memory
of this character. Of this type of mind Dr. Frankliu
leems to preseat a remarkable instance.
But this, of itself, wilJ not confer that eminorce of prao
IMPORTANCB OF MEMORY. 261
lical judgment to which we here refer. We frequently
observe men capable of amassing a vast collecticn of facta.
but they arc all thrown together at random, and ever remain
in a state of chaotic confusion. Their knowledge has neither
been associated by scientific relations, nor classified accord-
ing to established principles ; hence it is useless for the fur-
pojjcs of investigation, and can form the basis of no prac-
tical judgment. It consists of merely isolated facts, from
which no general principles have been deduced, and hence it
furnishes no rules f )r future conduct. Such a man, though
ever so extensively read, will ever be incapable of the wise
conduct of affairs. Men are frequently pointed out as walk-
ing libraries, to whom every one applies for the knowledge
of a fact, but to whose opinion no one would defer in any
case of practical importance. Thus, we see that those
powers by which knowledge is rendered available must be
cultivated, as well as those by which it is acquired, if wo
would attain to soundness of judgment in the practical af-
fiiiis of life.
I am, however, aware tiat, to those, other elements must
be added, in order to form the character of which we are
treatii.g. To a cultivated understanding, a retentive and
ready memory, must be united great freedom from preju-
dices, i)' vincible love of truth, decided moral courage, and
firm reliance on the decisions of the human intellect, if we
would realize that conception of practical wisdom which
Locke somewhere happily denominates "large round-about
common sense." Without freedom from prejudice we shall
look upon the plainest facts ihrough a distorted medium.
If we have no real love of truth we shall never take the
pjiins necessary to arrive at it. If we are deficient in reli-
ance on the decisions of our own intellect, no matter hovr
clearly we may comprehend our position, we shall nevei
reach a deliberate conclusion. And without moral courage^
252 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPUT.
whatever be c\ir conclusions, we shall never daie to carry
them into practice. In this, as in every other case, we j.er-
ceive that moral qualities form the most important elementa
of human character. Hence we see that actual ability
depends greatly upon the cultivation of our own nature
and is placed more within our own reach than might at first
be supposed.
The distinction between mere learning and that practicaJ
wisdom by which all learning is made available to the pur-
poses of science, or the exigences of practical life, is well
illustrated by Cowper in his Task, one of the most deli^jhtfu]
poems in the English language.
" Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one,
Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heada replete with thoughts of other men ;
Wisdom, in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass.
The mere material with which Wisdom builds,
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place.
Does but encumber what it seemed to enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much.
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Books are, not seldom, talismans and spells.
By which the magic art of shrewder wits
Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled.
Some to the fascination of a name
Surrender judgment hood-winked. Some the style
Inf ituates, and, through labyrinths and wilda
Of error, leads them by a tune entranced.
While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear
The unsupportable fatigue of thought,
And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice.
The total grist unsifted, husks and all."
W INTER Walk at Noob.
If these rem-^iks be true, it seems remarkable that th«
question should ever have arisen, whether a powerful
IMPORTANCE 3F MEMORY. Si5B
memory 13 compatible with great soundness of ju<^graent
We see, from tlie above considerations, that soumlness of
judgment, without a fiiir development of memory, is impos-
sible. The mistake on this subject has probably arisen
from two misconceptions. In the first place, a cultivated
aiid disciplined memory has been confounded with a miscel-
laneous and unclassified collection of facts. In the second
place, the abuse of memory has been confounded with the
use of it. Memory is properly used when it is employed
to recall our previous knowledge, in order to deduce from it
laws which shall govern our future conduct. It is abused
when we employ it merely for the purpose of recalling
precedents which shall enable us blindly to follow our file-
leader. Here it usurps the place of judgment, and renders
us servile copyists and imbecile imitators. When we use it
to furnish facts, which, by comparison and generalization,
shall enable us to form judgments, we derive from it the
benefit which the Creator intended.
That remarkable powers of memory are commonly asso-
ciated with other distinguished endowments, might be easilj
shown by instances. I have already alluded to several men
of genius, who possessed unusual retentiveness and readinesa
of memory. I do not, however, remember any individual
in whom this cosibination was so remarkable as the late
Emperor Xapoleon. He used to say of himself, that hia
knov.ledge was all laid away in drawers, and that he had
only to open the proper drawer, and all that he had
aci:iuired on that particular subject was at once presented
before him. It was, I think, at the Congress of Erfurt,
that he astonished the sovereigns of Europe by the minute-
Dess of his knowledge of historic dates. When they ex-
jressed their surprise that he should have been able to attain
Buch extraordinary accuracy amidst the pressure of business
Kith which he had been so long overwhelmed, he replied.
22
■HI
254 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
that \m ucquisitic»n3 of this kind were made when he was a
lieutenaut of artillery, and was for a considerable period
quartered in the house of a bookseller ; besides, added he, ]
had always great facility in the recollection of numbers.
The diligent improvement of time, in youth, thus kid the
inundation for the success of the future arbiter of Euroj>e.
I have pursued this subject to a greater extent than
iiiight have seemed necessary, did I not suppose that the im-
portance of this faculty is frequently underrated, especially
by young men. If a man succeed in almost any depart-
n.ent of intellectual labor, it is often said, by way of dispar-
agement, that his effort is nothing but the result of unusual
memory. Were this the fact, it would still be true, that tiie
cultivation of memory to high perfection, so that our past
knowledge is always available in every emergency, is neither
an ordinary nor a contemptible attainment. But the asser-
tion is commonly unfounded. While distinguished success,
in any department, can rarely be attained by the exercise of
memory alone, it is equally true that the noblest poNters
would be continually liable to mortifying failure Avithout it.
Let us, then, labor to cultivate this faculty by every means
in our powoi', always remembering that we shall derive from
i; the greatest advantage, not by allowing it to superscle
the use of the other faculties, but by training it to act in
subordination to them. He who reasons without facts must
always proceed in the dark ; while he who relies on isolated
facta, neither using his powers of generalization nor reason-
ing, must be willing to remain always a child.
SECTION IV. — THE IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY.
From the preceding remarks, it is evidently of great
Importance to every educated man to be able in acquira
IMPROVEMEM OF MEMORY. 255
knowledge rapidly, to retain it perrcnnentlr, aud to recall
it with ease To confer upon us this power, or, at least
to improve it, is one important object of intellectual disci-
pline. I shall proceed to illustrate some of the general
principles on -which the improvement of memory de[)end3.
My object is purely practical. I desire merely to present
Buch views of the subject as will enable us to give increased
efficiency to this important faculty. The facts which we
have to present are all withiii the range of every man'a
consciousness. But though nothing be added to our stock
of knowledge, something may, perhaps, be gained, if what
we already know can be directed more clearly to a valuable
end.
1. Memory, whether we consider its susceptibility, reten-
tiveness, or readiness, is strengthened only by habitual aud
earnest use. If unemployed, or not employed in diligent
study, its power will gradually diminish. This may be
illustrated in a variety of particulars.
Let a man find it necessary, for any particular purpose,
to remember an event, a conversation, or some passage in a
discourse, and he will find that the effort which he makes
confers upon him in some degree the power which he needs.
Let him be placed under the necessity of doing the same
thing ftequently, and statedly, and he soon becomes con-
scious that his power rapidly increases. It matters not
what may be the class of objects which we are called upon
to recollect, we recollect with ease what we find it necessary
to recollect habitually. The civil engineer remembers, with-
out effort, localities, the outline of a country, heights, dis-
tances, levels, water-courses, and whatever facts are impor-
tant in the practice of his profession. The merchant
remembers prices in different countries, the amount of pro-
duction in each for a great number of years, the wnaump-
tion under various ci'-sumstances, and the conditions hy
256 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
which it is affected, the rates of exchange, and t le flucttt
ations of markets. The liwyer remembers, in the saim
manmr, decisions, arguments, analogies, precedents, and
cases. Neither of these could do more than verj imper
fectly what the other does with facility. The memory^
strengthened by exercise in one particular department of
knowledge, is left in other respects almost in its natural
condition.
Nor is this all. The power of recalling our knowledge is
materially affected by the circumstances under which the
habit is cultivated. He who is accustomed to extemporary
speaking will find his recollection more active when in the
presence of an audience than in the retirement of his study.
He has made that most valuable acquisition, the power of
thinking upon his legs ; and he will perceive truth more
clearly, he will illustrate it more forcibly, and find all hig
knowledge more perfectly under his control, in these circum-
stances, than in any other. Another man, who has accus-
tomed himself solely to writing, finds his power of recollec-
tion much more active when surrounded by his books and
papers. The pen has become to him an almost indispensa-
ble instrument of thought, and, without it, he k fi-equently
and strangely at a loss. Neither of these men could do the
work of the other. Hence it is that so few men have been
successful in both written and extempore discourse. Hence
it is that, frequently, orations which have produced the
deepest impression during delivery, have appeared so tame
and lifeless when they have been committed to paper. The
excitement of delivery, which enabled the speaker to asso-
ciate so many images of beauty and sublimity with the sub-
ject-matter of his discourse, passed away when the orator
attempted to write, and little remains but the plain appeal
to the understanding. Cicero somewhere alludes to the
difficulty of attii'-"^ t<s great peifection in both wiiiten and
IMrROVBMEUr OF MEMORY. 261
spoken discoui-se, an^ justlj, if not wisely, compliments biai'
aelf on having been successful where most other eminent
men had failed.
The effect of society upon the character of our recollection
has frequently been remarked. He Avho associates habitually
with men of distinguished colloquial ability, is placed undel
the necessity of recalling his knowledge on the instant, and
of recalling it on any subject that the occasion may demand.
The peculiar kind of recollection is also greatly mollified by
the company Avith which we associate. If our companions
are men of humor, we find ourselves involuntarily recalling
humorous events and droll associations. If we consort with
men of s 'ience, the mind takes a bias in a contrary direction
Thus a n.an of great colloquial excellence transforms into hia
>wn intellectual likeness those who are much in his society
An illustration of this remark is found in Boswell's Life of
Johnson. The associates of this great converser were re-
markable for their colloquial talent, and every individual
was more or less tinged with the peculiarities, Avhether
good or bad, of their master. Men of quite opposite ele-
ments of character were assimilated in their modes of
thought to him whom they all admired ; and they thug
formed a school, of which the lineaments were recognized
throughout the contemporary literary world.
Instances of the power of recalling all our knowledge
upon a given subject, are found in the lives of men who
have been successfully employed in the conduct of affair-s.
We see them forming plans for the future, embracing a
complicated variety of contingencies, for all of which provis-
ion must be made in advance. The motives of men must
be weighed, the effect of measures upon different govern-
ments estimated : action and reaction must be subjected to
deliberate calculation, and all the elements which wouW
advance or retard the design must be distinctly present to
22*
258 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
the inind. The intellectual eifort required in a great niilitarj
commander is essentially the sanie. It is said that before
the Duke of Wellington took the command of the army of
the Peninsula, the jdan of operations which he subsequently
carried into effect had been thoroughly matured and ro-
solved upon. Every one must perceive the vast knowledge
of facts, and the wonderful accuracy of judgment, which wer^
required in order to perfect a plan which could be carried
into effect in the midst of so many and so complicated con-
tingencies. Dumas also relates, that, when the Emperor
Napoleon '-decided to abandon the invasion of England, and
attack the Emperor of Austria, it was necessary to confide
to the chief of his staff not only the idea of the plan of the
campaign which he meditated, but, likewise, to develop all
the details. He dictated to M Daru, off-hand, and without
once stopping, those memorable instructions, that admirable
plan of the campaign, which we saw executed precisely a3
he had fixed it, doubtless after profound meditation. In
these instructions, the march of every day, the places at
which the army should arrive at successive periods, and the
place and almost the day on which the great battle should
be fought, were minutely specified. With these previous
instructions the actual result corresponded with astonishing
accuracy. Every one must be amazed at the amount and
the minuteness of the knowledge which could foresee and
provide for every emergency that might arise in so extended
and vast operations."'
I have pursued these illustrations beyond the limit which
the imporumce of the subject would seem to demand. The
olject which I have in view must plead my apology. J
have desired to give prominence to the fact that tbe memory
is readily improved by exercise, and that it improves in tlu
precise manner in which it is earnestly and habitually em
ployed. Every one must see that such command of ktviwl
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 259
?dge as I have exemplified could he the result of nothing
but assiduous and thorough "Cultivation. A lesson of practi-
cal value to the young may be learned from these consider-
ations. We are thus taught that we may, by diligent and
earnest effort, become equal to the discharge of dutiea
which now seem out of our power. The Duke of Welling-
ton, in early life, gave no indications of eminent ability.
We arc liable to error in supposing that because we do not
now possess the practical skill which a particular situation
demands, it would therefore be presumption in us to under-
take it. It is geneially safe to believe that what other men,
in the same circumstances, do, we, if the duty be imposed
upon us, can do also. But, while we adopt tliis rule, we
shall greatly err if we suppose that we shall be qualified for
any situation merely by being placed in it Place confers
no talent, and it communicates no knowledge , while, there-
fore, we rijay hope to do what other men have done, it must
be under the conditions in which other men have done it.
Unless we take the same pains, and subject ourselves to the
same discipline, as those who have succeeded, we shall un-
questionably fail. Inspiration is, at least, as rare now as it
has been in past ages ; and, if we would attain to success,
we must form Dur rules of conduct, not on exceptions, but
on general laws. To subject ourselves to the discipline
necessary to success, will not interfere with the inspirations of
genius ; while, should it happen that we are not inspired,
without such disci[)lne our failure will be inevitable.
2. It is a well-known fact that the power of recollection
depends greatly on attention.
The condition of mind which we denominate attention ia
that in which we direct our whole mental energies exclusively
to one particular object. It may proceed either from with-
out or from within ; from an objective or a subjective cause.
In tiie former case, the occurrence itself so entirely engrossei
2G0 INTELLECTIAL PHILOSOPHY.
our thcuglits that, •without any volition, everything else ia
excluded from the mind. Let a traveller in Europe riJe
over a field rising and falling, now in regular and again in
iriegular slopes, Avith here and there a clump of trees, on
one side a windmill, and on the other an old stone house, and
it will leave no definite impression on his mind, lie can
look upon just such scenes anywhere, and he has seen just
as impressive landscapes every day of his life. His thoughts
may wander in the direction of home, and his conversation
turn to such subjects as the humor of the moment may sug-
gest. But let him be informed that this is the field of Wa-
terloo, that this eminence is Mount St. Jean, that yonder is
the farm-house of La Haye Sainte, that there is the thicket
and villa of Hougomont, and near him the tree under which
Wellington remained during the greater part of the action ;
that on the slopes beyond the French were posted, and there
in the vale is the spot where, for the first time, the Imperial
Guard faltered, mowed down in ranks, as they advanced to
the charge ; every other thought now vanishes from his
mind, and it is not possible for him to think of anything
but that terrible battle, on which the course of empire in
Europe depended. Such an impression is engraven on thi
memory forever.
In these cases, as I have said, the occasion of attention is
from without. It is arrested by objects around us, we are
conscious of no special mental effort when it is excited, and
we could not control it if we would. There is another and
very different form of attention, which depends upon the
exercise of our will. In this case, by an act of volition, wo
di.^miss all thought irrelevant to the subject before us, and
concenti-ate upon it all the mental energy of which we are ca-
pable. The more perfectly wo do this, the greater will be oui
power of recollection ; we shall thus acquire knowledge in
the shortest time, and retain it with the greatest success. The
IMPROVEMENT OF MEA. DRY. 2G1
CLWi vhj hiivcbeen remarkable for great powers of memor^y
hare po.ssessed in a remarkable d<.>gree the power of abstract
attcution. The biographer of Johnson observes that wliile
he was reading the appearance of mental effort which he
exhibited was painful even to his companions. He seemea
wholly unconsc'ous of tlie existence of anything around him;
his countenance was flushed, the veins of his forehead became
distended, and his whole appearance betokened the intensest
mental concentration. A portrait, by Sir J. Reynolds, pre-
sents him in precisely this attitude.
Of the nature of attention, and the means by which it
may be cultivated, I have before treated ; I need not, there-
fore, repeat what I have said on this subject. It will be suf-
ficient to observe that, if we desire to improve the power of
memory, it is here that we must always commence. Until
we have learned to dismiss from our minds wandering and
irrelevant thought, and fix our intellectual energies on the
subject directly before us, we shall alwnys suffer the evils
of imperfect and feeble recollection. Attention, as we have
before observed, obeys the commands of a determined will. It
is thus in our own power to enlarge and strengthen our intel-
lectual faculties. A weak memory may be rendered strong,
and a fleeting recollection permanent, by resolutely laboring
to improve it. The remedy, however, resides in ourselves,
and it is the same for all. If we are willing to make the
sacrifices necessary to insure success, observing the laws by
which the improvement of our faculties is governed, there is
no one of our intellectual powers which may not be improved
fur beyond what at the commencement we should have be-
lieved possible. The men who earnestly labor to improve
themselves generally go beyond expectation ; those who rely
»n their undiscipl ned powers almost always fall short of it.
Urn, Dcyond this, we should labor to acquire, not merely
the power of o'^casional attentioUj but the habit of ccnstaat
2G2 INTELLECTUAL PHILC3CPHT.
ind waKeful men*;al earnestness. In this manner, aloni,
does our exrstencj become in the highest degree valuable,
since every portion of it brings forth the richest and most
abundant fruit, and no hour and no occasion is suffered tfl.
run to waste An oasis in the desert is, by contrast, ex-
ceedingly beautiful and picturesque ; but how valueless i.'.
appears when compared with the broad acres of a cultivated
land, clothed as far as the eye can reach with exhaustlesg
fertility, the hills covered with flocks, the valleys loaded
with corn, supplying with prodigal liberality the wants of
'.very living thing that finds a home upon its bosom ! Sc
ihe transient efforts of genius may delight and surprise us;
but it is the steady labor of earnest minds that works out
those changes in public opinion, by which error is dissipated,
truth discovered and promulgated, and a new impulse
given to the progress of humanity in wisdom and virtue.
It is by acquiring this habit of constant and earnest
attention, and the power of transferring at will our whole
energy from one subject to another, that some men are en-
abled to perform an amount of intellectual labor which
seems almost incredible. The duties of the Chancellor of
Great Britain, in his judicial office the most important in
the kingdom, as speaker and a leading member of the
House of Lords, and frequently an active member of the
cabinet, could be successfully discharged by no one whose
intellect was not disciplined to incessant and intense exer-
tion. The same remark is applicable to every man who
stands in the front rank of any profession. The demand fof
eminent service is incessant ; and nothing can meet this
demand but a mind capable of putting forth its best efforts
without either cessation or weariness.
3. In the third place, readiness, or facility in recalling oui
knowledge, depends mainly upon the principles by which it
y associ-ited. The thought which we at this moment need
IMrROVEilENT OF MEMORY. 262
B brought to our recoUectioa, because it has been connected,
by some liw of association, with a thought now present.
, Our associations are of two kinds, those by casual, and
those by permanent rehitions. Tlie associations whicii we
f(«-m from contiguity of time and phice, or from mere exter-
nal appearance, as color, size^ etc., are casual; those frim
cause and effect are permanent. When we see an event oc-
curring at a particular time and place, it by no means fol-
lows that a similar event will recur at the same place at a
corresponding time ; nor are similar events, by any tie
whatever, connected with, or related to, that time and place.
Hence, if we associate an event by these relations, there ia
nothing wliatever to recall our analogous knowledge. If, on
the other hand, we observe an event, and associate it with
its causes and effects, we know that the same cause, under
siniihir circumstances, will produce the same effect, and,
under modified circumstances, will produce modified effects.
Hence, this form of association connects with the even
which we wish to remember a multitude of other events,
any one of which, if present to the mind, may recall any
one or all of the others.
Inasmuch, then, as casual associations furnish no bond of
connection by which facts are associated together, they can
furnish little aid to the memory, and can assist us but feebly
in the investigation of truth. If a lawyer associated caseg
merely with the court-rooms in which they happened to be
decided, his knowledge would 1 3nder but little service in
the practice of his profession. He must remember them by
their connection with the principles of equity, if he wishea
to recall them whenever an analogous case occurs in the
course of his pleadings. Were they associated merely by
time and place, the most dissimilar decisions would be
grouped together, so th-it he could rarely call to mind those
adapted to his purpose. If he associate them by the pi in-
2iJi INTELLECTUAL PKILOSOPHT.
ciples to which thej are allied, each case would recall tne
principle, and the principle the cases which it controllei?
Knowledge, in this manner, becomes linked together. A
single fact brings with it the recollection of a multitude of
other facts, and these form the basis of important generaliza-
tions, or the materials for apt and ample illustration.
Or, again, suppose we witness a philosophical experiment.
By casual association, we should connect it with nothing
but the pkice in which it was performed ; and the various
steps of the process would be thought of only in the order
of their succession. All that would remain to us would be
the naked facts, that, at such a time and place, in such a
lecture-room, the first event was followed by the second,
and the second by the third, and so on to the end. If. on
the contrary, the relations of cause and effect were clearly
explained, and every change referred to its appropriate la w,
we should know not only the succession of changes, but
the law which governed each succession. Hence, e;ich event
will be associated with the others by a definite and un-
changing connection. Ever afterwards, any event in the
series will readily call to recollection those thus associated
with it, and also the law on which the succession depended ;
and any one of these laws will also recall not only these
efiects, but many others which at any time we may have
had occasion to observe.
From these illustrations it is evident that readiness, oi
the power of }ecaliing our knowledge, depends greatly upon
philosophical association In order to associate in this man-
ner, we must form the habit of referring facts to the laws
on which they depend, and of tracing out laws to the facts by
which they are exemplified. If we observe a phenomenon,
W3 should, if possible, ascertain its cause. If we examin«
a specimen, we should refer it to its class. If we study a^
event, we should observe its necessary relations to the eventfl
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 2fi.'i
>?hich preceded and which have succeeded it. So, on the
other hand, if we have comprehended an abstract principle,
we shoukl not be satisfied until we have transformed it into
a concrete expression, observed the facts bj which it is illus-
trated, and the results to which it leads. If, for instance,
we comprehend a general law in mechanics, we should woik
out problems which illustrate its mode of operation, until
the law and tbe facts which depend upon k are so thoroughly
associated together that they form one clearly defined and
well digested conception. So, in political economy, if we
are satisfied that a law is true, we should not rest until, if
possible, we have exhausted the results to which it will, of
necessity, lead ; and, on the other hand, if we observe a new
fact in the movements of commerce, or the operations of
finance, we should trace it back to its legitimate cause, and
determine the law to which it owes its existence.
In this respect, our systems of education are probably
defective. We determine, in the first place, that a certain
number of sciences must be learned in a given time. In
the time allotted to each, it may be possible either to com-
municate to the pupil some of the facts without the general
principles, or some of the principles without the facts ; but
not to associate the principles with the facts by the patient
labor of tracing out their connections with each other. It
is by this latter mode of acquisition that the mind attains
power and alertness. He who has thus mastered a single
science has gained far better mental discipline than by
cursory attention to several. He who has learned one thing
tb -» oughly knows how other things also are to be learned ;
and he who has proceeded as far as this has made no con-
temptible progress m his education.
But. though a system of education does not accomplish all
that might be desired, it may yet be of great value. We
may derive important advantage from a listinct knowledge
2a
266 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
of general principles, although we have but little powei
of carrying them into practice. If we have gained 3slj sc
much knowledge that we are able, in subsequent life, to rcfei
common facts to general laws, or even to understand the
reference when it is made bj others, we have laid the foun-
dations of philosophical association. The observations occur-
ring in our daily occupations will, from time to time, revive
and enlarge our Knowledge. Every general law acquired
in y)uth thus becomes a nucleus, on which our additional
attainments crystallize, and the mass increases by continued
aggregation. Hense it is often observed that young men,
vho are well grounded in the severer studies, attain, in the
3nd, to a larger intellectual growth, and succeed much bet-
ter in professional life, than those of greater brilliancy, who
aim at more general attainments, and devote their time tc
what is called universal reading.
From these remarks we learn the value of hypotheses in
philosophy. An hypothesis is a conception of the causes
of a phenomenon which has not yet been established by
proof Since it is not established, it is of no positive valid-
ity, and can neither be received as a truth, nor mt.de the
basis of scientific reasoning. Yet it is not, therefore, value
less. It oflFers to our consideration a conjectural law. Ii.
to this law we can refer a number of phenomena Avhich
were before isolated, we are the better able to retain them
in the memory. Suppose, for instance, several isolated facts
havo been observed in geology, for which no cause has been
discovered. A theory is proposed which, if it be allowed,
will account for the whole, or a considerable part of them.
This is an hypothesis. By grouping them together as the
result of this supposed cause, an important aid is rendered
to our recollection. Burke, I believe, remarks that an hy-
pothesis is good for as much as it will explain. Anhypoih'
«is, moreover, presents a definite subject for investigation
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMO: Y. 267
If it bo prcved false, science is the gainer bj the research
which it has occasioned ; if it be proved true, an addition ia
made to the knowledge of man.
4. Readiness of memory is materially assisted by method-
ical arrangement.
Every one knows the difficulty of remembering isolated
and disconnected items, such as a number of words selected
at random, or a column of miscellaneous figures. This
difficulty is greatly diminished by arranging these several
items according to some general conception, as, for instance,
by placing the words in alphabetical order, or grouping
them according to the subjects to which they relate. By
Buch an adjustment some principle of connection is imme-
diately established, and, as one suggests the following, we
easily commit them to memory, and more readily recall
them afterwards.
It is obvious that all sciences, from the necessity of the
case, are susceptible of a natural arrangement. In the dis
covery of knowledge, as I have before remarked, we pro-
ceed from individuals to generals, and from less to more
general, until we arrive at the most comprehensive genua
which the present state of knowledge admits. In the com-
munication of knowledge, this process is exactly reversed;
we commence with the most comprehensive genus, and pro-
ceed step by step to tiie less comprehensive, until we arrive
at varieties and individuals. So, when, iu any case, we
desire to communicate truths, by patient reflection we sliall
be able to discover the general principle on which the whole
essentially depends When this is clearly displayed, it sug-
gests in natural succession whatever is to follow. The order
in which science thus arranges itself, confers important as-
sistance on the memory. When knowledge has no relation
to time, we proceed from more to less genera, truth. WiiCO
time enters into the development of a subjec the order of
2t58 INTELLECTUAL PHILJJSOPHT.
cause and effect is to be preferred. Thus in \atural Ins-
torjr, we prcxjeed from genera to species ; in history, we follo\i
the order of time, which here is also the order of cause and
eflfe^^*. In political economy, we treat, in succession, of pro-
duction, exchange, distribution, and consumption ; becauso
this is the order of the dependence of one class of actions
upon another, and this is the order of changes through
^hich any object passes that is modified by the industry
of man. It is easy to perceive that our power of recalling
our knowledge of any subject, must be greatly increased by
the simplicity and clearness with which it was arranged,
when it was treasured up in the memory.
When any branch of knowledge is thus reduced to method,
we can readily commence with its more general and element-
ary principles, and trace them through their subsidiary
ramifications, each genus suggesting the several species
<vhich it includes, until all our acquisitions on this subject
Are spread in one view before the mind. The want of such
nn arrangement is, not unfrequently, a serious embarrass-
ment to a student. He sometimes finds important truths
carelessly thrown together — principles and results, causeg
and effects, in a condition of hopeless dislocation ; so that to
treasure them up as available knowledge in their present
form is almost impossible. In this case, if the knowledge ia
worth the trouble, our best method is to think the subject
out and rearrange it for ourselves. This will require time,
but it is the only way in which knowledge so inartistically
presented can be rendered useful to the student. The great
work of Adam Smith, which has wrought so wonderful
changes in the policy of nations, would have achieved its
triumph at a much earlier period if its effects had not be'on
weakened by great want of systematic arrangemer t.
The power of clear and well-digested metliod is of greal
IMl'ROVEMEXT UF MEMORY. 20^
ralue, not onlj to the student himself, but also to those
to whuni he communicates knowledge. The preacher, who
will take the trouble to acquire it, will not so often complain
that his teachings are forgotten, or that his audience is in-
attentive. The lawyer will thus be enabled greatly to
abridge his proceedings, and at the same time leave a
Btronger and more durable impression on the court and the
jury. In our addresses to our fellow-men, I hardly know
of an acquisition of greater importance than this, or one
that aids more powerfully our efforts to produce conviction.
From what has been said, we perceive the incorrectness of
the opinion, that the memory resembles a store-house, which
may be filled to overflowing, or so filled as to render further
acquisitions more and more diflBcult. If the student have
used his memory aright, the greater his acquisitions the
easier will subsequent acquisitions become. If he have
formed the habit of concentrated thought, the less effort will
be required to fix his attention. If he habitually refei his
■ facts to principles, he will successively arise to higher and
higher generalizations, and the knowledge which he acquires
will connect itself by more and more numerous associations.
We are never embarrassed by the amount of our knowledge,
but only by its miscellaneous and disorderly variety. If
reflection upon a subject presents us with nothing but a
multitude of irrelevant and disconnected facts, without gen-
eralization or arrangement, we may well complain of being
overburdened with knowledge. But, when reflection yields
the fruit of apposite principles and illustrative liicts, the
wider the range of our acquisitions the greater will be our
jitellectual power. It is in conset|uence of the formation
)f such habits that an accomplished public speaker .re-
juently astonishes us, by discoursing with ample fulness, and
with the clearest method, upon occasions wl ich allowed nc
opportunity for previous preparation. The attainment of
23*
270 IXTELLECTIJAL PHILOSOPHI.
such a power is certainlj worth all the labor which it can
possibly dera.ind.
Of artificial memory.
Besides the means for the cultivation 'f memory which 1
have suggested above, others, depending upcn artificial as-
Bociation, have been frequently recommended. Cicero some-
where mentions the systems of this kind which were in use
in his time. It may be well to indicate the principles on
which such systems are founded.
When we wish to remember a particular fact, we fre-
quently associate it with something which we cannot easily
forget. We sometimes see men desiring to recollect an
engagement tie a knot in their handkerchief, or bind a
atring around one of their fingers. In artificial memory, a
regular system of signs is employed for a similar purpose.
I remember a lecturer on mnemonics, who used for this pur-
pose a sheet or two of paper, divided into a large number
of compartments, in each of which was engraved a figure of
some well-known object. When a number of items, as a
column of words, was to be remembered, the pupil waa
taught to associate each word with an object in one of these
compartments. In this manner a large number of partic-
ulars might be remembered for a short time. The system,
however, which has maintained the most permanent reputa
tion, is that of Gray, in his Memoria Technica, a work of
which Dr. Johnson speaks somewhere with great respect.
The nature of this system may be known from a single
example. Suppose the object is to remember numbers.
The vowels, diphthongs, and the most important consonants,
^re so arranged as to correspond Avith the nine digits and
Eij.'ier, hi the following manner :
a e i o u au oi ei ou y
12&456 78 90
bdtflBkknx.
ARTIFICIAL MKMOUY. 273
This table 'naj be used thus : Sup^wsc; that I Avished to remem-
ber the fact that Julius Caesar arrived at the supreme powei
in the year 46, B. C. I observe that the letter o is above
4, and the letter s under 6. Forty-six is then represented
by the syllable os. I write Julios for Julius, and thus
recall this date to ray recollection. Or, again : Alexander
f^'.Muled his empire in 331, B. C. The number 331, as
befor: explained, may be expressed by the letters ila I
then wi ite Alex«7a instead of Alexander, and am thus re-
minded of the date in question. Various other systems
have been devised, but they all depend upon similar prin-
siples.
Of the utility of this method of aiding the memory, I
am unable to speak from experience. I have, however, ob-
served, that, whatever may be the immediate effect of these
systems, they are generally soon laid aside. It seems aa
difficult to remember the system as to remember the knowl-
edge which it would enable us to retain. Whatever be ita
virtue, it can confer upon us no valuable mental discipline.
It would seem better, therefore, to cultivate the memory by
those methods which give increased vigor to all our other
intellectual faculties. When a subject is capable of philo-
sophical association, it is surely better to fix it in our recol-
lection by philosophical arrangement. When the matter to
be remembered is names, dates, or other isolated fiicts, it is
better to refer to tables and books, where such knowledge ia
to be feuud, than to trust to our memory, unless we are
endowed with special facility for this sort of acquisition.
There is, however, one mode of rendering our knowle Ige
BvailaWe, which seems to me of great value. It is a well-
arranged common-place book, or a book made for the pur-
pose of recording any important items of knowledge in such
manner as to be easily accessible. The Ilev. Dr. Todd, of
PiUsfield, Mass., has prepared a work exceedingly weU
il'J INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
adapted to this purpose. It is called an "Index Rerum.''
It consists of blank leaves ruled and paged, with the letters
of the alphabet, so that a student can readily insert a word
designating a particular subject, and under this word record
all the places in which he finds this subject treated. A
student, by the use of such a book, would be able to refer to
all the works which he had read on any particular subject,
by glancing at a single entry in his index. His common-
place book would thus be an index to his whole library;
enabling him, in the shortest time, and with the least trouble,
to render all his past reading available for immediate use
whenever he should require it.
At the risk of some repetition, I shall close this part of
the subject with a few directions for study, deduced from the
preceding remarks :
1. We should employ our minds as little as possible in
those occupations which require no effort of attention.
He who spends much of his time in reading that which ho
does not wish to remember, will find his power of acquisi-
tion rapidly to diminish. Light reading is entitled to ita
place, and need not be proscribed altogether. But light
reading need not be useless reading. Facts of all kinds, to
him who is able to make a proper use of them, are always
of inestimable value. But much that is called light read-
ing tends to no result whatever except present amusement
and nothing is more destructive of every manly energy than
amusement pursued as a business. Nor let it be supposed
that the vigorous employment of our faculties is destitute
of its appropriate enjoyment. Here, as everywhere else,
happiness is found, not when we seek for it directly, but
when, thoughtless of ourselves, we are honestly doing our
duty. The weariness caused by labor is relieved either by
rest or by a change of pursuits, and thr mind returns witli
'enewed relish to its appointed labors. But what ?hang«
IMPllOVEMKNT OF MEMORi 27i
can relieve an intellect jaded and worn down by excessive
excitement, md vexed with the incessant craving of unsat-
isiied desires 7
2. Wo should strive to observe accurately every fact, and
comprehend clearly every truth to which our attention may
be directed. In this manner alone can we attain to precis-
ion of thought and distinctness of conception. We shall
thus learn the difference between what we know and what
we do not know ; an attainment of more value than might
at first seem manifest. He whose mind habitually rejects
crude and undigested conceptions, and vague and intangible
theories, has made no inconsiderable progress in intellectual
cultivation. Nor is it enough that a man can comprehend
w hat an author has written while the book is under his eye.
He should attain to such a knowledge of the subject that he
can think it out for himself in his own language, and trace
its connections and dependencies by means of illustrations
of his own. In this manner he will be able to understand
what he reads, to remember what he understands, and to
recall what he has remembered whenever the occasion ren-
ders it necessary.
I am aware that this method of study will seem to rec^uire
a much longer time, and restrict us to a much slower
progress, than the course commonly pursued. A man will
be obliged to select his books with greater care, and devote
to his reading a more vigorous and protracted effort, than ia
generally thought necessary. He may thus lose, if he ever
possessed it, the reputation of genius ; but, what is more
important, he may find the reality. By forming the habit
of earnest and habitual attention, he may thus acquire thai
p'.-'wer which is the very element of genius. At first, the
uind laboring in this manner may seem to act slowly ; but,
as soon as effort becomes its natural condition, vigorous
action will be as rapid as any other. Those who thiui
274 IXTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
inteii3cly, if thej do it habitually, require less time thjuj
other men to perfect their mental operations. It is thus that
the powers of the mind are carried to their highest perfection,
and those intellectual labors are performed which to cthe.'
men seem almost miraculous.
3. Our knowledge should, as far as possible, be philosoph-
icjllv arranged. F?.-3ts should be accounted for, that is.
referred to their appropriate laws ; and laws should be es:
emplified until the use of them becomes perfectly familiar.
In this respect students are very prone to err. I have fre-
[juently seen young men, who could pass a creditable exam-
ination in the rules of rhetoric, who could not successfully
construct a discourse on the simplest subject, and who were
unable to write three consecutive sentences without a blun-
der. Every one perceives that knowledge of this kind is
useless, and must soon be forgotten. It is this habit of com-
bining theory with practice which, most of all, confers pro-
fessional ability.
The importance of arranging our knowledge methodically,
that is, in its relations to the general principles on which it
depends, need not again be insisted on. I will, therefore,
only add that, in all our efforts to improve our minds, we
should be patient with ourselves. Bad habits cannot be
corrected except by the formation of good ones ; and to form
habits of any kind is a work of time. Strenuous effort, if
we give it time enough, will accomplish all that we could
Jesire. "We must not, however, be disconcerted at the
imperfect success of our incipient efforts. Each one will
accomplish something ; and every effort accomplished, though
but imperfectly, will render less difficult that which succeeds.
Those who have been the most successful in the end have
frequently confessed that their first attempts were marke<l
by mortifying failure. It was thus with Demosthenes ; and
if -uore mon were blessed with his determination to succeed
IM^ROVEME^'T OP ilEMORT. -76
the wcrlii ^ould not so often have complained of ihc small
number of great orators.
The application of the preceding remarks to the duties of
an instructor is apparent.
The object of a teacher is to communicate knowledge, and
80 to communicate it as to develop and strengtlien the
powers of the mind. Hence, in order to succeed, he must
observe the laws to which the mind is subjected. The mind
of the pupil is similar to the mind of the teacher, age only
excepted. The course which has proved most successful with
the one, will prove the most successful with the other. K
we bear this in mind, we shall perceive the importance of
the following suggestions :
1. I have remarked that our power of recollection depends
greatly upon the clearness of our conceptions. Now, the
ability of young persons to comprehend complicated rela-
tions is, of course, much less than of adults. It is, there-
fore, the duty of the instructor to analyze what is complex
and simplify what is intricate, or else so to direct the mind
of the pupil that he can do it for himself In this manner
every kind of knowledge adapted to the age of the pupil
may be brought within his intellectual grasp. The in-
structor should not merely hold forth to the pupil what is
laid down in the books, but think it out for himself, observe
its elements, and separate them from each other, so that he
may place them in the clearest light before the conception
of the pupil. In these respects instructors frequently fail.
Sometimes they have no clear idea of a subject themselves,
and, of course, can convey none to others. They merely
inculcate by rote what they hive learned by rote themselves.
Sometimes an instructor, who understands a subject himself
forgets the labor by which his knowledge was acquired, anj
becomes unconscious of the difference between himself and
his pupil. What is very siirple to him now, appeals to him
£76 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
of course, simple to every one. What became fainiliar ta
him only by severe and protracted effort, seems capable of
being learned by his pupil in a shorter time than is actually
possible. In these respects it becomes an instructor to be on
his guard. He should consider, not what he can do now, but
what he could have done when under the circumstances of
his pupils. He should, therefore,*^be careful to assure him-
Belf that what he tea«.hes is understood. He who will bear
these things in mind will not often have to complain of the
stupidity of his pupils. When an instructor finds all his
pupils blockheads, the indication is certainly ambiguous;
there is a blockhead somewhere, but whether it be either
the teacher or the pupil becomes a proper subject of
inquiry.
2. What has been rendered simple may be easily illus-
trated. Skill in illustration, therefore, is of great impor-
tance to a teacher. He perhaps presents to a pupil a new
idea which is not readily comprehended. Tlie conception
of the one is not grasped by the other ; or, if it is, the pupil
does not certainly know that the idea in his mind is that
which the teacher means to communicate. The teacher
must, therefore, call up some analogous idea with which the
pupil is familiar, so that, from ground common to both, he
may pass by easy gradation to tliat which is new and
uncompreliended. Things dissimilar in themselves fre-
quently stand to each other in similar relations, thus
affording wide range for analogies. In this manner the
known is made to teach the unknown. Nor is this all.
The illustration associates a new with a familiar idea.
i\n interesting and apposite image is presented, and thus
whatever is learned is more easily remembered. An illus-
tration addressed to the eye is always the most successful.
Hence, maps, diagrams, experiments, are among the meal
uidispcnsable aids of an instructor.
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 271
3. It 13 ccarcelj necessary to add that the piogrcsa
of the pupil will be greatly accelerated by reducing his
knowledge, as far as possible, to practice. From the neces-
sity of the case, it is evident that much of the pupil" s time
must be occupied in learning rules. If, however, the teach
iug is confined to these alone, it becomes intolerably irksome
The mind struggles against it, and is willing quickly to forget
what is associated with nothing but pain. These difficuliics,
however, may in a great degree be removed, by teaching the
pupil, as soon as he has learned a rule, to put it into prac-
tice. He then discovers that the knowledge of rules is a
means of power, for it enables him to do what he could not
do before, and he becomes conscious of progress and
increased ability. Every step in advance brings with it
an immediate reward, and he proceeds to the next step with
new consciousness of power, and more earnest desire r^r
other acquisitions. It was formerly the practice to carry a
boy through the Latin grammar before he began to trans-
late a word ; and months were consumed in this dry and
repulsive labor. It would be no wonder if, under such a
discipline, he learned to abominate the grammar, the lan-
guage, and the instructor, together. But if, as soon as he
has learned a single rule, or mastered a single inflexion, ho
is taught to use it in the construction of easy phrases, and
when, with the knowledge thus gained, he proceeds to the
next rule, and finds the increased power derived from adding
these knowledges together, further progress becomes desira-
ble in itself, and learning is no longer a drudgery. While it
would be absurd to say that, in all respects, our modes of
teaching are preferable to those of oui lathers, it is delight-
ful to a l)enevolent nv.nd to contemplate the improvements
which have been introduced in the modes of instructing the
young. The labor required is better adapted to the faculties
of the learner, though here, it must be conft'iS(;d, we yd
24
278 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSjrHY.
need improvement. Study ministers more to i^e growth df
the mind, instead of being a barren exercise of memorj ; ana
a vast amount of misery has been lifted off from the human
race — certainly no trifling consideration.
REFERENCES.
Relation of memory to philosophical genius — Stewart, toL i., chap ^
lection 8.
Improvement of memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 3.
Effect of practice in formation of habits — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 2.
Theory and practice — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 4, section 7.
Attention connected with memory — Locke, Book 2, chap. 10, section 8 j
A.bercrombie, Part 3, section 1.
Connected knowledge easily retained — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section
t ; sections 1, 2, 4 ; Abercrombie, Part 3, section 1.
Memory aided by method — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 3 ; Ab«r
erombie. Part 3, section 1.
Nature and use of hypothesis — Locke, Book 4, chap. 12, sections 12,
13 ; Abercrombie, Part 3, section 4 ; Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 7.
Artificial memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section G.
Rules for study — Stewart, vol. L, chap. 6, section 5.
Effects of writing on memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap 6, section 6.
Visible objects easily renembered — Stewart, vol. i., <hap. '», enitiao 2
M«iMiy a stcrehcise — Reid, Eas&y 8, obsf. 7.
CHAPTER VI
REASONING.
81CTI0N I. THE NATURE AND OBJECT OF REARONiNd,
AND THE MANNER IN WHICH IT PROCEEDS.
We now come to the consideration of that series of men«
tal acts denominated reasoning. Before, however, we entei
upon this branch of our subject, it may be useful to review
again, very briefly, the ground which we have gone over,
that we may distinctly perceive the point from which we
proceed, and learn the relation -which this form of mental
action holds to tiie other acts of the mind.
By our perceptive powers, we become acquainted with the
qualities of external objects, and, in general, with the facta
in the external world. By our consciousness, we learn the
facts existing in the world within us. By original sugges-
tion, various intuitive truths and relations become objects
of cognition. By abstraction, conceptions of individuals
assume the form of general ideas ; and by memory, all this
knowledge is retained and recalled to our consciousness a*
the command of the will.
Were we endowed with no other powers than these, we
might enjoy the pleasures of knowledge. Whatever we had
obsei ved or experienced, and whatever had been observed
wid experienced by others, might be retained, generalised
ind combined, and thus our acquisitions might be both ex-
280 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
tensive and valuable. But, with no other faculties, we could
onlj know what we or other men had actually observed or
experienced. We could never make use of this knowledge to
penetrate into the unknown. In a word, we could observe,
and feel, and generalize, and classify, and remember, but
we could not reason.
But such is not the condition of the human mind. As
Boon as we acquire any knowledge whatever, we are prompted
to use it for the purpose of acquiring other knowledge. We
are continually saying to ourselves, if this be thus, then
this other must be so ; or this must be so. because this and
that are so. If this be so, what must of necessity follow 7
This is the language of human beings, young and old, salv-
age and civilized, learned and ignorant. It is the impulse
of our common nature, and one of the endowments with
which we have been blessed by a merciful Creator. He haa
enabled us to cognize relations existing between certain
truths, from which emanate other truths different from the
preceding, but which, without a knowledge of them, could
never have been discovered.
The results of the exercise of this faculty have been most
astonishing. Unlike our other endowments, eveiy one of
its acts provides a wider field for its future employment, and
thus its range is absolutely illimitable. The perception of
one color gives me no additional power to perceive anothei
color. A fact remembered furnishes only accidentally a
basis or an aid to wider recollection. But every truth dis-
covered by the reasoning power, and, in fact, every truth,
however acquired, becomes, by use of this power, the means
for proceeding to further discovery. Through the element-
ary cognitions in geometry, our reason at first disoovera
certain truths concerning lines, angles and triangles.
Using these increased menns of knowledge, it pr teeeds todis*
w ver truths ccucerning circles and squares uud, using
REASOXIX'i. i^Si
these again, it discovere those concerning solids, spheres and
apherical triangles ; and, using these again, it has been al)le
to reveal to us the magnitude, distances and motions, of the
heavenly bodies, and thus unfold the wonders of modern
astronomy. The knowledge which -we thus obtain '.s o^-i
ginal knowledge ; that k, it is given us specially by this
faculty, and could be given us by no other. How could wo
ever learn the distance or magnitude or mot'on of the plan-
ets, either by perception, or consciousness, or original sug-
gestion, or abstraction, or memory ? The same remark is
true respecting the other sciences. Every science which
presents to us knowledge which could not be attained by the
powers above mentioned, must rely for its discoveries wholly
on reasoning.
We see, then, the nature of this faculty. It cognizes
nothing directly and immediately. It neither perceives the
facts of the outward nor is conscious of the facts of the
inward world; it furnishes no original suggestions, and
neither abstracts nor remembers ; but it receives these data
as they are delivered to it by these preceiling faculties, and,
by a process of its own, uses them to discover new truths,
to which none of them could ever have attained. The man-
ner in which this is done, we shall attempt to explain.
Reasoning consists in a series of mental acts, by which
we show such a relation to exist between the known and the
unknown, that if the former be true, the latter must also be
equally true. Thus, in geometry, the known with which
we commence is the definitions and axioms. Our fii-st dem-
ju«tration shows such relations to exist between them and
the first proix)sition. that if those be true this must be true
also. This first proposition is thus added to the known,
and becomes as firm a ground from which to reason as the
definitions and axioms from which we at first proceeded. In
our next step we again show, by jur reasoning powers, that
24*
282 TNTELLLCTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
if tin? increased known be true, the second proposition ranaf
be true also. We tlien add our second pioposition to the
known, and with this increase^f material of knowledge pro-
ceed to the thiid proposition and so on continually. In
each act of reasoning, we observe first the known, reaching
10 a definite limit, beyond which all is unceitainty. We
)bsf.rve^ secondly, a proposition in the unknown which may
be *rue or may be false, of which nothing can with certainty
be aflirmed. separated from the known by a chasm, so to
speak, of thus far impassable ignorance. The reasoning
power projects a bridge across this chasm, uniting them
indissolubly together, transforming the unknown into tht
known, adding a new domain to science, and enlarging b^
every such act tfee area of human knowledge
If such be the nature of the mental process wh'ch we
denominate reasoning, it suggests to us three distinct topics
for consideration :
First, the nature of the truths from which we proceed.
Secondly, the validity of the results at which we arrive.
Thirdly, the nature of the process by which we pass
from the one to the other.
To the consideration of these subjects the remainder of
ibis secti( i will be devoted.
I. T/f . nature of the truths from xchich we pro-
ceed.
I ha"., already said that, in reasoning, we design to show
that if ^rtain things are true, certain other things, whose
truth iL. now unknown, must be true also. We then must.
.•)f necessity, proceed from the true to the doubtful, from the
known to the unknown. The premises are always, at the
commencement, hetttr known than the conclusion at which wo
propose to arrive. From this it is evident that we can never
reason ualess from what is either known or conceded ; and,
further, *hat we can never prove any proposition unless tv«
FIRST TRUTHS. 283
can fiud some other proposition better known bj wliich tc
prove it. If any proposition is to be proved, all otlier pos-
sible propositions must stand to it in one of three relations
either kss known, equally k/ioirn, or better known. Tf
attempt to prove what we knojc by wliat we do not know.
or to prove what we know by what we do not know as well^
is absurd. Inasmuch as proof brings the conclusion to fe-
jisely the level of the premises, a process of this kind would
liminish instead of increasing the certainty of our conclu-
:icn. That an error of this kind cannot be committed, 1
*-ouid not, however, assert. We not unfrequently hea?
men attempt to prove, what every one at the beginning al-
lows, but which, at the conclusion of the argument, every
one ia disposed to doubt. Such must always be the resalt
when we attempt to prove self-evident truths. Secondly ; to
attempt to prove either what we know or what we do not
know, by what we only know equally u-ell, is nugatory.
We of course know no better at the end than at '.be begin-
ning of our argument, and all our labor is bj riecessity
thrown away. We could not, by a life's labor in this man-
ne»", advance a single step in knowledge. Hen ,'e we can
never prove any propoj-ition, unless we can find some prop-
ositions better known than that which we desiie to prove.
Hence it follows, that, when we find a proposition so evident
that no proposition more evident can be discovered, the
truth of such a proposition cannot be established by the
reasoning faculty. If it be true, its truth must be deter-
mined by some other power of the mind. Hence, all rea-
soning must commence from truths noi made known by the
reason, that is, which the intellection perceives to be true
previous to all reasoning, and from whicN all the deductions
of reason proceed. Let us consider the vt'xre of some of
tliese elementary beliefs, which lie ai iLv '•/?.u"',\lion of all
reasoning.
284 raiELLECrJxL PHILOSOPHY.
Were nothing more required than that a man should v.on-
vince himself of the truth of any proposition, n )thing mora
would be necessary than that he himself was satisfied that
his premises were true. I do not, of course, say that ho
would thus, of necessity, arrive at truth, but he would be
able to convince himself of the truth of the proposition in
question. But, if we reason for the purpose of convincing
another man, it is obvious that he also must admit with us
the truth of our premises, or the propositions from which we
proceed. Unless the two can agree in the premises, argue
as long as they may, they can make no progress towards a
conclusion. The argument Avhich convinces the one has no
effect on the other, since he denies the premises on which it
is founded. No argument, then, can have any power over
the mind of another, unless both equally admit the truth of
the premises on which the conclusion rests. But what is
rue of any two men, is true of all men collectively. We
■.an never convince the human mind of the truth of our
conclusions, unless there be some truths from which we
proceed, which all men equally with ourselves admit prior
to all argument. If such truths did not exist, all reasoning
addressed to the human race would be nugatory and use-
less. When men reason at great length, without coming to
a conclusion, the cause of their difficulty generally is, that
they have no principles in common. Hence, when w^e find
ourselves in this condition, the proper course to be pursued
is to refer back to the premises from which we proceed, and
deter '. jne whether they be the same. When men agree in
premises, and reason logically from them, it cannot be long
before some conclusion is reached.
But it is evident that in all matters of science, and, in
fact, in all our reasonings (those only excepted which aro
technically termed ad hormieni)^ we address ourselves not to
one man. or one class of men, but to the whole human race
riRST TKUTDS.
Zoo
We proceed upon the belief that what connnces r.\,c man,
of fair undcrstandiiis; aid in a normal condition of the intel-
lect, will convince all men under the same circumstances
that is. that there are common truths which all men admit,
and that, reasoning from them, they must all arrive at the
same result as soon as the argument is fairly presented
And this anticipation is justified by universal experience.
The conclusions of mathematics, astronomy, mechanics, of
geol )gy, chemistry, magnetism, of political economy, and
social philosopliy, from the time of their first promulgation,
have established themselves gradually in the mind of man,
until, by the force of tlieir own evidence, they are admitted
as acknowledged truths. Every man who has been con-
vinced of the truth of the reasoning on which their con-
clusions depend, feels assured that every other man who
contemplates them without prejudice will be convinced also.
Hence the universal confidence that is felt in the maxim of
Bacon, ^'^ Magna est Veritas et prevalent^ Such unani-
mous consent to conclusions could not be predicted, and
could not exist, unless there were principles lying at the
foundation of the reasonings, which all men admit, and from
which conclusions follow, by irresistible sequence, which all
men must allow. Such truths, made known to all men by
the original constitution of the human understanding, must
lie at the foundation of all science, and of all knowledge
established by reasoning. They have le^en called, by Buffier
and Dr. Reid, first truths, and they are said by tho.-^e phi-
losophers to emanate from the common sense of mank:nd.
It may reasonably be demanded whether there is any
ikicde by which we may determine whether or not any
proposition is a first truth. Is th«^re any test by which
they may be practically distinguished from mere propo8itioni
lliat are inferred from them ? To this I answer.
First, they are in* tmjucheiisibh.
Z8S INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
Seconvlljr, they are simple.
Thirdly, theij are necessary and iniicersal
Fourthly, fJiey are so evident that nothing jnore et'i.
ie7it can he discovered by which to prove thdm.
This subject has, however, been already considered undei
the head of the Reality of our Knowledge, pages 95 — 97,
to which pages the reader is referred.
The axioms of geometry are acknowledged to be the foun-
dation truths of that science ; but other self-evident truths
he equally at the foundation of aii other knowledge estab-
lished by reasoning. For instance : that I exist ; that an
external universe exists; that the testimony of my percep-
tive and my reasoning powers is to be received ; that a
change presupposes a cause ; that the course of nature is
uniform, or that the same causes under the same conditions
will produce the same effects ; that rational beings act from
motives, and that a change of action must proceed from a
change of motives, and a multitude of others, may be placed
m the number of first truths.
Between the truths that are acknowledged by all as self-
evident, as I have before remarked, a distinction may be
observed. The first truths of geometry, for instance, are
perceived to be such unconditionally. Thus, we could not
conceive of any circumstances in which the whole of any-
thing would not be greater than its part, the reverse of this
truth being manifestly untliinkable. This, as we perceive,
must be true semper et ubique. But that I exist, that an
external world exists, is only a conditional first truth.
Neither 1 nor the external world have always existed, and
;t is not impossible to suppose them to cease to exist. It ia
not, however, possible to conceive them not to exist, things
bei/ta- as they are ; that is, I being conscious of the acta
af thinking, perceiving, etc. Thus also, things being as
they are, it is impossible to conceive of an intelligent being
FIRST TRUTHS. 28?
i« acting iritbout motive, but it is not impossible t5 supposa
beings constituted so differently from us as to act in this
manner, or to suppose tliat no intelligent beings had ever
been created. But, things being as they are, the opposite
of these truths is utterly inconceivable.
On tiiese first truths all our reasonings ultimately depend.
Thry are rarely stated in language, because every man
instinctively takes them for granted, and he knows that all
other men do the same. It would, however, be a very valu-
able service to science, if the first truths of all knowledge
in general, and of the separate sciences in particular, could
be plainly stated and accurately classified. In this manner
a large amount of useless discussion would be prevented,
and truth arrived at with much greater facility. Dr. Reid,
in the sixth chapter of his sixth Essay on the intellectual
puwers, has stated several of the necessary truths in gram-
mar, logic, mathematics, in taste, in morals and meta-
physics, together with many contingent truths which are
admitted in all our efforts after knowledge. The subject,
however, demands a more extended and minute examination.
Whenever it shall have been done, the labor of intellectual
research will be greatly diminished, and its results mure
easily verified.
2. I have stated above that the end to be accomplished
by the reasoning faculty is to render the conclusion at which
we arrive, of precisely the same validity as the premises
From this it is evident that whatever the reasoning faculty
has logically deduced from first truths is just as valid mat-
tor fiom which to proceed as the first truths themselves
Th;is. in geometry, from the axioms and definitions we prove
a proposition ; that proposition, when logically proved, is aa
certainly true as the axioms from which wo at first pro-
ceeded. The proposition that the angles at the base of aa
lso9<-.eJ3S triangle are equal, is just as valid a premise, ia i
288 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
geometrical demonstration, as the truth that thinj^s e(|ual to
the same are equal to one another. And, still further, what-
ever is b_y logical process pnoved from this proposition i8
iust as valid matter as the proposition itself. And this will
be the case to any extent whatever.
^'he only abatement to be made to this statement is the
ancertain*:v arising from the imperfection of our faculties
W3 may, froia this imperfection, reason illogically Avithout
perceiving it. If there be this lia;bility, the greater the
number of arguments, the greater the probability that in
Bome one there will be error. And this liability jncreasea
with the complication of the relations which we are called
to consider. Tliis liability is reduced to the smallest prac-
tical value when the various steps of au argument have
been examined by men skilled in the discovery of truth,
and their validity has been allowed by all succeeding phi-
losophers.
3. Besides these truths given us in the original constitu-
tion of our intellect, and the trutlis following from them
by logical deduction, other truths are valid matter in our
reasonings. Such are the acknowledged laws of nature,
established by incontestable observation. Thus, it has been
ascertained th;it the sensation of hearing, under normal con-
ditions, is caused by tlie vibration of the air; the perception
of external objects, by the formation of an image on the
retina; that water boils at 212° and freezes at 32° Fahren-
heit, under ordinary conditions of barometrical pressure;
that the atmosphere is a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen
j/ases. and water a compound of oxygen and hydrogen, both
always i'H definite proportions ; that atmospheric air is neces-
sary to animal life. These, and all other laws and general
facts, which at any time have been discovered by experiment
or ob.servation. whether in matter or mind, are valid matter
from which to proceed in our reasonings. We thus see the
FIRST TRrXHS. 289
connection between those powers of the loind which we have
previously considered and the reasoning faculty. The former
observe and retain and generalize, and thus change individ-
ual facts into general laws. These become the premises
from which, by our reasoning power, conclusions are drawn ;
and thus knowledge is increased, and the dominion of man
over nature extended.
4. I have thus far treated of premises, or propositions
fioni which we proceed in reasoning, of which the truth is
incontestable. Wherever such propositions can be discovered
we always are bound to use them, for thus alone can we
arrive at pure truth, and enlarge our positive knowledge.
Frequently, however, in our practical conduct, such propo-
sitions cannot be discovered, and we are obliged to form
our reasonings on mere probability. In this case we can
arrive at nothing higher than probability, but this proba-
bility is in many cases far preferable to ignorance, and may
furnish a valuaMe guide for our conduct. Thus, we say,
concerning a coming event, men under certain circumstances
generally act thus or so. A, is under these circumstances,
therefore he will probably act thus or so. Under such or
such conditions of the atmosphere it generally rains ; such
are the conditions this morning, therefore it will probably
rain to-day. Or, again : if there be a war in Europe, there
will be a demand for American grain : there will probably
be a war in Europe, therefore probably there will be such
a demand. It is obvious that much of our reasoning con-
cerning future events is of this character. It does not
furnish us with certain knowledge, but yet with knowledge
which may be of great value in the practical business of
life, and the management of affairs.
n. Such are some of the truths from which we proceed
in the use of our reasoning powers. I proceed to inquire,
secondly, what is the state of mind at which we arrive
25
290 INTEL-,ECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
provided the reasoning faculty has been employed in cuedi
once to the laws to which it has been subjected.
The states of mind of which we may be conscious in regard
to any proposition, are, I think, the following :
1. We may be in perfect ignorance concerning it, neither
believing nor disbelieving it in the slightest degree. Thus,
were it aSBrmed that the sun is inhabited, I must say, I
know nothing about it. I have no facts from which to
reason, and am therefore in absolute ignorance ; I have not
even an opinion either in favor of, or in opposition to, the
proposition. It is to me precisely the same as if the affirm-
ation had not been made.
2. I may know that a proposition is true. Here I
express my state of mind by saying that I believe it, or I
know it. Thus, I know that the exterior angle of a triangle
18 equal to the two interior and opposite angles. I believe
that there are such cities as London, Paris, and Wash-
ington.
3. I may know a proposition to be false. Here my state
of mind is expressed by the words, I disbelieve it. Thus, if
the proposition were presented to me, that the angles at the
base of an isosceles triangle are unequal, I know it to be
false, and I say I disbelieve it.
4. Without being able to arrive at either belief or disbe-
lief, I am capable of forming an opinion concerning the
truth or falsehood of a proposition. I weigh the several con-
siderations presented, and I find my mind inclined in one
direction or the other ; though I am fully aware that this
inclination may be reversed by subsequent and more accu
rate knowledge. Thus, in the present state of knowledge,
I am unable either to believe or disbelieve that the planets
are inhabited, yet 1 may have an opinion on tie subject in-
elining ei».her to the oni^ view or the other. I therefora
PROPOSITIONS. 293
wait for further information, prepared to change my opinion
with the progress of knowledge.
The object of reasoning is to advance our certainty, and
to move the mind onward from the extreme of ignorance on
the one hand, to the opposite extreme of belief on the other.
Hence it maj change our mental state from ignorance to
opinion, from opinion to more confident opinion, or from
either of these to certainty or confident belief Its move-
ment is all in one direction, from a lower to a higher degree
of cert^iinty.
From what has been said, it is evident that, when our
premises are indubitable, we arrive, by reasoning, at absolute
belief or indubitable truth. "\Mien our premises are merely
matters of opinion we arrive only at opinion. In every
case we raise the conclusion to precisely the same degree of
certainty as the premises from which we proceed ; we make
what was before unknown, or less known, exactly equal to
what was before more known. Our conclusion can never
be more certain than our premises, but if our process be
logical, it can never be less certain.
III. We now come, in the third place, to inquire what is
the process by which this relation between the known and
the unknown is rendered apparent, so that we are enabled
to raise the one to the certainty of the other.
We do this by syllogism. A syllogism is a series of
judgments or propositions, the last of which affirms the con-
clusion at which we have arrived. Before considering syllo-
gisms, it will be proper to consider the nature of judgments,
or the propositions of which they are composed.
Judgment is an act of the mind in which we affirm onf
thing of another ; that is, we affirm a predicate of a subject,
or judge that a particular individual or species is included
it a particular genus or class. Thus, I judge snow to b
white, grass to be green, avarice to be cuntemptil)le ; tha.
2i»2 TmELLECTUAL PHILOSOrHY.
is, I jadge these particular individuals to be comprenendod
within the class which I predicate of them.
Our judgment may be either clear and distinct, or obscure
and confused.
A judgment is formed from two conceptions, and it
affirms that one of these may be predicated of the other.
Now, if we have a complete comprehension of both these
conceptions, our judgment must be clear and distinct. On
the other hand, if my knowledge of the conceptions involved
be imperfect, vague, and obscure, my judgment must be of
a similar character. Thus, when the proposition is an-
nounced that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two
right angles, I comprehend the terms employed both in the
subject and predicate, and my judgment is definite and un-
ambiguous. If it be said that the rings of Saturn are chaos,
I find myself to have a very incomplete idea of the rings of
Saturn, and a very indistinct idea of chaos. Hence. I am
unable to form anything more than a very indistinct idea of
the proposition.
It is hardly necessary to remark that judgment enters aa
an element into almost all our mental acts. We think in
judgments ; that is, we are always affirming one thing of
another, and we do not consider anything else to be thinking.
To conceive of things without forming judgments, is to make
no progress. Wo can only be said to think when we form
a judgment, respecting two conceptions, in which one is
affirmed of the otlier.
The expression of a judgment in words, is called a propo-
sition. A proposition, therefore, must consist of a subject,
or that of which we affirm, a predicate, or that which we
ftffiim of it, and a copula, or that which affirms the relation
existing between them. Thus, if I say, man is a vertebrate,
here tn^m is the subject, vertebrate is the predicatt. and ii
vs the copula, or that which affirms the one of the other
PROPOSITIOXS. 298
The subject is tliat of which we discourse, the predicate ifl
the Class to wLicb we affirm that it belongs, or under which
it is comprehended, and the copula is that which affirms the
eristence of this relation.
When we thus affirm a predicate of a subject, we affirm that
all the qualities of the predicate are possessed by the sulject.
When I saj, man is a vertebrate, I affirm that all which is com-
prehended by the predicate vertebrate is possessed by man.
In every proposition it is obvious there must be two
conceptions. Of these one must be a general idea, or one
designating a class. To affirm of two individuals is either
nugatory or false. • To say John is John is nugatory, for
the proposition does not advance our knowledge. To say
John is Peter is false, for it affirms something to be difterent
from what it is.
The subject may be either an individual or a species ; tbo
predicate must be a genus ; that is, it must designate a larger
class than the subject. In a proposition, we therefore affirm
that a particular individual is included within a particular
class. Hence, every proposition must be either true or false.
The subject is either included within the class designated by
the predicate, or it is not. It cannot be neither within noi
without it. Thus, if I say horse is a vertebrate, it is eithei
true or false^ for horse is either included within this class,
or it is not.
We may now proceed to the subject of syllogism.
A syllogism, in the language of Aristotle, is a speech ia
which certain things (the premises) being supposed, some-
thing different from what is supposed (the ionclusion)
follows of necessity, and this solely in virtue of he suppo-
sitions themselves.
The principle on which a syllogism depends is the follow-
ing : Whatever is affirmed or denied of a class is affirmed
V denied of every individual under that class. Thus, when
25*
S94 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHT.
I say snow is white, I mean that snow is compn tended un-
der the class Avhite, and I affirm this also of all snow what-
ever. When I say snow is not black, I exclude snow from
the class black, and I exclude all snow from this class ; that
is, I deny black of snow.
It will be seen, from what has been said, that logic, or the
science of syllogisms, is formal ; that is, it must proceed
from premises conceded. It of itself takes no cognizance
of either their truth or falsehood. Supposing them to
be true, it governs the forms of propositions, and their rela-
tions to each other, and merely assures us that the conclu-
sion which we infer in obedience to its rules is as true as our
premises. It renders us no other aid than this, but this it
renders most effectually.
It has sometimes been supposed that syllogism was %
mode of reasoning, and a mode of reasoning employed by
philosophers, while other men reasoned in some other and
simpler manner. It has even been said, that, much as philos-
ophers talk about syllogism, when they come to reason,
they neglect it all, and reason like common men. To this
it may be replied, that syllogism is not a mode, it is the
mode of reasoning. It is the peculiar process of the reason-
ing faculty. The reasoning power forms syllogisms just aa
the imagination forms pictures, each being the purpose for
which these different powers were respectively designed
Philosophers and other men must, therefore, if they reason
at all, reason in the same way, for they have no other
nethod by which to proceed. I do not, of course, pretend
that either of them draws out every argument in the form
t?f a syllogism. One or both of the premises are frequently
w well known as to be taken for granted, and we need only
Btate the conclusion which must follow from what is con-
ceded by all. But, in tils case, our reasoning, though evei
lu muih abridged, may always be reduced to the fo*-m of a
SYLLOGISM. 295
fyfioglain, and we always so reduce it^ if we desire to test
its truth and examine it with accuracy.
In forming a syllogism in the first proposition we affirm
thit a species is included under a genus. By the second
proposition we affirm that an individual or a sub-species ii
included under this species. In the third proposition, or the
conclusion, we affirm the proposition which, of necessity,
follows from the conjunction of the two first propositions at
premises.
Thus, for example, I affirm,
1. All tyrants are detestable.
2. Caesar was a tyrant.
3. Caesar was detestable
Here, by the first proposition, I affirm that the speciea
tyrant is included under the genus detestable ; by the
BeCv^nd proposition, I affirm that the individual Caesar was
inclaufid under the species tyrant ; and, by the third propo-
sition, I affirm the conclusion which of necessity follows,
namely, that Caesar is included under the class detestable.
In order to illustrate this subject, let us suppose that the
proposition to be proved is, Caesar was detestable. The
predicate is called the major term, the subject the minor
term. "Wlien we make this assertion, it is denied by an op-
ponent ; that is, he asserts, on the contrary, that this predi-
cate, detestable, cannot be affirmed of the subject, Caesar,
In what manner is it given us to proceed? Assertion ia
confronted by assertion equally decided. In what manner
shall we arrive at the truth, so as to convince an opponent
or mankind in general, of the validity of our proposition?
Wc do this by seeking for what is called a middle term,
or for some class which is included in the class detestable,
and whicli aliO includes the subject 'Caesar. Suppose 1
•hoose the term dictator, and say,
1. All dictators are detestable
SDii I.MELLECrUAL PHILOSUPUI
2. Caesar was a dictator.
6. Caesar was detestable.
My opponent refers to Fabius, and other dictators, who
were not detestable. I am, therefore, obligei to change
the first premise, and saj, some dictators are detestable. But;
as all dictators are not included in the class detestable, tha
conclusion will not by necessity follow, and this argument
must be relinquished.
I seek for another middle term, and select that mentioned
above, the term tyrant. I show by facts that Caesar wua
comprehended under this class. I then proceed as before,
and the conclusion follows by necessity, in virtue of the
suppositions themselves.
The above is an affirmative sj'llogism. In a negativt
syllogism the process is modified as follows : We first
affirm that a certain species is wholly excluded from a par-
ticular genus. In the second place, we affirm that the in-
dividual or sub-species is included in this excluded species.
The conclusion follows,. by necessity, that the individual or
species is excluded from the first mentioned genus.
For example, suppose it were to be proved that Caesa*
•was not detestable. This is denied, and we must seek for a
middle term which shall include Caesar, and be excluded
from the class detestable. I choose the <^^erm dictator, aiid
then say,
1. No dictator is detestable.
2. Caesar was a dictator ; therefore^
3. Caesar was not detestable.
Here, however, I am met by the fact that some dictator!
were detestable, and for this reason my argument faila,
since some dictators are not excluded from this class.
I must, therefore, select another middle term. I saj
therefore
1 Nc brave and generous man is detestable.
SYLLOGISM. 2b »
2. Casar was a brave and generous man.
3. Caesar was not detestable.
If these premises are granted, the conclusion, as before,
follows by necessity. If any of our premises is denied, W9
are obliged to form a syllogism in the same manner, and
prove our premise before we can proceed. But, having es-
tablished the premises, the conclusion cannot be evaded.
The above instances will illustrate the general nature of
syllogisms. Sophisms are arguments purporting to be syl-
logisms, in whic;h the essential laws of syllogism are vio-
lated. Thus,
1. All quadrupeds are animals.
2. Birds are animals ; therefore,
3. Birds are quadrupeds.
Here it is seen at once that the class quadrupeds, which
is included in animals, does not include birds. Therefore,
nothing is concluded. So again,
1. Black is a color.
2. White is a color; therefore,
3. AVhite is black.
Here, as before, both white and black are included in the
same genus, but there is no species included in the class
color, which also includes the subject of the conclusion.
I have thought that this subject might be illustrated by a
few simple diagrams. I, therefore, add them in this place,
for the sake of representing the doctrine of syllogism to the
eye. To those learned in logic, they will, I know, bfl
deemed superfluous ; but, as this work is designed for those
who are entering upon this study, they may not be wholly
without advantage.
The affirmative syllogism may be represented by the fol
Icwiiig diagram. For instance,
All vertebrates are animals.
Horse is a vertebrate ; therefore.
208 fNTELLECTUAl PHILOSOPHY
Horse is an animal.
s
eS
1
1
K
V
[
That is, vertebrate is included in animal, horse is included
■« vertebrate ; therefore, hoi-se is included in animal.
Take, again, a negative syllogism ; for instance,
No predaceous animals are ruminant.
Lion is a predaceous animal ; therefor©,
Lion is not ruminant.
This may be represented by the following diagram :
f
That is, predaceous is excluded from ruminant, and lio«
is included in predaceous ; therefore, lion is excluded from
ru:nir.ant.
This is the regular form of syllogism The nature of
Bophisms or false syllogisms may he illustrated by 8*«iilai
diagrams. For instance,
SYLLOGISM.
299
All quaflrupeds are animala.
Birds fire animah ; therefore,
Birds are quadrupeds.
That is, quadrupeds are included it animals ; birds are
uicluded in animals, but are not included in quadrupeds ;
therefore, nothing is concluded Again,
Food is necessary to life.
Corn is food ; therefore,
Corn is necessary to life.
That is, necessary to life includes some food. Sut not oU
sot; ^yrn.T.BcrcAi prnxosopHT
food mdades com hut. as neccaBarv to life does not indnde
all food, so com i< not of necessnr included in necessarr to
life- So. apun
Bla<^ is a color.
Wiiite is a color ; iherefare.
Bbit^ is irhite.
i
Here cdor includes black and alao includes wiiite. Both |
»e coiors. bni •we see at a glance that nothing is conciuded.
In tLs manner we mav represent various forms of svl-
logians and «opLisnis. Tt»e a hove examples will, however.
Bnffieientlr iEusiraXe the nature of both.
In some cases we are able to discover a middle term which
is miiiitiveiv true and fulfils all die conditions of proof
Here OUT course i= plain. But suppose we are unable to do
this, wiiat course remains for us ? We art then obliired to
jonsmct a eoii>ecniral srllogism. which wiH prove our
proposidon. provided we can show its premises to be true.
Ws then take the conjectELrcil premise, and construct a btIIo-
sism bv wl eh it can be proved. If here one of our prem-
HCE £ (*oi._iectnTa] we construct another svDogism. niitil
•e kave arx.^ved at -ime proyiosiiioii which we are able to
fiwe- In ^lig majiTiPT the premise in gu^cion is estab-
lait^L Wboi both the '■'•jg™*^ |remide& are proved, tb«
«■& is immt, wad i^ crigtMil mmjli'/.ii d ^fJk^iaai im
^■i^ 1» te tT«ie. Or. on 1^ adusT laml. il KZieitusiBg id
m»wi MEfaer cf OBT jffeauBes. i^e find Ac iB wwbniTi i cK^due^
E i^as IB ke &iJBe. ve ataTwikin is aJH^^a^ter. and ee^ vm
mests aihet me&t of prooL
^JB pnoesE maT. I ^iici. be lansrased br ine jffOfw
Sfekkm aaamsmHj Eoaywn »£■ d^ 4Tiil of ^ £is: bouk
of E.nefid's efemeum. or "dias TTiiet urc^^s ibax in set
rL^t-gprlt^ trbngk, lae soqxr af ihe side sul Tr^T Himg ii*e
IS eqi;tal ic dike sum of lae s^xukias ac tbe sidss
- _ _ie ri^is a-npj W I pEcsmie everv reader ud de
fa.n-'.a.r ^nui ^ propOftTn<Hi- Bad. dkBTefiore. I oeed onhr
BKJitay briecv Uke luassraziaB -vkk^ I it&ve xd o&s.
The -proNiBrocai to be TcvT=ed s tb»: t:-, ? u;_~t^ ^ -r.r. i
HtMTp I can &id ik» middk ^Ym af aciiioiclsisl::tv :-:::r
wr Vfeich tp jat«r? th.is i^raposKicax. I jvrocs»ed, iiu^ --./--.,
•Ad ccatsirucx «& arsrvmeau "Kkicii icill |fft>«e i: jiarovidtfc xk
pns25ii?es can be skvwa to be r-ne. Haxmr: d:vjds?fl ^
liTijss: s^^UJk^e. x, imo tw* paxts^ bv xbe Ime 6., 7, 1 stx,
:3i
802 lyiELLECTUAL PIxIL'.- SOPHY.
Things equal to the same are equal to each other.
The square x. and the sum of the squares a and b. ai«
equal to the parallelograms a' and h' .
Therefore, the &quare x is equal to the sum of the Sijuarca
a and h.
Now this syllogism will prove the proposition if I can
bLow the premises to be true. But it is not proved that the
Bc^uares a and h are respectively equal to the parallelogiuma
d and h' . This is, in the next place, to be proved.
I saj. then, again,
The doubles of equals are equal.
The parallelogram a and the square a are each double
of the equal triangles. 1, 2. 3, and G. 2. 5.
Therefore, the parallelogram a and the square a are
equal.
But it is yet to be proved that these two triangles are
equal. This has been taken for granted.
I proceed again.
Triangles having two sides equal, and the angle contained
by these two sides equal, are themselves equal.
These triangles have these sides and angles equal ;
Therefore, these two triangles are equal.
The equality of the triangles proves the square and
parallelogram to be equal, and thus my conjectural syllo-
gism is proved to be true.
The conjectural syllogism with which I commenced,
proved the proposition, provr'led its premises could bo
proved- I have proved the premises, and, therefore, the
pioposition is proved.
But, having discovered tbs truth, suppose I wish to com-
Diunicate it to another. I then reverse the process, and
pommence with the projiosition with which I just low con-
cluded.
I first show that the triangles are equal ,
BEASONINa. 803
Then, that a rectangle and a triangle bolng on the same
base and between the same parallels, the rectangle is doable
of the triangle ;
Hence, tlie triangles being equal, the rectangle and the
square must be equivalent.
And, hence, the t^YO smaller squares and the greater
square being both equal to the two parallelograms, the two
smaller, and the greater square are equal to each other.
In this instance the example is taken from the mathe-
matics. But the case is essentially the same in all cases
where we attempt to prove a proposition. We first con-
struct a syllogism, which, if true, will prove it. But one
or both the premises may be doubtful. We take the doubt-
ful premise and form a syllogism, which, if true, will prove
it. If, here, one of our premises is conjectural, we make a
third proposition, which, in like manner, we attempt to prove,
until we arrive at some acknowledged truth from which it
proceeds. We then construct our argument, beginning with
the fundamental truth at which avc last arrived, and proceed
outwards, reversing our process, until we show that our orig-
inal proposition depends upon truth which all must ac-
knowledge.
Thus, when one of our premises is denied, we must prove
our premise. If the premise of this proof is denied, we
must prove this premise. Going backward, in this manner,
we at last arrive at first truths, or those which every mind,
in a normal condition, perceives by intuition to be true.
Thus in the proposition just taken for an example, if our
premises were continually denied, we should at last arrive
at the definitions and axioms of geometry. And thus, in any
©ther reasoning, we arrive, by the same process, at truths
Bfjually obvious to a sound understanding. When we hava
wrived at these, reason can go no further. If these are
denied, the party denying must be wanting in ordinary
b04 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
mtellect, or we must have taken as true what is obviuusiy
(alse. Whichever be the case, there is an end of argument.
We hear it frequently said that all mathematical reason-
ing depends upon definitions and axioms. This is true ; but
their importance depends upon different principles. It may
be well to consider briefly the nature of each.
A definition is a conception expressed in language.
Thus, if I am about to prove to another ptrson a proposi-
tion in which I use the conception of lines, angles, trian-
gles, s(iuares and circles, it is evident that my argument
will be useless to him, unless, when I use these words, he
have the same conceptions as myself If, when I say
" line," he has the same conception that I have when I say
"triangle," we could never understand each other. It ia
necessary, therefore, that I explain, as clearly as possible,
the conception which I form when I use these terms. Hav-
ing done this, and it being certain that we have the same
conception when we use the same words, we are prepared
to proceed in our argument.
An axiom e.xpresses an intuitively perceived relation be-
tween our conceptions. Thus, having defined what we mean
by Lines, angles, and other elements of quantity, we say
" Two straight lines cannot enclose space." '• Things equal
to the same are equal to one another." These relations
being conceded by both parties, and the same conceptions
being common to both, we have the elements necessary for
reasoning.
When it is said, therefore, that we cannot reason without
definitions and axioms, the impossibility arises from differ-
ent causes. We cannot reason without definitions, because
we cannot reason together unless the terras wh^ch we em-
ploy create in the minds of each other the same conceptions.
But this cannot be known unless the terras which we usfl
we adequately explained: that is, uule.s.-i »hey are defined
AXIOMS AND DEFINITIONS. 306
The icason for the necessity of axioms is diffeient. Wfl
must agree as to the laws to which these conceptions are
Buhjccted. or else we can never arrive at a common conclu-
sion. If I show that what I assert is true, for otherwise
two straight lines must enclose space, or that the who'e be
less than its part, 1 can proceed no further. But, if mj
opponent does not admit these axioms or laws of quantity to
be true, he will never feel the force of mj reasoning, and
will, of course, not be convinced.
This is manifestly true in the mathematics. But it is
obvious that the same principles must govern all our rea-
sonings. Unless men attach the same meaning to the samo
term, that is, unless a term awakens in each the same con-
ception, they can no more reason together than they could
if each spoke a language unknown to the other. In ordi-
nary discourse, the meaning of terms is sufficiently estab-
lished by usage to prevent any serious difficulty. It is found,
however, neces&xry, when accuracy of reasoning is attempted,
to proceed further, and define our terms with the greatest
precision. Were this more frequently done, much valuable
labor would be saved, and differences of opinion among hon-
est men would be found less important than they seem to be.
And so of axioms. Unless the relations which exist between
these conceptions are admitted, men may reason together
forever without coming to any conclusion. Thus, were two
men arguing together on the nature of human rights, they
might define 7na?i as accurately as they pleased, but, unless
they agreed upon the relation which man sustains to infli-
vidual man and to society, they could never come to any con-
clusion. Neither would be pressed by the arguments of
the other, and what seemed to the one perfectly conclusive,
would to the other seem destitute of all show of reason. It
is to be regretted that much of our reasoning is apt to be of
this character
26*
806 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
The T»hole subject of syllogisms, their nature and claasi-
fication, the rules to which they are subjected, and the dis-
tinction between true and false syllogisms, is treated of in
the science of logic. To these the reader is referred for a
further development of the doctrines here briefly alluded
to. I ask leave to commend this study to all persons who
ttiin at the attainment of mental acuteness, and the thorough
cultivation of their reasoning power.
REFERENCES.
Reasoning, its nature — Reid, Essay 7, chap. 1.
Reasoning, instinctive — Reid, Essay 7, chap. 1,
Reasoning rests on first truths — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 2; Essay 6,
ehap. 2.
This denied — Locke, Book 4, chap. 2, sees. 7, 8 ; chap. 7, sees. 8, 10;
19, -10.
Cousin's Review of Locke — chap. 9.
Buffier, first truths.
Test of first trutlis — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 4.
Classilijalion of first truths — Reid, Essay 1, cliap. 2 ; Essay 6, chap*
6 6.
Judgment, its nature — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 1.
Judgment distinguished from testimony and conceptions — Reid, Essa;f
'i, chap. 1.
Judgments necessary and contingent — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 1.
Common Sense, Reid, Essay 6, chap. 2.
Syllogism not the great instrument of reasoning — Locke, Book 4,
chap. 17, sees. 4 — 7 ; Cousin, chap. 9.
Aristotle's logic examined — Stewait, vol. ii., chap. 3, sec. 1.
Eftects of study of logic on intellectual habits — Stewart, vol. il, eh«p
f , sec. 2.
Vae of dcfin.'tions — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sec. .3.
Nugatory propositions — Locke, Book 4, chap. 8, sec. 4.
Pi.>po8itians true cr false — Locke, Book 2, chap. 32 ae^*. 1^-4.
KINDS OF CEUTAISTY. 301
BKCTIOy II.— 3F THE DIFFERENT KINDS OF CERIAINTT AT
WHICH WE ARRIVE BY REASONING.
I HAVE remarked that by the process of reasoning, if
p.operly conducted, we always render the conclusion a&
certain as the preuiises. This is the sole object of syllo-
gism, and this it invariably accomplishes. I have also
Dbserved that our conclusions may be either certain, or only
probable, according to the nature of the premises from
which they proceed.
Dismissing the consideration of the cases in which we
establish probability, and confining our attention to that in
which we arrive at certainty, we perceive that this certainty
is of two kinds. We may arrive, first, at metaphysical or
absolute, or, secondly, at practical certainty. Let us attempt
to distinguish these from each other, and show the pecu-
liarities of each.
I. Of aietajthysical and absohite certainty.
When we arrive at this kind of certainty, the matter of
our reasoning is wholly conceptions, or the notions T?hich
we form in our own minds, representing no actual reality.
Those are, of course, precisely what we make them, neither
greater nor less, nor in any possible respect different from
our thoughts ; for they are our thoughts themselves, and
nothing else. Hence, when they are distinctly compre-
hend jd, and formed into syllogism according to the rules of
logic, they must lead to a conception of the same character
as the premises, and be inevitably as true. There is no lia-
bility for misconception or ambiguity. The result must be
•IS true as our thoughts themselves
The most remarkable exanple of this mode of reasoning
is found in the pure mathematics. Here the matter about
which we reason is pure ccnceptions. We demonstrate truth
808 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
about liies, angles, triangles, circles, etc., not as actual ex-
istences but merely as conceptions. By our definitions, we
announce distinctly the ideas intended by the terms which
■we employ. These ideas we continue to use without change
throughout our reasonings, and the results at which we
arrive are concerning these alone.
I have said that in this mode of reasoning we have noth-
ing to do with actual existences. This is evident from the
fact that the pure mathematics might have been carried to
any conceivable degree of perfection, had a material uni-
verse never been created. All that is required for thig
mode of reasoning is a thinking mind. Hence we never,
in geometry, attempt to prove anything respecting an exist-
ing figure. We may use a diagram for the sake of concen-
trating our attention, but our reasoning is not concerning it,
or any other thing visible or tangible. No actual figure
exactly corresponds with our definitions, and, if it did, we
have no fliculties by which to ascertain the correspondence.
We say the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are
equal. This Ave show to be unconditionally true. But it is
true of our conceptions only, and not of the diagram on the
blackboard. We do not know that the lines of that triangle
are perfectly straight, or the sides equal; nay, we know
that it is beyond our power to make them so. But this in
no manner aSects our demonstration. If any one should
attempt to convict us of error, by measuring the triangle
and showing that cne angle was greater than the other, we
should smile at his ignorance. We know that our proposi-
tion is tru'=> concerning the conception existing in our minds,
and this is all we ever attempted to prove.
I have said that the most striking example of this species
of reasoning is observed in the case of the pure mathe-
matics. I know of no reason, however, why it should not
ed^t in anv other case in which the matter f our ariru-
KINDS DF CERTAINTT. 30&
ment 13 pure conception. All that is necessary is that our
terms be accurately defined and clearly apprehended, and
that they be subjected- to the laws of syllogistic reasonin^^.
The result must be as purely truth in the one case as the
other. Thus,
1. All accountable beings are entitled to freedom.
2. Sylphs and gnomes are accountable beings.
3. Sylphs and gnomes are entitled to freedom.
Suppose the first proposition clearly undei-stood.
Sylphs and gnomes are imaginary beings, of which 1
form a conception just as I please. The conclusion must
follow as clearly and inevitably as in mathematical demon-
stration.
It must, however, be manifest that the range of subjects of
this character is extremely limited, and, ther«fore, its utility
by no means extensive. We live in a matter-of-fact worli.
We desire to enlarge our knowledge, not of mere conceptions
but of realities. We wish to know the laws of things actually
existing, and so to use them as to ascertain other laws of
which we are ignorant. In order to .do this, we must
come forth from the region of conceptions into that of real-
ities. Thus, the pure mathematics themselves would be
utterly useless, except as a discipline, unless we combined
them with existing facts, when they assume the form of
mixed mathematics. Here, however, we arrive not at abso-
lute, but practical certainty. Let us observe the manner
in which II. Practkil certainty is attained.
In this kind of reasoning, either one or both of our prem-
ises is some general law, or particular fact, establi.shed by
observation or experiment. Our conclusion, then, approachea
no nearer to absolute truth, than our fact or observation
repreaents the pure and absolutp verity. But no one pre-
tends that our faculties are capable of arrivii g at pure and
absolute truth. It has cften been remarked that a perfecl
310 INTELLECT!] VL PHILCSOPHx.
cirv.l3, 01 triangle, or square, never was constructel, and
that no instrument ever made, could claim to be absolutely
accurate. Our processes may be as perfect as the present
condition of the arts will allow, but we can go no further.
Progress in the arts may enable us to exclude additional
causes of error, and thus arrive at greater accuracy. But
when we have done all, our powers are limited and imper-
fect ; and, to use the words of Johnson, '"a fallible being
oust fail somewhere." The eye is incapable of discerning
objects below a certain magnitude, or differences which do
not exceed a certain degree. The sensation of touch can
only detect impressions when their impulse attains to a cer-
tain force. Our nerves are easily fatigued, and fatigue im-
pairs their accuracy of observation, and their control over
our muscles. The various passions to which we are subject
influence our whole sentient organism, and frequently unfit
us for observation at a time when their perfect accuracy is
the most needed. It is said that when Sir I. Newton had
arrived very nearly at the close of that calculation which
has made his name immortal, and saw the result to which
he was tending, he was seized with so violent a fit of trem ■
bling, that, unable to complete the work, he surrendered his
papei-s to a friend, by whom it was finished. It is told of
one of the observers sent many years ago to the Pacific
Ocean to observe the transit of Venus, that, at the precise
moment when the transit occurred, he famted from e.xcesa
of excitement. Perfect accuracy can, therefore, never be
predicated of a being in whose organization are involved 30
many liabilities to error.
Thus, for instance, in the mixed mathematics we arrive
it only practical certainty. Here we first establish the
relations existing between the lines of a figure of which we
have conceived. This is pure mathematics, and our result
e absolute truth. We then apply these relations to a figure
KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 811
actually existing, and as nearly identical with the figure
which we have conceived, as we are able to make it, and
proceed to our result. This result is obviously not ab-
Rolute truth ; it is only proximate ; that is, just as near to
absolute truth as the actual figure is near to the perfect
conception which forms the basis of our reasonings.
Let us take an example. I demonstrate by pure math-
ematics that the homologous sides of similar tiiangles aio
proportional. Availing myself of this law, I proceed to
ascertain the height of a steeple. I measure a base line,
and observe the angle formed between the extremity of this
line and the highest point of the object. I find a corre-
sponding tabular triangle in the tables, and by a single pro-
portion arrive at the result. But is this a perfect result?
Its accuracy depends upon the accuracy of my measure-
ments of the base line and the angle. But are tliese infallible ]
Was my chain perfectly true ? Was the temperature such aa
to have effected no change upon it 7 Was the surface perfectly
level, and was my muscular tension precisely such as to
ensure perfect accuracy, and, at every movement of the chain,
was that tension precisely the same 7 W' as the instrument
with which I measured the angle, of perfect construction
and in perfect order I W^as there no tremor in my muscles,
and was my sight of the object absolutely true I No one
of these things can be asserted, and, unless they can all be
asserted, perfect accurac}' is impossible. But what then }
Are our results valueless 1 By no means. They are per-
fect for any and every practical purpose. If we have taken
•^vcry precaution in our power to exclude the liability of error,
we i.ave arrived at all the certainty which the present con-
j?iiion of knowledge admits. We know that our result c-an-
p.ot, except by accident, be perfectly accurate; bu*^ it is so
iccurate that neither ourselves nor any one else can detect
any erroi This is, to all intents and purposes, precisely
312 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
as good to us as absolute certaintj. In the one case w«
know that there is no error ; and, in the other, although we
admit there may be error, yet neither we nor any one elso
is able to detect it.
The case is illustrated in the study of astronomy. We
here first conceive of spherical triangles, and determine, by
demonstration, the relations between them. Hf.e we arrive
at absolute truth. We then measure degrees on the earth's
surface, we take the measure of angles, we make observa-
tions on the times and places of planetary bodies, and, by
constructing triangles as far as possible identical with those
which we have before conceived, we determine the distance
of the sun, and the diameter of the orbit of the earth. But
does any one pretend that these calculationsareabsolutely cor*
rect I Their accuracy depends wholly on the perfection of
the observations, which, of necessity, enter as elements into
our calcalations. Were our measurements of lines and
angles absolutely perfect 7 Were our observations abso-
lutely inf illible 7 This, from the nature of our faculties
and the imperfection of instruments, is manifestly impossible.
Our conclusions must, therefore, share in, or must greatly
magnify, these imperfections. We say the sun is so many
millions of miles from the earth ; bnt, thus speaking, do we
intend to be understood as enunciating an absolute truth 7
Do we mean that it may not be a hundred or a thousand
miles either nearer or more distant 7 All we know is that
we are unable to discover any error ; that we have arrived
at as near an approximation to truth as is possible in the
l^ resent condition of science. We can do no more, and we
I letend to do no more. This is as far as our Creator has
(crmitted us, in our present state, to proceed, and with
this we must be content. When we have approached s«
Dear to the truth tliat we can discover no error, we have
irrived at practical certaintj, and we need ask for no mora
KINDS OF CERTAINTI.
313
Now, if I do not mistake, this is precisely the iiiethod of
cur reasoning respecting any matters of fact. We reasou
by conceptions. If our premises, matters of fact, the result
>f observation, precisely correspond witli these conceptions,
our reasonings are true absolutely. But we cannot be sure
-.hat there is this perfect correspondence. We may, liow-
ever, be convinced that this correspondence is so nearly
exact that the human faculties can discover no error, and
here, as before, we arrive at practical certainty, or the limit
marked out for us by our intellectual constitution. When
our premises have been established with all the accuracy of
which our Maker has made us capable, and our conclusion
from thf^m follows by the laws of reasoning, we have arrived
at as near an approximation to truth as is possible in our pres-
ent state. If neither we nor any one else can point out
any error, we may well be satisfied ; for we may know that
the error can never be appreciated by the faculties which
God has given us ; and, therefore, to us it is precisely the
game as if it were absolutely true.
Thus, suppose we say,
When men can have no motive for testifying falsely,
their testimony is worthy of belief.
A and B can have no motive for testifying falsely ; there-
fore the testimony of A and B is worthy of belief.
The truth of the first of these propositions would, I pre-
sume, be admitted ; it being one of the acknowledged laws
of human action, since no man acts without a motive. The
second only can admit of doubt. We, therefore, make it
the object of special examination. We survey all the mo-
tives by which men are known to be influenced. We in-
quire whether any of these motives could have induced
them to speak falsely. We are unable to discover any. We
then rely with firmness on the conclusion that they have
testified truly. It may be said tnat motives for falsehood
27
814 INTELLECTIAL t-HILOSOPHf.
may exist which have never been discovered. Be it so. But.
inasmuch as we have been unable to discovf^r them, we hav<3
arrived at the nearest approximation to truth which our
faculties admit, and we must relj on such faculties as we
possess. When, in the full and free exercise of our intel-
lectual powers, we can discover no error in our premise-B,
and no error in our reasoning, we must receive as true the
conclusions which thej necessitate. We have no other re-
source. If we deny this, there is an end to ill reasonings
and everything beyond our own observation is a delusion.
K we now compare these two kinds of rea;.oning, we ub-
serve the following facts :
1. The process which we employ is, in both rases, precisely
the same. When we attempt to discover truth by reason-
ing, we use syllogism ; for this is the mode of act-ion im-
posed upon our reasoning faculty. We U3e this,, for we
have no other to use.
2. The one kind of reasoning treats only of conceptions
both in its premises and its conclusions. With actual exist-
ences, res gestcB, it has nothing to do. Of course, it is
excluded from all cases which involve matters of fact. The
other has to do with actual existences, and to them its con-
clusions refer. Hence, this is the mode of reasoning which
we must, of necessity, employ in all the business of life,
and in all those investigations of science which contemplate
things as actual existences.
3. By the one we arrive at absolute certainty respecting
things net existing except in our conceptions. By the other
we arrive at practical certainty respecting things as exist-
ing wholly distinct and separate from ourselves. In the
one case we arrive at absolute truth ; in the other, we a[ •
proach as near to absolute truth as the limited and in pe. •
feet nature of our faculties admits. We approach sc m**
to it that we are unable to detect any error.
KIKD8 Of CERTAIN T if. lilS
It will be observed that these two kiiuls of reasoninj]; cor-
respond in general to those commonly termed demonstrative
and moral reasoning. I have used diflferent terms fic m tliose
eommonly employed, because I suppose them better adapted
to the subject. It will be seen, if what I have said be
true, that the difference between these two kinds of reason-
ing is much less than has frequently been supposed, both ua
to the mode in which they are conducted, and the results at
which they arrive.
From what has been said, I think it will appear that but
little ground exists for the superiority which has been claimed
for demonstrative reasoning, or that which treats purely of
conceptions. It is granted that in this species of reasoning
we arrive at absolute truth ; but then, from its conditions,
it excludes all actual existences, and can, therefore, furnish no
guide to conduct. As soon as demonstrative reasonmg has
to do with matters of fact, it reposes, by necessity, upon
moral reasoning, and, specially, on the evidence of testimony.
Thus, suppose I have demonstrated the distance of the sun
from the earth. It is evident that the facts which form the
elements of my reasoning must be established by what is
called moral evidence. I am told that such and such obser-
vations have been made by different men, through a succes-
sion of years. Now, here is a two-fold liability of error.
In the first place, how do I know that these observations
were ever made at all ] I have nothing here to rely on but
the testimony of men. which is said to be so vastly inferior
in certainty to demonstration. In the second place, what
assurance have 1 that these observations were correctly
made? How shall I be sure that all the instruments were
perfect, or that proper skill was employed in the use of
them I Important errors have frequently been made by sci-
entific men. Sir Is;uic Newton's discoveries were for several
years postponed by an error in roaasui ing a degree of tb«
B16 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
earth's surface. What shall guard us against similar enor 1
Now, if these are not reliable grounds of belief, all our dem-
onstration is useless ; for, on the facts which thej deliver
to us, all our calculations relj. Our demonstrations, then,
as soon as thej affect anj matter of fact, are limited in their
certainty by moral evidence, and they attain to no higher
certainty than moral e\idence confers. By the evidence .f
testimony, however, we are assured that these observationa
W(Te made. From the known characters of the observers,
we have every reason to believe that they were made cor-
rectly. On these assurances our calculations proceed, and
they arrive at a degree of accuracy so great that neither we
nor any one else can discover any error.
From these remarks we perceive theabsurdity of demand-
ing what is called demonstrative evidence to substantiate a
matter of fact. Men sometimes tell us. for instance, that a
revelation from God, being a matter of so great importance,
should have been attested by mathematical demonstration.
We see that to ask this is to demand what is absolutely
impossible. Being a matter of fact, it must come under the
laws of evidence which belong to matters of fact. Tg
attempt to prove a fact by mathematical demonstration is as
absurd as to attempt to prove a mathematical proposition by
testimony.
REFEREXCES.
Conclusions either certain or probable — Reid, Essay 6, chapter 4 ,
Essay 7, chap. 1.
Metaphysical and mathematical reasoning — Reid, Essay 7, chapter 1 ;
Locke, Book 4, chapter 4, section 6.
Nature of demonstrative evidence — Stewart, vol. ii., :hap. 2, sees. 3, 4.
Superiority of mathematical reasoning — Stewart, "^i. ii., chapter 2,
Ifcction 3 ; Reid, Essay 7, chap, 2.
i^Iorality capable of demonstration — Locke, Book 4, ihap. 2, sections
ib, i8 ; chap. 3, section 18 ; chap. 4, section 7
Conc^».sions in mixed mathematics as sure as ('ata — Stewart, vol. ii ,
BVIDENCB OF TESTIMONY. 8J?
SECTION III. --OF THE EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONr.
In demonstrative reasoning our premises rest upon truths
intuitively perceived by every intellect in a normal condi-
tion, or else upon truths proceeding from these by necessity,
In reasoning concerning matters of fact, many of oui
premises are general laws, established by observation and
experience. But this observation and experience must be
established by many witnesses. A single individual can
observe but little. We must all rely upon the labors of
others. But how shall we distinguish true from false
testimony ? Many things have been recorded as true,
which have subsequently been found to be false. Wo
need, therefore, to ascertain the laws by which testimony
may be established, so that we may be able to proceed witn
certainty in our reasonings. It is, therefore, proper to ex-
amine this part of our subject, and determine, if possible,
the principles on which the evidence of testimony rests.
Testimony is of two kinds, direct and indirect.
I. Of direct testimony.
It must be admitted that the testimony of man is a source
Df as certain knowledge as any that we possess. If we refer
to our own consciousness, we find no difterence between the
strength of our belief in matters of fact and matters of
demonstration. We as perfectly believe that such persona
as Julius Cffisar, Cicero, Alexander, Martin Luther, Wash-
ington, and Napoleon, existed ; that the battles of Mara-
thon, Bunker Hill, Austerlitz and Waterloo, were fought ;
and that there are now standing the cities of London, Paris,
and Vienna, as we believe that the three angles of a triangle
are equal to two right angles. If we ask ourselves which
do we most confidently believe, we can discover no shade of
difference In any practical matter we should proceed upOB
518 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
i'he belief of o.ie as rearlilj ae upon that of the other. This
is true of mankind universally. If this be so, then both of
these grounds of belief must rest equally upon the lav^s of
human thouglit. There must exist elementary first truths,
acknowled^^ed by all men, on which our confidence ulti-
mitely reposes. That this is true of mathematical reason-
ing is universally admitted. It must, however, be equally
true of any other mode of proof which produces the same
results.
Let us take another case. We are told that, a few yeara
since, an eclipse of the sun occurred on a Sunday, a little
after noon. It had been predicted by astronomers, and their
predictions concerning it had been extensively published.
Men in every place on this continent declared that they wit-
nessed it. The daily newspapers, immediately after it is said
to have occurred, were filled with accounts of the phenomena
that were said to have been observed. Every fact respect-
ing it was minutely recorded, and the statements of its
various phases were inserted in the transactions of learned
societies throughout the world. Now, granting these facta
to be so, could we any more doubt that an eclipse really
occurred, at the time and in the manner specified, than we
could doubt a proposition in geometry 7 Suppose that one
man, under these circumstances, should doubt the fact of
the eclipsC; and another should doubt a demonstration in
mathematics, should we not decide that the mind of the one
was in as abnormal a state as that of the other ?
Yet I am aware that there are difierences in the belief
in the two cases. In the one case our belief is in the truth
IS ^u'versaL as true at all times and in all places. In the
jithir, it is particular ; that is, it is not true of every time
and every place, but only of this time and this place. In the
one case our knowledge is perfect and complete ; that is, we
ioiow the whole cf the truth aflSrmed, and nothing can be
EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 81ft
idded to render our knowledge more adequate. ^\ nen I am
convinced that the three angles of a triangle are equal lo
two right angles, nothing can be added to the proposition by
which my knowledge can be increased. If I fully compre-
hend the terms, I have precisely the same knowledge of the
truth as Newton himself. He might have seen consequencf.a
df rivable from it which I do not see : but our knowledge cf
tlie proposition itself is entirely the same. In the case of
t!ie other proposition, that at a given time and place there
was an eclipse of the sun, it is not so. We all may be equally
con£dent of the main fact ; but of various circumstance*
respecting it, our knowledge may be dissimilar and unequal.
Men who observed the eclipse may have been more or less
influenced by their imaginations ; they may have dissimilar
appreciations of the temperature, of the degree of darkness,
of the time and duration of the event. Hence their narra-
tives may in these respects differ; and it may require much
labor to ootain a complete idea of the eclipse; and there may,
after all, remain many circumstances which we know but
imperfectly. All this may be granted, and yet it does not
in the least affect our belief of the main fact. Nay, all
these variations must exist if the main fact be true. They
follow from the differences in the subjective nature of man.
Hence the rule in testimony is that the best evidence to
any fact is, agreement of witnesses as to the main event, and
difference as to the minor particulars.
The following striking illustration of these remarks ia
woithy of notice. I presume that no one can doubt that
the battle of Waterloo was fought on the eighteenth of June,
1815, between the French and the allies, under the com-
jcand respectively of Napoleon and Wellington. It may
certainly be taken for granted that men believe this Gict aa
inrioubtiugly as they do any proposition in geometry. Yet
he time of the commencement of the battle cannot even now
iJiJO INTELLECTUAL PHILOirOfHT.
be settled with precision In Maxwell's life cf Wellington
I find the following statement:
" The time Avhen the battle began has been stated witt
marked contrariety. The Duke of Wellington says it cora*
menced about ten o'clock, and further observes tliat when
his troops discontinued the pursuit, at night, they had been
engaged twelve hour% In this General Gneisenau concurs,
but, of course, only from mformation he had received.
General Alava, who was by the side of the duke the
whole day, fixes it at half-past eleven. Napoleon and Gen-
3ral Drouet state twelve as the hour ; Avhile Marshal Ncy
names one o'clock. Without tracing minuter contradictions,
this may suffice to show the difficulty of attaining exact
knowledge when it might have been presumed no difficulty
could exist. With one exception, which I think ought to
be decisive, I was equally bewildered by the intelligence I
received from officers whom I had an opportunity of con-
sulting. By one I was told that the battle began soon after
mid-day, by another exactly twenty minutes past eleven, and
by a third at ten o clock. But Sir George Wood — and his
information is what I conceive cannot be disputed — gave
me the following statement. The action commenced about
half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. There had been skir-
mishing, before, all the morning. A column of the enemy
was advancing against Hougomont, and the first gun that
was fired was from our lines against that column. I gavs
the order by the command of the duke. The gun did imme-
diate execution, and killed six or eight. This column then
retired, and went round the wood." — Maxwells Life of
Wellington, vol. 8, note to page 479.
We perceive, from this incident, how dissimilar is the
adequ^teness of our knowledge in a matter of fust, from
that in an abstract geometrical proposition j and yet "ui
EVIDENCE Ox TESTIMO^'Y. 82j
Bonfidenoe n the truth of the main fact is as great in th«
one case as in the other.
But. it may be very properly demanded, is testimony of
ell kinds etjually worthy of belief ? Are we not very often
the dupes of false evidence - We reply, that in this respect
we are all very liable to be deceived. But the case is the
same ^Yith mathematical evidence or demonstration. Hovr
often has it been announced that men have demonstrated
the quadrature of the circle ; but, upon examination, it haa
been discovered that either they have been deceived, or that
they desired to deceive others. Either they had commenced
with false principles, or they had reasoned incorrectly from
true ones. So in the mixed mathematics, innumerable errora
have from time to t'me been discovered and corrected. This,
however, presents no objection to the validity or reliability of
mathematical reasoning. It only teaches us the necessity of
examining our arguments with care, and assuring oursehed
that our reason im^ are conducted strictly according to the
laws of mathematical proof When they are so conducted,
they never did and they never can lead to error. So in the
case of evidence. It is granted that we are liable to be de-
ceived by reliance upon testimony. But this by no means
proves that testimony is worthless ; or that testimony, when
given strictly according to the laws of evidence, is not as
reliable as demonstration. It only teaches us tlie necessity
of subjacting testimony to its own appropriate laws, that we
m ly thus separate the true from the false. If, therefore,
we can establish the elementary laws of evidence, and tpply
them strictly to any case of testimony, we receive the ^sult
to which they lead us with unquestioning confidence.
The essential and self-evident truths on which t e evi-
dence of testimony rests, seem to be two. The pst if
the law of percept io7i, tn which allusion has been made
fvhen treating of that subject. It may be expressr^l at
tC-2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
follows; Whinever, in the normal condition of our facul'
ties, we are conscious of a perception, then there exists an
Dbject, such as we perceive, as the cause of that perception.
I cannot perceive what I will. The consciousness of per-
ception must be excited from without, and it cannot exist
unrlei normal conditions, unless a corresponding object from
without give occasion to it. I am conscious that I per-
eeive the paper on which I now write, and the table at
which I am seated. I could not, by the laws of my being,
be thus conscious, unless there existed here and now these
objects which give rise to it.
Under the term normal conditions, as here used, several
things are to be supposed. For instance, the external cir-
cumstances must be such as to admit of no liability to error,
If I testify to an object of sight, the light must be suffi-
cient to allow me to see correctly. If I testify to an object
of sound, I must be near enough to hear it distinctly. The
same remark applies to the other senses.
The mind must be in a normal condition. The witness
must be sane. He must be free from any violence of pas-
sion or excitement of imagination, which would lead to erro-
neous observation. Thus, if a man were habitually terrified
in passing by a grave-yard, we should receive with ^reat
suspicion his testimony respecting a ghost which he believevl
he had seen seated on a tomb-stone. Intense prejudice,
which affected the matter in question, would lead to similar
suspicions.
Tl.( senses must be in a normal condition. No one would
repose perfect confidence in the testimony of a man to a
visual fact, whose eyes were either partly blind or subject
to optical illusions.
Here, however, two remarks deserve attention. First,
We always take it for granted that men are in a normaj
»ndition unless there is evidence to the contrary Nc
SVIDEXCE OF TESTIMONY. dSo
man is ever culled upon to prove his sanity. The verv Hict
that he is thus called upon, must proceed upon the suppo-
sition that lie is able to construct a proof: that is. that he
is sane. He who affirms that another is insane, must him-
self furnish the evidence ; and, in the absence of such evi-
dence, the contrary is to be taken for granted.
Secondly, it is to be remarked that abnormal cases are
extremely rare. We may meet a thousand individuals,
without finding one among them whose condition is, in any
respect, so abnormal as to affect his testimony. And hence,
when a number of persons agree in testifying to the saUiO
fact, the supposition of abnormal action is excluded. Thus,
if only one person had testified that he saw an eclipse, we
migbl suppose that his mind or his organs were diseased.
But to suppose that so large a number of persons, in differ-
ent places, weie in an abnormal condition, and in precisely
the same condition, at the same time, is manifestly absurd.
The second general law is derived from the nalun
of the active powers of man. It may be stated as fol •
lows :
1. Every human action is the residt of motive. That
is to say. when there is no motive there is no action.
2. When there is no motive for speaking falsely^
men always speak the truth. The motive which leadg
men to speak falsely may be very unreasonable or insuffi-
cient. They will sometimes speak falsely against their owa
permanent interest ; but they always speak from a present
motive, as fear, vanity, desire of applause, etc.
3. When no motive can be conceived wJiy men should
testify as iht-y do, but thh love of truth ; and every oihtr
conceivable motive would impel them to testify differ-
ently, then they testify from the love of truth ; that is,
they ctffirm ichat they believe to be true. To suppose the
contrary is absurd. For, if no motive but the love </ truth
K24 IN'TEL^FCTUAL i iSILOSOPHT.
could impel them to their present testimony, tz roppose tha
love of truth removed, — that is, suppose them to testify
falsely, — is to suppose men to act without any motive,
and in opposition to every conceivable motive. This ia
diametrically opposed to ttie laws of human action. To
Buppose any one to act in this manner, is to suppose him
not to be endowed with proper human faculties.
But it may be said that motives for speaking falsely may
exist, though we cannot conceive of them. Granted. But
then we have arrived at the point previously mentioned ;
that is, we have come so near the truth that we can discover
no source of error. We have, therefore, attained to that
practical certainty which is all that is given to us in estab-
lishing any matter of fact. When we have gone so far, we
have reached the limit which the Creator has assigned to our
faculties, and v,e can proceed no further.
Again ; in the case supposed, when many witnesses tes-
tify, this motive which no one can assign, which no one
ventures to announce, and which no one has yet discovered,
must have influenced a number of persons, against every
conceivable interest, to testify to the same thing. To make
such a supposition the ground either of belief or disbelief,
is manifestly absurd ; but to make it the ground of either,
in opposition to testimony established by the laws of evi-
dence, exhibits a state of mind for which it is difficult to
find a name.
But suppose that on such ground as this the evidence of
testimony is to be disi-egarded, what is the result 7 Evi-
dently, that no fact in history or science could be believed,
unless we luid seen it with our own eyes. The past would
te a universal blank. Books would be useless, o.nd the
^ii^le of human knowledge must be limited to our own
individual experiences. There is here no middle path.
Eithci W3 must receive everj'thing established by the strict
BVIDENCK OF TESTIMONY. 82^
laws of evidence, or we must receive nothing. TMiich ia
the alternative to be chosen by a reasonable intelligence, it
is not difficult to discover. He who desires to see this sub-
ject treated with great acuteness and admirable humor,
should read Archbishop Whately's " Historical Doubta
relative to Napoleon Buonaparte."
At some risk of prolixity, I will illustrate this subject by
*ji example to which I have before referred.
It is granted that a great number of persons, of different
ages and pursuits, and in various places throughout this
country, testified that on a particular day they witnessed a
total eclipse of the sun. In what manner shall we exarLine
this evidence, in order to ascertain whether their testimony
is worthy of belief ?
In the first place, we appeal to the law of perception.
Was this an event which they were all capable of observ-
ing 7 Could they have been conscious of perceiving it, un-
less the event had actually occurred 7 On this subject there
cannot exist the shadow of a doubt. Every one will ad-
mit that if these persons were all conscious that they per-
ceived the eclipse, the eclipse must have taken place.
Secondly, were they really conscious that they perceived
it ; that is, did they testify truly ?
Here we turn to the law of human motive. W'j say no
motive but the love of truth could have impelled all these
persons, of different ages, habits, culture and prejudices, in
many different places, to unite in this testimony. Take
away the love of truth, — that is, suppose them to speak
falsely, — and we must suppose them to act individually with-
out any motive ; and, still more, that without any motive
they all, and without concert, united in giving the siin«
testimony. The absurdity of this supposition is, I think,
obvioas.
This testimony svould be still more irresistible, if tiu
28
326 INTELLECTUAL PniLOSOmY.
persons who testified were, in eonsequonce of thoir evido.ioo
exposed to contempt, obloquy, persecution, loss of prdpertj
and of life. In this case, to suppose them to testify fakely.
would be to suppose them to act not only without any mo
tive, but in opposition to every motive. It is impossible to
suppose an intelligent being with a human constitution to
act in this manner.
In such a case as this, we show that what is testified to
is true, or else an intuitive law of perception, or an intui-
tive law of human action is violated. When we have done
this, we have done all that reasoning can do. This is all
we do in demonstrative or mathematical reasoning. We
there show that unless a proposition be true, an axiom, or an
intuitive law of quantity, is violated. We can go no further.
In either case, where we have shown this, the proposition in
question has been proved. Facts thus established have
never been shown to be false. Indeed, they never could
be disproved, for we can never be more ceitain of anything
than of the intuitive laws of our OAvn nature. Suppose that
the Opposite of what we have thus proved wns also proved,
It could not show the first proposition to be false. It would
only establish an opposite proposition on equivalent evidence,
and we should be perfectly unable to choose between two
contradictory propositions, both being perfiectly entitled to
belief
From these remarks it will appear, that, in establishing
any fact by testimony, two points, and but two, are of neces-
sity to be made evident. First, that if the witnesses were
conscious of perceiving it, it really must hare occurred.
Here wt show that the event was one propeily cognizable
by the senses, that the witnesses were in propei* conditions,
objective and subjective, for observing it ; that is, that the
impression on their senses must have been made under tha
ordinary law3 of perception. In the second placf", we show
EVIDENCE ")F TESTIMOXT. 3l!7
that the witnesses testify to what they really believe to be
true; that is. they really believe themselves to have been
conscious of the perception in question. We here show that
there can be no motive for testifying falsely; that is, to
suppose them to testify falsely, is to suppose them to act
without motive. If we can proceed further, and show that
if they testify falsely, they not only act without any motive,
but in opposition to every motive, we have then the same
evidence as if every witness was on oath.
In this manner we prove any fact in history ; as the death
of Caesar in the senate-house, his conquest of Britain, or
any other event. On these principles trials are conducted
every day in our courts of law. I do not know of any
method by which a student will improve his knowledge of
the science of evidence more advantageously, than by an-
alyzing carefully the evidence in important trials, when the
decision depends upon the establishment of matters of fact.
If the above remarks be correct, they will enable him to
carry on this examination and analysis with some degree of
success.
IE. Of indirect or circumstayitial evidence.
In the preceding remarks I have considered the case in
which the witnesses testify directly to the fact in question;
that is, they declare that they themselves perceived the
fact which they relate.
But cases are continually occurring in which it is impor-
tant to establish a fact to which there were no witnesses.
How, in the absence of witnesses, shall such a fact be
pioved? This is done by indirect or circumstantial e7i-
dence. The principles on which we here proceed are aa
fellows :
It Is obvious, from the regular succession of cause and
effect, to which all the changes in the universe are sub-
jvcted, that no event can occur isolate' and alone. I do
3528 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHl.
not know that, as we are constituted, it is possiblo for us ta
conceive of such an event. Everj phenomenon is indissolu-
ble connected with other phenomena, to which it stands in
permanent rehitions. When we see water changed into ice
we know that it must have been exposed to a temperuturQ
as low as 32°. When water boils, we know that its tempera-
ture has been raised to 212 \ If a body at rest b -gins to
move, or if. when moving, it changes suddenly its direction^
we know that some force must have been applied to it.
These changes could not have produced themselves ; they
are the result of some stated antecedent. Now, if we can
show the existence of a train of facts, so related to the fact
in question, that unless this fact occurred the laws of cause
and effect must have been violated, then we have proved the
main fact by indirect, or circumstantial evidence.
The rules which govern us in this kind of evidence are
the following :
1. When we are not mqun-ing for a f\ct, but for th«
cmse of it, the fact itself must first be est iblished. Thus, if
it be rt^quired to prove that A murdered B, we must first
prove that 13 was murdered, and prove it by direct evidence.
2. In the second place, all the facts, on which we rely to
prove the fact in question, must be established by direct
evidence. Thus, if we rely on the facts A, B, D, to prove
the fact C, — that is, these facts being proved, that the fact
C must have existed, — we must prove the facts A, B, and
D, by the personal knowledge of witnesses themselves.
3. We must show that the facts A, B, and D, could not
have existed unless the fiict C had existed. WTien we have
established these f icts, and shown that they can be accounted
for on no other supposition than the existence of the fact C,
— that is, that unless the fact C occurred, a law of nature
has been violated, — then we have proved this f»ct by inJi'
root evidence.
INDIRECl EVIDENCE.
This, however, -will be rendered more cvider. by an el
ample. Take the ibllowiEg case. B is found alone in a
room, deid, stabbed in the back and bis skull fractured by
the stroke of a bludgeon. The fii-st thing to be established
is that the man is dead ; and, secondly, that his death w^a
occasioned by the wounds upon his person; and, thirdly. th;.t
the wounds could not have been inflicted by himself; that
is, that he died by the hands of another, and not by his own.
These flicts must be proved by direct evidence. It is thus
shown that the man was murdered. The question next to
be answered is, who was the murderer 7
Here it is shown that A and B unlocked the door and
entered the room together. A noise, as of altercation, waa
heard. No one entered the room until A left it, an' the
first person who entered it after his departure found B dead
in the manner described. Now. these facts having been
established, it is proved that A is the murderer. The man
is dead. He died of these wounds. They could have been
inflicted by no person except A or B himself. They are so
situated that B could not have inflicted them on himself,
they must, therefore, have been inflicted by A.
But, besides these, other antecedent and subsequent facts
may confirm the supposition of the guilt of A. For instance,
men do not commonly commit such a crime without a vio-
lent motive. If such a motive existed, it gives confirmation
to the supposition of his guilt. And, again, when a man
has committed so atrocious a crime, he is commonly appre-
hensive, and takes means to escape the consequences. If
B was known to enter the room with a purse of gold and
was found with his pockets rifled, and if- this purse was
{onvA in the possession of A, this will furnish a motive for
the deed. If A immediately afterwards changed his name
disguised his person, and was preparing immediately to
*'^xip€ from the vicinity, and no reason but his guilt can bo
28*-
8ii0 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOl'Hr.
assigned for his conduct, this is a strong confirmatory cir»
euinstance. The supposition that he was the murderer caL
alone account for all his subsequent conduct.
Ilonce, we see the points which are to be made out bj
the prosecution in any trial where the evidence is circum-
Btantial. First, the crime must have been committed. FoJ
instance, if it be a case of murder, the body must be found,
and it must be proved that the death was caused by violence.
Second, the facts must be such as can be accounted for on
no oth«r supposition than that the accused was the murderer.
If they can be accounted for on any other reasonable suppo-
sition, then the case is not proved. And, on the other
hand, the ground of the defence is, first, that the deceased
did not die by violence ; or, in general, that he was not mur-
dered ; or that, if murdered, the facts can be accounted for
on some other supposition. The facts in all cases must bo
established, as I have said, by direct testimony.
In every trial, A\here the evidence is circumstantial, we
hear much said about the uncertainty of this kind of en-
dence, and various cases are mentioned in which the lives
of innocent men have been sacrificed in consequence of this
uncertainty. This may have been the case when the prin-
ciples of evidence were less perfectly understood than at
present. But, if a trial is conducted according to the rules
of evidence as at present established, circumstantial proof
may be relied on with as much certainty as direct. Men
may be mistaken as to a fact, or they may swear falsely .
but a well-connected chain of circumstances can rarely de-
ceive us. It is somewhat remarkable, that, in a late trial
for murder in -Boston, where the evidence was circum-
stantial, the circumstances proved, all led to the true result ;
while the direct evidence, intended to prove an alili. waa
absolutely, though innocently, erroneous.
This kind of evidence is frequently resorted to in scientiOo
INDIRECT EVIDENCE. 831
investigations. Certain flictg are observed. In ^vhat man-
ner are they to be accounted for? that is. \\hat must have
been the nature and tlie order of the changes by wliich these
appearances were produced? When we have conceived of
a cause, or succession of causes, which wdl account for all
the facts, and which alone can account for them, we may
consider such cause or causes as matter of established truth.
Thus, a geologist observes that a river has cut its way
through banks a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet be-
low the surface of the soil a layer of vegetable matter ia
discovered, the stumps of trees, standing upright, imbedded
in the soil where they grew, and the trees broken off lying
upon and by the side of them. Some thirty feet lower,
mother stratum of a similar character is observed. From
the position of these trees it is evident that they also must
have grown on the spot where they are found, and, of course,
that each of these layers must have been, at tlie time of its
growth, on the surface of the earth. There is but one way
in which these facts can be accounted for. After the low-er
layer of trees had grown to its present size, the surface of
the earth nmst have subsided until tliey were covered with
drift for thirty or more feet. The subsidence was then ar-
rested until another forest grew up. Another subsidence
must have occurred until the drift covered the timber again
to a similar depth. Then the whole surfice must have been
upheaved to its present position, and, afterwards, the river
must have cut its way through the mass, thus laying bare the
mode of its formation. As no otiier cause can be assigned
for tlicso effects, we are warranted in believing that such
events as these actually existed.
It will be seen that direct and circumstantial evidence
may fre(iuently be found corroborating each otiier, and they
dion present the strongest possible ground of belief If anj
maiked event occur, not only will it be seer by witnesses.
SdZ INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
but it will ha preceded by its appropriate causes, and fol-
lowed by its appropriate effects. Thus, the death of Cajsaf
is proved by the testimony of eye-witnesses, and contem-
porary writers. But, besides this, the civil wars in the
Roman empire, and the character of the parties that were
formed immediately after that event is said to have taien
place, can be accounted for on no other supposition than
that of his violent death. So the invasion and occupation
of Britain by the Romans is proved by the testimony of
historians. But if such an event had occurred, we should
naturally expect that some traces of their occupation would
be observed in that island. Hence, we examine, and find
there the remains of Roman encampments, walls, roads,
Roman coins of that age, and inscriptions which could have
been made by no other people. These facts can be ac-
counted for on no other supposition than that of the conquest
and permanent occupation of Britain by the former con-
querors of the world. This coincidence of direct and indi-
rect evidence furnishes the most perfect ground of belief
^hich we can conceive to any matter of fact.
REFERENCES.
Evidence of testimony — Reid, Essay 7, sec. 3 ; Stewart, toI. ii., chap
2j sec. 4 ; .Ibercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3.
DifiFerent Icinds of evidence — Reid, Essay 2, chap. 20.
Testimony of others a source of knowledge — Locke, Book 4, chap, 16,
tecs. 6 — 8 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3.
Law*, of testimony — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3.
Natural bias to truth — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3 ; P^iJ's Isqcrry
ibap. 6, sec. 24.
Hume's argument against miracles — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec i
Case when witnesses are numerous — Abercrombie, Part 2, see. S
CiPcumstantLvl evideace — At orcroubie. Part 2, aid. i.
PROBABLE SEASONING 33i
SB\.'TI01C IV. --OTHER FORMS OF REASONI.Vl.
I. (Jf probihle evidence.
Thus far I have treated of those modes of reasoning in
which our premises are acknowledged to be true, and our
OOQclusion is equally, that is, absolutely true. But all of
our reasoning is not of this character. It frequently hap-
pens that our premises rise no higher than probability, and
our conclusions can only reach the same level. Our process
is, however, precisely the same, the only difference consists
in the degree of certainty to which we arrive.
When the reasons for believing a proposition to be true
are not such as to establish belief, but only to sliow that it
i» more likely to happen than not, we say that such a propo
sition is probable. Thus, if the wind is in a certain quarter.
1 say that it probably will rain. I examine the evidence
that may be adduced in favor of the proposition that the
planets are inhabited, and I say that it is or is not probable.
It may require the cooperation of several causes to render
an event certain. If, however, only a part of these causes
unite in a particular case, the event may occur, though we
cannot expect it with confidence. So, if an intelligent being
has several times, under given circumstances, acted in a par-
ticular manner, we form a distinct anticipation that he will
act in the sarje manner under similar circumstances. But
here our anticipation only amounts to a probability, for we
know not what changes may have taken place in his charac-
tei since we last observed him ; and there may have arisen
circumstances which affect him )f which we are ignorant.
When, in this manner, we attain to mere probability, we call
our state of mind opinion ; that is, we judge a proposition
more likely to be true than false.
Vi'e take such oj^inions as the grounds of oar reasoningi
J34 INIELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY,
rn a l;irge number of cases in practical life Thus, w
say,
It is probable that tlje character of a human being will be
improved by affliction.
A. B. has suffered affliction ; therefore,
A. B. is probably improved in character.
Or, again :
If there be war in Europe, the price of breadstuffs will rise
There will piobab'y be a wai in Europe ; therefore.
It is piobable that the price of breadstuffs will rise.
Wlien only one of our premises .^s a doubtful and the
other a certain proposition, the probability of our conclusion
is equal to that of our doubtful premise. Thus, it being
granted that if there be war in Europe pr.'c<t.s will rise, the
probability of our conclusion is precisely a? ^raat as the
probability of a war. When, however, lothol our premisea
are mere probabilities, the probability of our ccn^ilusion ii
greatly reduced, and can rarely furnis,'i a grouni .^cr aii
opinion. Thus,
If the south wind blow to-morrow, it will probably raA'
The south wind will probably blow to morrow; thereforr
It is (very slightly) probable that it Avill rain.
When so slight an indication of an event is given, it it
manifestly of very little use in forming a judgment.
From the fact that we reason from probabilities, verj
commonly, in the practical business of life, it has happened
that this mode of reasoning has sometimes been confounded
with that by which we arrive at practical certainty. It has
sometimes been said that moral reasoning, or reasoning
concerning matters of fact, is nothing e Ise than a wocession
of probable arguments, each one reducing the liabilities of
error, until they become so small as to be inapprev^iable.
The cases, however, are dissimilar. In ihv one case, we pr.r>-
seed from an approximation to truth &o near that neith<>j
PROBABLE REASONING. 33!)
we nor other men carx discover any error, and the result is
of the same character. In the other case, we proceed from
an approximation to truth, but so distant that we can appre-
ciate our liabdity to error ; we know the uncertainty of oui
premises, and the result is a mere approximation similai
to them, producing not belief, but merely opinion. For iu-
2tance, suppose we endeavor to ascertain whether the battle
of Waterloo was fought on the 18th of June, 1815 Wc
proceed according to the laws of evidence as before stated
We apply the rule of perception, and the rule of human
motive. We can discover no error, and no other man can
discover any. I rely upon the result at which I have
arrived with perfect confidence, and the state of mind of
which I am conscious is belief, full, entire, and unquestion-
able. Again ; the question is asked, when did the battle
commence I I find that here the accounts vary. The best
authorities differ, some placing it as early as ten o'clock,
and others as late as one. I lorm an opinion, by comparing
the accounts, and balancing the probable motives which
•would lead men into error. I form an opinion as to the
time, but it is not belief. I am conscious of a state of mind
very dissimilar to that in the preceding case.
Or, again ; from the data established by observation as
accurate as the faculties of men will permit, we determine
the distance and magnitude of the planet Jupiter. No error
can be discovered either in our data or our reasoning. We
know that there may be error, but that it cannot exceed a
certain amount, and we rely on the result under this oon-
litjoa with absolute certainty. But when it is said the
f linct Jupiter is inhabited, we collect our data, and they
give us nothing but a probability to reason from, and we
arrive at nothing but an opinion. The states of mind dif-
fer not ill degree but in kind. The one proceeds from data
in wliich no error can be discovered by the faculties which
336 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
God has given us. The other proceeds from data -which w«
know to be uncertain, and the uncertainty of Avhich we are
able to appreciate. Thej, of course, lead to an entirely dif-
ferent subjective result, and a line of distinct demarcation
must ever separate the one from the other.
II. Reasoning from induction.
The object of this mode of reasoning is to establish a
i^eneral law, from the observation of particular instances.
The principle on which it depends has been already ex-
plained, when treating of cause and eifect. See pages 153
-158.
It is in conformity with our intuitive beliefs, that, from
observing a change, we proceed to ascertain its cause. We
know that, wherever the cause exists, the effect must neces"
sarily follow, and that wherever an event always follows a
given antecedent, this antecedent must be the cause. We
therefore observe all the various phenomena which pre-
cede a change. We ascertain, so fir as possible, which of
them is the invariable antecedent ; in other words, that which
being present the effect exists, and which being removed the
effect ceases. When this has been done, we consider our-
selves to have ascertained the cause.
Having thus determined, by experiment, the cause in this
particular case, we proceed as follows :
What is the cause of this effect in one case must be the
cause in all cases.
The ever/t A is the cause in this case; therefore.
The event A is the cause in all cases.
It frequently happens that there are several antecedents,
»Dd the greatest skill and the most persevering sagacity are
roquisit'^ in order to determine which of them is in\'ariable.
Vfe are obliged to try every variety of combinations, in order
CG ascertain with perfect precision the cause, and to sever
It from every occasional and variable antecedent. When,
ANALOGY. ' &37
iJOwever, this is done, we generalize with entire confidence,
Mid consider the law as established.
T)ie manner in which we proceed, in such a case, is i'lus-
trated most happily in the process employed by Sir Isaac
Newton to discover the cause of the solar spectrum. The
full account may be found in the third chapter of Sir David
Brewster's life of this great philosopher.
III. Of reasoning from analogy.
In this form of reasoning, we do not attempt to prove a
proposition true, and we may not even attempt to prove it
probable. All that we generally desire is to prove it not
improbable.
In the other cases of which we have treated, we proceed
upon the supposition that the same cause, under the same
conditions, will produce the same effects. Here we proceed
upon the supposition, not that the same cause will produce
the same effect, but merely that similar causes may produce
similar effects, in the absence of evidence to the contrary.
If this mode of reasoning were reduced to a syllogism \%
would take substantially the following form :
1. Similar causes may produce similar effects.
2. The cause A is similar to the cause B ;
3. Therefore the cause A and B may produce similar
effects.
The principal uses of analogical reasoning are the follow-
1. It is frequently employed with success in answering
an a priori objection. It is thus used with great acutenesa
and unanswerable force, by Bishop Butler, in his Analogy,
Thus, if men deny the existence of God, and hence infer
that there can be no future state of rewards and punish-
ments, his answer is as follows : It is granted, even by
atheists themselves, that in the present state we are rewarded
for scime acticns and punished for others ; that ib, tluit wo
2ii
3S8 INTELLECTUAL IHIL050PHT.
find ourselves under a moral government. But, if we ex.ii
under such conditions now, when, bj the supposition, lher<
is no God, there can be no reason assigned why we may uo(
continue to exist after death, and exist under the same con-
ditions as at present ; that is, under a moral government, in
which we shall be rewarded and punished according to the
character of our actions. The whole of this admirable
tr.atiaC, one of the most remarkable that any language can
produce, is intended to show that the principles of moral
government taught in the Scriptures are strictly analogous
to those everywhere exhibited in the government of the
world, as seen by natural religion. Hence, it is evident
that if God has adopted these principles for our government
in one case, there can be no a priori reason why he should
.\ot adopt them in another case. " It will here be found,"
says he, " not taken for granted, but proved, that any rea-
sonable man, who will thoroughly consider the matter, may
be as much assured as he is of his own being, that it is not
so clear a case that there is nothing in it."
"While, however, analogy claims to do no more than this,
it, in many cases, in fact, does much more. It is evident
that the greater the similarity of cause the greater is the
probability of the similarity of effects. It may thus, in
some cases, approximate to proof; at the least, it furnishes
grounds for a decided opinion. Thus, the similarity of
many of the effects of electricity and galvanism created the
opinion that they were the same agent, before their identity
was discovered.
2. It will readily appear that an important use of analo-
gy is to aid us in scientific investigation. Suppose for in
stance, that we have discovered the cause for a well-known
effect. We observe another effect of a similar character,
and we instinctively are led to inquire, may it notarise from
tl.e same or a similar cause ^ Hence in our search afteJ
ANALOGY. 339
causes, we are grca\lj aided and much usele,^ labor is saved
by such an indication. Thus, Sir II. Davy discovered the
metallic basis of potash. But there are other alkalies in
many of their sensible properties nearly allied to potash.
How natural was it for him to expect that the same lawa
governed them all, and that thej all were formed in the same
manner from metallic bases !
3. Analogy is frequently used by the orator with great
eftect. Thus, if it is admitted that a man has acted in one
way at one time, there is no reason why he might not be
expected to act in the same way at another time. Or, if it
is honorable for one man to act in a particular manner in
one case, there can be no reason why it is not honorable for
another man, in a case essentially alike, to act in a similar
manner. This mode of reasoning is used -with the happiest
success by Erskine, in the introduction of his argument for
Stockdale. He commences by alluding to the fact that, though
connected by ties of the closest intimacy with the political
party who had directed the prosecution, yet, Mr. Stockdale
had not hesitated to entrust him with his defence. He adds,
' This, however, is a matter of daily occurrence. So unsul-
lied is the charaeter of the English bar, that no political
bias ever interferes with tlie discharge of the duty of -tj ad
vocate ; that, whatever may be our public principles, cc tUv
private habits of our lives, they never cast even « ohaJt
across the path of our professional duties. If this hi. char
actcristic of the bar of an English court of justice what
sacred impartiality may not every man expect from i:s ju-
rors and its bench." Many similar instances may be found
in the speeches of this eminent orator, perhaps the most
consummate advocate of modern times.
It is, however, obvious, that this mode of reasoning is lia-
ble to great abuse. The whole force of the arguiocnt de«
peu'is on the similarity of the cases. But if *n advocaU
540 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
caii present cases seeming to be similar, while, in fact, they
are widely diverse, he may draw from them the most erro*
neous conclusions. It is, therefore, the business of an oppo-
nent, or of an inquirer after truth, to examine reasoning of
this kind with the closest scrutiny ; and, when it is defective,
point out the dissimilarity of the cases, and show the result
to which such analogies would lead, if we allowed them to
form the foundation of our judgment.
REFERENCES.
Probable eyidence — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sec. 4 ; Locke, Book I,
chap. 15 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3.
Induction — Reid, chap. 6, sec. 24; Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 4, sec. Ij
Cousin, chap. 9.
Analogy — Reid's Inquiry, Essay 1, chap. 4; Stewart, vol. ii., chap. '2,
eec. 4, chap. 4, sec. 4 ; Locke, Book 5, chap. 16, sec. 12; Abercrombie,
Part 3, sec. 4.
Herschel's Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy.
Remarks on Analogical Reasoniug iu Whately's Rhetoric.
Bacon's Novum Organon.
SECTION V. — ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE REASONING
POWERS.
It is appropriate to close this chapter with a few sugges-
tions on the manner of improving the reasoning powers.
If the remarks in the preceding pages are correct, it will
appear that the process which we employ in reasoning is, in
all cases, essentially the same. Our object is to show such
a relation between the known and the unknown, that, if one
©e true, the other is equally true ; or, if one be only prob-
able, the other is equally probable. If our premises are
ienied, we proceed to show their relation to something bet-
ter known and more universally admitted, and thus fall
back, step by step, until we rest upon those elementary
truths which are given us in the constitution of the human
IMPROVEMENT OF REASONINd. 341
rntelbct. From these, i^ the first place, all our KnoTvle-ig<«
proceeds.
The manner in which we accomplish this is by syllogism.
We show that what is true of a class is true of every indi-
vidual under that class By making it evident that indi-
viduals or species are included under classes to which they
■were not supposed to belong, or that a predicate can be
affirmed of a subject which could not have been affirmed of
it before, new knowledge is evolved, and the domain of
Bcience is enlarged.
To proceed in this manner is, I suppose, the instinct of
our nature. A human being begins to reason almost as
Boon as he begins to think ; and were he incapable of
reasoning, that is, of inferring a conclusion from premises,
•we should at once perceive that he was destitute of a ra-
tional soul, or deficient in an important element of our in-
tellectual nature. Logicians unfold the process and develop
the laws by which reasoning is performed, and thus enable
us the better to distinguish between valid arguments and
sophisms. To be able to do this is of great utility in the
^ork of mental cultivation. AVe thus are rendered capable
of determining whether our reasonings are, or are not, in
accordance with the laws of the human mind. When this
attainment has been made, we can rely with confidence upon
the decisions of our own understanding. This is an impor-
tant condition of all intellectual progress. We can never
proceed boldly in the work of investigation, until wc can
say, with Sir Isaac Newton, "When I see a thing to be
true, I know it is true."
If, then, we would cultivate our reasoning power with
ijccess, it is important to understand the nature of the
human mind, and especially the process by which it estab-
lishes truth by reasoning. The first of these is treate<l of
in works on intellectual philosophy This, however, is not
29*
642 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHT.
alone su^.ncnt for our purpose Tlie T\liole sulvjoct of
reasonip/ _ in all its ramifications, is unfolded in the science
of logi' . By a diligent study of this science, our acute-
ness .ill be greatly sharpened, and, what is probably of
greater conse([uence, the mind not only becomes accustomed
to all the forms of reasoning, but learns instinctively to
reject every conclusion not warranted by logical principles.
I lately met with the following curious illustration of
'he utility of the study o" logic in cultivating the power
^f the mind :
" The Asiatic Journal, 1827, records the following
instance of acuteness in a young brahmin. After the
introduction of juries into Ceylon, a wealthy brahmin,
whose unpopular character had rendered him obnoxious to
many, was accused of murdering his nephew, and put upon
trial. He chose a jury of his own caste ; but so strong waa
the evidence against him, that twelve out of thirteen of the
jury were thoroughly convinced of his guilt. The dissen-
tient juror, a young brihrain of Camisseram, stood up, de-
clared his conviction that the prisoner was the victim of a
conspiracy, and desired that all the witnesses should be
/ecalhd. He examined them with extraordinary dexterity
and acuteness, and succeedecl in extorting from them such
proofs of their perjury, that the jury, instead of consigning
the prisoner to an ignominious death, pronounced him inno-
cent. The affair made much noise in the island, and the
cliiefjustice, Sir Alexander Johnston, sent for the juror who
had oD distinguished himself, and complimented him on thp
talents he had displayed. The brahmin attributed his skill
CO the study of a book which he called ' The Strengthener
oi the Mind.' He had obtained it from Persia, and had
translated it from the Sanscrit, into which it had been ren-
dered from the Persian. Sir Alexander Johnston express-
ing a curiosity to see the book, the brahmin brought a Tamil
IMPROVEMENT OF REASOXINQ. 843
manuscript, on palm leases, which Sir Alexander found, to
bis infinite surprise, to be the ' Dialectics of Aristotle.' " 1
regret that I am not able to verify this anecdote by a refer-
ence to the original work. I give it as I found it in a
periodical on education.
The study of rules and the comprehension of priiciplaa
will, however, be of very little value, unless our knowledge,
as we have before recommended, be reduced to practice.
By the habitual practice of earnest investigation, without
any knowledge of the rules of logic, a man will become an
able reasoner ; while, without this practice, no matter what
be his understanding of the rules, he will never acquire the
power of convincing othei'S.
2. I, therefore, remark that the power of ratiocination
may be improved by the study of works of a syllogistic
character. Among these, it is common to assign the first
place to the pure mathematics. A geometrical demonstra-
tion is composed of a succession of pure syllogisms, free
from any admixture of contingent truth, and receiving aa
premises only what every human mind must necessarily
admit. Tlie appeal is made exclusively to the understand-
ing ; the conceptions are definite and precise, and the con-
clusions follow from their own intuitive e\4dence. This,
then, would seem to present the simplest and purest exercise
of the reasoning power. For this cause, the mathematics
have always formed an important branch of a liberal educa-
tion. They give exercise to the reasoning power, and they
may be pursued at an early period of life, when other
reasoning could not be so easily comprehended.
On the use of the mathematics for the purpose of intel-
lectual cultivation, however, the highest authorities on tha
Bubject of education differ. Sir W. Hamilton * contends,
• On the Study of the Mathematics aa an Eierciseof the Mind.— Disciu
Bona on Phibbophy, etc. London, 1852 : pj . 256—327.
B44 I>-TELLECTrAL PHILOSOPHY.
with great power and exuberance of learning, that thoy are,
of all intellectual pursuits, the least adapted to produce th«
effect .so commonly ascribed to them. It must be admitted
that they discuss the relations of nothing but quantity, and
the simplest of these relations : and that the matter of which
they treat, and the mode in which they treat it, are entirely
unlike those which must be employed in the affairs of life
and the mvestigations of the other sciences. Whoever will
read this very able discussion will at least be convinced
that the ordinary opinion on the nniversal adaptedness of the
mathematics to mental discipline requires a thorough reex-
amination. It is also a duty manifestly imposed upon
teachers to consider this question with a mind unbiased by
preconceived opinions, and observe carefully the effect of
this study on the reasoning powers of their pupils. In all
our institutions of learning we require that every candidate
for a literary degree shall devote a considerable portion of
his time to the mathematics, not for any practical purpose,
but purely as a means of special intellectual culture. It
surely cannot be inappropriate to inquire whether it actually
produces the anticipated results.
3. In the mathematics, our reasoning concerns nothing
but the necessary relations of quantity, and, therefore, we
arrive at absolute truth. A very small part of our practi-
cal reasoning is, however^ of that character. "We desire to
have the truth, not concerning abstract conceptions, but
concerning matters of fact, or that into which Hict enters as
a necessary element. Hence, were we to confine our reason-
ing tc the mathematics, it may be doubted whether we
should increase our power of general ratiocination. It has
been frequently remarked that pei^sons who have addicted
themselves exclusively to this science, have been singularly
deficient in the reasoning power which is required in the
leTcral profissions, and in the ordinary affairs of Ufa. I
IMIROVEMENT OF REASON. 345
have not perceived that original ability in young men waa
at all measured by proficiency in the mathematics. Men
of decided talent generally succeed well in anything and,
of course, in abstract science. The general reasoning power
is not more closely connected with special talent for mathe-
matics, than with special talent for philology, philosophy,
physics, or any other branch of learning.
It will, tLirefore, be necessary for us to accustom our-
selves to reasonings concerning matters of fact, or, as it ia
called, moral reasoning. In order to do this, it will be use-
ful to examine argumentative treatises, discourses, sermons,
pleas at the bar, or anything which, by consecutive proof,
professes to arrive at a conclusion, I hardly know of any
■work better adapted to such a purpose than Butler s Anal
ogy. It will aid us in this labor, first, carefully to read
the work which we attempt to examine, taking notes of
every step of the argument, and thus, in the briefest manner,
forming for ourselves an analysis of the whole. Then, fix-
ing our minds distinctly upon the thing to be proved, we
should examine the general syllogism by which it is es-
tablished, and the proofs on which the several propositiong
rest. Where an argument is abbreviated, we should supply
the propositions that are suppressed, and the conclusions that
arc omitted. In this manner we shall be able fully to ap-
preciate the value of the whole argument, yielding an intel-
ligent conviction to its proofs, and rejecting whatever i3
sophistical. A practice of this kind will have a maiked
effect upon our power of ratiocination.
By pursuing the course here indicated, we may be enabled
I) understand, appreciate and verify, the various forms of
•irgament. "We thus become skilful in detecting sophistry
and distinguishing truth from falsehood. This may be termed
passive syllogistic power. It is an important preparation
for further progress, but is in itself only a partial deveJop-
S46 IliTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
ment of tho reasoning faculty. We need the aoility, no!
only to understiind and appreciate the arguments of others,
but also to originate and construct arguments for ourselves.
This is the great purpose which this power was intended ic
accomplish.
4. We may improve ourselves in this respect by mathe-
matical study. As soon as we have acquired the command
of a few theorems in geometry, we should attempt to demon-
strate for ourselves. Problems for this purpose should be
provided in our text-books. It would be well if the student
should never make use of the demonstration in the book,
until he had exhausted his ability to originate one for him-
self In this manner, though he might seem at first to
make but slow progress, his real mathematical power would
rapidly increase. If mathematical studies are to be used aa
a means for mental discipline, the practice of original demon-
stration must be invaluable. Were it more frequently
adopted, I have no doubt that it would add materially to
vigor and alertness of mind. In this respect, algebraical
problems possess a peculiar advantage. °I know of no ex-
ercise that calls into more active use the power of grasping
firuly a particular conception, and tracing it out unchanged
tlirough various and complicated relations, than the eflFort to
form a difficult algebraical equation.
5. If we would educate our reasoning powers, we must
pursue the same course in subjects not mathematical. We
must learn to form arguments for ourselves on all matters
of investigation that come under our notice. When a doubt-
ful question arises, instead of avoiding it, we should earnestly
bciid ourselves to the labor of solving it. We should be in
the habit of forming logical plans of thought on every sub-
ject of study. Whether we write or speak, we siiould always
have an end in view, towards which every thought tends by a
aatural succession, and a logical arrangement. If a lawyei
IMPROVEMENT Of" REASON. 347
makes a plea, he should not be satisfied with merely pre-
senting a variety of considerations that have a bearing OD
the subject; his argument should be direct and conclusive.
If a preacher construct a discourse, he should have in view
a particular moral condition to which he desires to lead hia
audience, and every paragraph and every sentence should
tend to lead them to this condition.
If, however, we desire to cultivate our intellect to the
best advantage, two cautions are here to be observed. Th«
first respects reliance on authority. Many men, when a
proposition is to be proved, spend their time in hunting up
authorities, and collecting the opinions of others. By these
they expect mon to be convinced, without once asking the
question whether they are convinced themselves. I would
by no means speak lightly of the learning of the past, or
of the opinions of eminent men ; but it must still be apparent
that an opinion, whether of an ancient or a contemporary,
is worth just as much as the reason on which it is founded
No matter how high the authority, we should never attempt
to convince another by an argument the force of which we
have not ourselves acknowledged. We may embarrass and
confound men by an array of learned authorities, but we
shall rarely convince them unless we have first convinced
ourselves.
But it is hardly enough that we ourselves be convinced
by the teaching of others. We should, if possible, convince
oui-selves by reasons drawn from the fountain of our own
reflections. A student who desires to develop fully his own
powers, must make his own mind his chief reliance in all
his intellectual labor. If he cultivate this habit, he will
Ge^iuently find it less laborious to think out an argument
for himself than to seek for it in books. A man endowed
with a ready memory and sufficieut command of language,
Dtay, without any active use of his reasoning powers, speak
Ml INTEL,i^fiCTUAL PHILOSOPHT
cr write upon a subject -with fluency and elegance. Snch
men in youth create great expectation, but when the boui
arrives for decided intellectual trial, they fail. On the
other hand, he who thinks for himself and relies on his own
resources, may at first seem slow of apprehension and want-
ing in richness of thought, but his powers are invigorated
by every effort. The exercise of his faculties yields con-
tinually a richer and more abundant product, and thus con-
firms his confidence in his own intellectual power. We
should, therefore, resolve in the beginning that whatever we
produce shall be, as far as possible, our own ; at least, that
it shall have passed through the processes of our own think-
ing, and thus become assimilated with the working of (ur
own intellect. No habit is so fatal as plagiarism to all
vigor of the understanding. It inevitably induces indolence,
mental imbecility, and utter inability to carry on a train
of original thought.
6. In order to improve the reasoning powers, it is im-
portant that we always labor for truth. Many persons, in
order to acquire skill in debate, are in the habit of defend-
ing the true or false indiscriminately, believing that they
can cultivate their own understanding by misleading the
understinding of others. A man may learn thus to embar-
rass and confound an antagonist, but he does it at great
sacrifice. By earnestly seeking for truth, and rejecting all
sophistry, the mind acquires a tendency to move in the right
direction. Chemists sgeak much of the affinities of varioua
substances for each other. There is a natural affinity in
the human mind for truth, and this affinity is strengthened
by seeking for it with an honest and earnest purpose. If
we in our investigations inquire for nothing but truth, it
spontaneously reveals itself to us. The Avhole history of
philosophical discovery illustrates this remark. Hence
nothing can be more unwise than to destrov the originaj
IMPRCVEMENT OF REASON. 849
delicacy of ,h3 faculty of reason by employing it iudis-
criininatcly in the support of truth or falsehood. We ma^
thus gain the praise of acuteness or readiness in debate;
but Ave lose what is of incomparably greater consequence,
the instinctive love of truth, and the delicate discrimina
tioD between truth and error.
And, lastly; it is impossible for us to reason well, or
80 to reason as to increase the sum of human knowledge,
■without the possession of large and accurate knowledge.
Reasoning is the process by which we pass from the
known to the unknown. The known, then, lies at the
foundation of our process. Unless there be something
known, we cannot begin to reason ; and the greater the
amount of our knowledge, the larger is the material
with which we labor. The more exact our knowledge is,
the more successfully can we use .\t in the discovery of
truth.
Al'^e men, of marked independence of mind, and strong
tendency for investigation, by failing to know what other
men have discovered, are liable to waste their energies in
search of that which has been already discovered. Hence,
after arriving at valuable truth, they find themselves
in the rear of their age. Though the cases are rare,
able men sometimes fall into this error. If this be the
case witli men of unusual endowments, how much more
does it deserve the attention of those who can boast of
no extraordinary talent ! He who would enlarge the field
of human knowledge, must stand upon the limits cf tlio
known, before he can expect to enter the field of the
unknown.
REFERENCES.
Cultivation of the reasoning fiiculties — Abercrombie, Part 3, section 4
Mathematicians not good reasoners — Abercrombie, Part 3, seciifin 4
SO
S50 KTTEl.iECTUAL PHI. OSOPHY.
Difference between sound judgment and ingenious disputation — Abep
crorabie, Part S, section 4.
Power of rcixsoning depends on extent of knowledge — Aberciombie
Part 3, section 4.
Use of authorities — Locke, Book 4, chap. 20, section 17.
Advantage of cleanie^s aod exactitude of knowledge — Locke , Book 4
Bh*p. 12, notioB li.
OEAPTER Vn
IMAGINATION
SECTION I. — THE NATURE OF THIS FACULTT
TuE next faculty of which we propose to treat is tU«
Lwagination. It is the power by which, from simple con«
cevtions already existing in the mind, we form complex
vlMles or images. Thus, the painter, selecting several beau-
tiful views from various landscapes which he has observed,
forms them into a snigle picture. The novelist unites the
elemonts of several characters which he has observed in the
conc'-ption of his hero.
It is manifest that some form of abstraction must, by
necessity, precede the exercise of imagination. Were we
not able to analyze the concrete, and contemplate its several
parts separate from each other, we could never unite them
at will, so as to form an original image. The parts must
be mentally severed before they can be reunited in a ne\y
conception. It is this power of reuniting the several
elements of a conception at will, that is. properly, imagina-
ijon. Imagination may then be designated as the power of
WUibination.
Thei-e is, however, a difference in the manner in which
the power of combination receives and modifies the materials
derived from abstraction In treating of abstraction I
attempted to show that it included tlu-ee acts; first, analy
352 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPUT.
sis, by which the qualities of a concrete object ire separated
from each other ; second, generalization, by which these
simple elements of an individual become a general abstract
idea ; and, third, combination, by which these last are united
in a complex conception, representing not an individual
but a class. The act by which we form classes, may.
perhaps, more propoily be called conception than imagina-
tion.
The act of imagination proper, differs from that act by
•which we form classes. In the first place, the mode of
abstraction in the two cases is unlike. In forming concep-
tions of classes we first separate qualities from each other
In collecting the elements for a picture in the imagination,
we separate not qualities so much as parts. Again ; before
we can proceed to form classes, we must first generalize our
individual abstractions, and thus form general abstract ideas.
In imagination proper we do not genei'alize, but at once
unite the ideas of individual parts which we have previously
separated from each other. In the third place, the result
is dissimilar. In the one- case we form a notion of a class,
meaning no particular individual ; in the other, we form a
notion of an individual, which is the more perfect in pro-
portion to its distinct individuality.
The difference between these cases may be illustrated bj
a familiar example. Suppose that a physiologist wero
attempting to form a scientific conception of an animal, say,
for instance, of a horse. He would examine the first speci-
men with all the accuracy in his power, taking note
Bpecially of all the qualities of its external appearance and
internal structure. He would, in the second place, ( xamine
otlier specimens, taking note of each particular quality aa
before. These qualities would then not belong to one speci-
men, but to them all, or would become general abstract
ideas. lie would next distinguish those that were constan*
IMAGTNATICS OlZ
from those wliich uere variable, uniting tlie constant intc
a single conception, and rejecting the others as valueless
This conception thus formed would represent the class, and
would correspond to the word horse, whenever he or ^thex
physiologists used it.
But, were an artist required to paint the charger of a com-
cander-in-chief on a battle-field, he would proceed in a very
different manner. Observing several horses, he would per-
ceive one remarkable for the beauty of its head. The body
of another, and the neck of a third are distinguished for
elegance of form and symmetry of proportions. Without
any act of generalization, he would unite such of these sev-
eral parts as he chose into one image, which he would
transfer to the canvas. This picture would not be the
representition of a chiss. but of an indindual. The object
of the painter would be, not to form an image which should
stand for all horses, but a picture of a more beautiful horse
than had ever existed, thus making this representation to
stand out by itself, distinguished from every other that had
ever been conceived.
Imagination proper is, therefore, the power of forming
not general conceptions, designating classes, but particular
images representing indiN-iduals. It is the power by which
•we form pictures in the mind, of some object or event.
Hence, it would seem that those writers have erred who
Btate that this act of the mind closely resembles the process
of reasoning. The two acts are really remarkably unlike.
The materials used in the reasoning process are always
propositions, that is, affirmations respecting genera and
Bpecies. The imagination, on the contrary, employs con-
cepiions of sepamte parts, which it combines into an indi-
vidual whole. The process which they employ is dissimilar;
the one forming syllogisms, the other uniting elements. Tha
result at which they arrive is different. The one ends ic
SO*
B54 nn:ELLEC^*UAL philosophy.
a proposition affirming a predicate of a subject; die other "nd*
in a picture affirming nothing. The one asserts a tiuth,
the other presents a conception. That the most gifted men
are frequently endowed vith both of these powers in a high
-ieirree, and that the possession of both is necessary to gieat
intellectual effi)rts, is granted : but this no more proves
them to be either identical or similar, than the necessity of
reason and memory to intellectual effort proves these faculties
identical.
If we examine the several acts of this faculty, we may,
I think, observe a difference between them. We have the
power to oiiginate images or pictures for ourselves, and we
have the power to form them as they are presented to us in
language. Tiie former may be called active, and the lattei
passive imagination. The active I believe always includes
the passive power, but the passive does not always include
the active. Thus we frequently observe persons, who delight
in poetry and romance, who are utterly incapable of creat-
ing a scene or composing a stanza. They can fdlm the pic-
tures dictiited by language, but are destitute of the pc Aer
of original combination. Even this secondary and inferior
form of imagination is possessed in different degrees. Every
one in the habit of giving instruction, especially when de-
scription is necessary, must have been convinced of the great
difference of individuals in this respect. Some persona
create a picture for themselves as soon as it is presented in
language. Others form it with difficulty, after rej^eated
trials ; and at last we are uncertain whether the conception
in our own mind is the same as that awakened in the mind
of another. It is on this power, chiefly, that the love of
jO€try and fiction depends. Hence, we frequently find per-
Rcns of good sense and strong judgment, who never manifest
any taste for imaginative writing. This type of chartiCtei
»8 most frequently observed in those who have not com
lilAGINATION.
855
uieucctl their education until late in life. The ima,^niatitu
is most active in youth, and if it remain umleveloped until
the period of youth be past, it rarely attains its full power
or its natural proportions.
The active power Df imagining Is bestowed wiih still
greater diversity. Some men aie poets by nature, llcnce
the maxim, pacta uascitur Jioii Jit, — a poet is formal bv
nature, not by education. Men endowed with a creative
imagination are continually perceiving analogies, foiming
comparisons, and originating scenes of beauty or grandeur,
out of all that they observe and all that they remember.
Johnson was sitting one evening by the side of a table, on
which two candles were burning. The conversation turned
on Thomson. "Thomson," said be, "could not see
those two candles without forming a poetical image out of
them." On the other hand, we are told of a celebrated
mathematician, who, after reading the Paradise Lost, laid
down the book in disgust, with the significant question,
" What does it prove 1 " In the one case, the imagination
had been exclusively cultivated ; in the otlier, the reasoning
power. The one ha4 been accustomed to form pictures, the
other demonstrations. Nei:her could have been interested
in the labors of the other. Both would probably have
derived advantages from a more generous and universal cul-
tivation of their intellectual powers.
This distinction leads us to observe a mistake, frequently
made, respecting the mode of cultivating the imagination.
Young persons sometimes spend their time in reading works
sf fiction, and tell us that their object is to improve this
power of the mind. This kind of reading produces an effect,
but not the effect intended. It improves nothing but the
passive f)Ower of the imagination ; that is, it enables us the
more readily to conceive of scenes presented to us by laa
guage. It cannot enable us to create scenes for ourselve*
256
INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
If this passive imaginative power is exclusively cultivate.;!,
it is even liablj to paralyze the power of creation by con-
demning it to perpetual inaction. Sir Walter Scott was,
from boyhood, a vast reader of romances, but he was also
an indefatigable story-teller, and would detain his school-
fellows, by the half-day together, with fictions of his c wn
creation, wrought out on the instant from the stores of hia
inexhaustible fancy.
Again ; a distinction may be observed in the nature of the
active power of the imagination. Some men instinctively
employ this faculty in the creation of images of beauty or
sublimity. They address themselves to the taste, and their
object is merely to please. Such men are by nature poets
Whatever they see or hear becomes at once materials for the
exercise of the fancy. Analogies between the seen and the
unseen, the relations of matter and the relations of mind,
the objective and the subjective, are continually revealing
themselves, and thus giving birth to comparisons, meta-
phors, similes and pictures. No one can read the poetiy of
Milton, Shakspeare, Burns, Cowper and Thomson, with-
out observing this wonderful power of creating at will
images of transcendent loveliness, from either the lowliest
n the loftiest object that the eye rests upon.
But there is another and a smaller class of persons, richly
endowed with imagination, in whom this faculty acts on
Bomewhat different principles, and tends to a very different
result. The materials which they employ are not scenes,
or images of individual beauty, but laws of nature. They
address not the taste, but the reason. Their object is not
to please, but to instruct. The result at which they arrive
is not a picture that can be painted on canvas, but a complex
zonception of truth united in one idea, and tending to a par-
ticular conclusion. Such men no sooner observe a phenomo
aon than they summon from the whole field of their knowledge
POETIC IMAGINATION. do i
every law :hat could relate to this particular case, and se-
lect and combine into one conception such of these lav>s aa
will reasonably account for the change. Most men, when
they observe a phenomenon, know that it must have i cause,
but never give themselves the trouble to seek for it. Othera
are perpetually searching after causes, but seem condemned
to search forever in the wrong direction. Men ^^ho are
preeminently gifted are generally endowed with this power
of combination in a remarkable degree. Such were Ar-
chimedes, Plato and Aristotle, among the ancients, and
among the moderns, Newton, Sir H. Davy, Cuvier, and
many of the illustrious men yet spared to us. It has
appeared to me that the study of chemistry, when pursued
into the regions of original investigation, has a strong ten-
dency to cultivate the highest exercise of this endowment.
As these two forms of the imagination are of special
mterest, and are to a considerable degree dissimilar, we shall
in the following remarks consider them separately.
SECTION II. — POETIC IMAGINATION.
Imagination, as we have said, is the power of combina-
tion. In poetic imagination, its elements are not general
abstract ideas, but rather notions of the several parts of
diflferent wholes, which may be united at will. The pic-
tures of the imagination are not representations of classes,
but are individual images which the mind forms for itself
from the conceptions which it has already treasured up.
Thus, when a painter would delineate on canvas an ideal
landscape, he has rccoui-se to the various elements of pic-
turesiiue beauty which are present in his recollection. lie
Oaa been in the habit of observing the aspects of nature in
a<l their infinite variety Tree and shrub river and stream-
858 IMEL12CTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
let. meadow and hill-side, sunlight and shadow, at moniirg
noon and evening, are all vividly impressed upon his recol-
lection. He forms, at first, a general conception of the picture
which he is about to execute. He forms, perhaps, another
and another, until the prominent features of his design are
determined upon. When the elements of his combination
are such as he approves, he proceeds to fill up the outline
with such of the accessories as will best harmonize with his
gubject. When his conception is thus matured, he proceeds
to give it form and coloring. The idea which at first ex-
isteil in his own mind alone, now begins to appear in all the
loveliness of a finished picture. It is said that Cole, the
distinguished American landscape painter, never drew a line
upon canvas until he had not only matured the whole scene in
his mind, but even written out the description in full. From
this written delineation he rarely made any variation when
he transfeiTcd his conception to canvas. The case is the
same in any other of the fine arts. One of the most im-
pressive ideas that crowds upon the spectator, as he, for the
first time, looks upon the interior of a gothic cathedral, is.
that all this magnificence of beauty, even to its minute
details, must have existed in the mind of the architect be-
fore the first stone of the mighty fabric was laid. It al^
appears like a gorgeous epic, — an Iliad, or a Paradise Lost,
in stone.
In the preceding cases our design is simple. It u
merely to present a conception which shall awaken th*
emotion either of beauty or sublimity in the minds of our
t'ellow-men. Our labor is, in the fii-st place, purely concep-
tual. It consists in creating in our own minds a picture.
Suppose this to have been done ; the next step is to givo to
ihis conception some external expression, by which we stial]
transfer to the minds of v-iher men the very image w';ich
we have created in our own. Hence we see that tn»> eio
POETIC IMAGINATION. 359
iBentS must be touibined in the character of an eminent
tatist. First, be must be endowed with a rich and vigorous
imagination, by which he may form beautiful and striking
conceptions ; and, secondly, he must be able to realize his
conceptions in some material form, so that they may create
their proper impression upon the minds of others. Articts
may fail from the want of either of these elements. If a
man be ever so highly gifted with imagination, but bo div
ficient in power of execution, unable to establish any mcilium
of communication between himself and other men, he will
be forever exposed to mortifying failure. He may speak or
lecture well on his art. but he can never become a success-
ful artist. Such was apparently the case with Ilaydon. On
the other hand, when imagination is wanting, the prac-
titioner may be a skilful copyist; if a painter, he may draw
with accuracy, or represent with fidelity, whatever he sees ;
but he can never attain to the highest conception of art.
The manner in which these two processes are united in
art is various. Sometimes, as I have before remarked, the
conception is elaborated and perfected in the mind, before it
receives any external expression. Gray's Elegy and Burns'
"Bruce's Aildress to his Soldiers," are said to have been
completed before a word was written. In other cases,
the rough draft is first committed to canvas, or written out
in woi-ds, and this is elaborated and modified, until it hnn
attained to all the perfection of which the author is capable
Milton was for many years engaged in the plan of Paradise
Lost, and there now exist in the Library of Trinity College,
Cambridge, his various drafts, approaching nearer to the
T)lan which he finally adopted. Which of these Diodes ia
to be prefen-ed must be left to the mental habits of the
artist. As a general rule, however, it may be remarked
that the more thoroughly any work is excogitated in the bo-
360 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
ginning, the less will be the labor of composition, and th«
move marked and observable the symmetry of the whole.
But suppose that this firsi intellectual labor has been
accomplished, and a conception has been formed which we
d(sire to present to our fellow-men. What shape shall
this expression assume 7 The answer to this question will
itpend upon the endowments special to the individual
If this conception has been formed in a mind endowed
aimply with the power of language, it will be expressed in
prose.
Suppose, that, in addition to the power of language, an artist
possess also an ear for rhythm, he will express it in poetry.
If, on the other hand, he be endowed with the power of
delineating form, he will execute his conception in marble
or stone, and become a sculptor or an architect.
If he have the power of expression, not only in form, but
also in color, he will be a painter.
Thus, the fountain from which all the fine arts take their
rise is precisely the same. It is the power of creating in
our own minds images of beauty or sublimity. Hence
flow the various forms of art in the channels marked out by
our individual endowments. It is rare that an individual is
gifted with more than one of these modes of expression,
though, in highly favored instances, they are occasionally
combined. Michael Angelo was equally distinguished in
sculpture, painting and architecture ; and was, besides, no
mean poet. Washington Allston was both a painter and a
poet. [Such gifts are, however, uncommon, and success in
a smgie department may well satisfy the ambition of any
artist.
We see, then, the reason of the rule in rhetoric, that, in
crder to test the correctness of a metaphor, we should con-
ceive of it as represented on canvas. We here recognize
the principle that the spiritual part of the work is tlie same
POETIC IMAGINATION. 361
m both modes of expression ; and we present it to tlie decis-
ion of taste, in any manner that will best display its form
and proportions. Thus, Hoi-ace correctly remarks,
" Pictoribus atque poetis,
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit asqua potestas."
Hence a conception expressed in any one of the fine arts
is readily transferred to the other, A group in painting is
easily rendered in marble. Either of these also furnishes
Bubjects for poetry, while the conceptions of Shakspeare,
Milton, Scott and Bunyan, have supplied inexhaustible ma-
terials for the painter and engraver.
The relation of poetic imagination to taste is easily ex-
plained. By the imagination we create pictures in the
recesses of our own consciousness By poetry, painting,
sculpture, and the other fine arts, we give to our concep-
tions an outward manifestation. By this outward manifes-
tation we transfer our own concentions to the minds of other
men. They, by the passive power of the imagination, form
for themselves the image which we represent. Hence, the
imagination in us, addresses first the imagination of others.
But this is not its ultimate object. Its design is to please
the taste. Unless the emotion of beauty or sublimity is
awakened, we fail to accomplish our object. If we do not
form an impressive manifestation of our own conception, it
will fail to create a corresponding conception in other men.
After the conception has been awakened, if they look upon
it with disgust or indifference, our labor has been thrown
away. We see, therefore, that in order to form the charac-
ter of a finished artist, there must be combined great vigor
of iraaginatiofi, and great delicacy ot taste. The author
must be able instinctively to determine whether liis concep-
tion is really beautiful, that is, whether it will give pleas-
ure to the universal mind of man.
31
362 INTELLECTUAii PHILOSOPIIT.
When taste is deficient and the imagination rigoious, «
writer or artist will abound iu conceptions ; but thc^j will ba
puerile, :aean disgusting, unnatural or misplaced ; )r, what
is perhaps more common, beauty and deformity wij} bo
Btrangelj and unaccountably mingled together. In such a
case, the world sometimes passes them by in silence, some-
times overwhelms them with ridicule ; or, provided the fol-
lies and eccentricities are strongly marked, at first it gazea
upon them with wonder, then applauds them as original,
and then consigns them to oblivion. In the words o*"
Horace :
•* Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
Jungere si veiit, et varias inducere plumaa
Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
Desinet in piscem, mulier formosa superne,
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici
Crediti, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum
Persimilem, cujus, velut aegri somnia, vanas
Fingentur species, ut nee pes nee caput uni
Reddatur formae."
Ars Poetica, 1 — 9.
It 13 possible, however, that the cause of the failure of
an author, or of an artist, may be precisely the reverse.
His taste may be too far in advance of his contemporaries.
In this case they will derive no pleasure from his concep-
tions, be they ever so perfect, and his works will fall dead
from his hand, though ever so deserving of immortality.
Painters have perished from want, the least deserving of
whose pictures have since commanded a price which would
have rendered the artist opulent. The manuscript of
Paradise Lost was sold for five pounds; while, at pres-
ent, the annual profits from the sale of his work would have
been a fortune to the patriot-poet. The progress of taste
may thus create a demand for a work of the imagination,
which did not exist in the life-time of the artist Dr th9
POETIC IMAGINATION. OOd
author. Iloraer is saM to have begged his bread while
living ; altliough, centuries after his death, seven of the
most illustrious cities contenJed for the honor of having
been his birth-place,
I have thus far treated of imagination as the power by
which we foru pictures at will. The object here is simple.
The combinations thus formed address themselves to the
taste. If thej give us pleasure nothing more is demande<l,
and our object has been attained. If the painter execute a
beai tiful picture, or the sculptor a beautiful statue, we ask
for nothing more. So, if the novelist or the descriptivo
poet present us with a succession of pleasing or exciting
scenes, they may be entirely successful. More commonly,
however, in writing, some other design is intermingled with
this. Thus, when in earnest composition, we desire tc
lead the mind of the reader to a given result, some moral or
intellectual idea, by the association of resemblance or con-
trast, suggests an event or object in nature or art to which
it is analogous. "We turn aside and form an image of the
Buggested idea. Here, however, our object is two-fold. To
introduce an image merely because it was beautiful, might
distract attention from the proper course of thought, and
thus interfere with our principal design. Besides being
beautiful, the image must illustrate and enforce the idea
which suggested it. WTien both of these objects are accom-
plished, the great end of this form of imagination is attiined,
and to attain it is one of the most diflBcult achievements in
literary labor. Those comparisons and metaphors wliich
spring so spontaneously from the subject, that it appears
impossible to have given utterance to the thought in any
other manner, while they irradiate it with brilliant and un-
expected light, have commonly been the result of intense
labor, and are the pi »duct of tb-2 most exquisite arL-iti^
skill
86* INTELLECTUAL PBILOSOPHT.
It may serve to illustrate this use of the imaginat/on if
we present a few examples. Moore, a writer of exuberant
fancy, hag occasion to allude to the fact, that the affections,
by their nature, demand an object on which they may lean,
and which they strive to appropriate to themselves. This
idea nat irally suggests the image of a vine, which can only
be sustained by entwinmg itself around a support. This
illustration, however, has been so often employed, that it
has become trite. The poet looking more narrowly upon
the object, observed that it clung to its support by mean3
of a tendril. Hence he elaborates the following beau-
tiful comparison :
•' The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone.
But will lean to the loveliest nearest thing
It can twine with itself and make closer its own."
Burke visited Versailles very 30on after the marri ige of
Mario Antoinette. He saw what seemed the commencement
of a brilliant and happy career, herself the most remarkable
object in the court which she adorned. When, in his re-
marks on the French revolution, he had occasion to refer to
this event, her position suggested to his rich and poetic im-
agination the appearance of the morning star. His mind
turned at once towards the beautiful image, and he says,
"It is now sixteen or seventeen years sincf I saw the queen
of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles ; and surely
never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch,
a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon,
decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began
to move in, ghttering like the morning star, full of life, and
iplendor, and joy."
Thus Longinus, when he is comparing the eloquence of
Ocraosthenes and Cicero, turns to nature for analogies
POETIC IMAGINillON. b83
Bj two very striking images he gives us an impression of
the peculiar character of each, beyond the power of anj
mere description. He compares the one to the thunderbolt,
which by a single stroke, scatters in splinters the giant oak
leaving a second stroke superfluous ; the other to a con-
flagration in a forest, spreading on every side irresistible
destruction, furnishing for itself the material which it con-
sumes, and gaining breadth and intensity at every step of
it? progress.
In these cases a two-fold object is accomplished. In the
first place a new and beautiful image is introduced, to which
the mind recurs w ith pleasure ; and, secondly, the original
idea is rendered vastly more definite and impressive. In
this manner we render taste and imagination subservient to
reason. We convince men, and make them pleased to be
convinced, and thus rarely fail of success.
In the above instances it will be perceived that a visible
image is presented to the mind, numerically distinct from
the idea to which it owes its origin. In many cases, how-
ever, this is not done. The image is only casually and for
a moment present to the mind of the writer, yet its presence
suggests the use of words which belong rather to it than to
tlie principal thought. Thus, he who resists successfully a
host of enemies, naturally suggests the idea of a man making
headway against a violent stream. We do not, however,
introduce the image, but only use terms suggested by it, and
Bay, he stemmed the torrent of opposition. When we think
of the origin of our nation, its struggles with the a1x)rigines,
ita exposure fur y( ars to universal destruction, we are natu-
rally led to think of a tree just planted, which any hand
may pluck, up; or of childhood, which, in its helplessness,
any assailant may overcome. We do not express the image
in full, but its presence renders it almost impossible for ug
to speak uj>on the subject without employing the terms.--
31*
5C6 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
'•' the germ of a nation."' " the plantin;^ of a people." " the
infancy of the republic,'" etc. So, when we reflect upon
the progress of a great truth, first discovered bj a retired
philosoplier, then modestly brought to the notice of the woild,
retciviug testimony from kindred sciences, until, gaining
strength at every step, it is universally acknowledged, we
naturallv think of a spring, which, rising in the recesses
yf the m mntains. receives tributaries on every side, until it
gradually- spreads out into a mighty river. Hence, we
Bpeak of "ascending to the fountain head of knowledge,"
of " the current of opinions," of " a flood of evidence," and
the like. Instances of this kind are found in abundance in
the books on rhetoric.
There is another relation, somewhat different from the
above, in which the imagination stands to the art of per-
suasion. By the imagination we form pictures of objects,
scenes, events, characters, and the like. It is a well-
known fact that our emotions are excited as truly by a con-
ception as by the reality. We are moved by the incidentg
of a romance, we love one fictitious character and hate
another, we grieve over the distresses of virtue, we rejoice in
*,he punishment of crime, just as though what we read were
veritable narrative. And this effect is produced by the con-
ceptions themselves, for our emotions are not quelled even by
the reflection that all this is fiction. In this manner, the
imagination may be made to address our domestic affections,
our passions, — worthy or unworthy, — our conscience, or our
piety. Thus, tlie inimitable parables of our Saviour convey
ihe most sublime and touching lessons of universal truth.
The allegory of Bunyan overflows with religious instruction,
and exquisite moral sentiment. Homer has instilled into
the bosom of millions besides Alexander, the love of war,
and the inextinguishable thii-st for glory. We thus per*
seive that the passions ani .lentiments of mankind, eithei
POETIC IMAGI5ATI0:jf. 367
fur good or for evil, are greatlj under tlie power of the
imagination.
The manner in wliicli the orator avails himself of thia
principle is the following. In the attempt to convince men
our first appeal is to their reason. We construct a train of
argument which proves our propositions to be true, and we
present such motives as should iniuce them to act in the
•Banner we desire. If we are deeply in earnest ourselves,
our earnestness will not fail to call into exercise every
power of the mind. Notions of things material and imma-
terial, visible and invisible, related to our subject by all the
laws of objective or subjective association, Avill with various
degrees of distinctness rise before us. These various mate-
rials the orator uses in such manner as he perceives best
adapted to accomplish his purpose. In the words of Shak-
Bpeare,
" The poet's eye, iu a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven :
And, as imagination Wiies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothings
A local habitation and a name."
MiD-scMMEE Night's Dbeam.
When an image, a picture, or an event, presents itself to
the imagination of the orator, better adapted to excite the
emotion which he wishes to arouse than the naked statement
of his argument, he spreads this picture before the mind
with all the graphic power of which he is capable. We are,
Bs I have said, affected by conceptions as truly as by reality.
The emotion excited by the accessory is readily transferred
to the principal idea, and thus we are sunk in sadness,
melted into compassion, aroused to indignation, or inflamed
to patriotism, as we listen to the earnest appeals of impas-
lioued eloquence. It is by this combination of the reasoning
fUi^ INTIL-KCTCAL PHILOSOPHY.
power with the imaginatioD tliat the greatest triuin]ili9 of
the art of j»en»U!isiun have bocn uccon»plisht\l.
Sofuetirues the inuiginuticn personifies on nitstract princi>
pie. an<l, nvesting it with every eleuicnt of gnuidcur and
Buhliiiiity, awakens cinotioii which la at once tnu^fcrreil to
the principle it'^.-lf. Curran, in his ilefrnce of Uowun, —
the luul lieen iiulicteil for thepul»licatittn of a pajx*r in which
he picaileil for universal enKUici|>atioii, — afliiuis that hif
client hail claimeil notliin;; uiorc tiiun was the hirtiiright of
every Kn^lisluuan, and that universal emancipation is on
eswential element of the Hritish Conntitulion. His imagina-
iioD, fired with so uohlc a llieme. at once conceives of uni-
Tersal euianci|)ation as the genius presiding over British
■oil, oitd he pnx'ectU to clothe this being with ev«'ry attri-
bute of niijesty. thus transferring to the principle wliith lie
defends, the HuMime emotions which hU conception has in-
•pire«l. " I s|v»k in the spirit of British law, which makes
liberty couimeiuHuratc witii and inse)xirahle (\v\u the British
•oil, which proclaims even to the stranger and the sojourner,
the moment he sets his foot on British earth, that the soil
on which ho trea«U » holy, and conHccruteil hy the genius of
univors;d enian<'ifMtion. No matter in what language hii
doom nuiy have U-en pronounce»l ; no matter what complex-
ion im-tMupatihle with fnxHlom an In<lian or an Afriwm sun
may have hurmtl up<>n him; no matter in what discistrous
battle hi.H lil)ertics may have Wn cloven down ; no matter
with what «olemnitii*s he nmy have Iteen devoteil on the altar
of slavery, — the nv»ment he touches the 8acre<l soil of
Britain, the altar and the gM sink together in the dust,
IiIh tko\i\ walks a!>ni!id in her own m.njesty, his lody swelli
b«>vond tlie mea-Hure of the chains that hurst from around
kim. and ho stands riMlocnje«l, regener»te<l. and disenthralled,
*>V the irn-sistihle genius of univers:il cmancijwtion." Thi
itli-e| iif Kiuh A (-uiuvptiim ujxMi a hearer is obvious. He
romc iMAfiisAnos.
M9
who before looked upon thj doctrine as roerelj a matter cf
3i>3tract right now jherishea it as a sublime aihi most c-uno*
bling sentiment and not onlj justiBes, but honors and ven«
erates the man who p:omulj;ates it
It is obvious that the same means maj be successfullj
used to arouse indignation against a person or an opinion.
The same great orator, wishing to discredit the testiroon/
of a government witness, presents before us an image which
can awaken no emotion but those of loathsomeness and detes-
tation. Referring to the confinement of this person in the
Ca.'-tlebeforetht- trill. he stjles him •• the wretch that is buried
a man, who lies till his heart has time to fester and rot, and
is then dug up a witness." He asks. •• Have you not seen
him. after his rc-surrection from that tomb, after having been
dug out of the region of death and corruption, m-ike his
appearance upon the table, the living image of life and death,
and the supreme arbiter of both ? Hare you not marked,
when he entered, how the stormy wave of the multitude
retired at his approach ? Have jou not marked how the
human heart bowed to the supremacy of his f*ower, in the
undissembled homage of deferential horror / how his
glance, like the lightning of heaven. 8eeme<i to rive the Ixxly
of the accused and mark it for the grji\e, while his voice
warned the devoted wretch of woe and death, — a death
which no innocence can escape, no art elude, no force
resist, no antidote prevent? There was an antidote. —
a juror's oath; but even that adamantine chain, which
bound the integrity of man to the throne of eU-mal justice,
is sol ml and melted in the breath that issues from the in-
formers mouth. Con-science swings from her mooring*,
and the appalled and affrighted juror consults his own safet/
in the surrender of the victim."
From such instances as these it is easy to perceive the
ittanner in which the orator may make even the imaginatinn
870 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
to aid in the work of persuasion. He may bring the rjast
the present, and the future, before the mind of the hearer
and awaken, by means of it, any train of sympathy that he
desires. The pages of ancient and modern eloquence are
studded with gems of this kind, illustrating the power of
the consummate orator to wield the passions of men at hia
will, and too frequently, I Eiust confess, to make tho worse
appeal the better reason.
SECTION III. ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF POETIC IMAG-
INATION.
Imagination, as we have before said, is the power of
combination, — the faculty by which, out of materials
already existing in the mind, we form new and original im-
ages. Of course, our power of combination must be limited
by the amount of the materials on which it may be exerted.
Knowledge of all kinds is the treasury from which oui
power of combination must be supplied. The works of the
classical poets of all languages furnish us with a great variety
of beautiful imagery. But these poets themselves derived
their images from nature. The same book is open to us, and
we must study it for ourselves if we would attain to freshness
and vigor of imaginative power. He, therefore, who would
cultivate this faculty with success, must observe nature in
all her infinite variety of phases, by day and by night, in
sunshine and in storm, in summer and in winter, on tha
prairie and by the seaside, and delight himself in the beauti-
ful and the grand wherever they may exist in evei-y aspect
of creation around him. Says Imlac, in Rasselas, " I ranged
mountains and deserts for images and resemblances, and
pictured on my mind every tree of the forest and flc war of
tTLTIVATIOX OF THE IMAGIXAriON. 071
the valley. I observed with equal care the crags of the
rxjk. and the pinnacles of the palace. Sonietiuies 1 wan-
dued along the mazes of the rivulet, and sometiuiea
■natchcd tlie changes of the summer cloud. To a poet noth-
ing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful and whatever ig
dreadful must be familiar to his imagination; he must be
cmvei-sant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little.
The plants of the garden and the animals of the wood, the
minerals of the earth and the meteors of the sky, must all
concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety ; for
every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of
moral or religious truths, and he who knows most will have
most power of gratifying his reader with remote allusions
And unexpected instruction."' — Rasselas. chap. 10.
The habits of tiiose who have been most distinguished for
richness of imagination will, I believe, confirm th-e truth of
these remarks. Tiie poetry of Homer, Shakspeare and
Milton, is replete with images which could only have been
derived from close obserwition of nature, as she presented
herself to them in their dissimilar walks of life. But we
may recur to more recent instances. It is recorded of the
distinguished American, whose exquisite portraits of nature
have rendered classic the banks of the Hudson, that he once
mvited a friend to visit his " studies." He led him to some
of the mountaJDS that overlook his fiivorite river, and re-
marked that he was accustomed to spend whole days, from
Bunrise to sunset, in those majestic solitudes, observing the
never-ceasing changes wrought upon the scenery around
him in every hour of the day, and that thus he labored to
acquire a familiarity with every appearance of natural
beauty. The boundless range of the imagination of Sir
Walter Scott has been long acknowledged. Until, bow-
ever, his memoirs were published, n) one would have bf^
lieved that he depended on minute observation for tha
£572 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
materials of his fimcy. Before he wrote Rokeby, hu visit^Kl
his friend Mr. Morritt, in whose grounds the scene of the
poem was to be kid. "The Monday after his arrival, he
Baid. ' You have often given me the materials for a romance,
now I want a good robber's cave and an old church of the
right sort.' We rode out and found what he wanted in the
ancient slate quarry of Bignal, and the ruined abbey of
Eglinstone. I observed him noting down even the peculiar
little wild flowers and herbs that accidentally grew around
and on the side of a bold crag near his intended cave of
Guy Denzil, and could not help saying, that, as he Avas not
to be on his oath in this work, daisies, violets and primroses,
would be as poetic as any of the humble plants he was ex-
amining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness ; but I
understood him when he replied that in nature herself no
two scenes were exactly alike, and that whoever copied truly
what was before his eyes, would possess the same variety in
bis descriptions, and exhibit, apparently, an imagination ag
boundless as the range of nature in the scenes which he
describes ; but whoever trusted to imagination, would soon
find his own mind circumscribed and contracted to a few
favorite images, and the repetition of these would soon pro-
duce that monotony and barrenness which have always
haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the ya-
t'lent icorshipper of truth. 'Besides,' said he, 'local
names and peculiarities make a fictitious story look so much
better in the face.' In fact, he was but half satisfied with
the most beautiful scenery which he could not connect with
some local legend.^'' — Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. 1,
cage 42G.
Nor was Sir Walter Scott a close observer of nature
merely ir the forms of inanimate creation. His amazing
power of delineating every variety of human character mai
'je traced to the same source. When " The Pirate" appeared
IMPRUVEMENT OF THE IMAGINATION. 373
every >ne wondered at the fertile fancy of the Great Un-
known, and his power of conceiving so accurately ihe man-
ners, and even the modes of conversation of the people of
the Hebrides. Those, however, who had accompanied the
autiior in his visit to these regions, recognized in many of
the most striking passages of the novel an almost literal
record of the events which had transpired under their
own eyes. We thus perceive that the exhaustless richness
of the imagination of the great novelist was derived from
a remarkably exact observation of nature and mankind,
aided by a memory from which nothing seems to have
escaped that could minister to the success of his literary
labors.
It is related of Stothard, an eminent English artist, that
nothing could exceed the care with which he was in the
/labit of copying the minutest object in nature, in which he
detected any special beauty. '-He was beginning to paint
the figure of a reclining sylph, when a difficulty arose in his
mind how best to represent such a being of fancy. A friend
present said, ' Give the sylph a butterfly-wing, and then you
have it.' ' That I will," said Stothard, -and, to be correct,
I will paint the wing from the butterfly itself He instantly
sallied forth into the fields, caught one of these be;iutiful
insects, and sketched it immediately. * * He became
a hunter of butterflies. The more he caught, the greater
beauty did he trace in their infinite variety, and he would
often say that no one knew what he owed to these insects, —
they had taught him the finest combinations in that diflicult
branch of art, coloring. * * Whenever he was in the
ficldo, the sketch-book and the color-box were brought forth
frcm his pocket, and many a wild plaLt, with its de'ioata
formation of leaf and flower, was carefully copied on the
spot. The springing of the tendrils from the stem, and
every elegant bend and turn of the leaves, or the drocjiirig
32
874 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
of a liell; was observed and depicted with tlie utmoal
beauty." He who observes nature in tliis manner will
never have occ;isiori to complain of deficiencj of materiala
for the use of the imagination.
2. It is evident, however, that the successful use of the
imagination does not depend merely upon our power to
form pictures. We must do more than this. To conceive
of a mountain more vast than another mountain mi^ht ba
considered an exercise of the imagination. But this would
excite no emotion either of novelty or sublimity. The
theogony of Boodhism is replete with conceptions of this
kind, but it awakens no other feeling than that of disgust.
If we hope to cultivate this faculty, we must acquire the
habit of associating the visible with the invisible, the mate-
rial with the spiritual. Had Goldsmith, in his celebrated
simile, compared the cliff to another cliff, or the village pas-
tor to another village pastor, his conception would have been
powerless, and would scarcely have escaped contempt. It
is the unexpected coincidence between a sublime object in
nature and the moral elements of a noble character, that
presents one of the finest images to be found in the English
language. "We must learn to associate these two classes of
objects together, so that, whatever be the point of observa-
tion which the mind occupies, it shall habitually seek for
appropriate analogies, and turn in the direction in which
they will most readily be found. Thus, it was remarked
above of Sir W. Scott, that "he was but half satisfied with
the most boautiful scenery which he did not connect with
8ome local legend.'' Thus, a poetic imagination instinctively
83es all things double, blending, in beautiful harmony,
thouglit, sentiment, subjective emotion, with whatever is mosl
analogous to it in the objective world of nature or art.
We may cultivate the imagination by studying atten*
tively works most distinguished for poetical combination
IMPRCVEilENT OF THE IMAGINATION. 37£
1 ^i\ gtudyin^; attentively, in distinction from the mere
cursoiy perusal of classical authors. ^Ye must not only
renl but meditate upon the beautiful and sublime ii>
tliou:2;ht, until wo feel the full force of every analogy ; en-
tering into the spiiit of the writer himself if we would
Rvail ourselves of the most successful ellbits of human
genius. We thus acquire the intellectual habits of the mas-
ters :f human thought. In the language of poetry, W8
catch a portion of their inspiration, instead of servilely ren-
dering their thoughts in oar own language. It is by the
diligent study of a few of the best writers, and not the hasty
readirg of many, that we derive the greatest benefit from
the study of the classics of our own or any other country.
The late Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, who had acquired uncom-
mon power in the lise of the English language, ascribed heT
'.mccess, more than to anything else, to the fact, that for sev-
i>ral years in her youth, sh«; was limited in hrr reading tfl
the Bible, the Dictionary and Milton's Paradise Lost.
But. after all, tiie study of the classics is mainly bene-
ficial as it enables us to study nature for ourselves, and to
discover the fountains from whicii genius in all ages haa
been invigoi-ated. When we have learned to associate the
seen with the unseen, we have acquired a language which
enables us to read with new eyes the inexhaustible volume
of the works of God. The world of matter and the Avorld
of thought stand up before us in grand parallelism, each
re.'lectiiig light upon the other. Thus, in the descriptions
of Washington Irving, every flower, every animal, every
biid. the hill-side, the waterfall, the field and the forest, all
seem endowed with life, and almost with reason; they be-
eoiue our companions, and are ever suggesting to us some
idea of phiyful humor or of affecting sentnuent. Thus, th«
most c<.'mmon occurrences awakened in Burns those analo-
876
INTELLECTUAL PHILGSOVH'
gies with human life and mannc'-s^ -vrhica irave cccr.sivt ^
Bomc of his most exquisite odes.
But; lastly, this habit^ like any other, can only be culti-
vated by practice. We must form the combinations 'A the
imagination, if we would learn to form them. We muel
assiduously cultivate the practice of writing, if we would
learn to a\ rite well. If we would write well, we must write
earnestly, having an end in view, and being deeply interested
in the effort to attain it. In this state of mind analogies
the more readily suggest themselves. As they arise (^.imly
and flit before us at a distance, we should summon them
into our presence, and shape them if possible to our purpose.
If they are intractable we must labor the more strenu'.usiy,
viewing them from different points, and striving to seize up-
on their analogy with the idea which we wish them to illus-
trate. We may frequently fail, or at best succeed but im-
perfectly. This, however, should not discourage us.
Nothing was ever exquisitely finished without unwearied
and patient labor, and at the cost of repeated and mortifying
failure. By untiring and well-directed effort, great thinga
may in the end be accomplished. We must be patien'; Avith
ourselves, and not expect to do without labor what other
men have done in no other manner. Paradise Lost -,va3 the
work of almost a lifetime. Cowper somewhere informs ua
that his poetry, which seems to flow without effort, cost him,
on an average, half an hour for every line. If incessant
toil was necessary to successful effort in minds so highly
gifted, ordinary men surely need not to expect to succeed
witlout it.
REFERENCES.
Imagination in general — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7. seo i
Steps in the process — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7, sec. 1.
PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINAliON. 871
Ptffierence between abstraction in reasoning and imagination — ?tow.
frli voL i., chap. 4, sec. 1.
fielation of imagination to character — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7, eeca
4—6.
Manner in which imagination pleases us — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 5
Part l, sec. 4.
fidatioc of imagination to fine arts — vol i ch 7, sec. 2
SECTIOX IV. — PniLOSOPIIICAL IMAGINATION.
There is another mode m which the imngination acts, of
BuiEcient importance to deserve particular attention. It
may be denominated Philosophical Imaginntion. AVith some
remarks concerning \t we shall conclude the present chapter.
In this form of imagination, as in the preceding, we com-
bine the elements which previously existed in the mind.
The elements, however, are in the two cases dissimilar. In
poetic imagination, as I have said, we make use of parts
of individual wholes, which we combine anew, forming an
iraa^e at will. In philosophical imagination our elements
are single general truths or separate laws of nature, or the
various relations of these laws to each other. These we
combine into a conception of a new and more complicated
law or general philosophical truth.
The conceptions when formed by these separate acts of
invagination are also exceedingly unlike. By poetical im-
agination we form an individual picture, which may be
represented to the senses. By philosophical imagination we
form not a picture, but an ideal conception of some general
truth. By the one we form images, by the otner we frame
hypotheses. In the one case, the conception is addressed to
the taste, and if the emotion of beauty or sublimity ia
a\^akened, our object is accomplished. In the other, the
taste is wholly neglected, ai:d our appeal is exclusively to
82*
B78 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
the understanding. If the conception is analogous to truth,
)r if its truth or falsehood can be definitely determined,
nothing more is required. The design of the one is to give
us pleasure; of the other, to enlarge our knowledge.
The nature of the conceptions which we are considering
aay be understood by examples. Copernicus, having ob-
served tlie various established facts respecting the motions
of the heavenly bodies, sought to form a conception of theif
various relations which should account for every fact by
bringing it under the control of some understood and
acknowledged law. Ptolemy and Tycho Brahe had made
the same attempt before, but they imagined laws nowhere
existing, and left many of the facts wholly unaccounted for.
C-^pernicus supposed the sun to be the centre of a single
Eystem, the stars being themselves centres of systems at
infinite distances from it ; the earth and planets to move
around the sun in orbits nearly circular, and the moon to
be a satellite of the earth, revolving around it, and thus
with it revolving ai'ound the centre of the system. By this
conception, all the facts thus far observed were accounted
for. Dr. Black, reflecting upon the facts which he had
observed respecting the freezing of water, the melting of
ice, and the formation and condensation of vapor, sought to
form a conception of some general law, which sliould account
for all the phenomena. He was thus led to originate the
doctrine of latent heat, and immediately saw that this would
fulfil every requirement. Each of these is an instance of
philosophical imagination. It is an original conception cf
Bome general law. or combination of laws, addressing itself
to the understanding, and harmonizing facts othevwisa
app:irent]y contradictory.
These illustrations appertain to science. But essentially
the same exercise of the imagination must be employed in
•very original design. We can never either think or act
PHILCSOPHICAL IMAGIXATION. 379
efficiently, unless we think or act in conformity with a plan
There must always exist some ideal which we propose eitiier
to prove or else to realize in action. This iile;il umst be the
product of the imagination. The ideal of Paradi.se Lost
was thoroughly thought out before a line of it was written.
So the plan of every great enterprise u>ust be matured and
its detail thoroughly arranged, before it cun be commenced
with any hope of success. We see, then, how important an
element of individual or social progress is found u^ the exer-
cise of this faculty.
It must be apparent that great diversities of character
must necessarily arise from the different degrees in which
this endowment is bestowed. Some men have no ideals.
They form no plans beyond those demanded in the conduct
of the ordinary aifairs of life. In all things else they follow
instinctively the beaten track, and yield with unquestioning
submission to the opinions of those who have gone before
them. They have no other rule of action than implicitly to
follow their file-leader, fully convinced that nothing can be
better than what has been, and that a course of action must
of necessity be wise, provided it has been for a long while
pursued. Others, again, are overburdened with imaginings.
They do nothing but form plans, and originate projects
which have no foundation in general principles, and must
inevitably end in ludicrous failure. Such men, however,
rarely attempt to realize their own schemes ; they are satis-
fied with the attempt to force them upon others. They ars
the builders of castles in the air, ever striving after impossi-
bilities, spending tbeir lives in the fruitless labor of pursu-
ing phantoms and grasping after unsubstantial shadowa
That man is rarely endowed who is able to originate Kleala
resting on truth, and to work them out witli that bold sagacity
which ensures the possibility of realizing thtm in action.
When such ]X)wer is united with executive talent, and guideQ
I
880 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
by enlarged benevolence, it designates a man who was cieated
for the benefit of his race.
It is impoitant to observe the relation which a philosophi-
cal imagination sustains to the reasoning power in out
investigation of truth.
I have said that reasoning is the process by which we
pass from the known to the unknown, and thus transform
the unknown into the known. Suppose the philosopher to
stand on the utmost limits of the known. His reason is
prepared either to prove or disprove aiiy proposition thai
may be jtresented. But there is no propositi n presented.
There is nothing within the cognizance of the understand-
ing, but on the one side the known, and, on the other,
absolute silence and darkness. Reason presents no proposi-
tion. Its sole province is either to prove or disprove what is
placed before it. None of the other faculties which we
have considered can present propositions to the reason, as
the matter on which its powers shall be exerted. Hence
the necessity of the imagination. Its office is to pass beyond
the limits of the known, and form a conception which may
be true of something in the unknown. Tliis it presents in
the shape of a proposition or a philosophical conception.
As soon as this is done, an opportunity is offered for tha
exercise of the reasoning faculty. There is something now
to be proved, and there may be something by which to prove
it. We at once endeavor to discover some media of proof
which may show a necessary connection between what ia
known, and this proposition which is, as yet, unkiio^>n.
Until this connection can be shown, our proposition is a mere
suggestion, a theory, an hypothesis. As soon as this con-
nection has been established, what was before hypothesis
becomes acknowledged truth, and by just so much is the
dominion of science extended.
Or, to express the same idea in another form, experiment
PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGIXATILIT. 38l
or tlie attempt to discover new truth, is nothing nriorc than
putting questions to nature. But a question supiio.-ics soma
de^nite object of inquiry. The answer of niUure, if she
answer at oH, is always either yes or no. Phik-sophical
imagination enables us to put the question in a form capable
of a definite answer. It suggests a conception which may
be true or false, but which must be either one or the other.
By experiment or demonstration we put the question to
nature, and receive lier answer either aifirmative or nega-
tive. If the answer be negative, Ave surrender our proposi-
tion as vrorthless, and the imagination suggests another, and
another, until an affirmative answer is received. The work
is then accomplished, and a new truth is added to the sum
of human knowledge.
Thus the conceptions of Ptolemy and of Copernicus were
both mere hypotheses of equal value, until one was proved
to be true. The conception of Newton, that the motions
of the bodies which compose the solar system are all sub-
jected to the law of gravitation, was a mere hypothesis, a
creation of the imagination, until it was scientifically estab-
lished. He himself so considered it, and I believe never
mentioned it until he had proved it. He considered it merely
a question which he had put to nature, unworthy of atten-
tion until he had received an affirmative answer. At first,
he supposed that the answer which he received was negative.
Taking for one element of his calculations the length of a
degree of the earth, as it had been measured by the French
mathematicians, he found that his hypothesis could not be
established, and he laid it aside for several years. A new
and more accurate measurement was afterwards obtained,
\>'liich brought to his recollection his almost forgotten (im-
putations. He commenced them anew, with more accurate
data, and soon arrived at the result which added his name
to the brief list of those who must always be remembe««d
882 INTELLE*^} CAL PHILOSOPHY.
The saiLt/ process must be performed in every case where a
scientific truth is discovered. The proposition of the squared
on the sides of a right-angled triangle was a mere hypoth-
esis to Pythagoras until he had demonstrated its truth.
These illustrations have refen-ed to science. The truth
here suggested is, however, of wider application. Thus, the
ingenious inventor has become acquainted with some natural
law which he believes may be rendered available for the
service of man. He must form in his own mind a concep
tion of the manner in which this result may be accomplished.
At first a rough draft is present before him. He per-
ceives its, imperfections, and labors to correct them. One
and another plan suggests itself, until he has before him a
whole system of arrangements by which the result may be
attained. Months of anxious thought were consumed by
Watt and Fulton before they perfected those conceptions,
which, when realized in the form of inventions, have revolu-
tionized the manufactures and commerce of the world. The
same remark will apply to a military commander, who,
before a sword is drawn, must form in his mind the whole
plan of a campaign. Thus it is that an act of the imagina-
tion jnust precede every otlier, when an important truth m
to be discovered, or great enterprise to be achieved. We
must, first of all, form a conception of what we would do, or
prove, and of the means by which it is to be accomplished.
We may, it is true, fall short of our ideal ; but, except by
accident, we cannot go beyond it. Hence this creative
power lies at the foundation of all great excellence. Other
things being equal, he will certainly arrive at the most
eminent success, who is able to take the largesi, most com-
prehensive, and most truthful views of that wlr oil he lesirea
to accomplish.
I shall close this chapter by a few suggetciojis on tlw
mode of improving a philosophical imagination.
PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION S83
U ia obvious that this power, to be of any practical value
a.u8t derive its materials from essential truth. Fancies cac
never form the elements of a philosophical imagination. We
desire to discover truth ; but truth can only be discovered
bj means of truth. The more thoroughly, therefore, we are
acquainted with the known, the more easily shall we dis-
cover the regions which may be reclaimed from the unknown.
Ho will be more likely to extend the limits of human
knowledge who has made himself acquainted with already
discovered truth. Newton, at an eajly age, was familiar
with all that was then known of the science of astronomy ;
and this knowledge pointed out to him the line in which dis-
covery was to be made. Columbus was profoundly learned
in the geography of his age. He was intimately aci^uainted
with all that had been discovered of tiie figure of the earth,
and the proportions in which its surface was covered with
land and water. This knowledge first suggested to him the
idea of a new continent. Had he known of nothing beyond
the shores of the gulf of Genoa, his mind could never have
formed this magnificent conception, and after-ages would
never have heard of the " world-seeking Genoese."
2. I have before remarked the power of general izci'u'.oa to
aid in the discovery of truth. We may here obscv^-e the
mode in which it tends to this result. Every object in
nature, every change, every law, is the type of a class more
numerous than we are able to conceive. These types are
repeated and diversified in infinite variety, but they are all
characteiized by the same essential elements, unseen, it may
be, by the casual observer, but understood by the far-sigiited
m .crpreter of nature. He who is able to distinguish the
Ci.^ontial elements of a type from its accidental cir-^um-
etances. trace them out through their various mnnifestations,
and expand them to their widest generalizations, will find \l^i
mind replete with conceptions of all possible truth. Gen-
384 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPnY.
eralization pointed out to Newton those conceptions which
led to most of his discoveries, and also gave rise to manj;
suggestions which were not proved to be discoveries until
more than a century after his death. In his experiments
on light, lie observed that the refracting power of different
belies was in proportion to their combustibility., and that tho
diamond possessed the former power in an unusual degree,
Applying this law to this particular case, he was led to con
ceive that the diamond itself mio;ht be combustible. Though
a minwal. and tlie hardest of known substances, he disie-
garded these accidents, and, boldly generalizing his idea,
predictcid a discovery which only a few years since has been
established.
3 In the works of a great artist, there is always to be
observed a manner peculiar to himself, which a true connois-
seur will readily detect. We call this peculiarity the style
of an author or an artist. It is derived from the intellec-
tual and moral character of the individual, and is that which
renders his outward works the index of his inward and spir-
itual mind. It is natural to suppose that this peculiarity
cbould be apparent in the woiks of the Creator. There is
a speciality in his mode of treating subjects, a style which
desi j;nates all the works of his hand. He who, by deep and
prolbund reflection on the works of God, has become most
familiar with the laws of that which we call nature, and
with the relations Avhich these laws sustain to each other
will be the most likely to penetrate into the unknown, and
originate those conceptions which lead to the discovery of
trufn. The further he advances in his investigations, the
richer will be the field of discovery that opens before him.
If I may be allowed, I will use an illustration wh>h J
once employed when treating on this subject. " Suppse I
should present before you one of the paintings of Rapnae!
audj covering a part of it with a screen, ask you to pr'jceed
PHILOSOPHICAL I.MACINATIOX. 385
With the work, and designate where the next lines shouUl be
drawn. It is evident that none but a painter ever need
make the attempt, and that, of painters, he would be the
most likely to succeed who was best acquainted with the
genius of Raphael, and had most thoroughly meditated on
the manner in which that genius manifested itself in the
work before him. So, of the system of the universe. We
see but in part; all the rest is hidden from our view.
Ho will, however, most readily discover where the next
lines are drawn who is most thoroughly acquainted with
the character of the author, and has observed with the
greatest accuracy tiie manner in which that character is dis-
played in that portion of the system which he has revealed
to us. It is evident, also, that just in proportion as the
work advanced, and portion after portion of tiie screen wa3
removed, just in that proportion would the difficulty of com-
pleting the whole be diminished.'* — Discourse on the Phi-
losophy of Analogy.
If these reinarks be true, they throw some light upon
the subject of education. The power of forming conceptiona
which shall lead to discovery in science, or to the practica-
ble in action, is clearly of vast importance. Can this power
oe cultivated ? On this question there can be no doubt. It
steadily increases with the progress of the human mind.
AVe naturally inquire whether the cultivation of this ele-
ment of intellectual character has been regarded with suffi-
cient attention by those who form our courses of higher
education. A large part of the studies which we pursue
add very little to our power of forming conceptions of any
character A\hatever. A larger infusion of the study of
pliysical science, not merely as a collection of facts, but aa
a system of laws, with their relations and dependencies,
would be of great value in this respect. We thus study
the ideas and conceptions of the Creator. We become ac-
33
6SQ INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
quainted "with his manner of accomplishing his purposes
and learn, in seme measure, the style of the Author of all
things. Surely, this habit of mind must be of unspeakable
value to a philosopher in the discovery of truth, or to a man
of affairs in devising his plans, since these can only succeed
as they are in harmony with the designs of infinite wisdoip
and benevolence.
•• There 's a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Bough-hew them as we will."
RE FEREN CES.
Nature of hypothesis — Reid, Jlssay 1, chap. 3,
Importance of ideals — Stewart, vol i., chap. 7, wc 6
Garfaua style in nature's works — voL ii., chap. 4, tcu
CHAPTER Vlll
TASTE.
SECTION I. — THE NATUtE 01 TA.'/A
We have now considered the most important ( f thoee
p'.wers of the human mind which may be strictly termed
intellectual; that is, which are employed in the acquisition
and increase of knowledge. By the use of these wt mi^L'ht
prosecute our inquiries in every direction, and extend the
limits of science, as far as it has been permitted by our Crea-
tor. But were this all, we should be deprived of much of
the innocent pleasure which accompanies the employment
of our faculties, and thus lose an important inducement to
mental cultivation. We find that many of the phenomena
which we observe, are to us a source of happiness, frequently
of an exquisite character. This happiness is bestowed upon
us through means of another endowment, which we denomi-
nate taste. It is so intimately associated with the faculties
purely intellectual, that our view of them would be imperfect
dii we not bestow upon it at least a brief examination.
T»6te is that mental sensibility by which we cognize the
beauties and deformities of nature and art, — enjoying
pleasure from the one, and suffering pain from the other.
in this definition we speak cf taste as a sensibility, ratbei
SS8 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHIC.
than a faculty. A faculty is the power of doing something
of putting forth some act, or accomplishing some change.
Such is not the nature of taste. It creates no change. It
merely recognizes its appropriate object, and is the seat of the
subjective emotion to Avhich the object gives exercise. When
an object is presented, taste recognizes its aesthetic quality ;
it is sensible of pleasure or pain, and here its office terminatng.
Of the univei-saliiy of this endowment there cannot be a
question. The consciousness of every man bears testimony
to its existence. When we look upon a rainbow, we are
sensible of an emotion wholly different from that with which
we look upon the dark cloud which it overspreads. The
cause of the emotion we call the beauty of the rainbow, and
the emotion itself we recognize as one of a peculiar charac-
ter, unlike any other of which we are conscious. We ob-
serve that all men are affected by a multitude of objects in
the same manner as ourselves. Young and old, cultivated
and uncultivated, observe this quality in many of the same
objects, and are affected by them in the same manner. It
is not asserted, however, that all men recognize the quality
of beauty in the same things, or that all men are conscious
of the same intensity of aesthetic emotion. These may xary
by association and culture. What is here affirmed, is, that
all men, in various degrees, are conscious of the pleasure
lerived from the observation of objects which they term
beautiful, and that there are objects, which all men of the
eame or a similar degree of culture, designate by this epi-
thet. Hence, particular scenes have been, by all observers,
denominated beautiful or sublime. Hence, descriptions of
localities or events have been transmitted from age to age,
from nation to nation, and from language to language, ever
awakening the emotions to which they at first owed their
celebrity. Anacreon's ode to Spring. Homer's description
of a storm in the .S^gean, Horace's Fountain of Erundit
NATURE OF TASTE. 888
Binin and the plcasui-es of a country life, Milton's Gardec
of Eden, seem beautiful to all men ; and every man. when
be applies to them this designation, is certain that he uses
language which is perfectly well understood by the men
whom he addresses.
It may serve to render our notion of taste more definite
if we distinguish it from some of the faculties with which
it is liable to be confounded.
Taste is sometimes confounded with imagination. Thua
fiofurative language and works of art in general are some-
times said to be addressed to the imagination. This is not
strictly true. The conceptions of the fine arts are created
by the imagination of one, and reproduced by the imagina-
tion of another. This is, however, only the means to an
end. Our ultimate object is to present them to taste, for,
unless the taste be gratified, no matter how strongly they
may be imagined, the whole object for which they are
created, fails.
Imagination is the faculty by which we combine ; taste
is the sensibility by which we feel. Imagination forms pic-
tures ; taste determines whether or not a certain quality
exists in them after they are formed. By my imagination,
I form a conception of a landscape ; by my taste, I decide
upon the beauty of the conception which I have created.
Imagination creates ; taste judges of the creation. Imagina-
tion itself is the seat neither of pleasure nor pain ; all the
pleasure which we enjoy, or the pain which we suffer, from
the works of the imagination, is derived from taste.
These endowments may be conferred in very different degree
ui)on th3 same person. A fertile imagination, as I liave
before remarked, is sometimes c.->mbined with a very imper-
fect taste. In such cases, an artist will form images in
great profusion, but they fail to please, and sometimes dis-
gust us. Such seems to have been the case with Fuseli, a
33*
89G
llSrrELLECTUAL PHILOSOIHT.
painter of boundless imagination, but frequentlj tjmbinin^
in his conceptions the sublime and the ridiculous- Thia
peculiar type of cluuacter is not uncommonly found in pf^r.
sons passiUjf into insanity, or in that condition of the intel-
lect, sometimes existing tlirough life, in which the individual
dwells habitually upcn the narrow confine which separates
sanity from madness. The late Edward Irving, a man of
powerful imagination and withal of commanding eloquence,
seems for many of the later years of his life to have exem-
plified this remark.
It is, however, more common to find men endowed with a
correct taste, but deficient in imagination. Such persons,
have no power of original creation, while they will decide
correctly conceining the creations of others. They are
good critics, but bad artists. For a man of so eminent en-
dowments, I think that Addison may be considered much
more remarkable for taste than iniagination. I think it was
the great Lord Chatham who remarked, that few men were
endowed with the " prophet ic eye of taste," that is, who
could create for themselves a conception, and judge correctly
concerning its beauty, before it had assumed a visible reality.
His remai k was made with reference to landscape gardening,
but it is of general application. We know that almost every
man can determine whether grounds are laid out beautifully,
while very few men have the talent for so laying them out
as to confer permanent pleasure on the beholder. Distin-
guished success in the fine arts can only be attained by
tliose, in whom both of these endowments are in an eminent
degree united. Homer, Milton, Shakspeare, M. Angelo,
({apbael, were all thus preeminently gifted.
Taste and •conscience have many points both of similarity
and difference. Both of them belong to the class of original
Buggestions. Both take cognizance of a peculiar quality in
in external object, and both derire either pleasure or pai*
NATURE OF TASTE. &9\
from the cognizance of this quality. When I see an act
done, I recognize in it the quality of right or wrong, anJ I
am conscious also of a subjective emotion. So I perceive
an external object. I observe in it the quality of beauty or
deformity, and it awakens its corresponding aesthetic emo-
tion, which is either the pleasure or pain of taste. In these
respects they singularly coincide.
In many important particulars, however, they are widel?
dissimilar.
Conscience observes the peculiar quality which it detects,
in nothing but the voluntary actions of responsible beings
Taste discovei-s the quality which it cognizes, in all objects
material and spiritual, in all actions, and in all relations.
The one is called into action by the quality of right or
wrong ; the other by beauty or deformity. The difference
between these two qualities is manifest at once to our con-
Rciousness. Every one knows that the quality which he
recognizes ia a rose, and that which he recognizes in an act
of noble self-sacrifice, are as different as any two objects
within the i-ange of his knoAvledge. The subjective emotion
awakened hj conscience is wholly unlike that awakened by
taste. The emotion of conscience is complicated with a
variety of other emotions, as. for instance, of moral appro-
bation or disapprobation, the conviction of good or ill desert,
the assurance of consequences which must result from
moral action. The pleasure of taste is simple, terminating
in itself, and wholly destitute of any moral emotion. No
man can pay even a casual attention to the deliverances of
consciousness, without being convinced of the wide differ-
tncc both objective and subjective, of these two eolowmenta.
The character of taste varies greatly with age. In youth,
bright colors and strong contrasts please us. We are inca-
pable of being affected by an^'thing which does not impress
OS strongly. As we gr>w older, we derive more pleasura
S92 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
from form, proportion, symmetry and expression. Lesj
iazzling colors, and more subdued contrasts become agree-
able, and we behold with indifference what we once admired
as beautiful. In this respect, savages resemble children
No color pleases them so much as scarlet, no matter in what
form it may become a part of the dress. Their ornaments
are such as force themselves upon the notice, without any
regard to the relation which they sustain to the character
of the wearer, or their harmony with the general impression
which he supposes himself to produce. Ornaments, in a
more advanced state of society, worn merely to attract
attention, or for the display of wealth, manifest the same im-
perfection of taste which we observe in savages.
gPGTION II. — TASTE CONSIDERED OBJECTIVELY. — MATE-
RIAL QUALITIES AS OBJECTS OF TASTE.
Tb e objects adapted to awaken the emotion of taste arc
innunerable. The Creator, having bestowed upon us this
sensi'jility, has made the universe around us to minister tc
its (gratification. The heavens above, the earth beneath,
all »he changes of the seasons, all the products of animal
and vegetable life, the gems of the mine and the pearls of
the ocean, the ripple of the brook and the thunder of the
cataract, the prancing of the war-horse and the bounding
of the fawn, the wing of the butterfly and the plumage cf
the bird of Paradise, the carol of the lark and the wild
screim of the eagle, with the ten thousand objects which
moot us v/herever we look abroad upon the works of God.
are intended to awaken the emotions of beauty and sublim-
ity, and fill us with humble adoration of Him who is thfl
Give: of every g'lod and perfect gift.
OBJECTS OF TASTE. 398
To attempt an enumeration of all the objects in A\hich we
discover beauty or sublimity would be useless. We shall
merely indicate some of the classes of objects by which we
are thus affected, principally for the sake of directing atten-
tion to the aesthetic elements existing in the w jrld around ua
The qualities of external objects which address them-
Belves to the taste are those which arc perceived by the eja
end the ear.
By the eye we perceive color ^ Jottji^ and motion.
Color as an object of beauty.
Colors may be divided into prismatic and plain.
The prismatic colors are violet, indigo, blue, green, yel-
low, orange and red. These all are beautiful separately,
and, in an eminent degree, when combined. What can be
more exquisitively beautiful in color, than the summer rain-
bow or the solar spectrum ] No human being probably ever
looked upon them without intense delight.
A distinction may, however, be discovered between the
prismatic colors. The first three of the series, in the order
in whieh I have mentioned them, may be denominated grave,
the last three gay, while the remaining one, green, possesses
a character intermediate between them. Hence, gay colors
are most appropriate to festive occasions, while graver are
adapted to occasions of solemnity. The dresses of men are
geneially either black or blue ; those of women, of every
variety of color, but more commonly gay. How strangely
inappropriate would it seem if the dresses of a wedding
party or a ball-room, and those of a court of justice were ex
changed for each other ! The colors of the garden and the
f.eld are commonly eithei white or some modification of red,
orange, or yellow. The grave colors are here observed but
rarely, and then in their lighter shades ; or, by being mingled
with the others, they increase their effect by contrast.
The color, however, wh'ch is most abundantly spread
J94 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY-
over nature is green. It is universally agreeable; it admits
of an infinite variotj' of shade, and, without producing any
vivid emotion, harmonizes most happily with all. A grove
is an appropriate place for a festive entertainment, and treea
are the indispensable ornament of a cemetery, where every-
thing reminds us of the sorrows of separation and the so-
lemnities of eternity.
Color sometimes becomes an element of sublimity as well
as of beauty. The sublimity of a thunder cloud is increased
by its intense blackness. Tiie deep blue of the heavens, in
a clear night, adds greatly to the grandeur of the spectacle
which they exhibit.
Many of the objects which we perceive are clothed with
plain colors, as gray, brown, dusky, or wood color. These
produce in us no emotion, either of pleasure or pain, but
they relieve the eye when fatigued by the brilliancy of the
prismatic colors. Thus, the earth when not covered with
vegetation, the trunks and branches of trees, and most of
our domestic animals, are clothed in plain colors.
Form. — We detect the quality of beauty in the simplest
varieties of form. Thus, a straight is more beautiful than
an irregular line. A curved, irrespective of utility, is more
beautiful than a straight line. A spiral line, as of a vine
entwined around a column, is more beautiful than either.
The stems of flowen that bend gently downward, like the
lily of the valley, a,ro more beautiful than those which. stand
straight and inflexible, hke the hollyhock. Every one hag
remarked the difference between the serpentine bending of
a river, seeming to turn at will in any direction which it
prefers, and the stiff rectilinearity of a canal, carried through
bill and over valley, without a single graceful flexure to
vary its monotony
Angles seem capal le of greater beauty than could ha pa
been anticipated. The obtuse angle of the roof of a GreciJMj
OBJECTS 01 TASTE. 395
lemple is remnrkaMj agreeaMe. The whole effect of the
ed:Sce would be destroyed by raising the roof to an acute
angle. On the contrary, a pyramid standing on the ground^
if its apex were obtuse, would appear squat and disgu.«tiug.
Yet, an acute-angled roof is not always displeasing. To a
Gothic cdificfc it is indispensable, and here an obtuse angle
vould be intolerable. That this difference exists must, I
think, be admitted by all. The reason of it I am unable
to discover.
Figure. — Irrespective of utility, figures bounded by
carves are more beautiful than those bounded by straight
lines. A sphere is more beautiful than a cube, a circle
than a sfj[uare, an ellipse than a parallelogram, a cylindri-
cal than a rectangular column. The lines of beauty in tlie
human countenance are all curves. What could be more
shocking than a human face, formed by right lines? The
petals of flowers, the outline of fruits, are almost univer-
sally bounded by curves.
Eegular figures are ahvays more beautiful than irregular.
A square is more beautiful than a trapezoid. A room of
which the opposite sides are not equal, or a window or door
not exact parallelograms, affect us painfully. The roof of a
house of which the sides slant unequally is everywhere dis-
agreeable.
Simple forms are generally more beautiful than complex.
Every one admires the simple majesty of a Grecian temple,
the mere combination of a few right lines and circles. Yet
this rule is. by no means, exclusive. The Gothic cathedral
is remarkable for its extreme complexity, both of design
and ornament, and yet it is preeminently beautiful.
Vioftort'ioii. — Proportion is a relation existing betTeea
the parts of the same figure, as between the length acd
breadth of a parallelogram, the two diameters of an ellipse,
tho rliametcr and height of a column, or the base and elev*.
596 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
tion of a building. In some of these we discover beauty ,
in others deformity. A building with no other beautj
than that of proportion is frequently decidedly agrceahle.
It requires the highest skill in an artist to determine before-
hand the proportions that shall please all men in all ages..
In this respect the taste of the Greeks was preeminent
The canons which they established f&r the proportions of
the several parts of a temple have never been improved.
It has been found that no material departure can be made
from them without producing deformity.
Uniformity, or perfect similarity of corresponding parts,
is another source of beauty. We admire a tree, of which
the opposite branches are equal, and project at the samo
angle from the trunk. A building with equal wings on
the opposite sides is frequently beautiful; but if the wings
be of different magnitudes, or dissimilar construction, it is
considered a deformity. The limbs on the opposite sides of
the body, the features on the opposite sides of the face, are
uniform ; when it is otherwise, we are pained by what seems
a monstrosity.
But, while uniformity is pleasing, it is necessary to observe
that its opposite, variety, is equally pleasing. In objects
designed to accomplish the same purpose we expect uni-
formity ; but Avhen the design is different, or even suscep-
tible of modification, we are delighted with variety. We
love to see the opposite branches of the same tree uniform ;
but we also love to see the different trees of a forest or a
park marked by every possible variety. We are pleased
when the windows of a house, in the same story and in the
same line, are uniform; but we are also pleased to see the
windows of diffeient stories dissimilar. If two rows of
co'-umns are placed one above the other, in the front cf a
buildinii, it would be monstrous to see different orders of
OBJECTS OF TASTB. 8J1
iTchitecture occupying the same line ; but \\e are pleased
when the upper row is of a different order from the lower.
M.iguitiidc has an important influence on all our aesthetic
ideas. Vastness is a quality which addresses strongly the
sensibility of taste. Every one has felt the emotion of sub-
lini.ty when travelling through a mountainous country
Ile-ce a region hke Switzerland becomes a favorite resort
for the lovers of nature from every part of the civilized
vroild. The ocean is at all times a most impressive object,
especially when lashed into tempest. Here vastness in
magnitude combines with resistless force to create the
strongest emotion of sublimity. On the other hand, small-
ness, if combined with regularity, may be eminently beau-
tiful ; but, without regularity, littleness awakens no emotion.
iVn overhanging cliff is sublime ; a fragment broken off
from it is indifferent ; but a delicately-formed crystal found
in that fragment may be remarkably beautiful. The temple
of Minerva, or Lincoln cathedral, impresses us with awe,
and awakens the emotion of sublimity ; but an accurate
model of either, of a few inches in magnitude, would be
exceedingly beautiful. A cascade in a brook is beautiful ;
but the cataract of Niagara is inexpressibly sublime.
Such are some of the facts relating to beauty of form
It is proper, however, to remark that they are cnly general,
not universal ; that is, we frequently observe beauty which
seems at variance with the most commonly observed laws.
"We can never say that, because a particular form or pr>
portion is beautiful, therefore, in different circumstances, a
form directly the reverse must be disagreeable. Our notiona
en these subjects are frequently modified by association.
But where no association exists, we observe contradictiona
which can be harmonized by no laws with which I am ac-
quainted. A remarkable instance of this occurs in ths
c&flderful beauty of the Grecian temple and the Gotbio
34
8^8 liJTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
cathedral, of which the canons are precisely the reverse of
each other. In deciding upon any form of bc'iutj, oui
appeal must, therefore, be to the sensitiveness of our com-
mon nature. The taste of mankind is here vPimate, ami
soems frequently to set all our laws at defiance.
Motion as a source of beauty.
Motion is in itself pleasing. A ship under aiil is vastly
SD)re beautiful than a ship lying at anchor or fit the wharf.
But motion is of various kinds, each exhibiting some
peculiar form of beauty.
Motion may be either quick or slow. Tho'xgh both au
agreeable objects to the taste, slow motion tend 5 more to the
beautiful, and swift to the sublime. The &\ov sailing of a
hawk is beautiful ; when pouncing upon his prey, the motion
tends to the sublime. The gentle flow of a river is beau
tiful ; when it falls over a precipice it is sublime.
In general, it may be remarked, that no motion is beau-
tiful which betokens toil or violent effort. The nearer it
approaches to utter unconsciousness of exertion, other things
being equal, the more beautiful it becomes. Every one
must have observed the aesthetic diiference between the toil-
8ome gait of a rhinoceros, or an elephant, and the elastic
bounding of a deer. The motion of a vessel under sail,
for this reason, is, I think, more beautiful than of one pro-
pelled by steam.
Motion in curves is more beautiful than that in straight
lines, both because of the greater beauty of the curved lino,
and because curvilinear motion in licates less effort. For
thc3C reasons, the motion of a fish in tlie water has always
feecmed to me remarkably beautiful. The waving of a field
of s;rain, presenting an endless succession of curved line3,
ad ancing and receding with gentle motion, uniform in thi
midst of endless variety, has always seemed to me one o\
the most beautiful objects in nature. On the contrary
OBJECTS OF TArfTE. 899
lolting and angular motion always displeases us. How dif-
ferent is the effect produced by the motion of one man on
crutches, ai d of another on skates !
Ascending motion is more graceful than descending, if it
do not betoken effort. The ascent of a rocket is more beau-
tiful than its descent, especially if it ascend in a curved lino.
Fur this reason a jet d'eau is vastly more beautiful than a
waterfill of the same volume. Ascending motion in spiral
lines is exceedingly beautiful, as for instance, the ascent of
a hawk, as it moves slowly upward, in oft-repeated circles.
It is manifest that many objects derive their power to
please us from a single one of these qualities. Thus, the
evening cloud displays rarely any other beauty than that of
color. Others combine several of them, conducing to the
Mime result. Thus the rainbow unites beauty of color with
beauty of form. The greater the number and the more intense
the dtgree in which any object unites these several qualities,
the more impressive does it become, and the more univer-
sally is it selected by poets and artists for esthetic effect
Thus the human foi m. especially the countenance, combin-
ing beauty of color, form, motion, and expression, is always
considered the most remarkable object in nature, and is
seleoted by painters and sculptors, as the finest subject on
which their art can be employed.
Objects of taste addressed to the ear^ 01 beauty of
sozmd.
That sound is a source of beauty, independently, and
eipeci:illy in combination with other objects, will be readily
granted by every lover of nature. How greatly is the effL-ct
of a summer's landscape increased by the singing of birds '
Sounds differ in their degree of loudness.
Loudness awakens the emotion of sublimity, as in Cic
instance of a peal of thunder or the roar of a cacaract.
Soothing sounds as the singing of birds, the hum of beea
4v0 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
ihe r.w^-»tliiig of the trees of a forest, add greatly to ihs
effect of a summer's landscape. Low, continuous sound
tends to repose, and harmonizes with all our ideas of tho
peace and quietness of a country life. These circumstat.cea
are beautifally combined by Virgil, in describing ihe f race
of Italy, in contrast with the civil wars by which ii hsui
been 80 lately devastated :
•' Sepes
ITybljeis apibus florem depasta salicti,
Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro
Hinc, alta sub rupe, canit frondator ad auras.
Nee tamen interea, raucae, tua cura, palumbes.
Nee gemere a«ria cessabit turtur ab ulmo."
1 Buco^\0.
So Shakspeare, alluding to the power of gentle rounds
" That strain again ; it had a dying fill.
0, it came o 'er my ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor,"
Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene \.
But, while loudness of sound awakens the emotion of sub-
limity, it must not be supposed that its opposite, absolute
silence, is unimpressive. Deep silence is frequently emi-
nently sublime, especially when it occurs in the interHssion
of the roar of the tempest, or in preparation for the awful
catastrophe of a battle. Campbell, in his "Battle •"' the
As tfiey drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
« Hearts of oak ! ' our captain cried, and .v»ch {ob.
From its adamantine lips.
OBJECTS OF TASTE. 401
Spkead a death-shade roand tha ships,
LIk<: the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.*
The late Dr. Jeffries, of Boston, in the narrati'.e of \ii8
|>ag}age across the English Channel with Montgolficr, ia a
balioon, has the following striking remark :
''Amidst all the magnificent scenes around me and under
me, nothing at the time more impressed me with its novelty
than (if I may be allowed to use the expression) the aw-
ful stillness or silence in which we seemed to be enveloped,
■which produced a sensation that I am unable to describe,
but which seemed at the time to be a certain kind of stillnesa
(if I may so e.xpress it) that could be felt."-- Narrative
of Two Aerial Voyages, page 52.
Sound may be either lengthened or abrupt. Continuous
Bound is grave ; abrupt sound is exciting. We all have ob-
served the difference between the long, reechoed bellowings
of distant thunder, and the sudden rattling reverberation
of thunder near at hand. Music with few or distant inter-
vals harmonizes with a melancholy train of thought. Mu-
sic with rapid and frequent intervals is cheering and ani-
mating. Every one knows the different effects of a dirge
and a quick-step, or of the same air played in q tick and in
slow time.
The effect of music on our emotions is thus admirably
iesci ibcd by Cowper :
•* There is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And ns the mind is pitched, the eixr is ple;i8ed
With melting aii-s or martial, brisk or grave.
Some ciiord in unison with what we hear
Is touched witliin us, and the heart repliea.
How soft the music of yon village bells.
Boiling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet ! now dying all away.
Now pealing loud again, and louder rtill,
34*
i02 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on
With easy P. TCP it opens all the cells
Where memory slept."
Task, Book 6.
I have thus far spoien of sounds \>hich produce at
aesthetic effect upon us by themselves. It is, however,
yrobable that sounds depend more upon association for their
eflfect, than either color or form. The effect of music ia
greatly increased by uniting it with appropriate words. The
most common air, if associated with the remembrance of
home and country and friends, becomes deeply affectincr. I
have heard the Swiss herdsman's song, and it seemed to me
dull and monotonous, without any power of appeal to the
heart. Yet it is said to effect these mountaineers, when in
a foreign land, even to weeping : so that the playing of it ia
forbidden in the armies with Avhich they are in service.
It is on this account that common sounds, nay. sounds in
themselves displeasing, become, under peculiar circum-
stances, delightful. There is nothing intrinsically pleasing
in the lowing of cattle ; when heard close at hand, it is dis-
agreeable. Yet I have heard seamen speak with deep feel-
ing of the delight with which they listened to these sounds^
when, after a long voyage, they first heard them from their
Lative shore. In a word, anything pleases us which recalls
deeply-affecting reminiscences ; and music possesses thig
power in a remarkable degree. Cowper expresses this truth
with exquisite taste in the following passage :
" Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds.
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore.
Ten tht'isand warblers cheer the iay, and one
OBJKCTS OF TASTE.
40SI
TJie livelong night. Nor the«e aione, whose D't^t
Nice-fingered art must emiilite in v.iiu.
But cawing rooks, and kites, that soar ^uMiuie
In still repeated circles, sci-eaniing loud.
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl.
That hails the rising morn, have ciiirni« fiir me.
Sounds i/itiurmonious in Ihemsclccx, and A^rsrt,
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns.
And only there, please highly, for her sake."
T^x, Book !.
BXCnON III — OBJECTS OF T.A.STE.
ITIES.
IMMATERIAL QUAV
There can be no doubt that we discover in tlie creation
(tfound us much that is beautiful which cannot be referred
to any material quality. There are various attributes of
human beings Avhich do not discover themselves to the
senses. There are various affections of our sjjiritual nature
which we are able to contemplate distinctly by themselves.
These affections are capable of producing in us the emotion
of beauty and sublimity, or of deformity and meanness. A
brief consideration of some of these is necessary to the
completion of the plan which we have proposed.
The order in which these emotions arise is probably tho
following. We first become conscious of the emotion of
bjauty from the contemplation of material objects. Colors
and sounds first delight us ; then form and motion. But,
as our minds assume a subjective tendency, we think of
the a;tions, the motives, the governing principles, and char-
acters of men. We find that some of these awaken in U3
an emotion exceedingly analogous to that of which we were
conscious when we observed the beautiful and sublime in
external nature. We give to both classes of emotion ihe
iume name, and designate the objects which awaken them
404 INTELLECTVIAL PHILOSOPHY.
by the same epithet. Thus, we speak of a beautiful flower,
and of a beautiful sentiment, of a sublime scene and a sub-
lime action, employing the same term to designate the aes-
thetic quality in the object, whether it be material or imma-
terial.
It may, however, be well to observe, in passing, that the
emotion of taste, when we contemplate a moral action, ia
different from the moral emotion. In the latter case, we
look upon it as right or wrong ; as fulfilling or violating
obligation ; as a matter for moral approbation or disappro-
bation, and as involving consequences greater than we can
adequately conceive. In this case, we merely contemplate
its aesthetic quality, as something which excites within us
the emotion of the beautiful or sublime, without any consid-
eration of its merit or demerit, or any view of its conse-
quences either here or hereafter. Hence it is that there are
many more admirers of goodness tban good men. A pro-
fane and impious poet may discourse eloquently on the
character of a lioly God, as Rousseau paid a striking tribute
to the moral sublimity of the death of the Redeemer.
I proceed to mention a few examples of immaterial qual-
ities which seem to possess remarkable aesthetic power.
Unusual power of intellect, successfully displayed, pre-
Bents an object singularly pleasing to the taste. Newton, in
his study, arriving at the result of his labors, and over-
whelmed with the consciousness that he had revealed to
mankind the mechanism of the universe ; Milton, in pov-
erty and blindness, working out his immortal epic ; Gitbon,
§eated on the ruins of the Coliseum, resolving to develop
the cause of the decline and fall of the Roman empire, —
are illustrations of this form of sublimity.
High intelligence, leading to important and self-reliant
action, presents a still more impressive object of the spirit-
ually sublime. A general, on the eve of a great battla
IMMATEBIAL OBJECTS 0. TASTE. 405
prepared for a contest on which vast Issues depend, as Na-
poleon at the battle of the Pyramids ; Columbus meditating
the discovtry of America, and fully resolved to Uivor^ hia
life to the search for an unknown world; Clarkson r'^silv-
ing to lay aside every other object, and live thereafttr oi\ly
for the abolition of the African slave-trade, — may all l<
cited as instances of this kind.
The social and domestic affections, when conspicuously
displayed, furnish many illustrations of beauty and sublim-
ity. The affection of the parent for his prodigal son, in
the inimitable parable of our Lord ; the Roman daughter
nourishing from her own breast her father who waa
condemned to die by starvation ; the lament of David over
Saul and Jonathan, and his bitter wailing over his son Ab-
salom ; the parting of Paul from the elders at Miletus, —
are all illustrations of the power of affection to create the
emotion of the beautiful, and they have been frequently
used for this purpose by poets and artists.
Still more impressive are the exhibitions of high moral
excellence.
The noble bearing of the three Hebrews, when threatened
with instant death unless they would worship the golden
image of the king of Babylon, is a fine illustration of the
morally sublime. " 0, Nebuchadnezzar, we are not care-
ful to answer thee in this matter. If it be so, our God
whom we serve is able to deliver us, and he will deliver ua
out of thy hand, king ! But if not, be it known unto
thee, C king, that we will not serve thy Gods, nor wor-
fibip the golden image which thou hast set up."
The description by Horace of a man of steadfast purTX>8€
$xx\ incorruptible integrity, has for ages called fonfa thi
tdmiration of scholars :
•• Justam et tenacem propositi virutn
Nob civium ardor pr&va jubeutium.
(06
lNTELL£rrUAL PHILOSOPHT.
Non vultus instantis tyranni,
Mente qu-ttit golida, neque Auster,
Dux inqukii turbidus Ha/lrifB;
Nee fulminautis magna m'snus Jovis.
Si fractus illabr.tVir orbis,
Impavidod ferient ruinae."
Lib. 3. Carmen 8 1-8.
An act of supposed patriotism is thus celebrated hs
IkfUMiie :
" Look then abroad throagh nature, to the range
Of suns and stars and adamantine spheres.
Wheeling unshaken through the void immense.
And speak, man ! does this capacious scene
With half that kindred majesty dilate.
Thy strong conception, as whtn Brutus rose
Refulgent from the stroke of C.Esar's fate.
Amid the crowd of patriots, anu his arm
Aloft extending, like Eternal Jova
When guilt brings down the thunder, called aloud
On Tully's name, and shook his cr.mson steel,
And bade the father of his country hail !
For lo ! the tyrant prostrate in the aust.
And Rome is free again."
1 adduce this passage without any sympathy with its
ethical sentiments, and merely as an examph of the power
of supposed patriotism to awaken emotion. It is a con-
spicuous instance of the power of love of country to
ennoble, for the moment, assassination itself How different
is the type of moral sublimity revealed to us in the New
Testament ! For example, I need only refer to the dying
priyer of Jesus, "Father, forgive them, for they know not
what they do ! " The reply of our Lord to the soldier who
amote him has always seemed to me eminently sublime :
"If 1 have done evil, bear witness of the evil; but if
well, why smitest thou me ? "
The effect produced upon us either by material qualities
or immaterial energies is greatly increased by contrast. A
large object seems larger, and a small object smaller, when
IMMATERIAL OBJECTS OF TASTE. 401
placed in ju':taposition. A beautiful form appears m >!«
beautiful by contrast with deformity. Lofty disinterest d-
ness is more sublime when opposed to meanness, and bravry
when contrasted with pusillanimity. Of this princijde ar-
tists of every profession, wherever it is possible, avail th( m-
Bclves. We thus see youth and old age introduced into the
same group, in an historical painting, wildness and cultiva-
tion into the same landscape. So, in romance and trage ly,
characters of the most opposite elements are brought into
contact, to deepen the impression produced by both. Tl us,
Brutus and Cassius, Othello and lago, Duncan and Macbi thj
add greatly to the impression of each other. Instances of
the same kind may be given without number.
It is universally observed that the external indicationr of
the benevolent affections, or of those which we recognia ) as
beautiful, are themselves beautiful ; while those which in-
dicate the malevolent affections are displeasing. Hence, we
frequently meet a person whose countenance, without a sijtgle
beautiful feature, is remarkably agreeable, simply by rer-son
of the expression. In other cases, when the features them-
selves are beautiful, they fail to impress us favo/ably, be-
cause they are disfigured by the indications of meanness,
Belfishness, passion, or treachery. Hence it is that moral
and intellectual cultivation have so powerful an effect in im-
proving the human countenance. It is only when the ma-
terial and spiritual elements are united, that we observe the
highest style of human beauty. We can thus readily dis-
tinguish the works of a first-rate artist. A sculptor or a
painter may be able to delineate a form of faultless propor-
tions, and yet only attain to mediocrity in his profession.
He who to skill in delineation adds the power of expreosing
the indications of intellectual and moral character, is alone
destined to the immortality which the arts of design can
confer. It is one thing to copy a model, and is a verj* <iif
403 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
feiervt thing to Ibrm a conception of character, and, then, td
represent it in marble, or on canvas, so that we reprodace th<
same conception in the mind of every beholder.
Some of the innocent and painful emotions, as sorrow,
grief, regret, disappointment, may be agreeable objects of
taste, in their external manifestations. Here, however, m
cautious line of discrimination must be observed. As soon
as emotions become intense, thej cease to be pleasant to the
beholder. Thus, the external indication of sadness may
render a beautiful countenance more attractive ; but the
distortion produced by convulsive grief is unpleasant.
Ilence, he who is overwhelmed by calamity, and is obliged
to give utterance to his emotion in sobs and weeping, covera
his fiice, or retires from the view of otliers. The same re-
mark, in fact, applies to all the emotions. A smile may be
pleasing in an historical picture, but a broad grin, or wide-
mouthed laughter, would be intolerable. In reference to
this subject, Dr. Moore, in his " View of Society and Man-
ners in Italy," objects to the conception of tiie celebrated
group of Laocoon. He aflfirms that the physical agony
expiessed in the contortion of the features and limbs of the
parent and children, as they writhe within the folds of the
seipents, is too intense to be contemplated without positive
pain, and that, therefore, the effect of the group is distress-
ing and, of course, unpleasant. The artist has exhibited
his conception with admirable skill ; the flmlt is in the con-
seption itself.
BHCTION IV — THE EMOTION OF TASTE ; OR TASTE CON-
SIDERED SUBJECTIVELY.
The emotion of taste, or that state of mind of which we
tre sonscious when we contemplate any object of unusuft]
TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 409
leetbetic power, is exceedingly simple. Every one knowa
what it is, yet it is impossible to analyze, and difficult to de-
BCi ibe it. It is not connected by necessity with any result.
Sometimes we may desire to possess the object, as, fcr in-
stance, a picture that pleases us ; but this desire is by no
means universal. Who ever desired to own the falls of
Niagara '? Nor does the possession of a beautiful object in-
crease the pleasure which it gives us. The traveller through
a beautiful country enjoys the scenery around him just aa
much as if it were his own.
Th(5 emotion of gratified taste is eminently pleasing. To
be assured of this, we need only observe the sacrifices which
men undergo to obtain it. We travel hundreds of miles, at
great personal inconvenience, and are satisfied if, at the
end, we can look upon a magnificent cataract, or spend a
few days amid scenes of picturesque beauty. What mil-
lions have been attracted to Italy to survey the creations of
art which adorn the crumbling tomb of that " lone mother
of dead empires ! " And, if we look upon the world around
us, we shall be surprised at the vastness of the expense in-
curred in the gratification of taste. We do not spend much
on mere specimens of art. but when anything is demanded
by utility, we are willing to treble the cost, if it also gratifies
our love for the beautiful.
The emotion of taste, like the objects which excite it,
is of a twofold character — that produced by the beautiful,
and that by the sublime. The distinction easily unfolda
itself to our consciousness. Every one knows that the
emotion produced by a parterre of flowers, a jet d'eau, is un-
like that produced by the sight of the ocean in a storm, a
magnificent mountain, the Parthenon of Athens, or the
pyramids of Egypt. Both are emotions of taste. Both
arc eminently sources of pleasure. The character of the
one may, however, be readily distinguished from the otbe^
85
^10 D^TELLECTLAL PHILOSOPHY.
No sharp line of discrimination can, however, be drAWt
between the classes of objects which give r'se to these dif-
ferent emotions. In many cases, they insensibly blend with
eacb other. A river at its commencement, and for a pcr-
tisn of its course, is simply beautiful. "When it pours itself
into the ocean, like the Mississippi or Amazon, it becomes
an object of sublimity. It may be, however, impossi])le to
designate the point at which one quality ends, and the other
begins. The same is true of immaterial qualities. An act
of kindness, compassion, or gratitude, is generally beauti-
ful, while a conspicuous act of justice is sublime. These,
however, may be reversed. A trifling or graceful act of
justice may be beautiful ; an act of godlike compassion, a^
the death on the cross, is passing sublime.
We may observe a difference in the character of these
emotions, and in the sentiments with which they harmonize
The emotion of beauty is calm, moderately exhilarating, at-
tractive, and harmonizes with all the bland and social affec-
tions, whether grave or gay. The emotion of the subhme
is exciting, engrossing, filling the mind with awe, some-
times with terror, and associating with grave resolves and
momentous and soul-stirring action. Thus ornament may
increase the hilarity of a ball-room, or it may add deeper
impressiveness to the sadness of the tomb. The sublime
may add intensity to the emotion which impels us to heroic
achievement, or, overpowering all our faculties, may over-
whelm us with sudden amazement.
The emotion of taste is commonly transient. Its object
being to give us pleasure, the impression which it creates ia
easily efiaced by collision with the sterner realities of life.
It is, in its nature, evanescent. An object that pleases us
to-day, will affect us less powerfully to-morrow, and, if it be
continually in our presence, will soon cease to affect us at
all Persons living in the vicinity "f he most magnificcui
TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 411
BcetiCry, view it without emotion. From this fad, the ar-
tist finds it necessary to employ every means in his powci
to deepen the impression which he designs to create. The
manner in which this is done must depend upon the meana
at his disposal The painter, in his representation, ia
limited to a single moment of time. In forming his con-
ception, he must, theiefore, arrange every circumstance of
his picture, so that it shall on that instant conduce to tho
principal effect. In language, we are not thus limited, and
may accomplish our result by means of repeated impres-
sions. As, however, the mind affected bj one object would
be less affected by another precisely similar, it becomes
necessary to arrange every circumstance climactically, so
that the emotion first excited may be rendered at every step
more intense. The effect of such an arrangement is beau-
tifully illustrated by Shakspearc in the following passage '.
" Knew ye not Pompey ? Many a time and oft
Have ye climbed up to walls and battlements.
To towers and windows, yea to window tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, in patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rom©
And when you saw his chariot but appear.
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in his concave shores ? "
Julius C-ssab, Act 1, Scene 1.
for the same reason novelty adds greatly to the ipo^^t
of an ajsthetic conception. The most beautiful object bj
ref etition becomes incapable of moving us. Hence we are
Bf^cially gratified with a new illustration, an unexpected
resemblance or contrast, or any object, either of beauty oi
sublimity, which meets us for the first time. Hence tni
power of a mind that looks uj.ca a subject by its own light
11^ INTELLB-.TUAL PniLOSOPHl.
end discovers new relations that have escaped the obser ration
of others. Such writers, even with many defects, will al-
ways please ; while he who is content to be an imitator, may
be faultlessly correct, and inimitably proper, but he comes t^i
il: with a thrice-told tale, and leaves us wholly unaffected.
Wit \^ ojenerally mentioned as on*^ of the objects by whi^
the emotion of taste is excited. It seems to me but partially
connected with the subject, and therefore cannot here claim
any separate discussion. In the place of any analysis of
its nature and effects, I shall merely quote the following
passage from Dr. Barrow as the best description of wit and
its modes of affecting us with which I am acquainted.
" Sometimes it lieth in pat allusion to a known story, or
in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging
an apposite tale : sometimes it playeth in words and phrases,
taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the
affinity of their sound : sometimes it is lodged in a sly ques-
tion, in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd
intimation, in cunningly diverting or cleverly retorting an
objection : sometimes it is concealed in a bold scheme of
speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling
metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of contradictions, or in
acute nonsense : sometimes a scenical representation of per-
sons or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look or ges-
ture passeth for it : sometimes an affected simplicity, some-
times a presumptuous bluntness, giveth it being : sometimes
it risoth from a lucky hitting upon what is strange, some-
times from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose :
</trn it consisteth in one knows not what, and springeth up
one knows not how. Its ways are unaccountable and inex-
plicable, being answerable to the rovings of fancy and the
windings of language. It is, in short, a manner of speak-
ing out of the plain way, which, by a pretty and surprising
uncouthness in conceit or expression, doth affect and amusa
TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 41!}
tte fancy, stirring in it some wonder, and breeding some
delight thereto. It raiseth admiration, as signifying a nimbl«
sagacity of apprehension, a special felicity of invention, a
vivacity of spirit and reach of wit more than vulgar. It
seemeth to argue a rare quickness of parts, that one can
fetch in remote conceits applicable ; a notable skill, that ho
can dexterously accommodate them to the purpose befDre
him, together with a lively briskness of humor not apt to
dash those sportful flashes of the imagination. It also pro-
cureth delight by gratifying curiosity with its rareness or
gemblance of difficulty (as monsters not for their beauty but
their rarity ; as juggling tricks, not for their use but their
abstruseness, are beheld with pleasure), by diverting the mind
from its road of serious thoughts, by instilling gayety and
airiness of spirit in way of emulation or complaisance ; and
by seasoning matters, otherwise distasteful or insipid, with
an unusual and thence grateful tang." — Sermon against
Foolish Talking and Jesting.
A few remarks on the improvement of taste may be
appropriate to the close of this chapter.
I have said above that taste is that sensibility by which
we recognize the beauties and deformities of nature and art,
derivini' pleasure from the one, and suifering pain from the
other. From this definition it is evident that the function
of taste is two-fold ; first, it discriminates between beauty
and deformity, and, secondly, it is a source of pleasure and
pain. Cultivation improves it in both these respects. It
renders us better capable of distinguishing between beauty
and deformity in their nore delicate shades of difference;
and, as this power of discrimination is improved, the pleas-
ure which we derive from gratified taste becomes mora
exquisite and enduring, and the pain which we suffer fioia
deformity- is, in a corresponding degree, increased.
When we speak of the improvement of taste, the qtieatm
35*
Hi INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
naturally arises, How may we know when onr taste is iai-
proved / The taste of men varies greatly under different
circumstances. The taste of childhood differs from that of
youth, and that of youth ftom manhood. The taste of
savages in all ages is unlike that of civilized man. And
imcng nations that have made the greatest progress inci\il-
ization and refinement, we find that there have been great
diversities in this respect. The taste of Egypt was exceed-
ingly different from that of Greece. The taste of Greece
and Rome were by no means identical. Neither of them
bore any resemblance to the taste of India. Or, if we draw
nearer to the present time, the taste of the Mahommedana
was very dissimilar to that of the Catholics of the middle
ages. And we perceive corresponding difference at the
present day. The taste in architecture of France, Ger-
many, Italy, and Great Britain, is by no means identical
The same remaiks apply to poetry and the other fine arts.
Hence the question has frequently arisen, Is there any
standard of taste 7 Are there any canons to which we may
appeal when a difference of opinion exists, or by which we
may be guided in our attempts at self-cultivation ? It may
be worth while briefly to examine this question.
If by a standard of taste be meant a system of arbitrary
rules, established by reasonings or dictated by authority, to
which all the works of art must conform, and by reference
to which their merit must be decided, it is manifest that no
Euch standard exists. Who ever established it 7 By wliat
course of reasonings were its principles demonstrated? Who
was ever competent to decide for all men, at all times ; and
to -^-hose decisions have men ever yielded implicit submission '^
It is obvious that such a standard does not and cannot exist.
But, if, by a standard of taste, it be meant that on a great
rariety of questions in aesthetics there is a general agree-
ment of mankind in all ages, and among all nations, of tha
IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 41 S
Kime or of similar degrees of culture, and that th p agree
ment having been observed, many general laws may be
deduced from it by which the artist may be safely governed,
and by which we may all test the accuracy of our individual
decisions, then we must answer this question in the affirma-
tive. No one will doubt that some forms, colors, and pro-
portions, are more agreeable to mankind than others ; that
some positions are graceful, and others awkward ; that some
modes of thought and expression give us pleasure, and othera
give us pain. If mankind are made with similar faculties,
such must be the result. Although nations may differ widely
in their decisions at a particular time yei intercourse with
eacti other and progress in civilization tend to unanimity of
opinion even on questions upon which there existed at first
great diversity. Thus, when Greece and Rome came into
contact, Greece asserted her superiority over her conqueror,
and every Roman artist and poet copied with even servile
fidelity the models which were brought from the city of Peri-
cles. It is the object of the artist to observe these general
facts, not for the purpose of giving laws to nature, but of
recording the laws which nature has herself established.
Just so far as these laws have been discovered, they become
the standard to which the artist must conform if he desirea
to succeed, that is, to please humanity.
It would seem, then, that in our inquiries on this sub-
ject we are merely determining a question of fact. We ask
what aesthetiial forms have been found universally to please
mankind, or rather that portion of mankind whose circum-
stances have been favorable to a correct decision 1 "When
lliis pestion has been answered, we are to receive it as an
ultimate fact. Tliat which human nature pronounces to be
txjautiful is beautiful to man, and that which it pronounces
deformed is deformed. We may, it is true, with advantage
frequently analyze a complicated decision, ir order to deter*
416 INTBLLECTUAL PHtLGiOPHT.
mine with more accuracy the particular elements on w'hick
it is founded, and thus arrive at a simpler and more general
law. Thus, the voice of mankind has pronounced the epic
of Ilomer to be beautiful. This decision cannot be ques-
tioned. We may, however, examine it^ to determine the
qualities on which this decision is founded. There is the
general plot, the delineation of character, the description of
events, the vivacity of dramatic action, the language and
rhythmical power, the machinery or intervention of the
gods, the quarrels of the chiefs, the catalogue of the ships,
the lists of the slain, the slaughtering of animals, and the
culinary arrangements of the chiefs. We may certainly
analyze this complex variety of elements, and determine
which is essential and which injurious to the general effect
In this manner we are enabled to ascertain what it is that
pleases mankind, and thus form a more definite idea of the
standard of poetic excellence.
Our labor here, however, consists mainly in analysis.
We may examine separately the various elements of success
or failure, but we cannot reason from them with any decided
confidence. Because a particular form is beautiful in one
position, we cannot determine that it will please under all
circumstances. Because a particular combination of form
is beautiful, we can/iot determine what will be the effect of
an entirely opposite combination. An artist of originality
may repose a reasonable confidence in his own sensibilities,
but he can never be sure that a conception will please^ until
he has submitted it to the judgment of mankind.
Writers on this subject, of distinguished ability, have con-
tended that there is no established relation betAveen the
numan sensibility and the external world, by which we are
entitled to say that anything is in itself beautiful. They
afiirm that our idea jf beauty is merely derived from asso-
tiation. In reply to this assertion, it may be remarked thai
IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 4 Pi
OUT own consciousness testifies clearly to tie character of the
emotion of taste. It may clearly be distinguished from
every other emotion, and also from every act of the imagi-
nation, the reason, or any ot our other faculties. It differs
from them all in its nature, its origin, and its results. If,
then, it be an original and peculiar affection of the mind,
its existence need not and cannot be accounted for by asso-
ciation. As Mr. Stewart very appositely remarks : " The
theory which resolves the whole effect of the beautiful into
association, must necessarily involve that species of paralo-
gism to which logicians have given the name of reasoning
in a circle. It is the province of association to impart to
one thing the agreeable or disagreeable effect of another ;
but association can never account for the origin of a class
of pleasures different in kind from all the others we kno\T.
If there was nothing originally pleasing or beautiful, the asso-
ciating principle would have no material on which to operate."
As to the manner in which this faculty may be improved,
but little can be said in addition to what was remarked when
treating of the imagination. Both faculties are employed
upon the same objects, and the mode of cultivation is in
most respects the same. A few brief suggestions are all that
I shall here offer.
It is universally admitted that all the forms of nature
possess some portion of aesthetic power. As we become
familiar with these, and hold communion with nature in all
her aspects, whether grave or gay, beautiful or sublime, we
cultivate our lesthetic sensibility, we more readily recognize
the beautiful, and rejoice in it with more exquisite emotions.
We shall also derive great benefit from studying with
Cfiro classical productions in the various departments of the
fine arts. When an artist has been eminently successful, he
has united in one conception all the elements of the beauti-
ful within his power, excluding from it all that could dii-
418 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY.
tract the attention or diminish the effect. Hence, if W6
comprehend his design, understand his mode of developing
it, and meditate upon his work, until Ave sympathize with
his sentiments and share in his enthusiasm, our taste will
become in some measure assimilated to his. He who has
caught the inspiration of Raphael must possess already the
spiritual element of a painter; and he who can feel the
Bentiuients wliich inspired Milton and Shakspeare, must be
endowed with some portion at least of poetic genius
If, however, we desire to improve our taste, we must dc
it not by the indiscriminate study of models, but only by
the contemplation of the most eminent. We m.ust confine
ourselves to the most faultless models if we would cultivate
our love for the beautiful. If the student would form a
classical style, and acquire a discriminating love for literary
excellence, he must limit his reading to the works of those
whom the suffrages of humanity have numbered among the
masters of thought and expression. A vast amount of mis-
cellaneous reading may enable us to abound in small knowl-
edge and flippant criticism. It is only by communion with
those whose works " the world will not T^illingly let die,"
that we learn to emulate their intellectual achievements, and
become the instructors of our fellow-men.
In studying the works of others for our own improve-
ment, one caution is however to be observed. They are the
productions of- fallible men like ourselves. We are, there-
fore, to bring to the examination of every work of art, the
exercise of a calm, discriminating judgment, prepared to
distinguish beauty from deformity wherever they exist. We
must exercise our own taste, if we would cultivate our sen-
sitive nature. When we study the woiks of others to
awaken our own sensibilities, to correct our errors, and to
arouse ourselves to emulation, we develop our own faculties.
But if we study only to bow before a master as we would
IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 41^
w^aaI.jv cur Creator, we become servile copyists and de.
graded i"^o';»fefS. It is not imj'OSaible that our veneration
for the airionto hus in some degree pro<iuced tliis effect
upon modern literature. I have always been struck with
the remarV of one of the Italian masters, who, when a work
of an ear}.er artist v/as spoken of with servile adoration,
turned away and said, " I too am a painter." To study
the works of others that we may be able to equal them, cul-
tivates the power of original creation. To study them only
tliat we may learn how to do feebly, what they have done
well, is fatal to all manly developmc^iit^ and must consign
an individual or an age tc the poaitwn of despairing and
wondering mediocri^.
APPENLIX.
Note to pagbs 101, 102.
It '« stated in the text that, under certain abnormal circuiDBtances, m
become capable of perceptions, or cognitions, without the aid of the e-giina
of sense. While I was lecturing on this subject, a few years since, one of
my pupils informed me of some facts, of a very decided character, in pos-
iession of his brother, J. M. Brooke, Esq., of the United Stiites Navy. At
my request he wrote to his brother, stating my wish for information. Mr.
Brooke soon after very kindly wrote to me as follows ■
Washington, Oct. 27, 1851
Sir : It affords me pleasure to comply with your reiiuest. made through
my brother William, relative to some experinieiits performed on board of
the U. S. steamer Princeton, in tlie latter purt of the year 1847 ; she being
then on a cruise in the ^Mediterranean. Nathaniel Bishop, the subject of
the experiments, was a mulatto, about twenty-six years of age, in goo«J
health, ))ut of an esitable disposition. The first experiment was of the
mafowtic or mesmeric sleep, which overpowered him in thirty minutes
from tlie commencement of passes made in the ordinary way, accompanied
with a steadfast gaze and effort of will that he should sleep.
In this state he was insensible to all voices but mine, unless I directed
or willed him to hear others ; he was also insensible to such amount of
pain as one might inflict without injury, that is, what would have been
pain to another. He would obey my directions to whistle, dance, or sing.
When aroused from this sleep he had no recollection of what occurred
while in it. That such an influence could be exerted I was already aware
havir.g previously witnessed satisfiictory experiments. Of clairvoyance I
had never been convinced ; indeed, considered it nothing more than a sort
of dreaming produced by the will of the operator. I became aware of ita
truth rather through accident than design.
It happene<^i one day that some one of my brother officers asked a ques-
tion which the others could not answer. Bishop, who had been a few
Eomeiits before in a mesmeric sleep, gave the desired information, speak-
ing with confidence and apparent accuracy. As the information related to
something? wliioh it seemed almost impossilile to know without seeing, we
wtre very much surprised. It struck me that he might be clairvoyant :,
and I at once asked him to tell me the time by a watch kept in the binn*.
ole, on the spar or upper deck, we being on the berth or lower deck. H«
MiBwered correctly, as I found upon looking at the watch, allowing eight
422 APPENDIX.
or nine seconds for time o:;cupie(l in getting on deck. I then askeJ hta
many qiestions with regard to objects at a di.stance, which he answered
ami, as far as I coulJ asutTtain, cori'ectly.
Foi' cKaniple, one evening, wliile at anchor in the port of Genoa, th«
captain was on shore. I askel Bishop, in tiie presence of several tiffiorrs,
where the captain then was. He replies], " At the opera with Mi'. Lester,
the consul." " What dues he say ? " I inquired. Bishop appeared to
listen, an<l in a moment replied, " The captain tells Mr. Lester that he waj
much please.1 with the port of Xavia ; that the authorities treated him
Tjith much consideration."
Upon this, one of the officers laughed, and said that when the captain
returned he would ask hi;n. He did so ; saying, " Captain, we havt loen
listening to your conversation on shore." " Very well," remarked the
captain. " What did I say ? " expecting some jest. The officer then re~
peated what the captain had said of Xavia and its authorities. " Ah,"
Bail the captain, "who was at the opera? I did no', see any of tL«
officers there." The lieutenant then explained the matter. The captain
confirmed its truth, and seemed very much surprised, as there had been
no other communication with the shore during the evening. I maj
remark that we had touched at several ports between Xavia and Genoa.
• On another occasion, an officer being on shore, I directed Bishop to
examine his pockets ; he made several motions with his hands, as if
actually drawing something from the officer's pockets, saying, " Here is a
handkerchief, and here a box — what a curious thing ! — full of little white
Bticks with blue ends. What are they, Mr. Brooke.'' " I replied, " Per-
haps they are matches." "So they are!" he exclaimed. My com-
panions, expecting the officer mentioned, went on deck, and meeting hira
at the gangway, asked, " What have you in your pockets.'" "Noth-
ing/' he replied. " But have you not a box of matches ? " " 0, yes ! "
said he. " How did you know it ? I bought them just before I came on
board." The matches were peculiar, made of white wax with blue ends.
The surgeons of the Princeton ridiculed these experiments, upon which
I requested one of them (Farquharson), to test for himself, which he con-
eented to do. With some care he placed Bishop and myself in one corner
of the apartment, and then took a position some ten feet distxnt, conceal-
ing between his hands a watch, the long second-hand of which traversed
the dial. He first asked for a description of the watch. To which Bishop
replied, " 'Tis a funny watch, the second-hand jumps."
The doctor then asked him to tell the minute and second, which he did ;
directly afterwards exclaiming, " The second-hand has stopped ! " which
was the case. Dr. F. having stopped it. " Well," said the doctor, " to
what second does it point, and to what hour ; and what minute is it now ? "
Bishop answered correctly, adding, " 'T is going again." He then told
twice in succession the minute and second.
The doctor was convinced, saying that it was contrary to reason, but
te must believe. I then proposed that the doctor should mark time ; and
dir»^ctod Bishop to look in his mother's house in LaEcaster, Pa (where he
bad never been), for a cluck ; he said there was one there, and told the
time l)y it ; one of the officers calculated the ditference in time for the
longitudes of Lancaster and Genoa, and the clock was found to agre€
witiiin five minutes of thp watch time.
' Several persons being still unconvinced, I pioposed that the captais
should select a letter from the files in his cabin and put it on the cahia
labU ; and that Bishop should read it withe ut leaving an apartmeot oa
APPENDI2. 428
Um deCK below the cabin, and some distance forwfirJ of it. Upon this th«
eaptjiin sent for me, and telling me tliiit all the discipline in tlie soi-vic*
would be destroyed, ordered me to discontinue the practice. A* liisiiop
retaineil his power of clairvoyance, I often amused myself in ^oml nt;; liira
to the Unitevl t^tateS; and, although I cannot assert that lie always told the
truth, 1 believe that in many instances he did so, as I have si'iprisetl per
•ous when relating to them for confirmation such experiments in clair-
voyance as concerned actions unknown, as tiiey supposed, to auj one bul
themselves.
As it was in my power to control Bishop in his wandtnnas, I u«uaUj
limited his powers of observation, and meddled only so far in the atlai-g
of my neighbors as might be honorable.
The power which I acquired by putting him to sleep remained after I s
woke, and was increased by its exercise. If not exerted for several daj 9
it decreased, sometimes rendering it necessary to repeat the passes an!
again put him to sleep. While awake and under my influence, I mado
many experiments, such as arresting his arm when raising food to hia
mouth, or fixing him motionless in the attitude of drinking. On ono
occasion I willed that he should continue pouring tea into a cup already
fiill, which he did, notwithstanding the exclamations of those who were
scalded in the operation. These influences were exerted without a woi'd
or change of position on my part. He remembered or forgot what he saw
when clairvoyant, as I willed, of which I satisfied myself by experiment.
All his senses were under control, so completely, indeed, that had X
fnlle<l him to stop breathing I believe that be would. You may wish 'o
Kow something more with regard to my experience ; if so, I shall bf
> appy to inform you. I am, sir, respectfully.
Your obedient servant,
J. M. Bbookx.
Db. Watlaxd.
Providence, R. J
Note to page 115
When treating on the subject of consciousness, I have referred tc tht
Bict of double consciousness, and alluded to two or three cases which havf
been published. Within a few days, a case has been brought to my notic*
by my former pupil, S. P. Bates, Esq., of Meadville, Penn., which haf
seemed to me more remarkable than any that I have met with elsewhere.
Mr. Bates, at my request, procured me a narrative, written by the patient
herself. I give it in her own words, omitting only such pa.s,9ages as aid
toihing^ tc thr itifinsic value of the relation. The extracts are fr^im a
htter addressed to her nephew, Rev. John V. Reynolds :
Mt dear Nephkw : I will now endeavor to give you a brief account of
nyself. When at tlie age of eighteen or twenty, I was occasionally aflSicted
with fits. In t'.ie spring of 1811, I had a very severe one. My frame was
greatly convulsed, and I was extremely ill "or several Jays. My sight and
h« iring were totally lost, and, during twelve woeks from the time of th«
ft mentioned, I continued in a very feeble state. But, at the end of fiv«
124 APPENDIX.
weeks, the senses cf sight at^d hearing were again restored But a miW
remarkable visitation of Providence awaited ue. A little before the ex-
piration of the twelve weeks, ou's morning, when I awoke, I had lost all
recollection of everything. My understanding with an imperfect knowl
edge of speech remained ; but my father, mother, brothers and sisters.
and the neighbors, were altogether strangers to me. I had no disposition
to converse either with my friends or with strangers. I had forgotten the
use of written language, and did not know a single letter of the alphabet,
mor how to discharge the duties of my domestic employment, more than a
new-born babe. I presently, however, began to learn various kinds of
knowledge.
I continued five weeks in this way, when I suddenly passed from this
■econd state (as, for distinction, it mj^y be called), into my first state.
All consciousness of the five weeks just eiapsed was totally gone, and my
original consciousness was fully restored. My kindred and friends were
at once recognized. Every kind of knowledge which I had ever acquired
was as much at my command as at any former period of my life ; but of
the tune, and of all events, which had transpired during my second state,
I had not the most distant idea. For three weeks I continued in my first
State. But in my sleep the transition was renewed, and I awoke in my
second state. As before, so now, all knowledge acquired in my first
state was forgotten, and of the circumstances of the three weeks' lucid
interval, I had no conception. Of the small fund of knowledge I had
gained in my former second state I was able to avail myself, and I con-
tinued from day to day to add to this little treasure.
From the spring of 1811, till within eight or ten years ago, I continued
frequently changing from my first to second, and from my second to first
State. More than three quarters of the time I was in the second state.
There never was any periodical regularity as to the transitions. Some-
times I continued several months, and sometimes a few weeks, a few days,
or only a few hours, in my second state ; but in the hipse of five years I,
in no one instance, continued more than twenty days in my first state.
Whatever knowledge I acquired at any time in my second state became
familiar to me when in that state, and I made such proficiency, that I soon
became as well acquainted with things, and was in general as intelligent
in my second as in my first state. I went through the usual process of
learning to write, and took as much satisfaction in the use of books as in
my first state. Your father undertook to reteach me chirograpliy. Ha
gave me my name, which he had written, to copy. I took my pen, though
in a very awkward manner, and actually began from the right to the left
in the Hebrew mode. It was not long before I obtained tolerable skill in
penmanship, and often amused myself in writing poetry. I acquired all
kinds of knowledge in my second state, with much greater facility than a
perain who had never been instructed.
In my second state I was introduced to many persons whom I always
recognized in that state (and no one enjoyed the society of friends better
than I did), but if ever so well known to me, in my first state, I had no
knowledge of them in the second, until an acquaintance had been again
formed. In like manner all acquaintances formed in the second state.
must be formed in the first in order to be known in that.
These transitions always took place in my sleep. In passing from my
•econd to my first state, nothing was particularly noticeable in my sleep
But in passing from my first to second state, my sleep was so pi-ofouni
Ihat no ono could awaken me. and it not unfre ^ueutly continued eighteei
AiTENDIX.
425
«r twenij hoars. had generally some presentiment »f the change fol
•everal days before the eve -it.
My sufferings, in tiie near prospect of the transition from either the one or
tho other state, were extreme, particularly from thefirnt to the second state
When about to undergo the ciiange I was harassed with fear lest I shouli
never revert so as to know again in this world those who were dear to mt
My feelings in this respect were not unlike those of one who was abouc tfl
be separated by death, thougli, in the second state, I did not anticipate tlie
change with such distressing apprehensions as in the first. I was natu^
rail/ cheerful, but more so in this than in my natural state. I believe I
felt perfectly free from trouble when in my second state, and, for some
time after I had been in that state, my feelings were such that, had all my
friends been lying dead around me, I do not think it would have given me
one moment's pain of mind. At that time my feelings were never mov.;d
vith the manifestation of joy or sorrow. I had no idea of the past or tiie
future. Nothing but the present occupied my mind. In the first stage
of the disease, I had no i-iea of employing my time in anything tiu)t waa
useful. I did nothing but ramble about, and never tired walking about
the fields. My mother, oi:e day, thought siie would try to rouse me ii
little. She told me that Paul says those who would not work, must not
eat. I told her it made no matter of difference to me what Paul said, 1
was not going to work for Paul or any other person. I did not know who
Paul was then. I had no knowledge of the Bible at that time.
As an evidence of my ignorance of any kind of danger in that early
period, befoie I had attained any information of right or wrong, dinger
or safety, as I was, one afternoon, walking a short distance from the house,
I discovered, as I thought, a beautiful creature. Insensible of danger, I
ran to it, and, in attempting to take hold of it, it eluded my grasp by
running under a pile of logs. It was a rattlesnake. I had my hand upon
the rattle ; but fortunately my foot slipped and I fell back. I heard it
rattle, and was still very nnwillintr m go home without it. I put my arm
a considerable distance under the log where tlie snake had crept.
It may be remarked that whenever I changed into my natural state, I
always felt very much debilitated. When in my second state I had no
inclination for either food or sleep. My strength at such times was en-
tirely artificial. I generally bad a flush in one cheek, and continual
thirst, which denoted inward fever.
When I was last down at home I was reading some letters which I had
received from dear friends with whom I had corresponded previous to
theae changes, and who had been the companions of my younger 'lays ;
but their images are now entirely erase<l from my memory. It would h«
a source of gratification to me if I were in possession of my former recol-
luJtion.
♦ #♦♦*♦
In the early period of my disease I used to talk in my sleep, and tell
my plans. Sometimes my friejids would overliear me, wiiich wtuld cmse
them to watch my mo\ements, and by that means I have been saved
nmuy unpleasant trips in my sleep. BL^ry Rkykolds.
Note 1. iliss Reynolds could pronounce a word after any ore, bat
»juld at first make no use of it herself.
Note 2. The hand-writing of Miss Reynolds in her second state was U
gifterent from her hand-writing in the first as that of two individuals
86*
426 APPENDIX.
Note 3, At ahout forty years of age these changes ceased, and she IitkI
Dn to tiie end of life in her second state. She would, of course, have nc
reiiiwuhrance of lier life previous to these changes. Diiring the list part
of her lite Miss Reynolds taught school, and proved a very sucoessfa
teaoher.
In aid'*:::: to the above Mr. Bates has obligingly procured for me th«
tlhwing tnemoranda from Rev. Mr. Reynolds :
Miss Reynolds was about forty years of age when these transi-'Jou
oeased. Until the time of her death, at the age of sixty-nine, slie con-
tinued in what sha terms her second slate. Hence, all the early part of
bar liti was a complete blank. Her entire disregard of danger gradually
dis;ippeared, until there was, in this respect, nothing remarkable. Her
two states were never in any measure blended.
One circumstance alluded to by Miss R. is thus stated more particularly
by her nephew. " It was her habit, immediately after going to sleep, — and
bhe usu.illy dropped asleep very soon after retiring, — to begin to recount
aloud tlie duties und incidents of the preceding iliy. She would go through
all that she hail ilone tluring the day, in the exact order in which it had
occurred. She would frequently stop and comment upon things that had
occurred, and would laugh heartily when she came to anything tha<
Dleased lier.
" After going through with the duties and incidents of the preceding
day, she would then lay her plans for the day to come. When the day
came, she would begin and perform everything as she had planned. It
seems that she was not aware of having formed any previous plan of
action, :is she frequently used to wonder how her friends could divine
what she was going to do iluring the day, as she tbund tint ti.cy evidently
could ilo. 'I'his h ibit was of much service to iier friends, as it enabled
them to foresee and prevent her from doing many acts of mischief. This
habit continued for more than a year."
Miss Reynolds, as I h ive mentioned, continued for nearly thirty years
of her life m the second state. " Slie, however-, ceased to manifest any of
those symptoms bordering on insanity which she exhibited during its first
periods. She taught school for several years, united with the church, waa
a coni;8tent Christian, and performed all the duties of life in a way which
exhib-'ed nothing else than a perfectly rational state. No person would
have discovered anything unusual in her manners and conversation,
Hierf Tas, perhaps, always rather an excessive measui'e of nervdua eroitA
biiUv ih.it is, an excess abcve the average."
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interesting form. His work en "Intellectual Philosophy" has probably had
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this country.
From GEORGE WOODS, LL. D., President Western University of Pennsylvania.
Ge.nti.emen. Dr. Haven's History of .Ancient and .Modern Phi'osophy /rti/>-
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Its divisions are logical, its sketch of each form of philosophy clear and dis-
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^. fie'^orrnizes the rlixfhirfioii helween leuruhiff hoif to obtain a result
and committing that result to memory.
5. li fuli of practical expedieuls, helpful both to teacher and pupil.
6. Embodies the spirit of the Kinrtertjavteti met hurls,
7. Is beautifully illustrated by pictures which are object lessons, and
not mere ornaments.'
The Elements of Arithmetic.
tthis is a practical treatise on ^rithmetir, furnishing in one book of 308
pages a., the arithmetic compatible with a well-balanced common-school course,
or necessary to a good general English education.
The professes usually styled Jfeiitnl :Arithmetic n?-e here assimi-
lated and made the tjasts of the more formal and mechanical methods
called M'rilten Arithmetic.
Therefore, by the use of this book, from one-third to one-half the time
usually devoted to >\rithmetic in our Intermediate, Grammar, an4
Common 6'chools can be saved, and better results secured.
These books will both be found entirely fresh and original in p/nn, and
in mechanical execution altettd of any offered to the public. No expense has
been spared to give to Professor OIney's -Series of .Mathematics a dress
worthy of their original and valuable features.
A Teacher's
HAND-BOOK OF ARITHMETICAL EXERCISES,
to accompany the ELEMENTS OF ARITHMETIC, is now ready. This book
furnishes an ejrhaustless mine from which the teacher can draw for exercise
both mental and written in class-room drill, and for extending the range ot topics
when this is practicable.
THE SCIENCE OF ARITHMETIC,
The advanced book of the Series, is a full and complete course for High
Schools, and oa an entirely original plan.
SHELDON & COMPANY,
NEW YOHK.
OLNEY'S HIGHER MATHEMATICS.
There is one feature which characterizes this series, so unique and yet so emi-
nently practical, that we leel desirous of calling special attention to it. It is t/ie
fiicUi/j' nith which the OooAs can Oe used for Clusxes of ati Grades,
and in Schools of the n-idest diversily of purpose. Each volume in the.
series is so constructed that it may be used with equal ease by the younpest anc^
Icr-st disciplined, and by tiiose who in more mature years enter upon the studyl
with more ample preparation. This will be seen most clearly by a leference lo
the separate volumes.
Tiitvodaction to Algebra
Ctnnplete School Algebra
University Algebra
Test Examiiles in Algebra
Elements of Geometry. Separate
Elements of Trigonometry. Separate
Introduction to Geometry. Parti. Separate
Geometry and Trigonon^etry. School Edition
Geometry and Trigonometry, without Tables of
Logarithms. University Edition
Geometry and Trigonometry, with Tables. Uni-
versity Edition
Tables of Logaritlnns. Flexible covers
Geometry. University Edition. Parts I, II, and III...
General Geometry and Caletdiis
JJellows's Trigonometry
There is scarcely a College or Normal School in the
United States that is not now using some of Prof. Olney's
Mathematical works.
They are original and fresh— attractive to both Teacher
and Scholar.
Prof. Olney has a very versatile mind, and has suc-
ceeded to a wonderful degree in removing the difficulties
in the science of Mathematics, and even making this study
attractive to the most ordinary scholar. At the same time
Jiis books are thorough and comprehensive.
NEW YORK:
SHELDON & COMPANY,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
BERKELEY
Retiim to desk from which borrowed.
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
rjUN 2 9 1953
AUG 2 5 1954 LU
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jm 4 1968 69,
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